Irish Nomad in Norway

No More Nomad in Norway

2010-07-16T19:32:00.000+02:00

The Irish Nomad is no longer in Norway :(

She has moved on to adventures new in Malaysia, after a brief stop-off home in Ireland.

Nearly finished in Norway

2010-07-06T16:21:00.000+02:00

I've done my final post from Norway - I think. It's over at The Irish Nomad in Malaysia Blog where I'll be blogging from now on. Hope you'll come and join me there.

Goodbye Norway, Hello Malaysia

2010-06-24T10:33:00.003+02:00

After almost six years living on the edge of a large field where deer roam and skiing tracks run from the door in winter, where we can look out onto hills and Oslo Fjord, we're moving to a tropical city of skyscrapers, traffic jams and slightly less-endearing creatures than deer. It's not quite a case of country hicks moving to the city, as we've lived in Asia before: two years in Singapore, three in Manila, but going back is going to be exciting and certainly different. and very, very sweaty.

When we arrived in Norway at the end of 2004, I had two daughters, aged 3.5 and 2 years old. They'd never seen snow; I'd never dressed myself or a child for it. We're leaving with a 3.5 year old son in addition; Norwegian souvenirs don't come much better than him. He'll miss his matpakke with Prim, his pølser, the snow, his best buddies Andre and Markus, and much more. I hope we'll manage to preserve his Norwegian language and forget the brown dairy products and sausages.

I won't even go into what I'll miss, because I'll miss all of it, even the feckin' snow. But, it's a time to look forward, to pastures and Blogs anew. There's a substantial English-language press in Kuala Lumpur, as well as plenty of cultural idiosyncrasies for a foreigner to write about. I'm certainly looking forward to that - once the novel is finished, of course. We have friends in South East Asia and we're going to embark on travel adventures as a family. I can't wait to show my girls Singapore, where they were both born. The kids are going to love swimming every day, and will forget about those nasty parkdresses they wore for half of every year they spent in Norway. We'll miss the bright summer evenings but will sit smugly on our terrace in November and think of the dark days and nights back up north.

And then there's the food. I'll be honest and say that it won't be a wrench to change the Nomad family kitchen offerings and savour what Malaysia has to offer our palates. If the chicken a Malaysian friend brought to our BBQ last weekend is anything to go by, then I'd better find a gym in KL very, very fast! Already we have a brunch and dinner booked with two sets of friends when we arrive. Yes folks, in Malaysia, the Nomad family is going to be able to afford to eat out!

Thanks to all of you who have read and commented here since 2006; I hope you'll follow me to Malaysia as I start over and attempt to see the world with fresh eyes. There will certainly be cockroaches, complaints about the heat and traffic, and a longing for the relative transparent bureaucracy of Norway, but I know there will be far, far more. Join me on my adventure: Irish Nomad in Malaysia.

We're leaving Norway in 2 weeks, and after a trip to Ireland, will head to KL at the end of July. I'll update via Twitter as we go, when I have internet access.

Bye for now :)

Bloomsday in Oslo

2010-06-13T20:23:00.001+02:00

For anyone interested in James Joyce and, more specifically, the connection between Henrik Ibsen and James Joyce, members of the Norwegian Irish Society have organized a great evening of events in Oslo on June 16. Click on the image above to enlarge.

There may still be a few places left for the lectures at the Ibsen Museum (contact John Fitzgerald for details: 93068032) and all are welcome to join in the post-lecture festivities at Lorry on Parkveien. Costumes welcome but optional.

Win a trip to Northern Norway

2010-06-09T17:49:00.005+02:00

I dislike travelling. Hardly a nomadic trait but there you go. I move from one country to another, and once ensconced in whatever house we choose as our latest home, I tend not to venture far. I am rarely a tourist. This is partly due to the fact that we spend much of our holiday time going back home, to either Ireland or Denmark, but it’s also down to the fact that with three youngish children, travelling anywhere is a planning and logistical exercise this insomniac tries to avoid. That’s why, after almost six years in Norway, I’ve hardly been anywhere. I’ve done one winter work day in Bergen, arriving and leaving in the dark, and seeing only the inside of a drab engineering office (where all the women, to my disgust, wore unflattering jeans).
I’ve spent one wet holiday weekend near Arendal. Another wet weekend on the edge of Hardanger Fjord. And. And well that’s it really. Oh I did go to one book club meeting in Spikkested. That’s my version of Norway: Oslo, Baerum, Bergen in the dark, Arendal and Spikkested.
It's not too late though, even with only four weeks left in the country. Thanks to Innovation Norway's latest marketing campaign, I can now make virtual postcards of myself visiting lots of Norway's most beautiful and popular tourist sites, all without lifting my bum off my seat. I might even win a prize by doing so - a trip to Northern Norway (in person) is on offer to the winners. But of course, I don't like traveling and I'm going to be on the other side of the world by August, so I'll give this one a miss. That's not to stop any of you lot out there entering the competition. Oh, it seems that you have to be British, and ordinary, and presumably photogenic, which disqualifies me completely - phew!

Here are the details:

‘…Innovation Norway, the official Norwegian tourism and trade organisation, has launched a major new UK marketing campaign to find four British ‘postcard models’ for a series of photo-shoots in Northern Norway.

The competition will be hosted on a specially designed Facebook page (http:// www.facebook.com/postcardmodels). Applicants will upload images of themselves into picture-perfect Northern Norway postcard-scenes to enter. Applicants require ten or more ‘likes’ from their Facebook friends to qualify for the competition.

Catherine Foster, Country Manager, Innovation Norway UK, said: “The aim of this initiative is to highlight the fantastic scenery and exciting activities you can experience in Northern Norway.

“Targeting nature lovers aged 25-65 who enjoy outdoor activities, we are hoping to find ordinary individuals, who have a vibrancy about them to match the Norwegian landscape.”

To apply, potential models must be available to travel to one of three destinations in North Norway with a partner of their choosing from August 14-17, 2010.

The winners will take centre stage in a photo-shoot with a professional photographer in beautiful Northern Norway landscapes. Postcards will subsequently be printed and sold in Northern Norway.

Please take a look at http://www.visitnorway.co.uk/postcardmodels and http://www.facebook.com/postcardmodels for further information.

So go on, have a go.

The fleshy truth

2010-06-04T09:48:00.004+02:00

Yesterday I cancelled my gym membership, with tears in my eyes. I seem to do everything these days with tears in my eyes; I’m a big cry-baby. Back to the gym. Could it really have been more than five years since I took a tour of the facilities? Since I stood aghast at the sight of the communal showers? You mean there’s no privacy? I asked, feeling certain that the young man was in fact hiding proper shower cubicles from me. (After moving to new premises, slightly segregated showers were built, but with no curtain or door to hide behind.) Back in Asia, not only were there private showers that allowed the utmost discretion and cellulite cover-up, but there were even changing cubicles in case, God forbid, someone saw one’s knickers. But no, not here.
I still haven’t got used to the way Norwegian women walk around stark naked amongst strangers they have just shared a Body Pump class with but never a smile. They may not say hello to you but many of them are perfectly happy to bend over to dry between their toes, pushing their rear ends in your face, showing off the squidgy tan mark they’ve acquired on the sun- bed, and more besides. (I’ve assumed this is what that white bit is.) I’m being harsh. Of course, after five years some people say hello. And then you have to be sure to keep your chin up and not let your gaze drift south; I don’t want to know if someone has real breasts or fake, waxed or not. OK maybe I do, but I don’t need the fleshy, visual evidence, thank you very much.
So you may have gathered, that I mostly shower at home when I do a gym class. When I don’t, I’m very discreet with a towel. Not that anyone looking at me, you understand. No one would be that intrusive. The girl at the reception, getting me to sign the cancellation form, wasn't intrusive either. If she noticed my tears she didn't let on. Actually, I really don't think she'd have noticed if I had an monkey sitting on my head, and for once, I thought this a good thing.

Eurovision & Madcon

2010-05-31T13:05:00.009+02:00

If you were strong enough to resist the lure of Eurovision last saturday, well done. I wasn't. It was on in Olso after all, so how could we ignore it. I stayed up well past my usual bedtime - as did my kids - but then went wearily off to bed, when it was already tomorrow, remembering why I haven't watched the show in 20 years. Nothing against Niamh Kavanagh - she sang well, and I love the song - but clearly it wasn't to Europe's taste - I use the term loosely here - and it did dismally. As did the Norwegian entry, which had been much hyped, and expected to do well. There was even talk in the Norwegian papers over concerns abut the cost of hosting the event again next year. There was no need to worry. Norway came something like 20th out of 25.

The event itself though was a triumph for Norway and the highlight was the interval act. It was worth staying up for. Good old Norway for resisting the opportunity to promote Norwegian tourism to millions of people and instead keeping to their 'Share the Moment' theme. It really, really worked and turned what has often been a cheesy, cringe-worthy competition into a modern, well choreographed, show of unity throughout Europe. Or at least the interval part; there was plenty to cringe at during the rest of the show.

If you missed it - here's the video (probably better watched on You Tube itself). I love it. The music starts a couple of minutes in and is worth the wait. Try sit still - bet you can't ;)

Eurovision Venue

2010-05-24T09:26:00.004+02:00

Yes this is the week: semi-finals on Tuesday & Thursday, final on Saturday. The word is that Ireland's entry, sung by the fab Niamh Kavanagh, is in with a very good chance of making it through on Thursday to the final. Still, one can't be complacent. The photos above are from the venue - Telenor Arena - which yesterday was very quiet (and kinda grey-looking despite the sunshine.)

Maybe all the participants were at the beach nearby. We were :)

Pinse Supermarket Shut-Down

2010-05-23T07:36:00.006+02:00

I cannot believe we got caught out. My parents have been visiting and the weather had turned BBQ-esque. What better way to spend the last evening of their trip, than out on the terrace eating food from the grill. Shame we left the shopping so late then. It's a holiday weekend. Pinse (Pentecost). I'd read in the paper that if you needed to buy wine or spirits it had to be before 6 on Friday or else you'd have delirium tremens by tuesday morning when Vin Monopolet reopens. Ditto beer from 3 PM on saturday. It's just a shame that the newspaper didn't mention that the same applied to food from 4 PM.

Yesterday (Sat), starting at 4.15 PM, my husband and I spent the nearest we've had to a date in a year, driving around looking for an open supermarket, cursing ourselves for not shopping earlier. We weren't the only ones who got caught out; every supermarket car park we went to was filled with frustrated and hungry people with shattered BBQ dreams. Note to supermarkets: in future when you are shut for 2.5 days, would you mind putting a sign outside your car park and remove the tantalizing boards advertising grill meat? Thanks. Much obliged. Not that we'll be here for future holiday weekend shut-downs. But still. Think of it as a public service appeal.

So we ended up with pizza from Peppes for the second time in a week and by the time we got home, it was raining with a ferocity worthy of the tropics. Still, cannot believe we got caught out after all these years. Even more surprised at the number of (presumably) Norwegians thinking the same thing this morning; I mean all those people we drove around with yesterday were hardly foreigners, were they?

To anyone thinking of trying to send us food parcels, the petrol stations are open today and tomorrow, so we won't starve. Thanks :)

A little bit of Irish in Oslo

2010-05-19T15:24:00.005+02:00

A banner saying 'Hello' in Irish, one of many multi-lingual signs mounted on lamposts around Aker Brygge.

Next week the Eurovision Song Contest takes place in Oslo; or if you want to be technical about it, the adjacent kommune (where we live) in Baerum. For weeks now, banners have been flying all over the place inviting people to 'Share the Moment' of Eurovision 2010. Haven't really been interested in the contest for years but this year, given our proximity to it, and the fact that we'll be living outside of Europe for the next five or six years, I'm going to stay up, watch the final, and share the moment with my kids (who have been singing the chorus of the Norwegian entry for some time).

I had thought about trying to cover the event for a newspaper in Ireland but really that would mean staying up well past my bedtime and handing my children over to social services; I'm not that ambitious. There's also the small issue of moving to the other side of the world in six weeks and the unfinished novel putting demands on my time.

Next week though I'm going along to a reception at the Irish Embassy to meet Niamh Kavanagh who is representing Ireland at Eurovision with a ballad that quite frankly gives me goosebumps. Niamh won the contest before for Ireland in 1993. She's in with a good chance this year I think. Then again what do I know? I've hardly watched the contest since 1993.

Norway's National Holiday

2010-05-17T15:18:00.005+02:00

The local school parade

My son (with flag) and his buddies in party mood

Well it's our sixth consecutive, and final, Norwegian National Day. At this stage we're a family well-equipped with flags and rosettes, and manage to cobble together enough half-decent clothes for the kids to look smart. Around half of Norwegian women wear the national costume, the Bunad, which comes in many intricate designs and usually consists of a full-length wool skirt, wool waistcoat and a white blouse. Men wear a trousered or knickerbockered version, with fancy socks and shoes, and sometimes a hat. These outfits take the 'what will I wear?' conundrum out of formal occasions as for which they are used, including weddings and baptisms. A friend of mine expressed relief over this but I think I'd miss the excitement of playing dress up on the few occasions it is merited. Bunads can cost thousands of Euros so you can understand people wanting to get their money's worth.

We've been here long enough that when we go down to celebrate May 17 with the local barnehage and school we know people and have started to feel like members of the community. It has taken time but it is a nice feeling. In some way, it's an achievement, as making in-roads in Norway when none of the family is Norwegian can be a challenge. Hey, that surprise third baby just keeps paying dividends ;)

I already know a lady on the Kuala Lumpur May 17th committee so I'm certain we'll be celebrating Norway's national day next year too. I doubt the wool bunads will be in evidence with temperatures in the thirties and 70-80 % humidity, but you never know. We'll be there with our flags and rosettes; assuming I'm able to find them once we get to the other side of the world.

The new tenant & the traitor

2010-05-12T11:28:00.006+02:00

Well you know how I said that the mere mention of the landlord taking a prospective new tenant around my house set me blubbering (in the school playground of all places), well it didn't turn out to be as traumatic as anticipated - for my husband. For days I'd been vaguely planning to flee the house before the loathsome person arrived to poke around, but by 8 pm last night I was too exhausted to go anywhere other than to bed. Which by the way I had made in honour of our 'guest'.

My 3.5 year old son is still in nappies. The kindergarden staff say we shouldn't pressure him into using the toilet. His two buddies aren't toilet-trained either. Still, my son is self-aware enough never to poop in the kindergarden - 'I don't want my friends to smell it' - and he often informs me that he's about to poop in his nappy - he knows I like advance notice of everything, including nappy changes. Except last night no notice was given. He waited until the landlord was showing the prospective tenant around in the garden and then went for it. Big time.

So when the doorbell rang, my husband was changing the nappy, and I had to open the door and scowl at the interloper and the landlord. So much for making myself scarce. I was all smiles and explanations about the unpleasant aroma, wishing I'd burnt the dinner as it might have masked it somewhat. Or that they'd call the whole charade off. Alas, no. The man turned out to be French, and very pleasant and the father of three kids too, with much nappy experience himself, so I had to let him in to browse. Once the nappy was in the trash outside, my husband welcomed the guest and proceeded to spend the next hour showing the man around, as if it was his own house. Traitor! Meanwhile I was stuck with the kids, past bedtime, wishing it was mine, watching poor Gordon Brown and his wife Sarah (in an ill-fitting dress) being chucked out of their house. At least I don't have to traipse off to the Queen to tell her we're moving, I suppose.

Once the tour had proceeded to the basement I herded the kids upto bed. One ended under a bed but that was really the kind of day I was having. It was time for a glass of red, something I was sure the French man would have appreciated. Finally, my husband returned to say that he was off for a drive with the French man who happened to be the new MD of a certain German luxury car company, of which my husband has long been a fan and customer (only second-hand mind). Traitor extraordinnaire! Yes, I used to speak French, but alas non plus.

So the whole point is I survived. I didn't cry. Plus ça change. And my husband got to test drive a new car.

Rant of a weepy woman

2010-05-06T15:50:00.005+02:00

Well right now I don't think I can call myself a blogger, nor a nomad. I haven't been blogging as I can't face writing about the elephant in the cyber-room i.e. the upcoming move to Kuala Lumpur, or as it looks in my mind, the upcoming wrenching away from my life to start over again. Yes, it's the latter attitude which should have me struck off the register of nomads (it's very exclusive, not a lot of people even know it exists). If people ask about the move, I politely answer them. I've even started sorting out our stuff. I've remained mostly calm over the number of forms and certifications and applications required for our visas. Then today; reality hit. My husband texted to say that the landlord wanted to show some people around our home of almost 6 years. Next week. And that was it. The dam burst, and I'm struggling to stop crying. Thank goodness for dark glasses. On a rational level, I know we need to go. I know there are adventures ahead. I know we are lucky to be able to live this nomadic life in relative luxury. I know there are people with real problems, hardships and pain. I know, I know, I know! But somehow my heart doesn't seem to realize all this, and it's breaking. How silly is that! I've moved a lot in the past 13 years but have never, ever felt anything like this about a move. And it's not just the house, that I'll miss; it's my car, my road, my friends, the roundabouts I could drive through with my eyes closed, the neighbours I've never had a conversation with, the shop that never has the bread I want, the kindergarden, the school, the goddamn stupid snow. Oh the list is too long, and I'm being a sentimental, moping eegit about it all.

I'll tell you how bad it is: my mother-in-law is arriving in two hours and I still have to pick one child up from kindergarden, another from football, the house is a mess, my husband is in Stavanger, and I can't be bothered wiping a cloth over the kitchen counter (which, by the way, I'm also going to miss) or tidying up the piles of shoes in the hallway (won't miss), lest she trip over them.

But you know what? I feel better now. Slightly. Thanks for listening to my self-indulgent rant. Maybe I should give this blogging lark another chance. I promise it will get more upbeat, eventually. The nomad stuff though? I'm feeling sort of finished with that right now. Just got to try hide that from the children.

Mad Men & Volcanoes

2010-04-19T10:58:00.004+02:00

Monday:

The sun is shining. Girls got school places in KL. Hubby really enjoying his trip and very excited about new job. Managing just fine without him.

Life is great!

By Tuesday evening:

Son bites daughter and breaks skin through jeans. Make mistake of telling MIL who calls to speak to her son. She says it's dangerous, possibly poisonous. My Danish isn't great, that's why only possibly poisonous. Definitely dangerous.

Trip to endodondist turned into full-blown root canal. Excruciating pain afterwards and the promise of the same thing all over again in 6 days.

Slightly irritated by Malaysian governments requirement that we all have 6 blank pages and 2 years left on our passports to get visas. That’s three new passports needed – quick! And we need to have all our birth certs and our marriage cert certified by embassies of dispensing countries. That’s five embassies. Yes, I had forgotten about some of the less charming and bureaucratic aspects of living in Asia.

Life is still good as long as I have patience, lots of painkillers, sun, and keep my son and daughter apart.

By Wednesday:

Excruciating pain in tooth has spread to throat. Fever! Have strep for the first time in my life. Have antibiotics at home for tooth use and check that they work on throat. Start them reluctantly. Too sick to go to doctor. Just about manage school run.

May be able to have all documents certified at one embassy so things looking up there. Hubby has bought me the Mad Men 3 DVD.

Thursday

Getting sicker and sicker. I’m never sick. Except now when my husband is the other side of the world. A volcano erupts. Husband staying on other side of the world. I’m too sick to care about documents or moving house. Or Mad Men. Manage school run but can barely walk. Teacher tells me I look like shit - I'm paraphrasing - and need a baby sitter. I have no choice but to keep going I say pitifully. I have no babysitter.

Friday

Sicker still. Can hardly move. Make morning run just about but not without tears - mine. Haven’t been on Facebook for more than 24 hours. Postpone next root canal. Friends take on kids and feed them delivering them for bedtime. They are angels – friends not kids, certainly not toddler terror who knows I’m vulnerable and is bullying me in response. At least he hasn’t bitten me. Can’t talk or walk. Can’t drink or eat. Third day without red wine or coffee – an enforced detox. May hit husband over the head with Mad Men DVD, if he ever comes home with it.

Saturday

Friends take girls for the day. Am weak with hunger but still can’t eat or drink. Stuck with toddler terror but we have some nice moments amidst the haranguing, bullying and shouting – that’s him not me. I can only whisper and do what I’m told. Thank goodness for drugs. No prospect of hubby getting home before I’m better. Speak to him on Skype. He’s in a friend’s house having dinner. Asks if I can help him find flights home - all this web searching and trying to get through to the 24-hr emergency travel line is playing havoc with his social life. Forget Mad Men DVD; I think I need to kick him somewhere lower, and more painful.

Sunday

Antibiotics have worked! Can almost swallow again. Manage to mind my own kids all day without killing them. Shout once, just because I finally can. Start catching up on laundry and vacuuming and try to appreciate the delights of drudgery compared to ill-health – even after toy gets stuck in vacuum cleaner so it no longer works. Hubby is feeling awfully guilty in his five star hotel, with his corporate credit card and several friends who are wining and dining him. He skypes from another friend’s house but has to sign off because they’re going to some social event. It’s tough being the one who’s stranded. Not! He is trying to fly to Madrid next Thursday. It’s better than nothing.

Monday

Return to good health continues although now that I finally look in the mirror, I see how crap I look and that my roots seem to have grown two inches in a week. Ah well, at least I can drink coffee and red wine again, although for some strange reason don't want to. I'm detoxed! Toddler terror has a streaming nose so needs to stay home and make even more waffles from Play Doh, wipe snot on every available surface and accompany me on a much needed trip to the supermarket. I may never finish my novel. Hubby has booked flight from KL to Amsterdam tonight. This may mean KLM is going to start flying passengers in Europe again as test flights have shown no sign of damage. I’ll believe it when I see him and that darn DVD. The sun is still shining. Life is still great. If I could only get toddler terror to nap - and let me do the same...

We are moving to....

2010-04-11T11:46:00.004+02:00

KUALA LUMPUR!

All suggestions for a new blog title welcome :)

My husband has just left to spend the week in Malaysia; he actually tried to get us to feel sorry for the fact that he's going to spend 22 hours on a plane each way in business class with no one but himself to think about, the latest movies to watch, all his food and drink handed to him on a tray, no laundry, no nappy changes, no toddler tantrums to negotiate, and getting paid into the bargain. Safe to say, sympathy was thin on this little patch of Norwegian ground.

Back soon with tales of spring in Norway, tearful farewells to snow boots & my polyester fake sheepskin coat (yes really!), and the much-awaited appointment with the endodontist.

Sun

2010-03-26T09:47:00.004+01:00

Well the dental pain has subsided thanks to the antibiotics, and I've got an extra dose of drugs in case the infection flares up again during the easter holidays. We're going to the sun. Well not the sun exactly, but a place where it tends to shine all year round. I've been rooting out summer clothes, checking if they still fit, mine and the kids. My eldest daughter danced with glee yesterday as she tried out summer tops and skirts; I just felt cold looking at her. But dragging out thin cotton garments is not just about a week in the Canaries this time. We now know that we are moving to a tropical city where such clothes will be our uniform. No more boots, jackets, socks, sweaters or scarves. If I hadn't actually lived in South East Asia (hint!) before, I probably couldn't imagine it. I still don't want to say where we're going until my husband has signed his contract. Call it superstition. I also need to let friends know; I don't think any of them actually read my blog, but I don't want someone feeling put out if they do and hear it here first. As soon as he has signed on the dotted line, I will tell all. In the meantime, I have a new line in my job description; researcher and compiler of school applications. All the schools I have approached are currently full but hopefully families will be moving on and will start telling their schools soon. Their application forms are very, very detailed. Vaccinations records, school records, dietary issues, health checks, and so on. The poor printer is working overtime spewing out three copies of the multiple forms required to apply to four schools. It's a luxury I know, but kind of weird too, hoping to be chosen, especially as the whole school thing is such a central part of the childrens', and hence the family's, lives. It's a long way from the local school down the road, that's for sure.
I'm posting a photo taken when I was six months pregnant with my first child in the city where we are to make our next home. This is the first time in my life we are actually moving to a place I have visited before arriving there to live. If I'd had a crystal ball back in December 2000, I'd have visited some of the schools. Ah well.

Dental nightmare

2010-03-24T10:00:00.007+01:00

I was going to write a HILARIOUS post on the signs of Spring. Then yesterday, we woke up to 10cm of new snow which isn't very spring-like, or hilarious, at all. Maybe next week, I'll write about Spring.
In other news, I've had major trouble with the roots on one of my front teeth. Of course, the pain hit at the weekend. I had, pre-agony, got an appointment with an endodontist in mid-April to check out an old Singaporean root canal. There had been a niggle a few weeks back to prompt this; I'm not a sadist. Desperate for help, with my dentist's office closed on saturday, I called the endodontist's practise on saturday afternoon. A colleague of the guy I had the appointment with was very rude telling me basically that he couldn't help me, that I should try going through the telephone book to find someone kinder and more accommodating. Someone with a heart. He had the cheek to say that if I had called at 10 am that morning he might have helped me. Well you know I had tried to get an appointment 10 days previously, but clearly that didn't count for anything. Gosh, the man was horrid. Eventually on sunday, I found out by further online searching that Oslo kommune runs an emergency dental practise in the city. Shame heartless endodontist guy didn't think to tell me this the day before. We all traipsed in and I was treated by the kindest female dentist in the world. At least that's how she seemed at the time. It's not everyday you're begging someone to cut into your gum to release the pressure of an abscess, is it?
Anyway, the penicillin has kicked in, my swollen chin is less swollen, the gauze that got stuck in the wound has just been yanked out by the dentist - yes that's more dentist trips in the last fortnight than in the past ten years all together - and I am almost able to chew food again.
I spent all monday morning, ringing up endodontists, speaking Norwegian with a lisp, trying to get an appointment to sort out the root canal before easter. I don't want to get stuck on a spanish island in agony, begging the local butcher to yank out my front tooth out of desperation to get rid of the pain. But it seems, if one needs specialist dental treatment in the Oslo area, one must predict one's pain weeks in advance.
At least by time I get to see the endodontist on April 13, spring really will have arrived. Won't it?

Happy St Patrick's Day

2010-03-17T09:09:00.004+01:00

It's St Patrick's Day which, when you are living in Norway, is very much the same as any other day. Except you send the kids to school with badges on that say stuff like 'The World's Cutest Leprechaun' and wearing t-shirts with 'Irish Princess' printed across their chests. My youngest leprechaun is home sick, feeding his kids' television addiction, while Mummy erm works in her pyjamas and procrastinates on shoving the vacuum cleaner around the place.
Tonight though I will cast such domesticity aside, transfer the children and car seats to my husband at the school once Brownies and the piano lesson are done, and head off in my glad rags - something other than jeans and skipants that is - to fraternize with other members of the Irish diaspora at the Irish ambassador's residence.
Oh it's a glamourous life, to be sure, to be sure. Somehow I do not see diplomatic shindigs in my crystal ball for St Patrick's Day 2011. But then again by the end of today that could have changed too, as the ongoing saga of 'where the feck are we moving to' continues.

What's Another Year?

2010-03-15T08:14:00.008+01:00

I'm thinking of starting a Johnny Logan Appreciation Society. OK, I'm not going to go that far but I do think the man is unfairly slagged off in general. It's not cool to like Johnny Logan, especially in Ireland. It's certainly easy to slag him off. (Just search his name on Twitter and you'll see what I mean). A week ago, I wasn't particularly interested in him either. But he's popular in Norway, and other parts of Europe, where he sells lots of CDs and performs often. And so he was invited to be the Grand Marshall at this year's Oslo St Patrick's Day Parade. He lead the parade and then afterwards, on Karl Johan, sang three songs, the first being his first Eurovision winner from 1980, 'What's Another Year.' He was fantastic. His voice is amazing. With so many mediocre performers out there making big bucks (Kylie? Cheryl Cole?), it was a real treat to hear someone who could sing brilliantly live, only accompanied by a guitar. Not only did he sing well, he came across as lovely, quite frankly. I spoke to him afterwards and he told me his mother was from Kilkenny. He also said he had a great fondness for Norway as he had spent several months working here after his father died many years back. He was gracious, genial and patient with the stream of children and their mothers who approached him after the parade.
I feel bad that I didn't have a higher opinion of the man before as I really am too old to care about what's considered cool or not cool.
I'm at an age now where along with empathy, hard work and good manners, I respect talent above much else. I'm not a fan of ballads, but I do love a great voice. Johnny Logan really has a great voice.

Have a listen:

Oslo St Patrick's Day Parade 2010

2010-03-13T10:12:00.004+01:00

For anyone interested in watching the Irish of Oslo march through Oslo City Centre in all shades of green, here are the details of today's event which starts at 13.00 at Jernbanetorget.
The sun is shining, which takes slightly from the authenticity of the occasion. REAL St Patrick's Days parades are characterized by rain and freezing Irish dancers; in Oslo we'll just have to make do with the latter.

Eurovision 2010

2010-03-06T10:55:00.004+01:00

Two Irish former Eurovision Song Contest Winner's are on their way to Oslo. First off will be Johnny Logan, two-times recipient of the prize. He won for the first time 30 years ago. I remember the night very vividly considering I was only two years old at the time. Ahem. Back then, winning the Eurovision was a very large issue of national pride in Ireland. I don't know how things stand these days. Clearly back in 2008, pride wasn't a factor of any sort in choosing an act to represent the emerald isle. Oh you'd forgotten Dustin had you? Well I haven't. Here's a flashback to that nightmare.
So back to Johnny. Johnny Logan is still very popular with Norwegian audiences apparently and is coming over to act as Grand Marshall for the Oslo St Patrick's Day Parade next saturday. Details here. I wish the last 30 years had been as kind to my face as they seem to have been to Johnny's.

The second Eurovision laureate booking flights to Oslo is Niamh Kavanagh. She won back in 1993 and is Ireland's 2010 entry for the competition. Here's a clip of Niamh singing the song 'It's For You.'

Spring Fever

2010-03-05T08:25:00.004+01:00

I think I might have spring fever. I have this incredible urge to cast off my wool underwear in favour of more normal attire. I find myself looking at normal coats and jackets and thinking maybe - next week - if the daytime temperature stays hovering around plus one. This morning I looked at my children's grubby snow suits and said, 'Oh just think, in four weeks time, you won't ever have to wear these things again!.' Well it'll be Easter then and we don't expect to need snow attire in mid-April. I do say such things with caution as you never know. Still. Spring is coming - squeals with delight.

We still don't know where we're moving to, but right now there are two very strong possibilities, neither of which would require snow suits. We're still knee deep in snow here. But the mornings are brightening - to the extent that my three-old woke me this morning at 0630 to tell me to get up because it was daytime. With this line of reasoning, it will be totally pointless going to bed at all by mid-June. I've been here before with my first-born. I know its a three-year-old thing. It'll pass. In another few years, I'll have to dig him out of the bed by shining a torch in his face.

My husband has spring fever too. He went cross-country skiing this morning at 0530 in the dark with a torch strapped to his head like a miner. It was -10. I think it's safe to say that no one saw him looking so ridiculous. Except the three moose he came across. They must have had a great laugh telling their mom what they saw when they went looking for breakfast - a tall, thin man with a light strapped to his skull, long narrow boards on his feet and a manic look in his eye. A man with spring fever.

Someone's Ready for Spring

2010-03-01T09:27:00.004+01:00

My son spent 45 minutes this morning trying to ride a bike in the snow. It's possibly marginally easier than cycling on the gravel that lies beneath. It was only 8 AM but Spring light is in the air if not Spring weather.

I was impressed by his perseverance. Shame he doesn't have the same attitude when it comes to toilet training. In that case it's alway 'tomorrow' or worse, 'When I'm five, mommy.'

Getting connected

2010-02-25T16:01:00.005+01:00

For someone who lives so far away from family and many of my friends, I've been very slow off the mark with Skype. I did download it a few years back but found it slowed my laptop down. I also got lots of nuisance messages from various Turkish men, and I never actually made a call using it. I eventually uninstalled it. However, under pressure to support the long-distance friendship between my elder daughter and her best friend, who moved to Singapore last year, I've tried again with Skype. Today my daughter had a 45-minute video conference with her friend. As Hannah Montana might say: man, it was awesome!

The friend played her guitar. The girls giggled and gossiped. It was fun. And as I sat next door, eavesdropping, I could see the possiblities Skyping might offer once we move. In particular, I'm going to miss the two writer friends I meet every wednesday; we talk through our wroks-in-progress and convince ourselves we're not delusional in wanting to produce novels. We laugh. A lot.

Now I think, it might still be possible to continue this post-Norway; I'll just have to forfeit the prawn sandwiches and cafe mocca. I might even have to wear a bikini if it's too warm. It won't be the same but it's sure better than nothing.

It may not have been love at first sight for me and Mr Skype, but I think perhaps this slow-burning affection we are now developing may be more likely to last.

The long goodbye

2010-02-18T08:50:00.004+01:00

For a while I told myself I was finding it difficult to blog because I'd been in Norway so long that nothing seemed strange enough to be interesting to write about anymore. Now my excuse is that as we're leaving in a matter of months, and this fact colours everything I do here. Everything is tinged with a sense of sadness. After five winters of complaining about the weather, I've come to realise that I don't mind snow after all. In fact, I'm very attached to my snow boots and wonder why I ever missed wearing proper shoes. This weather takes the decision-making process out of deciding what to wear; it doesn't matter as long as it's warm. Did I just say that?! OMG! I HAVE BEEN HERE TOO LONG! This dawned on me in all its certainty, when I looked up lovingly at the ugly grey buildings behind Raadhuset, the same horrible crimes against architecture and beauty that I used to hate. Trouble is that I say that I've been here too long but I don't mean it. I love it here. But I'm not prepared to make the financial sacrifices necessary to stay. So I know we need to go. I'm sure we will have great adventures somewhere else, most likely, somewhere tropical. I kind of hope though that we can come back to Norway after a few years away. I keep telling myself that we will. But that's all a long way in the future.

For now we still have Spring and part of Summer to look forward to here. I have a novel to finish. And this morning I'm going to Toni & Guy to get my roots done while I still can without fear of coming out of the salon with an orange head - this happened twice in Asia. Tomorrow we drive to Denmark for my mother in-law's 70th birthday. Mmm. Maybe there will be one advantage of moving to the other side of the world, if that's where we are going, after all.

A bit of culture

2010-02-06T19:11:00.009+01:00

This afternoon we took a rare outing to a museum. My elder daughter is doing a project at school on explorers; she’s doing some French bloke called Jacques Cartier (as in the jewellery) while her friend is working on Thor Heyerdahl, the Norwegian.We couldn’t just fly off to France (or even find a Cartier store) so instead we went to the Kon-Tiki Museum on Bygdøy which honours Thor Heyerdahl and shows exhibits on his various expeditions.

I came away thinking you’d want to be insane to try cross the Atlantic on bits of wood tied together with string but each to their own I guess. I fear death too much to take any such risks; especially death by shark attack or drowning. Mr Heyerdahl lived to be the ripe old age of 87.

Ra II

Glamourous Feet - the Arctic version

Flamin' Nora

2010-01-29T09:13:00.005+01:00

According to the Central Statistics Office, the most popular baby names in Norway in 2009 were Emma & Lukas. Aaah. That was 597 Emmas and 556 Lukases in case you're into such details.

In Oslo though, the trend was quite different. Top girls' name was the very Ibsenesque NORA. I have yet to meet a baby called Nora, which when I think about it is a lovely name but as I associate it with my childhood friend's Auntie Nora, I'm prejudiced against it.

On the other hand, I've no prejudice whatsoever against the top boy's name. No sirree. No preconceived notions about it at all. Nothing wrong with a bit of tradition in the old naming game, and Norwegians are as entitled as any to keep certain names in the family. I myself was named after my Granny who died the week before I was conceived - I was a honeymoon baby after a wedding after a funeral.

Anyway. Tradition and conformity is very much alive in the Oslo baby-naming game. The most popular name for baby boys born in Oslo in 2008 was MOHAMMAD.

And this week, Ireland looks like paradise

2010-01-28T10:01:00.003+01:00

HIM: So last night I emailed that guy in the US about job opportunities.

ME: Oh good.

HIM: He got back to me immediately.

ME: Oh yeah?

HIM: Yeah.

ME: And?

HIM: Well there's a a really great job going...

ME: It's in Nigeria isn't it?

HIM: It's an engineering manager role.

ME It's in Nigeria isn't it?

HIM: A great job with a promotion.

ME: It's in Nigeria isn't it?

HIM: Yep Lagos, Nigeria

To those who think we're adventurous, we're not really that adventurous. Ever since I married, the word 'Nigeria' has struck fear in my heart (and every other bit of me). I've met people who've lived there and while all have survived with interesting tales to tell at dinner parties, every single one of them took up golf while living there.

I mean Manila was no picnic, but with Nigeria I think of the chances of kidnapping, malaria, golf addiction and nervous breakdown (mine) as infinitely higher whilst living amid poverty, corruption, a very depressing outlook for the country and a generally low value on life. They don't like journalists over there either.

I am of course open to any positive comments any reader might have on life in Lagos with three young children. Honest I am. I await the deluge.

p.s. My daughter had her appendix removed last Friday. But really, surgery on a child in a clean hospital where you trust the staff and are treated with care, patience, a private room and, most importantly, competence, all of it paid for out of one's income taxes is boring compared to the threat of Nigeria. Isn't it?

Not an Irish Nomad in Ireland

2010-01-21T09:55:00.005+01:00

So we're not moving to Ireland. My husband turned down the job in the hope that something else nearer our expectations will come up over the next few months. This means that we have recently turned down opportunities to move to both Denmark and Ireland, effectively rejecting our homelands - for the time being. The Copenhagen opportunity was easy to turn away from as the job required my husband to move companies and to be in the US for one month at a time. As tempted as I was by living in a city as cosmopolitan and culturally-rich as Copenhagen, and the chance to exchange my bad Norwegian accent for an even worse Danish one, doing this while not being able to live together as a family, wasn't an option.

The reasons we're not packing all our worldly possessions and labeling them for shipment to 'Ireland' are many, both emotional and practical. I won't go into the practical here. Suffice to say, that we tried to picture ourselves living in a small town in the west coast, almost as far from our families as we are now, adjusting to a very different schooling system for a couple of years, feeling foreign where we should feel at home, and complaining constantly about the weather. We tried to view Ireland as a challenge in the same way we viewed the Philippines back in 2001. The trouble with Ireland is that we could picture it and it wasn't a pretty picture. When leaving the comfort of our lives in Norway, we'd ideally like to move somewhere very different that will be difficult to compare directly, that will be new and exciting, making the move defendable to the three children that will have to adjust to it too. Somewhere in South Asia or the Middle East perhaps. We know Ireland too well. We know that other than the people themselves, at the moment, schooling, healthcare, transport and yes, even the bloody weather, would be several steps down from what we have here. It was only fear of the absence of an alternative that would have prompted us to accept that at this juncture.

So I've realized that the expat part of me is as dominant as the Irish part. That I love my country but don't want to live in a remote part of it. That may change as I get older and our family matures - and maybe if I get a novel published too - but for the moment, I'm not yet ready to become 'The Irish Nomad in Ireland'. Not yet.

Let's hope we've made the right decision. My mother, father and close friends are at least certain we have.

And the talk of moving begins

2010-01-17T14:24:00.007+01:00

Over 80% of Norwegians consider Norway to be a near-perfect land to live in according to a survey discussed on NRK radio the other day. I imagine the small percentage that doesn’t see the relative Utopianism of the UN’s best country to live in, in the world, has never lived abroad. They’ve definitely never lived in Ireland, that’s for sure.

Every time I speak to my parents they recount tales of doom and gloom, and not just on the subject of the weather and the latest of their acquaintance they took to the church (my Dad’s euphemism for going to a funeral). No, the recession is biting hard over there, with unemployment soaring, public services failing and a property boom turned most emphatically bust. While there at Christmas I couldn’t believe the number of people I met casually who spoke of family and friends forced to work three-day weeks, something in Norway that is associated with quality of life and balancing work and family, not being forced to take pay cuts.

Novelist Anne Enright has written very eloquently on the topic of Ireland’s recession in an article entitled ‘Sinking by Inches’ in the London Review of Books here.

Coincidently after coming across Ms Enright’s piece yesterday, I received an email from a young Irish engineering graduate who has just arrived in Oslo with two friends in search of a better life*. ‘Our journey was motivated by a sense of hopelessness with the Irish economy, and a desire to check out the grass on the other side,’ he said, citing Norway’s low unemployment rate as one of the attractions here. I left Ireland 16 years ago with similar motivations and qualifications. There was no hint then to people like me that the Celtic Tiger was gestating for its short but dramatic life.

If this young man stays for the next year or so, I believe he won’t want to ever leave Norway. In my heart of hearts I now don’t want to either. But yet we are, as a family, committed to exploring other parts of the world and feel that there are other challenges ahead. We’d especially like the chance to live again in South East Asia where two of our children were born and where we would all benefit from exposure to very foreign cultures whilst enjoying a sense of adventure together.

My husband’s job finishes here in the summer and we expected that over the next few months he would get to consider his options in terms of location and job. What we didn’t expect was the phone call that came last Monday evening. His employer wants him to take up a position in …Ireland. Not only Ireland, but a very remote part of the west of Ireland; you could hardly move me further within the western world from a branch of H&M. And so on I joked as I coped with the shock.

We don’t want to go, for many reasons, some complex, some simple, both personal and professional. No matter where we move, leaving our near-perfect lives in Norway will be a wrench, but I have tried to console myself that in leaving we will resist the urge to 'play it safe' and open ourselves up to new possibilities and life-affirming experiences. What I didn’t bank on was going home. Will keep you posted.

*If by any chance someone reading is looking to employ an english-speaking Mechanical Engineering graduate, particularly if you have any connection with the bioengineering/biotech industries, I know a young man who'd love if you'd read his CV.

Is shopping the new Norwegian pastime?

2010-01-10T15:20:00.006+01:00

My gym is located in Sandvika Storsenter, one of the largest shopping centres in Europe. In the weeks before Christmas, I had to give up on trying to get to a Saturday lunchtime class as the chances of getting a parking space in one of the two car parks was so small. The experience of even trying to park was very stressful. Honestly, people really play dirty in these car parks, beeping horns, cutting you off and staring at you menacingly; it is NOT for the feint or even kind-hearted. On several occasions, I drove down there only to return home 30 mins later, saying; 'Well at least I tried. Sorta.'

So you'd think now with Christmas over, people would be broke, fed up of shopping, and out enjoying the sunshine on their skiis. But oh no! Yesterday, I only managed to get a car space in the second car park I tried by sheer chance and the fact that there was nobody driving intimidatingly behind me. I was still in the car park when the class I planned to do started and then I had to walk several miles from one end of the Senter to the other; it was like walking through a theme park, complete with balloons, queues and claustrophobia. A theme park where the theme was shopping. WHY anyone would drag their kids into this hell hole on a saturday, I cannot figure out!

I know it's cold outside folks but still; wouldn't staying home and reading a book or drinking yourself to oblivion, or both, be much healthier than navigating a shopping mall with thousands of other families? And what about your reputation for making the most of the great outdoors, whatever the weather? Why did you choose instead to queue for over-priced cups of coffee in cardboard cups, bribe your children into submission with balloons and Build-a-Bear boxes, and trudge around a crowded mall, away from the wonderful sun which shone so brightly?

Well, after a feeble attempt at using the treadmill, the only shopping I attempted was for ski wax. Having seen the queue in the sports shop, I was relieved to find the shelf with the wax suitable for the current temperatures was completly empty. Who bought it, I don't know because it sure looked to me like half the population of west Oslo was shopping not skiing yesterday. The other half seemed to be prowling around the car park or stuck at the roundabouts on the approach roads to the Senter. It was crazy!

A couple of hours later, we took to our skiis en familie and did not see one other skiier. The sun shone in a pure blue sky and the landscape looked stunning. So the question is: Have we become more Norwegian than the Norwegians? or are Norwegians now choosing shopping over skiiing as a way to spend their saturdays? It seems the answer may be 'yes' to both.

Who's that girl?

2010-01-07T19:29:00.003+01:00

Madanna has stolen my hat! See? I'm not the only woman to have thrown style to the Siberian wind! Now I wonder where I can get hold of one of those mesh scarf things she's wearing on her face. Seriously. I need one. (Probably Louis Vuitton. Sigh)

Bet she's not getting through the cold spell - oh how innocent that sounds - by baking muffins the kids won't eat because she put apple in them (an attempt to make them healthy), so she's going to have to eat them all herself as anything else would be wasteful, in between stuffing her face with chocolates leftover from Christmas - a late gift, hence not already scoffed - and wondering if Tuesday is too early in the week to open a bottle of wine (it is by the way if you have to stand at the bus stop the next morning in the dark with the temperature at -22 degrees C).

Gosh these arctic temperatures are making me grumpy, frumpy and lumpy :( Glass of wine anyone?

My new hat and other winter essentials

2010-01-04T15:15:00.008+01:00

We've just returned to Norway after two weeks in Ireland where the weather was the coldest in 28 years making snow and ice front page news. The media bandied about phrases such as 'bitterly cold', 'a cold snap', 'arctic conditions' and my personal favourite, 'gardai are advising motorists to stay at home' with abandon. Nothing like miserable weather to distract a nation from a miserable recession and rising unemployment. As we drove to the airport, I saw Irish snow-covered mountains for the first time - very pretty - and snow flying horizontally towards the car windscreen for the first time - strangely pretty. It may be cold back in Oslo, I thought, but at least they won't run out of grit over there. I've also got four pairs of snow boots in Oslo and a car with winter tyres on. They do help.

Then we sit ourselves in the car at Oslo Gardemoen airport and the reality of being back in real arctic conditions, as opposed to the damper Irish version, is obvious. Sitting in the car are a tube of skin creme and tube of Blistex. Frozen. Rock hard. In this kind of dry cold (-16 degrees C) these items, defrosted and regularly applied, are as essential as food and water.

In the car, my husband remarked on the fact that it was so cold his ears were stinging. I could hardly hear him through my new ridiculous deer stalker hat (seen above on a model who looks 1000 times better in it than I), but at least my ears were warm. Unlike my nose. There was a time I wouldn't have contemplated placing such an item on my head but now practicality wins; better look stupid now for a short time, than stupid forever with frost-bitten ears.

So we're back for our last winter in Norway (again) wondering if in another six months we'll get to move somewhere warmer. In one of the Christmas cards awaiting us on our return a friend tells us of their upcoming move to Singapore. Lucky buggers. No chance we'll get to relocate back there in 2010 but I'll settle for somewhere else in the region, for a place where I don't have to wear ridiculous headgear, and where my car doesn't double as a deep freeze.

Welcome to Oslo Mr & Mrs Obama

2009-12-10T08:32:00.008+01:00

I can hardly contain my excitement over the fact that Barack and Michelle Obama are in Oslo today. Never mind I have a sick child - third one to fall victim to flu over a space of six weeks - and I'm not going to see them in person. These two facts are totally unrelated by the way.

Last night, I dreamed very vividly that I was present as Barack gave a speech on the environment - think I might have got Conpenhagen mixed up with Oslo - and Michelle tried to give one which was disrupted by one of my children, in the kind of nightmarish way these things happen during sleep. Michelle looked stunning if not a bit tired. I'm pretty tired myself. Hanging out with VIPs all night is exhausting.

Anyway, back in the real world, the couple will leave again tomorrow morning but I hear that employees of the US Embassy, together with their families are getting to meet them. Diplomatic perks, I guess. The couple is also popping in on the Prime Minister and the King, Queen and Crown Princess (now there will be a fashion face-off). The view from the PMs office is stunning but I suspect that maybe it won't be so great today. It's still too dark at 0830 to tell.

Oh then there is the whole Nobel Peace Prize ceremony melarky and the usual Nobel concert, this year, hosted by Will Smith and his wife Jada. Except the Obamas will be skipping the concert, bucking the Nobel laureate trend.

Like many others, my daughters are of the opinion that Obama didn't deserve the prize. They absolutely believe that their Grandad should have got it because, one said, 'he is such a really nice person,' and, the other pointed out, 'Grandad picks up trash'. (No he's not a bin-man but an environmental activist.)

I could kind of see their point. I just don't think my father and mother would have caused quite the same stir of excitement in Oslo today as the Obamas are certainly doing.

P.S. It's 0845 now and the Obamas are en route from the airport to the Nobel Institute. The E6 motorway has been shut to all traffic so the couple don't have to worry about pesky rush-hour delays. Can't imagine my dad would have got the same special treatment.

When rain kills

2009-12-08T10:30:00.005+01:00

Think you're having a bad day? Well here are some guys, less than a day old, who've got it worse. I could hear them muttering 'damn that climate change lark' as I took the photo (in the rain).

Monday Morning Procrastination

2009-12-07T11:34:00.003+01:00

This photo was prompted by an idea on a writers' website I'm a member of. My desk is only this tidy because my husband tries to make neat piles of my papers in some vain attempt to be able to see the actual desk. His 'half' is on the left in case you hadn't guessed. The rest of my house is neat as a pin in comparison but for some reason I've no problem with a messy desk. Oh and the thing sticking up behind my laptop is a rather dusty electronic microscope. Everyone has one of those on their desk. Right?

Swine Flu

2009-12-05T17:55:00.005+01:00

There has been a LOT of media hype here about the swine flu outbreak, with newspapers devoting their front pages to it several days running. Or should I say, devoting their front pages to the death toll in Norway, and the fact that it was higher than in any other Scandinavian country. That was weeks ago around the time the government started the mass vaccination programme, starting with those in high-risk categories. Not long after the media frenzy subsided somewhat, my younger daughter came down with what I believe was swine flu. Several cases were confirmed at her school and she is NEVER ill. She didn’t have a test but did take Tamiflu. After the quietest week of her life, she went back to school, and surprisingly none of the rest of us got sick. Since her experience, I feel more relaxed about the whole swine flu issue. I’m grateful not to have a young baby or pregnancy to worry about, but realise that, after all, this is 'just flu' for most people.

Last week, the vaccination programme finally reached our kommune with the under-fives going first. So, on Thursday, I took the toddler who has just turned three, to the local health station for his jab. ‘And would you like it too?’ the nurse asked (I'm translating for you, obviously :)). Well I hadn’t actually considered it but I thought, ‘what the hell, why not?’ and handed over a 100 Kr note. The injection hardly hurt at all so I didn’t cry. Toddler did briefly but only out of surprise I think. Being the experienced mommy I am, I was ready with a cookie treat to quell the tears. Twenty minutes later we left with me feeling rather pleased with myself that I had been vaccinated as most of the adults I know are still waiting their turn until all the kids are done first.

Not so smug now though. I could live with the sore arm. I suppose I could even put up with the scar, which together with the mark I have from my childhood TB jab, now makes it look like I’ve had a close encounter with an upper-arm munching vampire. Yeah, that Robert Pattison actor guy. (This is to let you know that I am vaguely aware of the vampire hysteria rampant among teenage girls at the moment. Vaguely). No what is really hacking me off is that having not had the slightest sniffle all year, even when exposed to real flu, I am now totally congested, with headaches and a runny nose. Toddler tike is fine but I'm bitterly dragging myself around saying things like, 'I can't believe the vaccination has made me sick. I can't believe I paid 100 Kr to feel this crap.' Elder daughter, who won't be vaccinated until Dec 16, enquired if it's only adults who suffer like this after the jab. All I can say is: let's bloody hope so.

School Weigh-Ins

2009-11-20T18:03:00.004+01:00

People in Norway seem pretty fit compared to those in Ireland. At least they don’t let a bit of rain – or even a deluge – put them off going outdoors. We’d be housebound these days if that was the case. In Norway, chucking kids outside in all weathers, seems to lead to adulthoods filled with cycling, roller-skiing and hiking all over the place; still in ridiculous clothing. And then the snow comes of course... Well, they were born with skis on – ouch! – weren’t they, these Norwegians?

Well despite this high level of activity, obesity is a growing problem here just as it is in the rest of the western world. According to Aftenposten, the authorities are so worried about the increasing numbers of overweight children in schools, that they are re-introducing a school weighing programme, which was abolished in 1997. The reason they stopped weighing kids ten years ago was because it was deemed too traumatic for the children. I can imagine. This time they’re going to be more discreet about it so children don’t have to see how much they weigh. The idea is to monitor kids – weighing them during first, third, seventh and tenth class (ages 6,8, 12 & 15) so that if a weight problem occurs, the school nurse can try steer a child towards a healthier fat-reducing lifestyle. Presumably though it will work the other way too – if a child is underweight, then that can be tackled too.

I can imagine what will happen though. All this data will be very useful in publishing surveys on which is the fattest kommune in Norway, which is the lightest town, what’s the fattest school in Norway, etc. Mmm. I’m not sure about this. Weighing kids seems quite an old-fashioned measurement of good/bad health and I certainly don’t weigh my children for fear it becomes a habit they can’t break as they grow into teenage girls.

My gut (!) instinct is that weighing kids in a school programme isn't going to do what it is intended to do; lead to a reduction in obesity. It'll just provide concrete data on the problem. Prevention is better than cure so perhaps it might be more efficacious to implement healthier eating habits and send these kids out onto the football pitch more frequently. Weighing them once they are already overweight, and then expecting them to lose it, seems a bit like putting the cart after the horse. But what do I know?

First snow on Tanum

2009-11-14T09:16:00.003+01:00

The Tax List

2009-11-08T15:42:00.004+01:00

For the past month or so the tax details of every Norwegian resident have been available for all to see online in the form of Skattelisten (the tax list). It happens every year in October. Anyone with internet access can search anyone by name. Not only do you get to see how much someone declared in earnings, how much tax they paid, and how much they are worth in assets, but also the year they were born, and how their earnings rank in their post code/ local authority/ age group. Yes, it could be a real comparison-fest.

The first time I discovered this, I had a great ole time searching everyone I knew. I discovered that in some cases, despite the old car they were driving, people I knew well were earning multi-millions, whilst others with brand new cars were not – far from it. Not that cars are an indicator of anything - clearly they are not - but you get what I mean: conspicuous consumption. Of course after five years the novelty has worn off this caper, and I’ve decided that I’m no longer interested in delving into people’s financial details. In fact it feels kind of yeuchy, like financial porn. I use the changing room analogy.

Just because Norwegians walk around the dressing room at the gym buck naked doesn’t mean I stare at their bits and pieces, does it? No, of course not. Nobody seems to talk about the skattelist, no more than they talk about each other physical traits. I can hardly go up to a friend and say: 'gosh that’s a really ugly scar you have on your butt', no more than I'm going to say, ' gosh you don’t earn half as much as I thought you did'. So just because Norwegian society actively encourages that we all compare and contrast our fiscal values/cellulite, doesn’t mean we should. Right?

There is one thing though. Just as the body can be a give-away on the old age question, so is the Skattelist. This year, I allowed myself one sneaky peak to see how old one of my gym instructors is. I mean, how could I resist. Anyway, it turns out that she's 50! Much older than I thought. Bet she looks great naked too, but I ain’t lookin'. Honest!

When Telephones were New technology

2009-11-04T09:46:00.004+01:00

Last night at book group there was some discussion about Facebook. Some love it, some don’t get why anyone is on it, some are addicted to Farmville. Driving home I was thinking how this conversation was very representative of my generation, ‘girls’ in our mid-thirties to mid - forties. I can’t imagine young people discussing Facebook; they just use it; What’s there to discuss?

Then I got thinking about how it might have been for my grandparent’s generation in the sixties, when they got telephones for the first-time. Landlines that is, the kind of phones my children will look back on and say: ‘Did we really have a telephone attached to our house with a wire?’

I imagine dinner parties in the sixties - this is a stretch of imagination as I don't think dinner parties arrived in Kilkenny until the mid-seventies, earliest - where conversations might have been like this:

Oh I can’t stand those new telephones. They’re so noisy when the ring.

Oh but it’s wonderful, I can talk to my mother-in-law, when she’s not even in the same room!

Yes, but don’t you hate when people disturb you when they call during dinner?

Oh, I only let my husband answer it, as you never know who is on the other end of the line!

I think the operator sounds so helpful and polite, but I wonder does she eavesdrop?

I always recite my number when I answer; it’s good manners in my view.

Don’t you hate when you get the last digit wrong, and you have to start dialling the number all over again?

They say, everyone will have a phone in their home some day and you’ll be able to dial Australia without going through an operator! Can you imagine?! No, I can't! That's impossible.

Yes, we’ve come a long way. I really don’t now how I’d explain Facebook, Twitter and blogging to my grandparent’s were they still around. (Then that applies to most aspects of my life. You married a foreigner, who’s not a Catholic and you live where?) Makes me wonder what kind of technology my children’s children will have, that I won’t be able to get my head around.

I feel like an ole fogey already!

Hallowe'en Junk in My Trunk

2009-11-01T09:18:00.003+01:00

Another fine bounty of candy was distributed by me and then re-collected in other forms by my children during the trunk or treating event hosted at the international school last night. Eight dark, cold weeks to Christmas. Oh dear, I think I might be getting the winter blues. At least we have tonnes of candy here to cheer me up.

Palace sleepovers and vaccinations.

2009-10-23T14:34:00.005+02:00

The room for important people on sleepovers. Photo: TOR G. STENERSEN via Aftenposten.no

I've been having a bit of trouble sleeping properly so am very fuzzy-headed this week. Hard to come up with a clear thought, not to mention commit any thoughts to 'paper'. But there are a couple of things, I'm going to mention, even if I can't muster the words to create complete posts on any of them:

1. The King of Norway has invited Barack and Michelle Obama to stay over at the royal palace when they come to Oslo in December to pick up the ole peace prize thingy. No word yet on whether the Americans have accepted the sleepover option but they will visit the Norwegian royals, probably for supper. I've been in the bedroom reserved for visiting heads of state, and only heads of state, with the exception I think of Nelson Mandela, but I could be wrong about that. (Fuzzy head, remember?). Talk about exclusive. Exclusive, except for the tourists they let trawl through the place every July. Nice, but a tad over-done for my taste, a bit retro and large for comfort. It does come with a flat screen television though which is totally incongruous with the decor. I couldn't say though if the tv has decent cable. Personally I'd go for the hotel option Mr Obama, but for goodness sake don't tell the King I said that. Wink. wink.

2. The Norwegian authorities are worried about the growing number of swine flu deaths in Norway. Ten so far while Denmark has had no registered deaths, and Sweden only two. The government is now starting a vaccination program, beginning with those in high risk groups and moving along through the population, with the hope of vaccinating everyone by Christmas.

Gearing up for a Hallowe'en-themed 7th birthday party this weekend. Norwegian retailers have certainly taken to the whole Hallowee'en celebration thing; no shortage of costumes and crap to flit away money on here. Oh, did that sound cranky? I'll stay away from trying to carve any pumpkins until I've managed to resume proper sleep patterns. Otherwise, things might get scary; real scary, as opposed to pretend, plastic scary.

Happy Weekend :)

Nude not Naked in Norway 2

2009-10-20T08:46:00.011+02:00

Please extend a very warm welcome on a chilly Norwegian day to Irish writer Nuala Ní Chonchúir who is stopping by as part of her virtual world tour to answer questions about her short story collection ‘Nude’ as well as her writing career in general. As I mentioned in a previous post, Nuala was heralded as a person to watch in 2009 by none other than that bastion of good taste, ‘The Irish Times’. And what a year it has been for Nuala so far. A third child, a third book and finally, after several years of perseverance, imminent publication of her first novel ‘You’, scheduled for early 2010.

Nuala, we were at Trinity College Dublin at the same time but while I was drowning my sorrows in pints of Guinness because I’d made a mistake in signing up for a degree in engineering, you were, I imagine, hanging out at the arts library with literate and interesting people. You studied Irish at university; did this in any way reflect your career aspirations at the time? You have won or have been shortlisted for several short story competitions. I wonder if there was a particular publication or competition win after which you felt you could call yourself a writer out loud or was that never an issue for you?

I never had any real career aspirations other than to be a writer but I didn’t quite know how you did that as a job. I was always writing but I worked in a theatre, a bookshop, a library and eventually in a writers’ centre; I left there to go full time as a writer 5 years ago.
I had been educated through Irish and I just loved the language. I wanted to go to Trinity from the time I was four. I went to school in the city centre and I’d pass Trinners and say, ‘I’m going to go there’.
I was a member of An Cumann Gaelach in college (The Irish Society) and we had the best fun, putting on céilís (dances), plays and an arts week and generally drinking lots of Guinness, wine, whatever...
I still hate telling people I’m a writer – mostly they don’t understand what it entails. Or why they haven’t heard of me...But I’m comfortable with it as a label for myself – it’s personally defining.

I wonder if you could tell us a little about your path to publication. Do you have an agent? How did publication of this collection come about and why another collection of short stories – your third – as opposed to a longer work?

My first book was a poetry collection, my second a short fiction collection, which the publisher, Arlen House, asked for.
I wanted to be published in the UK, so I sent the MS of Nude to Salt in January 2008. They accepted it in October that year and it was published in September 2009. Publishing is a SLOW world.
My novel – due April 2010 – could have been out years ago but it was rejected many times before it finally found its home with New Island. So the stories in Nude were written after the novel. One doesn’t have much control over when the work appears.
I did have an agent but I sold all my work myself, so I no longer felt I needed that agent. I am in the market for a new one though!

Your name is very Irish Nuala, but this short story collection is very eclectic in your choice of international settings and characters, with little of the usual Irish topics of catholic guilt, sexual inhibition, dysfunctional families, small town claustrophobia etc. In fact your writing is sexually uninhibited (Note: Nuala writes great sex!) with the themes of lust and art cropping up over and over, even when not central to a story. I can understand the fascination with relationships, specifically sexual ones, but where does this fascination and knowledge of art come from?

The dysfunctional stuff is in my novel but in a humorous way (!). I’m not a huge fan of all that dreary Irish stuff. Some writers do it brilliantly though, like Anne Enright.
All my family are into art – my parents both paint a bit and the buy and sell antiques and bric-a-brac, so there were always nice pictures at home. I enjoy painting as a hobby and I’d love to be good at it – I’m in awe of the skills of brilliant visual artists. I loved art history as much as drawing at school and I just continued that interest into my adult life. I adore art galleries.

This is your third short story collection. Have any of your characters tempted you into a longer work, refusing to allow themselves to be restrained within the short story form?

My novel You, that is coming out next year, grew out of a short story from my first collection. The narrator – a 10 year old girl – stayed with me and I realised I wanted to keep writing as that character. It’s written in the second person which is a voice I really enjoy writing.

You maintain a blog at womenrulewriter.blogspot.com. Can you remember what prompted you to start blogging? Has blogging helped you reach new readers?

I was reading other people’s blogs and really enjoyed what I read about their writing lives. I thought, ‘I could do that’. I was also fascinated by their ability to self-promote and I knew I needed to try that if Nude was going to garner any attention. Writers really have to get behind their books’ promotion these days and I saw blogging as a way to do that.
I have met so many brilliant writers through blogging – online and some in person – and they are a great support network to have. I have definitely got a new readership through my blog.

Thank you for including Norway on your world tour Nuala and for your wonderful insights into the the writing life. Wishing you continued success with ‘Nude’ and your other writing adventures.

Big thanks to you, Johanna, for having me here in Norway – I love the questions you asked, they are very different. Best of luck with your novel and next week my virtual tour takes me to England and writer Vanessa Gebbie’s blog. I hope some of your readers will join me there.

'Nude' is available directly from Salt Publishers and Amazon. I highly recommend it; not only will it look gorgeous on your bookshelf, it is also brimming with beautifully-written stories.

If you'd like to catch up on other stops on Nuala's tour, please visit here.

Autumn Beauty

2009-10-18T09:15:00.002+02:00

Sognsvann

Nude not Naked in Norway

2009-10-17T14:08:00.009+02:00

Drum roll please!

When in Ireland last January, I read an article in the Irish Times about people to watch in 2009. Sadly, I wasn't featured but I was thrilled to see one name I recognised: Nuala Ni Chonchuir. ‘I know her,’ I said to my husband; we were staying in airport hotel so there was no one else around to try impress. Truth be told, I’ve never actually met Nuala but I know her in the Blogospherical sense. She blogs about writing at www.womenrulewriter.blogspot.com.

The year isn’t over yet, but it seems that the Irish Times was bang on with its forecast. Not only has Nuala published her third collection of short stories ‘Nude’ to great critical acclaim, she has also secured publication in 2010 of her first novel and, most importantly, she recently gave birth to her third child, Juno.

Last Saturday’s Irish Times referred to ‘Nude’ as a “memorable achievement” which is “full of witty voices rendering adventures both savage and absurd.” In plain man's speak - not that anyone around reading here is plain you understand - this means that Nuala's short story collection is brilliant. It contains 19 stories with fabulous names like: Madonna Irlanda, Cowboy and Nelly, Before Losing the Valise, but Mostly After. You can read the first line of each story here.

As part of her virtual world tour to promote ‘Nude’, Nuala is stopping off here to answer questions about her writing and the path to publication. So come visit next Tuesday to answer questions about the book and her writing life. You can catch up on previous world tour stops by clicking on links from here and buy the book here.

See you tuesday.

Marvellous! Fantastic!

2009-10-13T12:24:00.004+02:00

John Cleese's face is all over the place here at the moment. He's fronting an advertising campaign for the electrical retailer Elkjøp. This is pronounced Hell Shop if you've ever had the pleasure getting lost in the Sandvika Storsenter outlet. Believe me it's not a place you go if you're in a hurry.

I can imagine John Cleese's agent saying:

John my old man, you're a respected and popular comic. A legend in your own lifetime. But you need some dosh after that nasty divorce settlement. I've got you a gig in Norway! All you have to do is let a massive electrical retailer plaster your mug over its advertising (distributed to every household in the country) and draw a balloon from your mouth in which they'll print the word 'MARVELLOUS' and 'FANTASTIC!'. Then you just have to do a few television commercials, complain about your divorce and say the phrase 'Thank God for Elkjøp'. They'll print this on their advertising too in massive letters, under which they'll encourage all of Norway to "do as John Cleese, buy everything you need in Elkjøp". Not only will they pay you handsomely for appearing as a bitter and not very funny old man but they'll also push DVD sales of 'Fawlty Towers'. John, my man, it's a no-brainer. Who goes to Norway for goodness sake. No one! Well no one of any consequence will see you besmirch your enviable reputation as a king of comedy.

John took his agent's advice and Elkjøp's money, and here follows one of the two awful commercials for your perusal.

Nobel Peace Prize 2009

2009-10-09T12:12:00.003+02:00

This must be the most exciting news week in Norway since I moved here; can it get much better than this?

The Norwegian Nobel Committee announced that the U.S. President Barack Obama has won the 2009 Nobel Peace Prize for "his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples".

Barack Obama is coming to Norway!

By the way: four of the five members of the Nobel Committee are women. Just sayin'.

More Good PR

2009-10-08T09:53:00.003+02:00

This is a quote from an interview I read on the Independent newspaper's website yesterday. It's with the 84-year-old writer and activist Gore Vidal who is a tad angry over the state of the USA these days.

Is there any hope? "Every sign I see is doom. But then people say" – he adopts a whiny, nasal voice – "'Oh Mr Vidal, you're so negative, can't you say something nice about America? It's a wonderful country, everybody wants to live here.' Oh yes? When was the last time you saw a Norwegian with a green card who wanted to come here because of the health service? I'll pay you if you can find one."

You can read the rest of the article here if you're not too busy hunting for a Norwegian dying to get into America.

Man Booker Prize 2009

2009-10-07T09:55:00.007+02:00

Those who know me, know that I'm a little bit obsessed by the Man Booker prize. Possibly because there have been so many Irish winners and shortlisters in the past: Banville, Enright, Toibin, Barry, Trevor, Moore and so on. Well there were no Irish writers in this year's shortlist but I am pleased to see that, other than writing and gender, I do have something else in common with Hilary Mantel, this year's winner for her novel 'Wolf Hall'.

Ms Mantel was once an expat spouse, and accompanied her geologist husband on assignments to Botswana and the Middle East in the seventies. I know for a fact though that she didn't spend hours on Facebook, gazing at celebritybabies.com and blogging when she should have been writing fiction. Even if the Internet had been invented then, I bet she wouldn't have been so easily distracted.

Congratulations Hilary Mantel. Am logging off so I can work on my novel - right NOW!

BBC Radio 4 Interview

2009-10-06T08:44:00.007+02:00

Yesterday evening around 1830 my phone went. It was someone from the BBC in London wondering if I could do a short interview on my thoughts on Norway's place at the top of the UN's list of best countries in the world to live in. I was really caught on the hop which was a good strategy on their side as I didn't have a chance to come up with an excuse to say why I couldn't possibly do it; the only reason being pure fear of making an ass of myself. I'm happy to do that here but not on BBC Radio 4.

So they called me back after a few minutes during which I charged the phone just in case. I then got to listen in to what was happening in the studio; there was an interview going on with one of the winners of the 2009 Nobel Prize in Medicine. All I could think of was please, please don't let one of the children burst into the room while I'm doing this.

The interview pronounced my name right which I was very impressed by. Even the priest back in St Patrick's Parish in Kilkenny used to have trouble with it from the pulpit. Not my name exactly but my surname, shared by my dead relatives who the priest used to ask us to pray for, prompted by some money in an envelope from my mother. Praying for the dead always seemed to me as a bit like putting the the horse after the cart, but I digress.

So I told the BBC man how wonderful Norway is. I wasn't lying. It is a great place- I didn't bore them with tales of winter weather, mind you. I reserve that for you guys. The radio presenter also cunningly asked me if I thought Norwegians realized how fortunate they are. A great question. I said that my experience is that Norwegians who have never lived abroad take the lifestyle they have here for granted; I referred specifically to the example of year-long paid maternity leave on this. But there are lots of other things too. He also asked if I was ever going to leave Norway. Er maybe, but I'll be very sad to do so and think if we do move one that it will be hard not to compare a place to here. Although if I'm blogging by a pool, beside a vineyard, in Australia (no. 2 on the UN's list) that may not be the case.

Anyway, I didn't seize up, mix any names up, or forget any words which happens on a daily basis when just talking about what's for dinner. I did however guess very wrongly on UK's position on the UN list - I guessed 7th, he said 22nd I think. Ah well, I still love the UK. It's definitely got the best radio shows in the world ;)

The programme was called PM on Radio 4. I don't know if you can download it; I certainly won't be doing so. I'd die of mortification to hear my own voice.

p.s. Only a few minutes after I finished the interview, my phone rang again. It was my friend Elizabeth, who lives in Vienna, who hasn't called me in almost three years. She was listening to the radio in her kitchen, heard my voice and then rang me to congratulate me. She says that she reads my blog too. It was lovely to speak to you Elizabeth and very kind of you to call. Thank you.

The car says it's winter - in September

2009-09-30T08:54:00.001+02:00

That's a snowflake symbol beside the temperature. How helpful of Volkswagen.

Poor moose?

2009-09-29T08:39:00.007+02:00

Last Thursday at 7.15 am

Autumn Sun: 15 mins ago

Have you noticed how I have mentioned the weather lately? Well that's all about to change. The sun may still be shining but there was frost on the ground this morning so winter is definitely creeping up on us. Groan. I know, I know, I should embrace it. It's not the snow per se that upsets me you know; it's the fact that it hangs around, cluttering up the place, for so long. But Autumn ain't quite over even if the leaves are falling from the trees like rain so there's still some joy to be had in the weather. For some of us at least. Not for all. Apparently hunting season has started. I heard shots ring out on Thursday and Saturday. I'm worried about my mooses. Haven't seen them since Thursday morning. At least, if the worst has happened, they won't have to worry about buying new snow boots. See, there's always a silver lining?

Google national stereotypes

2009-09-22T17:18:00.007+02:00

I saw an article on telegraph.co.uk today about Google suggestions relating to national stereotypes. You know when you start typing a word into Google’s search engine and it tries to be helpful by anticipating your search using the most common search terms – presumably to save you the incredible effort of completing typing the sentence.....

Well the Telegraph website provided some screenshots of what Google thinks people might be looking for when they start typing ‘Why do British people….?’ For example: ‘Why do British people have bad teeth?. Ditto Australians. Why do Australians have corks on their hats? Surprisingly, the Telegraph didn’t think the results for Irish and Norwegian stereotypes would be of sufficient interest to publish them. But we know better, don’t we?

Here is what it comes up with for ‘Why do Irish….?’

why do irish people have red hair

why do irish dancers wear wigs

why do irish drink

why do irish have red hair

why do irish people have freckles

why do irish dancers not move their arms

why do irish car bombs curdle

why do irish dancers keep their arms down

why do irish dancers have curly hair

why do irish men wear kilts

Well there you go now, begorra! Before I got carried away reading up on curdling car bombs (!), I thought I'd check out what Norwegian stereotypes were flying around cyberspace.

But either Google can’t be bothered to come up with any suggestions for ‘why do Norwegians...’ or the Cyberworld doesn't much care about Norwegians. Can this really be true??? No, course, not. It must be an oversight on Google's part. Until the internet mammoth rectifies this unforgivable deficiency in its system though, I decided I'd come with a few stereotypical suggestions of my own:

why do Norwegians eat brown cheese

why do Norwegians not let foreigners vote

why do Norwegians not eat proper sandwiches i.e. ones with two slices of bread and something in between

why do Norwegians scowl so much

why do Norwegians act as if you don't exist when standing in an elevator with them

why do Norwegians speak Norwegian

why do Norwegian women have blonde hair

why do Norwegians put up with insanely high prices on all consumer goods

why do Norwegians have cabins

why do Norwegian women wear ugly shoes

why do Norwegians get drunk when their company is paying and/or when abroad

why do Norwegians wear bunads

why do Norwegian teenagers all dress exactly the same

But that’s just a start. I’m sure some of you have even better suggestions. So over to you J

Link to telegraph piece here.

Oh and for the record, I do not have red hair, and have never Irish danced arms down or otherwise. I do however have a few (!) freckles and drink (lots of water, of course).

An open letter to His Gorgeousness the Prime Minister

2009-09-15T20:01:00.004+02:00

Dear Mr Stoltenberg,

Let me start by congratulating you and your colleagues on your election victory. It was hardly a surprise that the sexiest man in European politics* (I’d say the world, if it weren’t for the delectable and evermore powerful President Obama) was last night elected to a second consecutive term as the Prime Minster of Norway. Not that I think the Norwegian electorate voted for you based on your looks; they are far too sensible for that. Or are they? I don’t know, actually, not being one of them.

The fact is Mr Stoltenberg that as a 38-year-old with more degrees than some thermometers, an excellent credit rating, a clean driving license from two nations (the ones with the ‘special relationship’ in case you are interested) and a shared tax bill over the past five years residency in your great country that runs into millions of Kroner, I am not considered trustworthy enough to be a member of the Norwegian electorate.

My 17-year old neighbour, who turns 18 next month, is still at school, dates a long-haired boy with trousers that never conceal his Bjorn Borg underwear, never reads a newspaper, dresses exactly the same as every other 17-year-old girl in the country, and thinks the word 'fuck' is Norwegian for 'cool', was able to vote yesterday, but I suspect didn’t bother. This, while I, a former preschool board member, Year 2 class representative and all around upstanding member of the international community, who persists in reading Aftenposten everyday despite the absence of anything interesting to read, avails gratefully of your excellent public childcare system and feeds her daughter brown cheese on a daily basis (this alone makes me practically Norwegian by naturalisation), has no right to vote. Why is that, Mr Stoltenberg? Can it really be because the front of my passport says the word ‘Eire’ and not ‘Norge’? Isn’t that a tad petty in these times of globalisation?

You are not alone of course in denying me my democratic right. The US, Singapore and the Philippines had the same attitude towards me. Only the UK gave me a vote as a tax-paying long-term resident, a right I exercised on the day Tony Blair swept to power in 1997. Well, we all make mistakes, don’t we?

My own country doesn’t allow me to vote either, by virtue of my absence, as there is no overseas voting system for Irish citizens. However, as I haven’t lived there since 1993, the only government policies likely to affect me are taxes on airport travel and inheritance, and possibly third-level education for non-residents, I don’t feel this is in anyway unfair. I do think however, that having half my income taken in taxes in Norway (not to mention the other non-income based taxes I pay everyday while working on my considerable shopping habit) while being denied the right to vote in how these taxes are deployed within the society I live in, is frankly taking the piss.

So Mr Stoltenberg , once your victory hangover has cleared, and you have a little time on your hands, I wonder if you might consider the plight of the tax-paying foreigner so that when the next election comes around, in 2013, I might get to vote (online if news reports are to be believed). It could then be, for both of us, a case of third time lucky (assuming in the meantime that age doesn’t rob you of your good looks and I don’t decide to go pay my taxes somewhere else).

Mvh,

The Irish Nomad in Norway.

* I realise that Carla Bruni might not agree with this statement but I am willing to go stiletto to stiletto with her over it.

Norway vs Ireland (if politics was a beauty pagent)

2009-09-13T16:49:00.010+02:00

Norwegians are heading to the polls tomorrow so it seemed like an appropriate time to work on an equation to prove the proportional relationship between the attractiveness of Norway's party leaders compared to those in Ireland and the state of the each country's economy. I'm not ready to reveal it to you yet but I thought you might like a sneak preview in the form of photographic evidence.

Notice anything? Beside the absolute dishiness in my opinion (and I've seen him in the flesh I mean - suit and tie - too) of Norway's Prime Minister Jesn Stoltenberg, the other possible candidates for PM ain't half bad-looking either. They're also women.

Now have a look at the Irish lot. Scowling men in grey suits, prone to exagerrated hand gestures, who look as if they have both BO and halitosis.

What the hell. Sod the equation.

QED

P.S. Sorry but can't manage to sort out captions but am assuming you can figure out which lot is which?

Missing underwear?

2009-09-03T10:54:00.004+02:00

Wonder what the story behind this 34 B is.....

Library material for kids

2009-08-28T18:56:00.004+02:00

The rain is incessant and deafening, and himself is gone away for the weekend to compete in the Birkebeiner race - the largest mountain bike race in the world about which he has lately been obsessed! So what a great idea then to head to the library, return the overdue books I hadn't got around to reading after two months, and let the girls choose a couple of DVDs to watch tonight and tomorrow night. We got Finding Nemo and Tarzan. But look at what we could have procured from the children's DVD section. Yes, none other than the movie 'Fucking Åmål' which according to the strapline is 'Fucking Great!'. I can't tell you much more about it as to actually pick the item up might have lead to all sorts of questions and dilemmas. It was hard enough to get away with taking photos - 'why are you taking pictures, Mommy?' - you can picture the scene.

This isn't the first time I've come across inappropriate usage of the F-word in combination with a Scandinavian language. My teenage niece, who is Danish, has used it in her status update on Facebook. I'm guess it must be considered cool. But is it?

Back to School

2009-08-24T18:55:00.004+02:00

So tomorrow is finally the first day back at school for the girls. I say finally, not because the summer hasn't been wonderful - it has, the damp weather notwithstanding - but because Norwegian schools have already been re-opened a week, it's as if summer is officially over in Norway and we're lagging a bit behind.

The first day procedure - as it is called - is that parents and children turn up in the school play ground and wander around looking for class lists which indicate which class their offspring will be in for the coming year. Last year I cried. I couldn't help it. My baby was moving to the big school from her lovely Montessori pre-school with two of her mates, and neither mate was in her class. So I wept. As discretely as I could. I'm a very emotional person by the way.

What a difference a year makes. Said child had the most amazing year which boosted her confidence into the stratosphere beyond the wildest dreams of a parent raised as an Irish Catholic in the seventies. My mother used to refer to confident children as being 'boisterous' - in a bad way - so I came from the mentality where anyone confident would elicit the comment: who does she think she is?

But tomorrow I'm not anticipating any tears although the absence of both daughters' best friends - one of five years standing, the other made in her new class in the past year - will no doubt have some effect. I'll wear waterproof mascara just in case. And take along a hanky. And my sunglasses. I'm sure I'll be fine.

Of course, as of tomorrow, I have no excuse for not getting on and finishing da novel. Now that, on the other hand, is something which is guaranteed to reduce me to tears. Of joy or sadness, I cannot yet foretell.

Resilient Oslo bucks the global trend for crisis

2009-08-21T12:09:00.003+02:00

One of the questions almost everyone asked us during our two-week stay in Ireland was, 'How are things in Norway?'. They weren't meaning how are things with us, but how is the country fairing financially as Ireland, if the media is to be believed, sinks further and further into an economic gloom with unemployment creeping upwards and people's spirits and equity in the opposite direction.

According to an article in last Sunday's Observer, 'The global recession has hit almost every country hard. But Norway is faring better than most'. Click here to read the rest of the piece.

Annual Moose Posing

2009-08-20T07:59:00.005+02:00

I imagine that our house has a reputation among the animals in the area as 'the house where the paparazzo lives.' No sooner has a four-legged friend appeared in the field and I'm grabbing my camera. Last night this mommy moose and her two calves patiently hung around for ages, grazing and posing as I snapped.

I tried to entice them to come closer but they said I should be grateful to have had the chance to get so many shots as it was. I swear - mommy moose even had the audacity to yawn!

Lessons Learned

2009-08-17T09:57:00.007+02:00

Back in Norway where I'm making a priority of blogging; easily done when the alternatives are emptying suitcases, cleaning away dead flies and dust, washing laundry, and emailing the car hire company that over-charged us (thrice) for car seats.

As you can see from the photo, I managed to make an impression on Kamila Shamsie despite my certainty that I wouldn't have the gumption to speak to her. It went like this.

I was shunted up to the front of the audience - which wasn't very big - and so had a false sense of security as I couldn't see the people behind me. No, contrary to what I might sometimes tell my children, I don't in fact have eyes in the back of my head. I just need them.

After the authors read, questions were invited by the curator, Colm Toibin. I was a bit embarrassed by a series of questions about being a Muslim which didn't seem very relevant to Ms Shamsie or her book (What do you think of the conception of Muslims in the west?!!!!), and so false bravery, and a sense of lets get the discussion back on track prompted me to raise my hand.

I'd like to ask a techinical question please,' I said. Ms Shamsie looked relieved to have the disussion steered away from religious generalizations and stereotyping and said 'Great!'

I asked her why she had chosen to tell her story from so many points of view; she frequently changes the point of view of her characters while they are mid-conversation. This is quite unusual these days with most - not all, most - writers keeping different characters' head spaces to seperate chapters or at least separate paragraphs of a novel. When I pointed this out there was this murmuring of 'that's not true!' from several people behind me, while the author was agreeing with me. It was really disconcerting to be disagreed with en masse in such a way; to say I was taken aback is an understatement. I was very upset. Poor sensitive little me.

Anyway, it was a week ago. I'm well over it-obviously. But when I went to have my copy of 'Burnt Shadows' signed, Ms Shamsie said, 'You must be a writer,'; I guess the naysayers in the audience were not and didn't really get what I was talking about with changes of narrative point of view. It didn't make me feel much better to know this but it was very nice of her to write such a nice note in my book. So I learned two things that day: I need to develop a much, much thicker skin, and when standing beside Colm Toibin in purple suede peep-toe ankle boots, I feel very, very tall.

Kilkenny Literary Visitors

2009-08-06T19:17:00.005+02:00

We’re currently on our annual summer holidays in Ireland during which the kids get their thrice annual hair cuts (3 for the price of 1 in Norway), I have salon-smooth hair for two weeks, and my husband uses my brother’s old mountain bike to cycle from Kilkenny to Carlow every second day as part of his Birkebeiner race training.

The best thing about coming here in August is Kilkenny Arts Festival. Not only does this offer lots of street entertainment for the kids but it also brings some great writers to the city to plug their wares giving me the opportunity to hang out with literary types. Well sit on a plastic chair in the audience in front of them for an hour then queue up and get my book signed.

Next week I’m going to readings by 2009 Orange Prize short-listed Kamila Shamsie, 2009 Booker long-listed Colm Toibin (who curates the literary events at the festival) and a newcomer Peter Murphy who has written a great book called ‘John the Revelator’. Last year I got to meet and have books signed by Sebastian Barry and Anne Enright. I told the latter that I wished I could write like her. ‘You should write like yourself,’ she replied kindly. ‘No, I’d much rather write like you!’ I gushed. Yes, I’m sure she was impressed. To Mr Barry I must have come across as an even bigger twat. He asked me what I was doing in Norway. ‘My husband is in gas,’ I said. Yep. Am really hoping to keep the head this year and keep the idiocy to a minimum. Maybe I'll mention my own writerly leanings. Ask an intelligent question from the audience in front of everyone. Neither of these scenarios is likely as all the events are too early in the day to calm nerves with a drink without smelling like an alcoholic. Still, I can fantasise about becoming Colm Toibin's newest best friend for another eight days, about chatting with Ms Shamsie on the merits of multi-point of view narratives for just two more, and then it'll be back to the barren literary landscape of Norway where such fantasies don't even exist.

I'll let you know how I get on.

Excuses

2009-07-20T09:08:00.005+02:00

Reasons, randomly assorted, why I haven't been blogging:

1. I've spent more time on the beach in the past few weeks than I have in the previous three years.

2. On non-beach days, the weather has been so cr**p, that I haven't wanted to spread the doom and gloom that hangs around the house in such weather.

3. I'm hanging around the house with three children.

4. One of these children is a toddler, a text-book terrible twos type toddler. (I've been fortunate enough to have a more socially acceptable type on two occasions before - yes by that I mean girls - but third time I wasn't so lucky).

5. The toddler is a boy.

6. I only typed the first sentence of this post before being interrupted by having a Hannah Montana piece of cardboard thrust in my face for inspection. There are many such interruptions.

7. When the God of Children Entertaining Themselves Indoors in Inclement Weather smiles down on me I do things like laundry, remove dried oatmeal from the table, floor, everywhere, and feed my latest Facebook addiction called Bejeweled Bedazzle or something like that. If you want to avoid wasting great swathes of your precious leisure/cleaning time, DO NOT go near this ridiculous game. Seriously, don't.

8. I've nothing new to say about Norway. I've been here almost five years and now think it is perfectly normal to have a packet of brown cheese in the fridge, to remortgage the house to pay parking charges, and to wear wellies in the city centre on a sunny day. Well it is, isn't it?

9. I'm spending all my free time writing my novel. This is a whopping great lie. I just want you to know that I am STILL writing a novel. Haven't abandoned the great oeuvre yet. No, not yet.

10. I've run out of excuses - no I haven't. Toddler has just emptied a spoon of porridge over his sister's head. Gotta go.

Chick Lit Upgrade

2009-07-08T20:03:00.004+02:00

Yesterday I was in Norli in Sandvika Stor Senter. This branch of Norli is, I believe, the largest book shop in Norway. Unfortunately it's teeming with books in Norwegian. This didn't stop me glancing longingly at the few shelves of English novels and visualizing how my 'work-in-progress' might look there, and who its neighbours might be. Something by Doris Lessing wouldn't be bad company to be keeping. Alas, the odds are very, very long but one can dream (and write of course).

Anyway, I noticed the sign above the Chick Lit section and thought, 'Wow! That IS clever re-branding. Marian Keyes and Cecilia Ahern must be thrilled.' Chic Lit sounds good doesn't it. Anyone read any?

Beach relief

2009-07-07T10:09:00.003+02:00

Kalvøya Beach, July 3, 2009

My last post was a gripe about litter at the beach. I’ve hardly had a chance to write since as we were spending so much time at the beach. And not the same boring beach every day either. No, last week we went to four different beaches all less than 15 minutes drive from our house, and came home to our hot house, tanned and sweaty, toting sandy towels and an empty cool box. It was almost possible to believe we were living in a country that wasn’t Norway. I started to imagine that I could never live in another country ever again, that Norway is paradise. OK, so maybe there was a touch of heat stroke involved but seriously, when the sun is shining, I can't think of a better place to live in.

Folks, I even went swimming in the fjord! I haven’t swum in non-tropical waters for at least 20 years. Last week, the alternative was to expire in front of my children while wearing a bikini – not the way I hope to go.

Well this week we’re back to rain and cooler temperatures and to be honest it’s a relief to de-sand the house, pack away the bikinis, and sleep with a duvet again (all temporary of course. We don’t’ want summer to be completely done with us). For the moment though, no more night walks in search of fresh air and to check that the children haven’t stopped breathing in the tropical heat from which the only relief involved getting into the car and turning up the air-con to hurricane level. Not ideal sleeping conditions.

I bet the guys and gals who clean up the beaches are sitting back with a coffee and a newspaper this morning, grateful for the inclement weather. After last week's work overload, I think they deserve the break.

For anyone who thinks Norwegians are civic-minded and clean...

2009-06-29T16:30:00.007+02:00

Beach bins. Nesoya

Honestly, this makes me mad. This is the sight that awaited us at the beach this morning; the detritus of Sunday sun worshipping.

What on earth makes people continue to dump their rubbish on and around bins well after they are very obviously full? Is it SO hard to take your refuse back to your car, from where it presumably originated, and take it home to dispose of it? Clearly, for some piggish types, it is.

Who are you?

2009-06-22T18:37:00.007+02:00

Today, the first day of the summer holidays, we headed to the beach in Sandvika for a couple of hours. It made me feel like a decent mother, and I got a bit of a tan at the same time.

In the afternoon the girls had two friends over - sisters the same age, and in their respective classes - who moved here from Malaysia around Christmastime. Eavesdropping on one conversation, as I do, the eldest sister asked my eldest daughter where she was from. I know she wanted to hear a country name, not an explanation of why with two nationalities (from countries she has never lived in), and being born in a third, having lived in a fourth for three years before moving to a fifth for the past four years, she doesn't really know. Neither does her mother. She said she didn't really know, and the conversation moved on.

'From my mommy's tummy' was a cute answer I overheard when they were younger but now I think it's time to come up with a more concise, and less literal response. Or maybe, it's not.

It's certainly a question all my children are going to be asked for the rest of their lives. I still get asked every time I meet someone new. And for me the answer is simple. For my kids, it's got to be better than, 'I don't really know'. It will probably end up being 'I'm Irish and Danish, and have lived in a few other countries' which doesn't exactly answer the question but does start telling their story.

I suppose after all when someone asks you 'Where are you from?' they are, in a polite way, asking 'Who are you?' anyway, aren't they?

Frens forever

2009-06-20T18:43:00.003+02:00

Original artwork (watercolour) by Erin, Aged 6.5

There have been a lot of goodbyes around here lately. I guess it’s a feature of expat life or more specifically international schooling that if you stay longer than four years in a location, the people you met when you first arrive, start to move on. In fact this happened in the Philippines after less than three years, so I guess the time-line can vary, but the effect of the exodus of friends doesn’t.

This time though it’s not just I that is losing friends to other destinations but my children. Both girls’ bestest friends are leaving Norway for good. We don’t say ‘for good’ though; we say things like ‘oh but you’ll be able to email them’ and ‘you never know, we might move to Singapore/Washington/Shanghai/Berkshire/Scotland!’. I’ve already set up a Hotmail account for my eight-year old whose friends since she was three are both moving.
On a logical level I know that this is the way the life we have chosen is. I am very fortunate too to have really close friends who are living in Norway 'til death do them part. I also know from experience that I still have very strong friendships with people I have left behind before and will continue to do so. I feel slightly deflated after a whole stream of farewells but thank goodness for Facebook!
But for my girls saying goodbye like this is a new experience and one for which the only coping strategies I can think of are playdates with new friends, lots and lots of ice cream and keeping busy, busy, busy. I will of course spend even more time than usual on Facebook keeping in touch with the mothers of their wee friends because I am the kind of Irish martyr mammy who is prepared to make such sacrifices. There will also be lots of conversation about it being OK to feel sad when your friends are leaving the country (forever, shh!) as opposed to the ‘aw for God's sake take that long face off ya' strategy employed in my own youth.
And you know, at least these girls are old enough to understand logic if not emotions. But what about the little man? At two and a half he already has one favourite friend at barnehage, a little boy called Olav Nikolai who shares his passion for cars.
Olav Nokolai is moving barnehage after next week and little man will only see him again if I make a big, big effort to ensure that he does. So, it’s not just expats who move. And it seems that befriending Norwegians is no guarantee of being frens forever either.

Weak teeth

2009-06-11T10:01:00.005+02:00

Yesterday I bit down on a particularily chewy piece of muesli bread and broke the cusp off one of my molars. This molar has a very old ugly filling in it so I’m not sure there’s much hope for it. The cheaper option would certainly be to remove it. I’ve had a kind dentist recommended. I hope she is the Mother Therese of dentists because I haven’t let one touch me for almost five years out of pure fear. It’s not my fault I have weak teeth, and that despite brushing and flossing well beyond the recommended daily requirement, they may not see me into old age. Years back while working in Leeds, I had a butcher of a dentist remove the corresponding molar on the other side. He actually put his foot up on the dental chair and to pull it out. And thought my jaw was going to go with it. Later, in Manila, I refused the option of a bridge to replace it; at around 360 Euros it seemed expensive. I dread to think the cost I’ll be quoted for one this afternoon. But I suspect it’s that, or a liquid diet for the rest of my life, as I’ve discovered in the past day that the inability to chew on either side of one’s mouth really is an inability to chew altogether.

And in other news.....In a stroke of genius, I answered the barnehage’s call for help at its summer party this afternoon by offering up table decorations (it was on the sign-up sheet, I didn’t just invent the requirement for them this time). So my flower arrangements may, if they survive the first party, go on to gladden the hearts of my friends at their farewell do on Saturday (see previous post if you are going 'Huh?!').

I'll miss party no. 1 because of the dentist but am sure that the liquid diet will work very well for party no.2. See? every cloud has a silver lining :-)

Like Mother, Like Daughter

2009-06-09T19:35:00.004+02:00

As I grow older, I notice more and more how I have similar mannerisms to my mother. I also find myself thinking, 'God I sound just like my mother’ on a regular basis and this is not a good thing. And now it seems, I’m acting like her too.

Three good friends are hosting a farewell party on Saturday night. (Yes, it’s that time of year when I briefly acquire a social life. Unfortunately this consists entirely of farewell gatherings, something which almost guarantees an eventless social life once June has passed.)

As the three friends have nine children between them, and are all packing up houses to leave Norway, I thought they could do with a bit of help on the day of their party. I offered but of course they insisted that they have everything under control. Determined to do something, I then suggested that I could take some flowers along to decorate the venue. There’s an enormous hydrangea bush where the snow mountain was only a two months ago – the miracle of nature eh! – so I have plenty of flowers to give away. They graciously accepted but I suspect that I’m not really reducing their stress levels, just complicating their preparations, while making myself feel useful (or not, now that I have really thought about it).

The thing is too, I haven’t a clue how to arrange flowers into beautiful table adornments. I’ve never done it before. I couldn’t even remember the name of the flowers in my garden when I needed to. What was I thinking?

Then it occurred to me as I played with the idea of buying those spongy things for sticking flowers into that I had just done exactly as my mother did for my wedding.

We hadn’t given our friends and family much notice, and as we got married in Scotland, there wasn’t much my family (in Ireland & Denmark) could do to help me prepare for the event. They were, I suspect, too stunned by my wedding announcement to do much actually; my father used to joke every time I got a new boyfriend that he was going down to the betting shop to check the odds of the relationship lasting. He had the opportunity to use this joke often enough that it became tired. You can perhaps understand their surprise that someone was finally offering to keep me for life while giving them only six weeks to find plane tickets and outfits for the ceremony.

Anyway my mother organised the wedding cake in Ireland and put it in the boot of my friend’s car. Fortunately my friend was driving to Scotland for the wedding, otherwise I could be telling a very different story. Back to the flower thing.

The day before the ceremony, my mother also offered to do some simple flower arrangements for the tables. I hadn’t really thought that I needed table decorations – there was a lot I didn’t know I needed - but sensed that my mother needed to do something, to feel useful, to be involved in the event.

And this is exactly what I have just done with my friends’ party without consciously thinking about it.

It doesn’t seem to matter that my life has been completely different from my mother’s, that I’ve had opportunities she could only dream of, have lived all over the world and, for the most part, have had it easy. Not a jot. My mother in times of needing to be needed offers to arrange flowers. And so now it seems, do I.

And what if flower arranging at social events is just the start of the slippery slope into mimicking my mother’s ways? Right now I hate golf. Don’t understand it. Haven’t the patience or focus needed for it. What’s the betting that I'll start playing when I'm 58?By the time I turn 60, I’ll be playing three rounds a week and spending every phone call with my children waxing lyrical on the joys of hitting a little white ball around some grass with a long thin metal stick?

In the meantime though, I've got some hydrangeas to arrange. Any tips?

A Norwegian tradition?

2009-06-03T11:17:00.005+02:00

My six-year-old daughter lost her top front tooth yesterday. This is her bedside table last night. Yes, there is a connection. The cheese slice, torn into rat-sized bite pieces, is for the Norwegian tooth mouse. The tooth is lying at the bottom of the plastic cup of water; the mouse apparently can swim. Lest the mouse be under any illusion about whether the cheese was free or not, she left two folded fifty kroner notes under the cheese to remind him to leave money. The silver thing is a tooth-holder her little brother received as a present when he was born; it was presumably there simply to impress the mouse who may or may not have wanted to use it to check its reflection.

Her mother went off to Book Group, reminding herself to get change for a fifty, very confused, bemused, and certain that some Norwegian person would illuminate the whole Norwegian tooth mouse theory.

No one had ever heard of it.

Thankfully the tooth fairy ignored all this mouse pandering and quietly took the tooth away and placed coins under my daughter’s pillow. My daughter’s first words this morning, as she looked at her table and reached under her pillow for her coins were, ‘Oh the mouse didn’t come and eat the cheese. So there IS a tooth fairy.’

The mouse theory came from her teacher at school apparently. I’ll be investigating further but am happy to have passed the test. Now must go throw some dried-out cheese in the bin and put a tooth away for posterity.

Terrace temperature

2009-06-01T16:00:00.002+02:00

For anyone who thinks of Norway as a cold country - well, it's not always....

Meme

2009-05-30T19:43:00.004+02:00

This is from Jo in Cape town. Don't know who to ask to play along. Any readers/takers out there?

What is your salad dressing of choice? Balsamic
What is your favorite sit-down restaurant? Zuni, Kilkenny, Ireland
What food could you eat for 2 weeks straight and not get sick of? Spelt bread with butter and orange marmalade
What are your pizza toppings of choice? Sundried tomatoes, mushrooms & rocket
What do you like to put on your toast? orange marmalade

TECHNOLOGY
How many televisions are in your house? 2
What color cell phone do you have? brown
What does the first text message in your inbox say and who sent it? No I didn't but we managed ;-) Love J
Who was the last person to call you? Mick

BIOLOGY
Are you right-handed or left-handed? Right
Have you ever had anything removed from your body? No. Babies came out of their own accord ;-)
When was the last time you were really ill? 2004. Tropical Sprue
What is the last heavy item you lifted? My son :-)

BULLCRAPOLOGY
If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die? No
If you could change your name, what would you change it to? Would need to think about this for a long, long time...

DUMBOLOGY
How many pairs of flip-flops do you own? 5 - an estimate - too lazy to count
Last time you had a run-in with the cops? Never
Last person you talked to in person? Jesper
Favourite Month? May (in Norway)

CURRENTOLOGY
Missing someone? Nope.
Mood? Good
Watching? My computer screen
Worrying about? The usual - life, death, failure

RANDOMOLOGY
What’s the last movie you watched? Slumdog Millionaire
What music are you busy listening to? Anything on the car radio
Do you smile often? All the time
Do you always answer your phone? Yes if I hear it!
It’s four in the morning and you get a text message, who is it? Tonje
If you could change your eye colour what would it be? Hazelnut
Do you own a digital camera? Canon 350D and 28-135 mm ultrasonic lens (like I know what that means)
Have you ever had a pet fish? A few short-lived goldfish
Favourite Christmas song? Last Christmas by Wham (Hey - I'm now old enough to admit it!)
What’s on your wish list for your birthday? Too far off to be wishing for anything (March)
Can you do push ups? Yep
Can you do a chin up? Doubt it; haven't tried since I was 8 and messing about on the monkey bars.
Does the future make you more nervous or excited? Excited and anxious
Do you have any saved texts? Only delete when the memory is full so lots.
Ever been in a car wreck? No, thankfully.
Do you have an accent? Mild Irish unless I'm talking to someone Irish, in which case, very Irish.
What is the last song to make you cry? Susan Boyle singing something on Britain's Got Talent/YouTube
Have you ever felt like you hit rock bottom? Not in the past decade. Possibly before that but don't dwell on the past.
Name 3 things you bought today? Nappies, milk, bananas
Have you ever been given roses? Mmm, think the last time was 2004.
Met someone who changed your life? yes, of course
What song represents you? No clue
What were you doing @ +/-12 AM last night? Sleeping, dreaming
What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up? What's the time?

Sleepovers

2009-05-29T12:40:00.005+02:00

As most of you know my 2 1/2 year old son attends a barnehage five minutes walk from our house. He's happy there although very attached to the teacher and assistant in his own little department of seven kids. At the same age, his sisters were like, ' Right Mom, who needs you? I'm off to play with my friends. See ya'. My son makes it very clear every day that he not only needs me, but also his dad and sisters (at least he seems to always want to know where they are, and never bores of the answers: 'office' and school').

So yesterday I was a bit surprised by a note from the barnehage telling us that in honour of the little kiddies moving into a big kiddies group after the summer, they are planning a sleepover next week at the barnehage for the (still in my opinion) very little kiddies, all of whom turn three some time this year. I did play with accepting the offer for a moment but really when I thought about it for a moment more, there's no way baby boy is ready to sleep away from home, even if it's only down the road. I'm not ready either, but that's another story.

While I do wonder about the lunacy of offering to give up a decent, normal night's sleep in a bed to entertain a bunch of diaper-wearing under-threes, sleep with them on mattresses on the floor at one's workplace, then face them all in the morning and feed them breakfast before starting another day's work, I honestly appreciate the dedication inherent in the proposal.

They were very good about it when I declined the offer this morning whilst expressing my gratitude for their lunacy. The staff seemed surprised though that baby boy hasn't slept away from us before, as in with grandparents and other relatives. The other kids in his group are doing the sleepover it seems. My son doesn't even know what a sleepover is and my attempts to explain it have failed miserably.

His sisters, on the other, are always begging to sleep at other people's houses. Anyone's house except their own, in fact. Unfortunately the barnehage aren't interested in having two enthusiastic assistants for a night. Shame.

National Day

2009-05-17T15:11:00.004+02:00

Norway Wins Eurovision

2009-05-17T08:51:00.007+02:00

Back in the days of my youth when I was a fan of the Eurovision Song Contest, Ireland used to win a lot and Norway used to get null points. Well to say I'm shocked to wake up this morning and discover that Norway won this year's contest says a lot about my childhood-initiated prejudice. (Ireland didn't even get into the final this year).

The thing is that I've been singing along to this song for several months on the car radio and I absolutely love it. I just had no idea it was Norway's Eurovision's entry. It's not that the competition, including qualifying rounds, doesn't get a lot of air-time here; it does. Too much, in fact. But I've just avoided watching any of it.

So well done Alexander Rybak and collaborators. Norwegians will be very proud of you today on their national day. Gosh, even I'm feeling a little misty-eyed. Must be here too long. Or maybe it's the thought of getting to cover next year's event, assuming it's held in Oslo, for whomever I can convince to give me the job.

Have a listen. I think it's fab!

Bunads & the In-Laws

2009-05-14T10:05:00.003+02:00

I still haven't had a chance to post the Tivoli photos but I will. It's been a tough week with the news of Jordan and Peter's shocking split to contend with. Honestly, who'd trust romance after this? Only kidding! I don't even know who these people are. Honest! Er if you genuinely don't, just go to www.dailymail.co.uk.....

Anyway, as my neighbours clean and paint their flag poles in preparation for Norway's national Day on Sunday, the rain has returned. Last year it snowed on May 17th so anything's possible. It's the only day in the year when Norwegians really dress up. Most women wear a Bunad, the 'dressed up for Mass, milking maid' type national costume, and don't have to consider style or glamour on the day. D2 asks for one every year but every year I point out that she's not Norwegian so not entitled to one.

My brother-in-law's girlfriend from Stavanger wore hers to my niece's confirmation last weekend in Copenhagen. They're brought out for weddings as well which means that Norwegian women are deprived of the delights of searching high and low for the 'perfect' outfit for big occasions. Poor sods. Anyway, my mother-in-law apparently started to cry when she saw the girlfriend dressed up in the bunad. I've been married to her other son for 11 years but she didn't get misty-eyed when she saw me in my teal Karen Millen backless cocktail dress. We clearly have very, very different taste in costumes, I mean clothes. Actually, in life in general we have very different outlooks. My husband did not marry a woman cut from the same cloth as his mother. (She is a lovely person, by the way; I'm not implying otherwise).

Anyway, a little bit later, my father-in-law, long divorced from mother-in-law, came up to me to tell me how much he loved my dress. It kind of said it all about them as a couple I thought. I took the compliment graciously, of course.

Not so wonderful Copenhagen

2009-05-11T10:18:00.010+02:00

We had a lovely time in Copenhagen with great weather, plenty of pastries and hot dogs, and a fun-filled trip to Tivoli (more about that later in the week). Unlike some though, our partying didn’t get too wild.

On Friday night a party organised in the centre of Copenhagen got way beyond out-of-hand. Parked cars were smashed and shop windows were covered in graffiti and broken, as around 300-400 people went on the rampage. I took some photos on Sunday morning of the after-effects. Unbelievable.

This isn’t the first incident of its kind in the city and I’m sure that there are many reasons for such behaviour. It’s hard however as a foreigner to avoid making some connection with such anarchy and the ready, cheap supply of alcohol in Denmark. It surprises me everytime we go there. People seem to drink cans of Carlsberg and Tuborg as if they were Cola (I think they might be as cheap to buy) – on the Metro, the train, filing up their cars with petrol, on the streets, on boats sailing along the river at midday. Beer is very, very cheap and there seems to be no restriction on drinking it wherever you want, whenever you want.

While I often get frustrated with the obstacles to buying beer and wine in Norway – price, availability, opening hours - each time we arrive in Denmark, I find myself nodding my head like an old woman at the more sensible Norwegian approach.

As I said though, we had a lovely time.

Wonderful Copenhagen

2009-05-06T20:43:00.005+02:00

We're off to see the in-laws tomorrow for our niece's confirmation on Friday. Apparently confirmations are a very big deal and an opportunity for teenagers to make copious amounts of cash. It seems to have nothing whatsoever to do with religion or spirituality. From my high atheist horse I disapprove of such shenanigans but am going along with the effort and expense of the three-day trip and hotel in Copenhagen out of cultural interest and a desire for marital harmony. In return I've been promised a trip to Tivoli. Not for me you understand, for the little children.

Copenhagen is like Oslo's hipper, trendier, more sophisticated cousin. I spy at least an hour snatched in some shopping environs on my weekend horizon, after I've trudged around Tivoli of course. And I will feel obliged to indulge in some genuine Danish pastries which really do taste a thousand times better in Denmark than anywhere else I've been in the world.

Hytte Life

2009-05-04T17:36:00.003+02:00

Spending the weekend in a ‘hytte’ (cabin) is as common for Norwegians as Sunday shopping is for Irish people. So far though, we’ve only managed one weekend away from Oslo in four and a half hours. Until the weekend just gone by.

Now, my version of a cabin is a brand-new or recently-renovated house complete with dishwasher and flatscreen TV but I do know people with cabins that don’t have running water or toilets. Yes, people actually drive for hours every weekend to get away from the trappings of modern life such as flushing toilets and showers. Well, not me. Ever.

We went to a tiny settlement of only a few houses - where people live all-year-round, miles and miles from civilization and shopping - at the innermost point of Mauranger fjord. It was so stunningly beautiful that I didn’t mind that it rained all day Saturday, even though only a few miles away we could see the sun shining. It seemed we had hit upon a micro-climate.

Luckily the satellite dish meant that the kids had many more television channels to watch than they have at home. It was a bit strange, driving for almost six hours each way, over snowy mountains, within spitting distance of glaciers, to the edge of civilisation in fact, to watch Sky News.

We were the first ever family to stay in the hytte we rented since the previous occupants died in the 1950s. They were a pair of blind sisters. Can you imagine, living right on the edge of a fjord and not being able to see it?

WORLD BOOK DAY

2009-04-23T12:28:00.002+02:00

Today is World Book Day in Norway and a host of other countries - not Ireland and the UK, where books are celebrated in early March. Not sure why it's called WORLD Book Day then but as I think every day should be a Book Day, I'm not going to complain.

Coincidentally, yesterday I mentioned in passing to D2’s teacher that I was a member of a Book Club. She thought this was funny as she associates book clubs with people of her mother’s generation. The teacher is maybe three or four years younger than me, and is married with two kids. It seems I’ve just outed myself as an old fogey.
Well I’m out and I’m proud. I love books with almost as much passion as I love my family; that’s a lotta passion. My monthly book club gathering is the highlight of my social life. Really. (I say really, as I realise that this may sound unconvincing - OK sad even - to some.) I can’t imagine trying to sleep at night without reading at least a few pages first. D1 is now the same; she’s currently into a series of books called Horrible Histories.

I’m reading ‘The Welsh Girl’ by Peter Ho Davies. What are you reading?

This makes me want to scream! (U2 sacrilege)

2009-04-22T11:54:00.005+02:00

Kurt Nilsen is a Norwegian singer, with a fantastic voice, who won World Pop Idol several years ago. He has teamed up with three other male singers – one of whom looks and sounds about eight years old but isn’t - to make records, television, concert appearances, and money singing cover versions of other artists’ hit songs. Fabulous voices do not fabulous music always make!

Twice this morning I switched on the car radio and had this horrendous balladic, harmony treatment of U2’s ‘With or Without You’ inflicted on me. This isn't one of U2's best songs -IMHO-but it still doesn't deserve this treatment. I’m started to get tetchy with the radio button as a result. I think it’s atrocious. Absolutely atrocious. What d’you think?

Kurt and co - please stop messin' with my heritage!

Here's another clip; this time with expressive eyebrows:

Living dangerously

2009-04-19T10:35:00.002+02:00

I learnt some interesting facts about moose from yesterday’s Aftenposten. Gosh I miss The Irish Times. But, anyway. Page nine, full-page story, headline: ‘Moose threaten the forest’, tells us that in 2007/2008, 2094 moose were killed in traffic (844 were killed by trains). Poor moose. Poor drivers. As the article points out, moose are the largest animals living in the wild in Europe – having seen a few, this is totally credible – so you can imagine that the people who lived to report their moose-collisions probably wrecked their cars and possibly a bone or two. It got me thinking: isn’t living in Norway a little bit more dangerous than living in Ireland? Consider the following health hazards:

1. Moose collisions.

2. Icicles/Ice slides from roofs of buildings (see previous post).

3. Choking over the prices of lettuce, milk, bread, kids’ shoes, chicken,… this list could merit its own blog, so I’ll stop there.

4. Stress/loneliness/depression caused by scowling, unfriendly natives – usually abates after several years in situ.

5. Cardiac arrest brought on by excessive consumption of waffles and hot dogs. However, this is somewhat balanced out by the prohibitive cost of take-aways which in Ireland seems to be a weekly, if not twice-weekly event for many city dwellers. Absence of fish ‘n’ chip shops is also in Norway’s favour. Oh and then there’s the shoe-leather quality of the beef which means one never actually eats red meat. OK, so scrap this one.

6. Increased risk of skin cancer. I spent five years living in the tropics with a swimming pool in my garden. I never sunbathed, never wore less than SPF 50. After the worst winter in decades, I now understand why so many Norwegian women over 40 have obvious sun-damage on their faces. It’s now near impossible to resist the temptation to raise one’s face to the sun like a flower seeking sustenance. To hell with wrinkles, to hell with age spots and moles; I’ve survived winter, I deserve to feel the sun on my face (and arms, legs, tummy etc.). Irish people do of course have the same desire to feel the sun damage their faces but unfortunately (or fortunately perhaps) clouds, rain and generally inclement weather have a mitigating effect on this particular health hazard.

Anyone got anymore? I can’t have exhausted the list…….

From the Emerald Isle to Africa - in 2 hours

2009-04-18T14:14:00.003+02:00

An elephant at Dublin Zoo last tuesday.

Thirteen days ago we left Norway where the temperature was hovering around zero and the landscape was completely white with snow and ice. As I mentioned in my previous post, the sight of grass in Dublin received a rapturous welcome from the children. Yesterday we flew back to Oslo, and as we drove home from the airport, D1 remarked that the landscape looked like Africa. She's never been, but she IS widely read :-)

I kind of know what she was getting at. Almost all the snow was gone to reveal brown fields and leafless trees which looked like they'd been through a drought. It was 18 degrees Celsius folks. We arrived back to a very different looking country from the one we had left less than two weeks before.

Driving around today, my spacial awareness was all over the place. Imagine if someone came along and removed all the walls along the roadsides and between the houses. It's like that. Snow banks totally gone. Everything is dusty with the detritus of winter. Toys long buried under snow are reappearing. It's like being released from an icy prison. It's fantastic.

Right now, Norway actually feels like home and Ireland is becoming more alien to me. More of that later. For the moment, I'll just say that it's really great to be back.

The green, green grass of home

2009-04-06T20:34:00.003+02:00

As we landed in Dublin airport yesterday, both daughters shouted out in delight: 'Oh finally, we get to see grass!' with one of them adding that she felt like it had been five years since she'd last seen any. I know what she meant.

Later, baby boy was absolutely ecstatic to run around in a garden without a jacket on and with soft, carpety stuff beneath his shoes (proper shoes too, not boots or wellies).

But you know what it takes to make grass green, don't you? Yes - rain! Still, I went for a lovely country walk today in the rain, and smiled and waved at every car that passed. This is not lunatic behaviour but common practice around these parts; acknowledging complete strangers because they pass you in their car on a narrow country road.

At least I think it is. They might just have been laughing at me, saying: look at that loon, walking in the wind and rain, and smiling at the grass.

My tummy - where all good things come from.

2009-04-03T14:52:00.005+02:00

D2 has fabulous, long, thick hair. I don't. Neither does her dad (have any). So yesterday I said, 'Where DID you get that lovely hair from?' It was a rhetorical question really; more an expression of wonder and envy than an actual question. 'From your tummy,' she said, deadpan. Wish I could get me some of that.

In a similar vein of wonderment, I often shake my head, look at my son and think, 'Where did YOU come from?' After two years and four months, I still can't believe this human dynamo is the result of that old chestnut, 'I think it's safe.'

Of course, in this case, the correct answer is: 'From your tummy.'

Oh Deer

2009-04-01T09:23:00.006+02:00

You know I wouldn't normally tolerate visitors who arrive en masse, help themselves to food without asking and then poop and don't scoop (or wipe) but these guys are so cute, I wished they'd stayed longer.

International Food Evening

2009-03-31T16:17:00.007+02:00

Only in Norway - going out in wellies, fake fur and a summer dress

Well there certainly was no sign of the sun last Saturday night at the International School's 'Here Comes the Sun' international food evening but there was plenty of scrummy, yummy food from all over the world. But not Ireland for some strange culinary reason - boiled cabbage and bacon anybody? Mmm, no thanks I think I'll go for that delicious Pakistani chickpea curry instead. Can't blame you.

I had a great night and came home with a hand-painted (by D1's teacher) wooden moose I bought at auction. Four glasses of wine - yes, I could still count - and I was feeling 'off' as late as Monday. I know a lot of effort went into organizing the event and I felt a tad guilty that I hadn't helped out in anyway. Maybe next year, I'll offer up cabbage and bacon, with floury potatoes. Maybe.

Here comes the sun NOT!

2009-03-27T16:01:00.003+01:00

Forget the almost zen-like zeal for life of my previous post. It's snowing again and boy am I cranky. I'd opened the windows, embraced the dust brought to light by Spring conditions, and started to wear brighter lighter jackets even though it was still bloody freezing. But now we're back to snow, sludge and the sense that the only thing to do is retreat back inside and eat chocolate and drink wine. After all, it's not as if we'll be baring flesh or form anytime soon in Norway.

But wait. There's tomorrow night. The International School's international food evening. It has a theme. Wait for it: HERE COMES THE SUN. Here comes the bloody snow again more like. No one seems to know what this theme actually means other than an allusion to delusion. Last year the theme was the 80s. So easy, so nostalgic, so fun. I'm thinking of digging out a summer dress to wear over thermals and tights. We'll probably be digging ourselves out of the car park too. Ah well. You gotta laugh.

In other news, I've just had an email from the kindergarden to say that they have discovered a cockroach. A bloody cockroach, in this weather. I say give it a medal for surviving winter. I'll be looking for one soon. You gotta laugh.

Only half way

2009-03-25T09:43:00.003+01:00

I usually ignore my birthday. I’ve forgotten most of them because I treated them as non-events. Although there are a couple of exceptions.

On the day I turned 21, my father’s Cairn terrier leapt up and bit me on the back of the knee as my father gave me a birthday hug. ‘It’s me or the dog,’ I shouted, and promptly flounced out of the house and took a train to Dublin where I was a student. It was clear the dog was staying.

Then there was the day I turned 30. We were living in Singapore, it was Mother’s Day, and my first child was three weeks old. The three of us ate brunch at the Four Seasons (oh the life we used to lead!) and I cried on the walk home because I was such a crap mum. Nothing had prepared me for the bone-numbing, eye-gritting tiredness of motherhood. Yes, there’s probably little about that scenario that would make you feel sorry for me; I just felt very sorry for myself.

However, this year, I feel a certain sense of achievement about reaching 38. I’m happy, I’m healthy and I haven’t given up the novel-writing dream (yet). What’s more I’ve three healthy, happy children, a wonderful husband whom I love dearly, and my parents are still fit and well. (The dog incidentally, died a few years back, so I guess I won that battle in the end.)
I have friends coping with cancer and bereavement, and I think of them every single day. I know that life can change in an instant, that life is fragile. In the past year, I've learned not to take my good fortune for granted.

Who knows what the next year will bring? I’m finally at an age where I’m living day by day, and trying to put worries about the future, worries about what can go wrong, to the back of my mind.
Today, as Elton John and I celebrate our birthdays (not together, obviously), I’m going to embrace the passing of another year (and procrastinate a little longer on Botox and completing my first draft). Really, other than telling the whole world about it, I’m still ignoring my birthday.

Snow more ice hanging around

2009-03-21T10:13:00.006+01:00

So true to his word, the landlord sent three men and a lift to save us from death by ice. I couldn't go outside and take photos as baby boy and I were trapped inside by metres of snow on three sides, and falling ice and a lift on the fourth. I got a few shots though which I think illustrates very well my neighbours' snow disposal technique which I mentioned in my previous post.

There's still plenty of ice on the roof, but the overhang is gone (to join the great pile in the drive). We can now go in and out of the house without wearing safety helmets.

Watch your head

2009-03-20T09:19:00.007+01:00

All week I’ve been worrying about the ice on the roof. More specifically, I’ve been worrying about it sliding off and dropping on someone’s head, killing them instantly. It looks quite pretty – like an ice blanket draped over the eaves – but as with many things, looks here are deceptive; it has the potential to be lethal.

As I’ve typed away at my computer, I’ve noticed Knut and the other elderly neighbour, looking across at our house disapprovingly. They’re out every day shovelling the snow from their gardens onto their driveways, smashing it with their feet and leaving it to sit in the sun and melt away. Life’s too short. At least mine is, even if I live to be 100. Anyway, I think it'll be fun to have ice in the driveway in June. Something to blog about.

The thing with the roof is that it might actually make someone's life very short indeed, but we haven't known what to do about it. We’ve tried poking the ice down but it’s rock hard. My structural engineer husband has been unconcerned compared to me. Still I worried. And repeated over and over, like a parrot, 'watch out for the roof, don’t loiter, come straight in or go straight out the door, without stopping'.

Yesterday I arrived back from the school run to find these wooden posts set up under the porch. I gathered that Knut had called the landlord who had sent someone to erect this support, in case the ice fell on the porch and killed it. And you thought I was being paranoid about him watching us.

Of course I was mad. I mean wouldn’t a phone call have been nice? A little courtesy. I was around all morning - why not call in and say you're going to call the landlord? It’s not that I’m oblivious to the danger hanging over us, I just haven’t known what to do about it, and to be honest I didn't really think it was the landlord's problem. Of course, I hadn't considered the potential damage to his porch, only our heads.

Around 6 pm, the landlord showed up, and of course I wasn’t mad at all. I’d already got that out of my system ranting about rudeness on the phone to my husband (the kind of conversation that ends with him saying, ‘Are you finished?’).

The landlord complimented my Norwegian while doing a good impression of someone lip-reading which was somewhat unnerving. He took photos. And he said that he was sending a man with a crane around today to remove the roof hazard.

There’s no sign of the crane yet, but as it’s -3 now, I’m happy that nothing else will budge that baby for a few hours. Still if you’re in the area, watch your head, don’t loiter, come straight in or go straight out the door, without stopping.

p.s. while trying to put these darn photos into Blogger, I saw the landlord drive up to the house then turn and drive away again. Mmm.

Royalty awaits II

2009-03-17T08:36:00.002+01:00

Well D2 didn't actually get to MEET the King but he was sitting in the front row as she and her pals presented their paintings to the conference speakers in front of an audience of hundreds. She looked very serious up there but explained this afterwards with,' the lights and heat on the stage were just as much as I could bear.' And that was for five minutes. So, I think she may not be destined for a life in entertainment after all. On to Plan B.

We did see the King leave the theatre and get into his stretch limo from which he gave us a royal wave. I wonder when D2, some day, walks down the aisle to marry his grandson, will he remember the little girl with the grim face and slightly stained red dress. Oh that's Plan B by the way.

Tonight I'm off to the Irish Embassy for a reception in honour of St Patrick's Day. There will be no more hob-nobbing for the rest of the week though. The sun is shining, the ice is melting, and - shh don't tell anyone - I think Spring might finally be on its way.

HAPPY ST PATRICK'S DAY

Royalty awaits

2009-03-16T09:45:00.003+01:00

Tonight my six-year-old, is one of six kids from the International School in Oslo, going to meet the King. They will be presenting paintings they were asked to produce on Friday – I guess you could say they were commissioned – to a group of people, one of whom is the King of Norway. Another is the Minister for the Environment & International Development. It’s in connection with a conference on the environment, taking place in Oslo today.

So she goes off to school with her hair braided, ready to unleash her curls on royalty later in the day, while I polish her black patent shoes (‘Are you sure they match, mummy?’ Of course, they do!) and try to get the stain, which looks suspiciously like glue, out of her red velour party dress. The chipped green nail polish from Saturday has already been removed from her fingers.

She’s not in the least bit fazed by the fact that the King is finally getting to meet her. Of course, I’ve hung out with him before when the Irish president was here, but today I’m just acting as lady-in-waiting/dresser/chauffeur/agent. I’ve a feeling I might as well get used to it.

Oslo St Patrick's Day Parade

2009-03-14T17:33:00.003+01:00

St Patrick's Day Memories

2009-03-10T17:32:00.006+01:00

There’s been a little discussion among some of my Facebook friends about what they’ll wear to next Saturday’s Oslo St Patrick’s Day Parade: wellies or skiis in any shade of green being the current options. I haven’t been to a St Patrick’s parade since I was a teenager; we’ve been away for a the past few, missing the Oslo gig.

The parade days of my childhood were always wet and cold; so cold that I was forced to wear a thermal vest underneath my Girl Guide uniform while marching. Lord, I didn't know what cold was.

I don’t know what I’ll wear this coming Saturday. It doesn’t matter because no matter what I wear, I’ll always know that once I wore worse. Oh, so.. much... worse.

My Dad has always been an active citizen involved in various organisations in Kilkenny, some of which have entered floats in the local parade. One year, as you can see, I was tortured and forced to wear the above ‘thing’ and stand on a float, waving to all and sundry. I guess I was about 12 or 13. They probably told me to smile too but I somehow doubt I managed that. My youngest brother was too young to care, the other one must have got away scot-free and marched with the Boy Scouts. As you can see I was lovin’ it. No wonder I haven't been to a St Patrick’s Day in twenty years.

For anyone interested, here are the details of this year's Oslo St Patrick's Day Parade:

The St Patrick's Day Parade will take place on Saturday 14 March, starting at 1200 from Youngstorget and finishing with ceremonies, speeches and activities at Universitetsplassen, Karl Johansgate. All welcome!

Coffee Mornings

2009-03-09T18:24:00.005+01:00

The first time I was invited to a coffee morning, I was insulted. Newly arrived in Houston, married only two weeks, 27-years-old. What would I be wanting with a coffee morning?

A coffee morning? I mean how retro, how sexist, and what a waste of time. I associated the term with housewives; housewives with not enough housework to do, and with a penchant for gossip but with little of interest to talk about. That wasn’t me. Coffee mornings were a throwback to my mother’s generation and further, weren't they? I was a career woman, without a work permit at the time, but a career woman, nonetheless, above such idleness. I only gathered with people when there was a specific agenda or alcohol, or preferably both, on offer. Yada, yada, yada crap. I didn’t say any of this aloud, you understand, but politely accepted the invitation and produced such a diatribe to bend the ear of my husband.

I also used to think that any woman who didn’t work clearly wasn’t ambitious and that absence of ambition was worthy of derision. I once said that I wasn’t going to send my children to the international school too.

So this morning I went to a coffee morning for parents of Grade 1 students at the international school and was grateful that I didn’t have to rush to an offce after school drop-off. There was one dad there; a brave Swede. I can’t imagine many Irish men turning up at such an event (but could in fact see my Danish husband yapping away with the ladies if I ever earned enough to keep us in the style to which I have become accustomed. Yeah like that’s ever going to happen). I had a nice time. I have embraced the merits of such a gathering.

Maybe I’ve grown up and divested myself of my ‘I’m-never-going-to-be-expat wife’ (expletive removed) chip on my shoulder. I clearly remember the evening I made that declaration by the way, only a few months after I started dating my husband. (You’d think he’d have had the sense to run).

Or, have I just become an expat wife. Mmm. What do you think?

That toilet charge thing - again

2009-03-07T09:48:00.004+01:00

OMG! I actually thought he was joking but according to the morning's Irish Times, Michael O'Leary is serious about the proposal to charge passengers to use on-board toilets. He proposes that customers use their credit cards to swipe access to the toilets.

'.. if the airline was prevented from charging passengers on the way in to the toilet, it would impose the charge when they were on the way out. It would also impose soiling charges where appropriate,' the Irish times quotes O' Leary.

Soiling charges! Oh pleeease! Does that mean a toilet inspection would be included in the price of a pee or poo, or would the customer have to pay for that too?!

Would parents be allowed to take young children to the toilet, or would that incur a double charge? Even Harrods lets pregnant women use their toilets for free; would Ryanair do the same (with a doctor's certificate, of course (heavy sarcasm)).

Do you think he'll start distributing free coffee and delaying flights once passengers have boarded to increase his toilet-usage revenue? Will toilet paper be included in the tariff?

So many questions, mostly tongue-in-cheek because you know, I STILL think this must be a joke. Only, I'm not really laughing.

Either that, or O' Leary has genuinely, once and for all, lost the plot.

Then again, a few years back, people probably thought the same about the prospect of being charged for taking luggage on holidays.

This is what seventy looks like here

2009-03-06T11:54:00.006+01:00

This is my neighbour Knut. The seventy-plus-year-old I mentioned in my most recent Weekly Telegraph article. On a daily basis, as I sit in front of my computer staring out the window, I get tired just looking at his constant physical activity. Here he is shovelling snow up onto his trailer before driving it off somewhere - only five minutes away - to dump it. He’s been doing this all week and he's hardly made a noticeable difference yet. Still, he keeps going. For most of the day.

I, on the other hand, was rather pleased with myself for clearing snow from the three steps at the front door on Monday. Not the full width of the steps, you understand, just enough to allow one person use them without slipping. And god was I pissed the next day to find a new centimetre of white powder covering my handy work. Goodness knows how Knut felt. It didn’t stop him loading his trailer though. He has also cleared much of the snow off his roof. We’re presuming that as the house is only five years old it has been made strong enough to support the metre deep snow lying on top of it.

This is why, in another couple of months, Knut will have a pristine lawn resplendent with flowers in front of his house. He'll probably continue to be active until he's 100 too. We, on the other hand, will still be looking at the remnants of the darn snow hill wondering if it will last until July as it lies in the shade. I can only imagine what Knut thinks of us and our lazy, young (relatively), foreign ways of sloth. He'll be looking at our eyesore too, poor man. I wonder if he'll be tempted to offer us a loan of his trailer.