het uur - die Stunde - hour de minuut - die Minute - minute de seconde - die Sekunde - second
de klok - die Uhr - clock
uur - Uhr - o’clock het kwart - das Viertel - quarter half - halb - half over - nach - past voor - vor - to
Hoe laat is het? - Wie spät ist es? - What’s the time?
Het is… - Es ist … - It’s …
… tien uur - zehn Uhr - ten o’clock(10:00) … vijf (minuten) over tien - fünf (Minuten) nach zehn - 10:05 … kwart over tien - Viertel nach zehn - 10:15 … tien (minuten) voor half elf - zehn (Minuten) vor halb elf - 10:20 … half elf - halb elf - 10:30 … vijf (minuten) over half elf - fünf (Minuten) nach halb elf - 10:35 … kwart voor elf - Viertel vor elf - 10:45 … vijf (minuten) voor elf - fünf (Minuten) vor elf - 10:55 … precies elf uur - genau elf Uhr - eleven o’clock sharp (11:00)
a.m. / p.m.
In both Dutch and German the 24-hour clock (i.e. 4pm
→ 16:00) is used, (veertien uur achtendertig - vierzehn Uhr achtunddreißig - 14:38)
but especially in spoken language the 12-hour clock is more common. If context alone is not enough, the following words are used to distinguish between a.m. and p.m.:
In the past few weeks I’ve had several people compliment my art journal so I decided to post some more pages. I only started journaling in April and I love it. These are some of my favourite pages and some feature my recent Greek adventure.
A couple of muggles somehow manage to produce not one but four wizard children. No one knows why they wanted literally no gap between their kids, most people wait two years between kids, but hey close pregnancies are just what happened. Baby-baby-baby-baby, soon as possible. And as one by one ends up in their first year of Hogwarts, each one is in a different house.
In honor of this new Cassandra vs. Neda stan war it’s time to look back at the other iconic stan wars of big brother past.
Da'vonne stans vs Audrey stans
Jackie stans vs Steve Stans
Vanessa stans vs the tag
Loveita stans vs Cassandra stans
Bridgette stans vs the tag
Da'vonne stans vs Tiffany stans
Lnj vs Ballsmashers stans
“You can’t catch me, Da!” shouted Davie as he ran past me.
Jamie snatched him up and tossed him over his shoulder with a playful growl,
making our five-year-old son shriek with delight.
The afternoon was warm, almost unbearably so, but there was
a slight breeze here in the shade. I shifted in my seat, trying to find a more
comfortable position. The pressure of the hard, wooden slats of the park bench combined
my perspiration adhered the fabric of my sundress to my skin. I peeled the damp
cotton away from my lower back, looking out at the idyllic scene in front of
me. I smiled to myself, perfectly content. It was a splendid afternoon for a
romp in Hyde Park.
Not only was the weather fine, but I also had all twelve of
my children together at the same time. The eldest three Frasers, having begun
their adventure as independent adults, had come home to celebrate their
The birthday boy had one son over his shoulder, another with
his arms wrapped around his waist, and a daughter clinging to his left leg. He
was in his element. Feigning injury, he carefully collapsed to the ground with
a dramatic groan. A cheer went up from all of the children, making Jamie laugh.
Out on the pond, the boys were in one boat, the girls in
another. Julia and Brianna sat at the oars, younger sisters in the bow, guiding
the craft along the peaceful shoreline. Their brothers, on the other hand, were
far more interested in the family of frogs living among the reeds and had
managed to get themselves stuck for a third time. A loud splash told me Gavin
had decided to get out and push the boat free.
I looked down just in time to see two-year-old Neil try to
feed a leaf to his sister.
“Babies don’t eat leaves, darling,” I bent, and moved his
hand away from Abigail’s face. Trading him the leaf for a toy, I continued,
“And neither should you.”
Becoming bored with the shaded tranquility and his infant
sister, the towheaded toddler waddled towards the wrestling match on the grass.
I picked Abigail up and, draping a cloth over my shoulder, began to feed her.
It was a wonderful experiment in genetics and heredity, I
thought: six of our twelve children had Jamie’s red hair and ten inherited his
blue eyes. They ranged from average height to tall, unsurprisingly. Alexander,
at eighteen, was a solid inch taller than Jamie, and Robert, at fourteen, was
showing signs of outgrowing them both. Julia and Maisie had been cursed with my
unruly curls, although neither seemed to mind. All twelve managed to
simultaneously resemble each other and look completely different.
Jamie had given me a set of Apostles’ spoons when we found
out we were expecting Julia. We had joked then about having a child for each
spoon, never dreaming that we would someday. My minds eye saw the spoons,
nestled safely in blue velvet, and I mentally paired each child with an Apostle
as I listened to them the brood chatter and giggle.
Julia: my first born, child of my heart. At nearly
twenty-four, she showed no outward signs of her childhood illnesses. Her auburn
curls were vibrant, her skin healthy and lively. She was the same height as me,
with rich brown eyes that held great depths of emotion. She preferred to let
her sister Brianna take charge when the situation warranted, but was fiercely
protective of her eleven younger siblings.
Brianna: the rock on which I stand. So like her father in
both looks and temperament, she was the leader of the pack. She was my right
hand man, so to speak, in many ways. I missed her terribly while she was away
at University and always looked forward to her detailed, weekly letters.
Alexander Brian: our philosopher and eldest son. Ever the
brilliant mind, Alex was following in my medical footsteps. His dark brown hair
and clear, blue eyes made him a favorite with the girls at University, but I
had it on good authority that he had no time for that sort of thing. Yet.
Janet Helene: our peacemaker and comforter. Jenny,
seventeen, was the glue that held our unruly brood together. In her own pragmatic
way, she was able to discern what was at the heart of her siblings’ many
quarrels and often had the conflict resolved before it came to a head. I’m sure
I would have gone insane without her.
St James, the greater.
Robert Ian: my comedienne. Four years younger than
knight-in-shining-armor Alex and only twenty months older than troublemaker
Gavin, Rabbie was often stuck in the middle. He chose to find the humor in life
and could always find a way to make me smile.
St James, the lesser.
Gavin Murtagh: my headstrong instigator. Born right on the
heels of his brother Rabbie, he was a sweethearted scalawag from the start. He
had good intentions but somehow his plans always went awry. For example, just last week he got
Maisie to help him smuggle home a squirrel in his coat pocket. The poor thing
had injured its tail, but before they could carefully confine it, it escaped
and spent the next six hours loose in the house.
Anne Elizabeth: our old soul. Annie was ten going on
sixty-nine. She loved nothing more than a good book and a quiet room, something
that was hard to find in the Fraser household. Annie loved her siblings with
abandon and somehow always knew exactly what was needed in a moment of
emotional crisis. She was also my resident baby whisperer.
Stephen James: our champion. Loyal to a fault, Stephen was a
best friend to everyone. He was the encourager of the flock and the only one
who could convince Maisie to do something she didn’t want to do, which was
Margaret Clara: my spitfire. At six years old, Maisie was
something of a character. She could sell ice to the Eskimos and walk away with
them thinking it was their idea. Oh, that girl could talk. She had an abundance
of auburn ringlets that could never be tamed and a personality to match. Heaven
help anyone who stood in her way.
David Michael: our engineer. Everything was new and exciting
to Davie. He was constantly taking things apart to see how they worked and
seldom managed to get them back together again. He’d learned the hard way not
to experiment on any of Maisie’s toys.
Neil Thomas: the toddler. Almost two and a half years old,
we were still discovering new things about Neil’s personality. He still had the
chubby cheeks and fine hair of babyhood, but liked to remind us he could do
things himself, thank you very much.
Abigail Marie: the baby. It had taken her only a week to
have each and every one of us wrapped around her little fingers. She was now six
months old and completely spoiled. She had a fake cry down pat, making her
siblings run to her in hopes of cheering her up. It was always comical to me to
watch her older brothers carry her. Having no hips to speak of, they awkwardly
carried her in various positions against their chest or shoulders.
As if she knew I as thinking about her, Abigail stirred
against me. I peeked under the cloth to find her smiling up at me, milk
spilling from the corner of her mouth.
A perfect dozen of my
very own, I thought.
“Are you done, baby girl?” I asked in a sing-song voice. She
kicked her arms and legs, cooing, in response.
Suddenly, a sharp, piercing pain shot down my arm. I cried
out, making Abigail cry with me. Jamie stopped playing with the boys and was
instantly by my side.
“What is it, Sassenach?” He asked, looking worried.
“I don’t know,” I answered and tried to brush at my
shoulder. “I think I’ve been stung by something.
I pulled my hand away and saw that it was covered in blood.
A warm, tickling sensation told me I was bleeding but I had no idea why or how.
I stared at my hand, trying to process what on earth was going on.
When I looked up from my hand, I found that we were no
longer sitting in a park but standing in the middle of a battlefield.
Jamie pulled me by my good arm and we ran for our very
lives. The sounds of mortar shells exploding above us made me go deaf, leaving
me with an eerie ringing in my ears. The sun went behind a cloud and I started
to shiver with cold.
We were hiding in some sort of bunker now, crouched low
against cold bricks. Jamie wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. He
said something to me, but I couldn’t understand him.
“What?” I cried out to be heard above the ringing.
His voice was garbled and muddy as he repeated himself.
“I can’t hear you!” I tried again.
A torrential downpour came out of nowhere, leaving us soaked
to the skin. I could hear distant thunder rumble over the constant ringing and
lightning danced around us. Jamie’s hand was as cold and clammy as I was and I
squeezed it, desperately needing his reassurance.
He brushed the wet hair out of my eyes and said, “Are ye
I blinked at him stupidly. His voice was quiet and yet I
could hear him above the roar of the storm and ringing of my ears.
Awake? Of course I was awake, how could someone sleep thru this?
He slowly started to move away from me and I panicked. I
tried to grab hold of him, but he kept slipping out of my hands. The water was
pushing us apart and I wasn’t strong enough to fight against it.
“Jamie!” I screamed, trying to keep my head above the water.
Something, or someone, was holding me down. I closed my eyes
and thrashed and kicked. Shockwaves of pain reverberated with each movement,
but I fought against it.
“Claire!” came Jamie’s voice, closer this time. “Wake up!”
I opened my eyes to see the anxious face of my husband two
inches from mine, his hand gripping my good shoulder.
In a sudden bolt of clarity, I realized it had all been a
dream. Every bit of it.
My body felt hot and heavy as I lay in Jamie’s arms, sobbing
and unable to speak.
I wept for what might have been, but could never be. The
children we might have created, the love I knew we could give.
I wept for Julia and Brianna, the daughters I had carried
within me but would never see again. Never to tell them just once more how much
I loved them, never again to hold them in my arms.
I wept for Jamie, who I had lost but to whom I had now
returned. The man I had so deeply loved was once again mine until death do us
Somehow, in the depths of my heart, I knew he was enough.
Now that I had him by my side, I could begin to live again.