Tree-mendous
I’ve just discoverred Tagore, Asia’s first winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. Just imagine – he wrote his first poem when he was only eight!
(I found this photo of oaks in Louisiana, USA via Stumbleupon, so unfortunately, don’t know who took it.)
BE still,
my heart,
these great trees are prayers.
Tagore (from his poem Stray Birds)
The tale of little burnt cabbage
After laughing my way through Po’s tale of how she nearly burnt down her house with a loaf of wholewheat bread, my own little story of arson popped into my mind like one of those annoying but persistent door to door salespeople who wants you to buy a pile of socks that you don’t need and will never wear anyway.
My culinary skills are legendary for being non-existent. Yes – they are on a par with my sewing efforts. And you all know how that ended, right? I mean: you’re looking at someone who has a milk splatter … on the living room ceiling! (I won’t go into that right now…)
Anyway, back to my tale of woe and thick smoke…
When I was about 18, my parents found themselves back in the UK and we actually went home from boarding school at the weekends. During that time, I was active in the local drama club and was rushing to go out to rehearsals. My parents were out that particular afternoon, and my mother had left some sausages on a plate and some cabbage in a saucepan.
The sausages were black and one lick told me that they were inedible, so I promptly put them into the bin. (Sorry, mum!) It turns out later that they were supposed to be black as they were blood sausages – some kind of weird Scottish delicacy made out of the innards of animals. (Is it any wonder I became vegetarian?)
Anyway … next to the saucepan, my mum had left cooking instructions. As you might have guessed, I was unaccustomed to the foreign art of cooking as at boarding school, everything was served up to us.
I followed those instructions to the letter.
1. Turn the stove on to medium heat.
2. Boil cabbage for ten minutes.
3. Eat.
Well, I have a confession to make: I never did manage to obey that third instruction. Yes, I turned on the hob and then left the cabbage boiling for ten minutes. As I hopped out of the shower, I was faintly alarmed by the acrid smell of burning.
When I entered the kitchen a few minutes later, I was shocked to see clouds of thick, vile black smoke coming out of the saucepan! And were those actually flames?!
I whipped the pan off the hob and put it down on the side – promptly causing the formica work top to buckle and crease up like a deflating souffle. (We had to hide that deformity when we sold the house by covering it up with a rather large kettle…)
I then moved the pan into the stainless steel sink where I averted any further danger by turning on the tap. The smell of burnt cabbage and burnt saucepan were indescribably awful. Then, I did what any dutiful daughter would have done: left the mess in the sink and waltzed off to drama rehearsal!
Would it surprise you to know that my mum was furious when she got home? So furious, that she just couldn’t talk to me when I returned. I don’t think that my explanation helped things either.
You see: I did – quite literally – follow those instructions. Nowhere on that piece of paper did it say that the cabbage actually had to boil in water. Nowhere did it tell me that I had to “add water to cabbage before boiling”. And if you try to boil cabbage in a dry saucepan, then guess what? It catches fire and burns!
That’s what happens when you go to a school that offers you the choice between Latin or cookery.
No guessing which subject I chose!
Dental nerves!
You all came up with brilliant answers to yesterday’s joke! Yes – the dentist saw molar bears at the North Pole.
And now… to today’s post:
Sir Pe tried to leave this as a comment on yesterday’s post, but I thought it was worthy of its own 15 minutes of fame! So, at last, I have my very first guest blogger… drum roll … may I present … the one, the only …
… Sir Pe! Make sure you make him feel at home and leave him lots of comment love. He must be the only person I know who actually makes the dentist feel nervous! This is his story in his own words.
As far as I know, my teeth don’t actually shine in the dark 
.
I met my dentist, Michael Riedel, in November 1988, shortly after moving to Stockholm. I was having trouble with a wisdom tooth that had a bad sense of direction, and it didn’t take Michael very long to decide that it, and its three siblings, needed to be extracted ASAP. So extract them he did: firstly the two on the left, then two weeks later, the two on the right.
I’ll never forget that second session, and neither, I suspect, will Michael. He started on the easier, top-right tooth, which popped obligingly out with a minimum of persuasion. (Oh – I’m feeling a bit giddy right about now – are you?)
However, that lower-right tooth (or “48″ as it’s called here) had a set of roots that would make a Baobab tree envious, and it simply refused to budge. Twenty minutes, and two shots of anaesthetic later, he had managed to remove the crown, so there was no going back. (Oh no – I feel queasy now! OK .. sorry! Back to the story!)
As I was watching him, I saw beads of sweat forming on his brow, so I asked him if he wanted to take a short break. This he (very gratefully) did, returning ten minutes later (wearing a different shirt, I noticed), and equipped with a new plan: if the tooth refused to come out in one piece then it was going to be a question of “divide and conquer!”
He then produced a small circular saw, and proceeded to cut the tooth into four quarters. Each piece then had just one snake-like root to deal with, and it was an easy matter to extract them. The entire procedure took forty minutes from start to finish. (Lady Fi faints! Swoon! Swoon!)
After that visit, Michael has replaced four of my fillings (because they were badly done to start with), and taught me how to floss and brush my teeth properly. He also recommended that I start to use an electric toothbrush, which I have done ever since. On all subsequent visits he has quipped “It’s a good job all my patients aren’t like you, or I’d soon go out of business!”
I almost never eat sweets (except on Saturdays 
), I don’t eat lemons, and the water where we live is very soft and free from impurities. I also like to remember the advice that Lady Fi’s dentist once gave her: “You only need to floss the teeth you want to keep!”
THE END!
*******************************************************
If that had been me, folks, you would have been able to hear the screams from the moon!
As a present for being my first guest blogger, I would like to award Sir Pe with a little plaque… or then, maybe not!?
Do they shine in the dark?
Yesterday, Sir Pe came back all chipper – yet again! – from the dentist’s. He has been to the same dentist for the past twenty years (ever since he came to Sweden from the UK) and for the past nineteen years, he has had a check-up and a clean, but has not needed to have any work done on his teeth! Amazing – perfect dental health for nearly two decades!
It’s just not fair! I seem to need dental work done on mine fairly regularly.
I asked Sir Pe if he has always had good teeth. (Maybe it is genetic, I thought.) But bang went that theory when he told me that he had ‘bad’ teeth as a child, getting his first cavity in a milk tooth (good gracious!) at the tender age of 7. His theory? “Kids don’t learn how to brush their teeth properly in England.”
Mmm.. there might be something in that as it seems to be fairly common for kids to get holes in their teeth in the UK. On the other hand, it is quite common to meet people in their 20s in Sweden, who have never had a filling in their entire lives! (I’m envious!) I put it down to the dentists here in Sweden: they quiz kids on who brushes their teeth and give parents a telling off if they let their kids brush their teeth themselves.
They also promote the tradition of only eating sweets on a Saturday – as it is better to eat sweets all at once on a certain day of the week than eating them every day…
I wish I had met a nice Swedish dentist when I was a kid. Instead, I suffered at the hands of the mad butcher of Argentina (where I spent four years of my childhood). In the late 60s, it was a common dental philosophy to put fillings in every tooth -even healthy ones! – as they thought that this was a good way to protect against cavities. Er… right?!
Yes – I am blessed with a husband that has dazzling teeth and who can sew.
Now – if only he could cook too…
*************************
By the way, here comes a joke:
What did the dentist see at the North Pole?
Answer: ……………….
(Aha! Leave me your answer in the comments! Or come back here tomorrow to find out… Yes – I know: the suspense is too much!)
Drifting in dreams of snow and icing
When I woke up this morning, I realized that I had been turned into a miniature wedding cake figure and let loose on a landscape of peaked cake frosting.
After putting on layer after layer, I was ready to explore the exciting new landscape that lay outside my door, trusty dog at my side.
After only a few seconds, my face went numb in the sharp gale force wind that was blowing off the lake, and my left ear started aching with the cold.
And almost immediately after that, I found myself knee-deep in whirls of fluffy white icing and swimming through the frostiest frosting ever.
Marshmallows that loomed out of the darkness turned out to be cars swathed in snow. Large ghost-like objects revealed themselves to be trees, bent almost horizontal in the keen wind.
The wall on the back deck has snow all the way up to its top – that’s almost thigh-high on someone of my (small) size.
It was ghostly quiet in my snowy cake icing landscape… apart from the howling of the wind, that is. Not a single soul was out and about. Just the hound and myself.
A while later, I struggled back home with snow in my boots and cheeks stung scarlet by the blizzard. At coffee time, I looked out of my study window to see if the storm had abated.
It hadn’t. But at least I had my butterfly and flower to keep me company. That – and the weird blue twilight of the snowstorm.
Lunch has been and gone, and now I am only putting off all that scriptwriting that must be done. A quick glance shows me that the icing outside has only become deeper, more mysterious.
The snow is piling up on all of the windows and doors, so that the house looks like something out of a Dickensian novel.
I have to venture out and fetch the post. If I’m not back soon ….
…
please send out a search party.
I’m the little, frozen figure hidden deep within the layers of that icy frosted snowdrift.
Imagination can move rocks
A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.
Antoine De Saint-Exupery
This is the Divine Temple, Hari Mandir, at the centre of the Golden Temple of Amritsar in India.
Switzerland is in Sweden – right?
Last week I wondered if people knew where Sweden was as they so often think that I’m talking about Switzerland when I say that I happen to live in Sweden.
I wonder if the opposite is true? That there are lots of Swiss out there who get asked if they live in Sweden! Now – what kind of conversations do they have, I wonder…
So, close your eyes and … (no – hang on! If you close your eyes, you won’t be able to read this) … OK: just imagine that I have a twin sister (who is not nearly as witty, intelligent, good-looking or modest as I am). Let’s call her Lady Di. She lives in Switzerland.
And you all know where that is, right?
So, Lady Di gets into a taxi and asks to be taken to the airport. Ron Turning happens to be the taxi driver again.
Ron: So, where ya’ll flying off to then?
Di: Switzerland.
Ron: Oh, Switzerland. But hey – didn’t you just fly there last week?
Di: Er.. no, you must be thinking of my plain twin sister.
Ron: Oh, I see. So, you’re off Switzerland, where they have lots of naked blondes everywhere.
Di: Um … no … no! NO! You’re probably thinking of Sweden.
Ron: No, I’m thinking of Switzerland. Where they whip each other in the sauna.
Di: Er.. you’re still thinking of Sweden. Or maybe even Finland.
Ron: Why drag the French into it? I’m thinking of Switzerland. Where IKEA comes from.
Di: Sweden again.
Ron: That’s what I said – they have lots and lots of forests there.
Di: Still Sweden.
Ron: You’ve got the Arctic Circle there too – and polar bears on the streets.
Di: S.W.E.D.E.N.!!!!!!!!!!
Ron: Everything is efficient and the trains often run on time.
Di: Well, you’re getting a bit closer now…
Ron: Told ya! Switzerland .. That’s where the people don’t have a sense of humour, right?
Di: Yes, that’s right. It’s a real hazard not smiling all day long and just eating chocolates while watching cuckoo clocks chime… (The irony seems to be lost on Ron.)
Ron (dropping Lady Di off at Departures): You have a good flight back to Sweden now, ya hear!
***************************************************
So, there you have it!
Now.. did you get it right? Switzerland can be found in Europe – right here, in fact:
What misconceptions do people have about where you live?
The Fire Tree
November is traditionally a very grey month here in Sweden. The buses are full of morose Swedes, who look depressed and even downright suicidal. People defend themselves with newspapers or burrow themselves into their scarves, no longer capable of delivering a little smile or nod of the head. Frowns and wrinkles abound.
The winter Swede is here to stay until the spring arrives in an explosion of colour and blossom.
The winter Swede is affected by the dwindling hours of sunlight, and becomes fairly anti-social. The streets become deserted, the swings remain silent. Everyone seems to go into hibernation in their cozy little houses where they keep the feelings of sadness at bay with masses of candles and saffron buns. (The summer Swede is the complete opposite.)
The winter Swede complains about the greyness, the rain, and the lack of colour. Which is strange really.
Because there – where you least expect it – is a riot of colour. This tree blazes on the street above ours in glorious orange, burning as bright as a crackling fire.
And in the dripping woods, the moss, the heather and the blueberry bushes are still green.
And surely it is worth keeping a slight smile on your face, because who knows? There, just around the corner, the golden embrace of a tree might be waiting to greet you.
(First picture courtesy of Janne M.)
(Other pictures taken with my mobile phone.)
I know he’s cute – but is he a dog?
Oscar is a very sweet boy. He really is. He is good through and through and wouldn’t hurt a fly. If we meet another boy doggie, then he will avoid the dog by going around him in a large wide circle. And he lets kids put their fingers up his nose, pull his tail and tweak his whiskers.
But sometimes I wonder if he really is … well … a dog!
He joyfully runs over to the neighbours’ compost heap and eats the food they put out for the birds.
He heads down to the lake (a few seconds away from our house), runs onto the jetty and dives in like a graceful dolphin. He ignores the geese, ducks and swans and just swims up and down, up and down, for the sheer joy of swimming. I’m keeping an eye out for signs of webbed feet and fins.
The most remarkable thing, though, is that he likes to lick himself dry or clean. Like a cat.
Whenever we come in from a walk, he lies down in the laundry room and starts licking. He licks all the parts of himself that he can reach with his tongue. He does a pretty good job of cleaning his own paws, I must say.
If it is particularly muddy out and he gets clumps of mud on his paws, then he will pull them out (the mud, dear readers, not the paws) with his teeth.
Yep – he’s your real, authentic self-grooming hound!
I’ve never seen or heard of other dogs grooming themselves. Have you?
He does one thing like a dog, though: and that is running off with stuff. He even has his own slipper that he carries around the house.
He also takes his household duties very seriously: cleaning the floor after every meal, licking away childrens’ tears and keeping us all amused by chasing his own tail – and even catching it now and then.
I’m linking this story up to Camera Critters today.
As you know, he’s six years old. But did you know that just over 19 months ago, we were a dog-less household?
There’s a bit of a story behind how he ended up with us. But that, as they say, is a story for another day…
If at first you don’t succeed…
One day about two years ago, I arrived at the office with a pressing deadline hanging over my head, only to find that over the weekend, I had been swept out of the scriptwriters’ room. Everything on my desk had been put away into a drawer and there – on MY desk – stood a brand-new computer. For a new employee.
My boss was supposed to ring me and let me know that I was now officially a mobile worker – but she forgot!
I was now supposed to share the edge of a desk with someone, anyone – and hopefully, even get to sit on a proper office chair. After my feelings of hurt died down, I actually enjoyed the freedom. I could work wherever and whenever I liked: I had received the official blessings of the power-that-are at work!
After all, I have a very comfy office at home, with a lapdog and lashings of spicy tea thrown in!
Things worked out fine and I started making guest appearances at the office once a week. However, my Mondays at the office have recently been blighted by the lack of comfortable seating. As more and more new workers have been hired, the number of available desks and chairs has diminished.
Until there were no free desks and just one office chair.
This is when the problems began: the backaches, the aching wrist and mouse arm. You see, this lone chair had a secret life. Oh yes – it would party all weekend and then present itself to me on Mondays – hungover and drooping; unwilling to co-operate. It refused to move up and down hence causing the ache in my mouse arm. And it would insist on squishing me into a V-shape, so that I would limp from the office every Monday holding my aching back.
And every Monday, I would beg, implore, and write e-mails to the boss asking her please please please to go to IKEA and buy me a proper office chair. To no avail.
Anyway, I turned up at the office yesterday, and after playing musical tables for a while, finally managed to get settled onto a friend’s table. Chair was definitely trying to do my back in permanently.
But my seat of learning proved to be more formidable.
It started wobbling and tilting and then – finally – broke in two with a great BAZOOM!
I showed the boss the two parts, and she has promised to go out and buy another chair. (But I’m not holding my breath!)
Several colleagues came into the room and asked me if I had been karate chopping the chair.
“Yes! With my karate butt!” came my quick reply.
So there you have it: proof, if you need it, that …
…. not only can I kick butt.
But my butt can kick butt.
Meet my six-year-old!
My boy turned six over the weekend, so I thought it was about time you met him properly because I’m sure he’s going to bring a smile to your face.
He has huge, round brown eyes that can just melt your heart. He uses them to great effect when he has just done something mischievous – like stealing a bit of cake or running off with my slippers or socks.
They are happy brown eyes that greet you with happiness every morning. And every time he sees you. He might run up to you and ask for a cuddle or give you a sloppy kiss.
Mainly those eyes twinkle with mischief. They dance when he plays ball with you. Or just when he runs for the sake of running. He’s as fast as the wind and once he has decided to have a frolic, then his selective hearing kicks into action. No amount of shouting or bribery will get him back until he’s good and ready.
In the summer, he shoots off down to the water for a swim. (I know, I know – he’s only six! But he really is a good swimmer, so there’s no need to worry…)
He loves his food, but doesn’t have an ounce of extra fat on him. He’s lean and playful and full of energy. Even at six in the morning.
He has been known to run off to the neighbours’ compost heap and eat the food they put out there for the birds!
And there’s nothing he loves more than sitting on my lap for a scratch and a cuddle.
Meet my six-year-old…
… Oscar …
……
And just in case you’re wondering, he’s a working golden retriever with a deep golden-red coat.
But watch out!
He might run off with your hat when he meets you!
Where did I put them?
I’m always mis-placing losing my keys and then flying into a panic because I can’t find them. I suspect that they are not keys, but chameleons – changing shape and colour to blend in with the background. Anklebiter #2 once found them in the garage pretending to be my bike saddle.
I occasionally lose my glasses. And then it is nearly impossible to find them again as I’m short-sighted and can’t see very much without them. As yet – I’ve always managed to locate both lost keys and glasses.
However, I fear for the owner of these glasses that I found hanging up today while out with the dog…
The squidgy factor
Have you got it: the X factor? That little something that wibbles and wobbles and follows behind you?
Probably.
By the way, if you were in London this summer, then you would have had a chance to see a replica of St. Paul’s Cathedral made out of jelly (as depicted in the photo above)! That – and a thousand other jellies – were a part of the Architectural Jelly Competition. Yet another sign – if you needed one – of just how eccentric we Brits can be…
Anyway, after that tasty digression, back to the subject in hand (as it were). According to my anklebiters, all adults have … well … big bottoms that wobble when they run. In fact, this is a constant topic of conversation between the two kids as they speculate on the sheer jelly-like tremblings of the human adult backside.
Their conclusion? Kids don’t have jelly bottoms because they are always running, skipping, jumping and otherwise frolicking outside or inside like speeded kanagaroos. Adults, on the other hand, sit around in front of computers and TVs all day and evening – hence, the jiggly buttocks.
Photo: Proggie [Flickr]
When my little boy goes to bed at night, he usually pats my bottom and says affectionately, “My squidgy!”
Mmm… Do you think he’s trying to tell me something?
Sweden is in Switzerland – right?
Wow! Never have so many commented on my post when I had so little to say to so few …. or something like that. And lots of people think that Sweden is romantic and exotic! I guess that’s one way of looking at it.
Now – let me ask you a question: how many of you know where Sweden is? Be truthful now. Look at the map and then put a Post-it or sticky note on the right part of the world. OK – a sticky note is a bit too big, so just point to the general area.
The reason I’m asking is that over the years I’ve had numerous conversations about the location of Sweden. They tend to go something like this – and usually take part in taxis when being driven to an airport. For the sake of dramatic interest, let’s call the taxi driver, Ron.
Ron: So, where ya’ll flying off to then?
Me: Sweden.
Ron: Oh, yeah – Sweden. That’s where chocolate comes from.
Me: Um … no … You’re probably thinking of Switzerland.
Ron: No, Sweden. Where the cheese with holes comes from.
Me: Er.. you’re still thinking of Switzerland.
Ron: I’ve got it! Sweden is where cuckoo clocks come from.
Me: Switzerland again.
Ron: That’s what I said – they make really accurate watches there.
Me: Still Switzerland.
Ron: You got the Alps there too.
Me: S.W.I.T.Z.E.R.L.A.ND.!!!!!!!!!!
Ron: Everything is very efficient and the trains always run on time.
Me: Well, you’re getting a bit closer now…
Ron: Told ya! Sweden .. That’s where you get polar bears wandering on the streets. Right?
Me: Yes, that’s right. You meet them all the time. (The irony seems to be lost on Ron.)
Ron (dropping me off at Departures): You have a good flight back to Switzerland now, ya hear!
***************************************************
Drum roll please! Here comes the answer. Sweden is the largish green country on the map.
How close did you get?
And if you pointed to the middle of Europe – yes, you got Switzerland spot on!
The last place on earth
To all you world travellers checking in from Strange Shores(and everyone else) – welcome!
Before you come in, please remember to take off your shoes and leave them right there, by the front door. Because now you’re in Sweden, and no one wears shoes indoors. (Don’t worry if your socks have holes in: I won’t look!) After all, we wouldn’t want all those lovely wooden floors to get ruined! Don’t worry though – I’ve got underfloor heating to keep your toes nice and cozy.
I’m not Swedish myself – but British, although I have lived here for nearly 12 years now. And this is a bit strange in fact … because about 13 years ago, something like this happened…
Back then, I was a teacher of English as a Foreign Language in England, and had lots of Swedish students in my classes. Oh – how they loved to regale me with tales of their home country, where everything was quieter, cleaner, bigger and brighter.
They enthralled me with stories about how their mother’s meatballs were the best in the world; how it was normal to celebrate Christmas a day before everyone else; how appalled they were by the mere presence of carpets in British houses; and, more than anything else, they told me how dark and cold it was back home with nothing but enormous expanses of forests and snow for company.
That is when I burst out and said, “Sweden is the last place on earth that I ever want to live!”
A year later I visited Sweden for a three-month sabbatical. And I’ve been here ever since.
Yes – it is cold and dark in the winter. But it is also cozy to snuggle up in front of a fire with a string of candles lighting up the room with a soft glow. And nothing can beat going out on a crisp winter’s day, with the snow crunching underfoot and the sun shining from a gloriously blue sky.
Or wandering down to the lake where we live and watching all the skaters waltzing around on the ice.
And, sometimes, when it is very cold and clear at nights – so cold that your breath follows you like a veil of fog and your eyelashes and nostril hairs freeze (me – have hairs in my nose? Surely not!) – you might be lucky enough to see the Northern Lights (even as far south as Stockholm, where I live).
Believe me, it is an exhilarating experience! I once woke up my parents who were visiting us from England and made them come outside in their pajamas, dressing gowns, thick coats and winter shoes to catch their first glimpse of these mysterious and dazzling displays of wonderful-ness.
So, I’m grateful to escape the grey drizzle that is a southern English winter … although it is still hard to get up in the dark, go to work in the dark and come home – in the dark.
There are summers here (and often whole days of sun, too!), and then it never gets dark except for a slight twilight somewhere around two in the morning. My first year here I was driven nearly crazy (what do you mean ‘nearly’ – I hear you say) by these white nights. I couldn’t sleep at all and found myself up nearly all night long. This went on for weeks until I was exhausted and wild with sleep deprivation.
And then I fell asleep in the bright evening sunshine at 6 pm and slept right through until late the next morning. After that, I was cured!
So, what is it that keeps me here (apart from the husband, kids and dog)? It can’t be having some of the highest taxes in the world! Perhaps it has something to do with equality of the sexes and the fact that both parents are paid to stay at home with their kids.
Or could it be the rather bizarre fact that everyone watches cartoons at 3 pm on Christmas Eve (which is the Swedish equivalent of Christmas Day)?
Or do I just plain adore dancing around a maypole in June when it’s midsummer and pretending to be a little frog?
Yes, all these factors have their charm. As does the stunning countryside, which is mainly – but not completely – made up of vast expanses of snowy forests.
And if this really is going to be the last place on earth that I live (I’m not promising anything, mind you!) – then I guess that this is OK with me. Because when I step outside my front door, I see this:
And if you walk just a bit further around the lake on a cold, frosty morning, you might be lucky enough to enjoy the last place on earth.
Turbulence on business
OK – so my post wasn’t so wonderful today – no content, no pictures: goodness me! You readers are so picky! Can’t a girl have a bad hair day? Or, in my case, I actually had to leave the comfort of my home office and fly to Gothenburg on business. That meant getting up early, putting on my clean clothes (not my ‘doggie’ ones) and trying to find matching socks.
I dozed off in the taxi and woke up as we drove into a very large … well, shopping area. Huge warehouses of food, computers and sporting goods. And there, tucked behind the warehouses, was the airport. This is the first thing you see as you turn into the city airport. Not a comforting sight if you happen to be afraid of flying. Luckily, I’m not, but it fooled me for a second in my dozy state of mind.
The flight was delayed and when we did get off the ground, it was bumpy.
Landed. Rain. The taxi driver got lost. But I finally made it – and was only about 10 minutes late!
Same procedure on the way home. Delayed. And then in the air: “Ladies and gentlemen, we may experience a bit of turbulence as…” The rest was drowned out by people’s screams.
The taxi driver on the way home talked to himself a lot. Sometimes he directed a comment to me. It was difficult to tell. I had to spend most of the journey giving him directions! (Mmm.. you would have thought that being able to find places was an integral part of their job description.)
As for the meeting? It was successful! We nailed a complete web-based learning program that really will have a lot of content – and some pictures too!
To whom it may concern
To the people searching for: Lady Fi – Welcome! You have found her.
To the person or people looking for: pamela a. babusci – she is not lurking here in the comments box or hiding behind the HTML code. She is not sniggering here in the Admin toolbox nor frolicking there in the banner.
To the person looking for his disconnected phallus: help is on its way.
To Turkey on the phone: Ring your mum. She’s looking for you.
Singing bowls
Apart from relaxing yesterday, I very nearly fell asleep to the sound of singing bowls. Did you know that they could sing – and beautifully too?
I’m referring to Tibetan Singing Bowls, of course. (But if you tried really hard you might get a bowl in your kitchen to at least hum…)
I dragged Karriärmamman (for she was less enthusiastic than I) to a session where we lay down on mattresses and listened to some singing bowls. The person in charge of playing the bowls wanted us to imagine that we were on a boat at sea. I immediately got seasick.
However, once she actually stopped talking, I found that it was very soothing to listen to the different harmonies and overtones of these magnificent bowls. In fact, I could – quite literally – feel myself slipping into the vortex of sleep when some kind of chiming (her mobile phone no less!) wrenched me back from the brink.
I felt very lethargic and rested; harmonious even - after this session with the bowls.
One thing that interested me was to find out that certain hospitals use singing bowls as therapy for patients with nerve and pain problems, or with those who are nervous wrecks.
In my parallel universe, I can just imagine how the soothing effects of singing bowls are used: in school assemblies to calm down students; before operations to soothe patients; in dentist surgeries; and in the Oval offices of world leaders whenever they get the urge to press that red button. Instead of flicking the swtich, they all lie down and listen to the rich tones of the singing bowls and instead of going off to bomb each other, they start sending love messages and comfort food to each other…
Oops – I seem to be getting carried away. I’ll be back after a short visit to Utopia.
Finding my Zen zone
I’m too relaxed to write very much as I’ve just returned from a visit to Yasuragi, a Japanese spa just outside Stockholm.
I spent nearly an hour in the hot outdoor springs until my limbs were liquefied.
And then, my friend, Karriärmamman, and I had to lie down for a while and relax some more.
My limbs are heavy, my head emptied of thoughts. I think I’ve found my inner Zen.
It’s tough work relaxing all day …
… but someone’s got to do it!
Forcing round holes to accept square pegs
This is a kind of rounding up of my ‘A funny thing happened to me at school’ theme week. You see, in some ways, I don’t think school has changed all that much since I was a kid in the 60s/70s. Of course, most teachers are a lot kinder and compassionate these days – but do they really teach things in a different way? Do they open up new worlds and perspectives and encourage kids to be creative … original?
I think that, unfortunately, kids still have to ‘learn’ the right answers at school. They have to fit in and regurgitate what they have read in books. School is still about forcing round holes to accept square pegs. If a child draws a purple apple, then the teacher will point out that apples are red or green – not purple.
Schools should be about imagination, poetry, dance and creativity as well as about maths, languages and science.
Luckily, creativity guru, Sir Ken Robinson, agrees with me. He claims that schools are educating us out of our creativity. That we are squandering the talents of our children.
Watch the TED talk he gave when you have 20 minutes to spare. You won’t be disappointed. He’ll make you think and he’ll make you laugh. This is one funny guy!
By the way, don’t you think he looks like the actor, Kenneth Branagh?
A prod in the backside
At the beginning of the week, I wrote about how sewing can become a blood sport. You remember the story of how my sister was bitten in the back by her friend? And how I was so furious I hunted her down and let fly with my tongue?
I’m that kind of person, you see: a kettle on full boil that explodes just like that. Then everything is forgotten and forgiven. I don’t really hold grudges.
However, for some, revenge is a dish best served cold. My sister (the one who got bitten) was not quite satisfied by me telling off Veryan for biting her.
So, in her own words, this is my sister’s tale of revenge and sharp pointy things:
“Yes, my dear big sis (that would be me!) took revenge, but I took my own sweet revenge when I least expected it. You see, we were in our Religious Education class and Veryan had to stand up and speak. She was in front of me. Lying on my desk was my compass – not the thing with magnetic north, but the sharp pointy thing which you can draw big circles with…
Oh yes, I remember…
… I jabbed it straight into her bum. And she screamed. (And screamed and screamed…)
And then I had to play it down. But I didn’t get into trouble.”
Yes, my dear little sister prodded her friend in the backside with a dangerous, sharp object – and she didn’t even get into trouble! Whereas I was in trouble big time just for being bad at sewing….
What kind of message was the school sending us? That as long as you do what your teachers tell you to (sis was a goody at school), then it’s OK to use people’s butts as a pin cushion… but if you have your own opinions and ideas and happen to be a tiny bit cheeky now and then (OK – most of the time), then you are not even allowed to make a mistake.
Luckily, I happen to believe that mistakes are lessons that give us wisdom; they are gateways to discoveries. Every success is built on failure. Or, as Bernard Shaw once said:
A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.
If this is so, then my life is full of honourable moments!
Punish me some more… please!
This blog is all about the big things in life. Oh yes! Failures, politics and passionate sewing tales…
Ready for another one? Then come stroll with me down memory lane … back back in the mists of time, when I was a poor naive girl locked up in a cold-hearted boarding school in the south of England. (Are you feeling sorry for me yet?)
This tale also involves needle and thread. You see – one bright sunny Sunday morning at said boarding school, I was getting ready to go to church and put on my candy-striped school uniform (a dress). Most of the clothes we wore were ‘recycled’ or second-hand, if you like, and this was no different. The poor dress was feeling a bit tired around the hem and had somehow managed to come unravelled (just like my mind).
Needless to say, an eagle-eyed matron spotted the falling-down hem, and before I could say, “Terribly sorry, old chum! I’ll just go and sew it up again, shall I now?” I was sent back upstairs to the dorm with a needle and thread in my hands.
So, I lay down on my bed (it was the bottom bunk) on top of a psychedelic 70s, slightly frayed and grubby, bedspread and proceeded to sew the hem back up. Without taking the dress off first. Because I was in a bit of a hurry as we had to go off to church.
Well – you know what is coming next, don’t you?
The matron told me to get a move on and when I got up ….
… the whole bedspread followed after me like a mermaid tail gone wrong.
That’s right – here’s a newsflash! If you try to sew a hem while still wearing your dress and not being able to see at the back properly, then you will succeed in sewing yourself onto the bedspread!
For some strange reason, the matron got very upset as she thought that I had sewn myself onto the bedspread on purpose. (She should have realized by now that I was just no good at sewing!)
I was packed off back to the dorm and told to stay on my bed, unpick the bedspread from my dress, and miss church!
Poor me: I was forced to languish on my bed and read a book whilst bathing in a glorious shaft of sunlight. 90 minutes of pure bliss on my own.
With punishments like that – who needs rewards?
From Rabbit Hash to Beck’s Mill
I’m so excited about the huge turnout in the American elections that I just have to post this. It seems as if the nation is finally turning out in droves to make their mark – to mark the need for a change of direction.
Already at the crack of dawn, people in Rabbit Hash, Kentucky, turned out to vote in the dark.
This atmospheric shot was snapped by Ed Reinke and uploaded to The New York Times.
Also – before dawn – we see sleepy-eyed Virginians ready to vote.
Thanks to Jim Lo Scalzo for sending this in to the NY Times.
It has been taking voters over an hour to get into the polling stations to vote. Queues are snaking around neighbourhoods as people wait their turn.
Brian Larsen whiled away the wait by taking this photo in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
This is my favourite photo (thanks Kichiro Sato for sending this in to the NY Times). Away from the crowds, in Beck’s Mill General Store, Ohio, in a place where time seems to stand still: there, hidden in in an aisle amongst the household cleaning products, a farmer’s wife casts her vote. It seems like such a solitary poll booth – and yet, so connected with what else is going on in the country today (or is that yesterday?).
Over here in Europe, we woke up earlier than normal to see whether the face of politics had changed.
You have not disappointed us: the change that we sensed in the air has become a reality. Who knows? Four years from now, we may be disappointed. But today the long and difficult journey starts off with hope – and the acknowledgment that change is necessary.
And, for today, that is enough.
In stitches!
Are you ready for it? The great saga of Failing at Sewing continues…
Much as I’d like to paint myself as a saint at school, my sisters have put a stop to that by telling everyone (under the Comments to various posts) that we three girls were terrors at school. It was very nice of them to say ‘we’ as I suspect that I was the worst Terror of the lot!
And once you have a reputation, then it kind of sticks – like egg on the face or wet spaghetti if you throw it on the wall. (What do you mean you haven’t tried?)
We went to a prison boarding school and lived in dorms. And that meant that every single item of our clothing – school uniform and mufti (i.e. casual clothing) – had to have a name tag sewn onto it!
Once, I had the temerity to show up at the beginning of term with tagless socks. The matron or housemistress decided that I should sew my name tags onto my socks myself.
This was a welcome break from the tedium of homework, so I eagerly turned my attention to this task. It took hours because I was not very good at sewing, but I was determined to do as good a job as possible.
So, sitting on the carpet in my dorm and with my little tongue sticking out, I painstakingly sewed each name tag on lovingly. I was really proud of myself when I had finished. There – laid out on the carpet for all to see – was a line of eight socks.
Bursting with excitement, I called the matron to come and admire my handiwork.
Now, this is where the bit about reputations sticking comes in…
You see, in my efforts to do a good job, I had – quite inadvertently – managed to sew all eight socks onto the carpet! Yes – they were stuck there, held prisoner on the carpet by my childish stitches. (Not sure how I managed this, but it came quite easily at the time.)
Now, any nice or normal person would have laughed off my childish mistake. Not this teacher. She was furious because she thought that I had sewn the socks onto the carpet on purpose. Because, as you know, I was a Major Terror.
I got a terrible telling off. But, at least I was never asked to sew my name tags on anything again.
It’s a wonder I’m so well-balanced after such a traumatic experience…
Who says what?