BIRTHDAY (17 january 2004)
Today it's sixty-two years ago that I was born.
It was wartime, and one of the coldest days of the century.
The food situation in the Netherlands was getting worse and worse. At a certain moment, my mother saw no other solution than to plant me in a special babychair with a potty under my bottom, while she went into the countryside to look for food.
My father was not of much use to her since he went into hiding to avoid being taken into German captivity as a Dutch officer.
Of course, I don't remember anything about those early years. All I know is what others have told me.
Or maybe there are one or two vague memories: one thing I think I remember is that I had very few possessions: one doll, a few books, and that was about it.
I am sometimes amazed about the huge masses of toys that my children possess. I wonder if that is a good thing.
I tend to think that having very few toys stimulates the imagination. But is an overdose of imagination necessarily a joy forever?
