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 Sven would then be superceded by a pair of terribly German-looking sandals.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...

Rocky VIII

Actually, it could be Rocky IX, I lost track of them after about Rocky III. Anyway the point of the story is - I've decided to start kickboxing. I figure it might clear my head a bit, not to mention make me feel a bit safer walking past the dodgy men's hotel down the road at night.

This wasn't an entirely voluntary decision however, my colleague practically forced me to go last Friday night. I hesitated all day but after a slightly counter-productive pre-session cigarette I decided to just go for it. At first, it was painfully obvious I was the new girl. Apart from being punier than everyone else, I was pretty much the only one not adorned in professional looking kickboxing trousers (which I have to say are far less flattering than yoga pants so I wasn't too disappointed to have my humble H&M trackydaks*). The kickboxing attire seems to require big, slightly shiny black pants and oversized black tshirts. I think I'll have to work on that.

Over the next hour I was kicked, punched, wrestled to the ground, forced to undergo a torturous series of pushups and weird tantric-style exercises which left my colleague and I either rolling on the floor in laughter or contorted into some weird acrobatic position. And I loved it! I came out feeling like I had actually achieved something, despite the fact my kicking technique leaves a lot to be desired and probably couldn't even deter one of the little street punks that skate outside the club.

But the best thing about this particular kickboxing club? One of the trainers owns a bar...right around the corner. So after class we all trooped off to the pub, looking disdainfully at the karate guys who had the room after us. (The story goes that we will be the fattest kickboxing club in town, thereby removing the need for the big kick-pads and using nothing more than the sheer force of beer bellies instead). It was so nice to be instantly accepted into the fold rather than scorned for being, frankly, quite hopeless.

Meanwhile I've been doing some hard thinking and I've decided on the advice of my wonderful friend S back in the Dam that I need to make some concrete plans to turn my life around. She also suggested a shrink, but since my previous three experiences with shrinks have involved a large American woman whose sole attempt at advice was quoting Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus at me as she served me particularly un-comforting herbal tea with powdered milk in it (I spent every session trying to decipher the university at the bottom of the certificate on her wall, I swear it had to be one of those "Study from Home" courses they advertise in TV Guides), a nicer American guy who really just listened and didn't actually give me any advice, and lastly a well-meaning young woman who earnestly told me that I should stop choosing unavailable men and do a study course instead. Hmm. So hundreds of dollars later I might be an aspiring masters student with a self-help book collection but that's about it.

I think I'll stick with the kickboxing.


*trackydaks - noun - Australian for tracksuit pants, usually particularly daggy* in nature
* daggy - adjective - Australian for "resembling the clothing of a loser", originally from dag*
*dag - noun - apparently a sheep-farming term for the poo that clings to the wool around a sheep's butt

For a minute there I lost myself

Well it's another day another kronor, and like most days recently I've felt like I'm in a cage. But I'm trying to tell myself to give myself a break.

Even though I've moved around the world before (twice, actually), I had forgotten one important thing, that favourite quote of mine: "Wherever you go, there you are". But I also had forgotten an even more important thing, who exactly "you" was.

They say if you start over in a new place you can start a new life. This may be true for ex-fugitives, people with a stash of passports in a lock box (I only have two, so my collection isn't very useful) or washed up child actors (that's only according to E! News, that bastion of Birdy and my world view), but I haven't found it to be true. The same mistakes will be made, the same heartaches will follow you, the same regrets to keep you awake at night if you aren't lucky enough to have a friend in the US who can ship sleeping tablets easily purchased over the counter at Walmart.

In my case, my painful Lost in Translation experience of last year has been following me. But I suddenly remembered that even though perhaps Mr Unrequited or various others don't think I'm 'wonderful' or 'beautiful' anymore, it doesn't mean I've changed - they have. And maybe, just maybe, they made the mistake, not me. Maybe in 20 years time they will wonder how different things could have been. Funnily enough, I remembered this while jogging, something I haven't done much since I was 19 and a damn sight skinnier than I am now (not to mention less alcoholic and Scandinavian in my smoking habits), so needless to say I wasn't exactly powering along. Jogging is the new meditation, I swear. I had the iPod cranked up on old Powderfinger songs from home, and lead singer Mr Fanning saideth unto me "I'll just keep kicking at the cracks.. until it all falls in on me...don't panic, don't panic". Suddenly I remembered the old days in Brisvegas, when I used to jog along the main road in Red Hill (with a Discman in those pre-ipod days), past the house of a previous Mr Unrequited who had also suddenly lost interest in me (sources say he is now married, living in Melbourne and apparently dresses like a homeboy from LA, but that is all unconfirmed). I realised I have kicked at the cracks before, I've done all of this before and goddamit, I survived - although whether or not I'm stronger because of it is debatable. And right now, and I say this to anyone who has just moved away - from a place or a person - maybe surviving is all you can do. Even though I don't want to go home, it does remind me at least of the fact I've been down harder roads than this one, or at least, they seemed so at the time. Especially that road in Red Hill. Now you'd hope that I had got somewhere in the last 8 years, but it's hard to see sometimes. Maybe writing it down will help.

Meanwhile I have at least achieved the milestone of my first Swedish crayfish party, although I'm sure that usually you don't have to dress up in 1970s disco attire to participate. It was a pretty surreal experience, ripping the tails off crayfish while singing snaps songs (and, obviously, drinking the snaps!) We were even treated to disco instructional videos from Finland (for those non Scandinavians, I gather that Finland is looked upon as the "Tasmania" of Scandinavia). I have dug one up for your viewing pleasure.

Despite everything, I still haven't mastered the art of budgeting, shopping wisely or eating properly, or falling in love with people who aren't in love with me, but maybe that just means I'm still me. And if it's just me and Mr Fanning on this road, so be it.

Madness - anal and otherwise

Back from the madness of Amsterdam. And it truly is a surreal place, even when doing quite ordinary things and not perusing the latest wares in the Red Light District (or on porn channel number #459, but more about that later).

First surreal moment-to-remember was at that most crucially ritualistic of social events, the wedding. This wedding was particularly interesting because it represented nothing less than a clash of civilisations - Dutch and English. You probably think I'm being dramatic, but let me tell you, they have very different ways of celebrating nuptials. Actually, the Dutch have different ways of celebrating everything for one very significant reason: they never, ever dress up. For this wedding, the bride (who is English) had gone to the trouble of setting up an entire website devoted to the intracies of an English wedding (this was not to be a harmonious blending of tradition, more a delicately rose-scented form of cultural imperalism). The website included an entire section on dress code. To protect the guilty (who will be shamed below) I won't include the link but here's an extract:

"The Bride will be wearing white, or off white (she is pure, but not that pure) so it would be plain rude for any other Female Guest to turn up in White or off White. Likewise Black is a big no no. Sorry, but [bride] likes to think this is a 'Wedding' not a 'Funeral' (Well it is for [the groom]). Anything else in-between is fine. It will be a smart occasion so wear a dress or smart clothes where no black or white can be seen. No Jeans and casual clothes."

I have to admit that I was a bit rebellious and wore a black and white dress - but I did get prior approval from the bride, and had my makeup professionally done (not that you can tell in the photos, I look awful, and so none will be posted here). The photo above is an example we were provided with, although thankfully no-one recreated that particular outfit. Maybe they should have - one of the Dutch guests actually turned up in sneaker boots, and others in white suits the type a divorcee might reasonably wear at their second wedding. Even the bridal party seemed rather nonplussed about their "penguin suits", as I heard one of them utter. Normally I wouldn't be so indignant about fashion, most of my own wardrobe coming from the racks of H&M, but I had spent a fortune on my own dress and makeup and was wishing I was allowed to waltz in wearing nothing but tracksuit pants and an old Bonds singlet instead of downing glasses of red wine to dull the pain of my very high heels. Ok, I never actually wear tracksuits, but you get the point. I don't know what it is about weddings, they always sound like such a lovely idea but seem to require a marathon runner's stamina to survive, especially if you are single and being touted round to potential partners ("you know what they say about weddings", etc etc). It was quite a relief to go home to my beloved friend whom we shall call Birdy, and explore the cornucopia that the cable channels offered us.

Unfortunately, being Amsterdam, this wasn't just any old cable. After 8 hungover hours being brainwashed by E! television on Saturday, we were quite shocked to discover the availability of porn just two channels up the dial next to Eurosport 1 (conveniently located one click away for guilty husbands, I bet). The porn however was so bad it was good, many an entertaining hour could be had glued to "Anal Madness" or "Gusher Girls". Admittedly we decided to cook burritos and margaritas and watch the entire second series of LOST instead. (Ok, so we just had wine, not having the ingredients or in fact any knowledge of the ingredients of margaritas, apart from vague notions about tequila). I don't know which could drive you mad faster - E's "Starlicious Plastic Surgery Makeovers" or margaritas.

Whatever it was, something blew a fuse in my head and last night saw the resurgence of my madness when I decided to have far too many beers with Mr Unrequited. (Well how could my love life be such a car crash without these recurring acts of stupidity?) I am attempting to patch up our friendship, and friendship is all it is, but it's going to be a superhuman battle against myself. (My boss always says I really should patent the movie rights. This script is even going to challenge the heart-wrenching acting talents of ... Tom Hanks. Now that's a bad movie!) But seriously it is a problem I have, holding on to these people who I value so much but have to let go in order to meet another one. I guess it's hard to go back when you've crossed an emotional line.

And, in one last ditch attempt at madness (or maybe to drown its effects in self-destructive behaviour), despite last night's beers I'm off to once again drown my sorrows ....but this time on a good girlfriend's balcony.

Leeches and London

Britain, Britain, Britain, as they say on my favourite black comedy. Land of "nobbly oaty biscuits", late night curries, Hugh Grant, tepid tea and cucumber sandwiches. I love London, it always feels so good to be here. It reminds me of my first tentative steps into Europe armed only with a bad haircut (which of course lives on in my passport) and a credit card. Jon Jon once said that London still has a buzz about it that he will never tire of (despite his decidedly bourgeois penchant for the South of France), and I feel the same. Funnily I always seem to end up here when I'm in some kind of transition. Last time I was here, before my ill-fated attempt to move home to Oz, it was just after the 7/7 terrorist attacks and everyone was a little jumpy to say the least. A friend reported that Covent Garden tube station was closed for several hours because someone left an apparently very dangerous sandwich on a park bench. I remember catching a bus to Notting Hill in a desperate bid to escape Oxford Street as the police sirens started going off (again), only to discover later to my horror that the terrorists actually lived In Notting Hill. So much for Hugh Grant and tepid tea then.

A lot of Australians end up here - just the other night I was sitting in an Italian restaurant, drinking some horrible red wine and waiting for my beloved friend Kendall. Suddenly I realised that the familiarity of those at the next table was not because they were speaking English (a novelty for me in itself) but because they were speaking Australian English. And not just Australian English, but that pure breed of it called strine. Not only were they speaking Strine, but they were speaking about a most Australian subject - leeches. Leeches and ticks. "Leeches got up me gaiters," an old man with large 1980s square spectacles and a flannel shirt was saying. "And when they do that you have to put a little bit of salt on 'em," (at this peering at his completely disinterested teenage grandsons over his glasses with a nod to the ultimate wisdom of this statement.) "Some people use fire, but that just makes them shrivel up," he continued, as I looked at the plump, increasingly parasite-like mushrooms in my pasta with a little less appetite. This conversation then extended to ticks, cows and various other dinner conversation topics related to farm-bound afflictions. I couldn't help looking on the old couple and their grandsons with absolute affection. It was the most boring conversation I had ever heard, but I am sure that beneath his flannel shirt the old guy had a heart of gold, even if I wouldn't trust him to be able to apply his admirable leech-defying survival skills in the concrete jungle of a London tube station.

Top therapeutic things to do in London usually include looking in quirky museums for shrunken heads with my friend Ben (guarantees a second glance from the caretakers when we politely enquire if this museum has a shrunken head department and if not, why not?); eating at Pret-a-Manger three times a day and needless to say being careful not to leave the potentially deadly sandwiches at tube stations; getting a horrendously overpriced pedicure at Selfridge's for the cost of which I could probably afford a 3 week holiday with Jon Jon in the south of France; or reducing my credit card to a lump of melted plastic. I'm hoping that once again London will be the precursor to some kind of turning point in my life.

I haven't posted for a few days because I've been struggling with the black dog that Winston Churchill apparently used to call his depression. (At least my black dog is relatively well behaved, unlike the hound I saw on the BBC this morning which apparently has chewed up Elvis Presley's teddy bear. Good old BBC, reporting the hard hitting news and all before breakfast). Meanwhile I'm at the office which in London is particularly charming being surrounded by squirrels, a fish pond and a huge rambling garden, and in this case also blessed by nobbly oaty biscuits and cucumber sandwiches.

On the up side Uma and I have managed to secure an apartment although I will be homeless until possibly as late as October. This means that my kind temporary flatmate is reduced to sleeping on the camping bed in much closer proximity to the pigeons living on the balcony, who seem to be in heat and keep us awake with their horrible mating calls. (This prompted said flatmate to threaten mating with the pigeons himself yesterday morning, if it would shut them up. I hope I managed to talk him out of that one, but I can't say for sure).

Meanwhile heading off to Amsterdam, not my most favourite of European cities and on not my most favourite of airlines - I have to warn you now that may prompt a rant about the inflight "service". Cheerio for now London, with or without leeches. I'll have a cup of powdered, weak KLM tea on my way to Amsterdam for you.

Hotel Team Sweden

I don't know why but I feel so bad for strewing my crap all over poor Mustang Guy's apartment, which is where I am camping out in the quest for a house. I feel like I'm trashing a hotel room, but without the requisite rockstar mini-bar and swimming pool to throw the TV into. To enjoy the lovely balcony view you now have to climb over two suitcases, two garbage bags and numerous moving boxes (which incidentally is the sum total of all my possessions). Of course that didn't stop me from lazing out there yesterday evening with a trashy magazine (voluminous skirts are in this season, girls) and half a bottle of Wolf Blass Chardonnay.

My new friend and potential flatmate (whom we shall call Uma since she is so beautiful and Swedish-looking despite her rather comforting penchant for Burger King) and I may have found an apartment though, we find out on Monday. We are "holding our thumbs" as they say here (no don't ask, I cannot for the life of me work out where that saying comes from).

Meanwhile I camp out among the boxes and read messages from my friends in faraway places. Really, their lives are far more interesting than mine right now and I'm considering abandoning this whole blog and writing about them instead - Adventurous H is working in Millionaire Marina somewhere in Canada with the likes of Bill Clinton. She just had to go and "drive an inflatable to get the shopping." Eco Hero is in "the ass end of Mexico filming horses die. Had to say grace over a plate of deep fried sheeps balls in george w's favourite restaurant last week before eating them" he reports. So all in all the boxes aren't so bad - Eco Hero is a vegetarian for starters.

Anyway, it's pouring outside (I tried to capture the strange light in the photo but probably failed since it was taken on my phone) and this lonely little petunia has nowhere to go - everyone is on summer holidays- and I can't get home until it stops. I'm stuck in the office. Which, by the way, was recommended as a place to live by a certain staff member here. Now I'm sorry, I already spend quite enough time here without bunking down between the fax and the coffee machine thank you very much. Not to mention being woken up at 5am by overzealous volunteers or worse some kind of clandestine office affair. Imagine it... I'll just hang my wardrobe over here by the finance statements and the spare linen can go in the server room - perfect, it'll be warm and dry in no time!

But while being homeless was kind of unsettling at first (and thanks to Mustang Guy at least I have Hotel Team Sweden, Team Australia is certainly indebted) but it's also kind of freeing. Uma and I are looking forward to (read: obsessing about) finding something great - it just sure as hell won't be in the photocopy room.

I thought I was muffin

I am writing this from my Team Sweden safehouse, and I'm not sure whether it is a nice silence or a lonely silence or just too much damn ice-cream in one day. Someone's music is drifting up from the street, and it's kind of nostalgic. I really, really hope it's not Phil Collins.

I've made my escape from Maniac Mansion and now I'm hoping that things will fall into place the way they usually do, eventually, when crises happen. Although Team Sweden (in the extended sense) has provided exemplary service in helping me settle in and feel loved, there is still a big hole in my life and my bank account. I really thought by the time I was 27 I would have sorted this out. I think the biggest problem which becomes insurmountable on days like today is the fact that you have to face the brutal truth about muffins, and how, no matter how much you wish you were one, there will always be another.

Let me explain the muffin phenomenon.

My friend who I have affectionately termed Canada Boy told me how he used to call people "muffin" as a joke. As in, "Oh don't worry muffin, it's all going to be ok, let me buy you an icecream". One day his ex-girlfriend got very upset when she heard him calling another girl "muffin". "But I thought I was muffin!" the girlfriend said. Big mistake. "No-one is muffin, there is no muffin, in fact I don't actually call people 'muffin'," he protested. Evidently, she didn't believe him, and in what may or may not have been a related incident they broke up soon after. I guess you just can't go back after that kind of betrayal.

Today I had that feeling. There are far too many muffins, and hey, I thought I was muffin. By the way that's another horrible thing about unrequited love - you quickly discover you are not muffin and worse... that other muffin is quite attractive. And since when is SHE muffin? And what's wrong with me, aren't I good enough to be muffin? And on and on ad nauseum. The muffin phenomenon has the added side-effect of giving you the urge to do stupid things to reclaim your muffin-ness, like spilling your heart by text message (I think this is a very unwise idea, but so horribly tempting. Perhaps I should extend my "no alcohol and computers" and "don't drink and dial" rule to "no texting past 8pm". Hell, let's be on the safe side and evolve that to an all-inclusive policy of "no electronic communications while under the influence of alcohol, PMS or extraordinary lunar activity").

Anyway after my lonely nostalgic day I sent Canada Boy a message saying "I got that 'hey, but I thought I was muffin!' feeling today."

His response? "Aww, muffin".

Nightswimming

I suppose it sounds kind of romantic, swimming naked at midnight across the lake in Stockholm with the police helicopter lights glinting off the water. Or actually, just plain uncomfortable.

It all started when a friend who shall remain anonymous decided he wanted to swim home, despite the existence of a perfectly good bridge. Concerned for his safety, my other friend decided to swim with him and then come back (he shall become quite a signficant character in this blog, being my unrequited love, and whom we shall call The Little Dutchman despite the fact he is neither Dutch nor little). Anyway I decided I would be on "safety watch" citing partly my primary school lifesaving certificate but mostly my Australian-ness. At the time it was irrelevant that even if these two factors were a reflection of any kind of lifesaving ability, I had drunk an awful amount of wine in the previous 3 hours.

The boys set off for the other side of the lake (Dutchman making cat noises as he went to assure me he was ok, which were echoed in a surreal moment by passing Swedes at the nearby bar). I decided to go for a discrete little dip while they were away. I abandoned my clothes and slipped in, just as a noisy police helicopter started strafing the water with spotlights from above. It never occurred to me that we weren't supposed to be swimming there. In fact it made it all seem a little bit more dramatic, like a scene from King Kong or something.

As I clambered out of the water, naked as the day I was born, I heard a voice above me. "Sorry, I speak English," I said in my standard response to anything anyone says to me, finding myself surprisingly not very embarrassed about my utter nakedness. "Those police, they are looking for someone who has escaped across the water. Is it you?" I don't know how they expected me to answer if it was me, but now the nakedness was signficant - in the God-fearing heads of these good souls, I had just become an escaped mental patient swimming for her life from Stockholm to Sydney. "Um... we um... just thought we'd go for a swim," I said faintly, cringing as more cat noises promptly echoed across the water. "I'm on... Safety Watch..." I clutched my bottle of Heineken tighter as I said this and wrapped myself in a towel, trying to curl up like a graceful version of the Little Mermaid but no doubt failing miserably.

After staring at me suspiciously (at least I hope it was suspiciously) the police informers left. For one minute I wondered if a police car would arrive to drag Dutchman and I naked to a police cell, so managed to put on at least half of my underwear in a vain attempt at dignity. As Dutchman arrived and "dried off in the sun" (and don't be under any illusions, there was NO midnight sun to be seen at this point, only the intermittent romantic glow of police spotlights) I threw a towel over him and we made our escape, me bedraggled and with mascara running down my face like ... an escaped mental patient swimming for her life from Stockholm to Sydney.

The night grew even more surreal as Dutchman was convinced by our mutual friend known as Papa Pelle to make sure that this was the night I escaped from the clutches of my slightly-deranged flatmate. As we wandered through the graveyard near my house I became a little incensed that Dutchman had previously shown absolutely no concern that I might be murdered in my sleep by the crazy chef with a collection of expensive meat-cleavers.

Papa is the head of a delegation of my friends which I affectionately call Team Sweden. They are the ones who will drop everything to save you - including but not limited to: comforting phone calls when you are confronted with a strange woman's underwear in an ex-boyfriend's apartment, lending you a bed while you are hiding out from psycho flatmates, and possibly bailing you out of a police cell when you have been mis-diagnosed as a mental patient.

Team Sweden's international security service was a little strained last night. I guess this is understandable since it was 2am and Dutchman continually failed to recognise the life-threatening situation I was so obviously in. Reluctantly the Dutchman conceded that I could "possibly maybe be in danger" with a "5% chance" of me being murdered that evening, and marched me to a Team Sweden safehouse. He left me at the door, with memories of nightswimming, the potential for a horrendous hangover, and an overwhelming wish that I really meant something to him.

Photo credit: The photo is not mine but is borrowed from the wonderful Sally Mann, since I was in no fit state to be handling a camera.

Random acts of co-habitation

I think I'm getting old. I no longer appreciate the sound of salsa music at 3am, or when my flatmate consumes the entire bottle of Bombay Sapphire (my precious!) that was a present from my mum, or when I find random hungover people snoring on the couch every morning - or worse still in my bed (usually, mercifully, when I'm not also in it). Oh hang on a minute - I never liked those things.

I have no idea how but that's how my household has ended up recently. Ironically it's been inflicted on me by an older guy with two kids, a profile that naive little me always associated with responsiblity, reliability, self-sacrifice and other qualities that would be quite nice in a flatmate. Admittedly he works in a restaurant that is "Cuban by day, Italian by night", a culinary concept I have yet to get my head around, and has contributed nothing to the hygiene department of the house except a can of shaving cream (which has since been claimed by my colleague and therefore isnt't even a legitimate contribution).

Random co-habitation is one of the pitfalls of being young(ish), single and moving haphazardly to the opposite side of the world. I have always felt that it's very unjust - there are charities to assist other unfortunate victims of our social stereotypes - why not a foundation for the victims of enforced shared housing? When you think about it, it's the basis of society for those of us unlucky enough to still be students or Microserfs at this age.

Up until now though I have to say I've been exceptionally lucky - my former flatmate just happened to be a kind soul who wasn't averse to cleaning toilets or pulling hair out of the shower drain. But alas, you really don't know what you've got til it's gone, and it's certainly gone when I have bought my 16th roll of toilet paper and washed my 475th risotto-encrusted saucepan.

Unfortunately the city I live in is by all accounts hard enough to find a shared flat in let alone one for myself. I considered sleeping under my desk in the office - not too far a stretch from where I usually spend my sad lonely evenings anyway - but decided that I was a few empty gin bottles (possibly consumed by me this time) and dishwashing sessions away from that yet. Maybe.

Sweden in a 1974 Mustang

At the risk of starting this blog with an overly 'sex and the city' vibe (I'm not a fan although a certain friend of mine likes to point out my Carrie-like tendencies), this was the advice my beloved friend JonJon just gave in an exaggerated (and fake) American accent... "Ma'am... just step away from the vehicle". What vehicle? In this case, my love life (or lack thereof) which in fact does resemble a car crash, albeit one of those ones you just can't help staring at no matter how sure you are that you are going to see something horrifying which will scar you forever.

At first glance, this particular car crash doesn't have much to do with the four-lane pile-up which is blocking traffic from all directions behind it. But on closer inspection, this terrible accident (aka all those other niggly aspects of life such as stable job, functioning home, a credit card where the numbers are still visible, a killer wardrobe - those things which make you feel you have reached a modicum of adulthood) is exactly why my love life has run into a rather large brick wall.

But on the up side, at last I am in Scandinavia, a place that has fascinated me for a while. I have lived in Holland (and suffered at the hands of their terrible supermarkets, utter disregard for customer service and blatantly inferior national airline but that is another cheese-encrusted story), had a brief stint in sunny Sydney and a few sidetrips to Tokyo and Seoul, but at last I am in Stockholm careering down that 20-something highway to .... hell? Not sure yet.

Speaking of cars, my friend just bought a 1974 Mustang. I told him I hope he outlasts the car. I guess that's exactly what life is like right now - an old Mustang, kind of nice but rough around the edges and oh please don't look too closely under the hood because you might just notice something you didn't want to but it sure would explain that rattling noise. Anyway, enough with the mechanical metaphors, welcome to my new life in Sweden....