Murder on the Gatwick Express

Here's how it's going to work. I'm going to do a lot of pre-emptive explanation and miscellaneous commentary before revealing a shocking confession. You're going to do a 'methinks he protesteth too much' affair at my dull ramblings, realising that I'm just procrastinating and trying to make myself feel better about said shocking act and then we'll both know what the deal is. I am glad we've got that cleared up.


This thing, then. It's not something I agree with, or approve of in others, but rather something that I did because it reminds me of cozy mornings drinking coffee with my grandparents before a brisk walk up a hill with a fine view of the Dee estuary and later coming back to a lunch of ham salad sandwiches and Kit-Kats and the One o'clock News with Moira Stewart. Surely a little souvenir to remind myself of those days wouldn't be too much to ask, would it?


I should right this blog more often. The point of a blog, I suppose, is that it is amusing and interesting because one follows the events in another's life. If the said blogger does not blog often enough, then the whole point is lost, or most of it. So, I'm going to do it more often. Even if nothing happens to me. I'll just ramble on about nothing. As I am now.


The reason I have not been blogging so often (or the main one) is that I am still having trouble with my wireless internet at home. Why, why, why, why is it so difficult? It's not as if we've even got a laptop! I don't need to be wireless, but it seems as if there's no choice! I'm sure it's frying my brain somehow and the constant exposure to wireless networks has impaired my problem-solving skills to the point where I am no longer capable of working out how to set-up wireless networks. Why can't we just get a cable? I suggested this to Norwegian Boyfriend yesterday and he looked at me as if I'd just suggested we go on a weekend's morris dancing course in the Peak District. Norwegians like to think of themselves as modern, you see, even though the supermarkets are like something out of the ark and they haven't even got digital radio! Gah! Bah! Humbug!


Whilst we're on the subject of ranting, I was in London at the weekend and everywhere, everywhere I saw posters for Calendar Girls from the moment I alighted the Gatwick Express. Why, why, why, why, why in the name of all that is holy??!! It's hideous! Yes, some arthritic northern women got their Bristols out in 1998, it was very amusing, but for the love of God let it go! I don't want to see those posters! My eyes! My eyes! Jerry Hall's faff on display to every Tom, Dick or Harry is one thing but Dot Cotton's is quite another! PUT IT AWAY! Her face is enough to deal with! I'll never eat another cherry bakewell again!


I soldier on as a barmaid. I am going part-time. Five days a week making lattes and freshly-squeezed orange juice is enough to make anyone wear their trousers with elastic around the ankles. Isn't it funny how breast-feeding in public is now totally acceptable? Being that I work in a rather snazzy and yet laid-back establishment, we're frequented by an awful lot of trendy mums. They're everywhere. I've seen more pairs of breasts in the last six weeks than I have in my whole life. Not that that's saying much. There I am, innocently handing a customer a cortado and they've whipped a mammary out before you can say "are you enjoying your toastie?". Unbelievable! I swear one of them almost took my eye out with the clasp of a nursing bra last week. Incidentally (dull linguistic point coming up, feel free to skip) Norwegians always talk about food in the past tense whilst they're still eating it. It's most disconcerting. You'll be sitting there, tucking into porridge for lunch (don't ask) and in a break in the conversation someone will look you and say "was it good???" I generally reply "was what good? President Obama's inaugural speech? The weather forecast? Kathy Bates's performance in Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle-Stop Cafe???" before realising that we're talking about the here and now. And no, it's not good, it's porridge and it's lunchtime! What the hell is wrong with you people???


Trendy mums employ a variety of devices besides whipping their knockers out at every available opportunity. The most notable would be the papoose. You can't move for them. The poor baby can't move in them, as far as I can tell. It's not just trendy mums. A bearded gentleman approached me for a skim-double-shot-extra-hot-no-foam-half-steam-decaf-soya-hazlenut latte to go only yesterday and I was just thinking to myself 'he's a bit of a salad-dodger' only to hand him his drink and find that the protrusion from his midriff was not an acre of Prescott-esque lard, but swaddling and in fact he was wearing a papoose. It really is the limit.


Oh, those lazy days, poring over the crossword with Grandma and Grandad, looking forward to an evening watching A Question of Sport before a game of whist or gin rummy, before sipping a cup of cocoa and retiring to bed with an electric blanket and an Agatha Christie (to clarify - retiring to bed with an Agatha Christie, not with Agatha Christie, it wasn't that long ago). Such happy memories that almost anything is excusable if it reminds one of them, wouldn't you say?


I bought a copy of the Daily Mail earlier. Bad enough in itself, even if my grandparents have been reading it since 1956 and I have fond memories of helping them with the crossword. I think what makes it even less forgiveable is that I bought yesterday's copy of the Daily Mail, and it cost me £3.20. Have I no dignity left?

Lazzie ankles and a Chamois d'Or

I'll tell you something. I've got buns of steel. I live up a mountain, you see. I wouldn't be surprised if I have become acclimatised to the thin air. I'm like a wild mountain goat. Or a gazelle. Do gazelles live up mountains? I think perhaps they don't. Alright then, a Chamois d'Or. There is no doubt that they live up mountains, I saw one in Alpe d'Huez. Well, I saw a hotel called the Chamois d'Or but that's besides the point.


I have buns of steel because I walk up hills a great deal. I am actually not bad at the whole uphill struggle thing, it's more the descent that I find problematic. I just don't feel footsure and I'm sure I'm going fall headlong into a passing Norwegian. I have developed something of a downhill phobia, in fact, and therefore spend even longer at high altitude than is strictly necessary. The result is that when forced to descend to sea level I shuffle forwards with small steps with my head held low and my eyes focused firmly on the spot in front on me, looking not unlike Sadako from The Ring in the process. I spent hours this morning choosing what I thought would be the most appropriate footwear, only to have to have some Norwegian woman (who was sixty if she was a day) skip down past me in a pair of rather garish ballet pumps. Ballet pumps! Like a gazelle, she was.


Let's talk Bergen fashion. All of of the cute lil' Scandinavian boys wear their trousers either (a) tucked into their socks or (b) with elastic bands around the ankles. Has this caught on in London? It's taking a bit of getting used to. Still, my motto when it comes to fashion has always been if you can't beat them, join them. The trouble is, it seems that to pull it off one requires white towelling socks, of which I am in short supply. I tried the elastic band approach the other day but could only find one lazzie band so gave up. Perhaps I'm too old. I am a barmaid, mind you, so mutton dressed as lamb should be par for the course. (Did I really just write that? I'm turning into my mother. And father. Oh God.)


Let's talk Bergen weather. It rains. All of the time. It never stops. Never. Not only does it not stop, it's really heavy. I mean, we're not talking about a wet weekend with a bit of unfortunate drizzle in the Peak District here, we're talking about toe-squelching, thigh-chaffing, headache-inducing, ankle-elasticating downpours. Apparently there might be some brief respite in February when it rains less but is bitterly cold (super) but apart from that faint glimmer of hope it's like this until the end of May. Do queue up to visit.


I had so many things to say. They've all gone. I'm now online at home. Expect more updates. Did I mention I got a distinction for my Graduate Diploma in Law? One of about only ten people in two thousand candidates. I hate to blow my own trumpet but I had a brain tumour in the middle of it, to boot. A woo, a woo, a woo hoo hoo. (that was my trumpet)