Flamin' Nora

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.

Library material for kids

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?

Pox in the City

When a recent visitor to the house saw some of my shoe collection, instead of commenting on the layer of dust that is draped over most pairs, she said, ’Oh you’re just like, you know, that girl out of Sex and the City!’ The sex-mad one? ‘Oh, no the writer one, Carrie.’
Having coincidentally spent the evening before with Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda, I knew exactly what she meant. And you know what? My visitor was right. I am just like Carrie Bradshaw, although my life is a bit more Pox in the City than Sex in the City. Here’s how me and Carrie compare:

Carrie writes about sex, relationships and fabulous shoes.
I write about verucas, herpes and purple wellies (see previous posts).

Carrie writes features for Vogue
I dream of writing features for Vogue. At the rate my career is developing, I expect to be pitching ideas like: Mother-of-the-Bridegroom - advice for fashionistas over-70; How to camouflage incontinence pants under this season’s tight flared trouser suit; Publishing my first novel at the age of 80 - a personal literary journey.

Carrie has fabulous highlighted hair and a 'strong' nose
I have dried out highlighted hair and a 'strong' nose.

Carrie has amazing shoes, and wears them even in the snow.
I have cheaper versions of Carrie’s fabulous shoes but sink into the gravel in the driveway just walking to the car, and well, let’s not even mention snow boots or wellies.

Carrie loved Aidan but wouldn’t marry him so she doesn’t love Aidan anymore
I will love my Aidan, blisters and all, as only a mother can a son, forever, no matter what.

Carrie gets taxis everywhere – can’t blame her in those shoes.
I’ve only used a taxi once in Norway and that was the day we arrived and needed to get from the airport to the city centre. The fare was more than a month’s driver’s salary in Manila where we had just moved from. I’d prefer spend the money on shoes.

In the ‘Sex and the City’ movie, Big has a massive walk-in closet built for Carrie.
My Mr. Big kindly turns a blind eye to the spare bedroom I have commandeered as an extension to my closet. He also pretends to believe me when, in answer to the question, 'Is that new?', I say, 'Oh, no I've had this ages'.

Carrie has dated Big on-and-off for 10 years. I'll soon be married 10 years.

Carrie creates fascinating articles and books on sex and the city on her Mac laptop.
My husband is buying me a Mac laptop for our 10th wedding anniversary on which I will continue to write drivel such as this.

Oh, you know, this list is endless, but I can’t go on. There’s a boy who needs another layer of calamine lotion applied to his blisters, a load of washing in the drier to be sorted, and of course I really should go run a duster over my shoes; poor things don't get out much.

OMG!!!! As I am stuck in the house with three people, only one of whom can read, and she isn’t into anything more challenging than Clarice Bean, I have got to get this out of my system before I explode with excitement. Someone reading has got to appreciate this.

I deliberately chose to stay in Kilkenny a week longer than my husband this year so that I could be there for at least some of Kilkenny Arts Festival, in the hope that some literary stars might turn up for me to drool over. For once, my gamble paid off. I’ve just bought a ticket to attend an event with none other than the woman herself, the star supreme, Anne Enright (with Patrick McGrath). As if that isn't enough literary titillation for one week, I also bought two tickets to see Sebastian Barry; he’s appearing on a Friday night so I figure I might find someone, maybe my mother, to come with me (not that I don't have other friends, of course). I’ll lure her with a promise of great people-watching opportunities - she's a Maeve Binchey fan, nuff said - and a chance to dress up. To top it all off, I’ve got theatre tickets for Snow White and a Canadian circus for the girls, who will be thrilled, making it excellent bribery bait throughout our holiday.

I'm already wondering what I'll wear - to the literary events, not the circus.

Please, please, don't let me get shingles!!!!! (see previous post if you're wondering what the hell that means).

More Photos from Gay Pride

More photos of the Gay Pride Parade. Kudos to all those who managed to walk along those cobblestones in their high heels; I'm filled with awe and admiration at your tenacity!

Oslo's Gay Pride

I've often wondered where one has to go in Oslo to have fun. People don't exactly go around exuding joie de vivre on a regular basis. Well here is a crowd that really seems to know how to celebrate life, have a good time and be friendly. There was greater joy than usual at this year's Gay and Lesbian Parade in Oslo because of the recent legalisation of gay marriage in Norway. Watching these guys and gals was enough to make me wish I was a lesbian - for a few moments anyway. It didn't seem to have exactly the same effect on my husband but he enjoyed the parade nonetheless.

Brian Whatisname

'Økonomistudenter med eurotegn i øynene flokker seg rundt den irske statsminister Brian Owen. Ifølge statsministeren dreier morgendagens folkeavstemning om EU-traktaten seg om ja eller nei til det irske økonomiske mirakel.' Photo and text courtesy of Aftenposten.

What’s the name of the Irish Taoiseach (Prime Minister to the none-gaeilgoiri among you)? He's the one with the double chin, the lop-sided grin, and the flag sticking out of his head in the photo above.

Well anyone reading Norway’s paper-of-record, Aftenposten, today will think his name is Brian Owen. Again, for the non-Irish among ye, the Taoiseach’s name is Brian Cowen, which I mightn’t necessarily expect my South African readers to know but I do expect journalists paid to convey facts to the paper-buying public in any country to check for accuracy. I know he hasn’t been in the job long, but couldn’t Aftenposten’s journalists have done a quick Google check before filing their copy? Does Aftenposten not employ sub-editors? And before anyone shouts 'typo' at their screen, let me point out that throughout the article on the Lisbon Treaty, on which Ireland is holding a referendum tomorrow, Brian Cowen is called Brian Owen.

The standards of journalism in Norway are low, low, low and most days I think, 'if I could only master Norwegian well enough', I'd have a dazzling career. Except of course, my main source of Norwegian over the past three and a half years has been Aftenposten. Sigh!

I'm sure if Brian had a daughter selling bucket-loads of crap novels - as did his predecessor Bertie Ahern, daddy of Cecilia - this would never happen (even in Norway).

You know you've been here too long when....

It’s official; I’ve been living in Norway too long (3 years, 7 months and 15 days).
Neither my husband nor I eat cheese but with my new intention to eat less meat, I found myself gazing at the cheese fridge in Smart Club the other day, searching for ricotta to use in vegetarian lasagna.

A complete stranger, standing nearby, a young woman of similar age to me, ahem, asked me what cheese I’d recommend. I wondered if perhaps I’d heard her wrong and that she was a shop employee trying to entice me to buy some fancy new cheese or other, because dear people, complete strangers do not talk to you in Norway (unless they are begging or selling something).

I told her that I didn’t eat cheese, which made me look a bit stupid loitering in front of shelves of the stuff, so added that I needed it for my son, who was sitting in my trolley. She asked how old he was, and marvelled at how big he is for his age. At 18 months, he’s bigger than most two-year olds which is weird given that I’m so small – we look a bit like Laurel & Hardy, the latter in nappies, without the moustaches and cheap suits – I digress.

Basically she made chit-chat, asking where I was from, talking about her sister-in-law who lives in Brighton and who is pregnant, and the sister-in-law’ son who is two and obese, and so on. And all the time, while pleased that I was managing to maintain a conversation in Norwegian – albeit predominantly on the receiving end of it – I was think of my wallet in a bag in my trolley and wondered if this was some sort of rouse to rob me. I mean really, what was this woman’s ulterior motive in talking to me?

But there wasn’t one. She was just being friendly, something that back home happens everyday. Shame on me for being so suspicious.

Thank you again to all who wrote in with helpful tips on sourcing organic meat in Oslo and on vegetarianism. I bought no meat this week, but after two days of a really tasty lentil vegetable stew, my husband was craving a Thai chicken pizza, so I gave in. Still, today we’re having homemade veggie burgers with a few sausages on the side for the carnivores, and I’m definitely going to get around to using that darn ricotta in a lasagna before the vegetables allocated to it crawl out of the fridge. We’re not going to become full-blown veggies but I’m certainly going to make an extra effort to try meat-free dishes several evenings a week. If nothing else, it’ll be easier on my pocket.

Eurovision Song Contest

Photo, Courtesy of Wikipedia

There was a time long ago, before Ireland became an economic success story, before we exported U2 as the greatest rock band in the world and before Riverdance made Irish dancing cool, when winning the Eurovision Song Contest was the pinnacle of Irish achievement on the international stage. Winning a contest known for its banal lyrics, garish costumes and repetitive melodies was something Irish people cared about, were proud of, and which we managed to do seven times - more than any other country - almost bankrupting the national television station which had to host the contest every time we won.

Norway on the other, I remember once, receiving a total of null points, to much guffawing from us Irish. Well how times have changed. Now the Melodi Grand Prix, as it is termed here, receives much attention form the Norwegian press, and winning the competition, it seems, is important to Norwegians, or at least Norwegian journalists. Last night, the Norwegian entrant, Maria Haukaas Storeng, got through to the final of the competition with a decent song - even by normal pop standards which are higher than Eurovision standards - and one that could win.

While back in my homeland, the Eurovision has become a joke, something to take the piss out of, and something we haven’t won since 1996. Last year we came last. And how to we respond to our dismal showings over the past few years? We send a puppet from children’s daytime television to represent us, ‘singing’ a song lamenting Ireland’s failure to win the contest lately, entitled ‘Douze Points’. The puppet is a turkey called Dustin, who has a north Dublin accent and a grating singing voice. I can’t really describe this performance so I will instead direct you to YouTube where you can enjoy it in all its tricolour glory. I have to admit having listened three times now, it’s kind of growing on me, and is sure to be a summer club hit. Listen to lyrics – they are funny!

But, the rest of Europe obviously didn’t get the joke last night and it was a case of null points, sending Dustin home, or as the rte.ie so aptly put it, ‘Dustin falls fowl of Eurovision vote’. But of course, we were only taking the piss anyway, so we don’t really care, do we?

Nuala O'Faolain II

I've just read in the Irish Independent that Nuala O' Faolain, whom I blogged about only four weeks ago, died in Dublin yesterday (sat).

I'm just a girl in purple wellies

I’m back from what turned out to be a hedonistic week away after all. It’s was pure joy from the moment I boarded the airport train in Oslo to the check-in desk at Manchester airport yesterday (more of which in a moment).
Of course I learned a lot about writing – this was the purpose of the trip after all – and I’ve come back motivated and enthusiastic about getting down to fiction writing. But the greater revelation was personal and totally unexpected. I discovered that not only can I exist happily as a person away from her husband and family – I will even publicly admit that I missed him but not our offspring - but that I can thrive as an individual too. As much as I love my children, mothering them does mean quelling, often neglecting, my spirit. From a distance, it was clear that I am lost in a bottomless pit of anxiety (of my own making) amid the daily routines, logistics and chores that parenting three young children involves.
Last week, I met some wonderful people who love writing, including my Swiss room-mate who travels the world trying to solve conflicts when she's not wielding her fiction pen. I didn’t worry about anything. I lived in the moment. I even sneaked off to the hairdressers in the nearest village when I was supposed to be writing. For a week, I was the Irish girl in the purple wellies (much envied by several who hadn’t arrived in damp Shropshire so practically equipped).
Of course as soon as my children met me at the train station, I remembered why I love them so much – it’s not their fault that I find the daily haranguing and herding relentless. I arrived back from England feeling lighter and will endeavour to maintain some free-spiritedness as I slip back into my Norwegian life. Unfortunately for my bank balance, such lightness didn’t extend to my luggage. I spent Saturday afternoon shopping in Manchester where people couldn’t have been friendlier or more helpful (and not just in putting a massive hole in my pocket). I’d forgotten how wonderful it is to be surrounded by people speaking English who don’t act as if one is invisible.
My bags were 14 kilos overweight – ten of which I was charged ₤80 for – at check-in on the way home. Darling if you’re reading, I’m sorry - I promise not to buy any more shoes until we go to Ireland in July - I hope on balance you'll think it was worth it ;-)

The Scream

' The Scream' (left) and 'Madonna' - slightly damaged goods (Courtesy of Munch Museet)

Norway doesn’t often make international headlines. There’s the Nobel Peace Prize of course. And surveys that pop up every now and again comparing quality of life, the cost of living, gender equality in various parts of the world. Norway always gets a mention in those. And then there’s Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’.
The painting has been stolen and retrieved twice - or at least two different versions of it have been stolen and eventually recovered. The last time, in August 2004, it took two years to find it, by which time it had taken a bit of a knocking and had suffered some water damage.
Yesterday, we braved the wind, cold and rain (yes Spring has done a runner yet again) to visit the Munch Museum. Unfortunately ‘The Scream’, worth around £50 million, is still in the final stages of restoration after its mishap so was not to be seen. It will be re-exhibited from the end of May, together with the relatively cheap by comparison (only £5 million) ‘Madonna', which was also stolen in the 2004 heist.
Getting into the museum was akin to going through to departures in an airport: no fluids, no large bags, an x-ray conveyer belt, metal detectors and stern-faced staff in uniform. It sort of made me nervous taking somewhat from the artistic experience but I guess the museum isn’t taking any chances: there are some international headlines the Norwegians must be anxious to avoid and I bet ‘‘The Scream’ Stolen – Again!’ is one of them.