Amsterday 2

Last night I dreamed that I was on the Hammersmith and City line to Moorgate, feeling really ill and weak and feeble, and this old trampy guy got on and sat down next to me and took my hand and for some reason I wasn't strong enough to snatch it away from him and he put my hand in his mouth and started sucking on my fingers and I missed my stop. Can you imagine anything more repellent? I woke up sweating and feeling repulsive and then realised that I was really quite ill. So I stayed in bed a bit longer.

Then I went to a big office and had lunch on the top floor with lots of swanky people and was very impressed. The only minus moment was when I realised that the work shoes I brought out here need reheeling, a fact I never learned when I was in London because there I only ever walk on carpet. In Amsterdam it appears that all the poshest offices have sparkling tiled floors and I clip-clopped along self-consciously sounding like a blacksmith shaping a horseshoe on an anvil. I was trying to persuade myself that no-one was noticing but then a butler guy who was leading me somewhere turned around and said accusingly, 'You're very loud, aren't you?' which made me feel much better.

Generally, I like the Dutch people I've met. They are all friendly and confident. But, not to make sweeping generalisations or anything, there is an unsubtlety about them that I find slightly jarring. Last night, a taxi driver picked me up from my hotel to take me to dinner and I realised neither of us knew where the restaurant was, so I said I'd go back into the hotel and ask. When I reached the reception desk, the man behind the counter was already helping another guest so I stood back and queued patiently like a good girl. After about 30 seconds, my taxi driver charged in, interrupted their conversation and barked at the hotel guy in Dutch. The guest and I looked shocked but the driver wouldn't have picked up on our signals if we'd written them in neon lights. I relayed this to my dinner companion last night and he said that apparently standing in line is not too big in Holland, something he finds shocking and enraging in equal quantities. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I don't actually think I could live somewhere that didn't do queues.

But aside from that minor glitsch, Amsterdam is probably my favourite of all the cities I've ever visited. I am in love. I just can't get over the consistency of the architecture - of course, the city was occupied very early in the war and thus not bombed so almost all the old buildings remain and the contrast with London is palpable. Apparently Amsterdam is fairly unique within Holland as well - many other cities suffered far worse. There is a joke that young Germans are walking around Rotterdam and ask the locals, 'Where's the Old Town?' and they are greeted with silent hatred. The anti-German feeling is still piping hot here, from what I can sense - equally, my Turkish taxi driver says that racism is still rampant against non-whites. It may look liberal but there's certainly discord bubbling underneath.

Tonight I was taken on a romantic canal dinner cruise by two colleagues which was fantastic. Everyone with apartments on the canals leaves their curtains open to show off their swanky pads; we peered in and envied people's lighting schemes. Most of the evening was spent talking about relationships and very little time was wasted discussing work, which is just how it should be I think. After the cruise we went into a tacky tourist shop where I was photographed standing in a pair of gargantuan wooden clogs. My friends were massively embarrassed about all the Dutch paraphernalia and couldn't believe that their international reputation seemingly hinged on tulips, windmills, pot and prostitutes. The gift range was a bizarre mix of merchandise for Ajax football club, Rasta dolls holding huge spliffs, Delft pottery penis salt shakers and boxer shorts covered in cartoon smiley sperm.

After a tiring but wonderful couple of days with work people, I am looking forward to some time off tomorrow. The vintage market is the priority, of course - but after that I will try and cram in a gallery or two and take some photos before hopping back to Heathrow. Thankfully I've finished the chocolate eclairs so they can stop haunting me - although there's a half-eaten Toblerone in the minibar fridge with my name on it and the fat fairy has replaced the Pringles that I inhaled yesterday as a pre-tapas amuse-bouche with another identical pot which seems unfair. Clearly they should realise that I currently have a junk food problem and no self-restraint and take pity on me. Sigh. This is all the fault of my stupid doctor's orders: if I could exercise, I wouldn't be in this godawful lipidinous state. Don't blame it on the sunshine, don't blame it on the moonlight, don't blame it on the good times, blame it on the cervix. Oh god. I think I am avoiding sleep; perchance to dream etc. Then again, how can it be any worse than my last few nightmares? I can't delay forever: I'm going in. Wish me luck.