Swedish Girl In London

On The Road Again

2006-03-15T16:05:00.000Z

I really thought that this time would be different. It was a nice delusion while it lasted.

I’m talking about making travel arrangements, which for me always seems to end up in a mad-cap race against time to locate passports, or to convince the travel agency to courier the tickets straight to check-in, since I have forgot to pick them up as I should have, or to egg on some poor taxi-driver as we rush between the airport I thought I was departing from and the one from which I am actually doing that.

But this time! This time, I had somehow convinced myself, I would be the sort of traveller who keeps her passport in a posh leather-case and sashays around with a very small amount of matching luggage. I imagined this traveller (me) to smile graciously at the staff at baggage control and then settle down to enjoy a pre-ordered martini in first class.

Well.

It’s now Wednesday, and I just realised that I’m going to Brussels on Friday but have not yet bought my Eurostar ticket. I won’t have time to do it tomorrow Thursday, which leaves us – once again – the day of departure.

So if any of you good people are commuting on the Jubilee Line to Waterloo on Friday, and spot a small, belligerent-looking creature dragging around an overnight bag on its one functioning wheel, while swearing at old ladies and women with buggies – well, what are you waiting for?

Just help me up the stairs, will ya?

Life Goes On

2006-03-14T17:35:00.000Z

Greenwich is pretty!

Guess what? Losing my wallet – and the Café Nero loyalty card that was in it – might have been the best thing that could happen to my morning routine, coffee-wise.

If we look at the bright side of delinquency, which of course we should, this has loosened the mental grip Corporation Caffeine had over me. I was starting to develop Stockholm Syndrome there for a while, loving the chains that bound me to their lattes.

As a matter of fact, the girl in my local Nero is a real sweetheart, but I’ll have to blank that fact out for argument’s sake.

Anyway, this week I’ve gone all experimental when it comes to coffee! Yay, it’s, like, wild! (No, I don’t get out much, actually. Why do you ask?)

I’ve been hanging out in the up-market George Delicatessen in Greenwich, for instance, which is all gleaming black marble and French patisserie. The waitress even brings your espresso to your table – yup, espresso, because this isn’t the sort of place where you can get away with your normal Swedish bucket of Java.

And they would probably never descend to anything as naff at loyalty cards.

Chasing Windmills

2006-03-13T19:59:00.000Z

Isn’t the whole Dan Brown court case preposterous?

Statistics suggest that you have already heard of Dan Brown and his Graal hotchpotch “The da Vinci Code”. Apparently, its conspiracy theory plot is lifted from a historical book called “Holy Blood, Holy Grail” – and the writers of this tome are not happy bunnies.

Instead of lifting a celebratory goblet at being linked to the biggest money-spinner in publishing, they have taken Brown to court for plagiarism.

Doesn’t this seem like a bizarre move, quite apart from the fact that the da Vinci mania must have led to a sales boost for “Holy Blood”? I mean, can you really claim copy-right over academic findings? And is historical research meant to be undertaken to make money?

Nah, they must have got the wrong end of the stick. It is fiction that is protected by plagiarism laws, and by suing Brown, the writers admit that their book is shelved in the wrong section of the book store. The next court case is probably not far away, where the “Holy Blood” people are accused of falsely marketing fiction as fact.

Just look at the trouble James Frey got himself into by writing a searing “memoir” of his struggle with addiction and getting endorsement from Oprah Winfrey’s book club. It all turned out to be gobbledegook, apparently. I don’t know the particulars… maybe James turned out to be temperate light-weight who would only sniff the brandy cork after dinner? In that case, it would prove my theory that people lie to make themselves look bad, not good, and that schools shouldn’t be half as worried as they are about all those questionnaires with youngsters bragging about their drug habits and sex lives.

Everybody loves a rebel, after all.

Now I’m off to sue J.K. Rowling for plagiarising my everyday life. I mean, people constantly missing trains in London – coincidence? I think not.

Crying Over Spillt Latte

2006-03-12T14:57:00.000Z

Now, people, if you were by any chance contemplating leaving your wallet lying on a table in a proper East End boozer for oh, about five hours, while you yourself are not on the premises - well, don't.

Strange as it may sound, but when you dispatch a workmate via a frantic phone call to run back and retrieve it, it will not be there anymore.

Swedish Girl: Being stupid, so you don't have to!

Do you know the worst thing about losing your wallet?

Having your credit cards in the hands of happy-slapping delinquents, did you say? Losing pictures of your first dog/first baby/favourite tractor/pet iguana?

Wrong, wrong, wrong. It is losing your Cafe Nero loyalty card when you are just one stamp away from a free latte.

That latte has been alluringly dangled in front of me and then cruelly snatched away. The happy-slapping delinquent is probably dipping into it right now, the wee monkey. Maybe he even got a free biscotti, what do I know?

I'm Just Living For The Weekend

2006-03-11T12:13:00.000Z

What is it about parties and the kitchen? I mean, have you ever gone to a party where everybody didn't congregate, sooner or later, around a table full of snacks debris in the kitchen?

Dancing awkwardly around the living room to the sounds of The Best80s Album... Ever! definitely has its own charm - don't get me wrong - but in the end, the pull of the refridgerator gets us all.

I think the only time I have been to a party and not wound up in the kitchen was when I couldn't actually find it. Pingu had taken me along to some impossibly big, impossibly cool converted warehouse in the bowels of London - all video installations and concrete floors, which frankly is a bit nineties, now isn't it?

But to each her own minimalism.

Yesterday's party was definitely more of the kitchen-congregating variety, and so much the better for it. I consumed:

One tub of guacamole
Five varieties of chips
Salty sticks - very 70s retro
Tiny chicken skewers

- all the while listening to an extremely slim and beautiful girl talking about how extremely fat and ugly she was.

"You're extremely slim and beautiful," I said, shoving the a fist of chips down my throat (I might be paraphrasing slightly).

Now it's time for a cooked breakfast. See you bloggers and blogettes later!

Now I Am Miserable

2006-03-10T12:00:00.000Z

Do you remember how I was supposed to meet up with a French conversation exchange a while back?

Well, I did meet him, although I haven’t blogged about it. It was just too traumatic at the time. Now, finally, the wounds have healed, and I am ready to share.

The way conversation exchanges normally work: You put up an ad on some expat website, get loads of replies and then meet up with a couple of people for coffee and a nice chat in Serb. Or whatever language you want to practice.

It is all rather easy-going, so I was a bit taken aback when this particular Conversation Française turned up sporting a serious demeanour and five (5) books on French and Swedish grammar.

He immediately began coaching me in French irregular verbs, spurting out phrases like “split infinitive” and “past perfect subjunctive”, which are hardly even words to my ears – more like strange sounds emitted by highly intelligent extra-terrestrial life-forms.

(And I did languages at Uni. It’s a disgrace.)

A fresh shock was then administered by Conversation Francaise, who out of the blue proposed that I should also learn Arabic, his second language.

“It’s not difficult,” he said with what I fear was more optimism than a fair assessment of the situation.
“It sounds like a lovely idea,” I found myself answering (pourquoi? Politeness? Madness?).

An interminable period of time then elapsed, during which Conversation Française drilled me and I monitored, with wild desperation, the level of coffee in his cup.

Q: How can a person possibly drink so slowly?
A: It is perfectly possible when every sip is preceeded by unfathomably long grammatical excursion.

When, at last, it seemed that CF had drained his double venti, I decided to make a run for it.

“How nice to have met you… I must run… No, no, really, I couldn’t borrow your book… No, really.”

(Because if I did, I would have to meet you again to give it back to you, and frankly, I can’t see that happening.)

On the way home, it struck me: This man knows where my e-mail lives.

Once More, With Feeling

2006-03-09T11:52:00.000Z

Is it just me, or does recording your voicemail bring out the paranoid diva in all of us?

First you require a couple of practice sessions. For instance, you remember somebody telling you once that you should speak from your stomach, and you make a feeble attempt in this direction. The result? Your voice takes on a slight Jabba The Hut quality. After two or three efforts, you give up.

If you are a foreigner, you then start tweaking your accent. In normal life, you have long since given up on trying to sound like a native and embraced your Scandinavian lilt. On the phone, however, you for some reason want to sound like Kirsty Wark.

Now come the actual recording sessions. If this is done in a busy office environment, with work mates cackling at you in the back ground, the process will be protracted.

“You sound like a Muppet,” someone might tell you gleefully.
“Why don’t you add rock on at the end,” someone else will suggest, alluding to an unfortunate episode in the past when you used this phrase (purely by mistake).
“Eff off,” you will mutter sulkily. This last comment will probably end up being the one that you (also by mistake) leave as your outgoing message

Good luck, people, and remember to speak after the beep.

They Call It Retail Therapy

2006-03-08T17:06:00.000Z

I was standing in the fitting room in Topshop by Charing Cross, with a 60 KWh current running through my hair after trying on a couple of highly synthetic party tops. A blue little wrap dress had completely out-foxed me by this stage. Was I supposed to tie that string around here and… no, that didn’t work… maybe it should go like this… but were you supposed to bare one breast like that in the fashion of an Amazonian archer?

I miss my sister a great deal most of the time, but never more than then. (That might not be strictly true, but go with me on this one, OK?)

Don’t get me wrong, now. I enjoy roaming like a lone wolf down the London high street, and I like it even better when I’ve got girlfriends around. Aurora, La Senorita and I have made many last-minute raids on H&M in Long Acre Street to complement our office outfits with something cheap & glittery before heading out on town – which I realise sounds very naff and Cosmo of us, but hey!

(My favourite defence against any criticism, by the way. I feel any accusation can be deflected by a bright “but hey!”. It’s got the right combination of resignation and cheer.)

Still, nothing beats shopping with my sister. She has seen me squeeze into golden flares in Poland (but still loves me) and helped me hide skirts in the scarf section of Zara in Brussels. She is the person who surgically removed me from a little silk dress in Strasbourg, and the only other living human being who not only understands, but actually says things like: “I want it if it makes me look like I do in that mirror, but not if it makes me look like I do in this mirror.”

She would have wrapped me up in that baffling Topshop dress in a jiffy, spun me around like a ballerina in a tin box and ordered me to buy it.

“I really miss my sister”, I thought as I stepped out of the fitting room to check my reflection at a distance, left breast modestly covered at last.

Beside me, a Bambi-eyed girl was pirouetting around in those city-shorts that make long-legged people look sexy and tomboyish, and the rest of us like we should sling an axe across our shoulder and set off for the mine, singing “hey ho, hey ho, it’s off to work we go”. You know, those ones.

She glanced at me, smiled and said: “That looks really good. You should buy that one.”

Suddenly everything seemed much brighter.

“Oh, do you really think so?”
“Definitely.”

Guys, you can keep the camaraderie of the football stands. We girls have the sisterhood of the fitting room.

Les Miserables? Nous?

2006-03-08T10:56:00.000Z

I never really get the common complaint that people look miserable on the tube.

As far as I can tell, people don’t actually look that miserable. They don't weep, tear out their hair or chew off their own hands. They don't sing arias about death or manifest other traditional signs of misery.

They just aren’t smiling, that’s all.

But so what? I mean, do people sit beaming on other modes of transport? Do they grin inanely while flying? Have jolly sing-alongs to “You Are The Sunshine Of My Life” during the school run?

Well, frankly, if the answer to the last question is yes, you must be a character off Cheaper By The Dozen.

So there! We commuters aren't miserable, we are just resting our facial muscles. Now bugger off.

Taxi!

2006-02-27T17:11:00.000Z

Your average night-on-the-razz in London? It is a pretty hallucinatory trek through some parallel universe, sound-tracked by outlandish music and barely contained hostility. Now, I’m not talking about any old Magic Mushroom-ride through the city’s groove emporia. I am talking mini-cab, yeah?

Last week, it seemed like I was forever tumbling out of various tapas-bars and wannabe cocktail lounges, in what we will call an “effervescent mood”. (After all, it is my blog and I can call it what I like.)

The subsequent taxi journeys all took on an otherworldly dimension of their own.

They started off in wild optimism, as I gave the taxi-driver my address, although deep down I knew that he would never have heard of it, or indeed any of the landmarks within a five-mile radius of it.

Once the ball-park geographic location of choice had been established (East London), the driver would get a far-off look in his eye, like I had just suggested a barefoot pilgrimage to some distant shrine in the Burmese jungle, possibly involving navigation by star-light.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” hesitated Friday’s driver, who didn’t like reggae – he loved it.
“Ah, come on,” I goaded effervescently*. “It’s just around the corner!”

We then departed on a long journey. At first, there was a certain sense of complicity between Reggae Lover and myself. We were travellers, going we knew not where, we knew not how, and that made us a unit. But as the metre kept ticking and we got nowhere nearer our destination, cracks were beginning to show in our relationship.

To my credit, I wasn’t just sitting there. I helped Reggae Lover out by peering out of the window and making suggestions like “you could take off to the left here, if only the Thames weren’t there”.

At times, brief glimpses of the top of our building would sail up like a fata morgana, and I would joyfully shout out: “Just drive straight on now!” Reggae Lover greeted these moments with suspicion, and was proved right when different road-works pushed us off our course again.

When at last we, by some unexpected turn, arrived at my door, the embers of our friendship were not so much dying as lying on lit-de-parade. I made a joke about him never finding his way back, but we both knew that it was just for show.

“Drive straight on, my arse”, he muttered as I closed the door.
“I don’t like reggae - I hate it,” I muttered as I closed the door.

*Yes, I’m sticking to my guns on the effervescent issue.

Bonjour Tristesse?

2006-02-23T18:12:00.000Z

When you meet English-speakers, they are invariably very nice about your pidgin version of their language.

“Oh,” they say benevolently, “you Scandinavians always speak perfect English.”

Of course, the next thing you tell them is: “Thinks you, I has lives here for much years” in the accent of Swedish Chef off the Muppet Show, but they pretend not to notice and there is peace on earth.

The French don’t do anything of the sort. If you happen to slip in an incorrect subjunctive, they will tell you so in no uncertain terms. After all, France is the country where you have to take classes called Civilisation Française if you are a barbarian ERASMUS student.

(A balding little monsieur drilled us in the fine art of greeting people correctly and made us recite poems by heart like Sunday school children.)

On Sunday, I’m meeting up with a French conversation exchange to get back into le groove. I’m frightened already.

Queuing

2006-02-22T10:36:00.000Z

We are in a corner shop on Poplar High Street. A gnarled little man is stationed by the magazine rack. He peers out of an enormous hoodie, occasionally emitting high-pitch little noises of joy for no apparent reason. Behind the counter, an old veiled lady surveys him indulgently.

"Hello," I say.

But he is shy and retreats further into his hoodie.

I'm looking for Q Magazine, but it is nowhere to be found among the airbrushed smiles of the glossies. Further along the rack the glamour girls jut their breasts out at me like the front of a Finland ferry.

"Do you have Q?" I ask the lady behind the counter.
"If you have to queue, my dear?" she asks. "No, he's not buying anything."
"Sorry, I mean if you have Q Magazine?"

Instead of answering, she emerges from behind the counter in slow majesty and sails up to me.

"I can't see it," I say apologetically.

The old lady grabs a copy of GQ - a magazine for gentlemen who like soft-focus girlies and cars - and hands it graciously to me.

"No, no," I try. "That's GQ... I meant Q..."
"Q", she says reasonably and points to this letter in the title.

The hoodie man giggles. The lady smiles.

"Well," I try to explain, "Q is a music magazine...", but something in her enigmatic smile makes me tail off. "Oh, all right then. Thanks," I say and leave with my own airbrushed bikini version of Jennifer Aniston.

After all, for a seventy-year old lady a starkers Jennifer Aniston can't be that different from a starkers Christina Aguilera - or a Chili Pepper, for that matter.

I Love It When They Talk Science

2006-02-20T11:10:00.000Z

Tell me what you listen to, and I’ll tell you who you are.

Someone’s taste in music is a good clue to their personality, according to scientist from University of Texas. Now, this is a bit disconcerting. I have spent my twenties trying to move on from the Mixed Tape fascism of my teens and instead embrace the idea that what’s in your CD stand is not as important as what’s in your heart.

A sample of the scientific findings:

People who like Dolly Parton are outgoing yee-haw types;

while metal-heads are shy, retiring people.

Well, I could have told you that! Those monosyllabic metallers back in high-school were never the most extrovert of people, in any case.

Still, I’m not all convinced that these Texan scientists have got it right. After all, when I went into popstat.com to figure out my music taste, it told me that I liked Dido.

Well, I nevah!

Does this mean I should hail my White Flag and assume a new persona of compilation CDs, sunbeds and Me-Time in the bath (my probably very unfair stereotype of a Dido fan)?

No, no, surely not! I, much like the posh popstrel herself, will go down with this ship, emitting sad little bubbles all the way to the bottom.

Behind The Bike Shed

2006-02-17T16:35:00.000Z

And so the UK, this bastion of individual freedom, is finally turning to ashes and dust – at least if you believe the pro-smoking lobby. On Wednesday, Parliament voted to ban smoking in all public places, and not only in those serving food (alarmingly, crisps and pea-nuts have not been classified as food – what do they know that we don’t?).

Now pro-smoking groups are huffing and puffing about the nanny state and everybody’s right to choose.

In the Independent, a spokesman for pro-smoking group Forest is wheezing that the health lobby is not unbiased, although he doesn’t say what sinister agenda underpins its support for the smoking ban. (A desire to see us live longer, perhaps? Or an evil wish to sell more flu medicine, as poor smokers will now have to huddle outside in the pelting rain, much like breeding Penguins?)

Then there was the Guardian journalist who conspiratorially told a waitress in Nero – one of the few smoking coffee chains in London – how happy he was to be able to light up, only to be told that she couldn’t wait for a ban. “But I smoke in solidarity with the working classes”, was his defense, reminding me of Tony Blair drinking tea out of a mug to connect with the Common Man. After all, I’m prepared to bet that the waitress was the lower-paid one out of the two.

Somehow, this righteousness just doesn’t seem to suit smokers.

I mean – health lobby agendas? Class wars? It is not on these serious fields that the battle of smoking is won.

Come on, people, do you not remember why you started in the first place? It wasn’t to demonstrate your high-flying ideals. It was to rebel. That’s how it started, behind the bike shed, as you sulkily sucked your first Marlboro Light, possibly experimenting with different ways of wielding it: were you a thumb-and-index finger kinda guy, like James Dean? Or an elegant Marlene Dietrish?

So, smokers of London, stump out that stance of offended idealism and get back to your roots – on street corners, gutters, or even behind the bike shed. It is what rebels do.

Bloody Valentine

2006-02-14T12:19:00.000Z

“You can run, you can hide, but you can’t escape my love”, Spanish crooner Enrique Iglesias warned us a couple of years back, sounding like the sort of very persistent gentleman who would probably end up wrapping his reluctant beloved in a bin-liner.

And much in the same way, you can run, you can hide, but you can’t escape Valentine’s Day.

Last weekend I held forth at length about the preposterousness of Valentines, if I remember correctly. For instance, I think I protested against the sudden prevalence of rotund teddies. Rotund teddies were everywhere! Inspiring us all to rotund teddy lurrve! This was not my idea of romance.

“If you are of an age to buy fat teddies, then you shouldn’t be dating boys”, I believe were my exact words.

Doc retaliated by saying that Hallmark poems made him want to hurl a rotund teddy across the room and roar like a wildebeest. I added, bitterly, that flowers at work were just plain showy.

Next we tucked into the week’s fourth take-away and watched bizarre winter sports on TV.

This morning, I felt extremely distressed at discovering not one single card, or even a rotund teddy, by my bed-side, although I fear that this reaction might be unreasonable.*

*Particularly as Doc is not even here, but has gone to watch speed skating in Turin.

Auld Acquaintance

2006-02-12T15:56:00.000Z

What is it about meeting up with old friends that puts your life in such sharp relief?

A round of panicky last minute e-mailing had gathered a troupe of my best uni friends in a chrome-gleaming restaurant one quite undecently cold January night in Madrid (I feel cheated. Spain is supposed to warm).

"You look exactly the same!" Tiny Dancer told me. In a way, this is of course reassuring. It means that at least my face hasn't hardened into a leathered mask, a la Brigitte Bardot after all those days frolicking sans sun screen in St Tropez.

In another way, it is ever so slightly depressing. Does this mean I have the same eager-beaver demenour displayed in all those over-exposed party shots that I keep in fond rememberance of the baccanalia of youth? I'm all home-made haircut and misguided earrings in those photos, and look like I just arrived to the big city from a childhood planting potatoes back at the farm.

Somehow I hoped that a-little-bit-jaded-but-sexy-with-it persona would have developed over the years. After all, I am twenty eight now.

But no such luck.

"Have you shrunk?" another puzzled friend asked me.
"No, don't be silly," I retorted in my best schol-marm fashion, although I was privately alarmed. (Surely not? And I was wearing wedge heals.)

By the end of the night, Cute Freak pensively said: "You never used to get drunk off one gin and tonic."
"Oh, I'm not drunk," I told her teary-eyed. "Have I told you that you are my bestest friend?"
"Taxi!" Cute Freak said.

So that's it. I'm as goofy as ever, only shorter and more easily intoxicated.

Oh - had my friends changed, did you ask? Ach, don't be silly. They were exactly the same.

Plane Scary

2006-02-09T14:42:00.000Z

Whenever I’m going to fly somewhere, it somehow slips my mind that I’m… well, going to fly somewhere. Blame it on the hustle and bustle of your average low-fare voyage, but the fact that I will soon tuck into a Hobbit-sized sandwich filled with an insulation-like substance labelled mock-zarella, all the while hovering 3000 feet above the ground, doesn’t really hit home.

Instead, all my energy is concentrated on trying to determine which of the check-in queues is going to move faster. This is by no means an exact science and involves many unpredictable variables:

1. How efficient does the teenager behind the counter look? Jolly, plump girls are normally to be avoided – they actually take the time to talk to people and delay the check-in process by precious seconds. Honestly, the cheek of them!

No, what you need is the sour little trolley dolly who looks like he is sucking a lime and limits his chat to snapping “did you pack your bags yourself no sharp items in your hand luggage great now eff off” without pausing for breath. That’s more like it.

Note: However, if you are the sort of person who thinks it is necessary to change outfits five times a day during holidays, just to show off a years’ worth of desperate retail therapy – all focussed on one meagre week in the sun – then maybe you should sacrifice the time consideration and opt for the plump girl.

(I have heard rumours that these people exist, though of course I have never met one. Now, can I have a building crane to get this bag off the conveyor belt?)

2. What sort of luggage do your fellow queuers have? This is an important variable. See, one queue might appear shorter, but you will soon discover that the woman who wants to check in her cello, or the enthusiastic golfer brandishing a new set of clubs, are there to slow down proceedings.

3. Does the queue consist mostly of lonely mum-types? Beware, people, beware. These ladies might look solitary right now, but they are actually recon soldiers for a troop of sugared-up infants, sulky teenagers and baffled dads, who will join them at the last instant and add inexplicably large and complicated pieces of luggage.

It will make you scream silently (or aloud) in frustration.

With all this in mind, it is hardly surprising that the mechanics of flying never occur to me until I have actually stepped onto the plane. Actually, it isn’t until I am stripped into my seat (worrying that I must be fatter than the last passenger because of the ridiculously tight seat belt) that I get it.

“Oh, now I remember,” I always think. “I am afraid of flying.”

But by then the engines are revving and we are ready for take-off. Luckily, on my last trip to Madrid – which prompted this whole posting – I was soothed by the recorded Spanish voice telling me not to smoke in the loo. Spanish voices have that effect on me.

It almost made me forget to laugh bitterly at the warning to take care when opening the overhead locker, because things might fall down and hurt you – because that’s what we should worry about when hurtling through the atmosphere in a fragile aluminium shell: tax-free chocolate bouncing down on our heads.

Maybe It's Because I'm (Not) A Londoner

2006-02-08T20:17:00.000Z

“Do you know what,” I told Aurora pensively the other day, “I think I’m becoming a real Londoner.”

Aurora spurted out a dainty little Martini shower in response. (Aurora is tiny and everything she does somehow seems fragrant and cute.)

“What are you talking about, Sauna girl?” she managed to get out between giggles.
“Well,” I said, slightly affronted, “I feel really at home in London now. I’m as one with the tube. I know that trendy organic-eating people live in Notting Hill. I know that it’s not supposed to be pronounces Le-cester Square. You know – I just feel at home.”
But Aurora wasn’t buying it.
“You’re still not a Londoner.”
“Why not?”
“Because you like London.”
“Well, I suppose I do.”
“No Londoners like London.”

And I think she has got a point there. Aurora herself is that elusive breed – that strange & exotic beast we glimpse briefly in the asphalt jungle: a born and bred Londoner.

“I think everything is grey and people are really unfriendly and houses are really expensive,” she said. “But you think you’ll ride on a Routemaster all day long…”
“…while London Calling is playing in the background…”, I supplied.
“…and a cockney chimney-sweeper will ask you to dance…”, Aurora finished.

So there you go.

Maybe it’s because I’m not a Londoner, but I love London town.

Trust Me, I'm A Doctor

2006-02-07T20:13:00.000Z

My boyfriend Doc thinks he know everything.

He claims to have unearthed the Chaos Theory by the age of five, for example. By the time he was fourteen, he had developed a sure-fire way to prove if there was life on Mars (it has something to do with the DNA spiral, I think, or maybe that was the cure for cancer. Sometimes I glaze over).

Of course he was too busy snogging girls, drinking beer and smoking oregano through his teens to actually do anything about these scientific discoveries.

Yesterday, I felt that the time had for him come to prove himself in the Ultimate Test of Intelligence.

"Baby, could you record that time-cop show for me tonight? I'm meeting Le Francais, so I won't be home before nine."
"I don't think I will, either ---" (here, I'm editing out a long description of the slightly annoying habits of his aristocratic boss, prone to demanding new reports just when people have switched off their computers and are finally homeward-bound).
"Can't you time it?"
"Can't you?"
"No, of course not."
"Really, you should learn. Call yourself a feminist."
"OK, I will learn, but could you do it today?"
"Er..."

I stopped in my tracks.

"You don't know how to do it either!"
"Well..."
"You can't time the DVD!"
"In theory, I know how to do it..."
"And you said you know everything!"
"I do! Everything apart from that."
"Nope. Now I've lost all my respect for you. I don't trust your omniscience anymore."

But after a couple of minutes I relented.

"Nevermind that you know nothing. I love you."
"I know."

Aurrgggh.

The Right Stuff

2006-01-19T19:47:00.000Z

Believe it or not, but I have never trained to be an austronaut, so I don’t know what stringent tests they put you through to judge your psychological mettle. Maybe you have to calculate the square root of 7656, as you hang upside down in a hangar while a NASA guy blow-dries your face – what do I know?

Or maybe, if they are smart, they make you cook in front of an audience. If you can deal with that, you can surely deal with bits of your spaceshuttle falling off mid-orbit and other nuisances.

I can’t even make a bowl of cornflakes if people are watching me, but I seemed to forget this fact when Pingu was over for dinner yesterday.

“Just sit down and have a cup of tea while I’m cooking,” I said benevolently.
“Are you sure?”
”Of course, sweetie! Only, you can’t have tea because I realize that we have run out. What about a friendly-bacteria Yakult instead?”
“Oh. Thanks.”

It only took me five minutes to go all wild-eyed, manically rushing about the kitchen waving an oven-mitt at some in promptu fire and claiming that “everything was under control” in a strangely shrill voice.

“What are you making?” Pingu enquired politely.
“Tortilla Espanola. Now we just have to turn the pan over… bugger! Oh, nevermind, we can scrape it off the stove. Everything is under control!”
“Sure you don’t want some help?” Pingu asked.
“No, no, you sit yourself down now.”
“Oh. All right.”
“Another Yakult?”

[Oh well. I never wanted to go into space anyway.]

Rule Britannia!

2006-01-17T17:07:00.000Z

Gordon Brown, the UK’s brooding Chancellor of the Exchequer and PM-in-waiting, is calling for Remembrance Day to be turned into British Day.

After all, the French has had their 14th of July parades of village mayors and fire brigades for donkeys now, not to speak of 4th of July, when Americans have picnics on red chequered tablecloths and protect the world from extra-terrestrials.

No wonder that the UK wants to get in on the National Day bonanza.

However, as a Swede, I know how awkward these things can get. We have a National Day in Sweden too, believe it or not, but nobody seems to be really sure what to do with it. Once, a bunch of young, misguidedly posh friends of mine tried to mark the occasion with a picnic on the Swedish flag, but this was quickly ended by the school janitor. Apparently munching herring and potato crisps on the emblem of the nation is a form of lese-majeste.

So – as I am very fond of the UK – I have decided to come to the country’s aid with an inspiring list of Five Things To Do On British Day:

1 Walk about, Britishly, without your coat. This is a very important part of British Day, and the reason why it has been placed in rainy November instead of July. You are British. You are not a whimpy frog or Yank.

2. Cast a befuddled glance into the garden of your enthusiastic, foreign neighbours, who have raised the Union Jack above the garage. Remark that this does not seem like a particularly British Thing To Do.

3. But benevolently accept that it takes all sorts to make an Empire go round.

4. Go for a chicken tikka masala and a Carlsberg down the Taj Mahal Restaurant.

5. Tolerate strange lists from clueless foreigners on Things To Do On British Day.

Pluck That

2006-01-15T16:25:00.000Z

It's just one of those things, I suppose.

One minute you are in the pub, quietly nursing a Swedish-Party induced hangover with the Sunday papers and football blaring out from the TV screens. Then, the next you are called upon to be indignated in the name of all womankind.

The turning point: The new Observer supplement "Woman". Now, this sort of section of the paper always make me suspicious. It seems to be full of articles about autistic babies and potted plants and other things that I, as a woman, apparently should take an interest in.

Not that it's the poor editors' fault if they miss the mark. After all, what could possibly be so generic that it interest all women?

This question seemed to have troubled the team behind "Woman" as well. In the end, they settled for - wait for it - depilation. A picture of a furry leg perched over a stiletto, with the Sun-esque head-line Plucking Hell adverted me to this fact.

"Oh please," I said angrily to Doc. "Why on Earth should I want to read an article about depilation? It's like reading about brushing your teeth."
"Huh," Doc contributed.
"And it's January!" I pointed out (I mean, this is not really depilation high season. I bet quite a few of even my most fragrant sisters are going a bit chewbacca underneath their skinny jeans at the moment.)
"Heh", Doc said, still looking at the screen.
"Well, pluck that," I said and folded the paper with a lot of miffed rustling. "I'm going shopping."

This caught Doc's attention.

"You want to go shopping on a Sunday in January? When you've got a hangover?"
"Sure. If something makes me look half OK now, it will make me look stunning when I'm feeling better."
"Women."

Wake Up And Smell The Coffee

2006-01-13T17:29:00.000Z

Starbucks must be top bean among London coffee shops – at least if you go by the sheer number of outlets the Venti One has rolled out over the capital. On Fleet Street alone, where I used to live, the green logo appears at one-minute intervals all the way to St Paul’s. If you were an eager Reclaim The Streets little rioter, you would have had to lug around an awful lot of bricks.

That’s not to say other Bucks-style chains are not also vying for our caffeine-stained fivers. First you’ve got Nero, which prides itself on being more European and sophisticated than the extra-candy-shot-and-whipped-cream Disneyism of Starbucks – well, at least you can smoke and the coffees are not quite as large as a McDonalds soda. Then there’s the cheery Costa, and my favourite, the French-looking Apostrophe (possibly about as French as my aunt Ulla, but they have pink balloons, people!), and of course Eat, Pret, Brio...

Now a new contender has entered the arena, apparently. Yup, London’s publicans have a bean to grind. It seems that this incessant latte-sipping is taking our business away from the brass-gleaming counters, and the pubs are hitting back with dirt-cheap coffee. A cuppa for a 50p coin, folks! (Which is incidentally also the size of the hole burnt through my stomach by the last cup of coffee I bought in a pub, but that’s another story.)

Nero’s response? “In a pub, you won’t get Italian coffee made by a barista with three years training”, an earnest spokewoman says (I quote from memory). Hang on – three years? So the sweet teenager in my local Nero must have started foaming milk at the tender age of fourteen? Surely that can’t be right.

On another note, I suppose it’s a bit worrying that pubs have to do this at all. If increased general coffee-drinking is eating into their profits, does that mean that pre-Starbucks, people went in for a morning pint?

Did I Mention Barcelona?

2006-01-13T11:22:00.000Z

Although conferences are usually about as colourful as a bottle of complimentary Evian mineral water, I am getting all excited about going to the one in Barcelona. Somehow, I imagine that gritty glamour of Las Ramblas will lend a shine even to the air-conditioned, name-tagged No Man’s Land that is corporate networking.

Besides, I’m there as a reporter this time, and we all know that those have a Superman-given right to be cute-but-gutsy Lois Lane types, instead of having to approach flocks of suits, business card clasped in sweaty little palm and an uncertain smile sliding all over the place.

Not that I have anything against suits. Doc is a typical suit, for instance, and looks rather dapper with it, too. But I can’t for the life of me feel like one of them. It’s the bellowing laughter that trips me up – my meek larynxes are unable to produce the right Santa Claus-ish hoo hoo – and if you can’t bellow laugh, you won’t last long among the suits. My giggles would immediately mark me out as a beta member of the flock.

To be perfectly honest, assuming a cute-but-gutsy Lois Lane persona might also be a bit beyond me, but in the end, who cares?

I mean, did you not hear where I’m going? Barcelona!

Thinking Outside The Inbox

2006-01-12T19:52:00.000Z

Stumbling into the office this morning with a cough that sounded like a sergeant major drilling cadets inside an oil barrel, I was met by two very different e-mails:

1. The Scary E-mail
"It's time you went to the dentist", a close family member informed me. (Oh, all right then, it was my mother, if you have to know.) She knows a bit of tough love is needed when it comes to me & the person wielding the drill.

I never used to be scared of the dentist. I associated it with fluffy things like bookmarks of angels resting on clouds. But then I got my first cavity.

"We should probably drill a little bit", my dentist told me, a hitherto mild-mannered lady and dispenser of said bookmarks.
"Oh, all right," I trilled in my innocence.
"It's only a small cavity, so I suppose you'll be fine withouth anaesthetics?" (Observe the leading question.)
"Will it hurt?" I asked stupidly.
"Oh no," she said, forgetting to add "not if you compare it to natural childbirth or forceful conversion to Christianity in Medieval Spain".
"Go on, then."

About 30 seconds later, I was re-thinking this position. "Play dead" was obviously a popular survival technique in extreme situations (coming across a grizzly bear or similar). Maybe I should adopt it? After all, if I had passed away, I wouldn't need dental care anymore and she would stop drilling.

Next time I go, I'll demand to be injected with heroin between my toes before I even get into the chair.

2. The Exciting E-mail
"The reporter going to the Barcelona conference is Swedish Girl," an e-mail from my editor informed me.

Barcelona!

Who Is Piglet?

2006-01-11T14:51:00.000Z

Ghostly whispers of days gone by have come back to haunt me, immortalised in some belligerent scribblings in a note-pad I just found.

The thing is, I lost my voice for a whole week back in April, and had to communicate with the world (i.e. Doc) via pen & paper. It feels very old-school in a world of text-messaging, doesn’t it? You’d expect me to get out my quill and compose some sonnets, wouldn’t you?

Or maybe not.

Anyway, it was a bit disconcerting to come face to face with my own conversation like that. I seem to be a grumpy little creature.

What about this tirade, for instance: “I’ve been organising, ironing, hoovering, cooking, unpacking basically all day – and all you can do is badmouth Piglet!”

First of all, this doesn’t sound like me at all.

Cooking? Yes, I can picture that, at a push, if you use the term quite broadly and include tapping your foot while waiting for the micro-wave to go pling. Organising? You mean chuckling over print-outs of ancient e-mails for five hours and then squeeze everything else into an IKEA box? Sure.

But hoovering? Or even more preposterously – ironing?

Most importantly, though – who on Earth is Piglet and why did Doc badmouth him?

To Party Is To Die A Little

2006-01-09T13:22:00.000Z

Doc has come up with a new idea for the house-warming: A Swedish theme.

This weekend, he even dragged me around those depressing shops where they sell party paraphernalia like whistles, banners, fake breasts and balloons (back in my Amish days, the last two would be interchangeable, but times move on, I suppose). Call me crazy, but this makes me think more of a community dance down the bingo hall instead of Venetian carnival debauchery.

The point of the exercise: To find a blonde Agnetha-from-ABBA wig for me, to disguise the fact that I’m a non-blonde Swede.

“Why can’t I be Frida?” I asked. “She was a brunette.”
“Frida wasn’t as nice as Agnetha,” Doc said and plonked a static-inducing silvery-blond thing over my eyes.
“It looks awful,” I concluded after a quick investigation in the mirror. “There is a reason why I wasn’t born blonde, and it’s because it makes me look like I passed away three days ago.”
But Doc wasn't listening. “Did I tell you about the first time I saw Agnetha on TV when I was six?” he asked dreamily.
“Besides, this wig doesn’t even look real.”
“Of course it doesn’t look real,” Doc said impatiently “What did you expect? That some poor street urchin would have sold her golden locks to pay for Christmas dinner for her family?”

Then Doc went on to buy a wig called Candy for himself (also blonde with a fringe, though only shoulder-length).

“I’m going to be Björn Borg,” he said contentedly.
“And wear disturbingly tight little shorts?” I asked.
“And sweatbands!”

I know what’s coming next. Doc will make me go to IKEA.

To party really is to die a little.

Hommous Souks

2006-01-06T14:58:00.000Z

I’m sorry to continue my real-estate obsession (what is all that about?), but today it’s precisely a year since we moved into our flat. During these 365 days, I have…

1) ... located the nearest chocolate machine, which is ironically enough placed in the downstairs gym. Only after enduring a walk of shame in front of taut, tanned, hawk-eyed gym instructors are you allowed your Kit Kat break. I fear Ben is disappointed with me.

2)... done something worrying to the marble floor in the bathroom. It now looks more Trainspotting than Savoy. Oh well, you can’t really expect a plebeian like myself to know what to do with marble floors.

3)... had at least four near-death experiences involving red wine and the white suede dining chairs. Again: plebeian me + white unwashable surfaces = disaster vibes of Titanic proportions.

In other words, it’s time to have a house-warming party.

“Why did we not have one before?” I asked Doc.
“Because whenever we have parties you go nuts and make hommous and want to buy little china bowls to put the hommous in,” Doc explained reasonably.
“That was only once,” I said, “and besides, people liked the hommous.”
“They liked it at four o’clock at night on New Years’ Eve. You could have served them elk dung and they would have liked it.”

This (his own hilarious joke) triggered some train of association in Doc’s mind, leading to a comparison between hommous and elk dung, which I will spare you.

Anyway, the party will go ahead this time, although there seems to be some discrepancy between my ideas for it and Doc’s. Two large boxes of beer have appeared on the balcony and a large Scottish flag is draped over the computer, for example – probably to keep the tone as far away from hommous in little china bowls as possible.

“Maybe we could have little fairy-lights everywhere and put lots of cushions on the floor and make it into a souk,” I suggested yesterday, pretending not to notice this outburst of Caledonian pride.

“You're obsessed with souks and weird finger food,” Doc said. “People want beer. That’s what’s going to make them happy.”
“Of course they can have beer,” I said. “People drink beer in souks.”
“No, they don’t. They drink tea.”
“We can have a water-pipe.”
“Oh God.”

Life In The Undergrowth

2006-01-05T12:22:00.000Z

I seem to have sunk into the day-glo world of DVD box-sets. Expecting your quirky jokes to end with a boiinngg! sound effect must be a sign of watching too much Scrubs, for instance.
*

But that’s the insidiousness of TV. We are all slaves to mother HBO (or auntie BBC), aren’t we?

After all, who could blame you for wanting a Central Perk life, instead of your average London network of friends who all have to traverse great distances on public transport to meet up in a crowded pub, where they won’t even find a seat – never mind a sofa – and have to stand elbowing each other by the glass collection area?

Or maybe you’d rather West Wing it, although that means that you are not allowed to talk to people unless you are busily walking down a corridor. This can be a bit tricky in the average workspace. I don’t think it would take me more than four seconds to walk over to the water cooler, passing the photo-copier and the Reuters wire at mid-point. That definitely would not give me enough time to regale my interlocutor at great speed with intricate facts about the state of the world, rounding it all off with an urbane quip.

Lord Of The Rings Syndrome also offers some logistical problems. Telling people that you are desperately searching for a ring can make guys eye you with suspicion.

In the end, I think I will have to go with the Patron Saint of BBC-ness, David Attenborough. All they ever do in his series is eat, sleep, mate. It sounds like a restful, uncomplicated lifestyle that should guide me through the scary 4D world out there.

Mi Casa Es Su Casa (Dos)

2005-12-21T20:08:00.000Z

While Aurora has become a house-owner, Football Boy is looking for a flatmate to share his extremely expensive stamp-sized pad in Knightsbridge. (Yes, Knightsbridge! Hence the stamp size.)

He is keeping me up-to-date via increasingly despondent emails. The whole process seems to be greatly complicated by the fact that the flatmate should be...

A. tidy
B. solvent
C. sane.

Interviews with hopefuls are being held at present, where Football Boy is weeding out the worst cases of untidiness, insolvency and insanity. The whole thing reminds me of a world cup qualifying group, with a host of unintelligible rules and variations of outcomes. I told him so by way of amusing observation, but was reprimanded that this flatmates was no laughing matter, and I suppose that he is right.

[I just have to think of the scrawny, frizzy-haired French woman we used to live with in Strasbourg, who accused my sister of hiding men under her bed (why?) and stole her underwear (again: why?). Her renditions of Mistingu-E-tte still haunt me.]

“I just want a beautiful millionaire’s daughter who loves washing dishes and watching sports,” Football Boy writes sadly. “Is that so hard to find?”

Mi Casa Es Su Casa

2005-12-20T19:53:00.000Z

Aurora has officially become a grown-up – she has bought her first flat! (I feel an exclamation mark is justified.) It’s in North London and it isn’t ex-local authority, despite her estate agent’s best efforts.

In the time-honoured role of admiring friend, I was there yesterday to inspect it and drink a bottle of wine.

“I’m buying furniture after Christmas,” Aurora said and produced an upside down wine box as a chair. ”I’m only little, so I can probably get some cheap stuff at The Early Learning Centre. You know, something plastic in funkadelic colours.”

We both agreed that that would be a clever post-modern tribute to retro 60s design.

The discovery that the previous owner had left his cactus collection in the bedroom disconcerted Aurora, though. She surveyed them morosely and whispered to me: “Don’t say it aloud, but they’re going to die soon.”

“Cactus thingamajigs never die,” I told her, which I knew for a fact ever since I did my best to finish off an ugly old tumour-looking one of Doc’s. It seemed to thrive on my neglect, and was just as happy when I tried to drown it in water. Aurora wasn’t convinced, however.

“I always kill plants,” she muttered.

"They even deliver to the door."

Then we corked open the wine and started making plans for the interior design that Louis XIV would have found a tad extravagant. Aurora waved around with the wine-glass to show where everything would go – “those funny Ikea light-fixtures would look great there and then I want an enormous sofa there” – while I oohh’ed and aahhh’ed diligently. By the time the wine bottle was finished, we were talking about colour schemes that sounded like a tour of Italy (Occra, Tuscany yellow, Magenta).

When I came home, our own rented place started to look a bit haphazard. Soon, soon, I’ll one the one to kill cacti and sit on a wine box.

When The Gloss Wears Off

2005-12-19T13:16:00.000Z

Here’s hoping that I will never school-marmishly scold the glossies for being glossy. After all, if it’s a piece on Russian energy politics you want, maybe you should read this instead of Marie-Claire.

But still, still: it’s time to clear our own house. The glossies are getting so silicone-blank that I start longing for a dose of irony & sass.

For example, who are these women who write letters to Elle? They remind me of the foetus-like creatures brewed in incubators in The Matrix, tapping out inane epistles on their pink Blackberries in the hope of winning a set of Ayurvedic skincare products.

Surely decent folk wouldn’t gush: “I used to think that Sienna Miller was just a pretty face, but after reading your article, I am convinced she is a level-headed girl who does wonderful work for charity?” Nor would they unashamedly suck up thus: “As I was going into labour without anaesthetic (triplets!), the only thing I needed was the November issue of Marie Claire?”

For the love of God, let’s just give the women their freebies and put everyone out of their misery.

But that’s not quite as bad as the ever-running relationship advice, which all seems to go along with the same watered-down Bridget Jones copy.

Really, girls – you have to sharpen your weapons slightly. It might be tempting to huddle around the Cabernet Sauvignon and whine quietly about “commitment-phobic men” – but to what good?

Is there actually a man alive who would mind being called commitment-phobic? Did the accusation “you never call” make Rick in Casablanca cry into his whisky? Would James Bond be the least bit shaken if Miss Moneypenny slipped him a short-hand note telling him he had intimacy issues?

Now, I’m not even a man, but I know that I would quite enjoy being labelled a commitment-phobe. That would make me feel like a free spirit, a fascinating creature flitting from adventure to adventure, probably riding bareback through Afghanistan and climbing Mount Everest alone and still being back in time for dinner in a silk gown.

Because only desirable people can be commitment-phobic. After all, you can’t sit there on your own, playing Tombraider, and fear commitment. It requires the gentle nudging and pushing of a loving little woman to feed you your lines.

Once she’s gone, good old desperation descends on men and women alike.

Well, that’s me off to read Tatler and cackle like an evil witch at the unfortunate party snaps.

You're A Star, Eurostar

2005-12-18T15:06:00.000Z

Airports are another country, they do things differently there.

Entering the departure lounge, you start operating according to a different, Tardis-like logic. Diamond-encrusted model planes suddenly seem desirable. It's all right to start rocking the boat with a martini at eight in the morning. And it seems perfectly normal to be bored & sleepy at ten-thousand feet.

All in all, I like trains better. To some extent, it's probably those old Anna Karenina fantasies re-surfacing, but it's also the fact that you don't end up smelling like a perfume factory after hours of mindless sample-squirting in the taxfree, and that if you end up sitting behind a small, cross child, you can actually change your seats.

Oh, and I'm not going to panic all of a sudden, collar the air hostess wildly and demand to know: "Is this plane quite safe? What's that noise? Let me out!" It can be a bit awkward, for all concerned.

So all in all, I had a rather good time going to Brussels on the Eurostar this weekend. The train left at 6.30 in the morning - yes, apparently people get up at that hour - so most of the time I spent sleeping, probably dreaming in five different languages, since the announcements are all made in English, German, French and Flemish.

And tonight it's back to London again.

I'll tell you about my Brussels adventures later.

The Christmas Turkey Awards

2005-12-15T21:21:00.000Z

1. The Saddest Christmas Decorations can be found at Asda Superstore on the Isle of Dogs. Shabby-looking tinsel, more reminiscent of the bovine digestive system than yule-tide jollity, hangs draped over the special offer on own-brand Turkey Twizzlers. To complete the picture, dead-eyed people shuffle along the aisles, buying deep-frozen meals made from the sort of creatures not even Sir David Attenborough recognise.

Some Christmas spirit is awoken by the random shop-lifting alarms, however. It was buzzing piously as I tried to exit the store, leading a friendly lady to begin investigations in my shopping bags.

“Any CDs?” she asked.
“No,” I said proudly – honestly, when you start buying your music at Asda, you have really left your youth behind.
“Any schampoos?”
“Hm, I do have… some bathroom articles*,” I admitted, and yes, it turned out that it was these that were buzzing, surely as a practical joke played on me by the guy at the counter. Hmph.

2. The Scariest Santa Claus in London must be the bony, dealer-type fella who pounces on passers-by outside Angel tube station and jingles a bell fervently in their ears. I think he promotes a nearby sandwich shop, although I couldn’t tell you for sure. It might be that he trades in other little-helpers.

3. The Craziest Christmas Tune is surely that mad Mexican chanting Feliz Navidad at mega-speed to a Copa Cobana soundtrack, although I am rather fond of it. The naffest one must be the creepy “I Saw Momma Kiss Santa Claus”, which made me go right off my gingerbread latte. I have a phobia of bearded men, which is a bit troublesome around Christmas time.

What would be your suggestions?

*This is a PG blog.

The Hard Sell

2005-12-14T17:18:00.000Z

Given that this is the season of unbridled consumerism, my thoughts have been turning to advertising, that glossy aromatherapy oil of the whole retail machinery. It must be those marketing campaign projects I did at Uni that are coming back to haunt me… I remember wild-eyed, caffeine-fuelled brainstorming sessions at three in the morning, which always seemed to end with someone saying: “Let’s just go to bed”, and everybody else echoing: “Because we’re worth it!”

One project involved me getting kitted out in safari gear and pretending to shave my legs in the desert, but let’s not dwell too much on that. It’s definitely not worth it.

My favourite commercial at the moment, just for the sake that it makes absolutely no sense at all is Baz Luhrmans clip for Chanel No 5, starring Nicole Kidman as an international film star (method acting required). The dialogue is totally bonkers, like the director is a sub-talented five-year old hammering at pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that quite obviously don't fit.

The camera swoops in on Nicole exiting a limousine, while a man’s stubble-rash voice whispers: “I was the only one who didn’t know who she was…” Damn unprofessional, too, considering that he turns out to be a paparazzi taking snaps of her. However, he is determined to solve this mystery and the next line is: “Who are you?”, when the real question should be: “Why have we suddenly been beamed away to a rooftop?”

Now, Nicole should have retorted: “I’m an international movie star who smells good, you useless pap”, but just rips off her dress in reply and bellows: “I love to dance!”

Eh? She is clearly off her trolley, but instead of gently escorting her to a padded room, the pap clutches her to his chest in a dramatic tango-pose. And then it’s back to the limo, with the stubble-voice whispering something about her perfume.

Gobbledegook, all of it.

Another favourite is the ad using Babybird’s old hit “You are Gorgeous” to soundtrack pictures of soaring toddlers. I’m not sure why the ad agency thought a song about sexual degradation in a car park would be a good tune for a nappy ad, but let’s not even go there.

Date Etiquette

2005-12-13T11:50:00.000Z

La Señorita’s date had gone swimmingly until she asked the guy if he wanted to get married. Now, there’s a difference between asking someone if he wants to get married and actually proposing, as La Señorita would point out to friends in the days to come.

After all “Do you want to get married?” is a general question, sort of like enquiring whether someone likes blue pyjamas or plans to go on holiday to Greece this summer. You know. Just making conversation, that’s all.

“Will you marry me?” – now that’s a proposal.

See the difference?

Besides, it wasn’t like La Señorita’s question was totally unrelated to the topic of conversation. They had been talking about 24, the TV series, and imagined how awful it would be if your family was kidnapped (as you do).

Suddenly the question had left La Señorita’s mouth. She could almost see it shivering in the air, like a cartoon character running over a cliff, legs pedalling in thin air for a couple of seconds before it dawned on it:

Oh my God, I have run over a cliff.

And after that, all you can do is plunge into the abyss, of course.

“Forget Jack Bauer and his longest-day-of-my-life schtick, those seconds were like hours”, la Senorita told me afterwards. “The guy was just staring at me, and I was staring at him, thinking how I could get out of it.”

“And what did you do?”

“I just started laughing. I couldn’t help it. I was laughing for the rest of the night, basically. Whenever I thought about his face, it just set me off again,” she chuckled.

“And did he laugh?”

“No. He patted my head.”

“That’s good,” I reassured. “At least he didn’t bolt out of there, jumping over furniture and crashing out of the window.”

“Ah well, what can you do?”

Wedding Bells

2005-12-12T18:18:00.000Z

You know how people in US sitcoms always seem to Phone-A-Friend when they are on a disastrous date? How those Sex & The City girls slide down in their seats when the date has gone to the loo, desperately wheezing down into their mobiles: “He is a sex addict…” or “He is a gardener”… or something to that extent?

Ha! I now live in sitcom land, so could you all please laugh tinnily at my punchlines?

And this is why: On Saturday, La Señorita phoned me from a date in hysterics. First I thought that she was in tears, but then I realized that she was laughing.

“What’s going on?” I asked suspiciously (surely people can’t have fun without me?).
“I’m on the date,” she hiccupped.
“So how is it going?”
“Great. He’s really nice. I just asked him if he wanted to…” The rest was drowned in giggles.
“If he wanted to do what, sweetie?”
“If he wanted… if he wanted… if he wanted to get married!”
“WHAT? Oh my GOD!” is what I wanted to say at this point, although I think it came out more as a splutter.
You can’t say La Señorita doesn’t know how to leave you with a cliffhanger. “I’ll tell you all about it later,” she hissed and then the line was broken.

I’ll take a sheet out of her book and report back later.

Dam da da dam…

Winter of Discontent

2005-12-12T10:50:00.000Z

You know that it’s Christmas when a range of very peculiar objects start to crop up in shops:

- Books called “2000 Semi-Funny Cartoons On The Subject Of Mothers-
in-Law”;

- Plastic Hong-Kong artefacts that, hilariously, buzz when you touch them;

- Machine-knitted socks with oddly cubistic motifs of reindeers and tiny
santas;

and so on ad delirium infinitum*.

These are things that nobody would ever buy for themselves, which is why December is the only time they see the daylight.

Somehow, as you stand bewildered & lost on Regent Street, it eludes you that...

if people WANTED cubic motif socks, they would be on sale the whole year around.

What? Did I hear you scoff that you would never descend into that sort of Christmas shopping madness?

Really?

Do you mind if I have a peak into that bag of yours? Oh, look! A cookie jar shaped like a shark! A scented candle, optimistically named Serenity!

See, we are all just a tiny sliver of civilisation away from madness.

*oink, oinkus, oinkae…

Mobile Mobile

2005-12-07T17:38:00.000Z

Is there such a thing as a too mobile mobile? If so, I think that my ancient, red Siemens might have crossed the line. It went walkabouts in the office yesterday, after a quick up-date report from La Señorita on her latest adventures in Barbados (where she ostensibly went to work).

Since then contact between myself and the mobile has been severed. It is totally blanking me. When I phone it to locate its whereabouts, it fobs me off with the old “please leave a message” routine.

I have left several: Please, come home!

Hey Ho

2005-12-05T19:30:00.000Z

GRUMPY
Right in my weekend Christmas shopping, I got caught in an anti-global warming demonstration that progressed solemnly along Piccadilly Street. Really, those environmentalists… is it quite necessary to get in everybody’s way like that? Some people are so selfish.

I had to join the march for about a minute to cut across diagonally to the other side of the street and suddenly felt very conspicuous in heels and leather gloves, brandishing shopping bags instead of dye-tied, home-made banderols. But come on, people – is
it necessary to look like a Tolkien troll just because you are environmentally friendly? What are you trying to make, an impact or a fashion statement?

HAPPY
By Green Park, a white limo jam-packed with thirteen-year old girls glided up to general uproar. Aw, bless! Wee girls high on life and attention – I love that.

And I overheard a real mushroom-helmeted bobby tell a tourist in a very slow & very loud voice: “V-e-r-y l-o-n-g w-a-y, v-e-r-y l-o-n-g w-a-y.”

Behind Bars

2005-12-03T11:46:00.000Z

Yesterday I had arranged to met Doc in The Gun for some food & a pint after work. I promised to be there at around eight o'clock, but a last minute news story kept me in the office, which made me feel very important and news-houndy. I didn't quite growl: "Gotta cover my beat, you know" , and stick a pen behind my ear while ferociously tapping away at a typewriter... but that's just because I didn't have a pen and we don't use typewriters anymore.

When the story was done and dusted, I said protracted farewells to my colleagues - because I don't seemt to be the sort of person who can just say bye & fly. It has to be a lot of humming and ahhh-ing before I can finish off with a cheery "Anyway!" and stumble out the door.

Downstairs I realised that someone had already locked the gate outside the door, which is bad news for someone like me, who is also unable to operate keys in a normal fashion. Keys don't like me, locks don't like me, and I certainly don't like them. Some Russians had randomly gathered outside and were interestedly following my wild-eyed attempts to get the gate to open.
"Vant help?" one offered kindly, but I felt a little bit wary of giving my keys to someone on the other side of some iron bars, and instead gathered reinforcements from my colleagues. Everybody arrived en troupe, very excited and brandishing kitchen knives, but the bars remaind shut.

In the end, the Russian guy had had enough of our incompetence, grabbed one of our kitchen knives and opened the door with one expert twist. We were all in awe, but also (very unfairly) a bit disconcerted by this.

Then the trains were delayed and by the time I arrived, breathlessly, at The Gun, I thought Doc would be furious. I found him by the fire, happily sipping his Guinness and in coversation with another lot of Russians.

The Russians are definitely coming, but contrary to old Swedish folklore, dating back to the 18th century, this is not a bad thing. They get you out of the office and keep you entertained in the pub.

Dateline Voice, Part II

2005-12-02T18:43:00.000Z

My new dateline voice has become huskier and huskier during the day. Now, I’m not saying that I’ve totally lost the Japanese cartoon quality that normally singles it out. All I’m claiming is that if you have a spectrum where Bugs Bunny is at one end and Nina Simone at the other – then I have nudged slightly, slightly in the Nina direction.

Yay!

Or should I suggestively murmur:

“Yeah”…

All in all, I have about five different voices:

The shameful purr I use to get past the secretary (male);
The sweet little-girl chime I use to get past the secretary (female);
The angry cartoon voice I slip into during arguments;
The high-pitch noise of joy that has to be emitted when my sister phones me;
The demonic growl that emerges from under the duvet before 7 o’clock.

What about you?

Perhaps It's Just A Cold

2005-12-02T18:19:00.000Z

Something peculiar appears to have happened to my voice. I know this because when I bought my shameful gingerbread latte this morning, the cheery French guy behind the counter asked me:

“What’s happened to your voice?”

This – though surely kindly meant – was a bit disconcerting, because up to that point I had wandered about in the delusion that my voice sounded quite normal: perhaps a bit like Goofy on happy pills, but nothing that would elicit comments from random French baristas.

“Nothing”, I squeaked, cleared my voice and repeated: “Nothing.”

The French guy didn’t look convinced and I bolted with my latte. Then at the office, a colleague winked meaningfully at me and asked:

”You came straight here from the club, didn’t you?”

“No,” I croaked.

"Sure you have," he said. "It sounds like I should phone a very expensive phone number to hear that sort of voice."

I’m not sure what is going on here, but I quite like this newfound huskiness.

Hearing Voices

2005-11-30T17:58:00.000Z

Hanging around London Bridge Mainline Station yesterday, as you do, I discovered that I have a crush on the man reading out the train announcements. He’s got that sort of deep voice combined with an Oxbridge accent that reminds me of Jack Davenport, who used to play Miles on This Life.

“The 19.43 to Gatwick Airport will leave from platform five…”

Oh yes, take me with you, Miles! Let’s fly!

But posh, velvety voices aren’t the only ones that I have a soft spot for. Doc’s Scottish is quite cool as well, I have to say. He’s rather smug about it, always reminding me that Scottish is the most trusted accent in the UK – when he doesn’t say "Trust me, I’m a Doctor", that is.

And then there’s Irish! The soft lilt of Edinburgh’s pixie-like barmen!

So far, I haven’t developed the same dewy eyed response to your average London accent, but give me time – soon those “do you know what I mean”-voices will have worked their way into my heart.

I am also still not really convinced by the sort of American voice that ends every sentence on a high note? So they all sound like questions? Even though they are not?

But then again – I really like those female altos you always get on American sitcoms, like CJ off The West Wing or Ros off Frasier. I think I might even trust them more than a Scottish Doctor, but don’t tell Doc that.

Always Should Be Someone You Really Love

2005-11-29T18:55:00.000Z

When it comes to chatting people up, the gender roles seem to be quite established:

Boys go boldly forth into the territory of cheesy lines & sweaty palms;
Girls are coldly cruel.

Come on, girls, admit it - part of the fun of going out is to snigger at those clueless boys... but if you had to do the hard work yourself, how much better would you be?

"Girls have it easy," Football boy opined when we were talking about in the pub. "Guys are just happy that girls speak to them."

"Even if they say something awkward like do you come here often?"

Football Boy assured us that he'd be happy to tell a lady the frequency of his visits to any locale.

"So what's your chat-up line?" I asked.

Football Boy looked smug. "I am Spartacus."

"Er?"

"I am Spartacus!" He looked at us. "Well, girls laugh normally, but you're a bit thick, I suppose."

"Sure, they laugh," la Señorita said. "They also move away, am I right?"

"You've got a point," said Football Boy, looking sadly into his pint glass.

"Ach, what do you care," la Señorita comforted him. "You're Spartacus."

Washing Dirty Linen In Public

2005-11-28T08:44:00.000Z

It all started with a piece of incisive journalism regarding Spanish gender roles… oh, all right then, an article called “Ole, Los Hombres Are Washing the Dishes” in Marie Claire. It was peppered by delightful quotes like Manuel, 34, explaining his housework expertise:

“I know how to put the clothes in the washing machine, but I don’t know how to make it go.” Oh bless!

La Señorita and I was scoffing at clueless Manuel, until I remembered several occasions in the past, when clothes have emerged from my own machine oddly reduced in size. I recall Doc holding up a miniscule sock and asking me suspiciously if we were expecting a happy event.

Somehow – don’t ask me to go into particulars – this later evolved into a discussion between Doc and myself regarding who does the most housework around our own place.

“Have you ever cleaned the doors?” I asked triumphantly.
“No, but they are manky, so neither have you”, Doc said. “Besides, you never put the washing machine on. You’re worse than Manuel; you don’t even put the clothes in there. And yet you have clean clothes. How? Because I wash them for you.”
“Only because you are washing your own clothes,” I huffed. “I have to wash clothes much more seldom than you. I have more of them and they are smaller.”
“That’s a mathematically rubbish argument,” Doc said. “I’ll give you the bulk argument, but the amount of clothes doesn’t matter.”
“But if I have five pairs of knickers I need to wash only once every five days to have clean knickers,” I said scientifically.
Doc wasn’t impressed. “With the time element, each individual pair…”

I’m not sure what followed, because at this point that I glazed over. All I know is that his argument involved a lot of moving about of our pint glasses, but that’s standard procedure among males, as I have observed in the past… as is not listening to your interlocutor, among humans in general. Being a battle-hardened debater, I naturally wasn’t going to respond to his point, only repeat my own, but in a higher voice.

The discussion ended with me sulking: “If I say you are right, will you shut up then?”
”Sure will,” Doc beamed. “That’s all you had to say, baby!”

Let’s get one thing clear though – of course I’m not the sort of generous-minded person who lets someone else have the last word for the sake of diplomacy. It was just because the bartender was sniggering at us and I wanted him to believe that I, in contrast to Doc, was normal and didn’t actually get my knickers in a twist (ha!) over the mathematical implications of washing.

We took the argument outside.

24 Hour Party People

2005-11-26T16:39:00.000Z

The new licencing laws have kicked in, and English pubs no longer have to ring the bell for last orders at eleven o'clock. The tabloids are joyfully bellowing about "24 hour drinking!" but it seems that most watering holes have settled for the more modest closing hour of midnight.

Still, it turned everybody into social observers, scouring London for signs of sensational debauchery. It began on Friday morning, when I spotted a pair of abandoned sneakers by the bus stop. One of my fellow commuters caught my eye and shook his turban.

"24 hour drinking..."

"Do you think?" I said doubtfully. After all, the sneakers were orange with white stripes. It could be that their wearer had just suddenly regained his senses, looked down on them in horror and abandoned them on the spot.

Then, as it was Friday, I went out for lunch with come colleagues. Two of them ordered beer.

"See, it has started already", my editor told me mournfully. "Soon they'll be dancing on the tables, getting sick and knocked up and in all sorts of trouble."

Doc phoned me in the afternoon with the happy announcement:

"I'm out for beers with the blokes! 24 hour drinking!"

(Although he did come home at eleven, shaking his grey head: "The homing devices kicked in...")

When Doc and I went out yesterday we passed an off-licence where the shelves had been emptied. Only one bottle of Cava cowered in a corner.

"Stock check?" I asked Doc.

"Could be..."

The Pain, The Pain

2005-11-25T18:29:00.000Z

The pain caught up with me today, after my work-out with Ben on Thursday morning. When it hadn’t arrived yesterday, I thought I had escaped it, but it was actually hobbling, jack-knifed & weezing, behind me all the time. Today, I – much like Maria Carey – don’t do stairs.

It feels as though I have been frolicking about like a bear cub in the first flush of youth, when in reality all I did was commuting back and forth on a rowing machine while Ben stood sternly beside me and asked:

“So how often do you plan to come to the gym?”
“Once a week,” I lied, to impress him, but he just looked astonished.
“Only? You need at least five 40 minute sessions a week!”

Then he put me on an exercise bike, clipped some thingy to my ear to measure my pulse and left me pedalling leisurely while he went out (probably for a smoke, the cheeky monkey). Luckily enough this is not Charleston, so no Argyle sweaters pounced on me.

So really why I am aching all over today is hard to understand. If this is how it's going be I, I might do the easy thing instead and join a fad diet. I hope the pain disappears before tomorrow when – wheeee! – I am living out the ultimate Anna Karenina fantasy. Yep, it’s true, Pingu & I are going ice-skating by torchlight at Somerset House.

I can’t wait!

Smoke 'Em Out

2005-11-24T20:30:00.000Z

I’ve been smoked like a salmon. Everything on me smells as though it has been rubbed in the smouldering ashes of Ernest Hemingway’s humidor. My eyes, previously of a harmless green tint, have turned in the bloodshot look of the devil, and I’m not even going to mention my hair.

And the person who had the pleasure of smokin’ me out like this? It wasn’t me; it was an extremely pretty little Italian creature sitting next to me in The Midas Touch.

Now, she may have been cuter than a baby penguin in a bow-tie, but I still wanted to beam her to a galaxy far, far away.

What’s up with me? Am I turning into some boorish goody-two-shoes who should stay in with my Soduku and let the creatures of the night get on with their devil-may-care partying?

“Non-smokers are like vegetarians,” says Football boy. “Boring!”
“Red meat and red Marlboros is your style?”
“Too right it is.”

But what do you say? Are you with Football boy, or are you too secretly clamouring for that smoking ban the government has been bandying around for ages?

In My Shoes

2005-11-23T18:07:00.000Z

I have got a shoe crisis. It isn’t the usual one, where one of your heals suddenly falls off and leaves you limping all the way home with “Vanity Shall Be Punished” tattooed across your forehead. This is gym-shoe related, believe it or not.

When I renewed my membership at the gym last week, the girl in the reception told me that I would get three one-on-one introductory sessions for free. I suppose it is a little insulting that they think I need an introductory session after a year’s membership, but considering the time I flew off the treadmill (sad but true), I couldn’t really argue.

“Oh, I’m not sure that I want an introductory session,” I only tried weakly.
“But it’s for free!”

Since I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t the money that was bothering me, I am scheduled for my first appointment with personal trainer Ben tomorrow. I have seen him around in the gym before. He does a terrifying routine involving a very large ball, sort of like those bouncy ones with antennae that were around back in the 80s.

The thing is, I just remembered that my gym shoes are still languishing chez la Señorita. They have been gathering dust there since we played tennis in Battersea Park in June, to be precise. So now I have to meet Ben while wearing those sorts of leather sneakers that are marketed as retro, as in harking back to the days when sport meant a brisk walk in the park, or possibly a spot of croquet on the lawn. You know, those days when any garment not featuring a corset was deemed suitable for physical exertions.

Oh well.

They Shoot Polar Bears, Don't They?

2005-11-22T22:30:00.000Z

The scene: The till of a popular fashion retailer in Long Acre Street, where Señorita Mas Fina, about 66.8% of London’s population and I have gone for some pre-Christmas present scanning. (Presents for ourselves, that is.)

The shop-boy, sporting a skin-tight T, asks la Señorita: “You from Spain?”
Senorita starts beaming, proving beyond doubt that Swedes and Spaniards are very different. If two Swedes manage to run in to each other abroad, they hide behind trees, rubbish bins, large members of the public etc. Spaniards assume their best torero stance and start bonding. After five minutes, it has probably been established that their first cousins went to the same primary school in Zaragoza.
“Hombre, sí!”
“I’m Italiano,” winks Shopboy, and turns to me: “You’re not Spanish.”
“No.”
“English?”
“No.”
“Swedish?”
I’m a bit taken aback, because it normally takes a detour via Belorussia before we end up in dear old Scandinavia. “Yes!”
Now, Shop-boy turns back to la Senorita and tells her in a confidential voice: “Swedish girls are mad for it. Very caliente. I had one back home last night and…”
I start rolling my eyes, while the treacherous Señorita is laughing.
“Swedish girls all drink like a horse and fall over,” Shopboy continues his anthropological lesson. “They’re a bit.. you know…” More chuckling & winking, while I have taken to combine the eye-rolling with exasperated foot-tapping.
Shopboy, oblivious: “Easy-peasy, you know. Just give them a vodka and…”
“Oh for God’s sake,” I burst out and stormed off into the lingerie department to seethe by a rack of Snoopy knickers, while Senorita completed her purchase. (That showed him!)

Later:
“Hehe,” says la Señorita, “you’re really angry.”
“I’m not angry!” I say (angrily). “I just try to work against these stereotypes, that’s all.”
“All right, all right.”
“Caliente my foot! And who’s he to talk? Probably has a really furry chest and still lives with his mum.”
“Glad to see that you’re not one for stereotyping.”
“Thanks. What did you buy?”

The Future's Bright, The Future's Retro

2005-11-22T21:21:00.000Z

Day follows night – or at least it does once you have left the Velvet Underground of Studenthood, where night has been known to follow night.

And in the same way, the deluge of glossy R’n’B of the early 00s turned into the Return of Britpop (But Different) that is blaring out of the charts now.

It’s like Britain collectively woke up one morning, sat up in bed and said:

“No more smoove grooves, please. We want guitars back. Or at least some good old angst & irony.”

And then there was light, and then there was Coldplay (angst) and then there was Franz Ferdinand (irony) and Cold-Weather Primates and whatnot.

Yay.

What’s the Next Thing, though? Perhaps we will bolt out of bed one of these mornings and go:

“Bring back grunge!”

Goaties and a beanie hat - coming soon to a teenager near you.

Not In My Book

2005-11-21T10:19:00.000Z

s
As I have already said, I am psychotically pro-Christmas – and yes, I do realise that the holidays should be about charity and not just about ka-ching.

But surely that should be proper generosity, not the kind that makes people leave “How To Live With Food Intolerance” manuals at book collections for your local, underprivileged primary school? This is a true story; evidence can be seen at Starbucks in Canary Wharf.

After all, that can’t technically even be charity, but should be filed under creative rubbish disposial. I may be wrong, of course. Perhaps little Bobby-Bo’s eyes will brim with childish delight as his teacher reads aloud about gluten-free food – kids are odd, after all. But I wouldn’t bet on it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, bloggards and blogettes, I am off to donate “American Psycho” and “Men are from Mars, women are from Venus.”

You Live, You Learn

2005-11-20T13:10:00.000Z

Apparently, it's not cute to pull up the hood of your boyfriend's jacket and cackle:

"They killed Kenny!"

At least not if you do it more than ten times.

Oh well.

Oh, Those Jingle Bells In My Head

2005-11-19T15:45:00.000Z

"It must be Christmas," Chocolate Girl writes from Spain, "because dad has put the manger out on the balcony again."

Apparently the Holy Family becomes bigger every year. This time, Chocolate Dad has invested in a life-size, bearded Joseph, a particularly snipey-looking Holy Virgin and a scary Baby Jesus, complete with inexplicable, blonde mullet hairdo.

"I won't sleep soundly until New Year," Chocolate girl e-mail grumbles.

And it must be Christmas in London too, because all of Regent Street has been turned into a demented, dizzying disco of flourescent lighting - just like in old Bethlehem - and is probably visible from the moon.

You know those annoying people who download Jingle Bells as their ring-tone? Who hush people angrily if they talk while the M&S Christmas ad is on telly? Who sink into reverie in front of the gilded window display at Liberty's? Those odd, possibly hypnotised people who wrap the whole house up in tinsel and poke your eye out as they lug their Christmas tree home on the bus?

"Christ," you think (and not in a let's-remember-the-reason-for-Christmas way), "who are those people?"

Well, they're me, actually. I am that person. I love Christmas and am already gearing up for a real marathon of schmaltz and retail loving. After all, rampant consumerism and cheap sentimentality is my gig most of the year, and I see no reason to make an exception for December.

Don't blame me. It's those jingle bells in my head.

Bite Me

2005-11-18T13:04:00.000Z

Science is making impressive progress in our fridge. We now know what happens if you leave a Brie to its own devices for long enough, for example. It's interesting in a yucky way, but I still think I should go to Waitrose tomorrow.

In Strasbourg, I used to go to a super market named Attac. Respect to the French for their issuing this sort of no-nonsense advice to their customers. It did go a long way to prepare me for the predatory behaviour necessary to bring food back to your lair. Yup, to attack, les enfants de la patrie!

But boy, was it worth it!

"Everything looks so much yummier in French supermarkets," my sister used to say when we raided the joint in Marine Squad fashion.

Don’t be fooled by the chic countenance of those tiny, Hermes-scarved French girls. Non monsieur, they know how to manoeuvre a trolley along narrow aisles, and if you ever want to reach the till, you have to be prepared for baguettes at dawn.

Sometimes I miss that jolly old anarchy. Still, it is more restful to shop in London. In my local Waitrose, the food-foraging-experience has been extended to include a juice bar, coffee bar, sushi bar and wine tasting bar. I always feel that you are supposed to glide around the isles, humming Euro lounge tunes as you select your olive oils and low-fat yoghurts.

Once you're about to pay, though, the muzak-induced zen disappears. Instead, the checkout tills are more like pit stops in a Formula One race. A squadron of super-efficient ladies (and the occasional gentleman) scans up your goods faster than the Ferrari team can change Michael Shumacher’s car tyres.

At Least They Get Along

2005-11-17T15:44:00.000Z

Me to Doc: "We just saw something that la Senorita and I found distressing and that Football Boy thought was very funny.”
Doc (immediately): “Oh, small child falling over?”
Football Boy (animated): In its pram! Because the parents had hung too many heavy bags on the handle!”
Doc: “Hehehe”.
Football Boy: “Hahaha.”

Guide to Sweden I

2005-11-17T09:01:00.000Z

Whenever a Swedish person says:

"Isn't it cold?"

you should immediately call their bluff by replying:

"But you're Swedish!"

- because, actually, underneath their clothes, Swedes don't have normal human skin. They are covered in fur, like Chewbacca, and cannot feel the cold.

The Winner Takes It All

2005-11-16T22:23:00.000Z

If the loser really is standing small, as my compatriots once informed us, then I am quite tiny.

Since about a year back, I have entered absolutely every competition I have come across, theorising that sooner or later, Lady Luck would find me.

I have gone into close combat for a safari in Tanzania. I have fought it out for a case of fine wines. I have filled out those endless questionnaires where people actually seem to believe that you have fully formed opinions on different brands of teabags, only becasue a Japanese teapot was up for grabs.

Then I won a biography of P.G. Wodehouse. It is possible that I was the only competitor.

Things could have been worse, I suppose. I could have won a year's supply of toothpaste in an online competition I entered in a moment of madness. Still - I am worried. Does this mean that I have fulfilled my Winning Competitions Quota? Will I never win anything again?

Then You'll Sing a Different Tune

2005-11-16T09:55:00.000Z

As I stomped through my early teens in a pair of tartan Doc Martens, there was only one belligerent question to ask potential partners in delinquency:

"Do you like Janis Joplin?"

If the answer was "Never heard of her", the guy would immediately be filed away under "close but no cigar".

My sister trailblazed through Cool Musicdom, and I adoringly followed. Early Blur, Motown, Beetles... People had to know, or go.

But do we still use that convenient shorthand?

[Pause to stare Carrie Bradshaw-esque into space.]

Blogging about i-pods made me realise how ill-suited I am myself to any such musical scrutiny these days. Nestling among respectable old favourites are a new breed of CDs, bought at various Russian markets both near & far. Their backs (mis-)spell out Gwen Steffan* and Chicago! The Musicall - because, all of a sudden, all I want is a jolly tune to rock my rockin-chair to.

So what's that sound? It's not the beat of a White Stripe drum. It's a ghostly pair of tartan Doc Martens, rattling ever further into the past.

*She ain't no halibut girl.

So What Have You Been Up To?

2005-11-15T19:03:00.000Z

The University get-together went ahead last weekend, and Alias Aurora and I drank and made merry with about ten acquaintances from our Strasbourg days. And it was fun!

One thing has been preying on my mind, though (how did you guess?): When you meet old Uni mates, do you talk yourself up or down?

Because it seems that you have to choose. I try to be a wonder of matter-of-factualness, but it’s not possible. Either I end up implying that I am…

A) a big, fat failure – only days away from turning into a bitter crone who dwells in a cardboard box and throws gravel a pigeons for kicks

or

B) an über-achieving Wunderkind of the Zadie Smith variety, jetsetting from metropolis to metropolis, leaving a trail of champagne and canapés in my wake.

Being Scandinavian, I of course prefer the first alternative. Nothing massages the ego like modesty, after all. But what about the poor person you’re talking to? The more disparaging you are about your life, the more they feel like they have to do American Sitcom Duty and come out will all sorts of vague encouragements – not what you want while you’re sipping your gewürtstraminer.

So should I switch to B – or just try to be mysterious?

Oh, Pod Off!

2005-11-14T18:32:00.000Z

"What used to be the first thing you checked out in a guy's flat?" Pingu asked me the other day.
"Oh, easy. His record collection."
"Exactly!" Pingu stabbed her chop-stick in my general direction. "But those days are over, pet."
"Oh, I suppose we're a bit more mature nowadays," I said hesitatingly. "We don't judge people by their music taste anymore."
"Oh, rubbish! Would you date someone who likes James Blunt?"
"Well, no... but Doc does have a penchant for Scottish folk-rock Runrig..."
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Pingu said. "Anyways, my point is that record collections are disappearing. It's all I-Pods now. People have got their music downloaded and hidden away in their computers."
"Hm." I stole a deep-fried shrimp from Pingu's plate. "You're right."
"Of course I am. So what are we supposed to do now when we snope around people's places? How are we supposed to judge if people are sane or not?"
She was definitely on to something. "Yikes! So guys might be hiding Shakira collections and novelty rap in the computer, where we can't see it!"
"I know!"
"Thank God I'm not dating anymore."

Lost

2005-11-12T13:49:00.000Z

Do I know the way to San José? Well, no, I'm afraid I don't - and neither do I have a clue if this is the way to Amarillo.

"Fair enough," you say, "why should you?"

Unfortunately the same goes for places right on my doorstep. Parachute me down on a random street in Soho and ask me to lead you to Leicester Square, and chances are I'll take you on a spiralling trekk down dodgy backstreets, looking more and more confused. Finally we'll end up at Tottenham Court Road.

I will probably soundtrack this journey with musings like:

"Have they moved Seven Dials? It should be to the left of the angry Chinese granny;"

or

"Didn't we just pass that shop?"

To put it shortly, I'm not really up there with that posh woman who talks to you via your Road-finder. But does this stop me from giving people directions?

I just can't resist the feel-good urge of helping some hapless tourists on their way, and they must sense this. They always approach me with their maps and their cute accents, and I immediately spring to life and start pointing in different directions. None of that boring nonsense of "take left at the third traffic light" for me! (Who on Earth counts traffic lights anyway?) No, I'm all for making snaky arm-movements with the palm of my hand to draw out imaginary maps. This is normally met by blank stares, which turns me into Balletic Traffic Cop, swivelling around, flailing my arms around the compass.

In the end, the poor tourists depart with many thanks and a dazed expression, while I shout some last-minute instructions after them. It's not until a couple of minutes afterwards that it normally strikes me that I've sent them off in the opposite direction.

It must be the same know-it all reflex that makes me utterly unable to say "I don't know" when someone asks me the statistical percentage of Swedish GDP accounted for by agriculture, and instead answer confidently:

"4.5."

In the future, I think the safest thing will be for you all not to believe a word I say.

Commuter Gauntlet

2005-11-11T20:15:00.000Z

On my way to work today, I was approached by the following people:

A) A jovial guy at Aldgate Station was trying to hand out flyers from a nearby gym to the grey-faced somnambulists passing through the tube gates (also known as commuters). He seemed quite resigned to the hopelessness of this preposterous task, and had taken to entertaining himself by shouting "free day at the gym, free da-a-a-y at the gym" in an operatic voice*.

B) A shifty-looking fellow adorned with three-day stubble was mumbling "Marlboro Lights, Marlboro Lights" in people's ears by Farringdon Station.

C) At Farringdon, various aggressively upbeat people also lay in ambush, armed with clipboards and the question if I had a moment for the blind. When I shook my head and dove into a coffee shop instead, I could feel the hate vibes tickling off my back. Poor things, really. Next time I'll stop.

D) That sweet little man is still offering people free copies of City A.M. in Canary Wharf, but looking more and more forlorn with each day passing. His mantra of "Free for you, sir" has turned into a puppy-eyed silence, imploring people to accept a copy. I hope they do.

And last, but not least:

E) The Scientologists have set up camp by Tower Gateway, cheerily offering to test your stress levels. They must operate according to the theory that these would be relatively high at eight o’clock on yet another November morning, as we Londoners set forth to hustle the city and earn our daily take-aways.

Well, thay may be so, but this is one soul that they won’t snare - because before ten o’clock my pulse is still around the Olympic Swimmer mark and nothing, but nothing, can set it racing.

(Clearance sale at Waterstones, did you say? Half-price offers at Reiss? Stella at H&M? No, kids, you have to do better than that. Give me a time-machine and teleport me away to fin-de-siècle Paris, and then we’re talking. But I digress…)

*This must be false marketing. Free day at the gym? There's no such thing. You'll pay for your ardour later, folks.

Modern Persuasion

2005-11-10T11:03:00.000Z

Would you mind awfully if I indulged in a bit of tiresome Battle of the Sexes Rhetoric? I promise to keep it brief.

The battlefield: The dusty floor area just in front of the DVD player.
What's at stake: Chosing how to best spend two hours of a rainy Wednesday evening.
Weapons of choice: BBC adaptation of Persuasion versus gory film Se7en.

Doc (looking like he's really cottoned on to something, when in actual fact He and The Point are about as far removed as the Earth and Pluto): "Aha! See, you pretend to be this emancipated Swedish woman, but really, you just want to get married."
Me (scowling): "What's that got to do with anything? Gimme back my DVD!"
Doc (getting into pseudo-scientific swing): "But Persuasion is all about this woman who finally gets her man down the aisle, right? It's all about marriage and nice frocks."

Now, I said one of the following:

A) "So what? Just because it's about a woman getting married, it doesn't mean that's my secret dream. You want to watch Se7en, right? Does that mean that you want to cut off Gwyneth Paltrow's head and put it in a box?"

or

B) "Awww. Grrr. Ouch. Oh, all right then, let's watch your movie."

But which one? Well, I'll let that remain shrouded in mystery.

Switchboard Safari

2005-11-09T18:47:00.000Z

Recent features have led me out on a safari into the jungle of corporate switchboards. Believe me, you have to be top of the food-chain to survive, not to mention reaching your intended interviewee.

Switchboard Music and Messages - National Differences:

1. “I Just Called To Say I Love You” by Stevie Wonder. Top marks to the Italians for style and charm.

2. Bagpipes. The French know how to make you stop wasting their time and hang up.

3. Digital Vivaldi. The Germans get your inner conductor going, although it does startle you a little bit when a beepy stanza is interrupted by a teutonic “Ja?”.

4. “All our lines are currently busy, an operator will be with you shortly.” Now, I won’t reveal what nationality this is, because I have to accuse them of lying. It pains me to say it, but there you are.

An operator will not be with you shortly. An operator might possibly pick up the phone when he or she has finished grounding the coffee beans, steaming the milk, pouring the cappuccino, sprinkling chocolate in a heart-shape, asking Betty if Andy in Accounts is ill, discussing what illness it could be, ruling out meningitis and finally putting the coffee-cup back after carefully washing it out. Then, and only then, might the operator pick up.

Not that I particularly mind. It gives me time to swivel around in my chair for a while and review my interview strategy.

5. Unidentfied Latin pop. Venga España!

Strangers Re-United

2005-11-09T09:37:00.000Z

An acquaintance from my Uni in Strasbourg is setting up a get-together next week and wondered if I wanted to come along. To my surprise, I heard myself replying that sure, I would be there.

“Good old Strassers,” my acquaintance said wistfully. “Those were the days!”

“Oh yes,” I agreed, trying to remember anything we had actually done together in Strasbourg, apart from occasionally indulging in some awkward foreigner-in-France cheek-kissing when passing each other in the corridors. “Who’s going to be there?”

“Just the usual crowd,” acquaintance said and went on to list a number of names, out of which I only recognised one as possibly belonging to a girl who used to dance around with a whistle. I wasn’t sure if I should enquire about the whistle, since she probably wasn’t still doing that.

In the end I decided on a simple: “See you next Friday, then!”

Some e-mailing with Alias Aurora, who I also met in Strasbourg, led to the conclusion that we should go.

“I’m not sure if I’ll recognise them, or if they recognise me,” I deliberated, “but I suppose I can always keep my ears open for the sound of a whistle.”

”Don’t be a party-pooper again,” was Aurora’s brisk reply. “It’ll be fun!”

I’ll keep you posted.

Top of the Poppies

2005-11-09T08:14:00.000Z

It's poppy time again.

Suddenly, every British news reader, aspiring politician, bus pass holder, business woman and random old codger worth their salt has a poppy corsage stuck to their lapel.

Last year, my sister even noticed the poppy phenomenon from her posting in the Balkans: "Why is everybody wearing small tomatoes all of a sudden?"

All I could answer was: "I'm not sure, but I think it has something to do with the war."

Further research yielded that yes, indeed it did have something to do with the war. The Poppy appeal was set up to help out veterans of WWI. It turns out that what you want, when you return one-legged and gas-lunged from the trenches, is not bronze statues celebrating your valour. It's food, housing and a prosthetic leg.

I won't be wearing a poppy, because it would somehow look phoney on a young Swedish woman. A small donation couldn't hurt, though.

This is Sweden

2005-11-09T05:15:00.000Z

Enjoy.

Don't Use the C-Word

2005-11-08T18:33:00.000Z

Doc has cut his hair again.

This is always a bit of a drama - not for Doc himself, of course, who is very businesslike and manly about it. It's I who silently grieve for those beautiful locks.

"If I let it grow, I just look like Ernie from the Muppet Show", Doc says reasonably.

"No, you don't!" I say, and then venture: "You look cute!"

Doc glares sceptically at me.

"Did I say cute?" I start back-pedalling. "I meant cool. Or dangerous. That's it - dangerous!"

But we both know that after the c-word, there is no going back. The crew-cut appears the very next day.

At least, since Doc got a job in the City, he can't do the hooligan trim anymore. Once he turned up at the airport, after a prolonged absence, sporting a diabolical goatie but no hair on his head at all. Since he is also very tall, he looked like a bouncer. He was very pleased with himself, but I could hardly talk to him. It was too upsetting. I kept expecting him to whip out my ID and bark:

"This is not you! What's your star-sign?"

Because, even though it's been some time since I had to sneak into Stockholm's bars on the shaky grounds of a borrowed ID card, the fear never really goes away.

Temper, Temper

2005-11-08T08:22:00.000Z

Excuse me, sir, but who are you calling rude? Oh, right. Apparently it’s me.

All of a sudden – or rather, right in time for Christmas – the promo tables of the bookshops are laden with volumes dedicated to Manners, and our Lack of Them. According the general consensus, Brits (and especially Londoners) are just downright bloody offensive.

But is this really true, or just the usual cantankerous litany of “it were all better before, so it were”? I’m not so sure.

Elbowed/mugged by loutish youths? Never happened to me, and I live on the mean streets of the East End.

Bothered by loud telephone conversations? You must be joking - I have to strain to eavesdrop on people’s mutterings.

Ignored by surly checkout girls? Quite the contrary – they are surprisingly polite considering the dreary parade of microwavable Chicken Kormas passing underneath their scanners day in & day out. My corner shop lady has been baptised Grumpy, it’s true, but I put that down to her Slavic Soul more than anything else. Besides, her grouchiness is cancelled out by the sunniness in the shop down the road, where (you guessed it!) Cheery works.

As for shoving, pushing, swearing? Nope, nope and nope again.

If this is rude, then I’d like to see polite. Maybe the writers of these books expect a return of Versailles court protocol. Maybe they want us to start greeting each other with distant bows again, though of course only addressing people we outrank. Or maybe they just don’t know what they are on about – but I would be loath to tell it to their face. After all, that would be ill-mannered.

In the end, what astonishes me is not how seldom we are polite, but that we take the trouble to be polite at all. Who’s to stop you from hogging the last bus seat from just under the nose of that old lady? What would happen if you marched into Eat and barked out: “Cappuccino! Quick, my man!” and omitted to say please? Any law preventing you from sneezing right in the face of the postman, for that matter?

And still we don’t do it, most of the time. We don’t even want to. In the end, humans are flock animals, and flocks work better with a little bit of kindness. Just ask those heroic penguins, who take turns huddling against the winds at the outer end of the colony.

So once again – me, rude? Bah. Like I care.

To Market, To Market!

2005-11-07T14:01:00.000Z

Anyone for some moules marinières and fresh scallops, followed by a kumato salad drenched in posh olive oil? Those are the dishes that will supposedly grace our dinner table tonight, ladies and gentlemen. (While the TV blasts out Top Gear.)

See, the lure of Borough Market proved to much for us this weekend. All that delicious, funny-looking food! The fresh chicken burgers! The smoothies!

“You can never have too much cheese,” Doc said and purchased a parmesan chunk bigger than a king-sized pizza.

“Or weird preserves”, I added, investing in some cloudberry & whisky marmelade, while Señorita Mas Fina and Football Boy stocked up on sausages and Lanarkshire Blue.

So now our fridge is bursting with organic, fresh produce.

Hang on, what was that? ”But Borough market is on Saturdays,” did you say? “And today is Monday.”
"Shush!"
“Why haven’t you already cooked what you bought?”
"Er… "
“Be honest now, what did you eat yesterday?”
“Chinese take-away.”

What A Glorious Feeling

2005-11-05T14:04:00.000Z

Rise out of your coffins, children of the night, we've flip-flopped our way safely through summer and arrived, finally, to this wonderful season of rain, mist and wind.

I do love autumn, and shopping with Señorita Más Fina yesterday only served to remind me of this fact. After all, no bikini will ever make you feel as good about yourself as a big, furry Anna Karenina hat. I just have to hear the satisfyingly martial click of an umbrella being opened, and I feel like I belong in this world again.

(Vaguley related anecdote: I really have to buy a new umbrella, though. Doc is unreasonably reluctant to carry the bright pink one that I'm using at the moment. In Regent's Park the other week, his chivalry only extended to holding it as long as no-one else was in sight. The minute a distant dog-walker appeared, he shoved it back into my hand and tried to dis-associate himself from its pinkness as much as possible.

"This is ridiculous," I hissed. "You're about half a metre taller than me. I look like Mary Poppins brandinshing the umbrella like this."
"Not half a metre. 30 centimetres. And you don't look like Mary Poppins."
"You're just saying that."
"You look like a crazy tour-guide."
"Hmpf.")

Just A Little Crush

2005-11-04T16:06:00.000Z

Tomorrow I’m going shopping with a friend I’ve decided to blog-tize Señorita Más Fina, on account of being Spanish and very fina.

This is going to be a whole lot of fun, but also slightly risky. The thing is, I have a style-crush on la Señorita. You know what I’m talking about – her outfits always make me go “ooohh” and want to dash to the shops and get clothes just like them. I seem to recall that this phenomenon was analysed in a film called Single White Female, but let’s not go there.

Besides, I think we all get them – style crushes, I mean. Suddenly you forget that your friend is, say, a delicate Vietnamese girl, while you are a stately Nigerian, or that you’re an ethereal Celt, while your girl’s a raven-locked Turk, or… OK, you get it. I don’t need to go through the entire Bennetton catalogue.

The point is, it somehow eludes you that what looks good on her, won’t necessarily do so on you.

So even if Señorita Más Fina can pull off the whole R&B vibe, I should probably steer clear of the hoop earrings myself. I mean, seriously.

Blame the Name Game

2005-11-04T13:12:00.000Z

Anglosaxons have really got the hang of nick names. They happily refer to their PMs and presidents as Tony and Bill, and it only takes them five minutes of acquaintance to come up with a new pet name for you. (Normally, all you have to do is cut the name in two & add the endings -ster, -ie or -er.)

"Hey, Billster! Fancy a pint?"

As a Swede, I’m incapable of this easy familiarity. I mean, just calling people by their first name makes me feel a bit like an American presidential candidate, for Pete’s sake.

It’s not that we Swedes don’t want to call each other by nick-names. We try our best. But all those cute monikers tend to stay in e-mails, I’ve noticed, when you feel less self-conscious about using them.

Anyway, this maybe goes some way towards explaining why my blog-nicks are so uniformly rubbish. Just look at my own signature! “Swedish Girl”, for crying out loud! It sounds like you are either

A) jumping up and down and shouting – “look at me, look at me, I’m blonde and tall!” (I am neither, but in the blogosphere, who can tell?)

or

B) severely lacking in imagination (oh, but that I am!).

And then my friends get stuck with naff labels like Señorita, Aurora, Le Français and Doc.

But wait a minute - perhaps I shouldn’t blame this on my Swedish-ness? After all, I’ve come across a plethora of cool Swedish nicks since I started blogging. Oh bugger, that’s my last line of defence gone. Normally, if I’ve done something stupid, I always plaintively say: “But we do it like that in Sweden.”

This Much HE Knows

2005-11-03T16:50:00.000Z

Science According to Tiresome Office Boy

1. As long as you start the sentence by "To be honest with you", it doesn't matter if what follows is bitchy. After all, you're being Honest, which is a Good Thing.

2. Also, following up by saying "Where's your huuumour?" will immediately make your (miffed) interlocutor go: "Hang on! Why am I upset at being labelled an incompetent donkey? It's actually very funny!"

How little Office Boy knows of women.

Sound of Music

2005-11-03T13:53:00.000Z

The wonderful thing about living in this metropolis is that you can go to any number of cool gigs every night of the week, discovering…

…oh all right, then, you got me! I’m fooling no one. The truth is that I almost never go to gigs, no matter how many “Next Big Things” prance around Camden’s sweaty stages, trilbies at rakish angles, and sneer for Brit-Pop.

Gigs, I don’t dig – OK?

It’s not that I hate music. I don’t. I’m actually rather fond of it as a pastime.

But gigs always seem to involve sore feet, disappointment, bewilderment and a necessity to whoop self-consciously. Take the time we went to see Rickie Lee Jones at Stockholm Jazz Festival, for instance.

Rickie, she’s such an intriguing chick on CD, her little-girl-lost voice humming the saddest, happiest songs you have ever heard. Rickie on stage, on the other hand, is an entirely different matter. She was the sourest pill I have ever come across, snapping “please, be quiet” angrily after each applause, before racing through her next number. Afterwards, she galloped off stage like a pony in the Grand National Derby and never returned to do an encore.

Rickie, Rickie!

Then there was the time Tini took me to a gig at the student union of St Martin’s College. The entrance fee was in support of their graduation show, so I had to go, in the name of Graphic Design. Oh, and they served cheap G&Ts. Happily, we had quite a few of those before the music started up. I’m not really sure why it took such a long time to install the instruments, seeing that they consisted of…

A) a harmonica & strange, rubber-like feet, operated by a guy in a Medieval hair-cut
B) an out-of-tune guitar, strummed with more passion than talent by a geezer who also served as a very gravely vocalist.

Now Le Francais wants us to go to a gig on Sunday. I believe some friends of his are playing. They have worryingly been described as “funk-fusionists with an indie edge”. Au secours!

Sweet and Sour

2005-11-02T11:22:00.000Z

Bluffing it - that's what life is all about after high-school, kids, and yesterday I bluffed it as Briony McNamara, a name I can hardly pronounce. Alias Aurora had to attend a corporate event at a hotel, and brought me along in the place of a poorly colleague (owner of the complicated name).

"It'll be easy-piecy," Aurora told me as she pinned the Brinoy nametag to my fluttering busom, "we're in marketing so nobody really knows what we do, anyway."

"Oh right. How do you pronounce my name again?"

It turned out Aurora was right, though. Since we were mainly there to see if the hotel would work as a venue for corporate events, all that happened was that people plied us with drink and gave us tiny wee kebabs. If you've read my blog before, you'll know that mingling is not my glas of freebie champagne, so you won't be surprised that I had soon retired into a djungle-like flower arrangement.

Still, the mingling found me, in the shapely shape of a Slovenian girl with a fur-trimmed coat dangling nonchalantly over her arm in a way that immediately made me feel like I belong in a queue for beet-roots in Stalinist Russia.

The Slovenian girl was well versed in the art of conversation and had in an astonishingly short time weedled a large amount of personal information out of me. She also thought that everything about me was sweet, and particularly living with my boyfriend. She herself had a hard time staying with one guy, because so many different men were interested in her. What could she do? When they kept pursuing her? But it was so sweet that people like me could sacrifice excitement and fun like that.

For some strange reason, I was seized by an acute desire to tell her that nothing about Doc & me was the least bit sweet. That in actual fact, we spent the days growling at each other, only pausing to throw some crockery when the debate grew especially heated.

Before anything like that could happen (which, if I'm honest, was probably never), Aurora found me and dragged me away to nick more kebabs off a trolley.

"I'm starving! Let's go for food."

And so we did, and as I left my name-tag in another ferocious flower arrangement, I realised that I didn't need to feel bad. It wasn't me who was a frumpy housewife. It was Briony McNamara.

This Much I Know

2005-11-01T16:39:00.000Z

Science According to Swedish Girl:

1. You won't get harmed when crossing at a red light, as long as you hold your hands over your head and make a high-pitched noise.

2. Writing tidy To Do-lists absolves you from actually Doing the Things.

3. Similarly, having fresh veg in the fridge means that you don't actually have to eat it.

4. If someone phones you after ten o'clock, it means that your entire family has been kidnapped by crazy astronauts and sent into orbit around the moon for the next ten years.

5. Pulling your hair will probably make it grow quicker.

6. People carrying Marks & Spencer bags are always trustworthy.

7. "Would you mind if we watched What Not To Wear instead of Shark Attack?" is synonymous with "Give me the remote control this instant, or I shall lay hands on it through violence while howling like a warewolf."

8. It's not stealing as long as you consume it within the store.

9. Leaning forward in your seat, biting your nails and mumbling "come on, come on" under your breath will speed up the progress of your taxi through rush hour traffic.

10. The tiny people inside the TV box can hear you when you shout at them.

You're A Big Girl Now

2005-10-31T12:54:00.000Z

We were all collecting them back then, in 1996 – the year I left Sweden. They were called Grown Up Points.

We had just graduated from high school and being a Grown Up still seemed like a desirable, although slightly far-fetched prospect. I hate to admit it, but we really did squeal things like:

“We are, like, soooo old!”
“Eighteen! You’re an old-age pensioner!”
“My God! I look like a raisin!”

Of course, we could say these things because deep down, we knew that we were still fresh-faced teenagers.

You could accumulate Grown Up Points by doing Grown Up stuff like…

- eat After Eights rather than pick-n-mix candy
- spend time with the Sunday cross-word
- pass one’s driving’s licence
- give Couple’s Dinners
- pay rent.

Believe it or not, but we wore these things like badges of honour. So what happened? Because now we’re boasting about the absolute opposite: being childish.

“Oh, I can’t imagine having kids yet. I’m a kid myself!”
“Yay! Let’s skive!”
“Pension schemes are for Grown Ups.”

Nothing will ever shock me as the realisation, during my last year at university, that the bearded young man next to me was born in the 80s. I really felt something should be done about that. Don’t get me wrong – people can be born in the 80s, if they insist on it. I’m not impossible. They can even play with Tamaguchis and watch Alf on TV, if they want. What they can’t do is have a beard and go to university.

But in the end – what’ so bad about Growing Up? Maybe I should rename this blog Swedish Lady In London. But see, that just sounds bad – and it would get the wrong sort of googles.

East is East (but not for long)

2005-10-28T15:51:00.000Z

London is moving eastwards, or so Doc keeps telling me when I longingly cast my eyes to the iridescent facades of Chelsea.

“In twenty years time, you won’t even recognise Canary Wharf”, he says. He’s got a point – just check out this development in Poplar Docks.

Still, the social scene hasn’t really kept pace with the gentrification of the old Docklands. Canary Wharf may be full of unexpected waterways and posh-looking little parks, but eating & drinking is stuck in Brand Land: Wagamama, Eat, Starbucks...

... of course, most of all Starbucks. A big penguin colony of suits spill out of the Norman Foster-desgined tube station every morning, sipping caffè latte from beaker cups. I've got a theory about why we love beaker cups so much, by the way: It takes us back to our old nursery days - a much safer time than now, when we have to face the cold world every morning and go into work. If we can't have stuffed toys and lego, at least leave us our beakers.

At the top of the rolling staircase a small, dejected man is handing out free copies of City A.M.

"Your morning newspaper! Free for you, sir!"

But people just hurry by, and for some reason that makes me a little bit sad (and even more in need of my beaker).

The times they are a-changing, though. Just along the road, you have got the gastropub The Gun, for instance, all roaring fires and Lord Nelson nostalgia - and above Waitrose, the Conran venue Plateau serves glitzy food in a Sex in the City setting.

Maybe the latte brigade can mix with the old Eastenders, in the end?

On the Sunny Side of Oxford Street

2005-10-28T13:49:00.000Z

Another autumn, another H&M Christmas campaign. Were you, like me, fooled by last year’s Karl Lagerfeld malarkey? In Geneva at the time, I insisted on rushing into the nearest H&M shop, which surely is the Swedish equivalent of Brits demanding pints of lager in Megaluf or Austrians yodelling at Heathrow*: fine in your own country, but not very imaginative when abroad.

Anyway, in I rushed, only to be met with a section of non-descript, black garments. I believe I even spotted a disturbing tights-and-tunics combo. This is really all I’m ever going to say on the matter.

This year’s haute couture Big Beast is of course Stella McCartney (collection in stores on 10 November). Or Big Beast is perhaps not the best description – very small, even lap-dog sized, Beast would be more accurate. (That’s got the right Pekinese associations as well, as I can’t help but observe – although this is quite bitchy so please disregard.) Surely this is bodes better for the collection?

After all, Lagerfeld doesn’t design for young women. He’s much more at home on the planet of two-pieces. Although I have never got closer to a Stella McCartney piece than a paparazzi pic in Marie-Claire, they seem funkier, girlier… more H&M, tout simplement.

And I suppose there’s the rub: I don’t want to buy Stella’s clothes because they look Haute Couture. I want to buy them because they look Highstreet.

So what’s the point in sleeping in a cardboard box outside the shop like some straggly-haired StarWars fan? What’s the point in queing, cross and sweaty, to get five depressing minutes in the changing room? When the style I like can be found next door in Warehouse, under much calmer auspices?

Face it, expensive clothes are never going to be as much fun. I'm sticking to the sunny side of the highstreet.

*one of these two phenomena surely more common than the other

Veni, vidi, mingli

2005-10-28T10:31:00.000Z

Yesterday’s mingling went reasonably well, in that I wasn’t ejected from the building or speared by a cocktail pin.

I think I might have offended a nice Japanese man, though, with the question:
“Where are you based?”
He looked very surprised. “Pardon?”
“Eh… where are you based?”
“Why do you ask me that?”

And now I was really stumped for an answer. Why on Earth was I asking him that? After all, I wasn’t planning on sending him a Christmas card or flowers or even a strip-o-gram. It just seemed like a fairly harmless conversation opener.

So that involved me in a long and complicated lie about how I’ve always wanted to go to Tokyo and was trying to get tips from people who lived there. I think I left him with the distinct impression that I was fishing for an invitation to sleep on his couch, and shortly afterwards he moved away with a polite bow. Oh well.

Thanks so much for your great suggestions, by the way! I’ll be much more socially competent at my next mingling event (probably ten years from now!). But I have noticed a new mingling difficulty: How do you politely leave somebody?

Mingle with the Pringles

2005-10-27T14:15:00.000Z

A mingling event is coming up on my not-so-crammed social calendar. Now, I realise that this should make me dive joyfully into my wardrobe and emerge Holly Golightly-like in a black shift dress, suckling a diamantee cigarette holder. Instead, I fear it will be another opportunity to ponder my general social ineptitude.

I just have not mastered the art of small talk, particularly not in combination with canapés. You would think only Indian deities could handle shaking hands & exchanging business cards while holding a glass of wine and a plate with mini-quiche. However, I know for a fact that this feat has been performed by normal, two-armed people at many mingling events I have attended in the past. What I don’t know is how.

Even more difficult is actually finding something to talk about. Nothing is emptier than my brain after being introduced to a suited business contact. Nothing! Not even an East German supermarket during communism! And we all know how situations like that end, don’t we? That’s right – with a bad joke.

But this time I’ll come prepared. I have listed my Top Five Small-Talk Subjects, so ubiquitous that they can’t fail to please:

1. Mobile phones. They are the new plumbers – everybody has got a horror story. A particularly popular strand is to complain about other people using theirs inappropriately. Of course, I shamelessly play along in this and shudder at the thought of people conversing loudly on the bus. (In truth, I can’t bear to be parted from my wee Ericsson. After all, there is something so reassuring about it. Whenever you’re in the pub and your mate has gone to the loo, you get your phone up and start fiddling around with it. It’s sort of like signalling: I might look like Norman No-Mates at the moment, but see, at the tiniest click of my finger I could be in direct satellite contact with… Prince Harry. Or someone.)

2. Hmm, I’m already struggling, and that’s only the first subject polished off. Wait, I’ve got it – religion, politics and sexual orientation! No? You spoil-sports. Well, what about transport? If the mingling event is in any large city, there will surely be a deep well of pent-up tube-rage to tap into. I feel that this subject should be approached with some caution, though. Things can get nasty when free champagne is involved.

3. On a similar theme - the congestion charge. I still don’t know how it works, but you seem to be able to get great mileage out of it.

4. "Tell me about yourself". In theory this one should be unbeatable, because I have yet to meet somebody who doesn’t like to talk about their own pretty self (see this blog for evidence). It’s a little bit harder to pull off in real life, however. The risk is that you come across as a slightly creepy, US-style shrink, and we wouldn’t want that now, would we? So I’ll have to work on that one.

5. Empty. Empty. Empty! Wo sind die Grünsachen?

Are you scared yet?

2005-10-27T10:52:00.000Z

Now Doc is unhappy and I’m afraid that I’m responsible for this state of affairs. Instead of drinking Real Ales in the Jerusalem Tavern, as we were supposed to do yesterday, we ended up in the cinema to feed my Costume Drama habit.

“Come on,” I cajoled, “it’s Roman Polanski! He directed Aliens!”
“What?” spluttered Doc. “Roman Polanski never directed Alien!”
“Oh, didn’t he? Maybe it was Rosemary’s baby. Anyway, something scary, just the way you like it.”
“Your definition of scary is watching Miss Marple re-runs without the lights on,” Doc reminded me.
“Tsk. Is not.”
“Then who was it that shrieked like a banshee when we went to see the play Woman in Black?”
“But that was scary!”
“It’s a theatre play. Nobody gets scared in the theatre, unless they watch the Vagina Monologues with Kathy Bates.”

And so on and on. But no arguing can change nature, which has ordained that
A) I shall be a woman;
B) Doc shall be a man...
... and you all know what that means. Yup, I got my way, and we watched Oliver Twist instead of drinking beer.

Bad karma placed me firmly behind a curly-haired Italian girl, though, which meant I only caught random glimpses of the action through her Botticelli locks. After all, you can’t really lean over and part someone's hairdo like leaves in a djungle – because messing with a girl and her coiffure… now that’s scary.

The Real Ale Question

2005-10-26T13:06:00.000Z

Real ales – now there’s a subject that has occupied my close friend Doc for a while. That’s not real as opposed to virtual, though. It’s real as in connected to the Land, the Past and - I vaguely imagine – Livestock & Laconic Farmers. It’s real as in “what Father Tuck would have brewed in Sherwood Forest”.

Real ales normally seem to be consumed by bearded people in dusty pubs. I also think there might be a folk music connection, although this would horrify Doc.

If you’re still not sure whether that’s a real ale in your hand, or merely an impostor with an expensive ad campaign behind it, then just check the following:

Are there odd-looking bits swivelling around at the bottom of your pint?
Does it foam like the mouth of (possibly deceased) cow?
Do you have to listen to long lectures from Doc or barman before taking a sip?

A great place to drink Real Ales: The Jerusalem Tavern A great place to avoid Real Ales: American Bar at The Savoy

A Mobile Defense

2005-10-25T13:50:00.000Z

Ten years on, and mobile phones are still tricky when it comes to manners, don't you think?

I suppose we are over the first knee-jerk "thrash Spinning Jenny" response of the mid 90s. Back then, you'd be ostracized for speaking publicly in a mobile phone, at least in Scotland.

"Ponce!" people said with narrowed eyes, as you cowered in a street corner and whispered into the receiver. I remember escaping into public loos with my own first phone (bought by loving parent to keep track of my whereabouts in foreign lands), but then people just thought that you were conversing loudly with yourself in the cubicle.

Now people seem to find it rude to talk on the mobile when you're on the bus, in the coffee shop or on the move in general. I'm not really sure I understand why. When else are you supposed to use your mobile? And yes, sometimes you do utter the dreaded words "I'm on the bus" - because it is the only truthful response to the question: "Where are you?"

Lady-in-Waiting

2005-10-25T13:31:00.000Z

I was supposed to meet a Spanish language exchange called Jairo outside Covent Garden tube at six o’clock yesterday, but arrived – in time-honoured Swedish fashion – early and decided to kill some time in Oasis. Two skirts (and the painful realisation that I’m NOT a size 6) later, I wasn’t early anymore, and rushed out with that horrid feeling all true Swedes get when they are more than two minutes late.

Ten minutes hence, and no Jairo.

To this point, all my dealing with Jairo had been via e-mail and SMS, which meant I hadn’t got a clue what he might look like. I had some vague idea about darkish hair and a tan, but that was more to do with national stereotyping than anything else. I think that he might have written in his last e-mail that he would be wearing jeans, which was both reassuring and useless:

Useless: as a narrowing-down piece of information, that is, not when it comes to the basic keep-you-warm-and-decent function of clothing. I mean - jeans? It doesn’t really weed you out from the masses the way, say, red bazaar-style trousers would.
Reassuring: While red bazaar-style trousers would have made Jairo easier to pick out in a crowd, it would also have made me less willing to do so.

Anyways, this meant that I was tentatively establishing eye-contact with any tanned dark man in jeans passing my way (No, that is not something I do all the time, I’ll have you know. Tsk!). This was misinterpreted in several instances. Most of the tanned men just got a worried look and hurried away, but one sleazy-looking specimen was evidently delighted and followed me around for at least five minutes.

Twenty minutes and still no Jairo.

In despair, I started to accost various strangers with the question: Are you Jairo? Now, I realise that if you don’t speak Spanish, this sounds like some sort of odd insult – the guttural sound of the Spanish J is enough to scare anybody. I also asked a girl what time it was. She looked pityingly at me and enquired whether I was on a blind date. This I had to refute violently, of course. No, no, no, I wasn’t at all the type of person who went on blind date, and even if I were, I was definitely not the type who would be stood up by a blind date. Here, painful recollections of trying on size 6 skirt in Oasis resurfaced and silenced me. The girl merely said that it was six-thirty, and moved away.

Shortly afterwards, an unrepentant, jeans-clad Jairo showed up, guided me to a Nero coffee shop, fed me with muffins and turned out to be a perfectly sweet, though unpunctual guy. The conversation somehow ended up on stereotypes, and Jairo ventured that English girls Drank A Lot, and wondered if Swedish girls did the same. I replied that I was afraid that we did & Jairo shook his head. I then suggested that Latin American girls probably did the same, only when he wasn't around to see it, and he very amicably agreed that this was probably so.

I now realise that people can be as late and macho as they like, but if they agree with me and give me muffins, I will still like them immensly.

Hot Property

2005-10-21T13:11:00.000Z

If there is a theme that recurs in all London conversations sooner or later, it's the Property Market and - more specifically - How Expensive It Is. Or maybe this is more due to my age than where I live? Because suddenly, God knows how, we've all reached an age when you actually consider buying a house - not in the idle, early-twenties fashion of conjuing up cool bachelor pads overlooking Central Park or bohemian attic flats in Montmartre... but in the late-twenties real bricks-and-mortar sense with attached plumbing and mortgages.

This means that I'm constantly being buzzed around by various estate agents with various friends to look at various flats - like yesterday, for instance.

Yesterday's area: Angel.
Yesterday's friend: Alias Aurora.
Yesterday's estate agent: alert-looking person with Becks-style hair.

"I don't want to see any ex-local authority flats", said Aurora very decisively, and Becks agreed heartily, before driving us to a ghetto-like building that looked as though it should be approached in a tank.

"Isn't this ex-local authority?" Aurora asked suspiciously, and Becks once again agreed heartily that it was and shooed us out of the car. He said it would be great for us to look at, so we would know what we didn't want. I can now see several faults with this logic, but at the time we just acquiesced meekly and followed him into The World's Smallest Lift (also made remarkable by its yellow and orange colour scheme).

After looking at an equally tiny flat, where the door to the loo wouldn't close because of odd arrangement of defunct radiator, we mumbled that it was "lovely" and Becks rewarded us by letting us into the car again.

Once on the road, Becks told us to tell him again exactly what sort of flat we were interested in, and Aurora again suggested anything that wasn't ex-local authority. Excellent choice, in Becks opinion. Then we stopped by another poxy-looking council estate, passed a depressed-looking young girl with a glum wee baby in a pram, and were shown a ground-floor flat with greenish stains in the ceiling.

By now I was starting to feel as though we should all gather together, sing the International, overthrow the government and build nice-looking houses for everybody. Aurora's anger was more directed towards Becks - probably because she was the one buying the place and thus actually having to live there.

"No ex-local authority houses, OK?" she said as we stomped out.

The next house really wasn't ex-local authority, but it was on the other hand hardly in London anymore. Beck optimistically claimed that it was close to the mainline station, but Aurora merely gave him a whithering look. I, for reasons that defy analysis, had to compensate by complimenting the house extravagantly.

"What are you doing?" Aurora wheezed.

"Just trying to be polite," I wheezed back.

"Why? It's not his house, and it certainly won't be mine."

The hunt goes on. I'll keep you posted.

Rollerskate Disco at Kings Cross

2005-10-20T14:02:00.000Z

Hey girls, get your leg-warmers, pom-poms and blue eyeshadow out - it's time for the Rollerskate Disco at Bagleys' in Kings Cross Depot! No excuses now, Proud Mary, you know that you need to keep rollin'.

And what do you mean you can't skate? That's what the good-looking minders are there for.

Be warned, though - at first, the location appears a bit dodgy. Yes, it does look as though you are taken away to a parking lot to get duct-tape plastered over your mouth before being stuffed away in the boot of a car. Once inside, however, the disco is all palmtrees, cushy sofas and ra-ra skirts. Lycra-clad creatures swoosh around three different dancefloor, and everything is very Baz Luhrman-esque and retro.

How to Watch Football

2005-10-20T09:34:00.000Z

Now, I'm not the sort of person who gets out my stripey scarf of a Saturday and trundles away to the football stadium for some primal screaming. I don't need that outlet of aggression - I travel daily on the tube, for Pete's sake.

But you cannae live in Scotland and England for almost ten years without going a bit native, and so yesterday two Spanish friends and I ventured out to the Sports Cafe to watch Chelsea vs. Real Betis.

"Glory hunters", mutter the true football fans - the ones who in infancy attach themselves to a particular group of under-achieving muppets for purely geographical reasons. Well, that might be so! Still, a wise choice if you are the sort of competitive person who injures people when playing Scrabble.

Even if you're not a die-hard football fan, there are a number of ways of keeping yourself entertained during a football match. One is to play "Look-alikes":

Ruud van Nistelrooy looks like an Ugly Travolta.
Rui Costa looks like a Statue on Easter Island.
Wayne Rooney calls to mind a baby Shrek.
The more fortunate Antonios Nikipolidis resembles George Clooney.
Thierry Henry looks like that guy in the Renault commercial.

More fun and frolics to be had at www.tffo.co.uk.

Some good pubs for football watching:

Swedish games - The Harcourt Arms in Marylbone, mysteriously enough
Portuguese games - Bar Estrela in Stockwell
Dutch games - De Hems off Leicester Square
Italian games - Bar Italia off Tottenham Court Road
Spanish games - Bar Lorca, Stoke Newington
French games - Bar des Magies in Clapham

Model Behaviour

2005-10-19T09:38:00.000Z

Two British public figures have been in trouble for their alleged cocaine use recently:

A. Fashion model Kate Moss, pictured using a mirror for something other than checking her immaculate outfits.
B. Tory leader candidate David Cameron, who has refused to either confirm or deny rumours that he has tried cocaine in the past.

The consequences have been a bit different for Kate and Cameron, however.

Cocaine is generally agreed to render Miss Moss unfit for her job as a model (consisting mostly of keeping a slim figure), and she has lost several contracts and been sent to rehab.

Tory MPs seem less concerned about drugs impeding their man from doing a good job in No 10 (consisting, hopefully, of keeping a clear head and staying away from dangerous hubris), and David Cameron has emerged as a front runner in the campaign.

Well, there you go. Who got it right? Were people to strict on Moss, or to lenient towards Cameron?

Now That's Another Tory...

2005-10-19T08:59:00.000Z

The cigar-chomping bonhomie of Europhile Kenneth Clarke hasn't been enough to keep him in the race for the Tory leadership party. Last night, the Conservative MPs decided that he has delighted them long enough, and the contenders are now whittled down to:

1. Baby-faced Eton-boy David Cameron, who just weathered a "did he or did he not take cocaine?" controversy without getting his floppy mop in a tizzy.
2. Rightwinger David Davies, who in spite of growing up on a council estate and serving as a SAS reserve looks about as hard as a squidgy marshmallow.
3. Liam Fox, apparently an old-school Thatcher man, who I admit haven't registered much on my radar.

This nomination is a much more boisterous affair than our sedate, Swedish way of chosing party leaders, which seems to consist of approaching a number of horrified people, who all try to avoid the honour with lame excuses like "but I've got to wash my hair today". Finally, someone is led away to the office by his ear, and then normally stays there for, oh, about 50 years. We don't really like change much.

But, as we all know, the UK is home to a noisy Parliament and their politicos are of a more flamboyant variety. The Tory MPs will now elect two candidates, who then have to persuade the grassroots to vote for them. Don't ask me exactly how this happens - I have still not got my head around the caucases (plural? spelling? meaning?) of the US Democrat campaign and courage fails me when I consider starting all over again with the British system.

I do like this cruel talent show approach to matters though. It's entertaining. At the Party Conference, all the candidates gave speeches, and the media actually measured the length and vigour of hand-clapping afterwards. It was like a Pop Idol talent show.

Twisting & Turning

2005-10-18T12:53:00.000Z

The Turner Prize shortlist will go on display at the Tate Britain today, and I bet that a fair amount of folk have already prepared their sneers for “this conceptual art rubbish”. And of course, on the other side of the fence, the art brigade will respond with their own sneers at those old fogeys who can’t deal with anything more challenging than a stud by Stubbs – or worse, a sleazy Vettriano post card.

Somehow, you have to chose your allegiance, not on the grounds of whether or not you like the work of art - but what sort of person you want to be:

Old fogey?
Or arty-farty?

London Film Festival

2005-10-18T09:32:00.000Z

It's the second day of the London Film Festival, and the last day of the giant screen in Trafalgar Square. Hurry, or you'll miss the short film Lightman, a "manic short film about a man, scared of the dark, who tries to recreate the sun in his loft". (I'm definitely not one to mock, considering the electric shock I gave myself last time I switched a light bulb.)

Tonight, The Constant Gardener, a John le Carre adaptation starring Rachel Weisz and Ralph Fiennes, is showing at Odeon Leicester Square. Do check out the website: can't you smell the panic in the marketing team?

"Whadda ya mean - gardener? It's gonna make people think of Alan Thitchmarsh pottering about in Auntie's rose garden. Get some big, flashy guns on the poster."

I do want to see it, although I've got a feeling that any John le Carré filmatisation is bound to fail. How could they translate to the screen that delicious feeling of never really knowing what's going on? Or is that just me reading le Carré?

But of course, the Constant Gardener is not the sort of film you should see at a Festival. It'll come to a theatre near you soon enough. It's the likes of Lightman that deserves our patronage, if they so have to handcuff us to the seat.

Quiz Mizz

2005-10-17T15:41:00.000Z

Oh come on, nobody grows out of a good quiz! I was quite fond of this quiz site (until it told me that my style twin was Nicole Ritchie) and the geek test.

And as a good Swedish girl, I have to point you towards the Ikea Family Test: Which type of furniture are you?

Yes, really.

Back To Life

2005-10-17T09:08:00.000Z

Rumours abound that the old 90s TV show This Life is about to be resurrected for a Christmas Special "Ten Years On" episode - oh please, let it be so!

Set in a flatshare in London, it was the handy-cam, British version of Friends, which means bed-heads in the morning and normal teeth. The cast looked like us, listened to Portishead like we did, drank Thresher's special offer Chardonnay like we did and, importantly, didn't group hug. They did have the back-up of some witty scriptwriters, though.

The cast:
Anna, a leggy, mouthy, do-I-care Scot, who fancied...
Miles, pre-Colin Firth posterboy for posh, who possibly fancied her back.
Milly, uptight and prone to baths, mysteriously attached to...
Egg, a sweet football & lager type of lad.

Are there other defunct TV shows out there that should be brought back to the screen? Don't tell me that you're happy with "Lost" - the adventures of Buzz Lightyear on a desert island surely can't keep us entertained? And "Desperate Housewives" is no replacement for Sex and the City - aren't we tiring of Mary Alice, a woman who manages to be dead and annoying at the same time?

Accentuate the negative

2005-10-16T11:28:00.000Z

The success of Mortalia's monosyllabic conversation last night has led to a rather troubling question:

Is the effort normally dispensed to produce upbeat repartee a waste of time?

What I mean is - if people seem to be just as happy with Mortalia's deathly stares, why bother trying to be pleasant and polite?

From Russia, with Very Little Love

2005-10-16T09:46:00.000Z

This weekend I went out In Character, something I haven’t done since, oh, at least 2002. Going out In Character involves spinning an elaborate and wholly untruthful backstory for yourself and then trying to pass it off as God’s honest truth to various strangers in the night. When you’re in character, you should be a Nurse in a Cosmetic Surgery, or Married to the Mob.

(Why, did you ask? Hm. I’ll get back to you on that one later.)

Tonight’s Theme: My tiny, pretty friend was cast as A Happy Girl from Ile Saint Maurice, while I got the role of Morose Gold-digger from Siberia.

Then came the question of names. After some discussion, we elected…

A) Aurora for my friend, because it would surely bring to mind sunrises on sandy beaches and general holiday brochure jollity. In keeping with this, Aurora was instructed to clap her hands excitedly & giggle at all comments.
B) Mortalia for myself, since it was agreed that it made you think of Russia and death. Mortalia’s brief was to assume sombre & depressed demeanour and answer everything in the negative.

Example:
Q: “Do you like London?”
A: “No.”

Or:
Q: “Are you having fun?”
A: “No.”

At first, this turned out to be astonishingly difficult to keep up. I'm ashamed to say that smiling & prancing like My Little Pony on lithium seem to be ingrained in my DNA. After a while, though, I got the hang of it and started to enjoy Mortalia’s negative vibe.

Galaxy Far Far Away

2005-10-15T12:48:00.000Z

Oh my, don't we all love star-spotting! I'm not very good at it, but since coming to London I have done my best to natch up a respectable star-spotting tab.

Here we go:

1. In a bar, a friend of mine pointed out a youngster in a velvet suit that she swore was famous, though she wasn't sure exactly what FOR. She theorised that it might be MTV Europe, but phoned me up next morning to say that it was probably Top of the Pops she was thinking of. So that's star number one: Velvet Suit, Possibly from Top of Pops.

2. In the lovely restaurant Shampers, off Kingly Street, I caught a glimpse of a leonine mane tucking into a plate of sallad. Have to admit that I thought nothing more of it until my dinner companion asked in hushed tones if that wasn't "the woman off Ally McBeal". By that time, the leonine mane had already finished her salad and disappeared, so we can't know for sure. Voila, star number two: Leonine mane, Possibly the woman off Ally McBeal.

I admit that these are quite small fixtures on the firmament. They shed their light from a galaxy far, far away, maybe. At this rate, I might get to see the Archbishop of Canterbury in a couple of years time.

Although, in my defense, I have seen Kevin Spacey and Rob Lowe - but on stage, which is cheating. And here I have to add that I find it very bad mannners to start clapping the minute the star sets foot on stage, completely ignoring the other actors who have been sweating blood for our entertainment for about half an hour already.

There! Keep those flippers still, children!