I surrender

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]

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]

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]

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]

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?

* * *

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.

Yesterday [by pogo]

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]

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]

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]

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

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]

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.