Dear Thomas
It was an odd time for a recital, in my view
But clearly I was the only one to think so.
The Bozar (Palais Des Beaux-Arts) was thrumming with chatter as people sat for an 11am peformance of Haydn* and Debussy** by an 'up-and-coming' quartet, the Quatuor Modigliani - an impossibly young, impossibly talented, impossibly handsome foursome, who played exquisitely.
The audience had paid just €8 for the privilege. It was a mix of older types - the women all chignons, lippy and eyeshadow, the men jacketed but casual; smart teenagers (they get out of bed before mid-day here!??) and families: mums and dads with children, with their very young children.
This amazed me.
Who takes a toddler to a classical music concert? Who would dare? Certainly not me. Certainly not anyone I know! (I imagine Tom how you would have offered your own unique, loud, fulsome accompaniment...).
But note this, no-one batted an eyelid.
And note this too, these were miracle children. These were children who sat, watched, listened...in silence!
I watched one toddler sitting on her father's knee a few seats away. A full hour she sat, quietly, not taking her eyes off the musicians on the stage. Occasionally she looked about her, snuggled in a little, but her attention never wavered.
Another child, seated at the front, was similarly behaved. Only one much tinier tot, made gentle coos during the Debussy, and no-one minded. No crisp packets, no sweets, no fidgeting, no complaining.
I was reminded of a book published recently detailing the differences in the behaviour of children on the continent, especially the French (good) compared with the behaviour of those in the UK (bad).
Was I seeing the evidence? Not sure. But I wanted to ask the parents their secret, then bottle it and sell it, maybe.
Later we strolled along Rue Neuve. The shop windows full of pastels; pastels, cropped trousers and long, patterned, summery scarves.
Just walking into these overheated emporiums and seeing spring/summer collections transforms the spirit somehow, fast-forwards these last wintry weeks, catapults the casual browser into May, to June!
I run my fingers through oranges, pinks, lemons (none of these colours actually suit me by the way), grimace as I hold them against me in front of the mirror, but imagine that one day, ONE DAY, it might actually get warm enough to wear this sort of thing....
Oh to wear pretty things, instead of boots and jumpers, instead of this sweater, knitted on Mull to keep the Western Isles gales at bay, which has been worn so often since I got here that the sleeves now hang about three inches off my fingertips.
To think that some day soon we might all discard our hats and gloves and instead waft through the city bare-armed, basking....
A work colleague told me he imagined that once I got to Brussels I'd 'go all continental' and become 'that type of woman who wears scarves'.
I snorted at him, but he was right. He was! Though I don't imagine when he said it he was thinking of a long woollen job wrapped 10 times around the head to stop nose dropping off from frostbite.
We all looked the same during the recent 'grand froid': a population united in thermals. On the tube we were a gang of robbers on a bank job - only our face coverings were more cable-knit and bobble than balaclava.
Still, it is milder by the day and each morn the sun comes up a little earlier, rises that bit higher and stays that bit longer.
We have settled on a flat, at last! It is in a green part of the city near a park and the Ixelles 'ponds' which, when we visited last week, were a skating rink of swans, ducks and geese (canada, greylag and egyptian).
We had lost a good flat only the week before because we didn't understand the 'system' properly. This time we got lucky.
To call it a penthouse would be to make it sound grand and it isn't grand, so we'll call it what it is: a top-floor flat in a seven-storey building.
It is small, just 80sq m to call home but the lounge is flooded with light, the terrace faces south, I can see lots of trees and (a bonus!)two shreeky parakeets flew overhead as we looked at it. Four good reasons to sign on the dotted line.
It's far from posh, the spec isn't anywhere near as 'finished' as other places we've seen. But when you know it's the one, it's the one. It is also significantly under the meagre budget!
Now we wait for our British removal firm to liaise with their 'European arm' and hopefully, we'll be moving in towards the end of March.
I don't want to be in on moving day. The prospect of all our precious stuff being hauled seven floors on an external lift through an open window..!
I'm already day-dreaming about curtains, hangings, cushions...there's a shop I pass often on the busy Anspach road. It's called Maisons Du Monde. It's bit Dunelm meets The Pier and it's all cushions, curtains, glassware, lighting, chenile throws and those Buddah heads (miniature, life-size and gigantic, super Buddah!) and I wander round it, planning.
Meanwhile our little Chesterfield home is finally rented. At last. They seem good people. They have young children who visit every weekend and they want to teach them to play our piano.
I hope they love our little home.
Xxx
* Joseph Haydn: Streichquartett, op.76/1, Hob. III:75
** Claude Debussy: Quatuor a cordes, op.10
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