ramblings of a waspgoddess

2007-10-04T13:50:00.000Z

Too much chocolate...

2007-09-25T09:39:00.000Z

My colleague went to that well-known Swedish furniture shop the other day, I'm sure you know the one I mean; famous for its flat packs and self assembly and even more famous (or is that infamous) for its useless instructions. In any case she surprised me by bringing back a giant slab of marabou chocolate (the best chocolate in the world if you ask me).

My mother once told me that it's better to eat lots of chocolate in one go than to spread it out over the day, as long as you brush your teeth afterwards... I'm not sure whether she said that because she, like me, has zero will-power or what, but I followed her advice nevertheless and stuffed myself. (And then, like a good girl, I brushed my teeth...)

SPC - treading with caution

2007-09-18T20:22:00.000Z

The toilet at University College London

The very first time I went to an English hospital I was shocked at how worn out and tired it looked. Having lived in Sweden, Canada and the Netherlands where hospitals often resemble futuristic laboratories, all glass and stainless steel surfaces, it was like entering a different world. Initially I thought that perhaps Brighton General was more out of shape than other hospitals, but I have since been proved wrong on many occasions. And so it never surprises me learn about yet another MRSA outbreak; what with the peeling paint, cracked plaster and scabby furniture that must be left from pre-war days, the cleaning personnel are fighting a lost battle.

So it was with some trepidation I arrived for an MRI scan at University College London this morning. Despite the expected state of disrepair all went well, now I just have to keep my fingers crossed until the results come back.

Mr muscle

2007-09-15T20:00:00.000Z

“I’m weight training” he calls out from his study as I enter the flat. I laugh and tell him that’s good; he could do with a bit of exercise. “I know, my arms are turning to mush, it’s embarrassing… not what they used to be”, he jokes back. I carry the shopping bags into the kitchen and put them down by the sink, trying to avoid stepping on the cat as she winds in and out between my legs, hoping for a mid-afternoon snack.

“Richard asked me to look through this very interesting collection, it’s from a friend of his father’s… her husband recently passed away, and she has no idea what to do with it. It’s mostly England… I’ve only glanced at it really, but it looks very promising.” My father continues his monologue while I put away the shopping; his voice light and happy. I put a few of his favourite sweets; chocolate covered coconut, on a plate and bring them to the study. He looks up at me with a smile, his glasses balancing on the very tip of his nose, and then he sees the chocolate. “Oh, you are a good and thoughtful daughter” he says with a grin and motions for me to come closer so that he can kiss me on the cheek.

My father is a stamp collector, and hasn’t actually done any weight training in years (although in his youth he was very athletic and once cycled 150 km just to see a football match, and then back again at the end of the game). But he only lifts stamps now.

I suppose stamp collection is a hobby of the past, but it is one that suits my father’s temperament and personality particularly well. He’s a shy man, he’s always been very hard on himself and he has lived most of his life with a sometimes crippling sense of social inadequacy. Stamp collection has served as something of an anchor; it has given him both stability and peace, but just as importantly it has also provided him with a social scene where he has always felt completely at ease.

Being a collector is a fundamental part of my father’s identity and the security it has given him has always extended to me and my mother, and at no time was this more apparent to me than when I was a child. I have an abundance of wonderful evening memories from my childhood when I would be lying in my bed at night, just about to drift off to sleep. The light would be on in the study, and I could see his shadow bending over the desk as he searched through reference books, looking for that all-important connection between a particular stamp and a particular post mark.

The ostrich finally pulls its head out of the sand

2007-09-14T15:54:00.000Z

On Monday evening I went along to a talk by Naomi Klein (author of No Logo and more recently The Shock Doctrine: the rise of disaster capitalism) and talk about rude awakening. I've never been very interested in politics or economics, and rather than having to deal with the horridness of the world I have often preferred to stick my head in the sand... you know, out of sight out of mind...

But Naomi's talk was so accessible and so mind-blowing that I just had to sit up and start paying attention. I was transfixed as she explained how governments exploit crisis situations: wars, natural disasters, terrorist attacks, and whilst the country is in a state of shock they make what would otherwise be a political impossibility politically inevitable. Just like electroshock therapy regresses the psychiatric patient or POW to an infantile state, unable to make decisions, so does the crisis or disaster regress the people. And in that window of opportunity, when the people are frightened and confused, looking for guidance, governments can push through policies that otherwise would never be accepted.

And so I bought the book and I've not been able to put it down since. It's shocking how much I never knew; about the Bush administration, about what's been going on in Iraq, about what happened after the tsunami... and as scary as it is to find out, it feels great to finally be awake.

There is a great short film, made by film maker Alfonso Cuarón and Naomi Klein and directed by Jonás Cuarón, that accompanies the book. I tried to download it here but it didn't work. Do have a look at it though, it's both shocking and thought-provoking. You can view it here on YouTube.

SPC -- a good scrub

2007-09-11T09:16:00.000Z

Bathrooms on my mind... dreaming of a sanctuary, a haven... to pamper myself.

Wet room dreams...

2007-09-10T16:36:00.000Z

Yesterday I spent the entire afternoon doing serious research at the local bookstore with my partner. The fact that the reseacrh involved us looking through delicious bathroom design books for four hours doesn't lessen the seriousness. You see we are in the process of buying a little flat (really exciting and scary at the same time)... and it's crying out for a new bathroom (it's crying out for a lot of other things too, but our budget can only really stretch to a bathroom for now).

So now whenever I close my eyes I see basins and shower screens and gorgeous tiles and floating toilets and underfloor heating. Trying to work is impossible, I cannot pull myself away from my lavatorial daydreams. It's becoming an obsession.

This is what the bathroom looks like in our flat-to-be -- definitely not my dream bathroom

This is more like it, I love the storage solution underneath the sink, it looks so elegant (although I would probably never fold the towels that neatly...

Gorgeous tiles, and I love the shape of the basin...

Oh yes...

I love love love this... the colour of the splash back, the recessed shelving, the lighting. Just gorgeous.

Paralysis

2007-09-08T17:34:00.000Z

I have just returned from my usual Saturday afternoon with Rosie, the 88-year old lady I visit once a week as part of a neighbourhood care scheme (I've previously blogged about her here and here), and I am overcome by a muddled sense of impatience, mixed with excitement and fear.

Like most of us I dream of writing a great novel, and although I have, in recent years, downgraded my hopes and expectations to something of the Mills&Boon variety, in Rosie there is an amazing story to be told, something that could, if handled right, become that great novel... if I only knew how, or, should I say: if I only dared to try.

I have toyed with the idea before, told myself to start small; that all I have to do is sit down and write the skeleton of the story, or perhaps a short story version. It doesn't have to be of epic proportions. And occasionally I do get as far as the computer before paralysis sets in. The expectations I have of myself are crippling, and the only thing I can believe in is my failure.

How do you do it? Because I know you do...

Happiness

2007-09-06T09:08:00.000Z

When my mother turned 40 she gave my father an ultimatum: "either I want to get a job or I want another baby". And so I was born when my mother was 41 and my father almost 43. Thank you pappa for being an old-fashioned guy.

Growing up my parents were older than my best friend's grandmother, but it never really bothered me, they made up for it by being far more relaxed and chilled-out than all my friends' parents combined.

But now, well now they're old. My dad will be 81 in December and my mother 80 next February. And their bodies are starting to fail. And the last four visits (they live in Sweden and I don't get to see them very often) have been coupled with either one of them being seriously ill. Until this one that is.

I have just returned back to the UK from a brief but glorious visit, and I feel... happy, relieved, grateful and calm... Having last seen my father in March, when he weighed no more than 130 lbs following surgery (not much for a guy over 6 feet), to see him now, back to his usual lively, goofy self, seemed almost like a miracle. And I revelled in their company, the conversations we had. Really inhaled them, storing them deep deep inside, memories that I can draw from in the future.

mmmm... it's good to be back.

hello...?

2007-09-05T15:59:00.000Z

Work without holding
Undo all your fixations
Give up your ideas
Dissolve your conditioning
Abandon your weight to the ground
Exhale
Be simple
Receive, grow, expand
Allow your intelligence to reveal itself through your body
John Stirk on yoga

I am fine

2007-06-15T22:45:00.000Z

I am so sorry for just disappearing like I did... I don't even really know why. It sort of got a life of its own: not being able to face the blog. Sticking my head in the sand. I have been insanely busy at work with a lot more responsibilities, which has left me feeling stressed and frazzled and really preoccupied.

But considering I think of many of you as friends, this is hardly a valid excuse and of course I should have let you know.

Please accept my apologies... you mean an awful lot to me, you have been so supportive and inspiring, and to know you have been concerned about me - when there is no real reason - makes me feel very ashamed.

I promise to be back soon with a proper post. In the meantime I send lots of love to all of you.

Back to basics

2007-05-20T16:21:00.000Z

I didn't actually know what a blog was until early December last year, when as a big lover of Christmas, and especially Christmas food, I found myself hunting for interesting recipes, and in particular recipes for Swedish saffron buns, on the internet.

It was during this search that I stumbled across Anne's Food, and this particular post. The photograph accompanying the recipe was so salivating and the recipe itself, which combines two of my favourite flavours: saffron and marzipan, really intrigued me. I spent days trawling through Anne's previous entries; cooking and baking along the way, and slowly the idea of having my own blog was conceived.

And so the ramblings began. In the beginning my blog mainly concerned itself with food and the occasional musing over the origins of various traditions. It took a while for me to grasp the concept of visiting other peoples blogs, and so for ages the only blog I ever visited was Anne's Food. She never visited me and so I remained in the shadows for eons.

Now, food isn't exactly one of my hobbies. I like cooking and I love eating, but that's about it. So a blog dedicated to this subject didn't really stand a chance. And as I started visiting other blogs, I realised I much preferred to read, and write, about observations on the ordinary things in life.

But last week I came across this recipe, and it turned out so incredibly delicious (my partner and I were both sitting there looking at each other in disbelief: how could something so simple be so fabulously yummy?) that I felt inspired to share it with you.

Asparagus pissaladiere

Serves 4 (or two really hungry people)

50g butter
2 tbsp olive oil
750g red onions, peeled and sliced very thinly
Sprig of fresh rosemary
One bay leaf
1 tsp soft brown sugar
1 packet ready-rolled puff pastry
1 bundle of fresh asparagus
1 egg, beaten
About 100g of crumbled feta cheese

1. Melt butter and oil in a saucepan. Add onions and stir well to coat, then cover and cook gently for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.

2. Add the herbs and sugar, increase the heat and cook until the onions have caramelised. Leave to cool. Discard the rosemary and bay leaf.

3. Turn on the oven to 200c

4. Place puff pastry on a lightly greased baking sheet. Using a sharp knife, score a border approximately 2cm from the edge, be careful so you don’t cut all the way through.

5. Trim the asparagus and cut in half. Pile caramelised onions into the centre and spread to the inner edge of the border. Place the asparagus on top, season with freshly ground black pepper. Brush the border with the beaten egg and bake in the pre-heated oven for 15-20 minutes until the pastry has risen and is golden brown. Be careful so the pastry doesn’t burn. Reduce the oven temperature to 150c and bake for a further 10-15 minutes. Add the crumbled feta for the last 5 minutes.

Serve with a fresh salad, drizzled with a little bit of olive oil and lemon juice.

Enjoy!

I've been interviewed

2007-05-18T15:25:00.000Z

I know I'm going a bit meme crazy at the moment, but they're like peanuts, once you've had one... and this is one is different, it's more interactive: it's an interview. And anyone can join in.

After reading her answers and asking very nicely if I could play too, the beautiful Annika has asked me the following:

1: Desktop or laptop?
I actually prefer my desktop computer. Its virtues are numerous: the machine is much more powerful, the screen is bigger, it's better for my posture. The only thing missing really is an ergonomic chair to go with it, but if I had that I doubt I'd ever leave my little office.

2: Gory horror or slapshot comedy?
Hmmm... I'm not too keen on contemporary slapstick, but I love the old stuff with Jack Lemmon, and of course How to steal a million, one of my all-time favourites. Gory horror would never enter my house. I'm too afraid. When I watched the Exorcist years ago I got so freaked out I almost needed to be exorcised myself afterwards.

3: Small apartment in a big city or big house in the far-off countryside?
Can I have both? Or a big apartment in the big city and little cottage in the far-off countryside? No? Ok, I'll settle for the big city and the small abode then, for the time being.

4: Which is, according to you, The Best Song Ever?
No, no, no, no... I can't answer this. There are so many songs that are associated with incredible memories, but whether these are great songs or not is debatable... I don't have a favourite song, different moods calls for different songs.

5: If you had one month left to live - and you know that for a fact - how would you spend it?
Oh, what a difficult question. I would like to make one request. Can it be a summer month please? Yes? Oh, thank you. In that case I would like to rent a big beautiful house by lake Siljan in Sweden and invite my dearest friends to come and stay. The house would have a team of chefs cooking all our favourite foods, and cleaning staff so we never would have to lift a finger. The endless days would be spent talking, laughing, eating, drinking, playing games, swimming, horseback riding, snoozing in hammocks under a tree... that sort of thing. I wouldn't want my whole family there the whole time, but because we would be in Sweden they could come and visit.

Do you want to play too? Great, these are the rules:
1. Leave me a comment saying "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Love Thursday - blowing the budget

2007-05-17T16:23:00.000Z

I know it's irresponsible
I know it's outrageously expensive
I know I will probably only wear it very, very occasionally
I know it's impractical
I know, I know, I know...

But my bestest friend's hen do is coming up, we're all going to very shi-shi Primrose Hill (in London) for a weekend of full-on hedonistic fun, and we're even going to a disco in the middle of the day on Sunday afternoon. And to be a proper disco diva, I simply HAD to have the outfit to go with it.

So this Love Thursday I'm loving my Firaki catsuit by Malene Birger.

Too much information?

2007-05-15T17:04:00.000Z

The lovely Cheeky has tagged me for this four things about me meme, so here goes... some more information you never knew you didn't need to know about me...

4 jobs I’ve held:

The first job I ever had was making souvenirs at the copper mine in Falun, the town in Sweden where I grew up. I hated it
Journalist and free-lance writer
Waitressing…
Marketing manager. They hired me despite my lack of experience or formal training, and I didn't even have a formal interview. Sometimes it’s good to know the right people

4 movies I can watch over and over:

4 places I’ve lived:

In my parents house in Sweden
A hayloft in Canada
A squat in the Netherlands
Countless flats in the UK

4 TV shows I like to watch:

I don’t like watching TV, and like even less that I often end up watching it anyway. On top of that I just read somewhere that your metabolism slows down more when you watch TV than if you just sit still doing nothing. So it’s a fact: TV makes you fat.

Despite these issues, I have to admit I quite like the following, in no particular order:

The Apprentice (The UK version)
House MD – Oh, Hugh you sexy bastard
The occasional rerun of Frasier
Random documentaries

4 places I’ve been on holiday:

My first ever holiday without my parents was to the Greek island of Kos with a girlfriend, we were 17 and had an absolute ball
The most recent holiday was to Istanbul, which is becoming one of my favourite cities
San Cristobal de las casas in the Chiapas in Mexico was pretty amazing
Venice

4 of my favourite dishes:

Split belly aubergine, as cooked by my partner’s mother. Actually anything with aubergine does the trick for me
A selection of pickled herring, new potatoes, a little chunk of Västerbotten cheese, chives and a dollop of sour cream (mmmm... my mouth is watering), perhaps accompanied by a little vodka
Fresh chantarelles fried in a little butter served with hot, buttered toast (a lot of butter I know, but it’s worth it) and freshly ground pepper. Yummmmy...
A big bowl of fresh raspberries, wild strawberries, cherries. The cherries should be cold, but the other should be sun-warm

4 websites I visit daily:

BBC news
Guardian unlimited
various blogs
I constantly update the websites where I work, so I suppose I visit these daily too

4 places I’d rather be right now:

At home, snuggled up on the sofa with my cats piled on top of me, a cup of hot water and lemon, reading Eat, Pray, Love
On a loooong train journey with my man, in our own compartment, with a bottle of champagne and 24-hour butler service
At a spa… in fact I'd like to be in a spa every day
On a long hike, perhaps in Wales

La Cubana Gringa, Daisies, Marcos and Vedrana: you're it...

Shopping with Rosie

2007-05-12T19:17:00.000Z

Rosie and I are standing in the supermarket checkout queue.

“What does that say”, she says pointing to a sign on a pillar next to us.

“It says that if you want to purchase cigarettes and you look under 16 the supermarket reserves the right to ask for proof of age”, I say.

“Well, I don’t suppose I would be mistaken for 15 these days”; 88 year-old Rosie replies and flashes me a mischievous smile.

We both laugh. I ask if she was ever a smoker.

“No, not really, but I once smoked hashish with a Lebanese chap”, she’s looking thoughtful; obviously her mind has taken her on a detour down memory lane.

I try to imagine my own parents ever smoking hashish with Lebanese chaps, and fail miserably.

“How did that make you feel”, I ask Rosie.

“Oh, I don’t know… a little bit funny I suppose.” She’s quiet for a moment, “but no more funny than usual, really”, she winks at me.

It’s time to pay for the shopping.

Hillbilly born and bred

2007-05-09T08:10:00.000Z

How friendly are my fellow Brightonians I wondered, and decided to do an experiment (thank you Jay of kill the goat providing the inspiration). Out on my daily pre-lunch walk yesterday I beamed a smile at every person I met: man, woman and child, to see how many would smile back.

Hmmm… although a fair number did return my smile (and yes, men far out-numbered the women, and no, there were no tears from frightened children, thankfully I don't appear to be that scary-looking), what really surprised me was that the staggering majority were so busy staring at the ground in front of their feet that they missed my friendly grin altogether.

My father once philosophised that only country bumpkins look at other peoples faces on the street. According to his theory, born and bred city-dwellers are too jaded to be curious in other people. Maybe he’s right, but there are other things to rest our gaze upon other than our fellow human beings. Brighton is not a concrete jungle after all: and even so, many of the buildings are stunning. Then there is the sea, and spring has afforded a breathtaking array of colourful flowers and brand-spanking-new leaves on trees and bushes everywhere. Why aren’t people looking, drinking it all in? What’s so interesting about the dirty asphalt that we’d rather look at that than all this beauty that surrounds us?

I hereby pledge that for the remainder of this week I will not look down more than I have to (it’s probably a good idea to quickly scan the ground ahead for dog poo and open man holes). I will also continue smiling at my fellow renegades. And I don’t care if that labels me a yokel.

SPC - On a street in Stockholm

2007-05-08T10:27:00.000Z

My sister and I walking across Djurgårdsbron in Stockholm, on our way to see an exhibition at Liljevalchs konsthall last December. We had just had the pleasure of meeting Orhan Pamuk, the winner of the Nobel Prize in literature.

Gloomy though it may be, I think this picture manages to capture the cool midday light typical of a Swedish winter day perfectly.

My life as a wimp part 1: Hitchhiking with Charlie

2007-05-04T13:46:00.000Z

It’s 1992, the location is the south Gulf islands in British Columbia, Canada. It’s the summer I spent working wonderfully short shifts at a posh restaurant on Pender Island, serving haute cuisine to wealthy Americans who would arrive with their enormous yachts (some even carried helicopters), drink too much and leave unbelievable tips. Since I was living in an abandoned hayloft and had yet to develop any expensive habits, my outgoings were ridiculously modest, and so I worked only three days a week. In other words, I was living the life of Riley.

My days off were spent exploring the neighbouring Gulf Islands with my girlfriend. Hitchhiking never scared us. We were both still young and dumb I suppose, but also there was something about these small islands that instilled in both her and I a sense of security. And we had rules, well at least one, which we stuck to religiously: never get in the back seat of a car with only two doors.

But that day on Galiano Island we were exhausted. We had decided to explore the very northern tip of this strangely elongated island, and since there was nothing there, apart from a provincial park which could only be accessed by boat, there was no traffic. We had walked for what seemed like an eternity; we were thirsty, we were hungry.

When a car finally arrived we were so grateful that we didn’t think twice about crawling into the back seat. It wasn’t until the car took off that we noticed that the driver, a big burly dude, was drinking vodka straight from the bottle. In the passenger seat his equally burly and intoxicated friend turned around and, with a leer, checked us out with his hand casually resting on the shotgun, which we now saw lay between the two front seats. “My name is Charlie”, he said, “Charlie Manson”.

What can you do in a situation like that? With the car all over the road, and “Charlie” drunkenly ogling us, we whispered to each other in Dutch (it's useful to have a back-up language in these types of situations), frantically trying to come up with an escape plan. Finally we announced that we had to use the little girl’s room. After a few grumbles Charlie let us out, and we just legged it into the bushes. They shouted after us, but we were like two gazelles, darting this way and that, running for our lives. After a while, with no bullets ricocheting amongst the trees, we decided they had given up, or even more likely, forgotten all about us. We just threw ourselves down on the forest floor, laughing hysterically.

That summer later became known as the summer of many ridiculous adventures. That was also the summer when my girlfriend first encouraged me to write my memoirs and entitle them “My life as a wimp” after realising that I had a tendency to crumble in a crisis (in fact, I crumbled even when there was no crisis). I’m still working on these memoirs now, 15 years later, because unfortunately I am no braver now than I was at 23.

The domestic Bermuda triangle

2007-05-03T10:23:00.000Z

There is a mysterious place in our bedroom; it’s right next to one of those mass-produced IKEA armchairs, that once upon a time was a non-offensive creamy colour, but is now hideously grotty-looking (which is, I suppose, the main reason we make sure it’s always well-covered with clothes). The mysterious place next to this chair attracts socks; dirty socks, dirty, smelly man-socks. Like a domestic Bermuda triangle its pull on the helpless socks appears irresistible.

It’s a reliable source of argument between us. Between the owner of the smelly man-socks and I. Usually I turn a blind eye, but if my eye remains blind for too long he runs out of socks (I refuse to carry the filthy things to the laundry basket), and so we argue. In all fairness he never blames me when his sock stock is depleted, but it irritates me that he would rather be sock-less than fight the pull of the sock triangle.

Whilst my man is of the most chilled-out stock imaginable, I am prone to the occasional temper tantrum more often associated with a five year-old. This can, as I’m sure you all realise, lead to problems. Drama queens need a regular outlet, and this opportunity doesn’t present itself very often when you’re living with Mr Cool-As-A-Cucumber. So I’m starting to wonder whether the sock triangle is his own carefully-planned invention, created purely for my benefit. After all he’s not the sort of person to leave wet towels on the floor, nor does he leave the toilet seat up or wear the same underpants for five days straight. And the sock pile on the floor always looks curiously tidy.

I’m not sure whether this annoys me or not.

Just because I can't resist

2007-05-02T14:08:00.000Z

First I saw this meme on Luzie's blog, and then it also popped up on Daisies and Dreamer Girl's. And I just couldn't resist it. So here is a little bit more about me you never knew you didn't need to know.

Are your parents married or divorced?
They have been married for 56 years – amazing isn’t it? I blogged about them very early on in my blogging career, you can read their sweet story here.

Do you believe in heaven?
I don’t believe we go to heaven or hell when we die, but I often use the word heaven to describe moments or experiences of heavenliness…

Have you ever come close to dying?
There was the time I was nearly swept out to sea in Australia…

What jewellery do you wear 24/7?
I don’t often wear jewellery

Do you eat the stems of broccoli?
Absolutely, I think they are the best part.

Do you wear makeup?
I feel naked without mascara, but I have never had a good relationship with lipstick, I find it icky.

Would you ever have plastic surgery?
Hmmm… I would like to say no, but I’m not so sure. I hope I will feel comfortable enough to let nature take its course.

What do you wear to bed?
Nothing

Have you ever done anything illegal?
Yes, but nothing major.

Can you roll your tongue?
Yes

Do you have a boyfriend or girlfriend?
I have a lovely partner. He’s no longer a boy, though. He’s just my man.

Do you believe in abortions?
Absolutely

What is your hair colour?
Kind of auburn, darker underneath and quite light on top. Multi-coloured in other words.

Future child’s name, boy and girl?
I won’t have children, but I like Ripley for a girl.

Do you smoke?
Not any more. I have been smoke-free for four years.

If you could go anywhere in the world where would it be?
I would like to take the Blue Train from Pretoria to Cape Town. But I would actually go almost anywhere in the world, as long as it is by train.

Do you sleep with stuffed animals?
No, but I share my pillow with my little cat-girl Nar.

If you won the lottery, what would you do first?
Freak out, and hopefully not die of a heart attack. Then perhaps book that Blue Train journey…

Gold or Silver?
Silver

Hamburger or hot dog?
My man makes the bestest burgers, so I’ll have to say burgers. Although the best hot dogs can be had in Sweden. I LOVE Swedish hotdogs. Yum!

If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?
Is fruit considered one food? If I have to be specific I would say cherries, although that may hurt my stomach after a while. But I love cherries. And wild strawberries.

City, beach or country?
Hmmm… I’d like to pick and mix. Country – city - beach, in that order. Anything but suburbia. I am terrified of suburbia.

What was the last thing you touched?
The keyboard.

When’s the last time you cried?
Watching a program about homing pigeons two nights ago. Don’t ask.

What colour are your pants?
Pants as in underpants (that’s what we mean by pants here in the UK) or as in trousers? I’m not wearing trousers, so I’ll go with the first: they’re black.

Ever been involved with the police?
Yes, I was burgled once and had the pleasure of dealing with an incompetent fool who didn’t show up until 3 days after the burglary, during which time I was told NOT to change the locks (even though the door had been kicked in) and NOT touch anything. Ridiculous.

What’s your favourite shampoo/conditioner and soap?
I use Kerastase shampoo and conditioner for big/impossible/frizzy hair. It’s OK. I love this vervain soap I buy from the health food shop. It smells yummy.

Do you talk in your sleep?
No.

Ocean or pool?
Ocean. I don’t think the two have anything in common really, apart from being wet. Oceans are alive, they have souls; pools are dead and completely soul-less.

What’s your favourite song at the moment?
Africa by Toto, but only because someone just drove past my window playing it. I love hearing old songs from my past, they sometimes bring back amazingly powerful memories.

Have you ever had a cavity?
When I was a child I had a lot of cavities, but nothing in the past 10 years or so. I had a sadistic dentist when I was young and he scared me into looking really good care of my teeth. Now I have a wonderful dentist and have them checked twice a year.

Window seat or aisle seats?
Window. Especially on a train. I can happily sit and look out a train window for hours. I’m working on enjoying the view from a plane window.

Ever met anyone famous?
Last year when I was in Stockholm during the Nobel Prize festivities I met Orhan Pamuk, who won the literature prize, at a book signing. I said hello to him in Turkish, and he said hello back and smiled. In my waitressing days I also served quite a lot of famous people. And I once saw Cate Blanchett in the local supermarket, I’m still swooning...

Do you feel that you’ve had a truly successful life?
I’m still too young to answer that question... and what is success anyway? So far my life has been rich and varied in experience but not in financial terms.

Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it?
I’m a twirler.

Are you self-conscious?
Of course. I don’t think it’s possible not to feel self conscious at times.

Have you ever ridden in an ambulance?
Yes, quite a few times.

Last gift you received?
It was a beautiful necklace sent to me by the lovely La Cubana Gringa

What occasion did you receive your gift?
It was a belated birthday present.

Last thing you spent lots of money on?
The plane ticket bought with two days' notice to see my father in March.

Where do you live?
In a miserable basement flat in Brighton.

Last wedding attended?
It was a glorious wedding in the south of France last September. Everything was perfect. The weather, the band, the food, the (unlimited amounts of) wine… and the beautiful couple of course.

Favourite restaurant?
Hmmm… a tricky one. I love our local sushi bar Murasaki, but for the occasional splurge we usually head to Hotel du Vin for an afternoon of absolute hedonism. But the best food is really a picnic on the beach (in the winter a picnic on the living room floor is also good).

What is your favourite kind of car?
Volvo Amazon. Or a VW camper van.

What’s your least favourite chore(s)?
I need a new toilet slave, my last one quit.

Favourite drink?
Water with freshly squeezed lemon juice, or champagne.

SPC - up to the castle

2007-05-01T09:31:00.000Z

My camera has been stolen. At the ripe old age of three it was really past its prime, if indeed it ever had a period that could be described in such grandiose terms. But it was still a camera, and to say I'm feeling grumpy to find myself at the mercy of the primitive technology offered by my mobile phone is an understatement. How am I supposed to be able to create self-portrait masterpieces with a Sony Ericsson?

But I'm not the sort of person to give up easily. So after some trial and error, most of which involved figuring out which shutter sound would be least offensive (the option "silent" is curiously absent from the long list of absurd choices), I set off to the nearby town of Lewes, home of Lewes Castle. And to my surprise I realised that despite the "camera's" countless weaknesses, the results were not altogether bad. It even has a self timer!

So here I am walking up towards the castle (which was closed), wondering what type of camera to buy to replace the old Konica-Minolta... does anyone have any suggestions?

Linguistically challenged

2007-04-29T12:33:00.000Z

When I was 16 I did two weeks’ work experience at the local newspaper, and since my uncle was a journalist there I was entrusted to write a piece on some kindergarten children who’d built a fort out of milk cartons. That was the beginning of my writing career. I later got a part-time job to fit around my school work, and ended up with my very own weekly column, writing articles on issues interesting to young people in small-town Sweden (read: interesting to me).

I knew almost from the start that I didn’t want to be a journalist, it always made me feel uncomfortable to interview people who really didn’t want to be interviewed. But I loved the writing process; coming up with an idea, doing the research, playing around with words... it was a very satisfying process. And it still is, at least to some degree. But as I have complained about before I often feel stuck in no-man's land without a language of my own.

Swedish is in many ways lost to me, at least its nuances; the very details that make a language rich and interesting. And English, well I don't believe I will ever truly grasp it in the way I would like, and I'm the first to admit that perhaps it's because I'm just too lazy. But let's face it, it's not always a very friendly or accommodating language. Take the spelling and subsequent ridiculous pronunciations of many words for instance. I feel like an idiot half the time just opening my mouth.

Take taciturn, I never remember whether the -c- is soft or hard. And what about ergot? Am I supposed to pronounce the -t- at the end or not? Segue anyone? And then there is victual, one of the worst offenders in my book.

OK, so I'm not a native speaker, but I suspect that even those of you whose first language is English must struggle at times. So, I'm going to hand it over to you. Are there words you find yourself avoiding? Or do you have any memories of making a verbal gaff in a particularly embarrassing situation? Or for those of you who are in a similar situation to me, i.e. living in another country, speaking another language; what are your stories?

Liquorice roots

2007-04-27T09:50:00.000Z

If you have ever been to Sweden you know that we love our candy. There are big shops selling nothing but candy; wall-to-wall pick'n'mix. It’s a candy-lover’s dream-come-true and a dieter’s worst nightmare.

We are particularly fond of liquorice and tastes vary from those who prefer the (in my opinion) inedible pepper-flavoured stuff, to those who like it salty. But whatever your taste buds prefer, most Swedes would find it difficult to turn down a handful or two of the nice and easygoing sweet variety, and it's within this category that my favourites can be found - liquorice boats.

As a child I would only be allowed to spend a portion on my weekly candy allowance on liquorice-flavoured candy, as there were some nasty rumours doing the rounds in the mid 70s warning parents that over-consumption could lead to all sorts of dreadful conditions, the main one being high blood pressure. But once I was in charge of my own finances I gladly put my life on the line and regularly headed to the nearest pick'n'mix emporium to stock up. And my health didn't suffer. If anything, my blood pressure has always been slightly too low, so one could argue that I should eat liquorice boats medicinally.

So for years I happily gorged myself on giant quantities of my favourite nautical-themed treats, and the sessions had a tendency to get particularly debauched once I left Sweden and only had intermittent access.

Unfortunately my ability to digest and metabolise the wheat-heavy little boats has taken a beating over the years, and now I have to be careful not to eat too many or else I’ll feel dreadful. For a long time. Wheat simply doesn't agree with me any more.

But like the smell of lilacs, the taste of liquorice has a powerful hold on me, and whenever I visit Sweden I give in to temptation at least once, and buy slightly too much and then proceed to eat them slightly too fast. But it's usually worth it.

Photo from www.aroma.se

Remembering roots on Von Sandt Straβe

2007-04-25T12:10:00.000Z

Every summer, from the year I turned 3, my mother and I travelled by train to Bonn in Germany to visit my lovely grandmother, my Oma. It was a magical journey, which I have blogged about here, and it ingrained in me a life-long love of train travel. With roots and connections having become this week's unofficial theme, I started thinking of those weeks spent in Oma’s delightful little flat on Von Sandt Straβe, of the memories I still have from that time; and I wonder if part of me isn’t still rooted there.

Throughout the afternoon my thoughts revisit familiar places... the bakery where we would buy Mohnkuchen (moon cake); the butcher’s shop where I got my first taste of Mortadella (yum). Oh, and the ice cream... mmm, the ice cream, the ice cream. German ice cream was the best, it was more like sorbet… not rich and creamy like everywhere else, and as a child with strange and underdeveloped taste buds, it was perfect. I would eat it in great big coupes on the river boats, as we explored the Rhine valley on countless day trips.

I remember riding up Drachenfels on a stubborn donkey that refused to cooperate; buying freshly baked Brötchen from the Italian grocer around the corner, and eating them with plum jam for breakfast; my Oma pointing at people with her cane when we were out walking, infuriating my mother.

My eyes are filling up with tears and I realise I can’t ignore the fact that although it has been more than 20 years since I was last in Bonn, and my Oma has been gone for even longer, I still have roots there. And I’m wondering if it isn’t time for a visit. Maybe I can go on a trip down the river on the whale-shaped Moby Dick, my favourite of the river boats. Maybe I’ll stop at Drachenfels, although I suspect the donkeys will be off limits to me now. But I'll definitely eat ice cream. Lots of it.

Photo from www.meilleurduchef.com

SPC - barefoot

2007-04-24T11:14:00.000Z

I once spent an entire summer barefoot. I was 22 and worked as a waitress in a fancy restaurant on south Pender in British Columbia. I lived on north Pender, so in order to reach the restaurant in time to put on shoes, set up and welcome the first guests as they arrived between 5:30 and 6, I would set off, shoe-less, at around 3pm, hitching a ride with whomever I could.

By the end of that summer not only had the skin on the soles of my feet grown tough; my ankles were stronger, my feet broader, my centre of gravity had descended and I felt deeply connected to the ground.

For years now my feet have lived in shoes, and whilst they seem pasty in comparison to the wild woman feet I had that summer on Pender Island, they are still one of my favourite body parts. I like their broad, sturdy appearance and I think they are well suited for growing roots. Maybe it's time to take my shoes off again.

Preoccupied by shallow-growing roots

2007-04-23T13:58:00.000Z

I long to let my roots grow deep and strong. I long to belong, to feel truly grounded; but I feel lost, and I am left the wonder: where is my true home? In the nearly 20 years that have passed since I left Sweden, I have lived in Toronto; on Vancouver Island; on one of the Gulf Islands; in Haarlem; in Amsterdam and now in Brighton, but I wonder why I’m more reticent now than ever to let my roots become truly... rooted. To allow a place to feel like home.

Despite my weak and shallow-growing roots, Brighton has been my base for nine years, longer than I've lived in any one place before (excluding the house where I grew up). So I started thinking about what keeps me here...

My god son. Although I don’t see him as often as I used to, he and I have a very special bond, and I feel a responsibility towards him that is impossible to ignore. He roots me here more than anyone or anything else
The sea. It’s only a few minutes away from my house, and I walk along the shore nearly every day. It never looks the same. It always looks beautiful
I’m starting a 10 week taster course at the Shiatsu College in Brighton tomorrow, and I’m hoping to like it so much that I will want to enrol in their three-year course starting this autumn
I can walk to work in less than five minutes
A selection of drop-in yoga classes are readily available for me to choose from – every day of the week, day and night
Walking through a bluebell woodland at this time of the year is magical, I can almost believe I live in King Arthur’s England
Rosie. She depends on me and I doubt I could ever leave Brighton as long as she's still here

But there are so many things that prevents me from becoming completely anchored to the British soil: the unsophisticated drinking culture; the chavs; the insanity that doing drugs is considered cool; the fact that cafe's don't stay open past 7pm; the obsession with reality TV shows; the exorbitant housing market; the exorbitant cost of everything...

I suppose for the time being, the pros outweigh the cons. But for how long I wonder?

Photo by Adrian

Sunday scribblings - rooted

2007-04-22T19:08:00.000Z

Surrounding the garden of our house when I was a child was a lilac hedge. In the south-eastern corner, near the twisted old apple tree, where the lilacs grew especially tall and dense, was my favourite place. At the base between two bushes was a small opening, just large enough for a small child to crawl through; it opened up into a bower of sorts, a little den, which became my secret hiding place.

Surrounded by the intoxicating scent of the lilacs, I would play house; and later, reading whichever book I had on the go, whilst sucking the nectar from each of the tiny flower-ettes.

25 years have passed since my parents sold the house with the lilac hedge, yet every year when they are in bloom, I am transported back in time, their scent ensuring that a part of me remains firmly rooted in that garden. Their roots and mine are tightly intertwined, reminding me of the long, carefree summer days of my childhood.

Fury

2007-04-21T12:17:00.000Z

Every Saturday afternoon I spend with Rosie. She lives nearby and I usually walk over sometime between 2 and 2:30. After I arrive we sit and chat for an hour or so; we talk about her health, about what she’s been doing during the week. Then she calls a taxi and we head off to the supermarket where I help her do her weekly shopping. After we get back to her flat and put the groceries away, we sit down with a giant cup of tea each and a jaffa cake or two. And she tells me tales of her life. She’s a fantastic story teller and has had an incredibly rich and interesting life.

Rosie is 88 and was always very active and independent. But when she moved to Brighton 10 years ago, she became quite depressed when, for the first time in her life, she felt that nobody actually needed her. She started feeling useless; a burden on her family, on society. She still takes a daily anti-depressant and something to help her go to sleep at night, and usually when I call during the week and ask her how she is, she answers “not very well, dear”. And there are times when she opens the door to let me in, when I can tell that she is indeed quite down. But I like to think that she enjoys our visits as much as I do.

Rosie suffers from severe osteoporosis; she is almost completely deaf; she is registered blind; both her hands and feet are badly twisted from rheumatism, rendering them almost useless at performing simple tasks like opening a jar, or getting through the impossible plastic wrapping that covers most food items. Things I do mindlessly, can take her the best part of an hour. In many ways she is a prisoner, both in her body and in her flat.

When I called her after I returned from Istanbul on Tuesday, she told me that last Saturday she was robbed in the supermarket. Someone distracted her and while her back was turned, his accomplice snatched her purse from her bag, which was lying in the supermarket trolley.

How anyone could do something so cowardly is beyond me. I feel absolutely furious. At 4’8” she is clearly deemed an easy target. She is quite unsteady on her feet and walks with a cane. “Pick on someone your own size”, I feel like shouting. I still want to throttle them.

The smile

2007-04-20T09:31:00.000Z

In my neighbourhood walks a man of indeterminable age. He patiently ferries his belongings, all contained within an infinite number of bags, along the quiet residential streets. Whilst his route appears random, I suspect that if someone was to map it, a pattern would emerge. What thoughts occupy his mind as he treads the streets? What treasures and memories are held in those countless bags? Some of the bags are partially open, the zips ripped; the seams torn, and although I’m dying to peek, I’m just too afraid.

He is a big and sturdy man, and I suspect his hair may once have been blonde, but now it looks yellow, and he reminds me of a Cornish fisherman. His face and clothes are beyond grubby and most people give him a wide birth, carefully avoiding the possibly unpleasant risk of accidentally inhaling his stale scent.

In all the years I've seen him walk the streets, I have never seen him drunk or with a drink in his hand. I have never heard him raise his voice or seen him exhibit any signs of aggression or violence. Often, when it’s raining, I see him reading, sitting somewhere sheltered from the weather (he’s careful never to choose a residential doorway). What does he read?

A few days ago we found ourselves on the same street corner. Our eyes met and he gave me the widest, kindest smile. That smile made my day.

Yet my feelings towards him remain the same confused mess of fear and caring. I would desperately like to stop and ask him what he’s reading. I want to know his story, where he came from. But I know I will never dare.

This entry was inspired by a wonderful post written by Lacithecat called The Old Man.

There once was a well-known politician named Blair...

2007-04-19T09:40:00.000Z

On this Love Thursday it's all directed towards my father, who, as I mentioned yesterday, has made an almost complete recovery from his surgery six weeks ago. I love this photo of him, although I find it almost impossible to comprehend that it's actually him standing there. And isn't it amazing to think that the photograph is nearly 80 years old?

Waiting for me when I returned from Istanbul on Tuesday evening, was a little note from him, along with a limerick he'd composed. For as long as I can remember he's been writing limericks, but they have naturally always been in Swedish, so that he's decided to start writing in English at the ripe old age of 80 just blows me away.

Here it is, in his own words:

There was a well-known politician in Great Britain named Blair,
who had a nice-looking face and [a] beautiful hair,
but, Mr Blair, that isn't enough,
a modern leader has to be tough,
and of course, above all, against everyone fair

He signs off with the following: By the way I am 80 years old and have never seen an English 5 pound note. How about that? Is that a hint that he'd like to see it published I wonder?

Ten days - ten things

2007-04-18T15:33:00.000Z

Inspired by one of my favourite bloggers, Nicole, I’ve decided to share 10 things today to get back into the swing of things after an unexpected long-ish hiatus from the blogging world, which, incidentally, lasted 10 days.

Istanbul is an amazing city, managing the near impossible by being both one of the most beautiful and ugliest cities I have ever visited. I have a full-blown, complex love-hate relationship with it and marvel that it can be both so insanely fast-paced and yet so, at times, frustratingly laid-back and relaxed, all in all leaving me confused and both absolutely invigorated and utterly exhausted
There are more people living in Istanbul than in the whole of Sweden. Being from a hick-village (to quote my best friend K) it's perhaps not so surprising that I sometimes struggled with its enormity
I had promised my man to try the infamous chicken dessert… but in the end I didn’t dare. I watched him eat it, and it looked too weird and gelatinous. I chickened out
But I managed to eat a huge amount of other, absolutely delicious, food while I was there. Most of the food they eat is prepared with olive oil, which makes it intensely fresh and light. One of my favourite dishes is Karnıyarık (or split belly aubergines stuffed with ground meat, onions and tomatoes), which I blogged about here. I can't recommend it highly enough. Try it... It is so delicious
I always though tulips were more or less invented by the Dutch, but I now know better. During our holiday, Istanbul were in the middle of celebrating its annual tulip festival and I found out that not only are the flowers native to this part of the world, they were also so popular with Sultan Ahmed III, that the unusually peaceful period that coincided with his reign became known as the tulip period (1718-1730)
On my birthday we went to Vogue, a rooftop terrace bar/restaurant with a breathtaking view over the Bosphorus, in the achingly trendy area of Nişantaşı. Unfortunately (for my man) my favourite cocktail (Bellini) cost £13 (or $26 or €19) and I happened to be very thirsty
The call to prayer is one of my favourite aspects of Istanbul. Five times a day a cacophony of voices is heard echoing between the buildings, over the water, against the countless hills on which the city is built. In the good old days the imams with the most beautiful voice was selected from each mosque to make the call, but these days pre-recorded voices, not always very beautiful, are turned on at full whack from speakers pointing in every possible direction on the minarets of the cities’ countless mosques
My dad, who has been quite ill following surgery six weeks ago, appears to be at the door of a complete recovery. He’s again spending his time divided between his favourite hobbies of stamp collecting; bridge playing and limerick-writing. When I came back from Istanbul last night there was a hilarious limerick about the short-comings of Tony Blair waiting for me. I couldn't have had a better belated birthday present
Lionel Shriver is coming to town to do a talk during the annual Brighton Festival and so I decided to read We need to talk about Kevin during my holiday. The book played a major role in my not doing any blogging, as any time that wasn’t spent eating or wandering around the city, was spent with my nose glued to the book, which was intensely harrowing and disturbing, yet impossible to put down. It was eerie to return back to the UK to the terrible news of the shooting in Virginia, especially since the exits from the engineering classroom building were locked using chains, just like they were in the book
Next Tuesday I’m starting a ten-week shiatsu course. This is a taster for what I'm hoping could become a major change in the direction of my life. At the end of the introduction I’m planning to enroll in a three-year course, which starts this autumn. It feels that the time has definitely come to lay down the foundations so that I stand a chance of eventually navigating myself out of the marketing world, which I so detest

Thinking... about food

2007-04-08T12:08:00.000Z

When I was a little girl meal times were associated with immense stress and at times, depending on what was on the menu, I would be so anxious I would be close to tears. I was phenomenally picky and disliked almost everything, and the thought of eating the food put in front of me regularly left me feeling physically sick. I can still remember the feeling of absolute dread as I sat down, faced with yet another plateful, each bite expanding, growing in my mouth as I chewed and chewed and chewed, unable to swallow... it was torture, on a daily basis.

Of course my not eating caused my mother no end of stress and she tried pretty much every trick in the proverbial book, from letting me eat only what I liked, to forcing me to remain at the table until I had cleared my plate (this approach did not last long since I then ended up sitting at the table in front of a plate of stone cold food until well past my bed time).

I know that my problems had nothing to do with my mother being a bad cook, in fact she cooks very well, and food now plays a huge role in the enjoyment of visiting my parents. My taste buds must have simply been severely under-developed, and I only really started enjoying food when I was in my 20s. And when it happened it was like flicking a switch. Suddenly almost everything (apart from runny egg yolks, which I still don't like) tasted delicious. Food and everything to do with it became synonymous with pleasure.

I'm currently on holiday in Istanbul, visiting my partner's parents, and it's interesting to notice how the familiar feeling of stress sometimes rears its ugly head during meal times. Don't get me wrong, the Turkish cuisine is absolutely delicious, everything is so fresh and so full of flavour, and apart from a peculiar dessert made from chicken breast, it doesn't contain anything scary. It's just that they show their love and care through cooking, and they want you to eat and eat and eat. Turning down seconds and thirds becomes an offence, and I feel almost panicky as I struggle with the mountains of food placed in front of me.

And so as we prepare to go to the country house for a big Sunday feast today I kind of regret putting myself on a diet these past few weeks. Had I not done that, my stomach would have been in better shape to accommodate the copious quantities I know will greet me this afternoon. What if I explode? I'll let you know how it goes, if I survive...

On a different note, Meredith of Poppy Fields really surprised me the other day by passing on the Thinking Blogger award. Thank you so much Meredith, I'm really chuffed! I love visiting your blog, you paint beautiful pictures with your words, and I especially love your descriptions of the smells and tastes of Provence.

Now the idea is for me to pass on the award to five other bloggers who regularly make me think, not an easy task, since the very reason I read the bloggers I do is because I find their writing stimulating and thought-provoking.

But here are five of my favourites, in no particular order:

How participation works:
If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.
Optional: Display the ‘Thinking Blogger Award’ with a link to the post that you wrote.

From fear of flying to tranquility, via a little yellow pill (and some cute pilots)

2007-04-06T23:02:00.000Z

I wasn’t always afraid of flying. Instead, like many people, I was ambivalent about the whole experience; I enjoyed the take-off but found the remainder, particularly long haul, tedious at best. Since I’m neither wealthy nor have a job that provides me with the opportunity, first or business class have always eluded me, and there just isn’t much enjoyment to be had in economy, especially since I appear cursed to always end up sitting either next to someone too large to comfortably fit in their own seat and so end up occupying part of mine, or an over-friendly, thick-skinned chatterbox who wants to share their life’s story as we cross the Atlantic.

But after being taken seriously ill whilst on holiday in the early 90s my fear of flying was conceived and delivered in an instant on board the flight back home. It appeared the illness had provided me with an uncomfortable insight into my own mortality, and so I spent the next 10 years avoid getting on a plane unless it was absolutely necessary. Of course with my entire family living in Sweden this wasn’t easy.

After I moved to the UK two things happened that improved things considerably. First my doctor kindly wrote a prescription for valium and told me to take one before flying, after I described how my fear of flying often ruined my holidays as I worried about the return flight as soon as I made it off the outbound flight in one piece. I normally hate taking pills of any kind, but valium was an exception and I gladly took it once I realised how it helped take the edge off the worst of my fear. I was still nervous and gripped the armrest at take-off, and spent a large part of the flight ensuring the plane remained in the air by concentrating really hard, believing that if I relaxed too much it would simply drop out of the sky.

The other discovery was much better and didn’t involve any pharmaceuticals. The cockpit. After informing a particularly friendly flight attendant of my concerns she asked if I wanted to have a chat with the pilot and see what it was like up front. And that was the beginning of a short but very sweet time. Sitting in the cockpit is simply awesome. I realised that in my imagination I had pictured the pilots manically pulling at the rudder, calling out “mayday, mayday” in desperation, their foreheads slick with perspiration, red lights flashing everywhere as the plane hurtled towards the ground. The truth was entirely different of course; they oozed calm and confidence and would swivel around in their chairs as I entered; invite me for a cup of tea, laughing and joking. Sometimes I was even lucky enough to be invited to stay for the landing. At no point did I ever experience fear. From then on I started exaggerating my worries just a little bit, so that I always got to sit up front. Unfortunately 9/11 put an immediate stop to these delightful visits, and so I found myself more or less forced to return to the chemical comfort provided by the pale yellow pills.

In recent months what may be a more long lasting relief has appeared from a completely unexpected angle. Mindfulness. Since I started meditating I have gradually become more able to focus on the moment as it happens, to live in the present. There is still a tendency to let the mind wander, in my case towards the future, and what’s going to happen, or more importantly what may happen; towards what ifs. But it happens less and less, and I also catch myself doing it more easily and can gently steer my mind back towards now. Once I started applying this awareness when flying things improved rapidly and dramatically. When I returned from Sweden just over a month ago I found myself sitting by the cabin window calmly looking out as the plane sped along the runway, and as we took off marvelling at the wondrous experience of flying, of the beautiful landscape spread out beneath me and I was overcome not by fear, but by tranquillity.

Photo from www.nerdseyeview.com

Holiday prep

2007-04-03T21:22:00.000Z

This is ironic. I love this month's challenge, it provides the perfect opportunity to explore what is both delicate and heavy; full of angst but also of joy; embodies uninhibited happiness and complete despair... the body, my body. And I feel ready to be brave and honest and really delve deep into my own issues and expose my fears.

And here is my hand - cleaning.

We are about to go on holiday and I have this thing about leaving the house in a state as near to perfection as possible, partly because our neighbour, a friend and the cat watcher will all be here, collectively looking after the cats in our absence, and I don't want them to see what messy slobs we really are. But also, I like nothing less than coming home to a messy house.

And the manic cleaning, coupled with the long hours put in at work in order to get everything ready for our two week leave, finds me curiously lacking in both time and focus for creative explorations... I feel temporarily stunted, exhausted and in need of a holiday.

Scratching the surface?

2007-03-30T17:01:00.000Z

Say the word progress and the first thing that usually springs to mind is movement: moving forward, leaving something behind. But recently I’ve become much more interested in another type of progress, the kind that goes deeper, the kind that's about learning more.

Take yoga for instance. Instead of always reaching for new and increasingly difficult asanas, what about focusing on the ones I already know, and really getting to know them, spending time in them, and if not perfecting them, at least attempting to make them as beautiful as possible? Mmmm… the idea is very appealing, it almost exudes calm.

The same goes for books… so much of the literature that is produced today is designed to instantly gratify, but like junk food these books rarely hold any real substance. Just read it, chuck it aside and move on to the next. But I yearn for a book that makes me think, a book that challenges me. I long for a book I want to return to over and over, always finding something new, something I hadn’t noticed or understood before.

I guess I don’t want to just scratch the surface of life.

How do you want to progress?

Photo: www.sunandmoonstudio.com

Love Thursday - spring

2007-03-29T13:54:00.000Z

On Saturday I refrained from turning on my computer for a whole day as part of shut down day. Instead I decided to grab the camera and go out hunting for signs of spring, which on that particular day still seemed eons away - it was bitterly cold and miserably grey.

I bundled up with hat and gloves and a big winter coat and headed off to the nearby park and I guess most people were either hiding indoors or running around doing errands, because it was almost empty. It was wonderful to wander around the scented garden all alone, noticing all the fresh shoots and bursting buds.

From the park I continued down towards the sea and came across a glorious cherry tree heavy with blossoms. I lay down on the bench beneath the canopy and stared up at the grey sky, watching the branches dance in the wind.

After a walk along the sea I turned back up and crossed a field full of daffodils. I couldn't resist lying down in their midst - careful of course not to crush any - and got almost high from their heady scent. I love the way their heads nod in unison, like they're all grooving to the same music. The daffodil head-bangers...

It was a very quiet and introvert afternoon, and I felt reconnected not just with nature, but with a part of myself. The fact that the weather wasn't very inviting actually made the whole experience more complete, it felt as if I was part of the elements again.

To finish off I went to a little cafe and had a pot of green tea before I went back home. A day spent in the slow lane of life. I felt so carefree and so happy.

Wordless Wednesday - Heinz and the lions

2007-03-28T09:56:00.000Z

There was a nature documentary on TV the other evening and Heinz was absolutely mesmerised by the lions. He was sitting on the arm of the sofa and kept leaning further and further forward until he nearly fell off.

SPC - a small wasp with a big message

2007-03-27T16:35:00.000Z

On Friday, as I prepared for shut-down day, the concept of a computer-free day filled me with apprehension and I wondered if I would suffer withdrawal symptoms. It turned out to be a wonderful, almost liberating, thing to do and so I decided to extend it a little bit. The fact that spring has arrived with a bang has definitely spurred me on, and acted as an incentive to keep me from sitting inside.

Coming back from this little hiatus feels almost like starting afresh, which is why I thought it was appropriate to post this photo (which has been photoshopped) of a very young wasp. And I would like the child I was then to act as a reminder to live in the moment, to be mindful, and to have an open mind - a beginner's mind.

Shutdown day

2007-03-23T08:25:00.000Z

I'm preparing for this Saturday's shutdown day. A full 24 hours without turning on the computer. Can I do it? Of course I can, but it's going to be quite strange.

Since I started blogging about three months ago, not a single day has passed without me spending some time at a computer, partly this is because I made a vow to write everyday, but the blogging has also become something of an obsession. Not just the writing of course, but the visiting of all the lovely bloggers I've "met" in this period. So I may suffer from mild withdrawal symptoms this Saturday.

Therefore I'm very grateful to Kristin of write now is good who directed me to a hilarious YouTube film showing other things to do with our laptops; like using them for snowboarding (no snow here though), ping pong rackets and various other activities. Visit her blog for more ideas.

Can you switch off for a whole day?

My visual DNA

2007-03-22T08:58:00.000Z

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

This is fun, so if you haven't done your visual DNA yet and you have a few minutes to spare, I'd recommend it. Not that it's profound and tells you things about yourself you didn't already know. It's just some good innocent fun, and the website is quite nice (although I had problems when using Firefox, it was happier on IE).

Apparently I'm a dreamer, escape artist, high time roller, lovebug. The high time roller tag doesn't really make any sense, but it seems my choice of bedroom and the fact that my vice is a nice glass of wine qualifies me as one.

What's your visual DNA?

Half-way through to happiness?

2007-03-21T08:50:00.000Z

"Our bodies are our gardens, for which our wills are gardeners."
(William Shakespeare 1564-1616)

On March 1st I embarked on a 43 day challenge to try and get myself in shape both physically and mentally in time for my 38th birthday. But instead of simply putting myself on a strict diet and expecting to magically morph into Audrey Hepburn by said date, I decided to set the bar a little higher and make an attempt to love and accept myself a little bit more, a little bit better, despite my obvious lack of any Hepburnesque features.

So apart from daily yoga and a minimum of 10,000 steps, along with a focused low-GL diet (with the help of my trusty kitchen companion Patrick Holdford), I've also introduced a daily five minute session of really looking at my face in a mirror. This is far, far harder than dieting and exercising. As I get closer to 40 it has been getting almost impossible to feel much enthusiasm when looking in the mirror. My face seemed incredibly old and haggard to me, and after the first few days I was wondering whether this new scheme was indeed a sign of my being a complete masochist. But gradually it's becoming easier. Growing old still sucks, but I'm done with putting my head in the sand about it.

I've also started keeping a notebook of daily moments of happiness, with the intention of doing a collage based on these at the end of the challenge. And just the act of keeping an eye out for these moments helps me live more in the moment.

I admit that I would still like to wake up one morning and see an image of Audrey looking back at me in the mirror, but I feel that little bit closer to being happy with the way I am and the way I look. And since I still have 22 days to go, I'm feeling optimistic that things will continue to improve. In the meantime, Audrey guards my fridge so whenever I feel like having a big piece of chocolate cake I first have to get past her sylph-like incarnation, which puts me right off any ideas of pigging out.

SPC: come dance with me

2007-03-20T18:35:00.000Z

After a stressful time with my dad becoming ill, I'm starting to feel positive again. Prompted (or I guess I could say inspired) by last week's Sunday scribbling I feel like making this whole week all about inspiration. And I feel like dancing. It's time to put on the soundtrack to Monsoon Wedding and do the jiggy around the living room, and for the first time in ages there is a substantial decrease in the amount of jiggle... which is enough to put a smile on my face. Will you join me?

Update: I just came home from an absolutely awesome, and totally inspiring, dance performance by Henri Oguike Dance Company. Oguike's roots are in break dancing, and the performance was a brilliant amalgamation of the chaos and jerky moves of street dance and the fluidity and perfection of modern dance. At one point I felt almost overwhelmed and totally blissed out to be there, to witness this beautiful performance.

Stepping outside straight into a painful arctic wind afterwards, I caught sight of the tiniest sliver of new moon in the sky. The promise of things to come. Happy...

This photo of me dancing on Gabriola Island in British Columbia (about 12 years ago) has been manipulated using beadart.

Belated Sunday scribbling - inspiration

2007-03-19T09:23:00.001Z

I went to a yoga and meditation day on the weekend. It was wonderful to spend a whole day practicing mindfulness and being in the moment. I learnt many new meditation techniques, including walking meditation which was wonderful. The teacher also read the following poem by Derek Walcott, and I felt such a wave of excitement and inspiration when I heard it.

Love after love
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott (1930-)

Photo hunters - drink

2007-03-17T18:21:00.000Z

This is Nar, our little Tonkinese girl, who has a curious habit of only ever drinking her water along the very edges of the bowl.

In the pharmacy (aka: just shoot me now and put me out of my misery)

2007-03-16T12:58:00.000Z

The other day I had to go to the chemist to pick up a prescription for my mother. Had I known what was awaiting me I would have brought a book, a thermos with tea and some sandwiches. They’re big on organised queuing in Sweden and whether you’re in the post office, the bank or at the chemists you first have to get a ticket with a number from a state of the art ticket machine.

So when I arrived at the chemist I first had to make a selection between a ticket from the prescription queue or one from the non-prescription queue. This was simple enough since I had a prescription.

All three booths were open and in each a customer was being tended to. There were only three numbers ahead of me, which I interpreted as a good sign. So I waited. After about five minutes nothing much had happened, the pharmacists were still busy with the same customers. I waited. One pharmacist got up and disappeared through a door, and she was gone such a long time I was starting to wonder whether she'd taken her lunch break. But she still had a customer waiting at the booth... Eventually the door opened and she reappeared, but then she recognised the lady who was being served in the non-prescription section and went over for a chat. I waited.

One of the other customers finally got up and left. I willed the pharmacist to push the magic button that would bring me one step closer to release. But instead she got up and disappeared through the aforementioned door. I tried to breathe slow, deep breaths into my belly. I looked over to where the other people were waiting, thinking we could roll our eyes together and bond over this snail-paced service, but they all sat staring stoically at something on the floor about two feet in front of them. So I waited.

The pharmacies in Sweden are equipped with a worrying number of chairs, loads are crammed in the waiting space for you to place your weary buttocks whilst waiting, and then you even get to sit down opposite the pharmacist once it's your turn. These chairs send out a very clear message: you ain't going nowhere, just sit back and relax.

The first pharmacist ended her chat and returned to her seat, sent her customer on his way, and miraculously decided to push the button. One step closer. The second pharmacist also returned and sat down. She didn't push the button, instead she started typing on her computer. I waited. More people entered, and one lady went straight to the non-prescription counter (which was deserted) waving a blue piece of paper. She was directed to the vacant booth where the pharmacist stopped typing and motioned for her to sit down.

I wanted to shout. I had been there for 23 minutes by now, and was only one meager step closer. And now some blue-papered lady got to sneak ahead.

Another customer got up and left. Push the button, push the button... but now the person serving the non-prescription section had disappeared, so the button was left un-pushed as the pharmacist got up to tend to those without a prescription. I was starting to wonder whether this was a safe environment for those suffering from high blood pressure.

The blue-papered lady's mobile phone rang. To my despair she started chatting away without giving a moment's thought to the pharmacist (or me!) who appeared unable to proceed further with the preparation of the medications. I wanted to throttle her, all of them. I looked at the time: 28 minutes had passed. It seemed like an eternity.

Eventually the phone call ended, the blue-papered lady got her pills and left, the button was pushed and I was one step closer.

By the time my number was finally displayed I had been in there for 38 minutes. I was dizzy and delirious as I staggered towards the seat opposite the pharmacist, and as I handed over the prescription I was close to tears. The pharmacist smiled at me but as she looked at the yellow slip more closely her smile changed to a frown. The prescription had expired only a few days earlier. I left empty-handed.

Tagging 101

2007-03-15T14:53:00.000Z

My darling Nar

I've returned from my brief visit to Sweden and it's been quite a harrowing few days. I last saw my dad in early December for his 80th and he looked quite well then, so it was a shock to see him now, only three months later. He'd lost so much weight, and was down to a mere 145 lbs to his 6'2". It's clear that he has been suffering a great deal more than he's let on in recent months.

Ultimately the surgery was a success, but he's still incredibly weak. The evening before I left I sat by his bedside, and he looked so small and fragile. I know he was very moved that I had come to see him and spend time with my mother. And I know I made the right decision; it wasn't always easy, my mother and I managed to drive each other crazy a few times, but I'm so glad I could be there.

Darcy (BlueJude) cleverly thought what was needed after all this was some light-hearted fun. So she's tagged me for a five things about me meme. This is my first time being tagged and it feels like a fun milestone, a reason to have a little celebration. Does this mean I'm finally a proper, real blogger..?

Here we go:

I love getting up in the mornings, and feel almost always ridiculously happy about a brand new day. I like going for a walk while the rest of the world is slowly waking up. Everything seems full of promise and I find it impossible to hold on to any negative left-overs from the day before. In other words I'm a total nightmare for those who are not morning people
I love the smell of coffee, but I don't like the taste very much and dislike the effects of it even more. It makes me feel all jittery and nervous. But I have been known to throw caution to the wind at times and have a decaf cappuccino - but only on special occasions you understand...
In my opinion patience is an overrated virtue, although since I started meditating and focusing more on living in the moment, I'm learning to be calmer and less impatient
I love cats, and our cat Nar shares my pillow with me every night, and with her body pressed against my head my whole brain vibrates with her incessant purring. It's the best therapy in the world
I love travelling by train and if I was ridiculously wealthy I'd forgo the ubiquitous private jet in an instant for my own train. Not quite sure how it would work out from a practical point of view (after all there aren't that many intact, disused railway tracks around), but if the Queen of England can have her own Royal train I see no reason why this, or any other logistical problems, couldn't be sorted out

I'm unsure of what to do next, but I'm guessing it's my turn to tag... so here goes. I pass the baton to La Cubana Gringa, Nicole and Sharon.

SPC - hiding, feeling grumpy

2007-03-13T09:59:00.000Z

Mothers and daughters, what is it with this relationship that is so difficult, so fraught with tension? My father had surgery last Wednesday and what was expected to be a simple procedure turned complicated and he was very unwell. I decided I needed to be here in Sweden, both for him and my mother, and for myself. So I jumped on the next flight filled with romantic visions of my mother and I sitting at the kitchen table, really talking, drinking wine, becoming closer, while my father grew stronger and stronger in the hospital.

Of course it's far more complicated than that. Without my dad here everything is somehow off balance. Despite her incredible experiences during the war; being forced to salute Hitler as he rode through the town, hiding in haystacks from the raping invading Russians, fleeing under dangerous conditions from east to west Germany, she has grown very conservative, very narrow-minded as she's aged. And as I listen to her talk I feel bile rising, smoke coming out of my ears, blood threatening to burst my arteries.

And sometimes I have to hide. Hide from her, but also from the guilt of wanting to hide. I come and sit quietly in this room; I try to breathe deep into my belly, I try to accept and love her, unconditionally.

And when she goes to bed at night and I hear her sing softly to herself I'm flooded with feelings of tenderness, and I'm able to let it all go. And tomorrow I know I will try again, I'll try harder to be accepting and understanding.

This photo has been manipulated using Typorganism. So far it's my favourite tool.

Sunday scribbings - journeys

2007-03-11T13:54:00.000Z

My mother and I on the first trip to Germany, September 1972

The journey of my dreams… dreamlife, for me there is a strong connection between the two. The journey of my dreams would always involve a train; and I can think of nothing better than being gently rocked to sleep on a train, nowhere are my dreams more vivid. And as my dreams transport me to other worlds, to parallel universes; my body is simultaneously transported through an ever-changing landscape.

As I’m writing this I am rushing north through an increasingly wintry landscape on board a train bound for the town where I was born. And as much as I always cherish this particular journey, it isn’t the one of my dreams. The most dreamlike of journeys is not one but a series of trips I did with my mother as a child to visit my grandmother in Germany. We made the journey from Falun to Bonn every summer from the year I turned three until I eventually begged to be left at home some ten years later. The journey took 24 hours and was infused not only with vivid dreams; but with magic, exhilaration, a little bit of fear and a generous pinch of stress.

The most magical time would be in evening, by which time we’d reached Helsingborg, in the south of Sweden. Here the train would board the ferry to take us across the strait to Denmark. My mother and I would sit in the darkened cabin by the window, eating the most delicious sandwiches I can ever remember tasting; made almost twelve hours earlier, the bread would be slightly stale, the cheese sweaty and the salami pungent. They were glorious. My mother would drink coffee and I would get a Pepsi as a special treat. And we would sit there, watching the train being shuttled back and forth, listening to the familiar yet alien shrieks of the wheels against the rails as car by car was slowly moved up onto the ferry. There was something so comforting about the sounds of the men shouting, and once we were on board, the sudden cold, white light of the ferry and its incessant droning.

We usually left the safety of our train cabin so my mother could do some duty-free shopping. When I was young this seemed a tremendous adventure, leaving me both terrified and exhilarated. Once we’d climbed down from the train we’d have to squeeze between the train cars and try to locate the door that lead to safety. There, in the bowels of this big white beast, everything was loud and harsh and I would desperately cling to my mother.

Some hours later there was another, longer ferry crossing from Rodby to Puttgarden, but by then we were both deep asleep and neither of us would notice. But sometimes I'd wake in the night as we stopped at a station somewhere, and embraced by a feeling of absolute safety and protection I would sleepily peek out from behind the curtain and watch as people hurried back and forth along the platform.

In the morning when we woke we’d be in Germany. The conductor would eventually arrive to fold away our beds, but by then I would have already been up for hours, crouching on my bed by the window watching the countryside rush past.

We always had to change trains at Hamburg Hauptbahnhof, an enormous, bustling station curiously devoid of lifts or escalators to help us get us from one platform to another. My mother, being a woman after my own heart, always packed too many bags which she then had to lug up and down the impossibly steep steps, whilst simultaneously trying to keep an eye on me at various ages and various stages of awareness and cooperation. Being a stylish lady she naturally insisted on wearing high heels. Once we were safely onboard again, she’d find the smoking compartment and calm her nerves with a well-deserved cigarette. A few hours later we’d arrive in Bonn, and even though this would be where the summer holiday began in earnest, I couldn’t help but feel that the best part was already behind us.

A silent Swedish tiger

2007-03-10T16:18:00.000Z

Sitting at Stockholm airport waiting for a train to take me to my parents’ town and I'm feeling deliriously happy. All around me I see tall Swedes, I hear Swedish voices, and I smell the enticing smells of Swedish cooking (no, that’s not an oxymoron). And of course I’ll soon be able to see my parents…

I love coming here to visit. Even though right now the sky is grey and the landscape is entirely devoid of even a dusting of snow (a huge disappointment since I know the whole country’s been covered in the stuff for the last few weeks), I feel embraced by a peace and tranquillity that perhaps signify homecoming, or could it be the remains of that valium I took earlier to take the edge of my fear of flying? In any case I know I made the right decision.

But would I like to live here again? I have toyed with the idea of buying a little cottage on a lake somewhere for several years. Property is surprisingly cheap and since the English pound is strong I could, providing I stay away from the centre of Stockholm, get an awful lot for my money. Last June my man and I spend a week at my parent’s place, and at that time of the year, when the sun refuses to sink far below the horizon and it never gets dark, we were both hypnotised by the beauty, the light, the smells, the sounds… Sweden in the summer is a place of magic. It’s a slice of paradise. We were ready to pack our bags then and there and move.

Fast forward to December when we arrived to celebrate my father’s 80^th and it was a much less seductive place altogether. At that time of year, the sun doesn’t dare show its meagre rays until around 10am, and by 2pm it’s almost dark again. You feel claustrophobic and I think it could slowly drive an inexperienced person mad. And after 19 years away I doubt I'd have the necessary skills to deal with the unrelenting darkness.

And then you have the people. They are a tricky and aloof bunch. They don’t talk much; they don’t volunteer much information or ask many questions. In fact there is a Swedish proverb which sums them up perfectly: “en svensk tiger”, this essentially means “the Swede remains silent”, although the word tiger means both tiger (the animal) and to remain silent. I'd like to add the word ALWAYS at the end of that.

But considering this is a country with just 9 million people covering an area of approximately 173.700 square miles, which is almost twice the size of the UK (which is packed with around 60 million people) or slightly larger than California with its 34 million people, perhaps it’s not so strange that particularly those living in the northern half of the country firmly believe that less is more; after all they can probably go for days without seeing an unfamiliar face. And of course the lack of light for 6 months out of the year would be enough to make most people a little withdrawn.

Ps. Thanks to all of you for your kind words. I appreciate them so much.

Love Thursday - friends and bloggers and parents

2007-03-08T14:29:00.000Z

Picnic in the woods like my parents used to do it 1987

There are many people I feel love towards today. First my lovely friend E who took me out on the town last night to see Buena Vista Social Club, perfect timing considering how low I was feeling about my dad (who was in hospital yesterday having surgery for an enlarged prostate). The music was fantastic and it cheered me up no end. By the end of the performance the entire audience was on their feet: swinging, clapping, stomping.

I also feel completely blown away by all the kind thoughts left on my blog yesterday. It makes me feel all warm inside knowing that there is such a large community of wonderful and caring bloggers out there who take the time out to send some good vibes when they are so desperately needed. Thank you so much Amy, Gattina, La Cubana Gringa, Mar, Blue Jude, Beckie, Brian, Dragonheart, Bearette, Harley, Cats-goats-quotes, Kelly, Sacred Suzie, Jamie, Nicole, Caro, Tricotine, Vanessa, Mrs Lifecruiser, Claire, Bex, KG, Gel (emerald eyes), Edvard Moonke and Sharon.

I spoke to my dad this morning and he sounded terrible. The operation was successful but it took fours hours, he lost four litres of blood (and so had to have blood transfusions) and then there were complications afterwards, which meant that they had to operate again. His poor 80-year old body is pretty battered and he is in a lot of pain. I cried buckets after we hung up. It feels terrible to be so far away when he is so unwell, and I want to be there for my mom too. So my darling has convinced me to go and see them. Which I am. I have booked a ticket today, and I'm leaving on Saturday. I can't wait...

Wordless Wednesday - my dad and I

2007-03-07T14:06:00.000Z

This is one of my absolute favourite photos from my childhood. It's me and my dad in front of the Christmas tree, and as you can see from his lovely hairdo (OK, I know he doesn't have much hair), goofy tie and ridiculous suspenders it's sometime in the 70s. I'm wearing my favourite pink dress with starfish.

As I'm writing this my dad is in hospital having surgery for the condition that is the bane of many older men, an enlarged prostate. Not much fun to read about perhaps, but it certainly hasn't been much fun for him for the last six months either.

My dad turned 80 in December and being of that older, stubborn generation he is not the easiest man to talk to, which leaves me feeling quite useless and helpless at times like these. I want to tell him that I'm thinking about him and that I love him, but he's never been very comfortable with receiving those kinds of words. So what I'll probably do instead is send him an extra jumbo-sized Toblerone. He'll know what that means. And in the meantime beam over as many positive vibes and thoughts to him as I possibly can. Maybe you will help me...

SPC: fragmented

2007-03-06T12:36:00.000Z

This month's theme is a real challenge for me; the idea of using online tools to manipulate images just doesn't excite me that much. But I do like the Hockney-izer, because it illustrates quite nicely how fragmented I often feel.

Instead of seeing myself as a whole I often view my body as a completely separate entity to my mind. This isn't perhaps that unusual, but I also tend to divide my mind into different fragments. This schism manifests in different ways, but is particularly evident whenever I'm feeling negative about something.

Like when I'm meditating and I find my mind wandering onto completely mindless topics. Usually I try to very gently steer myself back on track, but there are times when I angrily think: "why are you doing that? stop thinking about what you're gonna have for dinner, and focus!" The question is who is this "you" I'm telling off? Isn't that me? Of course. But then who is doing the telling off? And as long as I keep having inner conflicts like these I wonder whether I will ever feel completely serene and at peace.

One of the reasons I like yoga is that even at my level I can see evidence of it starting to bring my mind and body closer together, and more importantly because it feels like a form of moving meditation it is really helping to unite the fragments in my mind. Interestingly enough the word "yoga" comes from the Sanskrit root yuj, which means "to join" or "to yoke". Mmmm... there is a wonderful promise there...

What does it really mean?

2007-03-05T17:03:00.000Z

I have noticed over the years that I have a knack for giving completely new meanings to words. Considering English isn’t my first language this isn’t perhaps all that surprising, but it is rather ironic because I’m naturally quite conservative linguistically. Or I suppose you could say that I’m a bit of a verbal snob.

My man is Turkish and even though we’re both articulate and well-read at times some very confused dialogues take place in our home. Picture this: we’re happily chatting away in the kitchen while making dinner and I’ll say something containing a slightly unusual word. “Exactly what does that word really mean?”, he’ll ask. And whilst I think I know I often don’t, not really, it’s more of a feeling I have. This scenario could easily be reversed. It’s a case of the blind leading the blind.

Yesterday we were talking about the difference between pleasure and joy. And before you get any ideas, it was a very general conversation with no particular focus. Instead we were simply wondering if the main difference between the two is that pleasure is dependent on an outside source, and is always accompanied by pain of some sort (not a physical pain necessarily, but a wanting for more), whereas joy can be experienced completely independently and with no strings attached?

Examples of pleasure could be

A great dinner
A box of champagne truffles
Sex

Examples of joy could be:

A beautiful sunset
Or an amazing lunar eclipse
A wave of inexplicable happiness just washing over you

Do you agree? Is there a definite difference between pleasure and joy, and is pleasure always chased by pain?

Sunday scribblings - the evil eye

2007-03-04T13:18:00.000Z

“What is it with these eyes staring at me everywhere I go?”, we were climbing the stairs to visit my man’s aunt, and here on the third floor (I don’t like lifts) I finally had to ask. The eyes were gazing up at me from door mats, from stickers stuck to door frames and from the delicate amulets that hung on some of the doors.

Of course I had already encountered the flat blue disk at the back of my darling’s front door when we first met, but I had never paid much attention to it. But here in Istanbul they were impossible to ignore, they were everywhere. Giant versions hung from the ceiling in bookshops, you could see them in public toilets, in cafés, dangling from the rear-view mirror in cars; basically any object that the owner believes is at risk of being envied is adorned with a representation of the evil eye.

The belief in the evil eye goes back a long way and is wide-spread: it occurred in ancient Greece and Rome and is found in Jewish, Islamic, Buddhist, and Hindu traditions. The basis behind it is that those who are fortunate in some way, be it through a successful business, a healthy child, or a beautiful wife, are at risk of having their “possession” gazed upon with envy (the evil eye) by those who are less fortunate. And it is believed that this envy can bring serious misfortune and bad luck, even if it’s done unintentionally.

At first I was curious as to why so much power is attributed to envy. After all much worse fates can happen to human beings other than simply being envied. But once I looked at it more closely I realised that much of the bad people do to each other actually stems from envy; from simple everyday things like the back stabbing that goes on in most offices up and down the country, to the more extreme things like theft and even murder. It's often comes down to wanting what somebody else has. And according to the late Alan Dundes, professor of folklore at the University of California (Berkeley), envy was believed to have a drying and withering effect on the victim, thus sucking the life out of it. I was starting to see why so many cultures have felt the need to protect themselves against it.

When my man was a little boy his mother made sure an evil eye was always pinned to his undershirt. Babies and children are supposedly particularly vulnerable to the envious gazes of others, especially those who are childless, or whose children are not healthy. There are countless tales of how the mother notices in the evening that the evil eye attached to her child’s clothes has cracked during the day. It is believed that the amulet used to protect against the evil eye either absorbs the envious glances of others or reflects them back. In some cases the envy is so strong that the amulet splits in two. But at least the wearer is safe.

We have an evil eye hanging in our kitchen, perhaps it is a subconscious decision on our part to protect ourselves against any envy experienced by friends who taste the culinary marvels that are created there – but I seriously doubt it. Perhaps it is simply a pretty object to rest our eyes upon every so often.

Photo hunters - salty

2007-03-03T10:31:00.000Z

I have a very well-developed sweet tooth and can happily munch my way through a jumbo bag of mini eggs in one sitting. But I very rarely crave something salty, and when I do it’s usually more of a savoury craving than a need for salt.

But one salty thing I love is a good salt scrub for the body. Scrubbing away the dead skin until I’m pink and glowing like a piglet is almost a rebirthing experience, it leaves me feeling brand new. I love the whole idea of the bathing ritual and on a cold and rainy evening I like to make the bathroom warm and cosy, with scented candles, some moody music, and a hot bath.

But bathing isn’t just about running a bath and jumping in. Instead I like to de-muck beforehand, because there isn’t anything worse than lying in a tub full of grimy water. So a shower and a good scrub down with a deliciously scented salt scrub are essential preparations. I don’t think it’s necessary to accessorise with the ubiquitous glass of bubbly, or even a book, instead I like to take the opportunity to close my eyes and relax and let any tensions and worries slowly melt away.

Friday's feast: number 133

2007-03-02T10:42:00.000Z

I've been reading Friday Feasts and Thursday 13s for a few weeks now, and have found that they provide a wonderful way to get to know fellow bloggers. So I thought it was time to give it a try myself. Here is my offering, I hope you enjoy it (the dessert is particularly yummy...).

Appetizer
What does the color pink make you think of?
A dress I had when I was a little girl. It was pink with white starfish. I loved it so much and was devastated when I outgrew it. In fact I tried to convince my mother to let me wear it as a top, but she wouldn’t have it. I still have the dress though, along with some other old clothes. One day I would like to make a quilt from them.

Soup
Name something you thought you had lost, but later found.
Trust in my body. Following the death of a friend in 2000 I began suffering from panic attacks. For several years I was in a constant state of stress and fear, and looking back I don’t understand how I managed to cope. It was absolutely exhausting. It took a lot of work to eventually come out on the other side and the feeling of relief when you realise that yet another week, another month has passed without one is tremendous.

Salad
In 3 words, describe this past week.
Tears (lots of them)
Spring
Focus

Main Course
What are you obsessed with?
I frequently suffer from bouts of obsession. I am the sort of person who gets insanely enthusiastic about just about anything, and for short bursts of time I will be completely focused on that one thing. In the past these obsessions have ranged from quantum physics, ancient Greek to speed walking and learning Turkish… At the moment I am quite obsessed with my hamstrings. I’m determined to one day be able to do the splits, but it’s an uphill struggle, I have the shortest hamstrings in the world.

Dessert
What kind of perfume or cologne do you like to wear?
I don’t wear either; I find their scents too sharp and artificial. I do use a body oil called Hei Poa, which is a refined Polynesian coconut oil infused with Tiare flowers. It smells absolutely divine. I also like the smell of pure amber.

The photo of Tiare blossoms is from Desert Creations by Sharon

Love Thursday - afternoon reading with mini eggs

2007-03-01T10:04:00.000Z

The rain was coming down in sheets and it was blowing near gale-force winds as I left work yesterday afternoon. Determined I braved the elements and eventually reached my destination: the local supermarket. I was on a mission, and had one thought and one thought only on my mind. Mini eggs. I searched high and low, and just as fear started its descent I located them (in the aisle next to the one where I once saw Cate Blanchett) and I bought not one, but two bags.

Struggling against the wind and the rain I climbed the steep hill and eventually reached home, absolutely drenched. Opening the front door was pure bliss. I dried off, made a pot of tea; I grabbed my book, my mini eggs and armed with a blanket and several cushions I snuggled up on the sofa.

I love nothing more than a few hours alone with a good book, especially if it's raining cats and dogs outside. A pot of steaming hot tea and a cosy blanket are essential accessories, a bag or two of mini eggs optional extras. And desperately aware that I would today embark upon a mini egg-free 43 day challenge (my 38^th birthday is only 43 days away…) their crisp sugary shells and rich milk chocolate insides tasted extra sweet yesterday.

Happy Love Thursday everyone!

For more Love Thursday entries click here

Wordless Wednesday - just in case...

2007-02-28T08:13:00.000Z

SPC: liberation

2007-02-27T13:04:00.000Z

Here I am. No make-up, goofy teeth, not so great nose... it's amazing how free I'm feeling. When I started blogging I had no idea what the purpose of it was, but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would pour my heart out in the way I have. Talk about catharsis. I have admitted to feelings and fears online that I had never even fully admitted to myself before.

I didn't think it was possible to be this open and also show my face. The two seemed mutually exclusive. But I have come across so many fearless and inspiring people in the last few months that this concern seems completely irrelevant now. So here I am. Warts and all.

Pause for thought

2007-02-26T08:08:00.000Z

"Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for."
Epicurus

Thanks to Concetta for reminding me of these words.

Sunday scribblings - I'm puzzled

2007-02-25T12:49:00.000Z

If only I was thin. An image of an impossibly tall and skinny model striding down the catwalk wearing beautiful wide legged trousers and a sexy jacket sets me off on another “why am I so fat?” tangent. Despite the fact that I’m about to turn 38 I still compare myself with these androgynous freaks of nature. I still believe that if I could only wear those clothes, like that, I would be happy. I wouldn’t want anything else.

If only I could dance. Last night we went to a dance performance. Rambert Dance Company performed four exhilarating pieces, and I was at the edge of my seat marvelling at their bodies’ fluidity, like molten mercury they folded into each other, effortlessly and gracefully. And best of all, all the time smiling, almost laughing, their joy so infectious that by the end of the performance the whole audience was grinning. We came away on a real high, yet I couldn’t help feel a disappointment in myself, in my own limitations. If only my own body was supple, if only I too could leap effortlessly through the air, then I would be happy.

If only I had my own room. In the Saturday paper there is a feature every week called “writers’ rooms”, which shows a photograph of an author’s room along with a short editorial on what’s in it and why. Living in a small one-bed room flat like we do I am obsessed with this feature. To have a room of my own is currently an unattainable dream… and so I pore over the details; the books on the shelves, the light pouring in through the windows, the arm chairs, reading lights… the achingly modern office chair set against a gorgeous antique desk, photographs and drawings, paintings… inspiration. If only I had a room like this one, like that one, oh, then I would be creative, really creative. And I would always be happy.

If only I had long, beautiful hair. Lucy at work, Lucy and her perfect long golden hair, beautiful and thick reaching halfway down her back. Sitting next to her my Michael Bolton haircut no longer feels wild and uninhibited. It feels plain stupid. I know that if I only had beautiful hair I would feel beautiful and I would therefore be happy.

If only, if only, if only… it puzzles me that I’m still so infantile as to think “if only I had this, if only I could lose 5 more pounds, if only blah, blah, blah… then I would be happy”. Sure I don’t wish for impossible riches or a lot of material things, but why do I put so much importance on superficial things like my looks? Why do I put off writing just because I don’t have the perfect space to do it in? Why do I fail to make the most of now?

The photo is from Stand and Stare, choreographed by Darshan Singh Bhuller, performed by Rambert Dance Company.

Photo hunters - soft

2007-02-24T12:34:00.000Z

Soft. It’s not exactly the word I would use to describe my mother or my relationship with her. We have never been very close, but it hasn’t been a particularly strained relationship either. I’ve often felt that she lacks some fundamental “mumsiness”, and as a result we’ve always been quite detached with each other. She told me once that when I decided to move to Canada at the age of 19 she had to make a choice, either worry herself sick every day, or switch off and let me go. And she switched off. Although I’m certain she did that long before then. I have often felt disappointed in her disinterest in my life and there have been long periods when I have been very angry with her for that.

But as she ages I have found myself softening towards her. I have been able to let go of expectations and instead started accepting her for who she is. She grew up in what was East Germany during the war, and I’m sure her experiences from that time go a fair way towards explaining her detachment. The stories she tells, with flourish and phenomenal attention to detail, are both spell-binding and horrifying, and we made a silent agreement some years ago to remain in that era, rather than talk about us and now. And as we moved onto safer ground, our relationship improved tremendously.

The real turning point probably came when she had to have hip replacement surgery a few years ago. Thanks to a very understanding boss I was able to go back to Sweden and spend 10 days with her following her operation, and helping out around the house, making sure she did her exercises brought us much closer. And when she was diagnosed with kidney cancer last spring, I was again able to go back, this time for three weeks.

After stubbornly refusing to think of her as anything other than my mother all my life, here I found myself face to face with her ill and ageing body and it didn’t scare me. In fact I welcomed the role reversal and it felt right that I should now look after her. It also felt important to acknowledge and accept that both she and my father are by now quite old. Thankfully my mother made a complete recovery and although we will never have an open relationship, I treasure the mutual understanding and appreciation that has developed in recent years.

My mother turns 79 today. Happy birthday mamma.

In the photograph my mother is in her early fifties, I remember how much I loved that fur coat she’s wearing. I loved its softness and how it smelled.

The return of the mushroom-haired girl

2007-02-23T12:33:00.000Z

My hair has always been a source of great stress to me. When it’s all one length the top layer is almost dead straight, whereas underneath it is curly and fluffy and a totally different texture. I basically have schizophrenic hair. It even defies gravity, instead of growing down; it grows out, getting fluffier and fluffier along the way. For years I have struggled with it, I have struggled with hairdressers (who inevitably fail to get it) and usually end up tying it back in a ponytail.

Ever since my first crush, Robert, pointed out that I had mushroom hair (you can read more about that here if you’re interested) I’ve been convinced that if I only had nice hair, I would be happy. Forever. And so I’ve always been very conservative at the hairdresser’s, never going for anything different, something edgy (well, I did have dreadlocks once, but that’s just stupid) because if it turned out I didn’t like it, my life would be ruined.

Yesterday I took a day out to look after myself; I had been feeling increasingly low and unmotivated and needed some TLC. And out of the blue I decided to get a haircut. I didn’t go in there thinking I’d change it radically, I was just fed up with it, just like I felt pretty fed up with myself. I’m not sure what possessed me, but I gave Gary (a hairdresser I’ve never seen before) free reins.

And now I look like Michael Bolton circa 1989… and I’m loving it. Apart from some weird feathery, wing-like bits flapping around like spaniel ears I feel great; I feel unleashed, set free, a little bit crazy, a little bit wild… I’m finally celebrating the mushroom head I am and always will be.

Have you done anything crazy lately?

Ps. Thanks for all your support yesterday, it really blew me away.

Love Thursday - me...

2007-02-22T09:20:00.000Z

Even with the best intentions life sometimes gets a little bit out of hand; focus is lost, mindfulness goes out the window… and that’s what’s been happening to me lately. At first this change in attitude was almost imperceptible, but very gradually I started noticing how my priorities had changed, and yesterday I suddenly found myself in the middle of a really bad patch, feeling generally miserable about anything and everything, but particularly about me.

I haven’t been looking after myself: not my mind, not my body (and it’s not all down to the semla). It’s like I don’t care about me, about how I feel. It’s as if I have just forgotten about my self, and so gradually I’ve been feeling worse and worse.

Last night it all came to a head, I slouched on the sofa all night, watched a useless film on TV that left me feeling almost brain dead. And afterwards I beat myself up because I’d let another evening pass just like that, in a near vegetative state. I went to bed in a lousy mood, skipped the evening pilates, didn’t even bother to wash my face. Why do I do this to myself when I know how lousy it makes me feel? I know what I need to do to feel better, and yet I feel compelled to do the exact opposite, to make myself feel worse.

And so today I have decided to take a day off work and I’m going to spend it mindfully. I’m going to do yoga/pilates, I’m going to meditate, I’m going for a long walk, I’m going to put on some silly music and dance around the flat, I’m going to write, I’m going to eat simple food and maybe towards the end of the day I’ll meet up with a friend I haven’t seen for quite some time. This Love Thursday is about me, about loving me again…

Photo by Ron

Wordless Wednesday - on the island

2007-02-21T10:26:00.000Z

Me back in my hippie, dreadlock days, taking a break on a jetty after a walk across the ice on a beautiful January afternoon.

SPC: Fat Tuesday

2007-02-20T09:38:00.000Z

Overpowered by the semla

In Swedish Shrove Tuesday is referred to as Fat Tuesday, which neatly sums up how you feel after eating a semla. These Lenten buns are an almost guaranteed cardiac arrest served on a plate, yet Swedes have a compulsive need to consume them, in vast quantities, not just on Shrove Tuesday, but on every Tuesday from early January until Easter.

The first bite is delicious. The soft, sweet, cardamom-spiced bun is filled with a glorious almond-bread mixture and it is topped with a generous spoonful of whipped cream. But already by the third mouthful or so you can't help but wonder what all this cream must be doing to your arteries, never mind your stomach (and your hips and your thighs). Nausea soon sets in, and keeps you company for the rest of the day.

Despite years of experience, my craving for a semla was so great this weekend that I spent the first half of Sunday baking the wretched things from scratch, which included making my own almond paste (the kind sold in the UK is just too sweet). The second half of the day was spent feeling quite disgusting; I swear fat was literally oozing out of my pores. It's the perfect way to start Lent I suppose, no way are you going to want to eat anything so fatty and so sweet again for a very long time. But since Lent hasn't been observed in Sweden for many years, there the gluttony continues, relentlessly, until Easter.

Feeling brave? Want to give them a go? Here is the recipe.

100 things about me

2007-02-19T15:40:00.000Z

I’m Swedish, but I’m not blonde
and my favourite music is not Abba
My most depressing memory is when I was about 10 years old and the boy I had a crush on (and we’re talking major crush here, in fact I’m quite convinced that if I saw him now I’d still be tongue-tied) asked why I had mushroom hair. I did have mushroom hair (think exceptionally big and fluffy), but I was gutted nevertheless, and part of me still has not recovered
I’m determined to one day be able to do the splits
and so I practise pilates
and yoga
But I can still only just touch my toes with straight legs
I would like to change careers and become a shiatsu practitioner
and a pilates instructor
One of my greatest disappointments is that I didn’t realise that I wanted to be a dancer until I was in my late 20s
Italian ice cream is the best
No, that’s not true – Turkish ice cream is far superior
I want to write Mills & Boon novels and get paid to dream up unbelievable story lines set in exotic destination, where the men are tall, dark and handsome, and the women’s bosoms heavy as they struggle with their feelings
I have two cats, one Abyssinian called Heinz and one Tonkinese called Nar
I love typewriters
My favourite flower is the lilac, closely followed by lily of the valley. I also love cowslips and coltsfoot
I used to have a big crush on Anthony Andrews in Ivanhoe (swoon)
I love train journeys and once travelled across Canada on a train
One of my favourite foods is split belly aubergine
but I also love good old-fashioned Swedish food, pickled herring, new potatoes, chives and soured cream… yum
I still think I look 21, until I see myself in the mirror and realise I’m actually getting old
that’s depressing…
Katharine Hepburn is my all-time heroine, she had it all, independence, style, attitude, plus of course she was beautiful
One of my other heroines is Vanda Scaravelli. In my opinion she proved that it’s never too late
My favourite drink is water with lots of freshly squeezed lemon
but I also like champagne…
I once saw Cate Blanchett in my local super market. I nearly died. I’m still swooning in fact
I love Cate Blanchett
Montezuma’s chocolates are the best
My parents had me 14 years after my “youngest” sister
My oldest sister had a daughter when I was only nine months old
One of my favourite films is How to Steal a Million with Audrey Hepburn and Peter O’Toole
The greatest experience of my life was to be present when my best friend gave birth to my godson
I love surprises
I don’t like heights
I have a phobia of snakes and even worms; anything that wriggles brings me out in a cold sweat and paralyses me
I’m very afraid of big dams – can’t bear to even look at them on TV
I think customs and traditions are really important, especially in our detached society. I love the rituals surrounding different holidays, and enjoy preparing festive foods, bringing people together. I’m particularly interested in customs that tie in with different seasons, and those we no longer pay attention to
My ex boyfriend gave me light bulbs for Christmas one year (and nothing else, no wait, he also gave me a pack of three empty video cassettes)
I ended the relationship because of the light bulbs, and I’ve been celebrating every day since
We’re still friends though, and call and wish each other happy light bulb every Christmas
When my mother was diagnosed with kidney cancer last spring I spent three weeks looking after her following her operation. It was the most amazing thing to help her through such a difficult time, not only were the roles reversed, but it was like we finally got to know each other. My relationship with my father also became much closer during this time
My mother made a complete recovery
My dream holiday is to take the train all the way from London to Istanbul and stop in Paris, Vienna and Budapest on the way (I would also love to go on the Transsiberian railway all the way to China)
I have met Nobel Prize winner Orhan Pamuk and spoke to him in Turkish. It made him smile
My partner has had dinner with another Nobel prize winner (John Nash)
When I was a waitress in Toronto I once served Huey Lewis
he didn’t leave a tip
I also served Annie Lennox, I don’t remember if she left a tip, but her beauty and grace more than made up for it anyway
I love the soundtrack from Monsoon Wedding
I was once married to a vegan chef; I had dreadlocks and was barefoot at our wedding. An ex boyfriend was my man of honour. He slept on the sofa on the wedding night. I think the marriage was doomed to fail
I’m definitely a cup half full person
I used to work as a freelance journalist
Sometimes I feel stuck without a language. I have lost a lot of Swedish, but I don’t feel I will ever be able to fully grasp or master English in the way I would like to. It’s one of my biggest frustrations
I visit an elderly lady every Saturday as part of the local neighbourhood care scheme
I think it’s really important that we don’t just spend time with our own generation. The elderly have so much to teach us, and they have the most wonderful stories to tell if only we are willing to listen
I don’t like metal. Wet metal is even worse (don’t ask)
I love beautiful notebooks, but I have a slight fear of writing in them (I’m working on it)
I meditate every morning
I love walking, fast
I detest diet products and would never knowingly touch anything containing artificial sweetener
I’m trying to love my body and my face as it approaches 40. It’s not easy
I’m not too keen on flying
Part of me wants to lead a very simple life; live in the countryside, grow most of my own food; but the other part of me wants decadence. I’m struggling to find the right balance
I used to hate my nose, but now I actually REALLY like it
I used to hate my hair, I still do, mostly
I dress mainly in black
I like really big sunglasses (and please note that I always have, not just since they became fashionable again)
The most expensive piece of clothing I own is a gorgeous full-length asymmetrical dress by Diane von Furstenberg. It’s black with huge white polka dots and wild splashes of red and blue. Totally not me and ridiculously expensive, but I feel beautiful in it
I love playing Settlers of Catan
The most delicious thing I know is wild strawberries
closely followed by warm cloudberries with vanilla ice cream
I am agnostic
I love snow
I left Sweden when I was 19. I lived in Toronto for four years. Then I moved back to Sweden for one year. Then I lived in the Netherlands for one year. Then I moved to Vancouver Island for four years. Now I’ve lived in the UK for eight years
I love the smell of freshly mowed grass
I love cherries, mangoes, blueberries, raspberries, plums and of course wild strawberries… I just love fruit and berries I guess
My favourite cocktail is the Bellini
I love to read, mainly novels
I live with my partner, we have been together for three years
He is my best friend
I used to suffer from panic attacks. I don’t any longer, and it is wonderful to be able to say that it’s in the past
I love Italy and have recently started learning Italian
I was always told I was useless at maths, and I believed that to be the truth, until I did an access course in maths and came top of my class. It felt like one of my life’s greatest achievements
I did a degree in herbal medicine, only to realise at the end, after 500 clinic hours, that I didn’t want to be a herbalist
I love seahorses
I don’t know much about art, not yet. But I love spending time in museums, looking at the paintings, feeling them
I think I may be slightly synestetic
I try to be mindful, to live in the moment as much as possible. I try to pay attention to the fact that this moment will never come back. I don’t believe in heaven or an afterlife, and I want to make this life count as much as possible. It's not always very easy
My mother grew up in Germany during the war, and once saw Hitler as he passed through the town in a car. All the children were lined up on the streets, standing to attention
My mother wanted to move to Sweden because there hadn’t been a war there for many years. She met my father through a dating service
Our cat Heinz is named after cybernetician and radical constructivist Heinz von Foerster
Our cat Nar is named after author Karen Armstrong (kare NAR mstrong), but her name also means pomegranate in Turkish
Although I try to eat healthy I love to PIG OUT occasionally. My aim is to eat well 80% of the time, and allow some indulgences the remaining 20% (sometimes these numbers are inverted)
I've started reading poetry in recent years. One of my favourite poets is Gerard Manley Hopkins
I speak Swedish, English and a fair bit of Dutch. I'm working on the Italian, and Turkish to some extent
I guess my strongest feature are my legs
I love baking and cooking
I'm a little bit afraid of dogs (except whippets) even though we had a dog when I was growing up (a collie, she looked just like Lassie)
My man just told me that I have a laugh that makes him feel happy all over that we're together. It doesn't get much better than that

Sunday scribbings - crushed

2007-02-18T12:25:00.000Z

My moment of happiness: Robert and I as Mr and Mrs Claus.

The first time my heart was crushed I had just turned ten. Sure, I had been “in love” before, it was just that those who came before Robert really didn't count.

I was a skinny, gangly thing, taller than all the boys in my class and to top it all off I had a weird mop of short, bushy, frizzy reddish hair. My one wish throughout my childhood was to have long hair, but my mother had decided early on to spare me this torture. Being the only one of her three daughters to have inherited her thick, unruly hair, my mother felt she was doing me a favour by keeping it short. Her memories were dark of the long hours she had spent submitting to her mother's merciless tugging with a fine-tooth comb, braiding her hair so tight her scalp hurt. But I believed I would have welcomed that pain, and so year after year on Christmas and birthday wish-lists there it was at the very top: long hair.

But she never relented, and as a result I spent my formative years constantly being mistaken for a boy. Instead of being the stereotypical adorable chubby little girl, with ringlets tumbling down her shoulders, I was a stick-like, straight-backed boy/girl.

OK, so maybe I wasn’t that pretty, but for ages that didn’t matter, there was no real awareness of any awkwardness. Sure it was annoying when strangers assumed I was a boy, but in my carefree existence, gender issues did not feature high on the agenda. And boys liked me, perhaps not in the same way they liked my best friend Lotta (who looked like an angel with her long blond curls), but because I was one of them. For several years I could even out-jump them in long jump, and I guess they respected me for that.

But then Robert moved to our village and everything changed. You have to try and visualise the devastating effect he had on our little community. Not only did he speak with a Stockholm accent, he had lived in America and so spoke fluent English (or so he said, we had no way of knowing of course). He was tall (even taller than me, and that was a first), he was blonde and he was wonderfully good looking. Dynamics in our class changed almost over night. All seven girls instantly swooned and we found ourselves in competition with each other for the first time. The well-established hierarchy amongst the boys was of course disrupted and challenged. Robert became the new leader.

In my innocence I saw no reason why he shouldn’t like me. After all I was one of the most popular girls. I recall the day it all changed, clearly as if it was yesterday. Robert was at the teacher’s desk sharpening his pencil with the only communal pencil sharpener. I was standing next to him, waiting my turn. It was late spring and I can even recall the sun streaming in through the dusty windows. When Robert had finished he turned to me and said, “Why does your hair always look like a mushroom?” I don’t recall my reply, but I do remember trying to play cool even though inside I was crumbling. He hadn’t said it in a nasty way, but the effect it had on my ten year-old self was enormous and immediate. Not only was this my first experience with heart break, but the origins of the very fragile relationship I have with my hair all my life, can be traced back to that very moment.

Many years later when I was living in Toronto, I opened the newspaper one day and came face to face with a photograph of him covering almost half the page. By now he was a successful ice hockey player, playing for Montreal Canadiens. He was still glamorous, he was still dangerously handsome. But although I had by no means morphed into a swan, and I was only a student waitressing to make ends meet, I noted with a sense of relief that whilst my heart did skip a beat or two at the sight of him, it was no longer crushed.

Photo hunters - antique

2007-02-17T10:22:00.001Z

This is the interior of Torsång church, which is the oldest church in Dalarna, the region of Sweden where I come from. It's believed that the church was built towards the end of the 12th century, and that its position was chosen because it had once, according to legend, been a spot where sacrificial offerings to Thor (Tor), the pagan god of thunder took place. It's interesting to note that whilst Christianity reached Sweden sometime in the 9th century, the strong pagan beliefs meant that it was not until the middle of the 12th century that Christianity became well established. It was very common that churches were built on traditional pagan sites.

The west gable, showing the representation of Thor

Torsång church is very simple, build mainly from granite, while the gables and the upper parts of the friezes, along with buttresses, arches, windows and portal claddings are made of hard-baked tiles. There is an upright male figure on the west gable, which supposedly is a representation of Thor. Inside the church is breathtakingly beautiful, the carved and painted wooden pulpit dates from the early 17th century and there is a simple wood carving of Christ from the 15th century.

The parish of Torsång became an important hub in Dalarna, mainly due to its position, at the junction where lake Runn meets the rivers Västerdalälven and Österdalälven. The copper mine in Falun, the "capital" of Dalarna, depended heavily on timber from the large forests in the eastern and northen parts of the region, and the logs were floated down the rivers and into lake Runn by way of Torsång. In the mid sixties water transport was replaced by other means (mainly rail), and the village of Torsång started to die soon after.

A gravestone from the cemetery

But it is still possible to take an afternoon cruise on lake Runn from Falun to Torsång, something my mother and I inevitably do whenever I go home to visit. And after having coffee and cake or an ice cream in the cafe', it's aweinspiring to walk around grounds of the church and the cemetery, knowing that people have lived in this area since the stone age.

An opportunity to vent

2007-02-16T12:48:00.000Z

With love in the air all through this week, enforced thought it may be, I do admit l have felt a surge of relief that by being in a relationship I'm spared the trauma of finding myself on yet another disastrous date with yet another egomaniac with a bad case of halitosis. I have had my fair share of horrible dates and in some, unfortunate and retrospectively mysterious, cases these horrible dates turned into even more horrible relationships.

But of course now that I'm blissfully happy, I can look back on these mistakes and see the funny side, safe in the knowledge I will never be there again. Because boy have I had some bad dating experiences. Conveniently one of my favourite bloggers, La Cubana Gringa, has just started a new blog dedicated to this very subject, and it's open to all. Not only can I not wait to get some of my worst cases off my chest, I'm also very excited at the prospect of reading the tales of other peoples wonderfully awful dating experiences.

So if you have a particularly bad/funny/disgusting/awful story you would like to share, then send it to La Cubana Gringa and her sidekick Innigma (on itsnotmeblog at gmail dot com) and they'll put them up on It's not me, it's YOU! But I would like to warn you that I have already sent them a particularly unsavoury tale (which served as the catalyst for a complete year of non-dating), which you may come across when you visit their blog.

The image above is from a vintage Hai Karate advert, and contrary to what it looks like it has nothing to do with advertising the importance of using toothpaste (nor does it have anything to do with violence against women), but rather it is an attempt to illustrate how women would flee in disgust if their date did NOT wear Hai Karate (a cologne).

Love Thursday - this little boy

2007-02-15T10:42:00.000Z

This photo, taken almost three years ago, perfectly captures the innate serenity of my wonderful godson. When he was a baby he was like a little buddha, hardly ever crying, just quietly observing life around him. Once he started talking he would share these observations with often baffling clarity, and at other times with almost perfect comic timing.

His mother is my very best friend and when she asked me to be present at his birth it was the most amazing gift anyone could have ever given me. To watch him arrive in this world bound him to me in a way I had never anticipated. In fact when I occasionally (well, regularly if truth be told) dream of leaving the UK, it is the thought of losing regular contact with him that ultimately stops me from going anywhere.

For the first few years of his life, while I was still doing my degree, I had him every Thursday, and it was during one of those days that something happened which brought us even closer together. We were in my flat and he was eating an apple when a piece suddenly got stuck in his windpipe. Not knowing what to do, I turned him upside down and shook him, desperately hoping to dislodge whatever was blocking his air supply. This didn't work, and as I frantically hit him on the back, he started turning blue. I finally scooped him up and ran for the door (there was a GP only a few doors down from my house). And it was that movement of picking him up, which finally cleared the obstruction, and after much coughing and whimpering, lots of hugs and tears (for both of us), we settled down on the sofa and watched his favourite film. I tried my hardest to be calm and relaxed, but inside I was shaking and kept going over the events in my mind.

When his mother came to pick him up later that afternoon something extraordinary happened. Normally he was of course thrilled to see her, and he revelled in telling her the minute details of our day. But on this occasion he ran and hid under my table as soon as he heard her car, and when she entered the room he became almost hysterical; holding on to the table leg he cried that he wanted to stay with me, he did not want to go home.

I had been terrified that I had failed him, that he would now feel unsafe with me, but it seemed that his way of looking at it was the exact opposite, perhaps in his mind I had rescued him, made everything better. He undoubtedly gets much of his laid-back attitude from his wonderful mother, who took all this commotion in her stride. Never one to make a big deal out of anything, she simply decided to stay and so we all had dinner together. By the end of the evening the by now very sleepy boy was of course more than happy to go home with his mummy.

He is now seven, and with school for him and full-time work for me, we don't get to see each other as often. But the bond is still there, and about once a month he comes over and spends a Sunday afternoon with me. I love listening to him talk, the way he thinks and deduces will never cease to fascinate and amaze me.

Wordless Wednesday - the one I love

2007-02-14T14:33:00.000Z

He is the one I can laugh with until our jaws ache and tears stream down our faces,
but he is also the kindest and most compassionate person I have ever known, and he is at times very serious and thoughtful.

He is well-read, an intellectual who would never dream of flaunting his knowledge,
he really listens, always wanting to learn more, absorbing new information like a sponge.

He's my partner in crime, the one I can snuggle up with on the sofa and have serious pigging-out sessions...
but he also shares my desire to eat healthy food (his favourite snack is crunchy romaine lettuce with freshly squeezed lemon).

He makes me feel safe, loved, warm and fuzzy... and totally free to be myself,
and he's wonderfully tall, dwarfing my 5'9".

And best of all, he is my man.

For more Wordless Wednesday entries, click here.

SPC: body image

2007-02-13T18:42:00.000Z

Since my first self-portrait challenge last week, I've been quite preoccupied with examining the mental image I have of myself. I'm stunned to notice how I ceaselessly criticise various parts of my anatomy, how I fail to see the beauty in the laughter lines around my eyes when I look at my face in the mirror, and how I beat myself up for my lack of control when I greedily indulge in one more slice of chocolate cake.

I believe that what I need is a prescription of acceptance, love, enjoyment, lots of laughter and an end to the useless comparison of my 38-year old body to how it used to look when I was 21... There are so many sexy, confident women in their 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s who don't seem to be suffering from this body angst at all. 38 is kind of like being a teenager, but instead of being stuck between childhood and adulthood, now it's all about no longer being considered "young", but definitely not feeling "old" either.

I dared myself to spend some time really looking at myself: my face and my body, and then eventually I took out the camera... The initial inhibition soon gave way to a carefree sense of enjoyment... A step in the right direction, definitely.

Alexandra of Marvelous Madness posted a wonderful quote by the American ballet dancer Allegra Kent, which ends, "As an adult, I met people who talked passionately about their new Rolls Royce. But that isn't a real posession. All we actually have is our body and its muscles that allow us to be under our own power, to glide in the water, to roll down a hill, and jump into someone's arms."

A day to remember?

2007-02-12T14:35:00.000Z

Valentine’s Day is only two days away and as usual I’m racked with contradiction and confusion. Part of me, the cynical me, thinks that of course it’s pure nonsense, why should we buy our loved ones flowers or take them out for dinner on this day, when it’s common knowledge that prices are shamelessly hiked, the flowers always wilt after only a few days and the wait staff are stressed to the max, pushing to squeeze in at least two seatings, leaving you not only with a big hole in your wallet but also with a bad case of indigestion? After all, if you love your man (or woman) why wait until this day? Why not surprise them out of the blue, just because you thought of them, just because you love them? It means so much more.

Hmmm… yes that’s all very well, but then there is the other part of me, who, despite growing up in a country that didn’t celebrate Valentine’s until long after I’d emigrated, and so theoretically shouldn’t have any emotional attachment to this commercially driven day, still longs for the man to bring home a pretty box filled with hand-made champagne truffles, who wants him to have written a little poem just for me, who wants some ridiculously flimsy silk underwear to prance around in, and who wants to recline on cushions while he feeds me hand-peeled lychees.

Oh, the struggle, the struggle…

Last year on Valentine’s we watched Dennis Rodman play for the Brighton Bears, which wasn’t exactly romantic (we ate greasy hotdogs and drank gigantic buckets of some unidentified cola drink), but made up for it by being both fun and pretty unusual.

So, what to do this year? Ignore it all together? Or blow the budget on the most luxurious ingredients and prepare a fabulous dinner, complete with pink champagne and said hand-peeled lychees?

What do you think of this day? What’s the most romantic thing you have ever done for anyone, or, for that matter, what’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you?

Photo by Trazy

Sunday scribblings: wild rubies

2007-02-11T07:52:00.000Z

Yummy... mmmm.... what a glorious word. Because of its slightly lower status it conjures up thoughts and visions not only of deliciousness, but of pure, unadulterated fun. And what’s better than fun deliciousness? Yummy you can eat with your hands, yummy should dribble down your chin, down your arms… Yummy is uninhibited scrumptiousness. Eat yummy with abandon, feed your lover yummy, because it doesn’t get better than this…

The yummiest thing I know? It’s easy. For a complete experience I need a sunny afternoon meadow, sometime in late July. With my yummy-detector on high I expertly scan the ground… and there they are, wild strawberries glowing like rubies… Nothing makes my heart sing quite like the vision of a patch of these delicious gems; their scent and aroma are enough to ricochet me back to my childhood, when we used to string them up on straw and wear them like necklaces until they disintegrated from our warm bodies, their juice trickling down our summer dresses.

Now I simply pick a handful and savour their intensity, enhanced by the late afternoon sun. Nothing bought, nothing exotic imported from faraway lands can compare with the taste of wild strawberries filling not just my mouth, but my entire self. It’s not just yummy, it is a moment of pure bliss…

Photo hunters - broken

2007-02-10T11:33:00.000Z

The skeleton of what once was the glorious West Pier

This is my very first photo hunter challenge. I'm looking forward to having a weekly theme to work with, which I'm sure will really help get the creativity flowing, and make me look at my surroundings in a different light.

Broken... one of the first things that popped into my mind was the once beautiful West Pier in Brighton (where I live). I see what is left of her nearly every day when I walk along the seafront, and as this photo shows she is still magnificent in a way, but her spirit seems broken and she has also come to represent the broken dreams of those who have tried to restore it.

The pier first opened in 1866 and in her heyday she played host to over 2 million visitors every year. The pier became a cultural destination, sporting both a theatre and a concert hall. The famous Russian ballerina, Anna Pavlova even performed here. In a way she became the perfect representation of Edwardian England.

The pier was forced to close during World War II, and when it reopened it had been transformed into an amusement pier, complete with ghost trains and a games hall. Her popularity faded over the years and was closed for good in 1975. In 1985 she was purchased for £100 by the Brighton West Pier Trust, and they had grand plans to restore her to her former glory. In 1989 the restoration project ground to a halt after the pier was badly damaged following the severe storms of 1987 and 1988. After finally receiving a grant in the late nineties things looked up, but it was not to be. In December 2002 the pier was again badly battered by another storm and partly collapsed into the sea. Only four months later, in March 2003 a fire ravaged what was left of it.

And now only the skeleton of her former glorious self remains. She plays host only to the tens of thousands of starlings that nest there and every night put on a dazzling aerobatic display as they cartwheel in perfect unison across the sky (if you look carefully you can see them in the photo just above the pier). But if I sit quietly on the water's edge on a calm night, it's not difficult to imagine that I can still hear the laughter, the music, the singing echoing across the water.

An ordinary Friday

2007-02-09T12:36:00.000Z

This moment is my life. This moment will never return, yet I find myself here at work on my lunch break, typing with one hand, eating a chunk of cucumber with the other, wishing the working day to end.

If I watched a film of my day… what would I see? With the sound off and in fast forward (to make it less tedious) this is how it starts:

Early morning walk
A few sun salutations
Some sitting on a cushion practising mindfulness
Shower
Bowl of porridge
Cuddle of cats
Kissing my man

I love this early part of my day, but in this sped-up film version it only lasts a fraction. What follows is this:

Walk to work
Sitting in front of computer
Eyes fixed on the screen, fingers dancing across keyboard
Occasional drink of water
Occasional turning towards window
Eyes fixed on the screen….

That’s it. For far too long…

An escape at midday takes me on a brisk walk along the sea, and then it’s back to:

Sitting in front of computer
Eyes fixed on the screen…….

For far too long…

Long walk along the sea after 5pm release
Food shopping
Home
Cuddle of cats
Some stretching/pilates
Cooking
Kissing my man
Eating
Repeating some simple Italian dialogue (cue hysterical laughter)
Blogging with at least one cat in lap
Maybe a film, maybe a walk, maybe a talk, maybe a game…

I love this part of my day, but in this sped-up, silent film version of my life it only lasts a fraction. What follows is:

Sleep

Never enough…

If my life was a film, even on fast-forward and with the sound turned off, I doubt it would be a blockbuster. Who would want to watch a film where the heroine sits down pretty much the whole time, eyes fixed on a computer screen? Not me. Yet I live it. And so I wish it away, longing for those precious fractions when I am free.

Love Thursday - klogging and breaking a spell

2007-02-08T09:49:00.000Z

When we were in Venice earlier this year we purchased a beautiful notebook from one of the many stationary shops that you find all over the city. We both knew that it was very likely that the book would never be used; that it, like so many of its predecessors, would probably end up being stored in a drawer, wrapped in silk no doubt, and only occasionally taken out to be caressed with a gentle hand, after which we would put it away again until its next outing.

We share an almost absurd lust to own beautiful notebooks. But as I explained in this post this longing is coupled with chronic intimidation, as we believe that anything we write in them must be both profound and written in the most beautiful script. Of course this serves only to more or less immobilise us and prevents us from ever using the blooming things. Needless to say our collection of empty notebooks is by now quite impressive.

And so upon our return from Venice, in an attempt to avoid yet another defeat, we sat at the table with said book in front of us, night after night, trying to come up a suitable use for it. And we failed. The curse of the beautiful notebook seemed to have enveloped us again, wrapped us tightly in its coils and effectively dried up any creative urges we may have had...

Fast forward to a Saturday afternoon walk about a week later and the concept of klogging was suddenly conceived, magically and out of the blue. Why not use this beautiful book to record how we feel about each other? A shared booklog (hence klog) or diary. And so we did exactly that. And we made a pact from the outset that these feelings could be as silly and as unprofound as anything, and on purpose we decided to do away with beautiful fountain pens and instead write with a scrappy old pencil. And it works, the inhibition is gone and we no longer care if our handwriting resembles chicken scratchings. Perhaps we have even managed to break the curse of the beautiful notebook for good.

So my second entry to Love Thursday is a picture of our klog. I love this image because it represents a completely new way of communicating. If you have a partner, or a dear friend and you don't yet share a klog, start one; it's lovely to spend some time with the book, read through past entries, write something new, or just sit and ponder...

Light-hearted afternoon chuckle

2007-02-07T16:29:00.000Z

Excerpts from a dog's daily diary:
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:00 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing
12:00 pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Milk Bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

Excerpts from a cat's daily diary:
Day 683 of my captivity: My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the floor.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. The audacity!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded! The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe....... For now...

I can't take credit for this, I have seen different versions of it, but found this particular one on Amber's blog.

SPC: emerging from my shadows

2007-02-06T15:10:00.000Z

This is my first self-portrait challenge. Again I find myself drawn back to the concept of identity (which I previously wrote about here and here) …

The person I really am often differs enormously from the person I let others see. When I believe I need to protect myself or when I feel vulnerable, I use a mind-crafted mask to hide behind. But when I feel exuberant, extrovert and brave, I thrive in the spotlight and the two me’s are almost interchangeable.

Then there is blogging, and the blogging persona. In this medium I’m realising I have an opportunity to be as open and honest as I wish; in a sense show the true me. And here vulnerability doesn’t really matter; in fact the feeling that comes from expressing myself, in what is effectively a very public domain, when I'm feeling at my most vulnerable is incredibly liberating.

But this sense of freedom comes to a halt when I attempt to use images rather than words as a means of expression. I sense a shrinking away, a desire to hide. Identity… hmmm.... as I’m hurtling towards 40 I am struggling with my judgemental self. I feel that I am fading away here in this city, bursting at the seams with gorgeous young things, that I am becoming invisible, an undesirable…

But I am aware that I am my own harshest critic, the hand clamped over my face is my own, what it represents is self-inflicted, and I need to find a way to pry it away in order to free myself from my internal judge. I need to step out from the shadows I have created for myself.

invisible mute
ready to break the silence
emerge from shadows

My yesterday

2007-02-05T15:25:00.000Z

Cheek pressed against love,
liquid dreams lusting after
Pale yellow sunset

Every night after work I take a long walk along the seafront. I do this even if it's raining because after a long day in front of a computer I need to feel fresh air on my face; I need to stretch my limbs to feel alive again. Lately it's been wonderful to notice a lengthening in daylight, and yesterday the sun was still setting when I reached the water. The sky was a cool yellow colour and I felt truly alive in that moment as I walked with the wind in my face towards the sun as it slowly melted and disappeared.

Recently, inspired by so many creative fellow bloggers, I've started to try and shape a haiku from whatever has happened during the day that made me smile. It's very meditative and it feels good to focus on something positive. And it feels like the rhythm of my steps creates a rhythm for my words to follow.

Sunday scribblings: electric goodbyes

2007-02-04T11:02:00.000Z

Falling down; unconscious uncontrollable undulations followed by inevitable, indelible sadness. Separation anxiety taken to a whole new level.

Karin left on the late flight Friday night. After watching the plane take off, she got a lift home, a little sad perhaps, who knows how long until they see each other again, but also relieved; that familiar, slightly guilty relief of having your home and your routine back.

But at night, in bed, memories from their childhood come flooding back. Swimming in endless lakes, climbing magical trees, building secret hiding places. Spending every waking moment outside; summer, winter, it didn’t matter. The memories, mingled with the evening's goodbye are like buds; threatening to burst open, revealing not a beautiful flower but unfelt grief of their once shared closeness. She pushes it away.

But sleep evades her. Tossing and turning until the morning chorus eventually lulls her to sleep. But the shrill and incessant beeping of the alarm clock reminding her of an early morning shift forces her up, just as her sleep is deep and dreamless.

Everyone else is still asleep as she steps into the shower. As she closes… closes the screen ddd door an unwelcome but familiar sensation surges through… her, her… She resolutely turns her face up, willing the powerful jets to wash it away. It’s going to be a busy day, and she cannot be late. The feeling will pass.

Getting ddd dressed ok. She tries not to think, thoughts jerky make her nervous. She forgets to kiss he who still sleeps goodbye and goes outside. Sitting on the steps she puts on her bike shoes, slightly muddy from last weekend’s trail ride. Bike leaning aggg, agh, aghhh… against the side… side of the hhh house. She takes the helmet from the handle where she usually leaves it, puts it on.

As she gets on her bike her leg sort of gets stuck, stuck in midair; she’s confused, doesn’t understand. Tells herself it’s OK, it will pass, it will pass, it will pass, it will… she cycles through the quiet residential streets, willing her mind, her brain to cooperate. She feels cold wet fear on her back, her legs full of lactic acid. Not so good, not so ggghhhgd… gghrrrggghhhhddddd…….

Llook, llo, llloooking over left shoulder to check for traff… ffffffick before changing lanes. Frank’s Honey Bun cccc, cccafé…. Not so good, not so ggghhhgd… gghrrrggghhhhddddd…….

Someone is asking her something, they keep asking the same thing. STOP asking. “What’s your name?” Go away………………………… The voice is still there.... Go away..... "Do you know your telephone number?...... 32..? No, she doesn't know her telephone number........ Go away...... “Do you know what has happened?”

She knows then. She doesn’t want to know, but she knows. She knows what has happened. She hates what has happened. What she doesn’t know then, but eventually comes to understand is that it always follows a farewell. Unfelt sadness becomes an electric goodbye.

Photo from kepplah.com

A new savings account

2007-02-03T19:22:00.000Z

My father on his 80th birthday in December 2006

When I was born my parents were already in their 40s, which is perhaps not such a big deal these days but was quite unusual in the 60s. As I was growing up I always liked that they were older, despite the fact that they were neither hip nor cool. But they were chilled out, they were always around, and they always welcomed my friends to come over. I never had a reason to be embarrassed.

But now they are quite old and their bodies are starting to let them down. My father has always been a very active and fit man and still, despite his age, walks or cycles wherever he needs to go. But when I spoke to him last night there was an emptiness in his voice I have never heard before. More worrying his voice was slurred and he seemed to struggle to form words. He sounded so down and I heard how I became almost hysterically cheerful, desperately trying to make him believe I hadn't noticed a difference in him. I was too terrified to ask any questions, and in the end we spoke for a few more minutes more before hanging up.

Afterwards I recalled a conversation we had only a few weeks ago. That conversation had left me feeling so happy that I wrote it down.

16 January 2007
So happy when pappa called today. I must remember his voice, it sounded so light, so happy. At one point in the conversation I had a sensation of time slowing right down, almost to a complete standstill. Maybe to remind me to be mindful of him, of the conversations we have. These moments will one day be important memories.

And so last night, after a few tears, I made a promise to myself to open up a pappa account and deposit into it memories I have of him, past and future conversations (particularly the good ones) and anything else that comes to mind. I need to save for the future.

My name, my self

2007-02-02T08:47:00.000Z

Identity has been on my mind a lot lately, and a few days ago I rambled on about how I came to choose Waspgoddess as my nom de plume, but in all honesty what I am in real, urgent need of is a permanent name change. When my parents chose the previously mentioned ancient Nordic name they clearly did not expect me to go very far, literally. My name contains one particular letter that only exists in [some of] the Scandinavian languages, which means that since leaving the shores of my homeland almost 20 years ago, not only has no one been able to pronounce my name without a tutorial, they can’t even spell it. In fact, most of the time, unless they meet me they have no clue as to my sex either. And it’s not just my first name; my surname, despite its lack of odd letters and characters, is long and, in the eyes and ears of the natives of my new homeland, unwieldy.

It’s frustrating and occasionally quite upsetting when friends continue to misspell my name simply because one of the letters doesn’t exist in the English language. Really I think it’s down to laziness, and to some extent also ignorance. But sometimes it comes across as a lack of caring.

In my professional life I have to regularly deal with the press, and it has become something of a sport to check out what new and unusual spellings different journalists manage to come up with. A few weeks ago I was thrilled when one of the broadsheets (read a v important one) spelled my first name correctly (they did misspell my surname, but I was ecstatic nevertheless).

After all, your name and your identity are intimately linked. You become your name and your name becomes you. And so I wonder what nearly 20 years of constant mispronunciations, misspellings and mistakes about my gender has done to my sense of self? Maybe a new name would actually bring me home? At least it would allow me to stop wasting so much time and energy feeling upset when friends misspell my name on birthday cards, or consoling business contacts when they feel embarrassed for the inevitable mispronunciation (only for them to go ahead and do it again two minutes later).

So I’ve been playing around with several different names. It’s been a lot of fun, but it has made me think about what my own name really means to me, what it says about who I am and where I'm from, and I’m not sure what a new name, and essentially a new identity, would do to my 37 year-old self -- it may just confuse me too much. So for the time being I am Nina M only when I book tables in restaurants, order taxis and sign up for freebies.

Incidentally, the post just arrived with a letter addressed to Nina M inviting me/her to a free makeover. Fits perfectly really; my alias can be that sophisticated, perfectly coiffed woman the real me tries to be but can never quite manage to sustain.

This entry was inspired by a post by one of my favourite bloggers, La Cubana Gringa (check her out, she’s outrageously hilarious).

Photo by Ron

Love Thursday - from a small kitten to a big cat

2007-02-01T13:51:00.000Z

In the last few weeks I have really embraced the whole blogging thing, and it has been incredibly inspirational reading other peoples blogs. Recently it seems many of the ones I frequently visit have been on the subject of smiling and happiness. Encouraged by Nutter's notes I have been happyingUP! every day this week, writing down my top three "happinesses" from each day. This has been a wonderful experience, since it has helped me to pay more attention to the small moments of happiness that occur every day, like walking past a cookie stall and getting hit by a wave of freshly baked cookies. So often I forget that this very moment will never return again, so why am I wasting it?

I've enjoyed reading Sognatrice's Love Thursdays for several weeks now (the original idea came from Chookooloonks). And Dreamer girl recently wrote a wonderful list of things that made her smile that day. It doesn't have to be terribly important things, it's just about enjoying life and valuing what we have. And noticing it.

My first entry to Love Thursday is the photo above of our cat Heinz when he was only eight weeks old and he still lived with his brothers and sisters. Whenever I look at this photo I get flooded by a feeling of absolute love from head to toe, I just adore him so. He's almost two years old now, and a big handsome cat, in fact I'm convinced he's the most beautiful cat there ever was. Don't you agree?

Heinz the heart-breaker

Here's to you

2007-01-31T16:58:00.000Z

Today is International Very Good Looking, Damn Smart Woman's Day.

Remember this motto to live by:

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO what a ride!"

Ps. I don't totally agree with the motto, but I do think we often put so much emphasis on being healthy and striving for the perfect body that we sometimes forget to enjoy ourselves. So here's to living life fully -- but mindfully!

What's in a name?

2007-01-30T13:52:00.000Z

When I was growing up I went through a phase when I had loads of pen-pals, mainly from Sweden but for a while I even exchanged letters with a boy in Tanzania, although that came to an abrupt halt when he suddenly proposed, and we all realised that he was more man than boy (and rather confused about my age - I was only 11).

Blogging is kind of like a modern-day alternative to pen-palling, but with the additional opportunity of being completely anonymous should you so wish. The option of keeping your identity secret can be incredibly liberating and no doubt contributes to keeping the creative juices flowing. But herein lies the crux of the matter. It's probably safe to say that most bloggers very quickly become addicted to feedback from others. It's absolutely wonderful to know that someone, somewhere has read my nonsense. But how to get noticed (and comments) if you want to remain anonymous? Because, unless you are a marketing wiz, in the early days of blogging most comments will most likely be from friends and family. And how do you remain motivated if no one sees you? The answer, I think, lies in another question (well strictly speaking two). Why are you blogging, and for whom?

Initially I wanted to tell everyone I know about this blog, but I quickly realised the knowledge that friends and family could be reading my ramblings would be completely counterproductive and inhibiting. After all I started this blog in an attempt to rediscover the joy I once had of writing, not as a means to stay in touch with faraway loved ones. And despite having enjoyed my five minutes of fame tremendously (when I received more than 10 comments for one particular post, thank you, thank you) I can still say with some degree of confidence that I blog for me; I write and post daily in order to try and be more creative and to try and create some structure in my life.

But of course I am well and truly hooked on exploring an ever-expanding community of like-minded bloggers. I particularly enjoy reading the profiles of my favourite fellow bloggers, and since many share my desire for anonymity I always wonder what prompts someone to choose a particular nom de plume.

So, what's with the Waspgoddess? Without giving too much away I can tell that no, I’m not a white Anglo Saxon protestant (WASP), nor am I suffering from delusions of grandeur, believing that I am a goddess. Instead my parents chose to bestow upon me an ancient Nordic first name, meaning goddess or goddess-like, so they are really to blame for any divine aspirations I may occasionally have. And when I worked with a woman of Polish heritage in British Columbia about ten years ago, I found out that my name means wasp in Polish. I quite liked the dichotomy of the two and so Waspgoddess became my pseudonym, my alter ego, to use whenever I have a desire to shield my true identity.

Photo by Ron.

The King and him (and the princess)

2007-01-29T08:42:00.000Z

Reading a post by Shelley of At Home in Rome about celebrity sightings, I was reminded of the time my man’s foot almost got stuck underneath the King of Sweden’s car, and how I could have lost him to one of the princesses.

It was last summer and we were staying with friends in Stockholm for a few days. Since it was my man’s first time in the Swedish capital we agreed we might as well do the obvious and start in Gamla stan (the old town). We were walking past the castle when we noticed that a side door to the inner courtyard was open; curiosity got the better of us, and so we went over to have a look. Suddenly the big doors swung open and a car appeared with a very cross-looking man at the wheel. It was the King of Sweden driving with some security person next to him. My man had his back turned and swung around (in response to my and my friend’s yelps of excitement) just as the King (or Gustaf as we now call him) impatiently turned the car in the general direction of my man, who had to more or less throw himself out of the way in order to avoid having his foot crushed by the wheels.

Afterwards my man was cursing and swearing at the missed opportunity. He was convinced that had he only allowed Gustaf to crush his toes he would have felt obliged to offer him the hand of his youngest daughter, Princess Madeleine in marriage. And what about me you wonder? Well, I suppose he expected me to become the maid or something. Or maybe I would have been disposed of altogether. It’s nice to feel so irreplaceable.

By the way, Gustaf is renowned for his love of fast cars, and for being a very hotheaded driver. And because he can't be tried for any driving offences, he could, I suppose, literally get away with murder.

Chronicles: the voice, found

2007-01-28T10:11:00.000Z

My very first Sunday Scribblings.

Anna Lou came up to her the morning after the concert and just said she had noticed her, and thought she was beautiful. She was unsure as to whether Anna Lou was referring to her inner or outer beauty, but wasn’t it a nice thing to say? She felt shy and slightly embarrassed and didn’t quite know how to respond, so she simply said she had been blown away by Anna Lou’s voice the night before. Anna Lou just smiled and told her about the voice workshop she was hosting later that day and invited her to come along.

Against her natural instinct she decided to go. Her relationship with her voice had never been a very secure or happy one. She even felt uncomfortable having to say her name in front of people. Which of course they had to do. Then there was just… god… Anna Lou taught them some breathing techniques, and how to incorporate sound into them. She instructed them to sit on their haunches, to lean forward. And they started making sounds on each exhalation.

She thought she was doing quite well. But then Anna Lou came up behind her and first gently “shook” her back, and then held it. And suddenly there was this incredible release, almost like throwing up. She started crying. Felt so fucking small. And Anna Lou sat down in front of her and held her hands and as they looked into each others eyes, they sounded together. How else could it be described?

With tears streaming down her face her voice suddenly felt incredibly strong and powerful. It could finally be heard, for the first time. Afterwards Anna Lou said that she was quite shocked by the intensity and that she believed there was a lot of strength hiding inside. She felt honoured to have been there.

And she? She felt shaky and weak, but also overcome by a sense of something profound having taken place, of a fundamental shift. And a need to acknowledge the experience, and to use it. A need to trust herself more.

Photo by Adam Dorman

Where were you?

2007-01-27T10:09:00.000Z

I have never done a meme before, in all honesty I'm so new to blogging I'm still not entirely sure what it is, but I'm very keen to try new blog-related things, and this one did bring back some interesting memories for me, so I thought I'd give it a go. Since I spotted this meme on two of the blogs I regularly visit I'm not sure what the protocol is, should I only leave a comment on the blog where it was mentioned first, or on both? Well, I'm going to do both. Hello Vivi, hello Sognatrice.

Here we go...

1) Where were you when Armstrong first walked on the Moon?
I was three months and nine days old, and considering it was in the middle of the night I was probably (hopefully) sleeping. I can’t say I have any strong memories of this one.

2) Where were you when you heard Princess Di had died?
Working as a waitress in Canada with a very flamboyant guy who had been her number one fan for years. He was inconsolable and somehow the rest of us were all caught up in his grief. He never could forgive my then-husband for uttering the blasphemous words “Di Hard” (my ex had a very borderline sense of humour).

3) Where were you on New Year’s Eve of 1999/2000?
There was soo much anxiety surrounding this date, I mean New Year’s Eve is always full of expectations and inevitable let-downs, but this one was just too much. I considered going on a silent meditation retreat, but since I had never meditated before that seemed a bit extreme. In the end I spent it with my ex-husband at his parents’ house, watching The African Queen. It was a let-down (not the film of course, I adore Katharine Hepburn).

4) Where were you on Sept.11, 2001?
Strange enough I was at the local airfield with my then boyfriend, who was half-way through getting a pilot’s license. We arrived only to be told he would not be allowed to fly that day because a plane had crashed into the World Trade Centre. It seemed very strange at the time that even a small two-seater Cessna at a small airport in England would be grounded, but it took a while for the enormity of the situation to really filter through. We went back to my place and spent the rest of the day in front of the TV.

5) Where were you when you first heard about the big 2004 Tsunami?
This one was very uncomfortable. My man and I had just returned from a walk down by the sea and we had been talking about storm surges and tsunamis. I have an intense fear of big bodies of water (my relationship with dams is bordering on phobic) and for some reason I have a great urge to talk about things that really scare me (like snakes). I couldn’t help but feel that our conversation had somehow made the tragedy happen.

6) Where were you when you first heard that Madonna would go on tour last year?
I have no idea, but then I couldn’t really care less. I remember sitting at work when someone told me how much the tickets would cost.

Paradise found

2007-01-26T08:04:00.000Z

My man is a great lover of cinema and could happily watch a movie every night of the week. He is also a night owl and loves watching films late at night. I do enjoy a film every so often, but mostly I prefer to have a conversation, or, if that doesn’t seem to be happening, read. I also like to be in bed by 11 at the latest (at least during the week, weekends I've been known to sometimes stay up past midnight!). So when he sulks because I hardly ever agree to a (late) night in front of the box, I try to convince him to watch one without me, I mean it’s not as if I would mind. But that’s the other problem; he doesn’t like watching films alone.

Ever since we returned from Venice I have been harassing him to start learning Italian with me. After a fairly relentless campaign he eventually caved in and we now spend about half an hour every evening repeating simple dialogue and memorising verbs. I love it! Whenever I develop a new interest it tends to border on the obsessive, like the case with quantum physics, which somehow managed to snare me a few years ago. But it quickly passes. This is different, I know it. So whilst he patiently puts up with my frantic enthusiasm, expecting it to fade soon enough, I am busy planning a new life in Italy (I’m sorry you had to find out this way, honey).

In the meantime, we have found the perfect solution to our movie dilemma. In my desire to immerse myself in everything Italian I have suggested that we watch only Italian films, and lots of them. He, delirious with joy at the prospect of finally having someone to watch movies with, has of course agreed. He doesn’t even mind when I pause the film every few minutes to ask “did they say non c’e male?” (or some other equally simple word or expression). I guess it really isn’t so bad, at least in comparison to the cinematic desert we previously inhabited.

Angelina to the rescue

2007-01-25T08:57:00.000Z

You know sometimes when you look in the mirror in the morning and you get such a fright that all you want to do is cry "oh, noooo", and run back to the bedroom and hide under the covers for the rest of the day?

When I have one of those days and if I must face the outside world in order to get to work or something, I find it can be really helpful to have access to pictures of the beautiful people looking rough, because somehow it manages to take the edge of my own misery.

This is one of my favourite first-aiders. Sure, when she makes even the slightest bit of effort Ange morphs into a knock-out, but I can live with that, because if I concentrate I usually succeed in focussing only on our shared moments of looking rough. And that makes me feel a little bit better.

Chilli with snow

2007-01-24T09:39:00.000Z

Winter has finally arrived, and for once we even have snow! When I left for my early morning walk everything was covered in a pristine layer of white powder. Ecstasy! In this coastal city it hardly ever snows, the air is just too salty, so whenever it does (once every two years if we're lucky) you have to fit in as much "snow-fun" as possible; snow angels, snowmen and a few snow balls are all musts. And it has to be done quickly, because it won't last. In fact by the time I went to work most of it had melted, although it was great fun watching the suited men on their way to work, slipping and sliding down the hill in the remaining slush.

But enough of the weather report. Cold weather calls for comfort food. And at the top of my list for cosy food comes chilli con carne. I’m not sure this recipe is particularly authentic, but it’s delicious nevertheless, and it’s pretty good for you too (it’s yet another adaptation from my trusty kitchen companion, Patrick Holford and his Low GL cookbook), plus it doesn’t take much more than 20 minutes to make (although it tastes even better if you make it one day and eat it the next).

My man is not keen on spicy food in combination with beans (for reasons best not dwelled upon), so my chilli is pretty mild, but of course you can add spices to your heart’s desire.

Chilli con carne
Serves 4

450 g lean organic beef mince (5% if you can get that)
2 tsp olive oil
1 onion, diced
2 cloves of garlic, crushed
1 red pepper, diced
250 g mushrooms, sliced
2 tsp cumin
¼ tsp chilli powder
1 can (400 g) chopped tomatoes
3 tbsp tomato puree
4 tsp Marigold reduced salt vegetable bouillon powder
1 can kidney beans, rinsed and drained

Cook the mince in a large frying pan until it turns a lovely shade of grey-brown. Scoop off any fat that appears with a teaspoon. Set aside.

Heat the olive oil in a separate pot and fry the onion, garlic, pepper and mushrooms for about 5 minutes. Add the cumin and chilli powder and cook for a further 10 minutes or so until the vegetables are soft.

Add the mince, tomatoes, kidney beans, tomato paste and bouillon powder, stir well. Cover and simmer for 10-15 minutes, until the flavours have mingled.

Don't call me ma'am

2007-01-23T08:23:00.000Z

Yesterday afternoon while I was patiently waiting to speak to a real person who might be able to explain why I still haven't received a gas bill, despite requesting one for 11 months, I was put on hold for the umpteenth time with the words "please hold, Ma'am, while I transfer you to the correct department", and I suddenly remembered the first time it happened.

I was only 19 when I was first called Ma’am. I was working as an au pair in a Toronto suburb and I realised after having gorged myself on strawberry twizzlers and Kraft macaroni and cheese for more than six months that I needed to do something in order to fit into my favourite jeans again. So I decided to join a gym. For reasons I will never understand I chose Gold’s Gym. I don’t know what it’s like these days, but in 1988 Gold’s Gym meant steroids and lots of it; steroids and huge men. But it wasn’t the Arnie clone greeting me as I entered the building that frightened me, it was the uttering of the words “how may I help you Ma’am”, that sent me running. And I have been running ever since, not just from gyms, but from Ma’am.

Unfortunately it’s a word that seems to be coming my way with increasing frequency. As far as I can tell, this is definitely one of the worst aspects of aging. I can handle the wrinkles, the sprouting of a moustache… (not sure if I should point out any other bits, in case I have successfully managed to keep them a secret from my man) but I cannot handle becoming a Ma’am. And it’s not even as if they have to see me in order to address me in this horrid way. Is my voice old?

My man came back beaming from an outing to his favourite café; “the owner called me Sir”, he exclaimed. It’s not fair. As usual I get the feeling women end up with the shortest straw. There is certainly nothing to be proud of in being called Ma'am.

I know I should embrace my inner Ma’am, she won’t go away, and truth be told, I don’t want to become one of those women who calls herself a girl when she’s clearly not. But perhaps I should consider relocation. In Sweden they won’t call you anything but “you”, or if they have access to your name they call you by your first name, which is fine by me. In Turkey you become “bayan”, which as far as I understand is more or less an extension of the word “bay”, which means Mr. So that’s no good. But I could definitely handle Madame or Signora, since both words instantly conjure up images of chic, sophisticated women. Which is what I am. And there simply is no chic in Ma’am.

Monday morning riddle

2007-01-22T08:21:00.000Z

A father and his son were driving to a ball game when their car stalled on the railroad tracks. In the distance a train whistle blew a warning. Frantically the father tried to start the engine, but in his panic he couldn’t turn the key, and the car was hit by the onrushing train. An ambulance sped to scene and picked them up. On the way to the hospital, the father died. The son was still alive but his condition was very serious, and he needed immediate surgery. The moment they arrived at the hospital he was wheeled into an emergency operation room, and the surgeon came in, expecting a routine case. However, on seeing the boy, the surgeon blanched and muttered, “I can’t operate on this boy – he is my son.”

What do you make of this grim riddle? How could it be? Was the surgeon lying or mistaken? No. Was the surgeon the boy’s true father and the dead man the boy’s adopted father? No. What, then is the explanation?

I first heard this riddle years ago and it really threw me for a loop then. I came across it again in a book called Metamagical themas by Douglas R. Hofstadter. The illustration is the cover of another of his books, The Mind's I: fantasies and reflections on self and soul, co-authored with Daniel C Dennett.

The dangers of meditation

2007-01-21T08:57:00.000Z

Meditation is all about mindfulness. But I’ve come to realise in the last month or so that I have been meditating that mindfulness is surprisingly hard to attain. In most sessions I manage to be mindful for about half a breath, usually an exhalation. But sometimes not at all.

I’m aware of two things. One is that for as long as I try to attain the elusive mindfulness it will most probably continue to evade me (meditation is also about letting go of the ego and of expectation). The other thing is that meditating for 20 minutes every day for about 30 days probably isn't enough to expect nirvana to suddenly be within reach.

Usually my mind is the main culprit and the sitting itself doesn’t pose too much of a problem, since my legs are naturally quite bendy in the directions required for the lotus position. But the other day things took an unexpected and uncomfortable turn for the worse, when about two minutes into the session I felt first one foot go numb, soon to be followed by the other. The sensation slowly moved up both legs. Now the thing with meditation and mindfulness is to acknowledge any distractions as you become aware of them, and then let them go.

But as I imagined the slowing trickle of blood struggling to reach my lower extremities I became obsessed with the possibility that I may develop gangrene if I remained sitting, and so letting go became an impossibility, a cruel joke. I frantically tried to focus on the breath (that’s what you’re supposed to do) and convince myself that 20 minutes would not be enough for my legs to turn black and have to be chopped off. But I was distracted by an ever growing pressure in my head and a disturbing swooshing sound in my ears. With the constricted vessels in my legs refusing any more blood through, was my brain filling with blood? Would I become brain damaged? Is meditation actually dangerous for your health?

In the end I survived the longest 20 minutes – ever, and afterwards I found out that it’s actually not reduced blood flow that gives rise to sensation we associate with a “sleepy” leg or foot, but rather a pinched nerve, and that no, it cannot cause nerve damage or brain damage or any other kind of damage. But maybe, eventually, it may indirectly cause mindfulness .

The fool I am

2007-01-20T10:25:00.000Z

It was late, close to midnight and I was alone at home. I was quietly reading when the front door suddenly swung open and a man entered. I froze. He looked dishevelled and confused, and perhaps he was only drunk, but what did I know? He could be an axe murderer. I wanted him out. Now. But I didn’t know how.

“Please leave”, I said.

He looked in my general direction, and started back towards the door. Propelled forward by adrenaline and relief I shut and locked it behind him.

My whole body went limp and I slid down the wall onto the floor. But moments later my brain forced me to acknowledge a scratching noise coming from the door. I looked over and saw, to my horror, that a thin instrument, the size of a nail file, appeared to have been inserted through the gap at the bottom of the door.

He was trying to get back in.

The expression sheer terror does not come close to what I was feeling. I was verging on hysteria, which in retrospect was probably a little unnecessary; judging by the modestly sized tool, my life was probably not in immediate danger.

I had to call the police. But in order to reach the phone I had to pass the door. As I crept towards it I could see the instrument moving, and very odd sounds were coming from the other side. In my very over-active imagination I could see the ever widening gap, as he literally sawed his way into my home.

The police was very helpful, and someone stayed on the phone with me until a car arrived. Only minutes later the calm voice on the phone told me to relax, two officers were now outside and they had him.

“He is well-known in the area”, they said, and I shuddered.

Not long after the police knocked on the door, and as I went to open it I noticed that the “tool” was still there.

It was a shoelace.

The poor man (who was known to the police as a harmless drunk) had got caught in the door as I forced it shut, and had been trying to free himself until he eventually gave up, just as the police arrived, and simply removed the lace from the shoe.

Happy Birthday!

2007-01-19T10:11:00.000Z

My blog is exactly one month old today and already it has taken me on a really interesting journey. It has definitely raised some questions about my "public persona" and how to present myself - consciously and otherwise. Something that started out pretty restrained is starting to feel more fluid and I'm very curious to see where it will take me, especially now that I've decided to remove my picture (a little extra anonymity can only do a girl good).

In order to celebrate this first milestone in style I spent most of last night trying to get to grips with personalising the layout and adding my own header. It wasn’t easy; in fact it was downright difficult, it’s as if they (the blogspot people) actively discourage individualisation of any kind. And with My Man (who is much more computer savvy than I) out painting the town red I was left to my own devices.

After a few fearful attempts at editing the HTML and a lot of frustrated searching I found my knight in shining armour in the form of a fellow blogger; well two of them actually came to my rescue. Only a minimum amount of HTML editing was required, and in the end it only took a few minutes.

So let’s give credit where credit is due. First I would like to raise a glass to Vi at Infopowered, who explained the first important step. He also pointed me in the direction of Matt at Fireflies in the cloud who provided an illustrated, fool-proof guide that helped me navigate the remaining steps. I was thrilled with the results, and had gained so much confidence by this point that I even succeeded in tweaking a few HTML settings.

Finally I would like to thank Ron Chrisley for taking the beautiful shot that is now my new header, and for the mouthwatering photo of the cupcakes. Ron, I owe you one, will you come and have dinner with us soon?

Nina pretty ballerina

2007-01-18T10:22:00.000Z

In a parallel universe I’m a ballerina. I imagine myself flying effortlessly through the air, my every move graceful and light. That I didn’t realise I wanted to be a dancer until I was about 28 is one of life’s great disappointments, with another major one being that hardly anyone bothers to teach inflexible, rhythmically challenged “old” people like me dance. One expection is Lynda Raino, a dancer and choreographer who has a dance centre for adults in Victoria, Canada. She also started Big Dance, a company for large women and famously said “You don’t have to have a dancer’s body to dance, just a body that dances”.

When I lived in Victoria I took classes with Lynda and did everything from modern technique to floor barre and even tried ballet for absolute beginners (which was actually rather boring once I realised it just wouldn’t happen, I would never be a Darcey Bussell). Lynda helped me create a bridge between my mind and my body and this played a huge role in making me aware of myself in space.

But although my “career” came to an end in '98 when I moved to the UK, in a parallel universe I am a ballerina and so I go to pilates, because that’s what all dancers do. I’m comically inflexible and considering I am approaching 40 I’m starting to wonder whether my pig-headed stubbornness will ever pay off and I will one day be able to do something resembling the splits. But I adore my teacher Ruth, who incidentally was a ballet dancer with the Scottish Ballet, and so I go every week and dream of at least one day retraining and becoming a pilates instructor.