Masquerading as Belgians

It's no wonder that the blending in with the locals isn't going that well. Not that we've really tried - we've a cat's chance in hell of actually looking like we belong here. But it would definitely reduce the stare-o-meter scores if we changed our car number plates. I discovered the other day, quite by chance, that most of the kindergarten community think we're Belgian. Now, you know I got pretty fond of the place while I was there, but heaven forbid that anyone should think I am one. I quashed the rumour immediately and explained our somewhat complicated status. (Anything that isn't born and bred in this village is viewed as complicated.)

I find it touching that, three times in the last few days, people have asked me where I have come from (those who haven't seen my car number plate, of course). When I tell them, they make sympathetic noises about fitting in, finding doctors, dentists etc. They're not from here either, they understand exactly how it is, they say. So I ask them in return, and in all three cases, they've moved from a village not more than 30 km away! That speaks volumes, does it not...