28 days later...

I can happily report Sweden is not overrun by Zombies / a rage virus. 2 ‘grown-ups’ (debatable: see photo*) and 2 cats left Edinburgh for the land of Volvos, Abba and Ikea 28 days ago, much like my Viking ancestors in reverse, but in a small truck rather than a long boat (much 10/4-10/4 rubber duckie fun was had by all). Since then, there has been much to surprise, delight and disgust me.

*These make me giggle. Every time.

Having been warned that the Swedish peoples tend to be shy / standoffish (this was by Swedes, so it’s not racism…) I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how friendly and helpful everyone has been, from the smiley ladies at the tax office to the nice people who helped me push my friend’s trusty old Volvo (which is as old as me, if not older) away from the petrol pumps in the rain, when it wouldn’t start (I’d managed to flood the engine. Clever me.)

I have, of course, also provided many moments of entertainment, and simple confusion, for the natives in my attempts to get my head around their mother tongue. When a couple of friends got engaged I told them I was so ‘upphetsad’ (excited) for them. You can imagine their amusement (and slight fear) at the fact that upphetsad tends to mean excited in the aroused sense.

When I told our bin man I’d lived in Edinburgh for 70 years, rather than 17, he was kind enough to point out I didn’t look old enough to have lived there that long, despite the fact that I had just got out of bed and ran out of the house like a demented leprechaun to catch the bin collection. The lady who offered to help me in a shop to be told: ‘No thanks, I’m dainty’ just looked confused. Given my distinct lack of daintiness, I’d say she was very confused.

Speaking of shops brings me on to something I like a whole lot about Sweden. No queues. You take a numbered ticket when you go anywhere you might need counter service and wait until your number is called. This means you can browse, sit, or even leave and come back if your timing’s good, rather than stand in a queue like a fool. Logic. I like it.

Another thrilling observation I’ve made is that of the Swedish dustpan and brush. OK thrilling may be pushing it a bit, but it’s the little things… And, in this case, the long handles. Simple, effective, logical. I ask myself: Why are people in other countries still bending over? 

Why do we bend and scrape?

I considered calling this ‘Confessions of a Swedophile’, but thought people might get the wrong idea. Also, there are some things over here that I am not a fan of. And some that are just plain wrong. I give you... salted liquorice. WHY? Why take something revolting and make it even more so? Also: Emmerdale and Holby City. Yes, you read correctly. Of all the British TV on offer, they import Emmerdale and Holby City. All I can think is that there’s a bargain bin in the TV show shop (or wherever it is these TV executive types buy their programming) and they were in it.

If you were hoping for me to wax lyrical about the beautiful Swedish countryside, gorgeous buildings and fascinating history I think you know by now, if you’ve made it this far, that you’ll be waiting. If you really want to see how beautiful it is watch this. We’re getting down to the nitty gritty. I did mention disgust earlier and, let’s face it, this is what you’ve been waiting for. The toilet.

Beautiful Sweden. But that's not what this is about.

Yes they have toilets, and yes, they look pretty similar to most toilets in the western hemisphere (aside from Italy – no holes in the ground here thankfully), but when you live in the countryside, as we do, there are other aspects to consider, like shit tanks. Not every home is linked up to the main sewerage system, so when you flush your ablutions (as my Nana called them) are not taken to the ocean, like Nemo, they’re taken to a big smelly tank under your garden (where you will certainly not find Nemo). And, more logic, these tanks need to be emptied every so often.

Now it’s not that we didn’t check the tank, it’s more that we neglected to check it for a few days, and the day it unexpectedly reached capacity happened to coincide with a class 2 storm. Excellent. A shit-storm it was not, but it did mean having to use the outside toilet which, when the wind is howling in the pitch-black night, is atmospheric to say the least. That said, given outside toilets don’t flush, there are times when the phrase ‘I can’t see shit’ is a positive.

As God is my witness, I will never take a flushing toilet for granted again.

New Year, and no beer?!

So, two weeks in. How are you all doing? All skinny, sober and speaking Swahili? No…? Shocker!

New year, new possibilities, new start. Blah blah blah. I, for one, can't be arsed. Every year we labour under the misconception that the New Year has the mystical properties required to transform our lives beyond recognition. I suppose our brains are so clogged with Christmas cake, cheese and chocolate that lard-induced hallucinations are not surprising really.

What is surprising is the timing of it all. Choosing, for example, to give up booze in January of all months is utterly ridiculous (and, ironically enough, is generally a declaration made whilst chugging New Year’s eve bubbles like they’re going out of fashion).

If we can veer into a little corporate twaddle momentarily (sorry, it’ll be over in a jiffy and you won’t feel a thing) let’s have a quick check if this is a SMART objective:

Specific – yes, in it’s stupidity

Measurable – only with tears of anguish

Achievable – not on your nelly

Realistic – see above

Timely – it’s January for feck’s sake!

January. The least popular kid in the playground, the Aunt that nobody likes, the traffic warden of the calendar year. Gyms are overflowing, pubs are deserted and people on diets are dull at best, frightening at worst (‘DON’T LET ME HAVE CHOCOLATE!’ they scream at you, a manic, stricken look in their hollow, joyless eyes). Why, oh why, would we choose to take away all the things that could help take the edge of the cold dark days?

The term is HAPPY New Year.
Don't take away the beer...

If you’re going to make a New Year’s resolution, and avoid unpleasant self-flagellation when it all goes to pot, keep it simple. The only resolution I have ever managed to keep was to floss every day. One small step for a small ginger, one giant leap in avoiding gingivitis. I have long since given up telling myself I will lose two stone in January, repairing my liver while I’m at it. It will never happen.

But if you’re made of sterner stuff than me and you’re sticking with the Swahili lessons, good on you. Here’s a useful little phrase to help you along…

I’d like a cold beer please: Tafadhali nataka bia pombe baridi.

Now doesn't that look lovely...?

Festive frolics

As the Edinburgh festival was kicking off last weekend a small gaggle of us were out taking in the atmosphere (and the beer) and a friend, let's call her Sabriena (because that's her name), decided to 'help' a performer whose flyer-hander-outer had clearly shirked their responsibilities and left the whole pile on one table. Now Sabriena has an impish streak at the best of times, add wine and naughtiness is guaranteed - so out came the eyeliner and said performer, unbeknownst to himself, was soon offering free shows and discounted tickets, not to mention taking on new personalities. Imp-girl then began distributing the flyers to passing punters, forgetting that Edinburgh is a very small place…

It took no less than three flyers before Sabriena was handing one of her special flyers to the performer himself. Caught rotten. He did see the funny side, but there was a definite tone to his good-natured repartee when he realised just how many of his 'very expensive' flyers imp-girl had ‘amended’ (see also: defaced).

So, by way of penance for the sins of the imp, if you are in the vicinity of Edinburgh I encourage you to go and see Trevor Browne – he is, apparently,  'probably the greatest folk-rock musician of all time’, ‘brilliantly funny’, and he's low on flyers - so tell your friends.

As you can tell, you don't have to actually see any shows in the festival to enjoy it, but it’s worth it all the same. Last night we went to see Mark Watson: The Information - the geeky non-welsh, non-Jewish funny guy from Never mind the Buzzcocks, 8 out of 10 Cats and Mock the Week (in his words; a 'non speaking role'). His show features plenty of audience interaction (the mark of a fine comic in my book) and the better half even got kudos and a big laugh for the comic timing of his interaction. This was not heckling, I hasten to add, for heckling rarely comes off well for the heckler - the hecklee generally takes the chuckling glory, and rightly so, because the majority of hecklers are an embarrassment.

Just two statues, shootin' the breeze

We followed Mr Watson with a mime act. Yes – I said a 'mime act'. What’s more, it was bloody brilliant. Words I never thought I would hear, much less write, in connection with mime. Had you said to me a guy could keep an audience totally enthralled and entertained for an hour without uttering a word I would have been skeptical at best, but that is exactly what The boy with tape on his face bloomin' well did. He is a man, but the boy title suits him so much better - and I say that with the nicest possible intentions, because he clearly hasn't lost his childhood imagination. There are lots of positive words to describe the show, but lighthearted does it best. Go and see it - you will come out with a BIG smile on your face.

People watching gold

Its ability to surprise, with the likes of good mime acts, is one of the many reasons I love the festival. I’m also a huge fan of people watching and during the festival it is absolutely golden. Maniacs, midgets and massive cows – its got it all, and more. My 9-year-old nephew put it best when he said 'Edinburgh is weird sometimes'. Yes it is. Weird and wonderful.

This is NOT how gingers should be treated

moooo!

Onwards & Upwards

I have the dubious pleasure of frequenting airports on a weekly basis at the moment (less carbon footprint, more carbon body-slam for me), and I do find it rather hard not to let the green-eyed monster possess my being when I see the happy holiday makers hopping on their planes and jetting off to sunnier climbs. I know that in a few short hours they’ll be sipping their first poolside cocktail while I’ll be slurping bad coffee in a stuffy office. Hmpfh, pfffpt and woe is me, etc. But then I give myself a gentle shake and remember I have it kinda damn good really.

Yes, the weather is crap, eejits roam freely to annoy us and my bum is too big, but it could be a hell of a lot worse - as I've said before; in this world, if you know where your next meal is coming from and you’re not having the arse shot off you, you’re doing pretty well.

My glass is half full, and when it’s in danger of nearing the empty stage I try to find something to look forward to (as well as ordering another drink, obviously…). They say the best cure for post holiday blues is to book another holiday. This isn’t always possible, but there’s always something to find for a similar result and just a little bit of excitement can go a long way. Just look at the effect the Olympic opening ceremony had amidst the recession gloom and the wettest summer since Noah built a boat.

I like to keep a little list of happy things in my head to keep me going (worry not! I am not about to break into ‘Raindrops on Roses’, but you get my meaning…) It’s not big stuff. Generally it’s the standard (Friday always features heavily) and sometimes the thing I look forward to most is doing nothing (yes – I am that lazy).

Monday morning will be with us soon, with its misery, moaning and melancholy, but onwards and upwards people – there is plenty to keep us cheery if we think about it, even if it’s just a nice vat of Wine.

Festival fun is nigh, something Pleasance to look forward to...

Taxi!

Taxis are often an iconic part of the cityscape - London’s black cabs, New York’s yellow taxis, and Bangkok’s death-defying tuk-tuks - and, in addition to their power to transport you from A to B when you’re wearing heels / have forgotten your umbrella, I love taxis ability to surprise. Sometimes for the better – New York taxis have very bouncy back seats, and they’re really cheap (far cheaper that Edinburgh taxis – but that’s a rant about the city of Edinburgh council I won’t go into now) and sometimes for the worse – I’m always a little disappointed when I hail a ‘traditional Black cab’ only to be faced with a boxy glorified van. Yes – more of those first world problems, but I’m not a fan of the new style black cabs. Give me a ‘dangerous’ door that opens in reverse over a slow-motion automatic door any day (I could walk quicker than those bloody doors open). 

It’s the drivers that really make the journey though. Believe me I’ve met plenty of the traditional grumpy ignoramus types who are only out to wheedle as much money as possible out of you. The better half and I took a cab from the airport to our hotel in Vegas without a single word from the driver – not even a grunt. And if I had a pound for every time a classic cranky Edinburgh taxi driver (don’t mention the trams!) has tried to take me the longest route possible in a city I’ve lived in for 15 years, only to be totally affronted by the ‘accusation’… and god forbid you attempt to open the aforementioned ridiculous automatic doors yourself. Cue huffing, puffing and loosely disguised expletives. But, to be fair, they do have to deal with the general public all day (and – even worse - all night), and if that were me there would probably be blood.

I love an anti-stereotype, and I’m happy to say I have also met some truly lovely drivers. Going right back to when this country girl (bog-hopper, culchie, teuchter – call me what you like) started going out in the ‘big city’ and the drivers of sky cabs would put up with the caterwauling of a carload of drunken* teenage girls as we attempted, by way of our ‘harmonies’, to get a few pounds knocked off the fare. God bless them. Not only did they refrain from ejecting us from their car for crimes against eardrums, they actually gave us a discount – and greeted us with great aplomb the following week when we clambered into their car for another verse of California Dreamin’ (with seconds… oh dear).

More recently, arriving at Edinburgh airport at ungodly o’clock off a delayed flight, I was mightily cheered to discover myself on board the karma taxi. I gave the girl next to me in the queue a ‘lift’ because her house was on my way, which led to a chat with the driver about good deeds. He's a big believer in karma and every day he gives a free fare to someone he thinks either needs or deserves it. Like the old lady who’d decided to splash out on a taxi home from the bingo, rather than the bus, after a little win. He refused to take any money off her and told her to treat herself to tea and cake the next day instead. A most excellent anti-stereotype.

Taxi drivers, at least the ones who’ve managed to keep their sense of humour, also have great stories, particularly the guys at Bristol airport. Last week one driver was telling me about another passenger who was threatening to sue the holiday company after his annual family holiday in Spain (yep, you guessed it – same place every year). They’d broken out and tried First Choice after 10 years on the trot with Thomas Cook (wild!) They went to the same hotel, the rep was fine, the flight was better. ‘So what was the problem?’ asked the driver. It was too hot. ’32 degrees every day!’ apparently. And how was that the fault of said First Choice? Well the average monthly temperature in their brochure said 28 degrees. The mind boggles.

*All very legal, I hasten to add.        *ahem*

That Monday feeling

It’s fairly safe to say we all hate Mondays. They are the very definition of a killjoy; they hang around with the other banes of our lives (work, chores and the alarm clock), and they invite despair, tears and general gnashing of teeth to their miserable party every week.

But maybe we can’t tar all Mondays with the same brush. Bank holiday Mondays, for instance – we love those delightful little cherubs. And what about those Mondays when you’re on holiday and everyone else is at work? They’re even better, because you can have a little cackle at the thought of other people dragging themselves out of bed at ungodly o’clock and struggling through traffic to sit in endless meetings as you lie in bed / on the beach / under the bar. Sadistic, yes, but you know you do it.

Occasionally Mondays also look the other way and allow a little joy to crash the party. Like today; a Monday that brought with it sunshine AND a cheque from the taxman. Yes – I said from! They also give tax back. Deep joy on a Monday people. And it goes to show that, not only are some Mondays good, some employees of HM Revenue & Customs are not evil. Who would’ve thought it?!

This happy little occurrence reminded me of another renegade I came across in the past few months; a nice traffic warden. No joke. I was let off a ticket, and, what’s more, a ticket I totally deserved. I parked up, right by a pay-and-display machine, but discovered I had no change. ‘Feck it’ I thought, ‘I’ll only be a few minutes’.

Timekeeping is not one of my strong points and I was a few minutes longer than a few minutes, and as I rounded the corner to get back to the car there he was, ticket touter of doom at the ready. My heart sank and I rushed up, garbling apologies and excuses. He raised one eyebrow, told me I was ‘riskin’ it for a biscuit’ (eh?) and put the malevolent machine away.

My shock and joy led to a stream of gratitude (I think I told him I loved him at one point…) and when I exclaimed that ‘I didn’t know nice traffic wardens existed!’ (I never know when to shut up) he simply smiled and said ‘there are a few of us’ and headed off down the street.

Mondays, taxmen and traffic wardens – they’re not all bad. Shocking but true.

Trust me - I'm an expert...

No, not me - I have no discernable expertise to speak of (I don’t think my active interest in all things alcoholic counts). The experts I refer to are those frustrated individuals you see on TV trying to help some hapless eejit who ignores their every word.

Working my way to expertise - one cocktail at a time.

Granted, I can understand why the ‘restaurateurs’ on Ramsay’s kitchen nightmares may have trouble accepting advice when it’s screamed into their faces and peppered with expletives (but I also fully understand Gordon’s affinity for effing and jeffing). My main point of confusion lies in the fact that they call him in in the first place – and then refuse to listen to him. Eh?

Same thing happens to Messrs Beeny and McCloud in the property field. OK, so Kevin McCloud does tend more towards mocking the grand designers behind their backs and having a little cackle when things go wrong; ‘and she’s decided to take on the role of project manager herself …he he he’. But how many times have we seen virginal property developers blatantly ignore Sarah Beeny’s advice, only to come a cropper further down the line? Learning from your mistakes is all very well – but learning from other people’s mistakes has got to be the better option, especially when it comes to D-I-WHYYYYYY.

And then there’s our lovely Apprentice friends. Britain’s brightest young business minds apparently. Really? I despair. They’re all so busy trying to impress Lawd Suuugahh (I preferred Surrralan to be honest – had more of a ring to it) they ignore EVERYONE. Focus groups, field experts, each other – they don’t discriminate and their single-minded determination to listen only to themselves does not falter. I suppose it’s not really surprising from people who come out with gems like ‘don't tell me the sky's the limit when there are footprints on the moon’ and describe themselves as ‘the reflection of perfection’ <retch>.

Self-belief is a wonderful thing, and anyone who’s got anywhere knows you can’t let the critics, haters and nay-sayers get to you, but for god’s sake, when someone who knows what they’re talking about is giving advice – listen!

I should have listened to Phil 'The Power' when I had the chance...