The morning after the night before...

Exhaustion is setting in as I write this, a natural consequence of being awoken at an ungodly hour as the bells rang at ten o’clock on Saturday and Sunday mornings, which is quite a disturbance when you only fitfully settled into sleep less than four hours beforehand.
It’s not just in my area, Schuman, where this loud proclamation of the arrival of morning takes place, because as it happened I had crashed at a friend’s place in Place Chatelain on Friday night after triple birthday celebration in Saint Gery and experienced exactly the same phenomenon.
I’m sure there is some reasonable historical explanation for the ringing of these bells but it’s time for an adaptation to twenty-first century Brusselian life that allows for a little lie-in without booming explosions ringing through your ears just as you were about to participate in whatever pleasurable dream activity.
I think I was still in the clouds of the party at a novel art gallery I had walked into that night on Rue Bailli, where the Merlot was practically on tap. My apologies to the Greek art dealer in attendance for the inordinate amount of blurb I spouted on my post-modern interpretation of this project. However, he did attempt to persuade me that it was one of the best DJs in Greece spinning the discs, so going on what I heard I assume Edith Piaf and Frank Sinatra must be all the rage in Athens nightlife.
It’s conceivable that I could still be experiencing the after-effects of Wednesday night football, when I unconsciously decided that I would demonstrate the physical aspects of the English game much to the consternation of my more fairer-mind European pals, producing a Newtonian reaction of equal and opposite force from the rival centre half on my left ankle. If that was a bad tempered match then I can’t wait to see what happens when the Euro footie kicks off next week, when our unique sense of ‘Europeaness’ will be severely put to the test. Fortunately I won’t be experiencing any of those emotions, as I am constantly reminded by representatives of small Eastern European states.
Anyway, the next morning the pain really set in and I barely managed to hobble my way to work with a limp of gangster-rap proportions. Yet another protest was taking place in front of one of the Commission buildings as I walked out of work at half past five. I suggest that particular group of protestors fire their lobbying advisers as at that time of day the only people still left in the building are cleaners and ambitious stagiaires.
Actually I should take that back. Even at around seven to eight o’clock you will still find plenty of fonctionnaire souls drifting around their offices (permanent civil servants). And to think that this is what I want to sign up myself up for? Well, as I’ve been saying it is interesting work where people work out of passion, and there’s always a lot at stake, so it’s understandable. But it certainly isn’t going to be easy – there are scant opportunities and plenty of able candidates.
All the talk in the office at the moment is about interviews as stagiaires attempt to make the transition into permanent employment. It’s all about getting exposure and your name and face in the open, so my plan is to print out posters with my name and face and tape them to every head of unit’s door and spam them with emails from my Hotmail address.
If none of that works then I’ll apply to be the guy that rings those bells, or sells umbrellas, as the rain is back out in full force, yet again.