Dare You To Write

I surrender

2004-10-15T10:18:00.000+02:00

I guess it's time to announce this experiment a failure. It's hard work trying to come up with witty or interesting nonsense on a regular basis, and in spite of the initial interest on the column writing, no new columnees have come forth. I won't close the site out, but - as it has been in the past few months - updates here will continue to be sporadic at best.

I'm announcing new updates on my personal weblog [link] when they happen, and if by any chance anyone does want to post a column here, leave a comment either there or on this page. I'm taking the hotmail account down.

Be seeing you!

Precious history [by Laura]

2004-09-13T13:39:00.000+02:00

There's an old Russian couple living next to my parents. I don't think they speak a word of Finnish; I know my parents don't speak any Russian. In spite of this, and this is the thing I'm trying to get at, my parents once rang their door bell and gave them food. You know, it's something I never really thought people do anymore. In a way, it makes me kind of proud that in spite of the language barrier, and the fact that my parents don't know the Russian couple, in spite of cultural taboo of butting into other people's business... they still thought about their neighbour when they had too much of their own and went ahead and gave it away to someone who seemed like they needed it.

It kind of makes me wonder how well I - or any of us - really know our own parents.

I’ve come to think that the first shock of growing up is when you realise that your parents aren't always right; somehow the knowledge of this shakes the very bedrock of your being.

The second realisation usually only comes later, in a moment of crisis possibly, when you have no one else to turn to for advice... And it turns out that sometimes your parents really do know better, that sometimes they are right.

It's hard to write objectively of your own parents. I, for one, have absolutely no doubt that they love their children and would, if they could, do almost anything for us. I don't know about my two sisters, but I suspect that even though there are differences to the ways we perceive our parents, and although there are times in our lives when we wished for more support than what has been readily available -- there's no uncertainty in my mind that they did their best to raise intelligent, independent people capable of taking care of themselves.

As impossible as it seems, even my parents have had doubts of whether they've done a good job or not. As they're inevitably getting older, it seems more and more important for me to get beyond the parent/child relationship and find out who they really are; what wishes did they have for life, did they achieve them; what makes them the people they are. All of my grandparents are dead by now, and I woke up too late to realise that they and the lives they led were a part of my own personal history - now inevitably lost except for what I can learn from my own parents. It's not always easy to open the conversation, especially since I'm the youngest of my siblings, but even when getting stories out of my parents feels like pulling teeth, getting to know them more intimately makes me feel closer to them and, surprisingly, to my roots in the East of Finland.

In the end, who'd ever have known how similar I am to the man who, for the most of my life, I've in turns looked up to, feared, loathed and pitied. I'm more like my father than I ever thought, and realising this has made it possible for me to understand him and his ways. I've started writing down the little titbits I learn from the family history, and I know my eldest sister is also interested in making research into the genealogy of our family, so hopefully, with combined effort we'll be able to preserve what's left of the lives of the past generations - and the rest will of up to us.

Your assignment - go out to your old relatives and really talk with them about their past. I guarantee you it’s worth the effort.

* * *
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 therefore purely coincidental.

Living with the traitor [by laura]

2004-08-11T11:54:00.000+02:00

I think it's become obvious from earlier related columns that I really don't like babies. It's against my religion to have too much poop, puke, crying, diapers, milk, well, all things baby in my life.

Also: My sleep is sacred.

Therefore it's horrible and confusing when my body is working together with hormones and whatnot to try and convince me it's time to start bulging 'round the middle, and not just because I'm too fond of ice cream and don't exercise enough. I don't want babies. I don't like babies. And yet, I find my eyes wandering around and paying attention to children and babies completely unheeded by the instructions from me. And pregnant women. Everywhere I look, I see big, round bellies (in otherwise perfect bodies, which I think is just plain cheating!), buggies and freshly externalised offspring.

It's not nice when your own body turns against you. It creeps up into your subconscious and puts all kinds of silly thoughts in there, trying to wriggle past all common sense I possess.
Oh look, a baby. There's another one. This one's much older. A pregnant woman over there. O wow, look at that belly. What a nice belly. You like that belly. You want a belly like that. Oh yes, you want a belly like that. You could buy a buggy like that couple over there. And look at the dress on that little girl. You'd like to dress up a baby. Yes, you would. Babies are nice. Babies are gooood. Let's have babies. You want to have a baby. You really, really want to have a baby. Pregnant women get to have all the fun. Let's get pregnant. You want to be pregnant. Yes you do. Let's have a baby!
There's no way I can shut the traitor up. That's what I have to listen every otherwise peaceful moment of my life, when in the not-so-far-past I would just stare at nothing and let my mind unwind. In other words, my body's playing on two fields; on one hand, it's rubbing my defences with false imagery of wonderful motherhood (I'm sure it's wonderful for some) and on the other, it's not allowing my mind to unravel and connect with the greater flow of the universe, thus making it weaker and more susceptible for persuasion.

If a man ever joins forces with my body, I'll be in real trouble. Am I really no better than my animal instincts?

* * *

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 therefore purely coincidental.

Caveat Emptor* [by pogo]

2004-08-05T14:40:00.000+02:00

I just got semi-spammed. Spammed, as in it's unsolicited email containing an offer I can easily refuse. Semi as in the culprit was Apple Computer, and I probably didn't tick the little don't spam me box when I ordered something from their online store recently.

The untempting offer, in exquisite HTML with glinting graphics customary of all things Apple, was entitled£15* Off Your Next Order over £149* or more.

That little * was the killer. Searching the uberglossy I eventually found it hidden away in a tiny font with matching camouflage colouring: * Price and saving are exclusive of VAT and exclusive of delivery of charge.

Dodgy grammar notwithstanding, the * was enough to make me reach for the DELETE button. Things marked with little stars are Not Worth The Effort. Occasionally, the cynic in me needs a breather and it lets my optimistic side take control, but it's always given a thorough I told you so!-ing pretty soon afterwards. At these moments I am usually left wondering does anyone actually bother with these "offers"?

We recently went through all the palaver of re-mortgaging the house. The usual world-weariness crept over me as Tuther first mentioned the idea. It won't be worth the effort in the end, you'll see was the only thing I could think of, but, for the sake of a quiet life I simply nodded half-heartedly and mumbled something about "well, see what you can find then". One financial adviser and several rounds of paperwork and kitchen conversations which included the phrase "hmmm, how can they justify that charge?" later, we're with The Woolwich. Temporarily. Our supposed saving of £50 a month has been whittled away to about half that. Funnily enough, once the paperwork was all but done, we were told that we would need to take out a new insurance policy. With the Woolwich, of course. Then they tried to take two payments from us at once. And of course there was the admin fee. And the cancellation charge. And the We're-Totally-Taking-The-Piss charge. And so on...

I've decided what I'll have inscribed on my headstone:

Here Lies Pogo. He lived life to the full*.

---

Pogo 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 The Small Print, about which he is supremely unqualified to speak.

Biding my time [by Laura]

2004-08-04T10:23:00.000+02:00

I finally came to an actual decision about my future plans. They now include saving a lot of money during the winter, taking some extra courses, and going to university next year.

I'm actually really looking forward to being a student again, in spite of the fact I'll be penniless after years of being able to pay for my own living, and will probably have to share a flat with a 16-year old who's moved out of home for the first time in her life.

I'll not have to sit in an office doing the same monkey-job for eight hours a day anymore. No more customer service, no more having to make excuses for other people's incompetence. In fact, I will be free to do whatever I want with my hair again, including all shades of the rainbow and an undercut, if the fancy takes me that way. I won't have to subconsciously worry whether my bag or shoes are too childish, because, hell, students are supposed to be a little weird.

No more managers, conference calls, invoice disputes or pissy customers. I dare say that this time ‘round, I'll have a whole another outlook on studying, because, unlike the last time when I was the fresh-out-of-home sixteen year old, I actually now know what's out there. Having worked a job I loathe for four years suddenly puts the whole thing into a new perspective.

It's always worrying to leave steady income and familiar things, but then again, not everyone's able to start afresh.

All I have to do, now, is get through another nine or ten months of gruelling boredom and, of course, the bureaucratic nightmare of choosing and applying to universities. I think I'll apply to at least two or three different countries just to make sure I have half a chance of getting accepted somewhere.

How's your day in the office?

* * *

Yesterday [by pogo]

2004-07-20T15:10:00.000+02:00

Yesterday...
All my troubles seemed so far away...
Now it looks as if they're
Here to stay...

Just over three weeks ago I caught myself singing along to this. Which was surprising, considering I've never had a copy of it on tape, CD, LP, EP, single, or MP3 (did I miss any other formats?).

A few days later my boss told me he had skin cancer. The jury was still out (it still is, come to think of it) on whether or not it was malignant. He wasn't worried - outwardly. I don't know him anything like well enough to be able to tell whether or not he's quietly fretting away to himself.

Sure as shit, if it were me, I'd be bricking it.

But it isn't. All I have to worry about is a slightly snotty nose today. Nothing else merits the label "worry" - well, let's face it, a snotty nose isn't something to worry about either, is it?

These are the moments to cherish.

You never know if today is going to be tomorrow's "yesterday"...

Pogo 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 Time, about which he is supremely unqualified to speak.

Echoes [by Laura]

2004-07-20T14:27:00.000+02:00

One late night - or early morning, before sunrise - I lay awake in bed in the summer house and listened. It was silent both inside and outside the house, except for the scraping inside the wall which must have been a mouse. Outside, only the trees were rustling a little in the wind, and water was dripping from the drainpipe. It was probably just sleep creeping up on me, but I felt a strange sense of peace descend.

As I woke up with the birds again at sunrise - which happens at around four in the morning – burying my head under a pillow to block out the persistent bird-song, I was reminded of one Christmas holiday at the summer house. In winter-time, there are barely any sounds, except that which you bring with you. The creaking of the snow under your foot. Swish and rustle of your winter-wear. Sound of your breath and the inevitable sniffing of runny nose. Nature is asleep, except for the ice, which cracks and creaks as it expands in the cold.

(My sister’s husband, a Londoner, used to be scared of the absence of sound in the depths of the Finnish winter. Even in the quiet parts of London, there’s always a hum of traffic in the background.)

When I came back to the city after my couple of weeks at the summer house, I missed the silence dearly. In the quietude of nature, other sounds become pronounced, and they leave a long-lasting imprint into your mind.

Swan-calls echoing around the lake, giant wings beating the water and air to get airborne;

Fire crackling in the fire-pit, a hiss as the charred wood-pile collapses into glowing embers; grill-sausage sizzling on the metal grate; the eeeeeeeeeeeee of the mosquito which bypasses brain entirely and goes directly to the primal instincts and promotes terror;

Water lapping against the pier; pen whispering against the paper; shrill whistle of sparrows hunting insects; indistinct sound of my mother talking on top of the hill;

Trees rustling in the wind; sound of wood-chopping from across the lake; cows mooing on a distant farm in the evening; dog barking; Formula-1 sound of a beetle flying past your ear;

Startled birds escaping the vegetable patch in the pre-dawn glow, protesting loudly at the early outhouse-seeker; father coughing in his sleep inside the house; flies buzzing at the compost heap;

Creak of the rocking chair (significantly louder since the grandchildren broke one of the legs); rain drumming the roof; clatter of dishes; melancholy Finnish tango on the radio.

Sigh.

As I'm writing this in the office, I can see the forest outside, but I can't hear it. There are machines and trucks outside making a lot of noise. Somewhere, a plane is taking off. In the background, people are talking. The sound of typing is prominent in the small room. I turn the radio on louder, kick off my sandals, lean back and dig my toes into the carpet, imagining a field of grass. Inevitably, the taste of past holidays lose potency like the four-leaf clover I saved between the pages of a thick book. But, for the moment, it lingers.

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 therefore purely coincidental.

Home [by Ian]

2004-07-05T14:43:00.000+02:00

My home town is growing at an alarming rate.

This place was once a peaceful village; a mile and a quarter from Stonehenge, and just at the eastern end of the Woodford valley.

As children, we would disappear into the fields for hours, exploring old buildings,especially the closed railway station, and sit at the end of Boscombe Down airforce runway, shrieking as giant transporter planes roared a hundred feet overhead. I remember spending hours watching Vulcan bombers fill the sky with noise and their giant foreboding shape. The walk home across the fields was beautiful at sunset; owls swooping silent and low over the corn, and deer dashing off as we rounded the edge of the field and made our way through the coppice on the brow of the hill.

The village would erupt into colour each spring; the woods and riverside absolutely teeming with wildlife. We would spend hours down there, hunting for crayfish and seeing who could spot the big Pike lurking under the bridge at Ham Hatches. It was said that a boy was once pulled under by this fearsome fish; which was "at least a hundred years old".

My grandfather, bless him, was in his 70's and still cycling around the village, tending gardens and stopping off at The Greyhound for his pint of ale on his way home. He'd meet his friends on Sunday mornings,and sit watching the world go by on the solitary bench by the post office. They'd swap stories; some true, some like the story of a certain large fish.

I remember when the new 'A' road was carved through here. To me at nine years of age, the hulking Caterpillar diggers and loaders were awesome: bright yellow monsters hauling tons of Wiltshire chalk and clay out of the ground, and grumbling along the tracks with their massive wheels. One rainy afternoon,I had to be pulled from deep mud on the site, having tempted my friend J there to see the behemothic engines.

One of my favourite views in the world is the sight from the top of the Beacon Hill, as I look down and see the village surrounded by green fields and ancient woodland, burial mounds, and trackways used for thousands of years.

Now villagers, conservationists and heritage types are battling it out over the merits of routeing this road through a tunnel to protect the five thousand year old monument.Huge retail and trade parks are springing up and scarring the landscape. The village is now a bustling town; populated by forces families, business park workers and a small number of people who still work on the land and surrounding country estates.

The flea-pit has gone. Grandpa's bench is no longer.

"Progress", they say.

As for the Pike, he still lives on; being at least one hundred and thirty years of age by now. I still pass by the bridge; and peer down amongst the reeds, hoping to catch a glimpse as he lurks there.

***

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.

Helpless [By Pogo]

2004-06-29T13:08:00.000+02:00

My daughter was telling me last night about how she thinks the world is a bad place. She thinks there are too many "silly rules". She doesn't like seeing stories on the news about people being killed. She thinks people are cruel to animals.

Having just arrived back from Glastonbury I found myself in the unusual position of telling her that, in my opinion, it's not such a bad place after all. That's not something I'd normally be heard to say. I agree with her on all points - our Government is interfering too much in our lives, the world's only superpower has embarked on an empire-building drive citing morals as justificaion, and McFood is busy torturefarming and slavedriving.

But...

Spend a weekend in a muddy part of Somerset and you see a totally different side to humanity. The fun side. The alive side. The side that - temporarily, at least - escapes from The System and gets in touch with the other 80% of the brain. The subconscious. The bit that tells you what's really right and wrong.

Three days of watching people do something they love, joining in, jumping up and down with the sheer bloody joy of it all. Singing along with sixty thousand others to the words of a song you didn't even know you knew. Smiling in spite of it all. Helpless with happiness.

Moments like those are priceless. If you've never experienced one - do so at least once in your life. Otherwise you won't know what it is to be really alive.

Pogo 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 playing various musical instruments, about which he is supremely unqualified to speak.

Notice

2004-06-25T10:43:00.000+02:00

I'll be on holiday for the next three weeks so it's unlikely the dareyoutowrite email will be monitored. Feel free to send your columns in anyway and I'll sort them out when I'm back.

Happy Midsummer!

The Missionary [by Laura]

2004-06-24T11:42:00.000+02:00

I was coming home from work earlier this week when a boy sat next to me in the bus; he was dressed in a neat white collar shirt and straight black trousers; I think I knew what he was even before he started talking. Earlier in life I would have been intimidated by someone who wanted to talk about something very personal to me, but this boy radiated such innocence and calm that I was intrigued to continue the conversation.

I was almost sorry when I had to get off at my stop.

He asked me a set of questions - do I believe in God? What is the purpose of life? Have I ever seeked a meaning to my existence or looked for God? Have I ever tried talking to God? Spirituality or faith are nobody else's business, so I regretted that we were in a crowded bus instead of somewhere more appropriate for such a conversation.

I told him that for now, I've settled for 'quiet disbelief' and he repeated the words after me, seemed to be amused or amazed at the thought - maybe just the choice of words.

My problem with God, gods, faith, or spirituality is not the actual ideas, but with the institutionalising of them. When things get written down they become inflexible – in the hearts and minds of men they start to represent an absolute truth; something solid and unchangeable. In my heart I know this is not what religion should be about.

And yet, don't get me wrong; religion can be the saviour the church would have you believe it is – my own step-brother was what you could call a lost soul before he found God. He's now a priest, and happily married; I haven't spoken to him for a long time, but I have the feeling that he is happy and at peace with the world and that can only be a good thing.

While I was talking to this golden-haired, befreckled boy in the bus, I felt that he was indeed a 'child at heart' in the sense the Bible teaches, and it was truly a beautiful thing.

And yet I couldn't help but wonder if his faith was coming from the heart; or whether he was just living by a book, taught to him by his church and his family. Did he come to this faith by truly finding a god, or merely by external initiation? What made him leave home to come to Denmark to share the message of his Lord, Jesus Christ the Saviour?

These days people tend to forget how important it is to have a dialogue with representatives of different ideologies; people who have their heart open for a discussion without trying to sell their ideals to you; people who believe in what they feel is true, even when it is completely different to what you believe. The key to peace is not in agreement, but in understanding.

I'm not sure if the encounter with the missionary was a random one; it set me thinking about spirituality and the things I actually do believe in. In a way, his mission was successful, even if my conclusion wasn't the one he was hoping for.

Do I believe in God? No.
I don't believe that there is a conscious entity of divine proportions out there who has capacity for love and judgement.

My own spirituality – though still fragile – is based on what my own heart has experienced. I would say I believe in the capacity of the common person to live in harmony with their surroundings and accomplish happiness not through achievements but through personal evolution. But those are just fancy words for saying 'I believe in life.'

* * *
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 therefore purely coincidental.

A letter from a friend [by Ian]

2004-06-21T17:10:00.000+02:00

"We were driving to the beach yesterday ( sunday ) , I had a terrible hangover, L was suffering a gall-bladder attack, I was pissed off because I had smashed the side of the car the day before, a road was cut off so we had to take the motorway past the airport, there was a huge traffic backlog towards the sea and I was gagging for a beer and some food. D was crying in the back seat and the world seemed a pretty horrible place.

It was then, just as I felt really sorry for myself, that an ambulance and two police motorbikes sped past and L and I looked at each other in a quite ashamed way as we had been griping and moaning about our bad day. By time we reached the site of the accident it became apparent that things were grim. Several motorbikes and a van were involved and i saw at least one person who hadn´t survived.

I cried quietly beneath my sunglasses as L distracted E to look through the other side window.

When I reached the sea and greeted my friends I spent a few minutes with my can of Amstel in hand remembering that age old wisdom - someone somewhere is always having a worse day than you.

Is that sad, or reassuring? I don´t know, I suppose it depends on the space you are in when you think about it. But it is , for sure, an eternal and universal truth."

* * *

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.

To live and die in America [by Ian]

2004-06-11T11:48:00.000+02:00

Life in California was good. We had a small and happy group of friends. Pete and Alice in particular were an interesting couple; and we spent a lot of time with them.

Pete was a Vietnam veteran, and had a law firm. Rhona and I helped out here and there. The offices were situated just adjacent to the Transamerica building; and boasted English phone-boxes and Penny Farthings on the walls. Pete could often be seen roaring around the city on his vintage English motorcycle.

Alice was a writer, and knew all the city faces. She invited us to lots of parties at her apartment on Nob Hill. She'd written several articles and a book on the effects of advertising and celebrity culture on young women; and was in demand with the tv and radio companies.

Rhona and I would often spend the weekend away with them, happily cruising along the coast in Pete's boat. The California coast is quite stunning in places, and I still remember it with clarity.

One weekend in May we had a phone call from Pete; incoherently trying to explain that someone had died. He was drunk, and it was 11 in the morning. We rushed round to his office, to find him asleep in a lounger on the sun-roof. We managed to drag him to the shower and drenched him in cool water. He began to rouse and very quickly was a sobbing, heaving mess. He told us in between huge intakes of breath that Alice was dead. She'd been found in her apartment. Alice had been brutally murdered.

In the following weeks, Pete withdrew from life. His business almost collapsed; and survived because friends and colleagues across the city helped out while he imploded. Pete became an "almost" person, secluded in his apartment over at Candlestick Park. His hair grew, he lost interest in his life-long pursuits.

Eventually a man was arrested. The court case followed. The man was bailed. 3 weeks later the man was found shot dead at his front door.With no other evidence and no other suspect, the case was wound down.

Those of us who knew Alice began to grieve again; was there to be no justice for the snuffing out of such a gifted and special life?

Pete gradually began to venture out from his isolation.He sold his apartment and bought a house in Sausalito, by the bay.We were happy to be invited there for dinner; and sat late into the night reminiscing about Alice, and all that she'd meant to us.

At the end of the evening, we hugged and kissed as we said goodbye. I told Pete I was looking forward to roaring down Route 1 on the bikes with him again.He smiled and said faintly "I think i'll be giving up the bike soon..getting a tad old for that".

A few months went by. We saw Pete less and less; and he seemed to almost be avoiding our company.Friends told us that they too had seen little of him, and rarely had he returned calls.

The following Spring, I heard that Pete had sold the business and his house.He'd moved across the country to a village in New York State.We wrote and rang a few times, with no reply. We heard from a mutual acquaintance that Pete was now living alone in the sticks, growing his own food and living off savings.

In late September I received a call from the Sullivan County Police Department. Pete had walked into the department and confessed to the shooting of Alice's killer.

Pete had followed this coke-dealing murderer home one night; and shot him once in the head and once in the chest.

Now, Pete is in prison. He writes to me here in England, and says I must come out to New York when I can.I plan to be there when he's released.

Meanwhile, I'm searching New York State for vintage English motorcycles.

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.

Still Alive [by Pogo]

2004-06-11T11:03:00.000+02:00

All this teary-eyed snuffling over Bonzo's recent exit-stage-right got me thinking about those heady days.

I can look back and laugh about it now.

When I was a spotty schoolkid back in the late 70s/early 80s I was convinced I'd be dead by the year 2000. Most of us were. It seemed that barely a week could go by without a mushroom cloud appearing on the telly or in the papers. They were everywhere. One of the icons of the era. By 1980 the Government was showing a series of films on the telly - Protect And Survive.

How we laughed. In horror. The very idea of unscrewing your doors and leaning them up against a wall to build yourself a makeshift fallout shelter seemed ludicrous. Painting your windows white would keep out the beta rays. Marvellous. But what about those gamma rays? The ones that slowly fry you from inside? All us schoolkids knew gamma rays could worm their way through several feet of concrete. Ghouls, we were.

Looking back at it, there was little the Government could do to reassure us. We lived 40-odd miles away from the Sellafield nuclear plant (a.k.a. "Windscales"). We all knew that the stuff they produced there was weapons grade - sure, as a by-product they were hooked into the National Grid and they provided electricity. But the plant was there to make weapons material. It'd be a direct target. We were probably doomed.

Ronald Regan became US President. We were definitely doomed. Within seconds he was over here, lecturing us about an "Evil Empire".

Luckily we had a bit of light relief from all this nuclear doom and gloom. A good old fashioned conventional war down in the South Atlantic. Stirring images of good old British Tommies yomping over mountains filled the screens. Daily reports from the first Embedded Reporter, Brian Hanrahan, crowed out of telly speakers. "I counted them all out, and I counted them all back again". Maggie told us to "Rejoice".

Then I went to college. By the time I'd sobered up the USSR had gone through a couple of new Chairmen in quick succession and suddenly we had this nice mild-mannered smiling bloke in charge, talking about "restructuring" and "openness". I liked him. Reagan started doing silly instead of scary things. He inspired The Ramones to write Bonzo Goes To Bitburg, so surely things were looking up. My fears evaporated.

So last night it was quite moving to see Mikhail Gorbachev paying his last respects. His face, paradoxically, reminds me of a time when the world was starting to look like a nice place.

What happened?

* * *

Pogo 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 world leaders, about which he is supremely unqualified to speak.

Live a little [by Laura]

2004-06-06T00:50:00.000+02:00

I'm teetering at a brink of a big white scary something. I know there's a change underway, one of those big fat ones that change your life around from inside out. I'm increasingly aware of it as time goes by; it's almost like watching a continent move - you're not sure it moves at all, but when you look back in a few million years, it's suddenly all different.

Suddenly I'm tired of analysing everything to death.

My priorities are changing.

I'm still frustrated with my life and my job, but there's a shade of a difference; instead of falling into despair and utter hopelessness, I'm realising that I can't see beyond the choices I make daily at work. I've been so caught up in the emotion that I haven't noticed how I've been making my problems bigger and meaner than they are in reality.

I tend to preach to others of the power of letting go, but am myself afraid of doing just that. Fear of failure as well as stupidly holding on to pride has been my downfall so far. It's time for me to learn something about humility, and as my perspectives are sliding into a whole new angle, it doesn't seem like such a horrible deal.

A friend of mine quoted a French saying to me recently; she said that you have to hit the bottom first so that you can push with your feet to get back to the surface. I've hit that bottom now and it's pretty solid under my feet: I'm ready to move with a purpose.

I have, in the simplest of terms, had enough.

There are plans to be drawn, arms to take, worlds to conquer. It's also come the time to enjoy the summer and do myself a favour or two: take time to sit in the sun; sleep with my window open; eat strawberries with ice cream; laugh for no particular reason; invite friends over for pancakes. Most importantly, it's time to take care of myself and to live a little.

What's the worst that could happen?

* * *
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 therefore purely coincidental.

Near death on the A303 [by Ian]

2004-06-05T21:09:00.000+02:00

So here I am, at Salisbury train station on a miserable Sunday afternoon. Should be home by 6pm..

Ksssshhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!! We regret to inform you that the 3.27 from platform 2 will terminate at Andover....from there a coach service will be provided to transport you to Basingstoke where you will transfer to kssssshhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!! another coach on to Woking where normal ksssssshhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!! will be resumed.

Oh god bless me and save me from another Sunday afternoon, courtesy of our wonderful rail services.

Andover welcomes us with a sarcastic crack of thunder, and the heavens drench us again as we disembark into the gloomy, drizzly and windswept carpark.Two coaches await, and there is fairly polite jostling for position in the queue.

Foolishly, I'm heartened by the good humour of my fellow victims. Then we see him; the driver. Certainly of pensionable age, large of gut, red of face and possessed of an unnerving squint. Someone asks him : "How long 'til we arrive at Basingstoke?",.. he smiles crookedly and shouts "Well we ain't even left yet 'ave we love?!" .. We; the ticket purchasing public are not impressed by this, and shuffle uncertainly but uncomplaining onto the coach.

We eventually weave our way through the industrial nether regions of the town and find our way onto the A303 North, and I'm a little concerned that the driver seems heavy on the brakes at times.

I have fond memories of the old A303, strangely enough. It's the main route north and south out of my home town , and reminds me of all the favourite journeys I've made in my 42 years.

I trudged up here on the way to a school friends farm, so that we could nick his dads shotgun and blow the living daylights out of innocent furry creatures. We raced bastardised motorbikes in the field which ran alongside; hoping to beat the posers in their souped up Ford Capri's, and the lorry drivers who grinned and flicked the V's. I hitched to Heathrow along here when I first left the country, and screamed the guts out of my Honda 90 (oh god, how embarrassing) on my way to see my first proper girlfriend; a wonderful young lady who with verve and gusto relieved me of my innocence - startling a new-born foal in the paddock behind the garden shed.

So here I am, sitting at the front of the coach - not asleep, but enjoying these memories when there's a jolt. I look up and can see the back of the drivers head in front of me. He appears to be peering around a corner, only I can't see it because the front windscreen is completely steamed up! I realise that he's fallen asleep, and the coach is veering towards the ditch to our left.I scream and bash the back of his seat, he sits bolt upright and slams his foot on the brakes and we all lurch forward like it's a nightmare big dipper.The coach skids and slides along the slick road surface and once again my life flashes (much quicker this time) before me. We come to a dead stop, and for a moment there is complete silence. There is mumbling and shuffling, and retrieving of belongings from the floor of the coach and other people's laps. The driver coughs and standing up says " I'm very sorry about that folks, terrible conditions out there", and restarts the engine.

Not one person speaks but one old lady who says quietly from the back "I'm going to write to my MP about this".

It is 8.30 pm by the time I arrive at my local station, and my marvellous wife picks me up.

Have I since complained to South West Trains? Guess..

* * *

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.

Voles [by Ian]

2004-06-05T20:52:00.000+02:00

Last weekend I managed to ruin my very nice and very expensive pair of suede Campers.

I absolutely hate cleaning shoes. I guess this goes back to the Sunday evening ritual my parents enforced; whereby we had to ensure that all our school kit was clean and ready for Monday morning. Deep joy.

Anyway - suffice to say that all week I've been wearing substitute shoes that should have been donated to charity during the great shoe famine of 1912. Alternatively, they'd have made a very nice home for a family of disenfranchised voles, or something.

Now my right little toe is forcing me to adopt the gait of a 90 year old Sherpa, and something of the grimace frequently worn by those brave (but foolish) heroes seen in Sunday supplement pictures.

I'm expecting Chris Bonnington to make me an offer I can't refuse.

* * *

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.

Euro-Apathy [by Pogo]

2004-06-04T12:07:00.000+02:00

With the Euro elections fast approaching Auntie Beeb's been trying to draw attention to the fact by showing "special reports". They've been following the party leaders round the country. This apparently is to give each of them a chance to deliver their message... well, the only message I've picked up so far is that nobody is very interested in any of it.

Small wonder. None of the parties really seem to have a message in the first place. The Tory leader just looks smug, the LibDem looks a bit out of it, and The Liar himself is just looking for more opportunities to flash his famous plastic smile.

Political messages? None whatsoever.
Voter interest? Ditto.

A few people have attempted to call the politicians in on Iraq but they've been brushed off by platitudes issued as the politician strides away. Call that campaigning? Call that "taking the message to the people"? If the message is "we don't want to talk about embarrassing stuff" then they're doing a good job.

Don't any of our politicans know how to debate any more? With real people? Don't they know how to deal with an unpredictable agenda? If not, they shouldn't be in the job...

In the meantime we have huge billboards all over the place from the UK Independence Party: Say No To European Union.

Indeed? And why should we do that, then? What's so bad about being part of a larger Eurostate? The UK can't survive on its own any more (arguably, it never did - it just exploited a subservient Empire).

The alternative is tacit annexation by the USA.

George Bush, for all the "monkey" jibes hurled his way, has skillfully manipulated the UK into pissing off the majority of our natural ideological allies. We have far more in common historically with the nations of the EU than we have with the USA - the USA was built on the premise of "freedom for the individual" (ie "sink or swim"), whereas Europe has a strong socialist tendency. Our loyalties should lie within Europe.

A European superstate is the only viable way of exerting influence on the USA - a superpower that has begun to lose its way, and dangerously so.

We need Europe as much as it needs us.

* * *
Pogo 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 politics, about which he is supremely unqualified to speak.

Rise and Shine [by Ian]

2004-06-04T08:32:00.000+02:00

It's 4.30am. Why the bloody hell am I sitting at this machine, when I could be in lovely duvet land?

At 4am my eyes opened, and I was wide awake. Awake as an awake person who's really quite awake.

S and I spent the last 3 days in Sussex; and I slept for England. V nice just to lie around reading and snoozing, and having the occasional stroll on the beach.

It would be ok if there was something significant on my mind. Instead, these are some of the thoughts which forced me out of bed and into this chair:

"Black or blue shirt today?"

"I wonder how many lamp posts there are in our street"

"Think I'll only buy a packet of ten ciggies today".

So you can see what an interesting and dynamic life I've been living this week can't you? I mean, how could you possibly get a good nights kip with issues of such magnitude on your mind?

Must be off now, got to weigh the fluff in the tumble dryer...

* * *
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.

Plans NEVER work [by Dufidusen]

2004-06-03T12:54:00.000+02:00

Don't EVER make plans... not even for fun. You'll never win! I know - NEVER is a tough word to use... not supposed to use the word, without touching wood, clapping a bald guy, pulling a red haired girls hair and so on, but it is said so...

Even if you pinpoint your plan down to minutes, hours, milliseconds... give it up! SOMEONE or SOMETHING, will always find its way into your nicely structured little plan and screw it up... I've been killing myself lately, with this self-study thing and it means that I have no teacher and no classes to attend to. 'Aha', most people would think. 'how nice', 'It means you have loads of time to structure your studying'. Bullshit (sorry I'm infesting this nice blog with swearing)!

I've been making a foolproof timetable, with what time to read, what time to study the text closely, what time and minute to do my notes, and when to finish it all... Juuuust didn't count in, that:

- I live 5 meters from a kindergarten: Noiselevel = HUGE
- I live 10 meters from a school: Noiselevel = TREMENDOUS
- I live next to an Enrique Iglesias-loving old hag, who's 60 and thinks and acts like she's 16 (or maybe she's trying to hint out something to my Spanish BF???): Noiselevel = Abnormally high (the whole block can hear Enrique 'Bailar')
- I live 2 floors UNDER and opposite a neighbour who feels like oh, lets say, just for FUN to polish his wooden floors with a huge ACME 3000-machine. Noiselevel = Annoyingly high
- I live RIGHT BELOW an insanely demented woman and her immensely retarded boyfriend (There's so much negative stuff about this couple that I have to make a separate blog to these... they are just so unbelievable), that all the cotton in the world wouldn't make up for the sound they're producing. Oh, no, it's not that 10 sec. Lovemaking sounds... it's the bloody CLAMPETYCLAMP sound coming from they 500 kilo bodies, and they're neanderthalway of walking... Never have I heard people walk so LOUD, the loud vibrations penetrates our floor and goes straight into my little ears... they walk with their heels. Most strange thing is, they keep this going for HOURS, in a 58 Sqm flat! Do they have the closet to Narnia?? Some strange extension to another flat I haven't heard of??? Are they on straight Caffeine??? Who walks for 2-3 hours straight every night in a 58 Sqm flat?? (I'm so baffled about this, that I have to ask again!) I know I sound winy, but I have been putting up with this for 4 years - have been taking action - no reaction!... (definitely HAVE to make that extra blog about them)
Noiselevel = Outrageously, clampetyclampstabbingly, earpenetrating, cardiovascularmeltdownmenacingly LOUD!
- I suffer from sudden sleep disorder... Suddenly I get sleepy! What to do? Can't just skip my plan because I'm sleepy
- I also suffer from Sudden hunger disorder: Suddenly I get hungry - and outside my timetable...! Doesn't fit with the from "12.15-12.50: read" plan... doesn't give a damn... when my stomach is hungry - it's REALLY hungry - and food is the only thing which calms it... just like a baby. How does one plan this?

My nerves are suffering from this, I'm definitely not made for shutting in my opinion and anger... I'm Latin... where's my temper when I need it??? That temper that makes you forget who you are, where and what you're doing (and are wearing) and just speak up your mind. (Who cloned me and removed my precious Temperament??)

I shake every time I just THINK about going up there and yelling, like I'm demanding my freedom back... (Oh, definitely HAVE to make a blog about this)

Starting to get hear murmurs, and I've beginning to hear a small voice lately, not sure where it comes from? Is that stress?? From anger?
And I looove structure, and make it well... just not plans... not my plan, and I hate Forrest Gump for his 'Life is like a box of Chocolate... yadidadida'... just like plans; You never know what you're going to get!

Maybe Life's trying to tell me to be more spontaneous... well, I am... more than one needs to be... (don't mix it with Temper)... but I so desperately want my plan to work. I can't include every single variable. No can't do. No-one can!

So conclude this: Plans are like statistics and economical analysis: BULL!!

I'll have that with ketchup [by Laura]

2004-05-31T21:17:00.000+02:00

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]

2004-05-31T20:11:00.000+02:00

"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]

2004-05-29T12:23:00.000+02:00

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]

2004-05-28T11:51:00.000+02:00

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]

2004-05-26T15:44:00.000+02:00

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]

2004-05-24T10:35:00.000+02:00

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]

2004-05-23T23:20:00.000+02:00

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]

2004-05-21T11:18:00.000+02:00

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]

2004-05-19T13:39:00.000+02:00

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]

2004-05-17T17:04:00.000+02:00

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]

2004-05-14T20:28:00.000+02:00

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]

2004-05-14T20:13:00.000+02:00

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]

2004-05-13T13:01:00.000+02:00

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.

2004-05-12T15:16:00.000+02:00

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.