Max chips chips

A small taste of the crazy cocktail party we hosted last week. Mad Professor Staffan and his sidekick Dr Christian ensured we had enough rum-based cocktails and cuban cigars to last a lifetime. Sailor Kalle ensured that every such cocktail had an egg as an ingredient (we're still not sure why). And a host of poets left some lovely notes on our fridge. My personal favourite was "lurvig hög Jesus hurra!" (Furry high Jesus hurray!) and of course, the very mysterious... "max chips chips".

A little angel

A little angel walked up to me today, a bright spot in what was otherwise a pretty crappy day - job situation getting worse, sunlight getting less... although I did have a very girly glass of wine with a new friend and a moment-of-weakness lunchtime shopping trip where I battled the vultures at H&M to secure a Viktor & Rolf tshirt - I think I may have been a bit media-saturated this week. This empty consumerist joy was however offset by several horrible conference calls and a general sense of futurelessness.

But the little angel I guess was the highlight. On my way to work, ipod resolutely shoved in my ears and beanie pulled below my eyebrows in a vain attempt to keep my ears from freezing, a little girl came running out to the road, waving at me to stop with a little gloved hand. I pulled one earphone out. "Hej!" she said.

"Vad heter du?" she asked happily. She was utterly fearless, I could not imagine my 5 year old self starting a random conversation with a grumpy looking woman in the street.

I told her my name in broken Swedish, crouching down to meet her. She repeated my name, smiling, as if it was an amazing new fact she had acquired and had to memorise in case her dad asked when she got home. "Vad heter du?" I asked. "Ebba!" she said. "Hej Ebba," I said, not quite sure what to say (or more accurately, not able to say much at all due to my limited Swedish). She waved again and ran off. "Bye Bye!" she said (dammit, she'd picked up how bad my Swedish was. Pretty smart for a 5 year old). "Bye!" I said, watching her run away. I'm not sure why but I walked smiling to work.

Between Ebba and the tail-less ginger cat I sometimes chat to on the way home (don't worry, it is a real cat, not some Chesire-grinned creature born of my failing grip on sanity) I'm starting to feel like we live in some enchanted neighbourhood rather than the functional 1970s complex that it actually is. My flatmate and I often joke about the strange tunnels to the metro station where you have to go back to 1975 before you come out the other side onto the ordinary street.

Anyway, little Ebba gave me hope that things might actually turn out ok, despite my job or impending lack thereof and yet another dose of strangely formulated rejection from Mr Unrequited. I. says I have good people around me and should concentrate on important things (like what I'm going to wear to our Mr Unrequited-less cocktail party on Saturday night.) I hope she's right.


*Name changed to protect the innocent...and guilty.

Imminently Unemployed

Well, two new firsts. Number 1, it's getting dark by 3pm now. I've taken to walking at lunchtime for a kind of osmosis but it feels like a bit of a losing battle. But that's not the worst thing, the worst is the darkness at the bottom of the abyss I'm staring at. Okay that's slightly dramatic, but never before in my life have I faced unemployment that may actually affect my ability to eat.

There were of course those times when I might as well have been unemployed - when for several months after university I slaved away selling cosmetics at a department store under the cruel dictatorship of an icy lead saleswoman. (Conveniently I developed severe tonsilitis and had to quit). But since then I've been blessed with skipping lightly from one job to the next (albeit also one paycut to the next...I'm sure it's not supposed to work like that).

Now, with my contract ending but my heart still set on staying in Sweden (in a Simpsonesque way, my head is staying quiet on the matter) I am desperately trying to work out what to do next without bursting into tears. I spent every cent I had (and didn't have) on moving around the world in the last few years, and the irony would be funny if it wasn't so cruel -- now I've finally found a place I want to stay in and I may not be able to.

Hmmm... I could work in a bar? Not if I can't speak Swedish (and not if it won't pay the rent). So today I ventured onto the modern interweb in an attempt to secure a bright and rosy future. There is definitely an art in stretching one's degree to be relevant to every possible job. So far I've applied for an IT Project Management role (not too far a stretch), a Solutions Manager (whatever that is), a Junior Project Manager (boring) and an Environmental Journalist (I think my outspokenness may hinder that one. Oh yes, and the fact I dropped out of my Masters in Journalism). My kind colleagues in Oslo have offered me safe haven, food and even pocket money if I move into their office, but, bless them, I suspect they have a kind of "live-in flirty cleaning lady" in mind.

Solutions so far are slim. Stockholm winter is not a pleasant prospect if you may be starving to death. (Even whisky's so expensive I couldn't numb my hunger with that!)

So perhaps it's curtains for this little Swedish adventure, but I'm sure going to give it a try. God forbid, maybe smoky old London is my destiny after all ...