You know when ...

You know when the police ring on the doorbell downstairs and want in and they say a lot in Dutch, very fast, so that you have to say 'Ik spreek Engels' and they sound a little testy and say 'It's the police. Let us in!' and you do because that's what you're taught to do?

But ... there's no screen to identify them on.

And you wonder why they're coming to visit, assume they're checking that the daughter and granddaughter really live here, tidy your hair a little and wait but they stop downstairs and you think 'Okay?' but then the banging begins and the drill and you think 'Dammit, are they police?' And 'What are they doing?'

But having watched a few too many television shows you don't really feel inclined to open your noisy front door and peer over the spiral staircase railing because ... if they aren't police you will be the person able to identify them, so won't they have to poke out your eyes or something?

So I phoned the Belgian but he was of no use and hadn't even thought through the issues of me having a look to make sure they were who they said they were ...sigh.

And anyway, the other elderly neighbour across the hall downstairs will surely pop his head out to check out the noise because that's what he always does when there's too much noise.

But wouldn't I want someone else to do this for me?

Okay, going to look ...

On my return.
I'm mortified.
I acted like a city person.
Whoever they were, they left while I had my iPod-like music player playing.

After going out to pick up Miss Three, I learned that the locks were changed on the apartment below and one has to see the politie if they want to enter.
Seems authentic ...