I don't believe it!

There I was, sitting in an empty classroom in an emptier secondary school wondering what manner of assorted freaks were about to arrive. Would someone be wheeled in strapped to a crate in a Hannibal style mouthguard? Would I shortly be joined by conjoined ginger lesbian triplets with dandruff and halitosis? Yes, that's right, I've enrolled at a course at the Open University. Well, the Norwegian equivalent. This is a course in Norwegian, so a necessary evil if I am ever to anything other than a barmaid.

Well as it turned out, my new classmates are relatively normal and most of them are quite good at Norwegian. There are two Germans, one Spaniard, three Poles, three Lithuanians, a Chilean, a Tunisian, two British people (including me) and an Australian. When I told the boyfriend's mother this she said "Gosh, it's very international, isn't it?". Yes, it's a Norwegian course in Norway, think about it.

I say most of them are good at Norwegian. This is with the exception of course, of the native English speakers. The other British person speaks Norwegian with a Yorkshire accent and says everything precisely as written (even though he isn't from Yorkshire) and the Australian has been studying Norwegian for two years can't string a single sentence together. He speaks so slowly that time actually speeds up. I mean, you can rely on him to be wrong. Nobody in the history of mankind has ever been less right. He makes George W. Bush seem fairly on the money.

The only other exception the the general level of competency is one of the Lithuanians, who speaks Norwegian at the speed of sound and with an astonishing Lithuanian accent. I think that the less able members of the class think that they can't understand her because she is really good and therefore speaks really quickly like a native. Well no, it's that she mutters a unwavering stream of conscious gibberish until the teacher (who, incidentally, is from Bosnia) physically restrains her. Honestly, it's like sitting next to a Virginia Woolf novel. In Lithuanian.

Well, I'm now a homeowner and have been for three weeks. The reason I only write this blog now is, of course, because setting up wireless broadband was a tortuous uphill struggle of eternal misery and hell. I did, however, manage to receive telephonic instructions in Norwegian and get it to work, for which I will be patting myself on the back until the end of time. It still doesn't work properly, though, so of course I have to stay at home from 7am to 10pm from tomorrow until next Friday week when an engineer might come and look at it.

Oh god, I'm Victor Meldrew.

Sade's fine silhouette

Someone has potentially replaced Cheryl Cole in my affections. It's Sade. She's unbelievable! Anyone who can sit around in Stroud for ten years and then nonchanlantly think, I know, I'll make an amazing album and sell about ten million copies of it deserves respect in my book. As it happens, it's not the music that has lead to this new-found Sade fascination, it's her timeless beauty. I mean, look at this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhcGcfnMaC8

The woman is 51 years old. That's three years younger than my mother. Not only does she sound the same as she did in 1984 she looks the same too. If one compares it to the video for By Your Side from ten years earlier she doesn't look any different. Incredible! So, I have decided to emulate her in every way. I mean, we look fairly alike, I'd say.

I was thinking about this whilst at the gym earlier (one is going to have to work out a lot if one is to freeze time like Sade). One gets so distracted and involved in daytime television at the gym that one is locked in a quandary of (a) wanting to stop exercising as one is about to start coughing up blood but (b) staying on the treadmill long enough to see the end of Quincy.

Norwegian television is second to none for re-runs of 1980s detective and drama serials. The only problem is that my gym is rather run down (not as good as the British equivalent) and thus most of the headphone sockets don't work. So, I have to watch Quincy only half understanding the Norwegian subtitles but knowing that it was recorded in English and that I just can't hear it. It's most frustrating. I'll be able to lip-read by the time I move back to civilisation. Did I say civilisation? Sorry, I mean England. Still, it's probably best that one can't hear Quincy, he does shout rather.


The other distraction in the gym is the one Norwegian thing that is better than the British equivalent, namely the severe hotness of Norwegian boys. I'm not talking about quite cute and better than the local totty down The Red Lion on a Friday night, I'm talking about blistering, boundless, ethereal levels of hotness. During commerical breaks in Quincy I often expect Calvin Klein to mince through the gym at any moment, scouting for models for his next advertisement campaign. I'm half tempted to take a camera in and sneak some shots but fear my membership may be terminated.

Speaking of commercial breaks (referring back to the one during which I was looking at the blisteringly hot boys), how do Americans cope? (Not with being American, a trial in itself -but with the sheer number of commercial breaks they have to endure). I was watching Oprah's Book Club the other day and spent more time watching advertorials for bizarre ab crunch machines than I did watching Oprah herself. Combined with the way in which Americans tend to end conversations abruptly it made for rather bizarre viewing. It went something like this.

Oprah: Hi, this is Oprah's Book Club, I'm here with Douglas Kennedy, we'll be right back.

[10 minute advertorial for Stairmaster]

Oprah: Welcome back, I'm here with Douglas Kennedy, Douglas tell me about your new book, The Big Picture.

Douglas Kennedy: Well, Oprah, it's a searing examination of my own love affair with sketching and watercolours.

Oprah: We'll be right back.

[12 minute advertorial for incontinence pants]

Oprah: I'm on the sofa with Douglas Kennedy. Douglas, what first made you want to write?

Douglas Kennedy: Well, Oprah, it was those halcyon childhood days amongst the cornfields up in Iowa.

Oprah: We'll be right back.

[Adverts for protein shakes, Slim-fast and Ymea Menopause and Silhouette]

Oprah: I'm chatting to Douglas Kennedy. Douglas, what can we expect from you next?

Douglas Kennedy: Well, Oprah, I think a slap round the chops and a strongly-worded letter from my agent if you can't speak to me for more than three seconds at a time!

Oprah: We'll be right back.

Over Leona; Ready for Tweedy

I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I'm getting a little sick of Leona Lewis. Yes, she was lovely and sweet and had a powerful voice at the beginning, yes, I got a lump in my throat when she turned on the Christmas lights on Oxford Street, yes, I braved the hoards of girls from Hertfordshire to hear her sing at Westfield on its opening day, but I can't help but feel she's something of a one-trick pony. Whilst on the equine theme, she is a torch horsey isn't she? Not a description that one often has to apply to girls from Hackney, but, I mean, that's quite a chin, isn't it? I'm mean, we're not talking about Céline Dion territory, but it's close. So now Leona has done an Oasis cover, and the video is just the same as all of her others. Anyone can stand around in a grey, floaty dress in a strange, desolate landscape that has been oddly bleached of colour and warble on interminably in a low, husky voice with heavy vibrato. At least I know I can.

Whilst we're on the subject of girls from rough neighbourhoods, Fight for this Love by none other than Cheryl Cole has been released in Norway and is receiving heavy rotation on NRK P3 and Radio Norge. Hurrah! Perhaps they are being dragged slowly into the civilised world after all. I wonder if she is going to change here surname back to Tweedy? It was bound to happen, of course, that she and Ashley would split after her singing a song (I almost said writing a song then, let's not get carried away) about sticking together through thick and thin. Mind you, why she stayed with him for five minutes after he put it about whilst his wife who is a goddess of incredibly beauty and joy was waiting at home is something none of us will ever understand. What a plonker.

Volvos, Vienna, Vaterproofs

So, the Norwegian Boyfriend has got a ritzy new office, and thinks he's the dog's proverbials as a result. He manages to slip the fact that he's got a desk at the corner of the building with a sea view into most conversations. The one boon to be gleaned from this state of affairs is that he's got a coffee machine with a very wide selection, which includes none other than Wiener Mélange. Well, it's mocha. What a disappointment! No battered sausage floating in it or globules of fat bobbing along the meniscus but a plain old mocha. The mélange aspect would be the mixture of chocolate and coffee, and the wiener an indication that this is a practice originating in Vienna. I'd love to go to Vienna. Anyone fancy a citibreak?

People often ask me what Norwegians are like. I have more or less conditioned the Norwegian Boyfriend now so that he thinks like a British person, so he's perhaps not the best example. After wracking my brains (there wasn't a lot to wrack) I can only conclude that Volvos and Waterproofs are their two most striking qualities.

They love Volvos. On my second date with the Norwegian Boyfriend he took me on a romantic drive (to Portsmouth - don't ask). Well, we popped into his flat to pick up the keys (he had a ritzy apartment at the time, this is how he lured me in to going out with him in the first place, I'm sure) before going down to the underground car park (I did think he was going to garotte me and put my torso in a suitcase and throw it off the seafront at Portsmouth, but he didn't). Well, having been impressed by the ritzy apartment I was secretly thinking to myself "Ooh! I wonder what his wheels are like?" and lo and behold he sidled up, distended with pride, to a blue Volvo. Well, the bottom fell out of my world, I can tell you.

The thing is, cars are expensive in Norway. When I say "expensive" I don't mean moderately overpriced, I mean they cost more than your house. Some friends of ours have just bought a small, used Volvo, and they're going to pay for it in monthly installments of £400 for the next seven years. The upshot of this, then, is that cars in the UK are a steal to Norwegians. So, if they relocate to London for a couple of years it's 'passport control, baggage reclaim, customs, Volvo dealership'. Not only did the Norwegian Boyfriend have his own Volvo, he also had access to a company Volvo, so he drove two! I think he got out of bed every morning feeling like he'd just woken up underneath Cheryl Cole with a winning lottery ticket in either hand.

There's no such thing as a pleasant stroll in Norway. There's a polar expedition, or there's nothing. This means that even the simplest task is some sort of military operation, and therefore involves an awful lot of equipment (compass, map, hot chocolate, sticky buns, apples, Kit-Kats, rifle, rucksack) and most importantly, hiking footwear and waterproofs. This results in conversations such as this:-

Robert: Are we going for a walk to the beach then?

Norwegian Boyfriend's Mother: Yes, I think so - are you going to get ready?

Robert: Yes, I'm ready when you are.

[Silence; pause; look of disbelief; look of incredulity; hidden snigger from all other Norwegian family members]

Norwegian Boyfriend's Mother: Well, are you going to go, erm, like that?

Robert: Like what?

Norwegian Boyfriend's Mother: Well, it's just that you've got [hides snigger behind hand]... trainers on!

Robert: Oh. Erm, is that not OK?

[Pause; tumbleweed rolls through sitting room; clap of thunder; funeral cortege parades through sitting room; elephant waltzes into sitting room and sits down to watch television; neighbours come out of their houses to look at the funny British person they've heard so much about]

Norwegian Boyfriend's Mother: Well, don't you want to borrow some hiking boots? And take three spare pairs in your rucksack? And where's your apple and your Kit-Kat? For God's sake it's a jungle out there!


The thing is, any sort of outerwear is hugely expensive in Norway. When I say "expensive" I'm not saying there's a little bit of a mark-up on it, I'm saying you have to sell your Grandma if you want anything made by North Face. This has its benefits. I walked into a bar in Bergen Sentrum during a torrential downpour in a pair of North Face waterproof trousers and a Helly Hansen waterproof jacket, both of which I'd picked up on Amazon for less than £15, and the entire bar stopped and stared because I was the best dressed individual they'd ever seen.

Perhaps the best and most noticeable thing about Norwegians is that they get their 'v's and 'w's mixed up when speaking English. Nobody is really sure why this is. There is a 'v' sound in Norwegian, but when speaking English, Norwegians tend to convert all 'v' sounds to 'w's. A typical conversation might go like this:-

"Hello Wictoria, I haven't seen you in a wery long time!"

"Sorry Wiolet, I've been tied up vatching Vimbledon; hardly time for a conwersation!"

"Really? Vell, Tim Henman vas a bit of a vanker"

"I know! Still, at least Wirginia Vade still does the commentary"

"Yes, she's wery good. Actually, I'm just on my way to buy a new tennis west and some vaterproofs. Can I give you a lift in my Wolwo?"

"Oh wery kind of you - so conwenient! Gosh, this car is nice..."

For and Against Cheryl

Isn't a shame about Cheryl Cole? Don't get me wrong. She's a living legend. I mean, if I were to go there, with the lady bits and all, then she'd be very very close to the top of the hypothetical list. She's so lovely and northern and open and warm and beautiful, it's just that she can't sing. This doesn't stop most people soldiering on (Britney Spears, for example) but Britney at least has the good sense not to sing live. Being somewhat unnaturally enamoured of pop princesses in general, I'm usually more forgiving of these things. There's many a late evening I've espoused the validity of Kylie's vocal talents to a cacophony of scoffs and snorts, but really Cheryl, give it up.

I am locked in an agonising battle of wallpaper decisions in relation to my new home in to which I will be moving in six weeks. There are only two rooms which are going to be treated to wallpaper. It's difficult, when one isn't made of money, to pull bold style statements off. I mean, the distance between a searing example of contemporary interior design and bogging and hideous clashing mish-mash hell is but a step.

For the hall I had thought once more of sumptuous rococo splendour but the difference between the way things look online and the way they look in one's sitting room is incredible. With said splendour in mind I ordered samples of such delights as Bamboo Flock Emperor's Garden and East Albany Castaway Mettalix only to realise that (a) it would cost about £1000 to wallpaper the hall with them and (b) Bette Gilroy would be proud of my handiwork if I did so. Norwegian Boyfriend is, in his Scandinavian way, erring more towards exotic ferny glade and I think perhaps he may be right - or at least I may compromise somewhere between the two, along the lines oriental ornamental garden. It's splendour but it's not Beverley Callard's Leotard in essence. I have never actually watched Coronation Street, I don't know where I'm getting these references from.

Then there's the bedroom. I had thought understated far-flung ambassadorial residence chic but it's a trial trying to work out a suitable colour palette. One's bedding is currently white and grey, generally, but does one really want an entirely grey bedroom? Being that one lives in Norway the sky is grey 99 per cent of the time anyway, and one doesn't want to wake up every morning feeling as if one has been transported to a wet weekend in Great Yarmouth, does one? What goes well with grey? White? Black? See my point?

The Norwegian Boyfriend and I have become somewhat dependant upon Dynasty. They've been showing reruns on Norwegian television, and we became so addicted that we bought three DVD boxsets. It's strange how five years ago we would've spent hour after hour giggling at the outfits, but the way revival is so acceptable these days most of it looks rather nice. There are some really extreme get-ups (usually on Krystle) which still defy all sense and logic, but on the whole, 1984 fashions weren't as bad as I thought. I rather wish that chunky costume jewellery would become acceptable for men, for the sole reason that I want to have to remove my clip-on earrings in order to take telephone calls.

Perhaps the most alarming aspect of Dynasty is the way in which any sort of physical intimacy is depicted. Kissing, for example, in 1984, was completely different. It didn't involve any sort of mouth opening or tonguing action, but rather a pursing and light touching of the tips and then a strange, frenzied, jerking of the head from side to side, all the while maintaining lip contact and clinging to another desperately.

Even better is Dynasty sex. This entails both parties keeping on their underwear and the bottom halves of their bodies firmly away from one another. The top halves of the bodies, however, are rubbed sideways against one another, whilst the man, on top, grunts into the pillow, and the woman (usually Joan Collins) gazes with wild, staring eyes at the ceiling, presumably to maintain the flawless finish of her full make-up. Which she also wakes up in every morning.

Perhaps the most important lesson we can all learn from watching Dynasty is how to argue. I am hoping this will be a valuable key to the longevity of my own relationship. The key, it seems, is to speak as passionately and emphatically as possible, without (a) raising one's voice or (b) including any content or meaning in what one says. I often imagine myself in such a scenario with Cheryl Cole. I am hoping it will go something like this:-

Robert: I hate you, Cheryl!

Cheryl: Hate? You gave up the right to hate me years ago!

Robert: Right? Right? What do you know about rights, Cheryl? How dare you stand there on that pedestal and tell me about rights? What do you know about rights? You gave up the right to tell me about rights years ago!

Cheryl: That's just it, isn't it? Anything, anything which threatens to break down that icy facade is an enemy to you. Isn't it? Isn't it?

Robert: Well, when all things come to pass after the way you sent me packing it's all water under the bridge, isn't it?

Cheryl: And so much water has passed under the bridge, since then, hasn't it?

Robert: And yet still those demons haunt you.

Cheryl: Demons, Robert? You gave up the right to tell me about demons when you walked out that door all those years ago!

Robert: Well, we'll see how well you stare those demons down next Friday week, won't we?

Cheryl: Friday week? Next Friday week? Oh, no, Robert, you haven't...

Robert: Yes, my Geordie princess....I have...

Six pack for summer

I've got bloggers block. It happens to the best of us. The only things I have to write about are snow and property ownership.

Re snow. There has been about a foot of snow on the ground since about the 20th of December. It was wildly exciting at first, and then I fell over. It wasn't terribly amusing. Thankfully no-one saw. Well, I think not. Honestly, it's an icy deathtrap. I imagine that most people will have scrolled through my endless snow photos on Facebook. Isn't it pretty? Yes, but you take your life into your own hands every time you go to the postbox. Not that I ever go to the postbox, but it was a quaint thought.

My new property. Isn't it nice? I suppose it's rather cheeky referring to it as mine per se, being that in reality I'm paying for about one fifteenth of it, but hey, my name is on the contract terrifyingly enough. It's also on a thirty year mortgage. Oh well, the bank are welcome to my soul, it's not in a very good condition anyway.

Perhaps the best thing about my flat is that it is opposite the gym. I mean, it couldn't be any closer. If I can't get a six pack by this summer under such circumstances then I'll never get one, and I shall thenceforth give up going on about it and accept a life of eternal flab gracefully and gradually feed myself contentendly into a seething ball of unending blubber. And that will be an end to it.