Growing old

Mum always used to say: "Whatever happens, be happy for me if I die suddenly, just like that. I don't want to end up in a home, with a lot of old, 'gaga' people."

The thing is - she has now. She is in a dementure home - which, luckily, she loves. And I cannot quite explain why I'm writing about her in the past tense.

Alzheimer's is a cruel disease.

For the individual sufferer, it is initially painful, as you are still aware of your persona turning into some kind of.. half existence. I can only imagine, but it seems to me like part of you is still with 'the living' whereas the other part is slowly sliding into oblivion. And there's a lot of fear and panic to be had along the way.

However, I think it is right to describe this disease as "the relatives' disease". Once your loved one moves into the 'other world', you are on your own. The mum you knew is no longer. And you were never given the chance to say goodbye.

I feel it is as if she is dying... gradually. You have already started to mourn the mum that was - but only within yourself. I mean - she is still there, in body. In mum's case, a very active and able body. I take lots of pictures of her. But at the same time, they are not photos of the 'real' mum - the mum I remember, the mum she's always been. They are photos of the mum I've got now.

The feelings, the sincerity, the warmth, the humour is still there between us. I just gave her a goodnight kiss before leaving her new home this evening and I think we both felt the mother-daughter connection as 'per normal'. What makes it hard is to hear her repeating the same questions, telling the same stories and not knowing what day it is. Even when that day is Christmas Eve. She gets all our names wrong and cannot distinguish between generations when talking about people. She sees and hears people who are not there and can get into a sad mood, for no obvious reason - followed by an incredible, almost speeded, upbeat mood. Not at all like the mum I knew.

Last Easter, she gave me a ring. Neither she, nor me have been much for wearing rings. But this particular ring was one she cherished and - I also liked it. She told me she wanted me to have it. She said: "When I was young, I really wanted this ring, just for myself. I saved up and paid for it - and now I would like you to have it." I felt honoured.

Since Easter, I have worn it every day. But now, she keeps asking me from where I got it. "Have you got a new ring? I really like it!" she goes. It hurts to hear it.

I am clearing out her old home at the moment. It's something we all dread to have to do, but... you don't imagine doing it with the person in question still being alive. It all feels very confusing and sad.

Cab Poetry

I have been collecting @tweetalondoncab tweets for some time.

Call me weird, but to me, this sounds like poetry... in motion. Here it goes:

I'm 5th at zuma.

Still pob St Pauls.

Shoreditch hse. Anyone know where?

Can't rank Nobu - too many minicabs.

Sjob T5 off McLiver.

Pob Kings x.

Padders is very busy.

Euro it's moving ok.

Jeeeeesus the ramp at Padders stinks of piss tonight. Delightful.

No cabs Padders.

Euro calling for cabs - if near.

Moving at the Loo.

Vic banged out let's have a butchers at the raft.

On point at Padders and it dries up.

Is jabbas a goer?

No mate and I ain't bagged one all night! Now pob nw11.

Surely someone's got aline by now?

On bridge at Padders!!

Fjob McLiver to the Loo.

I'm point.

Fjob acc back Church lane to Oxo.

Lots at the Loo.

Chels to the Loo, game on.

On point at Zuma.

What a mess Piccadilly.

I want to break free

We keep hearing on the news that the United Kingdom has the worst records of this, that and the other. Be it teenage pregnancies, binge drinking or social misbehaviour - the rest of Europe is always fairing better than the UK.

I have a theory - and it is going to irritate some of you.

As an outsider living within, I think one reason for these problems stems from this country's obsession with uniforms. It might sound strange, but I have thought long and hard about this and it is what I believe. British people will have grown up with uniforms, from an early age. It continues through the school years and for some people, this garment remains their main piece of clothing at work.

It is my impression that there is a more vivid fascination and admiration for uniforms in the UK than in Sweden. The cliche 'men - or women - in uniform' can of course be heard in my home country as well. But not to the degree that I have experienced it in the UK. From military parades to the Royal family - the uniform is well respected, well polished and worn with pride.

The fact that Sweden has managed to stay out of wars to a greater degree than the UK could of course make for one significant reason for the lack of interest in uniforms amongst Swedes. If you have been fighting together for whatever cause - you nurture that togetherness. Your survival instinct, your safety in numbers will no doubt be facilitated by a uniform look. If you have not got that experience - the uniform will probably mean less to you.

But - and here is my point - this strictness, this uniform way of being, appearing and behaving can also be a hinder for individual development on a more personal level.

I believe we subconsciously have a need to break free if locked into a uniform, for too long. I don't mean the actual uniform as such - it is rather what it represents and what it prevents you from doing - and being.

A child needs to be free, to blossom and to be given space to grow - like a plant. I feel sorry for Bonsai trees... In my view, children should play, get dirty and mess around when they are young. They will feel the constraint of adulthood soon enough. Give them the time to just be children.

Having been a teacher in both countries, I can clearly see the difference in attitudes. When teaching in the UK, I saw children in white shirts, which, by the end of the school day turned slightly green from the grass during football or blue from spilling ink in the class-room. They were out playing, letting off steam, doing what children do... and yet, they were supposed to squeeze back into a smart uniform once their break was over. It just felt wrong to me.

In Sweden, pupils would wear what they wanted to. Baggy clothes and comfy trainers. Or tight jeans and revealing top. Whatever you felt like - we wouldn't dream of interfering as teachers. Admittedly, you will end up with pupils whose parents can afford trendy clothes and pupils who have to make do with cheaper versions. But then - this happens in the UK, too. When teaching in England, I was quite impressed with the level of creativity shown by pupils when it came to amending the supposedly 'uniform' uniform - turning it into elaborate masterpieces of individual perfection. Not only did they buy more or less expensive school uniforms. It was also a case of pulling up your skirt, add attitude to your tie by loosening it, to look just 'wonky' enough, stretch the high heel acceptance level as far as you could before complaints were being made from the teaching staff, NOT tuck your shirt in.... Adding acessories, make-up and stylish haircuts.

If you 'lock children in', they will revolt. This revolt might not appear until later in life, but it will come. I am not saying binge drinking and teenage pregnancies are caused by wearing uniforms. That would be silly. But there is something - and I cannot put my finger on it - which makes me think the teenage kicks are getting maybe just that much more excessive in a country where you have been 'held back' rather than allowed to 'let go'.

Swedes are often accused of having been brought up with too much freedom, too much of a laissez-faire attitude. At least that is what I sometimes hear. In some people's minds, Sweden equals sexual freedom and liberty to do just about anything. A country where everybody runs around stark naked, drinks Aquavit, have mixed saunas and whip each other with bunches of birch leaves during long summer nights.

Well, we don't. But there is some truth in there. Again, it is hard to have an opinion without making assumptions. I have a feeling Swedes are being brought up with a more open, no-nonsense attitude towards sex and nakedness, to take but one example. It is not made into such a big deal, it comes more natural. Classes are mixed, PE lessons are mixed - there are a lot of touchy-feely interaction going on without being sexual. It might be that the magic spell of imagination loses some of its power by the time young people actually meet and 'do it', as it were. Add sober, straight forward sex education from a relatively early age and - there are not many secrets to find out about later on, in teenage life. On the other hand - less need to impress as you already know each other's ins and outs pretty well from an early age anyway. And more importantly - less unwanted pregnancies.

Maybe I have blown this observation out of proportion. I probably have. But sometimes you have to exaggerate to make a point.

A BRITT-ish view on British film - on British TV

British films are rare on British TV. Foreign films even more so - unless you count the ones from Hollywood Country. I find that very sad.

This might come as a surprise to readers of this blog who live in Sweden - a country whose television has a long tradition of showing British productions. We were brought up on Upstairs & Downstairs, the Onedin Line, Family At War, the Forsyth Saga and Morse....

The very concepts of 'having a cup of tea' or 'Sunday roast' in Swedes' minds probably stem from these TV series.

Many a great British comedy has been shipped across the North Sea and welcomed with open arms by a Swedish audience who know how to appreciate British humour. We even used to have our homegrown versions of Steptoe & Son and Good Old Days - courtesy Gothenburg TV! This, on the other hand, might surprise my British readers.

So, when moving to the UK, I did expect a somewhat greater choice of excellent dramas and films, actually made in Blighty. Having been a keen cineaste in my home town and a frequent Gothenburg Film festival visitor, my hopes were up there - pretty high. But God, was I disappointed. Part from a few excellent dramas now and then and the odd film - shown at silly o'clock in the night - not an awful lot, actually!

Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of brilliant productions around. Intelligent, inspirational and hard working film makers make excellent films. It is just that, they do not seem to get much airtime. Plus, if you don't belong to an independent film association or read about films - you will never know they exist. I am not an expert on the British film market, I can only guess it has to do with poor funding and lack of opportunities, of film producers wanting to make film which do not 'fit the pattern'.

I love a good film - preferably shown in a proper, old cinema. But I want to be surprised, not figuring out the plot already after the first few minutes. I want to be blown away by an incredible story which takes me to places I never have seen. Or go to places I do know well, but which are portrayed in a new light. The feeling of not being able to leave the armchair, because you just have to see what happens next... or because the footage is simply mind-blowing. I want a film that makes me laugh and cry, makes me angry, makes me fall in love. That's what I want. Is that asking too much?

I don't want to predict that the end is nigh by the time you start hearing the helicopters and see the blue lights. You know, just after the moment where the hero and heroine have finished their run in the obligatory tunnel, chased by a ball of fire. I don't want to be able to figure out that the blonde pony-tail woman, who started off in a beige cardigan and reading glasses, will end up running all slow-motioned... beside our hero - in a white, wet vest. This is not just predictable - it is utterly boring.

American main stream, Hollywood productions get the dosh, get the mentions on the Beeb and the big opening nights at Leicester Square. Shops are flooded with film paraphernalia until people vomit over it. This is not fair, but neither is it necessary! Some of the best films I have seen were made on a very tight budget. In fact, in some ways I think shoestring budgets might be a positive thing. Correct me if I am wrong!

When I go back to Sweden, I do find things very much the same of late. Everything is much more 'USA' orientated. As a former Modern language teacher, I notice many teenagers speak English with an American accent rather than British nowadays. Coincidence? Maybe.

Nevertheless, there are still quite a few British productions being shown in Sweden. Also slightly more foreign films than what are generally broadcast in the UK - and quite a few Swedish good quality productions, too. Wallander, to mention but one.

Foreign films in Sweden are always subtitled so you can get the benefit of actually hearing the original language. To me, that adds enormously to the whole film experience.

During one Gothenburg Film festival, I watched an Albanian film, in Albanian and Italian - with German (!) subtitles. Now - that was a bit too much even for me!

Anyway - here's me hoping for more British films in Britain. Less Hollywood.

Maybe I'm just being too picky!!?

Ragnar

The problem with writing about your friends is you might accidentally leave some of them out. After writing my latest blog post, I realised I had forgotten to mention a very important person. Here it goes:

I went to college at the age of 16. My new French teacher - Ragnar - was a very keen, modern and... different teacher. My dream destination of all times had been Paris. Well, this teacher organised a trip to Paris. So - in my books, this meant he was ace.

After a few, persuasive talks with my (single) mum - I was off to Paris. This trip literally changed my life - but I didn't know that then.

So many things in my life have been related to this trip - it meant so much to me. It gave me the taste of France. It made me want to go there again, study the language, read the literature, watch the films. Without having done this initial trip, I would not have met my now ex husband, the father of my lovely children. I even lived in Paris during a period of my life.

Some of us pupils returned to Paris for a second time, together with Ragnar. Once home again, we started to meet regularly at our teacher's place, to talk memories, watch our photos and eat French food. These "Paris evenings" were to become a recurring event in our lives. They continued long after we had left school. Later, we brought our children along, even had holidays together.

The thing is, we still keep in touch, all of us. And - Ragnar is still in the very centre of our friendship, a nave around which our social life revolves. Now retired - but ever so active, he still welcomes us with open arms whenever we are back in our home town. He lives life to the full - and as he preaches. He is kind to nature, likes jogging, a very keen cyclist who does not own a car. Every Monday and Tuesday, he shows independent films to like-minded people and he has always been working hard for Amnesty.

We owe this man so much. He has been there for us, for every turning of our lives. Choice of career, for example - I became a French teacher myself. Weddings, child births, our children's birthdays and their various graduations. He has supported us through tough times, as well - not just the good times. Illnesses, divorces and also some funerals of our parents... whatever the occasion, Ragnar has been - and still is - there for us.

This man has been more than just an average friend to me and certainly more than an average teacher!

Friends Reunited

"Now then, where were we?" Some friends are forever. You don't meet that many of this kind, but the ones you do meet are worth their weight in gold. During last week, I have been thinking about the different types of friendship there are in this world. At least in my world - I might not speak for everybody.

As a little girl, I used to play with the boy across the street. We were the same age and had great fun together. He was rather lively and full of energy - and mischief. I was the reflective and calm one. His mum used to say he always came home in a different mood when he had been playing with me. So she encouraged our friendship. We would play corner shop (using leaves and stones as currency), have secret 'clubs', make jam from non-edible berries (!), run around the block, play hide and seek, build snow huts, cut the bark of branches with our little pen knives, play indians and cowboys - even "The White and Red Rose"...

And so came the Big Day. We were seven that year and - school started. Due to some new, bureaucratic Council rules at the time, it was decided that our street formed a border. As we lived on different sides, this meant I was going to one school and my best friend to another. This was clearly not on. We protested. My friend said he would refuse to go at all unless I could be in his class.

After some telephone calls, made by our dear mums, and some swapping around - we ended up in the same school and the same class. Order was restored.

Enter peer pressure... Even though my friend came to pick me up every single morning for school, we went separate ways once we reached the school gate. He walked over to the boys and I joined the girls. We were still friends, but not "in public". We couldn't have rumours going...

I still find that very sad. Our first experience of sexism, albeit on a very local and personal level.

Another friend was a girl from my class. During the age of 9-12 or so, we were constantly together. Looking back now, I think we were pretty creative in the way we made up new things to do, innovative - and somewhat crazy - plays to play. Once, we told each other to have a "password" every time we met. Just IN CASE we weren't whom we seemed to be. (I guess we had been watching too many spy films.) The password procedure was a quick, yet important introduction to our daily activities. We swore to each other we would continue this in adult life, as well - just in case.

In fact, I met this girl recently - after many, many years of silence. Our first words? Well - the password, of course! She remembered.

Another boy in the class was the cause of my first, real crush. We were ever so serious and he gave me a ring he had made in the wood- and metal work class. His words: "I know it's made of copper. But when I can afford it, I intend to buy you a silver one." Now - that's love...

Later in life, I met other people who have all been very close and always there - in good times as well as bad. Some share my adolescent past, it was all about growing pains, partying, music, politics, "Inter Railing" and - love.

Another dear old friend brought his wife over and came to see me recently, here in England. Great when that happens.

One particular friend shared my passion for Paris. When we weren't actually in Paris, we would be on the phone for ages, each with a map of Paris in front of us and just go for a "pretended walk" together, along the boulevards, Montmartre and the Seine... or meet for a coffee and a "sandwich au jambon", looking at old photos. She has become my ultimate best friend who knows my feelings about just about everything. We can laugh, even without laughing.

All these old friends are still present in my mind, and will be until the end.

Then, there are new friendships. I have never been a great fan of Facebook - although I am on it. But I must admit, Twitter has given me many new friends, many of whom I wouldn't want to be without. Some people think Twitter is about checking out celebs. It couldn't be further from the truth. I follow quite a few people - or 'tweeps', as us Twitterers prefer to say. The strange thing is, you get to know each other's habits, mood swings etc. to the extent that they feel almost equivalent to your old friends.

I find myself thinking: "Oh, he's up already, even if he went to bed so late last night." "She seems as if she needs some support today, something is not quite right." "He's in love." "She needs to get a life."

I have met some of my "tweeps" in real life, too. It is a strange feeling when you meet and you already know quite a lot about each other. You can cut the 'small talk' and just go straight to what it is you want to say.

I would not want to be without any of my friends. Old or new. Friendship is hard to define and - sometimes, it can be mistaken for something else.

I only know that with real friends, you can just take up the conversation where it stopped - even if that means going back 20 years or so in time. Real friends are forever - like bricks in the wall of life.

Because you're worth it?

Old is bad. Young is good. In our western world, we are constantly told that the ageing process is something unnatural, worth avoiding at all costs.

It upsets me to hear about how old people have been objected to ageism. A TV presenter finds himself sacked, because fresher and trendier shoots want to enter the studio. An old lady - somebody's Nan - is put at the back of the hip operation queue, even though the pain is unbearable and the injury will now become worse, before it gets better. Young first - old last. Age before beauty does not apply to the real world.

Repeating their mantra, celebrities tell me I should get rid of my wrinkles, plump up my lips, squeeze in my tummy and push up my breasts. It's stay-up and hold-in. Fake tan and white teeth. I am not all that concerned personally - I can take it. The relatively few wrinkles I have gained so far, I intend to keep - they're mine! No, I feel more sorry for young girls who grow up under an immense pressure to be perfect. They start worrying about getting older, already in their teens. That cannot be right!  

What about men? Well, there are of course the Berlusconis of this world who do everything to live up to that young image. However - and correct me if I'm wrong - men seem slightly less concerned about their vanity. 

So rooted is our fear of old age, that it is also reflected in our language. We use euphamisms like 'elderly' or 'of a certain age' - instead of saying 'old', which is what we really mean. 

And, how often do we see old lovers or heroes in a blockbuster film? 

I wish we could all be proud of ourselves and be young at heart. You don't have to go to extremes to do it. Not everyone can bungy jump or parachute at the age of 100. I think it is more a case of not giving up, to look at the future even if there is just tomorrow left. 

Old people shouldn't have to fight for their rights. They have accumulated an enormous collective experience which we should make use of, for everybody's future well-being. 

Old people have lived. They know things. Let us respect them for who they are.

War.. what is it good for?

Why is it, we never listen to people who know better?

A strange thing happened to me this morning. I was watching a repeat programme, featuring the "Last Tommy" - Harry Patch, 111 years old. As the last living British person ever to have served in the First World War, he was one of a kind. I had seen this programme before and it had a great impact on me then, as well. You follow this old man back to the battlefield, where he meets his former enemy, tells us how he got injured - and lost his friends.  

In the programme, this frail old man goes to meet and shake hands with a German ex soldier. In the Battle of Passchendale, at Ypres, 1917, more than 70,000 British soldiers died. Henry was one of the soldiers in this battle and he had always wanted to come to terms with this part of his life. Now he told this, equally old and frail German man that he didn't hold any grudge against him anymore. They shook hands and smiled to each other. Harry told us to remember the Germans just as we remember our own. 

"No." he said, with his weak, hoarse voice, whilst looking out over the war graves. "No, no, no." "Such a waste."  

"All wars end round a table. Why not begin wars round the same table? Why waste so many lives before we get to that table? Such a waste."

When watching this today, to the soundtrack of Schindler's List, tears fell down my cheeks. They fell last time I watched it and they fell now. It is such a moving scene and I just couldn't help it.

But this time, a message came through on my phone, saying "Breaking BBC news: Harry Patch dies, 111 years old." This, whilst I was still watching the programme. Strange timing. Strange feeling. Such a loss.

Mums & Dads

After having spent quite a few years in the UK, I have had plenty of time to ponder about cultural and social differences between my native Sweden and this country. One phenomenon that strikes me as occuring more than others, is the way family life is being described in media. The recent reports on swineflu have reiterated this. 

Whenever the word 'children' is mentioned, you can guarantee the word 'mum' is not far away. Be it discussions concerning upbringing, social welfare, teenage pregnancies or, as now, about the swineflu risk, for MUMS and younger children.

One wonders, aren't there any DADS involved, at any stage? Surely, they cannot all be single mums, can they? And, talking of divorce and splitting up - you hardly ever hear anyone mentioning single dads. School-runs are nearly always referred to as carried out by mums. Who takes the children to the surgery for vaccination on news reports? Who makes sure they do their homework and put them to bed? Mums. Mums, mums and mums.

My MOTHER-land Sweden is not always the most perfect country when it comes to social welfare and equality. There is a lot more to be done. Still, I do think it wins the battle of using the remarkable word PARENTS.

Smells Like Teen Spirit

Sometimes in life, feelings come back to you.

Back in the 70s, in my home town of Arvika, Sweden, some clever friends of mine started an alternative music festival. Festivals were the 'in thing' then - as they indeed still are. In the 70s, they were even more so, if they were anti commercial and alternative. ABBA was not an option, as it were.

The Viksholmen festival was just about as alternative as it got. It took place on a little peninsula 'extension' from a public park - accessible only by a small strip of land. The public footpath took you to a small place with fur trees, stones and a natural, arena style stage - as made for a good gig or two.

From Viksholmen, you could look back across our small lake, to the town itself with its street lights reflections shining yellow in the water. I remember thinking it looked just like pictures I had seen of New York's skyline. (Yeah right...) Many summer nights were spent there with friends, during long nordic summer nights which never got dark. Music, guitars, open fire, midge bites, singing together, love and.. refreshments. We only went home once the next day newspaper delivery boys had come out and the birds had started to twitter. 

The Festival was a big thing. Alternative rock bands from all over Sweden came to perform at this little stage, revellers gathered from far afield and special T-shirts were made. Wow. Huge.

I remember the excitement I felt somewhere deep down in my guts. A fantastic, pioneering feeling.

Since then, new generations have taken over. The Viksholmen festival is still going, but its bigger brother The Arvika Festival has just finished another successful event with 22,500 tickets sold and Depeche Mode as their main attraction. 

http://www.arvikafestivalen.se/node/1030

But, as I'm now living far away from Viksholmen and Arvika - I recently realised you can get that feeling in your guts again. I don't think age has got anything to do with it. You either feel it - or you don't. 

I did, when listening to Blur in Hyde Park last Friday. Song 2 hit me stright in solar plexus. 

Wooo hooo!

Twitter rocks!

I have been neglecting this blog long enough now. Time for another post - long overdue! Aware of the repetition, I feel I once again have to praise the social media revolution called Twitter. I wasn't quite sure what to make of this phenomenon in the beginning, but on the recommendation of my son, thought I'd give it a go.

And - boy, am I glad I did. It has given me material enough to write a book, should I want to. That should probably be a 'Twook'. The latest episode would tell about how I became the first ever customer for Tweetalondoncab, met an American 'Social Catalyst and Twitter Guru' at a Central London 'tweet-up', and also how an armchair Blur in Hyde Park dream became reality. 

And if that wasn't enough, I have also just arranged a meeting with an MP, to discuss flood defences. Later on in July, I'm invited to a tweet-up in Lincolnshire. The tweeter in question visited London some weeks ago and we managed to meet up at King's Cross for 10 minutes. Speaking of books... he spent the whole of Father's day to write a book on Twitter, with 140 characters at the time. No - he is not mad, but he did this in memory of his late son who died last year. 

Twitter has meant new friends on the photo-sharing website Flickr, as well. There are some great photographers out there in the real world. Cameras on mobile phones might come across as an unnecessary 'extra' when all you want to do is making phone calls. But - it is a daunting thought that so many people around the country capture so many moments in life and post them for others to enjoy. 

Whenever I feel homesick (for Sweden), I tweet one of my friends over there. She kindly tweets me pictures and updates in both Swedish and English. I'm sure it confuses the hell out of my English speaking tweeps.

So - I'm sticking to Twitter. The only sad bit is that many people who don't 'get' Twitter think it is another Facebook or even worse - some kind of dating site. It couldn't be further from the truth. The thing is, you make of twitter what you want. People on Twitter - also known as 'tweeps' - respect each other. There's a lot of fun banter going on in between the more serious tweet debates. 

My impression is, you trust your fellow tweeps. I give you an example: I just sent a cheque to another person as payment for the Blur tickets. We had built up a good relation between us so she just said "I trust you. I send you the tickets and you send me the cheque later."

Besides, if you don't trust someone, you can always 'unfollow', as us tweeps say when we stop following one and other. You will notice there's a lot of Twitter lingo involved, but you soon get the hang of both hashtags, trends, twitpics, and RTs. And the odd twat!

D-Day 65 years after - part one

I recently got back from Normandy, where I was lucky enough to take part in the 65th Anniversary of the D-Day landings. I always enjoy being in France, but this was something different - and a very unique opportunity which I am grateful to have taken.

The whole event was like stepping back in time, back to the 40s. Everywhere you looked were vintage - mainly military - vehicles and people of all nationalities, dressed up as soldiers of every sort you can imagine. Willy jeeps and old ambulances, motorbikes and landing crafts.... you name it - they were there. Glenn Miller music was streaming out from cafes where both locals and visitors were enjoying drinks in the sunshine. This wartime atmosphere was not limited to the historic 'hotspots', but extended to the Routes Nationales, to petrol stations and little cafes everywhere alongside the landing beaches area. After a while, you were almost surprised to see a modern car and people clad in civvies.

At the same time, I felt there was something absurd over the whole thing. All this wartime memorabilia on display, the post cards, key rings, the special editions of the local papers, the busy restaurants and queues.... it felt a tad too 'touristy' for my liking. After all - the important thing here, was to honour the old men who were here when it actually happened.  It was all about keeping the memory alive - to hopefully make the younger generation aware of the stupidity and pointlessness of war.  

I was with Ken - a Cornish medic, now 89. His landing craft hit a German mine as it approached the shoreline and he had to jump off and wade ashore - hurt before he even touched terra firma. It was stories like his that made it so fascinating to be part of this anniversary. When young soldiers - or wannabe soldiers - marched over the Pegasus' bridge playing the pipes - it suddenly dawned on you that the people who actually did it for real, were there - amongst you! In wheelchairs, with Zimmer frames, walking sticks... These silvery haired veterans, with medals on their chests were the ones who did it. Without them, our world might have looked a lot different now.

And yet, what made the strongest impact on me was the way in which these humble old men were so modest about the whole thing. They were around, they gladly told their stories if you asked them, in a very matter-of-factly manner, without added glamour. But I never saw or heard anyone go around boasting about it. They were moved, touched and had their eyes filled with tears at times - the harsh memories became too much, especially when thinking of those amongst their comrades who never made it. 

I feel humble to have had the chance to meet and listen to some of these men.

Seasons in the Sun

My (almost daily) walk through our village has become part of what I need to relax and wind down. As this blog has described earlier, it takes me through the 'urban' part of this little quaint village, past charming old Dutch merchant houses with hidden garden gems, which you are sometimes lucky to get a glimpse of, provided the garden doors have been kept open. 

As I continue, it leads me out on a small road which once was covered with tarmac but nowadays presents more stones than it does smooth surface. Once you hit that road, you're in the proper countryside. And this, just 10 minutes or so from home. 

Alongside one side of the road stretches an enormous hedge, in front of which nettles are growing high. I have learnt that you can judge the age of a hedge by counting the number of species living inside it. Hedge making is an incredibly interesting art form and takes a skilled workforce  - and some time - to create a hedge.

On the other side of the road lies Topsham Bowling Green Marsh, where twitchers from all around the world come to do what twitchers do - watch birds, talk birds, read about birds and... well, maybe not eat birds. 

The location at the river Exe estuary, with its salt marshes, reedbeds and vast mudflats means there is always plenty of food for migrating birds. There is a bird hide which allows you to get up close and personal with egrets, shell ducks and curlews. People who can spot and name birds impress me. To me, birds will probably always remain "that black and white one with long legs" or "the one with the pointy bill". On the other hand, I find crows, blackbirds and house sparrows just as interesting and beautiful as their more famous mates. 

As much as I like birds, I find the cows along this road more pleasing. There is something very peaceful about cows, graising in a field of buttercups. Maybe we all should live more like cows. Chill out, eat, sleep and well... recycle to use a  word.

What I find fascinating as well, is to follow the changes in nature. When you walk the same road every other day, you can really observe what's happening. Every little bush becomes somewhat familiar and you get almost upset if you find someone has chopped it off one day. 

I have started to take pictures of the same oak tree every time I pass. I am hoping to put together a collection of photos on how this tree changes during the seasons. 

I am not a winter person, I prefer Spring and Autumn. I find Summer often being too stressful and hectic. But whatever the season, I feel the need to observe it, to live with its changes in order to adapt to the forthcoming one. Maybe this is due to the fact that I originate from a Nordic country, where the seasons are much more dramatic and obvious, I don't know. Or maybe it is just the biological clock we all have within.

Uplifting Experiences

Sometimes, things just feel so uplifting. These last few days in London have certainly added to my feeling of elevation - in more ways than one.

First, I had the unique opportunity to visit the BT Tower in London - a kind favour from one of the many contacts I have made through work. This now rather dated tele communication tower (built in the 60s) has become an iconic building in the very centre of London.

I regularly take pictures of it, from different view points in London. But never ever would I have dreamt of going up there myself one day. 

The view hits you straight in the face as you come out of the lift, exclusively operated by professional and indeed very corteous BT staff. As the lift door opens and you step out on the 33rd floor *gulp*, the first thing you spot is the London Eye. You can see for miles up there - it is really a good vantage point for any Londoner, or non-Londoner for that matter. I could have stayed there several days, had I been allowed to. There used to be a restaurant up there and I really find it very sad it is not still up and running. The whole thing used to rotate slowly, which was handy, I guess. A bit like the Eye - but the other way around...

Fancy having pre-drinkies towards the North, mains towards the West, puddings over-looking the South and coffees with the East of London in front of your eyes? In my book, that would mean an end to boring dinner conversations.

Anyway, as it was, we did our own 'rotation' by foot and I managed to take a picture or two.

And then - there was Clapton.

As you might have gathered, he is pretty much God to me. This was my own pre birthday prezzie to myself - because I'm worth it. I had booked two tickets way back in winter time and now I only had to find a volunteer to join me. Lucky buggers! I gave the chance to various people but in the end, my daughter was the lucky one. I wish I could have taken both my children along, but it was a question of £££. They sorted it between them so - no hard feelings.

Mr Slowhands was in great shape and walked in on stage to a bustling, roaring audience which filled the Royal Albert Hall to the ceiling. Great atmosphere and - yet another great place to explore in London! This was my first ever time in the hall and I would have liked to walk around the venue beforehand. As we were on the late side when arriving, this was not to be, unfortunately.

After having kick-started with some hefty guitar riff type songs the way only Clapton can perform, he went up to the mike and said: "Hello! I always need to play a bit before I pluck up the courage to actually speak to an audience." Yeah - as if!

Then he just went on and on and on...At one stage, my daughter grabbed me by the arm and asked: "Are you crying, Mum...?" I wasn't, but I had goose pimples all over and felt that bluesy 'hit-you-in-the-guts" type of feeling. When he gets his hands on that guitar, he really does it for me. Hits the right spot, as it were.

Another highlight of this weekend was of course a lovely dinner with my children and my daughter's boyfriend. As they are all vegetarians, we went to one of their favourite vegetarian eating places - Mildred's in Soho. it is next to the John Snow, where we ended up afterwards. Always crowded, long queue but honestly worth the wait! (Referring to Mildred's) If you ever thought vegetarian and organic food consists of nothing but carrrots and lettuce - think again. This is an amazing symphony of unusual flavours and combinations. Oh - the puddings - to die for! And as an extra bonus - it's pretty healthy, too. (OK, maybe not the bill...)

So, for my last uplifting experience. As readers of this blog will know, I am an ardent fan of Twitter. I have found my 'own' favourite London cab driver through Twitter and he (@cabbiescapital) has kindly taken me from A to B a couple of times. Well, this weekend he was off duty and hence I booked in one of my 'other' Tweeting cabbie friends.

So, as Clapton played the last chords on his guitar, my mobile was buzzing away in my handbag. Message from Cabbie No 2 (aka @londontaximan), who said he was on his way and would be waiting outside within 10 minutes. This meant that, when all the other Clapton fans were queuing up to get either an autograph or a cab, we just climbed in - in front of disappointed punters. We started our Saturday night trip home through the capital in a cool, relaxed way. Excellent use of Twitter I think! 

There are so many misconceptions as to what Twitter really is, mainly amongst people who have never even tried it. I would recommend it to anyone. But use it with care and make of it what you want it to be! 

You claim if you want to

I started writing this blog post with the aim to show my anger and disappointment over MPs outrageous claims. But I am struggling to find words strong enough. 

Every single one of the MPs - the ones who have been brave enough to face political reporters and news presenters - have defended themselves with the same mantra: "I did what was within the rules." Followed by: "We really need to change these rules."

I mean - what ever happened to personal decisions, a strong will and the famous "moral compass"? If the rules, made up by politicians themselves, are so wrong... why weren't they changed? 

I'll tell you why: Because they suited MPs and ministers alike. In fact, they suited them so much they took maximum advantage of them - especially at the end of the financial year. Get as much as you can, while you can. Sod the moral compass.

And here we are, us normal tax payers, struggling with our tax returns and VAT. Making sure we don't claim for that magazine or that impulse bought bar of chocolate on the fuel bill. Crossing off personal telephone calls in order to not regard them as being business related.

You'd be forgiven for thinking: "Why do I bother?" Add deep sigh.

This laxed, laissez-faire culture within the very heart of the UK's political body is a real threat to the future. It will make honest politicians to be, with a true cause to fight for, become reluctant to enter the political stage. Good people out there, who could make a real difference, will hesitate. I can well understand them. Who would want a bad reputation? You only have to mention the word "MP" nowadays and people will sneer at you.

Another fear is the more general spread of egoism - the "me first" way of life. People will argue: "If they can - why shouldn't I do it too"? It's the 90s all over again. Maybe we should all become investment bankers?

Shop locally!

During my local walk today, there was a local shower in amongst the sunshine. On my way back, I stopped off at my local fishmonger to buy local fish. Continued to my local Village Hall, to buy local veg and probably not quite so local olives. Well, they have been locally marinated anyway.

I like shopping locally. You know what you're getting and less travelled food makes a lot of sense to me. It makes you feel good. Plus, quite often you know the seller and he or she knows what you want. My local fishmonger is fantastic. He starts skinning the fish and cutting it even before I get a chance to say what I want! After which follows a cheerful discussion on the best way to cook it. All good fun. By the time you are back home in the kitchen (5 minutes later - it's local, remember?) you have it all sussed out. 

Admittedly, I do not always live as I pray! Yesterday, I was at a big Tesco shop, to stock up. They always have lovely, suckulent sugar snaps and green beans - great in all sorts of dishes. But everytime I pick up a pack, I end up putting it back. It's a case of "Should I? - shouldn't I?"I mean, why on earth do we have to import them from across the Atlantic? "Land of origin: Argentina". Or "Peru", "Kenya" and "Zambia".

So unnecessary, so many air miles...

 

Twitter is good for you

I find new technology rather fascinating. 

Twitter has definitely added another, previously unexperienced quality to my life - actually without interfering with any of the 'old' qualities. I must admit I was somewhat reluctant initially, but now I am totally sold.

The scary aspect of social networks will forever be there, but - as with most things, it all depends on what you make of things. See it a a tool, a way of communicating. Or sometimes - just a bit of banter when you're bored. Make of it what you want. And avoid getting totally addicted...

So, what has Twitter done for me? 

Ok, I know what Stephen Fry and Barack Obama are up to - most of the time. That's one thing, but by far NOT the most interesting. I am not that bothered to know what celebs had for breakfast and if their dogs have been for walkies yet.

Instead I feel very much involved in news-making and sharing, because of the contacts I have made within - mainly - UK media. Not least Channel 4 News have made the most of Twitter and their interactive communication with viewers is commendable, I think. I constantly leave comments on what I consider important to cover in their news shows. The fun thing is that they also reply and comment back - sometimes even during the live broadcast, whilst presenting! Slightly crazy, but fun.

Journalism Live got me involved in a live 'Twinterview' - that's an interview carried out live on Twitter to you and me.

Plus, I have learnt a lot about London cabs and all that goes with it, from my very own London cabbie. When I need a taxi, I even book him in advance via Twitter! He knows so much about the hidden and unknown - but very interesting - London. Check for yourselves on http://thecabbiescapital.co.uk/

I have also learnt about a great old, 'forgotten' music-hall called Winstons. A hidden London gem, in great need of refurbishment and restoration - and money. It's like stepping back in time...

See: http://www.wiltons.org.uk/image/welcome-wiltons-music-hall

An Essex man who does caricature drawings for a living needed to know about a good, but a bit different place to go for holiday. I sent him loads of links to my home town Arvika in Sweden, for which he was grateful.

If you're stuck with a computer problem, you can shout for help and your fellow Twitterers will come to the rescue with lots of helpful tips.

I could go on...but I won't. I guess the message I want to get through is the following: Don't rubbish Twitter. It can really be good for you and enrich your life. Honestly.

Spring has sprung

Another trip to Sweden has come to an end. Doing the last leg of my journey now, on a train from London Waterloo to Exeter St Davids, taking me through the green and pleasant land. It's fascinating to follow the "spread of Spring". I left England just over a week ago and most things were green and in flower - equivalent to late May in Sweden.

The no frills airline Ryan Air brought me to a Sweden who could offer a few green shoots, but she still had ice on her lakes. After a week however, you could see the beginning of buds on trees and the ice breaking up in the intense Easter sunshine. Unbeatable feeling.

I have just left behind a London in bloom, with green trees and happy people enjoying the good weather. (Or maybe they are happy because they've got a ticket to Wembley for the 5.15 kick-off this afternoon?)

Maybe it's because I'm (not) a Londoner?

Just got back from another short visit to London. Another conference and exhibition. I had a moment or two, to stroll around in Westminster - camera in hand.

I also took some pics from the Chelsea embankment, whilst waiting at red lights...

I could walk around London all day and take photos. My motives are whatever I see, which tickles my fancy. It usually ends up being buildings and details thereof. Doors, windows and balconies. Sometimes trees and animals. Graffiti, lamp-posts, and litter bins. And the last few years, I have taken a special interest in cranes, buildings under construction, scaffolding and men in full PPE!

If you feel like browsing my London photos - and others, please feel free to follow the Flickr link to the right.

Edinburgh

Last week, I was fortunate enough to be in Edinburgh. The reason for my visit was an invitation to speak at a SEPA conference on flood defence issues for businesses across Scotland. 

Everytime I go to Edinburgh I am struck by the sheer beauty of the city. The castle, high above the rest, seems to be carved out of the mountain. In fact - just about everything seems to be coming out of the granite. Houses, walls, streets... everything is greyish browny purple and incredibly beautiful. Many streets are made of cobblestones and that definitely adds to the picturesque image.

This time, I took some time to actually walk up to the castle and stroll around. It was an unusually sunny and warm Spring morning. Smell of freshly baked bread and morning Cappucinos from outside cafes....

More Edinburgh pics on my Flickr site (See link top right).

International Barbie-day

It might be the International Women's Day today, but that is just a mere coincidence. I was going to write this blog post in any case. And, as for the 8 March, I think every day should be a women's day. And men's day!

In this 9th year of the 21st century, Barbie throws her 50th birthday bash. I find it lamentable that she is still around, to be honest. She might just be a doll, but to me, she still constitutes the ultimate symbol of the degradation and sexualisation of women.

I used to play with my Barbie doll when I was a little girl - put clothes on her and comb her hair. In those days, we used to make our own clothes as there weren't that many 'pret-a-porter' versions on offer in the shops. However, I soon got rather fed up with her and discovered the 'trolls' instead. Now, any Swedish person will understand immediately what I mean by the 'trolls'. They were just that - trolls. Lovely little creatures which took up most of my best friend's and my own time.

My Barbie doll? Well, in my realisation that she was just a very stiff pinup, complete with inbuilt push-up bra and two very unnaturally long legs, I covered her face in paint and ended up cutting off both her nose and her long, red hair. (I wonder what Freud would have made of that.)

As children and a teenagers, me and my girlfriends were very much treated in the same way as the boys. I cannot describe myself as having been a Tomboy, but I never felt I couldn't do whatever the boys did - if I wanted to.
My teenage years proved no different. When having parties, us girls and boys used to buy, bring home, cook, eat food and do the dishes together - on very equal terms. This was not planned - it came natural in the 70s and was part of the fun.

With this background, it is therefore so much more disappointing to see the world becoming so inequal and hypersexualised. I feel sorry for anyone growing up today. Today's young people seem to assume - and accept - that women's role is to look sexy, read about being sexy, sing sexy, eat sexy and breathe sexy - as they have not really experienced anything else.
Is it just a coincidence that the word 'sexy' has now found its way into the daily language in circumstances which not necessarily have anything remotely to do with sex? I don't think that would have been possible in the 60s and 70s, somehow.

I am not a prude and I am not an old nostalgic. But I have a strong belief in equality in every sense, for everyone on this planet, be it women or men. I find it strange how we often, in this politically correct world, mention 'women' in the same breath as we do 'ethnic minorities' or 'the disabled'. As if us women - half of the world's population - would have to be treated in a special, 'womenly' way. Maybe we are on the way to become extinct?

I am hoping this testetorone-fuelled world will come to some kind of klimax soon. After all, most tendencies come and go in intervals during the centuries. At some stage, we might realise the nonsensical in providing children with G-strings. Hopefully, we will also see the obvious connection between late night rapes and lapdancing clubs. Or should that be 'gentlemen's clubs'..? Gentlemen who consider women to be something you bring to entertain, with the coffee and brandy are not gentlemen in my lingo.

I sometimes wonder if I am the only woman to feel disgust when entering a newsagent's or a petrol station. Why do we accept having women's privates thrown in our face when queueing up to pay for our newspaper or petrol? All you men out there - just put yourselves in our position. Fancy standing in a queue with nothing but men's private parts around you - and no women's.
When you step out in the world outside, it just continues...everywhere. On the radio, on telly, in newspapers and mags. So many women feel unhappy with themselves and feel they need to live up to these page 3 expectations.

No wonder then, it made me really happy to see a little girl on a nearby beach, some time ago. Incredibly as it may sound, she was frentically burying her Barbie doll in the sand. How refreshing. "There's hope for the future", I thought to myself.

Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream...

This morning, I was out merrily rowing my little boat, on the quiet river.
The warming sunrise gave new hope and made the birds twitter away, ready for a new day's struggle to find food. I felt the rhythm from the rowing through every muscle and got into an automated, 'second breathing' which allowed me to forget about time and just...exist, as my vessel floated along. I was one with nature.

Then I woke up, removed my I-pod from my ears and climbed off the rowing-machine. Time for shower and a hearty breakfast.

Life is but a dream.

Cardiovascular networking

I often find myself travelling around the country. Although I try to travel by train, the very nature of my work means this is not always possible. Unfortunate as it is, I have become quite an expert on road numbers, motorways, their junctions and where they lead. Sad, really. Knowledge fitting for a pub quiz, I guess.

During my ten years in this country, I have definitely noticed an increase in the number of cars you see on the road. I never cease to be amazed that it all sort of ... works.
All these travellers - all going somewhere, heading home or away, to meetings, work or pleasure. I cannot help thinking what it would be like if they all had a sign on their cars, informing fellow travellers what they were up to. Like a giant, mobile Twitter community. "Nipping down to Tesco for a weekend shop." "Going to airport for my dream holiday"."Picking up granny for a family do". "Attending a conference in the City".

It would undoubtedly make the journeys more interesting, but it would probably not work. Road safety aspects, I guess. And - not much of privacy either, come to think of it. Plus - you wouldn't get a runaway white van advertising "Just robbed the local Natwest. Off to Bahamas." Would be handy for the Police, though! "Chasing bank robbers up the M1".

Our motorways are like a giant system of arteries, with A-roads being the smaller blood vessels and B-roads the capillaries. Sometimes, you will see blood clots clogging up the system, while the busy heart of it all - the M25 - is busy pumping away.

When I think about the number of roads we have in this country, how busy they are, how much pollution is being spewed out in the atmosphere every day, week, month and year - it becomes mindblowing. And this is just the UK. With all the other networks of roads around the globe, the car loving USA as well as the emerging economies wanting to have a bit of the same cake - it is not difficult to see that our planet needs help. Now.

Maybe the economic crisis in some strange, backwards way have done something good to the environment? Not for a minute do I suggest it is a positive thing that thousands of people have lost their job in the car manufacturing industry. That cannot be good for anybody.
But the downturn has also meant that the demand for big gas guzzlers have decreased, as people - who can still afford to have a car - change over to smaller engine sizes. And that has got to be a good thing for all of us.

Pie in the sky

Bankers' bonuses...
There is no end to the frustration you feel when you hear the astonishingly high figures being repeated on the news.
Has there ever been a clearer illustration of the inequalities in life? Pensioners lose their life savings, struggle to keep warm and to pay their council taxes - whilst the creme de la creme-people enjoy the good life. And - the best bit is they are the ones who have messed the whole system up in the first place! Bonuses used to be for doing something remarkable, something extra-ordinary. I guess one can argue what they have achieved is rather remarkable, but - still.

As many bloggers and columnists http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/comment/liamhalligan/4623601/Outrage-at-bonuses-wont-solve-the-mess-were-in.html point out, however - there might just not be the incentive for politicians and decision-makers to stop this from happening in the future. I think many politicians also want a chunk of the good life and - well, with a bit of luck, they might end up there - safeguarding a pension worth dying for, so to speak. Or a peerage.

What we need is an independent body forcing investment bankers et al, to declare all the bad depts and clear the deck from this nasty financial virus once and for all. Only then can we build from scratch and create a better future - provided the government gets a grip on the economy!

Some time ago, I went in to my own bank in the village - a very small branch of one of the national banks. It was just before closing time and I was the last customer. The security-man comes in to collect today's earnings, helmit in hand. But - he brings something else, as well. A home-made rhubarb cake with custard, which he hands over to the bank manager, with the words: "I made this yesterday for you." How nice...

Now, that's the type of bonus I could accept - even for top bankers. Provided they had earnt it, that is.

Strange encounters

A strange social phenomenon occurs every time I go for a walk where I live.

My picturesque village is situated on the outskirts of a major town - in an estuary, close to the sea. The walk takes me from the centre of the village out to the countryside, along a field with cows, followed by a bird sanctuary with views over the sea. Finally, it leads back into the village, with its many shops, ten pubs and restaurants again. (Sorry, that should be eight pubs. I noticed today that two of them had closed down, due to the recent financial crisis, one guesses.)

Now, I could of course tell you about the many signs of Spring I saw this February Sunday - the lovely air and the warming sunshine. However, I find it more interesting to draw your attention to something which has puzzled me for years:

Why is it, that strangers you meet during the countryside part of this walk always greets you with a polite "Afternoon" and a smile or maybe a nod and a "Hiya" - but noone even as much as looks at you in the village? In fact, you can meet the very same people when passing the Post office in the centre later, as you met when passing the twitchers' bird-hide, but their reaction will differ. All of a sudden, they have become anonymous and...well 'urban'. You sense the 'tube' feeling, if you see what I mean.

Why is that? To many 'urban' distractions? Green fields and cows bring out the best in people?

Comments welcome!

Friday the 13th

I do not consider myself to be of a particularly superstitious nature. However, I must admit I was a tad concerned when booking a flight on Friday the 13th. I finally came to my logical, rational senses and so clicked the Submit button. After all, that was the date I needed to travel. Why would a date – really just another categorising of the environment we live in – rule me in my decision-making?

Since I was a little girl, I have heard my Mum telling me what her Mum passed on, from generations before her. You know the thing; never put keys or shoes on the table. Spit three times if you see a black cat crossing the street, never walk under a ladder. That sort of thing. Not that I think my mother really believed in that sort of stuff, but she felt she had to say it, anyway. A bit like a curse, for the evil spirits who might have turned up had she neglected mentioning these old sayings.

But there are sadder versions, too. Never compare hands. The effect of this will be death in the family. As will dreams about you loosing your own teeth. The most depressing one, in my opinion however, is “Never sing – or laugh - in the morning. You end up crying before going to bed.” How sad is that!? It reminds me of words some religious sect (whose name escapes me now) insists on: “You walk towards death, wherever you go.”
Uplifting in mind and spirit, isn’t it?

So, if I wake up feeling like singing, I intend to continue doing so. No matter what. What made me reflect upon the significance of Friday the 13th in the first place was the fact that two plane crashes actually did happen that particular day.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/7890952.stm
http://www.channel4.com/news/articles/uk/crashlanding+at+city+airport/2948957

One in the States and one in London – the latter almost exactly as I touched ground at Stansted myself. Strange – or just a coincidence?

Homeward Bound

I met an old teaching colleague yesterday, whilst strolling around in my wintry, Christmas cardy home town in Sweden. We had been working together in the 80s and 90s and had not seen each others for donkeys years.

He came to talk about how it is living in two 'homes', never really feeling at home in any of them. He asked me how I felt about living in the UK and if I was missing Sweden a lot. Although he had only moved from one part of Sweden to another, his longing for his original 'home' had become stronger and stronger with age, he said. It must have been over 30 years or so since he moved.

When he was here, he kept thinking of how much better things were over there. But once he was there - he experienced some kind of 'Is this it?' type of feeling and wanted to come back to his present 'home'. The grass is greener, you know.

I guess we all build up a perfect picture of how our childhood homes were and, with age, with things moving on - they change and maybe not always for the better.

My late uncle lived most of his life in the USA - a place he had been longing to go to ever since he was young. Back in the 50s, his dream became reality. After a week's journey on the mighty 'Gripsholm America boat' which set off from Gothenburg, he came to settle there.

With time, he started to compare the countries and thought less and less about America. Sweden was the place to be. But, with work, family and friends - he never really complained and kept the home-coming dream within himself.

He wrote letters to me and I could read between the lines how strong his homesick feelings really were, even if he did his best to disguise them. Every time he came to visit, I recall seeing him looking out over the lake in our home town, with tearful eyes and - he hated saying goodbye.
In his old age, when his son had moved to another part of the US and his wife died, he eventually did move back.

But times had changed. He was of course older, most of his old mates had died and - well, things were maybe not as exciting as he had imagined.
He ended his days in a home, suffering from Alzheimer's. As it happened, I was in Sweden on a visit from the UK when he died and I sat by his bed, holding his hand as he took his last breath.

I wonder if future generations will feel as torn between two continents as he did. Today's world provides ample possibilities to travel and settling down does maybe not have to be for life, in the same way as it used to be.

I said to my colleague "I think I am the sort of person you can plonk down just about anywhere in the world and I will adapt." If you think about your whereabouts as temporary, wherever you are on this planet - you avoid feelings of loss and longing. It is the people who inhabit these places that matter, not the actual places themselves.

Or at least - that's what I would like to think.

Recording life

Travelling can, at times, be rather tedious and boring. But every time I pass my time in train stations, in checking-in queues, in airports, I get very excited about observing people. Everyone has a story to tell, a journey to make and reasons for being where they are. Some are sad, others happy. One has won the lottery, another learnt her auntie has just died.
I find myself guessing who they are, why they are there and where they are heading.

Fragments of life are passing by in front of your eyes and there is not enough time to capture all of it. I sometimes wish I could.

This afternoon in Stockholm, I saw this fair haired girl on the tube, frantically texting away on her mobile. Nothing unusual about that. But she was totally unaware of people around her, completely obsessed by the words her quick fingers were creating on her mobile display - and, what's more, she had this special smile on her face. I am convinced her lover was at the other end of the invisible telephone line. It was a revealing smile, meant for the person she could not live without, that kept her going, that meant the world to her. I think.

A man from - and I am guessing here - South America, rushed in to the crowded, somewhat steamy waggon and managed to get a seat just right opposite me. He looked at me for a split second, with warm, friendly eyes. Then he took a deep breath and I could see he was tired - even exhausted, maybe grateful for finding a place to rest his weary body after running along the platform to catch the train. He closed his eyes and just...existed on his own for a while. I was wondering where his mind went. Maybe back to his home country and folks at home? Or maybe he was pondering about what to have for tea tonight. I will never know.

Whilst strolling through a town, you hear little snipbits of reality flowing in the air. This can be just as interesting. I have been meaning - many times - to carry a small note book with me and make quick notes of things people say as they pass you. Not everything, you understand - only the good ones. Yesterday I met a couple in the street and the young man said, when passing a restaurant: "We should go here. We have never been here before." The words just kept ringing in my ears and sort of made sense, in a slightly philosophical way.

A couple of streets away, and a woman says - with some emphasis - to what seemed to be her partner, maybe brother - or friend: "You cannot promise someone you will feel things, you know."

Again - very wise words. When I start thinking of how many wise words must be uttered by similarly wise people in the world, it gets pretty mind-blowing. Someone ought to make a record of this. Write it down, for the future. I just might do that.

Snow, snow, snow...

There's snow - and then there's snow.

Inuits have 40 words for snow, or so I thought until I learnt it is nothing but a modern-day myth. Maybe it is just that Inuits don't bother to talk so much about it - they just live with it?

In the UK, snow has caused a lot of disruption, and still does. I just heard on the news, there have been around 80 complaints by police about snow ball throwing. Sounds like the consequenses of a normal Swedish school lunch break to me.

As a Swede who spent my childhood playing in the snow, making snow huts and snowmen, playing hockey in the then rather empty streets - cursing the gritting lorry when it arrived - I obviously find this ado about nothing rather amusing and wimpish. But, at the same time, I realise the significant economic implications which would occur, were the UK to prepare the nation in the same way as us Nordic countries do. As it happens so rarely - would it be worth doing?

It might be grim up North, but at least we all have very well insulated houses, central heating and double glazing. Once you are indoors - you're fine. By law, cars and buses have to be equipped with tyres that cope with any frozen, uphill slope. Plus the snow that falls on the roads is actually shifted and taken away.

A true sign of Spring is when specially made vehicles come and sweep up all remaining grit on the streets - once the snow has gone. Fine, dry dust flying off in the much welcome Spring sunshine, icicles dripping and dropping from roof drainpipes and gables.

Oh well - we're soon there!

What to expect

I have started a blog.
Here, you will find observations and thoughts about anything which I feel like commenting on - society, politics, environment, media, arts, culture, people, travel, music....
What you will not find are notes about what I had for breakfast or what toothpaste I use.