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)

The Mountain Way

Well, it's been a month since I wrote anything and absolutely nothing of interest has happened to me. Perhaps the only development is that I am now a health and fitness guru. I am not sure how this has come about, but I've been slaving away at the gym, day in, day out, in order to perfect my physique. Needless to say, I don't look any different.

I blame Men's Health magazine, which costs £3.60 and is exactly the same every month. The headlines are always something along the lines of GET ROCK HARD ABS FAST or FILL YOUR T-SHIRT WITH ABS or GET YOUR ABS OUT IN BED AND MAKE HER SCREAM. Frankly any scenario involving me being in bed with a girl with my abs on display would result in my screaming, not hers. Well, I say abs, my abdominal region where my abs would be if you could see them through the acres of wobbling lard.

Not only are these magazines the same every time, but the article regarding the amazing fat loss from abs plan is never actually in the magazine. It's just pages and pages of advertisements for protein powder, disgusting low-fat recipes and advertisements for Davidoff featuring Ewan McGregor in a slightly effeminate scarf on a wind-swept mountain.

The problem with trying to be a health guru is that everyone tells you something different. Currently, I am being told not to eat any carbs in the afternoon, but always to eat some carbs immediately after cardiovascular exercise to afford burning muscle tissue rather than fat. So, what happens if I exercise in the afternoon? Carbs or no carbs? This, combined with the fact that Norwegians have dinner at four o'clock in the afternoon means that I have had four meals today already and it's only seven o'clock. I mean I'm trying to trim up, not emulate the physique of Eamonn Holmes and layer myself in undulating mounds of whale blubber. You know he's sneaky-fat. I've met him in person. He doesn't look that big on TV but my god he's a whopper in the flesh. You may wonder why I've met Eamonn Holmes, but you wouldn't believe me if I told you.

Things were going well in the gym today, until I came over a little queer, emotionally. The thing is, I always find myself getting involved with songs in the most inappropriate of situations, my mind wanders and I forget where I am (which can be dangerous on a Stairmaster). There I was, on the treadmill, when Lollipop came on by Mika and found myself reflecting, philosophically, on the lyrics. 'I went walking with my Mama one day, when she warned me what people say, live your life until love is found, or love's gonna get you down'. The thing is, that is what my mother used to say, and often it was when we went walking. To clarify, my mother does not say gonna. Nor is she dead, which I now realise that speaking about her in the past tense suggests. 'Robert,' she used to say, 'don't get married until you're thirty. Don't make the same mistakes that I did' (ie you). It's funny how we remember such pearls of wisdom from our parents. I still find myself repeating them now, and often I find myself bitterly reflecting on the fact that I followed their advice when it wasn't always terribly sound. Oh well, we live and learn. Oh, also to clarify, when I say walking we're not talking about cagoules and mountains. We're talking about a little promenade along St. Asaph Road and back down Coventry Close in the summer, around dusk, when everyone has their lights on but has not yet closed the curtains, so we can nose in people's windows and criticise everyone's wallpaper (it was the nineties, everyone had wallpaper).

Well, talking of decor, I am no longer homeless, or at least I won't be as of Saturday when I move in to my new flat. Woohoo! It's on a road called Fjellveien which means The Mountain Way in Norwegian. How poetic is that? It is, actually, halfway up a mountain. I'm hoping the daily walk to and from it is going to give me buns of steel. I'll show Men's Health. I show her my buns and make her scream.

Well, how to decorate? Clearly, when one is in rented accommodation, one is in a predicament. One doesn't want to spend too much and yet one wants it to be nice. I have been told that my taste in interior design is Kelly Hoppen Uber Luxe, but sadly I don't have a Kelly Hoppen budget (although I do have some Kelly Hoppen room spray). So, how to strike the balance? (Laura, if you're reading, I have already discussed some of this with you, but it's always good to get a range of opinions). Due to the presence of various items of furniture in the flat already, there are only really three rooms in issue.

Guest Bedroom.

I had thought of nautical for the guest bedroom, as Bergen is a port and one can see the sea from The Mountain Way. However, I don't actually have anything nautical, and it's best to work with one has got. Also, if one is going with such a specific theme, one has to do it properly, and a ship's wheel from a charity shop on the bookcase just isn't going to cut it. Frankly, all one would need would be tin of Rover biscuits and it could end up being redolent of a council house from the 1970s. Kirstie did nautical on Kirstie's Home-Made Home and I don't think she pulled it off at all well. I mean, there's New England beach house and then there's a half-arse attempt with blue and white Ikea bedding and a manky bit of driftwood and I just don't think it's practicable. So, given these considerations, and the fact that one can see trees from the guest bedroom, I think I'm going to go with woodland hideaway. This has two particular boons. Firstly, my spare bedding is a suitable shade of forest green, and secondly one can employ any old bit of tat one picks up on a woodland walk without slipping in to council territory. We all know a bowl of pine cones and a liberal spray of Kelly Hoppen room scent speaks volumes and is virtually free.

Main Bedroom

I had thought of sumptuous Rococo splendour but once again Mr. Budget stepped in my way. I think the only way forward is airy Scandinavian tranquility. Perhaps some sort of patterned white bedding and a sheepskin rug over the exposed floorboards. Floaty calico curtains. It can't fail.

Balcony

Well, once again, I'm going to wrestle with the age-old rustic/urban conundrum. It comes up every time I even think of balcony decor. Which way to go? Weathered Kath Kidston prints and tarnished yet sturdy pieces, or some sort of pebbles/babbling water/striking palm plants with architectural fronds splaying across the crisp dewy morning like eternal shards of turquoise crystal? I would say that the character of the apartment would be suited more to the former.

Time will tell. I am rather looking forward to going to IKEA (for some fabric essentials, I'm so over flat-pack. It seems more authentic, going to IKEA in Scandinavia. Although having meatballs and lingonberry jam in the cafeteria will be something of a Busman's Holiday, I can tell you.

It's six months to the day since they whipped my brain tumour out. Hasn't time flown? Isn't it remarkable to think that I've done almost nothing in that time? Alright, I've moved to a a new country, but I've been a complete dosser since I've been here and was a complete dosser before. This is all set to change. It doesn't seem so long ago, emotionally, so I am engaging myself in various projects hoping to move on, grow, be a better person and learn from the experience. It is amazing the thoughts that go through one's head at times. It really doesn't matter where one is the world, one's feelings always follow. Wouldn't it be good if we could put them in to storage somewhere? Perhaps I'll call up Big Yellow and see if they have any facilities for emotional baggage (appalling joke, sorry). I've been watching Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France. I knew that he was a cancer survivor but what I didn't know was that he'd had tumours in his testicle, lung, abdomen and two in his brain. I feel rather out-done. Anyway, he went on to win the Tour de France and is completely recovered, having been given a 40 per cent chance of survival. Seeing this as an opportunity to grow/learn I have ordered his book It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life which I am hoping will lead me too some sort of emotional awakening. And there I was, thinking he was some All-American Homeboy Big-Jawed Bleach Tooth Ivy League Jock Celebrity Girlfriend Toss-Pot.

Perhaps once I've read it I'll get a celebrity girlfriend. It can't be that difficult. I mean, I think I'm a bit over the whole gay thing anyway. It all seems rather old hat these days, doesn't it? Maybe even a bit nineties. Who would I have though, that's the question? The obvious choices (Beyonce, J-Lo, Jessica Alba) are all taken. I'm not fussy. All she needs is (a) fabulous wealth (b) no crack habit and (c) no lady's bits. I'll see if RuPaul is available.

Photographic Evidence (iffy)

Here it is. Ozvald. Proof that I haven't been making it up (although I have been spelling it inconsistently).




This, my friends, is a pub. Authentic, isn't it? Just like your local Lamb and Flag. Sorry about the shonky focus, I was a bit squiffy. They'd actually made rather a good effort indoors, I thought. Sadly the shots I got inside were useless as it was throbbing and therefore just looked like a room full of people. Well, it was a room full of people, I suppose.

As I say, eight out of ten for effort. Almost atmospheric. A pool table and everything. A lot of heavy wood and garish carpet. Below is a wider shot of the exterior. This was about 11:30pm, as an interesting latitudinal aside.

In other news, the sheep have been located. Right next to the car park. The cyncial among you would think that they had been there all along. However, what in fact happened is that they hid and then moved. Cunning beasts. One of them, which looks like a goat, has a shifty eye, and if you ask me she led the others astray.

It's sweltering. One doesn't ever think being too hot will be an issue in Scandinavia, does one? 28 degrees yesterday. Alright, not that hot, but hot enough to be, well, hot. I'm getting a Scandinavian tan. That sounds rather like the title of a gay porn film, does it not? Scandinavian Tan.

Best not to let the mind wander.

Where've Ewe Gone?

The sheep have vanished. Two of the Adoptive Norwegian Family went to check on them yesterday in highly inclement weather and found only one ewe and a little cute lamb (which is called Greyfoot, incidentally). Visibility was so bad, however, that they weren't too concerned. Little sheep, big mountain, and all that.

So, Adoptive Norwegian Mother went for a look this evening to see if they could find the elusive flock and nothing. They've completely disappeared. It's like the Bermuda Triangle. Well, actually it couldn't be any less like the Bermuda Triangle, but you know what I mean. Apparently she passed a lone mountain walker (sounds suspicious if you ask me) and he said that he thought he just seen a flock of sheep but he couldn't be sure.

I know you're gripped. I'll keep you updated.

We are still unemployed, although the boyfriend has two very promising interviews next week. He has to do an online personality test tomorrow. Houston, we have a problem.

Here's Looking at Ewe

What has my life become? I spent most of today in the company of sheep. I'm not talking in the metaphorical sense here, I'm talking about real, woolly, bleating sheep. I'm shocked and appalled that I'm about to write an entire blog entry about sheep, but I have nothing else in my life these days. Those of you who know me well will know that this sort of thing really isn't my scene, but there aren't any other scenes here, so it's like it or lump it, I'm afraid. Actually, I don't know why I'm defending myself, it's left me feeling rather wholesome. And these things aren't even uncool in Norway.

It's all terribly quaint, the world of sheep, apart from the unfeasible amounts of urine these things seem to produce, usually when one is standing right behind them. I've ruined my running shoes.

At this time of year, you see, the sheep are moved from the field to the common grazing land, which is essentially a mountain. I was enlisted to help in this process (a thinly veiled attempt at shirking by saying that I had some important sections of Gloria Hunniford's autobiography to re-read sadly did not wash).

The ram (Torle, or Jarle as he is called) did not go up the mountain as if he were to encounter another ram he would kill it or be killed himself. Most barbaric. He has been left in the field with one ewe who was ill earlier in the year and thus can't be left in high mountain climes, poor lamb (sorry). Being that she is now the only female left in the field with Torle (or Jarle) she is presumably in for a right old porking, so I worry about the wisdom of leaving her behind, but I'm told there won't be any ramifications (sorry).

Getting sheep up a mountain is no joke, even if you like sheep. One drives half way up the mountain and then herds the sheep the rest of the way to the common grazing land. I was told this area was not right at the top. This is what we call a half-truth. It was about thirty feet from the top, and I made my second encounter with the tree line in as many weeks. So I and the adoptive Norwegian family scrambled up the mountain trying to get the sheep to climb it rather than wander off7stop and eat/stop and pee/stop and poo, mainly by shouting/cooing/clapping at them and/or enticing them in the right direction with (a) slices of stale bread (b) wild, flailing arm gestures and (c) empty threats about Lancashire hotpot and mint sauce. Thankfully they were particularly unfit sheep, as one has to be able to run and overtake them at a moment's notice and if they'd been any quicker the only way I would've left that mountain would have been in a rescue helicopter.

The problem, of course, with enticing sheep, is that once one has enticed them into the common grazing land (which is not fenced in any way) one then has to leave the sheep there. As irony would have it, they are more than happy to gad and skip in all directions when you're trying to herd them, but when you're to leave them somewhere then they try to stalk you the whole way back down. The only solution, then, is to try to give them the slip. This entails everyone standing in a group looking nonchalant and slowly and discreetly peeling off one by one in different directions so that the sheep don't notice you going - not unlike a sketch from a very dull agricultural Carry On spin-off. Then, one scrambles back down the mountain post-haste so that one's cunning escape isn't discovered by any of the wily flock. I did so, so scared of tripping over forwards that I fell over backwards twice, grazing my buttocks. My balance has always been a bit woolly (sorry).

Still, the view was nice. I'm told we've got to pop up there twice a week to check on them, so will provide photographs. I may even take some snaps of the flock, if they're not camera shy - I'm told at times they can be rather sheepish.

I'm Every Woman

I have not been to Oswald's yet. I have, however, been past it. It looks about as much like an English pub as I look like Chaka Khan. Not only is it in a modern building which looks like some sort of municipal administrative facility, but also it is in the same building as the Synsenteret - the Sight Centre, ie the only optician within a four hundred mile radius. So far I have managed to resist the temptation to saunter up to the bar with a wry smile and say"Two pints of lager and a bottle of saline solution please, love", but I may not be able to for much longer. It is, also, in fact, called Ozvald and not even Oswald's, so sounds neither like a genuine English pub and nor like a nineties wine bar in Romford, which was about it's only other angle of attack in terms of being authentically British. The windows are blacked out so I am unable to check for rattan furniture, but will do so at the first available opportunity.

I have so far managed to shirk the majority of my farm labourer duties and haven't been back on the Volvo tractor. I did fulfil a lifetime ambition and have a go on a ride-on lawnmower, which is something. I'm not sure if I'm the hearty farming type. Everyone else seems to laugh at a little run in with the electric fence or think a tustle with a ram protecting his (rather paltry) flock is all something of a jolly jape and a bit of a giggle. I, however, prefer to keep live electrical railings and virile sheep (it's either called Torle or Jarle, I can't remember which) at a safe distance and hold on to the majority of my body parts, for at least the immediate future.

They're all terribly outdoorsy and fit around here. The problem with beautiful scenery is that it tends to be rather hilly. On the advice of the in-laws I took myself off on a pleasant bike ride around the local area with a view to exploring a bit and generally improving my level of fitness. It was, indeed, very picturesque, but alas it was so strenuous that I had to stop about every ten minutes because I thought I was going to be sick. I went on a pleasant evening stroll on Thursday with similar consequences. Our little jaunt up what I was promised was a small mountain took us above the tree line. I swear I had to step over the corpses of several British people who had not made it.

I have just had a little nap as I am still recovering from the Wedding of the Year. I did my very first heckle ever. What a yobbo I have become. That's being a Brit Abroad for you. Said heckle was directed at the Mother of the Bride. That's champers on tap for you. It was an encouraging heckle, but a heckle nontheless. I might go and have another one. A nap, that is, not a heckle.

Down on the farm...

As I type, I am sitting in a room with three people, all of them asleep. I am scintillating company, it seems. I join you from Norway having been on some sort of latter day Thelma and Louise-esque flit across continental Europe in a ten year old Peugeot. Brad Pitt didn't take advantage of me and run away with all my money, but there were a couple of close calls.

It has been something of an emotional whirlwind, I can tell you. We went to a fake beach in Amsterdam, a strange hippy commune in the centre of Copenhagen and to an authentique Swedish restaurant in Gothenburg to eat meatballs. They were not like the ones you get in IKEA. The waiter was so hot and blond I almost threw myself at his feet and begged him to whisk me away to a log cabin and take me roughly but tenderly and then to have his babies and do his laundry with a washboard in a pristine mountain stream. Sadly I soon realised that not only am I not capable of producing his babies but also that (a) he was a straight as a Canadian pine and (b) there aren't any mountains in Gothenburg. One can dream, can't one?

You wouldn't believe the breathtaking scenery in Norway as we drove over the mountains. Frozen lakes (yes, in June) snow-capped peaks, signs saying 'beware of elk crossing'. The real deal. It isn't actually very far across Norway but being that the roads are so small and the speed limit so low and the mountains so well, big and numerous, that it took eight hours. I'll say that again. Eight hours. Well. I didn't know what was more numb by the end of it, my buttocks or my brain. One even becomes immune to incredible scenery after eight hours. You could've told me that Barbara Cartland was swimming up the fjord with Orville on her back and I wouldn't have given two hoots, as they say. I shall reserve time to go back to said picturesque mountains and appreciate them at a more leisurely pace.

Norwegians are most odd. They have a tendency to (a) get enthusiastic about extremely plain food (e.g "Hmmmm! Boiled potatoes! My favourite! These are just like my mother makes them! (i.e. no seasoning and not peeled properly so they've still got the black bits in)) and (b) break in to song at every possible opportunity, usually at family lunches or dinners. More often than not it's the House of the Rising Sun or Over the Rainbow. Nobody has done the Mull of Kintyre yet but there is time. The other thing they tend to do, following the age-old maxim of 'there's no such thing as bad weather, just inappropropriate clothing' is (c) get entirely cagged and bagged for even the simplest expedition. I tried to go for a walk in the woods earlier in a pair of canvas trainers and the whole family looked as me as if they were about to make some sort of collective citizen's arrest.

The reason I am not asleep is that I'm giddy with excitement as the prospect of going to the new local English bar later, Oswald's. I am told that this is a modern building which has been kitted out with the traditional English pub essentials and that a slight clash of styles has ensued. I can imagine that they have not managed to recruit a throng of bearded local crustacea to prop up the bar from 11am until 11pm every day, for example. How a hardwearing floral carpet in burgundy and taupe is going to sit against Scandinavian pine cladding and Velux windows, I don't know. How sitting with a pickled egg in one hand and a pork scratching in the other shouting 'Get your tits out, Helga!' at the passing local totty is going to work against the backdrop of crystal clear fjord waters lapping at a shale beach as the waning arctic sun slowly drifts towards the horizon it's hard to say. One could go on. All I know is that it's got to better than the other Norwegian attempt at an English bar I have been to, rather more authenically called The Halfway House. If my memory serves me correctly it had been an apartment and had had a somewhat hasty makeover. It was not unlike one of those IKEA mock-up apartments they have in the corner of the showrooms with a makeshift line of optics in one corner and a couple of beers on draught. There was still a shower fitting in the men's lavatory and the only indication that it was supposed to be English was a collection of postcards displaying shots of famous London landmarks, all of which had been placed in those four-for-99p IKEA photo frames and stuck on the wall. Something of a half-hearted attempt, I'm sure you'll agree. Its one trump card was that some dog rough Glaswegians were present last time I was there, filling in nicely for the local crustacea contingent.

I drove a tractor today and moved some wood on a farm. And dismantled a fence. Well, you know what they say, when in Rome...