Schlager!

Firstly, it's been a long time between drinks, as a certain old friend who is now a famous rock star would say. I guess I have been living in denial that I have to leave Sweden so didn't want to write about it. So today, to make up for it, I will pay tribute to an aspect of European culture that so fascinates (or repulses) Australians: Europop, and it's ultimate incarnation as SCHLAGERfest. Full disclosure: I have to admit at this point that I have a nostalgic love of such Scandinavian delights as A-Ha, although I hate the ilk of Britney Spears.

According to Wikipedia, Schlager (from the German, natch) means "something that hits" or, more loosely translated, "a hit", and is "a style of popular music that is prevalent in northern Europe". In Australia, it's known by it's common name, Eurotrash, and conjures up images of spandex-clad blonde men, although we obviously forget that we have given the world such craptacular auditory stimulation as Savage Garden (known in their hometown as Average Garden), Gina G, and the long-forgotten Collette (of "You Can Ring My Bell" fame).

Schlagerfest (or officially in Sweden, melodifestivalen) is the Pop Idol style competition that leads up to the selection for who will compete at the Eurovision Song Contest. I hate Pop Idol, but I have become strangely fascinated with Schlager.

The Swedes at least take the whole thing with tongue planted firmly in cheek. Their host is a sarcastic comedian who has actually appeared in a skimpy purple number impersonating the loser of the competition the year before. Last night, someone asked him if you could vote for two songs at once. His reply on national television? "Well, you could, but then you'd be f*cking stupid." And my personal favourite event this year was Swedish band The Ark (the lead singer of which proudly boasts he has never written a bad song) decided that the music on Schlager was crap (an opinion no doubt supported by everyone who has ever watched it) and have mounted a stunningly witty challenge including a giant winged costume, fireworks, and a bit of axe-wielding guitar choreography at the end.

Weirdly, a schoolteacher has also entered her sad little ballad. I think people voted for her because they felt sorry for her - a testament to the kind heartedness of the Swedes, because she would probably get slaughtered in competition. I base my analysis of this on the fact she reduced Irina to tears. But there must be no mercy in Schlager -- probably why the Brits are reportedly entering Morrissey to depress us all to death.

Anyway, last night I sat down to watch Schlager with my friend Stina. We were so bored after 5 minutes that we had to go and get a DVD. I am considering asking if Australia can join the EU, this way my visa issues will be solved without marrying a random Swede; the Australian socio-political situation would be forced to become more aligned with international diplomacy, we could develop balanced welfare and immigration policies and have less US-style swagger, and more importantly, we could sure shake up Schlagerfest.

Stockholmers and the curse of the Tvättstuga

There is a curious reverence attached to washing here in Stockholm. It's not something you might casually do when you get home after a few beers, and chuck the lot in the dryer to have awaiting you, warm and fresh, when you awake. I call that the Sydney System. It's not even something that you might drop off at the launderette before work and pick up on the way home, as in the Amsterdam Arrangement. No, it is a carefully planned event that you must arrange your life around, regardless of how many years you have been waiting to see Jarvis Cocker in concert or how many good-looking Swedish men have suddenly decided that they must start drinking in the establishment immediately adjacent to your office. The washing machine is your master.

This is because everyone in your apartment building (if you're lucky) or block (if you are unlucky) will share your laundry. Usually, being Sweden, the laundry (tvättstugan) is well-equipped and clean, possibly with equipment that no-one knows how to actually use. To access this equipment, you need to book a time. This is done using a special key that unlocks a tiny metal placeholder in a calendar. Each placeholder is marked with a mysterious number that may or may not match one on your front door (if you forget which of the little placeholders is yours, you will have to test each and every one with the key. My hairdresser informs me that he has taken his washing to his mother's for weeks because no matter how many he tries, he can't find his placeholder. That's how serious it is. I told him he should just shove a piece of paper in the placeholder with his apartment number on it. He looked at me wide-eyed and couldn't believe an Australian had just given him the wisest washing advice in Sweden).

Anyway, once you have booked the timeslot, you'd better hold onto it for love or money. If you're half an hour late, you lose it. If you book more than twice a month, you lose it (assuming you don't resort to sneaking down at night or worse, pretending that you mixed up your booking time and stealing a slot from the old lady downstairs. Not that nice people like us would ever do that, even when we have to catch 5am flights the next day and have no clean clothes for our travels).

On Sunday we cooked pancakes over an open fire in the snow, complete with kaffekask (vodka and coffee). One of Irina's friends couldn't come because she was washing. Last night Jarvis Cocker was in town. One of Irina's friends couldn't come because she was washing (no, it was not the same friend).

I have to go now since Miss I. is summoning me to remove our laundry from the drying room. You have one hour to remove it after your agreed time slot. We don't know what happens if you fail to do this, but we don't want to have to wait another two weeks to find out...

Champagne and Mushy Peas

As I get used to the idea of leaving my beloved Sweden, at least for a while (more about that later), I try to come to terms with potential life in the UK - the land that traditionally Australians behold as the butt of bad-teeth and cricket jokes, and, if we are to be fair, progenitor of such classics as Blackadder and The Young Ones. Tonight I had a Monday champagne or two (oh how I will miss those overpriced champagnes) with Angus and Clara. Angus lives in London, and we came up with the idea of a fantastic restaurant, where we would serve very classy champagne, and then ask "Would you like a bag of chips with that darling?" in a horrible Cockney accent, while dishing up radioactively green mushy peas, sausages (including vegetarian options) and for the Swedish, my favourite rice porridge (maybe even extending to the oat variety for Scots). I have agreed to cultivate the most horrendous British accent (which Angus thinks I already have, judging by the way I pronounce "pasties") and use it at blatantly inappropriate moments (such as when ordering pasties). Still, I am rather heartbroken at the prospect, and have already booked a series of Swedish lessons since my lack of Swedish seems to be hindering me here immensely, in the hope that one day I can sweep back in and shock some kind of million dollar contract out of Sony Ericsson. I guess only time will tell, but right now, I'm stocking up on as much Swedish cuisine as possible. I might even see if the local ICA supermarket has a few hundred bottles of glögg left in the basement...

Snow angels

2am, after 4 bottles of wine between three of us, and a lot of bruschetta, Miss I. and I decided to go frolicking in the freshly fallen snow, and I fell in love with Stockholm all over again. I've been having a hard time deciding if I really should try and stay here forever, or if I should cut my losses and hit the bigtime in London (or get really depressed after spending 4 hours of every day on the tube and talking to Eastenders who omit all required consonants). JonJon says I should just stay in one place for a while. I. agrees (although perhaps has ulterior motives, since we have just settled in here and committed to learning how to DJ so we can perform a set called "From Helsinki to Sydney" at our friends' new nightclub. Until then we have committed to drinking wine the way only Finns and Australians really can, in order to keep the owners happy). My parents and ex-boyfriend (of the pizza-less fridge) think I should go and get myself some pounds in the bank. I am torn in two. I really don't know which way to go here, and find myself doing anything to not have to think about it (including watching VERY bad tv thrillers with titles like "The Seductress", frolicking in the snow, and drinking wine like only Finns and Australians can). I am hoping some miracle occurs to make my mind up (the emergence of a valiant Viking would be nice) but failing that I'm going to have to do some hard thinking in the next few days. Is it actually possible to ever be nearly a Swede?

Fear and loathing in ... Oslo

[Pic: Note that in Oslo, you can apparently only cross the road if you are Frank Sinatra, or have similiar mafia-approved dress sense]

Seriously, I should have seen this one coming. Abandoned in my ex-boyfriend's posh house in Oslo with no phone and nothing to eat except a giant box of Scottish porridge oats and some canned soup (which I haven't actually been able to find). My Norwegian friend Jonas skyped me (thank god for skype!) and said, "Look in the freezer - there's always a frozen pizza in any self-respecting Norwegian's freezer". Sadly, my ex is not Norwegian, and does not seem to have acquired the means of survival in Arctic temperatures. The driveway is iced over and we are in a place with no streetlights and only one store which I doubt is open this time of night. I don't intend to try to reach it. ...Besides, I don't have my 1950s mafia outfit with me so probably wouldn't be able to cross the road, ice or not.

Meanwhile he's off living it up with the lads (at least, I hope it's the lads...I know I shouldn't hope that, but I do). "I have a life you know," he would say, if he read this. Yes well, I had planned to have a life too. I think Swedish Rail -- who have cancelled my train back to Sweden and don't have much to suggest as an alternative -- should give me the last several hours of my life back along with a complimentary cup of their unique brand of super strong coffee and a sound slap on the wrist for staying at my ex-boyfriend's house in the first place. I should be at home with Miss I, leaning over the balcony in Stockholm guiltily sharing an ill-begotten cigarette and dissecting the emotional rollercoaster of the last few days apart. But no. Thanks to a giant storm that has ravaged Sweden, I'm here still. I don't think it's too much to ask for my ex to invite me, Miss Abandoned Guest, along for at least some red wine. I'd even quite happily settle for porridge if I had company.

There were telltale signs from Day 1 really. On the way here my colleague and I were so excited to be travelling first class on the train for once in our lives. There were a few indications that not all was well - I realised I'd lost my mobile phone, there was no internet on board, no credit card accepted at the kiosk (which did wonders for his diet but not for my blood sugar). And then the train stopped, we stood outside for 40 minutes in the rain waiting for a replacement bus and endured a farcical series of bus drivers who were convinced they were NOT going to Oslo. My colleague began an enchanting rendition of Singin' in the Rain to pass the time though.

Having said that, I think Oslo is fantastic. And despite the ups and downs with the ex, we did have a lovely fireside lunch yesterday overlooking the whole of Oslo (before struggling with the Frank Sinatra impersonations on the way home). Tension mounted as the girl he is seeing was blatantly unhappy with my being here, going so far as to drop a single IKEA bed over for my comfort and enjoyment. Thanks. I could maybe forgive a Swede for that on the basis of nationalism alone but a Norwegian - never. At least I have learnt that being friends with exes is bound to be doomed to failure (at least if you are an emotional person like myself who listens to too much Jarvis Cocker.)

The one piece of advice my ex has given me in the last few days which I think I will now live by, are from what I strongly suspect is a self-help book but which I think might be useful anyway.

1. Be impeccable with your word
2. Don't take anything personally
3. Don't assume
4. Always do your best

However I think they should add in something about:

5. Be kind and put yourself in other people's shoes especially if their train has been cancelled and it's cold
6. Keep a frozen pizza in the fridge at all times
7. When depressed, you can't go wrong with Depeche Mode

Oh - and when travelling to Oslo, take a fedora hat and snappy tie.

...The Extraordinary

In the absence of Christmas and New Year tales (which will come soon, I am awaiting photos of the stunning snow made from soap that was showered upon us at midnight on New Year's Eve) I want to tell you about a disturbing experience I had today when I was persuaded by curiousity and confusion to call a psychic. I have always been open to the existence of strange phenomena, even before my teenage crush on David Duchovny. My Sven-finding friend Jeanna and I used to fill our pre-university mornings feasting upon a cheap television series hosted by a bald guy in a trench coat. It was called "...The Extraordinary" (pronounced pause The ExtRORdinaryyy). We sat glued to our ancient tv set, feasting on strong coffee and chocolate-digestive biscuits. We were thrilled to hear tales of hauntings and coincidences, our personal favourite being when Telly Savalas (aka Kojak) found himself in the limousine of a falsetto-voiced ghost driver, inspiring many a drunken exclamation of "IIIII'LLLL give you a ride!".

The problem is, no matter how much I want to believe, I remain unconvinced, and after today, a bit stressed. Last year a psychic told me that Australia was merely a place to recharge my batteries, but my spiritual home was in Europe. That I should go to Europe and rekindle a lost love, and that I would look out a window here and know when I'd found "home". (She also told me that she'd send me a pack of tarot cards, and never did. That should have rung a ghostly alarm bell).

Today I rang someone recommended by a friend. She told me that I had at least two friendly helpers on the Other Side, including a 25 year old guy with fair hair who'd died in a car crash who was keen to help me. I told her I didn't know anyone who'd died in a car crash, apart from my university friend who died in a taxi in London at age 17. She had dark hair and er...was female. The psychic told me a few things that could be true I suppose - my motherly instincts (check, despite years of denial), my tendency to choose boys intsead of men (check check check), my need to sort things out with my family - especially the roles of women in my family (check) and ... that I needed to move back to Australia. Now, you could say that to pretty much any expatriate Australian, except me. I've been there done that. I went home to put down roots, spent far too much money on a stainless steel fridge and a nice cutlery set, and could right now be working in a cosy job as a web producer in a funky urban Sydney agency. But call me a snob, the day that The Australian, our only national newspaper, put the headline "ATM FEES GO UP TO $2" rather than "HAMAS ELECTED IN PALESTINE" I decided to cut my losses and head off for my ill-fated adventure in Tokyo.

Anyway, with me writhing in horror, the psychic went on to say that home is where the family is (her opinion, not necessarily anyone on the Other Side). While I miss my family, I don't think living in their immediate vicinity is necessary to belong to them. Not to mention it being physically impossible - my mother is in China, my father in Brisbane, my sister in Sydney, my grandparents and aunts sprinkled between Darwin, North Queensland and the Gold Coast.

It got worse. I have to be more needy and ladylike or men won't feel appreciated by me. But I am apparently to end up with an Australian man, something which challenges my entire view of myself -- I'm not sure I can even handle Australian vowels any more, let alone men. What happened to the tall valiant Viking who was supposed to come and rescue me? (If pushed, I would however accept Hugh Jackman as a substitute).

And I am supposedly going to give up work and have at least three kids. For a girl who's had only one long-term relationship and is currently being ignored by Mr Unrequited, this came as something of a shock. Why oh why didn't I stick with the bald guy and Telly Savalas for my supernatural fix?

As I discussed this on the balcony with I. over chocolate cake (which she sweetly baked since she figured I might need it), I suddenly remembered something that will give the EXTRAORDINARY guy a run for his money. When I was about 5, I was running mischievously around a hospital while my poor baby sister was being treated for a bowel problem. I remember pulling back a curtain and seeing a ... 25 year old fair haired guy lying there covered in red stitches after being in a car accident. He smiled at me and so did the doctor. The doctor seemed to think it was cute that I was there to cheer up the accident victim. He seemed like he would survive, but the image was burned in my memory forever. Could he be my spirit guide? Or is he in a pub in Brisbane having a pint of VB in a pair of stubbies* and maseur sandals?

So I'm not sure how I feel. Will my horror at this become a self-fulfilling prophesy? Or should I just take the key elements: there'll be some kind of happy ending but I need to deal with my feelings towards motherhood and culturally confused Australia first. And that I need a man instead of a boy. I'm leaning towards that, unless some noble Viking drags me by the hair onto a Qantas flight bound for Sydney.

*stubbies - Australian for very short shorts.

A year in the life

I don't usually post about work, but just when I was feeling utterly exhausted with the whole thing, the video crew came out with this clip which practically sums up the last year of my life. Check it out, and I beg you, if you have not done so already, sign up as an Ocean Defender (it's free, for all of you on a Christmas budget as tight as mine).

The mysterious Mr Sven

I'm not sure this tale will stand up to retelling, but bear with me - because a sequel is in the making. A long time ago, in a canal system far far away, Birdy and I went out among the bars of Amsterdam. I can't remember why (and knowing us it's entirely possible there was no good reason) but we really did do quite the grand tour. Actually, "grand" is the wrong word.

We went to the tackiest of the tacky (pretty much any bar around Leidseplein, that is). Birdy had just sharply told the leader of a bunch of out-of-towners that the reason we were the most interesting people in the bar (his words, not ours) was because "this wasn't our annual trip to the big city to get drunk" (miaow!), and we were contemplating the fact that this may be the end of the road for our girls' night out, when we met two Swedish guys, Sven and Dan.

The word Sven would induce a fit of giggles every time we said his name... there used to be an ad in Australia for massage sandals. The ad featured a miniature ultra-blonde muscle-bound masseur named, of course, Sven, strapped to the feet of some anonymous legs. "Hel-lo!" Sven would wave, with his dazzling white smile and glowing with Scandinavian health, in the worst possible approximation of a Swedish accent. Sven would then be superceded by a pair of terribly German-looking sandals. (Physical Challenge: I have scoured Google and can't find his photo - special mention to anyone who manages it. UPDATE: Someone anonymous has found him!! Although the ad has been updated, and Sven has an even worse haircut, at least he still says Hel-lo! Check it out. And anonymous, reveal your identity to receive the appropriate attention and glory.)

Anyway, Mr ("So, how about a massage?") Sven and Dan seemed by far the most interesting people at the bar, so we lent them one of our bikes to double on and headed off to another of Amsterdam's entertainment gems. Sven rode my bike, changing it forever ... in a bent-metal kind of way. At one point, in his smart grey suit with his knees around his ears, he asked in his Arnold-Swchawzenegger, strangely mezmerising robotic voice, "How am I doing?" Unfortunately we had to inform him that he had lost his friend Dan about 3 blocks back (before enquiring about the status of our massage.)

After this night, Sven became a strange recurring force in our lives. One day I was recounting this very story to a friend in a Thai restaurant, when the man himself glided Terminator-like past the window (luckily I was with Australians who were all keen to hear whether or not he had worked his magic on my shoulders). Then a few months later, Birdy and I were reading magazines in the huge expanse of Vondelpark, when Birdy instructed me suddenly to put my magazine over my face. "Now, " she said. "Look over your magazine to that next blanket. Is that ..." We were reduced to tears as Sven, seemingly still wearing the smart grey suit (on a Sunday?) with the legs rolled up, came over and offered us a punnet of strawberries. (It reminded me of that android secret agent in Get Smart.. a little too perfect.)

Fast forward a year and a half. Last night I. and I were bored, and trying to think of relatively inexpensive activities for Birdy when she comes to Stockholm. Suddenly, I knew. Luckily, I. has a hidden talent - she's quite the internet stalker (just an hour ago when I was pondering who I had missed a call from on my phone, she asked "Is it a mobile or land line?" Landline. "Fine, we can use reverse look-up on the internet," she said, before looking guilty at revealing yet more of her own secret agent history, and heading for the bathroom). Under her expert guidance, I. and I managed to track down the results of the London marathon, leading to a finance web-page, leading to her secret method of approximating company email addresses until finally this morning I arrived at work to find an email from ... Sven himself. He replied without blinking an eyelid (or so I imagine), and even recalled our previous coneversation from his memory banks.

So...Birdy and I are excitedly now scheduled for a date with destiny - and Dan - next Thursday. I have (cheerily) suggested strawberry cocktails. Birdy (affectionately) suggests we wear grey. Both of us refrained from mentioning massages. We are not sure if he gets it. Yet.

Finally snow...

And the Christmas spirit bestows warmth upon humble Drakenbergsgatan...

Taking the silent out of Silent Night

Facing a lonely weekend with I. away, our new temporary roomie Stina away, and the failure of my ex-boyfriend to show up from Oslo despite having booked and paid for tickets, I was rescued by my friend Karin introducing me to yet another delightful Swedish Christmas tradition. (Disturbingly, most of the traditions so far seem to involve marriage. Have I been cursed because of my failure to put flowers under my pillow and almonds in my pudding? The other morning, I. made me Risgrynsgröt, a Christmas rice porridge - she made it several weeks early though in a valiant attempt to get me out of bed before 7.30am. Traditionally, you hide an almond in the porridge and whoever eats it will be married within a year. Perhaps I should thank her for not hiding an almond in there... unless she did, and ate it. Hmm.)

Anyway, this particular tradition did not involve marriage, but happily did involve glögg. Karin, myself, and three others gathered on the steps of St Johannes Kyrka (St Joseph's Church) to see a beautiful Christmas concert, sung by an all-male choir with a female soprano. I did find it rather strange that there were flags in the church (see the photo taken surreptitiously from behind Karin's head on my mobile) and the choir did look rather military in appearance, but in a benevolent way, like the Salvation Army perhaps.

To fight the cold, Karin had thought ahead, and brought a thermos full of glögg complete with a set of little glasses. "But it's too early for glögg!" exclaimed our Greek friend, Sofia. The Swedes and the Australian (me) looked at her in mock horror. Sofia obediently made up for such a rash comment by drinking two extra glasses, trying hard not to giggle in church as the clink threatened to give us away.

Meanwhile, the temperature has dropped to 0 and we're still "holding our thumbs" for a White Christmas, although the local weatherman has literally said he wouldn't bet any money on it.

It's a little strange not having a significant other at Christmas (not that I shouldn't be used to that). I might go and count the almonds...there's still time for risgrynsgröt after all.

The Secret History

Home alone, tired of the complete absence of sunlight. So I decided to write about a little website that's been a beacon in the dark for me for several years now, and obviously for a few other people as well. No, I'm not referring to my beloved Homestar (but if you want some tips on what NOT to get for Decemberween, you could do worse than StrongBad's home shopping channel. Remember: nothing says "I have no idea what your interests are" than to give a present that ceases to be useful the moment it's opened).

Anyway, there's a little blog a few doors down from this one called PostSecret.com, updated every Sunday. People send in home-made postcards like the one above and share their deepest, darkest secrets - ranging from child abuse to how many staplers they've pinched from the office supply cabinet. In total, the postcards form a pretty fascinating - not to mention addictive - glimpse into the rest of humanity. Have a look. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll look very suspiciously at the person sitting next to you on the bus tomorrow.

Some of the postcards have brought me to tears. And yes, I did send in one myself, although it never got published. ...In fact, I'm hoping I actually sent it and didn't leave it in all its incriminating glory in the stationery cupboard. (Not that I was stealing anything). But it's lost forever now, much like the subject of the secret it contained.

So...happy birthday. Wherever you are.

Might as well face it, you're addicted to glögg

There are few things I love as much about Sweden as the strong sense of tradition. Even if people rather half-heartedly embrace the meaning behind them, they are at least very aware of the appropriate form of alcohol to consume.

At Christmas time, that form of alcohol is definitely glögg. And I have to admit, I'm completely addicted to it. It now replaces tea as my Sunday afternoon defrost beverage, and with almonds and raisins makes a good replacement for Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk ice-cream (and coming from me, that's saying a lot). I suspect that glögg has health properties we have never dreamt of, including mending broken hearts (fingers crossed on that one... or thumbs held, as they say here) and taking the edge off Christmas shopping.

Of course, there are many other beautiful things that I feel I've always missed - putting seven different flowers under your pillow at Midsomers to dream about your future husband (obviously they didn't take into account the amount of snaps you will no doubt have consumed by then, making sleep more like a coma than a dream-filled vision of a rosy future); putting seven candles in your window to celebrate Christmas (currently accelerating climate change as no-one can be bothered with real candles any more and an electric version can be purchased for 5 bucks at the department store) and surströmming (I thought the Dutch had the jump on horrible ways to eat herring, but I think the Swedes take the cake. Recipe: Step 1. put it whole into a barrel for a year. Step 2. Eat. For more on this horrendous food and handy tips on how to apply surströmming in a highschool prank, check out EscapeArtist.com.)

No seriously, there really are some fascinating things including the use of birch branches in saunas, but that's a whole different story. And at least Santa is nice here, and doesn't have an evil racially-stereotyped sidekick who will take you to Spain in a sack if you're bad, like in Holland (I never really understood that, I can't say I'd have minded packing up my bikinis and leaving the grey skies of Amsterdam and heading for Barcelona).

Anyway, back to the glögg. For my Aussie friends, you might either need to wait until July to really enjoy this - or go to the nearest movie cinema as my sister and I used to do whenever it was too hot. (They sure crank up the aircon at Birch Carroll & Coyle.)

Here's what you'll need. You can get a great recipe here, and an even more delicious one for glögg with vanilla ice cream and caramelised almonds here (in Swedish).

1 cup rum,or vodka or 50/50
1 bottle of a full bodied red wine (ex. Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon)
dried figs
75 ml (0.3 cups) sucanat (or sugar cubes)
blanched almonds
raisins

spices
3 cinnamon sticks
1 teaspoon whole cloves
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
2 orange peels
5 whole cardamoms
1 small piece of ginger, chopped
20 raisins

p.s. What's the photo? I hear you ask. While trying to get to grips with my camera, I tried to take a photo to illustrate all those candles in the windows of my neighbours. Unfortunately I over-exposed it, but I still like it. And no, I wasn't trying to portray the view with glögg goggles on (or should that be glöggles??)

A year away from Tokyo

Sorry I've been slack in writing, but it's been a tough couple of weeks. I toyed with calling this post "Nightmare before Christmas" because it really has been. Excuse my lack of writing skills, I am tired after drinking with I. until God knows when last night in a futile attempt to analyse life, the universe and everything.

Good news is, the employment situation is sorted out, and I have the chance to stay in Sweden for another year. So that's one weight off my shoulders. The problem is a new one was added to my heart. Ok well not exactly new...shall we say "refreshed with vigour"... it's hard to believe that a year ago I was in Tokyo with my head in the clouds, slaving over a luke-warm camping stove and unintelligible microwave in an attempt to cook Mr Unrequited a birthday dinner from his home country -- and no doubt failing miserably -- unwittingly about to get my heart absolutely broken.

Unfortunately Mr U and I have failed to build any kind of friendship since, and now it's got to the point where he has decided that we must go our separate ways (as in not even speak) and that he will never change his mind. I wake up every day hoping it was all just a terrible dream (and considering that my dreams lately have featured a childhood friend with double sets of teeth like a shark's, a Christmas tree with not one single present from me underneath it inducing a terrible sense of guilt, and a brown rat chewing on my little toe, it's not entirely an unlikely plotline). Someone once said "Everything changes but nothing is ever truly lost." Frankly, that's a load of crap. Chris Martin said, or rather whined, "When you lose something that you can't replace, I-I-I-I will fix you." Well come on down, Chris!

On a more cheerful note I recently had a visit from my longtime friend JonJon and his lovely girlfriend Joanna (who has since kept me well stocked with care parcels of Vegemite, some "diva red" lipstick - with instructions to 'do as it says on the tin' and a copy of "He's Just Not That Into You," which unfortunately I was all too aware of when the book arrived.) Jonathan, Joanna and I went with I. to a party hosted by Sailor Kalle. The party required men to go as sailors (original isn't he?) and girls to go as Heidi. Unable to face a barmaid-style outfit, I decided to go as Heidi the Sailor (resulting in me getting a tattoo in permanent marker on my back saying HMAS HEIDI, which I had a hard time explaining to my hairdresser several days later). We found Jonathan a hilarious pair of "Fat Controller" pants, and I. fetchingly went as "the girl in every port". Joanna became unofficial photographer for the evening and tried to get a shot of every guest winking at the camera, politely asking "Blinka tack!" in Swedish to each. Despite the fact that after a few cocktails her request came out more like "BLINK ATTACK!", she managed to get an impressive collection.

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 ...

What Scarlett Johansson and I have in common

Being sick is not so bad, it has allowed me to watch a horrendous amount of trash tv. And through that medium I have learnt that I have more in common with Scarlett Johansson than I thought. Apart from being quite short (she's 5' 4", I'm 5' 5.5") and having had our hearts broken in the Park Hyatt that is.

No, Scarlett and I share a similar obsession, one that has garnered us (well, me anyway) ridicule and disbelief. We both love Spongebob Squarepants. There, I've said it. And I don't just love Spongebob himself. I have a softspot for the evil Plankton. I can justify all this intellectually by saying that the creator is a marine biologist and the show therefore helps to educate children (and, ahem, some adults) about the complexity of marine ecosystems. (But I don't really need to do that since I also love the Powerpuff Girls and used to have quite a crush on Professor Plutonium.)

So Scarlett if you're reading this, I understand. I'll meet you for a Suntory and Krabby Patty anytime!

Sick

There will be no photos for this post. Believe me, you don't want one. Flattie (hitherto referred to as "I." to protect her privacy) and I are sitting in our luxurious new apartment which we have finally moved into. We have also finally removed the glittery pink curtain from the lavender coloured little girls' room I. is attempting to introduce some sophistication into. We had to ditch the bunk beds we were sleeping in and succumb to the hell of IKEA to buy some proper beds in an attempt to feel older than 12. (A rite of passage I think, building IKEA furniture with real Swedes! And believe me, the pieces don't fit together properly for them either).

But alas, for the last three days, we have done nothing. Struck down by a terrible autumnal illness, food has become the highlight of our day.

So far we have gone through a pasta bake, a large pot of goulash, several packets of hot chocolate, 4 fruit smoothies, a burrito, 4 mini Haagen Dasz icecream tubs (Belgian Chocolate, Cookies n Cream, Strawberry Shortcake and Toffee Cream), about a gallon of chai tea, half a loaf's worth of toast and cheese, as well as devouring 3 magazines, about 10 episodes each of Friends and The Simpsons, and an accumlated 23 hours worth of utter trash TV (we were shocked that Kate Moss is only No. 6 on the list of the world's top 10 supermodels - I mean, what is the world coming to?). I. has also developed obsessive-compulsive cleaning disorder (which, while it's annoying her, is quite good in the long run considering the amount of mess our food consumption is generating).

Of course meanwhile I've managed to dabble in a little work to save the world (please please tell Iceland to stop commercial whaling, for goodness sake). I think it's safe to say though that for the next few days, the world will have to turn by itself. Besides, if I get better tomorrow, how will I know who Gisele Bundchen is dating now?

Killer Coconuts

11am

I find it quite amusing that I came here to avoid being in the Baltic Sea on a ship (for work), and now am in pretty much the same weather, if not worse. I suppose at least I avoided the sea-sickness. Hurricane Florence is only a Category 1, but that has confined us to our houses. The power went out at 5am, so I am feeling pretty greasy with the combination of no shower (the water runs on an electric pump) and no airconditioning. Not to mention decidedly curly-haired. We can't even go outside for a walk due to the threats of falling coconuts (no, really, I'm serious) and renegade mailboxes, garage roofs, power lines and palm fronds.

We are reduced to listening to a small battery-operated radio in the candlelight, with perhaps the most annoying radio announcer of all time. Her chirpy updates from her cosy studio is driving Lisa to tears, interspersed with "news" consisting largely of call-ins from local businesses telling us how resilient they are, and a hell of a lot of advertising from companies making incontinence accessories for the elderly. 24,000 of us are without power on the island - nearly 80% of homes. There isn't much information coming out from the power company, who are no doubt hiding in their generator-powered houses. Bermuda has overground electricity, which isn't that smart considering the relatively frequent hurricanes.

Turns out Simon was right with his dry comment last night "Oh it's really dull now. Unless the roof blows off, it's going to be really boring".

One minor excitement is the stupid photos that Lisa and I took yesterday are apparently on the BBC website (see pic 8, taken by yours truly albeit in a slightly staged way ... I wanted a picture of a large black Bermudian woman wearing a showercap but missed her!) Going for yet another nap ... more soon.

1.30pm

They said it would get better, but it hasn't. No not the hurricane , the radio announcer. We are now suffering through Calypso music hosted by a languid West Indian. As the station tries to phone the Weather Bureau (completely hanging up sometimes or getting call-waiting interruptions) we decide to take yet another nap...

3pm

After a day spent trying to amuse ourselves by eating too many pretzels, drinking Dark 'n Stormys, sleeping, and finally resorting to watching a few episodes of South Park on the laptop before the battery ran out, we have survived! The power is back on, we are all madly emailing friends and family, checking out Lisa's photos and contemplating the luxury of actually leaving the house. But darkness looms on the horizon - there is a brand new Tropical Storm "7" approaching, due to hit Thursday. I am wondering if I'll EVER get a tan, let alone be allowed to leave.

Live from Hurricane Florence

So much for lying on a beach sipping rum cocktails ... I am currently shuttered and bolted into my friend Lisa's house, as Hurricane Florence approaches (although, as I said to Lisa, last night Bermuda had been practically blown away according to CNN, while the Bermuda weather site was predicting things might get "a bit breezy"). Typing this as fast as possible since the power is due to go out in 40 minutes, so apologies if the writing is not quite up to standard...

I managed to make it in on the last British Airways flight from London to Bermuda, unfortunately sans camera. Since I'm obviously a terrorist, I was not allowed to bring my precious Nikon D-70 on board since that would have been a second piece of hand luggage. (At least I was allowed the small mercy of a lipstick, which unglamourous travellers to the USA were not allowed to take).

The question is, when the hurricane hits, what exactly do we do? After a patient day of swimming despite warnings (including close encounters with jellyfish which after the sad death of Steve Irwin distburbed me immensely) I am fearing a day of cardgames or worse, Lord of the Rings: The Boardgame. Considering I fell asleep in the third Lord of the Rings film, this does not bode well. (Take that Eoin, who called me a geek).

Ok, we are now attempting to use the last of our power to project DVDs on the wall and get our last doses of email, Homestarrunner.com and the lost art of literature. And the washing up. And the toilet - it will apparently not flush tomorrow and will require us to take a bucket of water from the bath (conveniently pre-filled) in order to maintain the household hygiene.

Oh god... here we go!

More when Belco, the Bermudian Electricity Company, bestows power back upon us...