I'll have that with ketchup [by Laura]

It seems to me that Denmark is full of pregnant women at this time of the year. It's simply unbelievable - they're everywhere. Could it be, I wonder, that Danes are so law-abiding, such good citizens that when the government tells them to have more children in order to get more workers and tax payers into the country, they really go and baby-boom?

I've been to the zoo earlier today, and naturally the place is literally swarming with the little people. Buggies, double-buggies and kiddie-carts trample the unvigilant zoo-visitor, and if one doesn't keep a sharp eye out at knee-height, sticky hands and faces can, and will, leave sugary mementoes of the trip for the next laundry visit.

My experiences with children are largely composed of the occasional enthusiastic encounters with my nieces and nephews, and I'm convinced that they are all insane. A two-hour visit into my sister's house is simply the best contraceptive in the world. From what I've learned, children are easy to entertain, if you have enough energy; the tickle-torture will always get them coming back for more, and hanging them upside down and shaking always seems to be a hit.

I did the game called Aunt Laura Practises Ju Jitsu Throws On Children only once, since one of the little angels ran out and invited all the children from the yard to join the queue.

Funnily enough, my sisters both have multiple children, in spite of the fact that they both called me from the hospital after giving birth and said: "Laura! Never. Have. Children!"

I guess that explains a lot about the strength of the primal instincts to reproduce.

I used to be a magnet for all kinds of weirdoes - perhaps I'll share a story or two another time - but these days, it seems, I'm only attracting little sticky persons. I'm certain I don't encourage them. Just in the last two or three weeks, two little girls grasped my hand in absolute trust, and I had an almost-perilous encounter with a chocolate coated little Danish boy. I was in the front of the queue at the grocery store, when suddenly I realised that in the narrow space between the counters, a dreamy little devil ambled mindlessly towards me. He was between me and the till, and there was nowhere to run. "If he touches me," I thought in growing terror, "I will surely die."

Luckily a sharp command from the mother turned him from my path and I could reach towards the till safe from chocolatey horrors.

I won't swear I'll never have children, but I do feel I lack some kind of maternal supplement. Tiny helpless babies - at least, the human kind - don't make me go all gooey inside and I certainly have no enthusiasm for passing my defective genes on to some poor little bastard. Too many graphic descriptions of painful childbirths, things ripping up where they shouldn't be ripping, swollen body parts, milk-squirting, peeing when you sneeze, sleep-deprivation, depression, pains, aches, poop and other bodily fluids have been passed on to me in the past years.

Majority of my friends is starting to settle down now and even the most dedicated baby-hater is starting to long for a little hairless bundle to care for. It's strange, to say the least, but I suppose that's what long-term relationships do to women. I don't mind kids running around, in general, but I also like the option to exit stage left when the decibel levels get too much. I'm never surprised when stay-at-home-mums go a little wonky after a while.

They say that having a child changes your life completely, and it is the ‘best thing they never knew they always wanted'. I've no doubt that these statements are true, but for now, I prefer to stay as irresponsible and selfish as it suits me; children, at large, are beyond my comprehension. But I'm not unduly worried: there are about 6.5 billion people in the world doing their part in filling the earth; surely my contribution won't be missed.

* * *
Although otherwise common as muck, Laura claims the title of the Queen of Procrastination. She's also an expatriate Finn who spends most of the time inside her own head - out of which the words overflow on their own accord. Any resemblance to coherence is purely coincidental.

Getting out there [by Ian]

"Getting out there" is a phrase I often use when asked "what would you be doing right now if you could". It means being away from so much urban chaos, and taking huge gulps of fresh clean air.

"Getting out there" is walking till my brain feels clear, my thoughts are free and unstilted, and my heart beats free of stress and daily struggle.

"Getting out there" is standing on Gara Rock, and taking in the broad sweep of the ocean and a glorious blue cloudless sky.

"Getting out there" is pottering about the Salcombe estuary in mid-summer.

"Getting out there" is knowing what that bird call is, and waiting patiently for the little beauty to come into view.

"Getting out there" is lying in a hammock, forgeing dreams from clouds.

"Getting out there" is gasping at meteor showers in August.

"Getting out there" is sharing Larmer Tree with good friends

"Getting out there" is living.

* * *
Ian is of a certain age when dealing with ear-hair can seem too much of a priority. He would secretly like to wear a cardigan and slippers. He thinks writing is the new black.

Third wheel, second wheel, road wreck [by Ivo]

It's happened to all of us. You meet someone, you hit it off, straight away. And then, you discover that this other person is already in a relationship.

It doesn't have to be a problem. After all, you've just met this person, you've managed well enough so far without knowing this person; chance encounters are all very nice, but you can do just as well without them, right?

Besides, that would be the "nice" thing to do. Anything else would be just interfering in something you have no business in, wouldn't it?

Recently, I discovered that someone I know has broken up with her boyfriend of several years. The reason? A friend she's gotten to know recently. I remember her telling about how he was in fact, just a friend, and that her boyfriend was okay with their hanging out.

So, apparently, not all of us try to be "nice", nor should we. After all, one, maybe selfish, reason I've had for "being nice" in the past, was that, if I were to meet someone, and be the reason for their break-up, it probably wouldn't benefit me. For one, the dumped party would recognize my part in what happened, with all the consequences thereof. For another, who says that this person would then choose for me? Her breaking up would all be great, of course, but if it's only because I'd created a sense of doubt, well, that wouldn't help me any further.

Someone else I know had a stable relationship with her boyfriend for years. And then she met someone else. They were just friends, at first. But feelings grew, fast, and the little seed of doubt grew quickly in the fertile soil of uncertainty. She ended up with neither of the two.

Does this then mean that it's okay to see if you can get a foothold? To continue to hang out with this person, and let things run?

Why not? After all, there's two sides to this equation. If you're hanging out with someone, there's either someone else, or you've got a second personality. And this other person is just as capable of ending the contact as you are, and would obviously have their reasons if they did.

After all, who likes to be in the situation of having to choose between two people? I wouldn't. Then again, I don't like choosing, period; I have trouble choosing which ice cream cone to get. But when choosing between two people, you're bound to hurt someone, whereas the ice cream just doesn't care.

So why do people put themselves in such situations? They don't choose to. It just happens. 'Letting it happen is a choice, too,' you might say. It is, if you know it's coming. Do you?

But that is pointing fingers. Which, after the fact, won't help anyone. And, when it comes down to it, is this situation not just the very essence of humanity? Always looking for the better deal.

* * *
Ivo is a Dutchman, hoping to one day start writing and stop producing sorry attempts at it. In the meantime, he's a university student.

Wilting Under The Spotlight [by Pogo]

A tiny corner of The Net's a-ruffle this week with the departure (again) of Peter at Naked Blog.

I've done it myself so often now that I've actually lost count. It's a scary thing, this blogging. You start off as just another anonymous website. Post and forget. Then you get your first comment. A rush of excitement... I have a reader!. You go into overdrive. You get more comments. You start to feel important. Somebody likes your stuff enough to come back for more. You're validated.

You become obsessed with your stats. Look at that! Another three regular readers this week!

You're convinced that what you're saying is seriously earth-shattering stuff. Why else would people come back, time and time again? You really count!

After a while you start to get irritated. You pour an hour or more's effort into a witty and well-reasoned post. And nobody says anything. You do it again. Nothing.

You write a throwaway two-liner about your hoover blowing up, and your comment box fills up.

You begin to suspect that your readers are vacuous fools.

You start writing snotty stuff, to provoke a reaction. No comments, but your stats start to drop away.

You begin to seethe. The words fuck it occur with alarming frequency as you fire up Blogger to have a rant.

Then one day you think enough's enough. You delete everything. You post a parting soapbox rant, and walk away. You spend a day or two checking your regulars for sorrowful postings about your inexplicable demise.

The liberation is amazing. No more playing to an audience. No more worries about stats. No more I could blog that thoughts are you're wandering round Sainsburys, or crossing the street, or stuck in a traffic jam.

After a week or two you begin to miss it. You wonder what on Earth posessed you to storm off like that. You feel like a pillock. You start to wish you hadn't jacked it in. But you made such a fuss of going that you can't just pile back in with a silly grin and expect people to carry on reading you. After all, you've probably just insulted half of them.

You resume blogging after another couple of weeks. Slink quietly back onto the stage, lurking in the wings. You don't announce anything. That would be too arrogant. You feel very very silly. But it's nice to be back.

Yeah, blogging does strange things to people.

Scrapyard Challenge [by Laura]

Some people like to talk about their health problems. It's like talking about the weather; something for your mouth to do while your brain goes on a holiday. I hate to gloat about mine; there is a certain type of person you never want to be associated with. If I do bemoan and bitch about my pains or discomforts, it means I really am in pain. In fact, I experience pain a lot. Most of it, I'm sure, is caused by her.

"I have to leave early because of this stomach ache," she announces, "My periods just ended yesterday!"
"I thought PMS happens before periods?" Another colleague comments, and is cheerfully ignored.

She is a colleague. Exotic and rare diseases, as well as common colds and aches, aren't a mere discomfort to her; they're her ticket to get a monthly salary for staying at home for most of the time. We don't mind... No, really. It's okay to lift her workload to get a few moments of silence in the office.
My frequent headaches must be caused by all that grinding of teeth.

"I have a terrible, terrible headache," she whines.
"Here, have a Paracetamol," I say.
"No, I really must go home. You don't mind, do you?"
Of course not.

My knees, back and stomach hurt. I suspect I'm getting an ulcer, and sometimes there's a pain in my chest which could either be heartburn or a prominent heart problem. The only thing I can think of is: This shouldn't be happening! I haven’t even turned twenty-five yet!

"If I've been a little cranky the last two weeks," she confides in the early hours, while the office is still empty, "I haven't been to the toilet for two weeks."
"Uh, been there," I mumble. Later on she excuses herself early to go home.
"The medication started working!" She calls out as she rushes towards the parking lot.
I block out the uncalled-for images by drawing little hanged men to decorate the invoice I'm working on.

I'm very hard to cater for, because of my multiple allergies, but that's only one of the reasons why I tend to bring my own lunch to work.

"I have a yeast infection down there," she says at the lunch table. "So please understand if I'm a little annoyed."
I start to hum a little tune and stare fixedly out of the window.

As genetic heritage goes, I can look out for several types of cancer - cancer in the bone, in the breast, in the glands, in the lungs… No testicular cancer in my family, though. Go figure - it's the only one I can't get.

"I have a urine infection," she explains breathlessly, "So I can't come in."
Two weeks pass.

There's adult diabetes, heart problems, high blood pressure, obesity, sleep apnea, asthma, depression. Rheumatism in at least two generations in my direct maternal line.

It can't be helped, I tell myself - I've been built out of scrap parts.

"It's a very rare neural infection," she explains as she detaches herself from any responsibility. "It takes up to three or six months to heal!"
It's OK. I suffered from insomnia anyway so I fixed all problems with her accounts. Again.

My experiences with doctors simply discourage me to burst into the office of my GP and demand a proper examination.

My doctor in Finland had the reputation - and he certainly did this to me every time - of asking all female patients to remove their shirts regardless of the anatomical context of the examination; my doctor in Scotland diagnosed eczema as scabies and prescribed me with a head lice shampoo; the nutritional therapist I saw because of all the things I can’t eat advised me to "eat variably" - to mention but a few.

Besides, who knows what a full medical examination would find?

"Iieeawww," she intones with her nasal voice, "I'm so bloated! Do you think I've gained weight?!"
I glance at her 100-pound figure and shrug non-committally.
"I'm going on a diet!!"

My current doctor has got a bona fide miracle cure - it's simply too wonderful for words. Depressed? Is your back hurting so that you've taken to sleeping on the floor? Have any problems with skin, eyes, blood pressure, stress? Are you a multiallergic trying to diet? Do you continuously fail to lose weight?

No problem, my doctor says with confidence borne of never-had-to- diet-in-my-whole-life, Lose weight!

"I have to leave early on Friday," she warns me when she returns from another sick day.
"Really."
"Yeah, I have a dentist’s appointment. The thingy ogg magg dooghd iggh e’e egg ogg, see? It’s really gross!" She wipes her finger on the back of the chair.
I smile and nod. Only two more days and she’s changing jobs. I can feel that ulcer starting to heal already.

The Real Work [by Gord Sellar]

It's very difficult to decide what to do with one's life. I mean, once one has figured out in general what one wants to do. The filling-in of blanks is so hard, takes such precision and thought. I despair of managing it, really, sometimes.

There was a time when I was young and had all kinds of ideas about how I could help others change the world. This period spanned from high school until about a year into my first marriage, and then the weight of an unhappy pairing, plus the general weight of my own depression, pulled me apart. I've come to see that period of time when I was busy pulling myself together, and then holding myself togther, as if it were a kind of temporary diversion from the real trajectory of my life.

But what that real trajectory is, I'm not really sure. I know that it has something to do with politics, though I am torn inside between direct action and something more arcane, something articulated in my writing. I was telling my girlfriend tonight that I imagine myself writing a few works of philosophy, including one of moral philosophy and one of political philosophy. But I wonder what good such writing can really do? Within one's lifetime, very little, I am certain. And in a span of time longer than that, I am just as dubious.

After all, my ideas are nothing new, as of right now. Most expats would agree with me that the current American Administration is insane, for example. They'd laugh and note that the number of people who agree with Bush is, in proportion to the world, very small indeed.

But then again, for me the culture war of Right vs. Left has always seemed somewhat of a distraction from a far more crucial war that needs to be waged in the modern world (or is it postmodern now, or something else yet again?) is the war to pry apart business and state interests. Whomever I mention this to usually recieves it with a little surprise, but not at the idea itself; it's an obvious idea, really. The shock they express is at the size of the project. My girlfriend looked at me with wide eyes and asked me how I planned to bring that about. I told her frankly I had no idea beyond writing about it, and at this stage of the game, that so few people were consciously aware of the problem that it might be most important at this stage to be writing about it.

But will that make any difference? Who can know.

So then what is the point of writing about it? I suppose it's just that this is one thing I know I can do, one thing I can do well, and it's something I feel I need to do. Perhaps gut instinct is merely the purveyor of arrogance. But perhaps, as with a few instances in the past, my gut instinct is actually right this time.

And so I suppose I shall follow it, and write on all of this... provided I can get blogging out of my system and settle down to do some real work.

Or is this, what I have just written, part of that real work, too? Hmmm.

* * *
Gord Sellar is a Canadian expatriate living and working in South Korea. He teaches English, plays sax in a band, and contributes to The New Sophists' Almanac (www.newsophists.net) as well as running his own website (www.gordsellar.com). He can be reached by email at gord [at:] gordsellar [dot:] com.

Hakuna Matata [by Laura]

I used to be incredibly anal about other people being late. I was always the one who was not only on time, but actually early, and without fail, everyone else would aim for "ish". I remember one particular birthday where I sat alone in my reserved table in the pub for half an hour before anyone else showed up!

In the past, a lot of my friends have been from Latin countries - and we all know what their timekeeping culture is like - so I pretty much grew used to waiting. And waiting. And waiting... Also, as a rule, absolutely everyone has a larger social network than I do; so for them, if someone cancels on a plan, it isn't a big deal, because they can always call someone else. Whereas for me, making a plan with someone is always a special occasion, because, let's face it, I spend a whole lot of quality time in my own company.

Living in a given country as a foreigner gives an additional twist to this. It means that you're entering a society that's in its own way already complete. What I mean by that, is that the people, locals, that you will meet and make friends with already have a social circle around them, while you, the foreigner, actually start from a completely empty calendar. As a matter fact, I've learned that in Denmark they have a concept for a 'half-agreement,' which means that something can be agreed on, but - and I don't know the rules for this - it's not an actual agreement. You can probably see how this could cause some misunderstandings.

These days, I've improved drastically. I'm now so used to people cancelling on me that it doesn't bother at all anymore. In fact, I don't plan on plans at all. Plans are something that may happen, not an absolute inevitability. I've realised that it doesn't actually matter if the planned event doesn't happen today, because hey - it's not like I have any plans for any other day either. The biggest step towards being a relaxed person for me came from the realisation that I can actually arrive at the cinema after the pre-feature advertisements have begun, and I'm not even stressed! Whatever social arrangements I attend, I'm usually fashionably late. I hold absolutely no expectations on possible future events. I live a carefree life - if a friend cancels out on me, it doesn't mean that I'm losing out on something. Nope; I'm saving it up for later.

Old Fashioned [by Pogo]

I’m a hoarder, I admit it. I find it hard to throw stuff away. Junk that hasn’t done anything except gather dust for years is kept because “it might come in handy one day”. Tomorrow I will finally be getting rid of an old PC case – giving it to a mate. I’ve had it since 1997, and it hasn’t seen regular use for at least the last couple of years. But I couldn’t throw it away. Even when my mate said “have you got an old PC case that you don’t want any more?” I had to think long and hard before reluctantly answering “well, yes, as it happens, I have”.

Of course, I gutted it. I’m keeping the motherboard, poxy old graphics card, microscopic amount of memory (on SIMMs that are incompatible with everything made for at least the last five years). Even the floppy disk drive.

That’s only the tip of the iceberg.

I have a room full of old computers (“could come in handy”). The house is filled with books (“I might read it again one day”). The shed is crammed to the rafters with old tins of paint (“just in case”). The kitchen cupboards are collapsing under the weight of old mugs and jars of seldom-used herbs & spices. The footwear in the cupboard under the stairs would put Imelda Marcos’ collection to shame. I still have an Inspiral Carpets teeshirt from the “Beast Inside” tour (1991).

And it’s best not to mention the contents of the attic.

But at least I’m not as sad as the weaving pillock who was texting himself on the way in to work today. How do I know he was texting himself? Because he had TWO PHONES. One in each hand. There he was, sauntering along, eyes flitting from one screen to the other, thumbs-a-flurry. One phone would beep away da-da-da-daaa-daaa-da-da-da, then the other. Is this how people think, these days? I just witter away to myself in my head. Am I old fashioned?

For gods' sake! [by Laura]

I was thinking about escapism today, and the various forms it manifests in. Personally, I spend a lot of time inside the world in my head, but I figure most people do. Where else would the unshakable optimism of the human race come from; the people who say "it'll turn out all right in the end" and actually believe that? Even if you're not one of these people, you still believe in abstract ideas such as justice and mercy, in hope, even. The truth is that bad things happen to good people. Bad things happen to bad people. Occasionally, good things happen to all kinds of people, whether they deserve it or not. In fact, shit happens.

People who are religious, might disagree with the above statement, and I won’t claim that they're wrong. I tend to create imaginary things around myself; compare the office block I work in to the Mount Doom in 'Lord of the Rings', for example, or have firm belief that if you walk to an opposing wind long enough, you will eventually push through to another dimension. Instead of the popular belief - 'God Created Man' - I believe in 'Man Created God'. I believe in mankind's need to believe in things; it's a comfort on dark, cold nights and allows you to have a Plexiglas of faith between yourself and the world.

Suppose you don't have to believe in justice and mercy and hope if you believe in God; after all, he encompasses all these things in a handy All-In-One package. At any rate, the effect is the same: there's something there for you to take the sting out of the world.

I don't have much faith; in God, in gods, or in other things. I hope like hell there's Justice, and that the people who are busy killing, murdering, torturing and raping will get what they deserve. I hope this is true no matter which church or mosque they go to. I hope there's a suitable end for people who sue fast food chains for making them obese, cigarette companies for giving them cancer and doctors for not prescribing penicillin. I especially hope that hypocrites who claim to follow the benevolent one and true and only god but are busy discriminating against different sex, sexuality, colour or religion will one day meet their god. And find that he's displeased.

In fact, I don't think you need a big, bearded man in the sky (or a foxy blue guy in a luscious garden, for that matter) in order to live a good life. I'm far from perfect, but I try live by a simple set of ideals. Whether I have a life after death or not I'm leaving up to providence.

The Ten Four Commandments Ideals of Atheist Agnostic A Pretty Average Person

1) Don't hurt people, animals, nature or tourists
2) Know when to stop
3) Show respect
4) Say thank you

Column imitates life [by Laura]

It's unoriginal to write about writing. Hence, I'm not going to go on about the therapeutic qualities of writing (plentiful) or my reasons for writing things down (various). My problem is, aside from the lack of sparkling talent, obviously, that compared to the writers I read and admire in the blogging world - I'm talking about the mostly non-published hidden gems whose daily prose keeps me coming back to their online journals - I don't seem to have any experiences to draw from. In effect, I intent not to write so much about writing as I intent to write about life.

It's strange, really. You'd think that I, after leaving home at tender age of fifteen, and having changed country twice before I turned twenty-three, would have more anecdotes to draw from. I seem to be cursed with a level head - figuratively speaking - and a cautious approach to life which has condemned me to live my life like there was a tomorrow with consequences.

Unfortunately, this approach hasn't seemed to catch up with my finances (or lack thereof), nor has it ever cured me of procrastination. But then again, I never forget my keys, I never lose my wallet (except that one time when the gnomes hid it behind the sofa pillows) and it's frankly astonishing how I never, ever fall asleep on the train and end up in Sweden, where I get shanghaied on a cargo ship bound for Far East to smuggle Bengal Tigers to the private zoos of wealthy but mysterious Arabs. So I guess it can't all be bad.

When I was a teenager I constantly worried about ending up being the one who keeps her head in a crisis and ends up mother-goosing intoxicated friends out of potentially harmful situations. Instead, I turned out to become the one who manages to drink vast amounts of vodka and still smirk at the drunken stupor of everyone else from the sidelines and go home early.

An intellectual writer would then create prose based on the social behaviour of her friends; make cunning arguments over the sociological and biological aspects of alcohol in context of mating instincts. A bold writer would even take a political stand with sharp observation and go on a downright spittle-flecked rant about the state of the toilets. A true writer would have stayed in the party, made a complete arse of herself, gone home with some dubious character and written a sarcastic description of the consequences, including a graphic description of the hangover.

Truly brilliant writers, of course, don't have to go to parties at all; they make perfectly normal things sound exciting and give everyday life a whole new meaning. For instance; my life is wonderful (I wonder what I'm doing here), my job unbelievable (it's hard to believe I'm really doing this shit) and the pay fantastic (I fantasize about a pay rise). I suppose the conclusion is that with a little imagination and a way with words one doesn't, in fact, need to have a life at all. I feel so much better now.

Sneezing In The Sun [by Pogo]

It's the middle of May. My nose is already beginning to do that strange twitching thing when I step outside. In another couple of weeks it'll start taking the law into its own hands. If I'm not attentive with the hanky it'll just sneeze whenever it wants. And then I'll know it's the Summer.

Don't get me wrong. I love the Summer nowadays, thanks to the miracle of Benadryl. But once upon a time it was just another reason for me to be grumpy.

Cricket is the invention of The Devil.

At my school it was a compulsory sport during the Summer months. Sport? Hah! What's sporting about standing in a newly-mown patch of grass, sneezing your tits off, rubbing your itchy eyes until they puff up to three times their normal size? What's fun about being stuck out as far away from the action (Action? What action?) as possible, because they know "he's the snotty one, better keep him out of the way". What's even remotely entertaining about seeing a cricket ball arcing towards your head while you're in mid-blow? Being hit by a spherical brick might raise a laugh or two from the opposite team, but does it provoke sympathy from your supposed team mates?

'Oi! Pogo! Leave your nose alone and catch the pigging ball next time, will you?'

Mutter mutter mutter. Did I pigging ask to be stuck in the pigging field in the first pigging place? Do I look even the remotest bit interested in this so-called "game"? No? Funny, that.

So anyway. Positive things about Summer. Blimey. Too many to mention, these days. Benadryl – already said that. Camping. Yeah – camping. The season's almost upon us. Break out the tent and the paracetamols, it's time to sit in a field and let the kids go ape while I drink far too much. Brilliant fun. Then there's the stargazing and satellite-spotting when it gets dark, to say nothing of the odd bit of nearly-outdoors-rumpo.

And of course, it's Festival season! Glastonbury! V! Reading! T! Might even make the effort to do Ashton Court again this year. Anticipated highlights of the season: Pixies reunion, Muse headlining, being somewhere else when Paul McCartney does his slot.
Beer. Gear. Fun. Sun.

Can't wait!

* * *

Pogo (aka Goopy) is continually told to shut up by his long-suffering mates down the pub. Always opinionated yet rarely correct, he can't help sticking his oar in no matter what the subject. He has even been known to offer up opinions on football, about which he is supremely unqualified to speak.

From Expat to a Patriot [by Laura]

I've come to realise that leaving your home country for an extended period of time makes a kind of a patriot out of the best of us. I was born in Finland some twenty-five years ago and have been out of the country only a little over three. It seems that the first stage of expatriating is denial; distancing yourself from your home country and having as little to do with it as possible and cringing with shame if someone recognises your nationality, especially if it's someone who shares it with you. There are only a few things you pack with you and have your friends send over at every opportunity... Salmiakki (or salted liquorice). Proper bread. Cracker-bread or crispbread. Coffee.

After a little while, you start paying a little closer attention to the little differences, and grudgingly admit that, actually, it is pretty stupid to have two separate taps for hot and cold water, or to have to pay your bills by mailing actual checks - something that's not even an acceptable method of payment in Finland anymore. Online banking is actually an excellent idea, or failing that, machines, which are similar to ATMs, but are meant for paying bills. Smart!

Some time after than, you start looking into the ancient history of Finland; the bits that weren't taught to you in school. The old Finland has faded away so much that these days, no one can tell what the Finnish word Suomi, for Finland, actually means. The modern history of Finland is uninteresting at best. Personally, I think the Finnish sense of nationality was stripped away in the last thousand years or so, when nothing interesting happened historically; the spit of land switched ownership between Sweden and Russia several times - something that simply doesn't give you a defined sense of nationality - and the only thing that makes you feel any kind of patriotism was the bit where Finland was called the 'bloody shield of Sweden', to be used in the war against the mighty Russia. Since the declaration of independence in 1917, Finland has remained carefully diplomatic towards any bigger and stronger countries - i.e. everyone else - and is quietly taking pride in that fact. But not too loudly, you understand.

The bits they don't teach in schools you learn from such suspicious authors as Robert Nelson, who wrote a book called 'Finnish Magic'. It's a great book for inflaming a sense of patriotic pride, but alas, it's also wildly inaccurate. It sticks to your mind, however. Finns have always been considered a little odd - quiet, short-worded, incredibly trusting, honest, drink-happy - so Nelson's claim that Finns were taken aboard Viking ships because they were believed to have magical powers; or that Finnish warriors were used as bodyguards as far as in the Byzantine empire... simply makes you feels as though there's something to being a Finn, after all. You realise that although a Christian country, Finns still remained pagan on the inside. All of this might be a load of pish-posh, but if it gives you a sense of pride on your roots - which by the way have never been really traced to their origins - then what's the harm?

The last stage of expatriating is when you become actively involved in the local Finnish society; you're on the mailing lists, attend the Finnish church at Christmas, Finnish bonfires at Midsummer and the Finnish First of May celebrations; go to the Finnish market, hang around with other Finns so you can speak the language and ditch the locals until your face turns blue. Personally, I haven't reached this stage yet, and by Ukko, I hope I never will.

Still; I don't want to move back to Finland, no matter how highly I may speak of it or how good a country it is for raising innocent, blue-eyed children. I know that after a few weeks, a month at best, I would remember the bad things: Finns are rude; they have a primitive alcohol culture; no manners of any description; no appreciation for other cultures; a highest suicide rate in the world and no wonder. No... I prefer to see the Finland as a nostalgic picture in my mind, portrayed like it is in the national hymn; a pure, blue and white country of untainted nature and a thousand bright blue lakes.

OK, I'm all finnished now.

Queen of Nonsense [by Micki]

I need to learn to keep my big mouth shut... Or at least think before I open it... I mean, look where it landed me this time, writing on the bloody web! *sigh*

So, what does one write about? Life? Work? Footie? Men? Or just utter nonsense? I think I'll go for the latter; I'm not the Queen on Nonsense for nothing. I take great pride, I'll have you know, in being able to start a conversation out of complete nonsense. My philosophy is that you should never dismiss any information you get, you never know when it might come in handy. Or who you can use it on...

For example, did you know that the humble Cashew nut is an impostor?

Well, did you?

He is in fact a seed (wait, maybe it was a pip...?), not a nut. This fact has brought sheer joy to my sister, who suffers from nut allergy, and can now eat nuts. Sort of, anyway.

Elbows - It is impossible to lick your own elbow. Trust me on this one, it has been tried and tested with and without alcohol intake. On numerous occasion in fact.

Spiders - This one I found out myself, by accident. When a spider, drowns in a hot bath (read: gets boiled alive), he poops out his webbing. Not literately, of course, but that's what it looks like. How weird is that?!

Hey, this might actually be a good thing! This writing stuff I mean. I can go on and on about whatever takes my fancy and it doesn't matter whether it's making sense or not, I can jump from subject to subject; in fact, I CAN SAY WHAT I LIKE because there is nobody to interrupt me or tell me to shut up! Mwahaha mwahahaaaa...

There's a thought actually. It might be good for my friends and colleagues at least, this writing malarkey, but maybe not for the plants as they might now die due to lack of stories. Unless the cats get to them first.

Why is that, anyway? Why do cats go for the nicest houseplant that you have in the house? They totally demolish it and then puke it up. Doesn't matter where you put it, they damn right find it. They don't go for the one that's already half dead, oh no, it needs to be the one that was bought new in the shop that day. I love my two cats dearly but I wish they could leave the plants alone. I spend more money on plants than I do on them! Will have to invest in Cacti soon. And don't tell me just to give up on the plants, because I won't. I was brought up in a household surrounded by plants and it always gave the house a nice and homely feel.
You know, I even bought some cat grass to grow... Figured that with the grass they would leave the plants alone. Did they heck! They didn't go anywhere near the bloody grass. Gave it one wee sniff and that was that. Choosy wee Buggers...

* * *

Micki is the aforementioned lady who got Laura to start this project in the first place. As previously suggested, she is a well-known chatterbox and a self-proclaimed Queen of Nonsense. This is her first go at the writing business. Micki's fluent in Swedish, English, Finnish and Gibberish.

Hello. My name is Laura. I'm addicted to blogging.

I guess I should start from the beginning. I got introduced to online chatrooms (remember The Park?) when I was an art student, and I simply haven't looked back ever since. I was one of the first people I knew who had an e-mail address. Then I had a personal website at Geocities (remember Geocities?). At that time, the addresses were something like http://www.freewebsites.com/members/Area51/784326473/~kewlcyberhome/index.html, which is probably why personal websites remained largely just that – personal. It was only a matter of time to graduate into to a Napster (remember Napster?), ICQ, AIM, MSN and Yahoo messenger user.

As with most people, I got introduced to blogging by a friend. Since then, I'm writing or participating in no less than five weblogs and barely a thought passes my mind without it being subjected to the blogger's scrutiny: Is it interesting? Is it funny? Can it be published in my next post? Can I build a whole post around this thought? I've even attempted blogging via my mobile phone – and with the new e-mail blogging feature it's actually a feasible project – and I in turn have introduced most people I know to web logs, although not that pick the habit themselves.

These days, I've toned down the excessive usage – I only have a couple of e-mail addresses and mainly use MSN messenger to keep in touch with friends and family – except when it comes to updating my blogs. I don't have much going for me in the career department, and earlier today I was on the subject to one of my friends, who's convinced that I have literary talent and something to say; she suggested that I should start writing a column for a newspaper. My reaction was that of immediate denial, but because I'm, of course, tickled by the idea that someone thinks my ramblings are worth reading, and because I actually enjoy writing and have wondered whether I could withstand the pressure of so-called serious writing – I could go on – I decided that I will take up the challenge.

"Tell you what, I'll start a new blog as an experiment to see if I can write a regular 500+ words in column format," I said.
"Yeah, why not!"
"And then I'll recruit you as a guest columnist."
"Erm..."

I used to work with the lady, and in the office we used to joke that she's not allowed to speak at home because at work you simply cannot get a word in when she gets up to speed on a subject. I dare say she will have a thing or two to say.

So, this web log isn't really a blog in the sense that I understand the word. It's a project, an experiment, and it's my twisted little plot to try and get more of my friends on the web. My ambitious plan is not only to test my own capacity, but also have guest columns from friends and family who wouldn't normally write things. I think it's a great idea. I admit that I lured you in with false advertisement; I have no intention to quit or cut down on blogging – I want to spread the love!

Come on. Write a column. Go on. I dare you.