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Could there please be 52 WEEKS in one year? Not your average week from Monday to Sunday, where you work and party and savour every second of free time. No, I’m talking about WEEK. The seven days I spent in a house with 17 friends, celebrating life day and night. Never wanting to sleep because everything is so funny, losing my voice within 24 hours of arrival.

For the fifth year in a row, we packed our bags with games and glitter to leave our beloved Brussels behind and retreat into the natural setting of the Belgian coast. The cute little town of De Haan didn’t know what was happening when they saw a bunch of city folk taking over their quiet beach days.

I don't even know where I have to start trying to explain WEEK. For seven days, you turn into a child again. No walk on the beach without pushing each other in the sand, finding pretty shells and being fascinated by crazy brittle stars. Games were played, dances were made up, and many pancakes were eaten. Oh, if only every week was WEEK! Releasing your inner child, being all silly and nothing is serious. I'm still recovering from the lack of sleep, the lack of voice, but most of all: getting used to being back in the city. Where the inner child is hidden away under layers of seriousness, meetings and fancy pants.

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