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.
Sunday, 28 February 2010
Monday, 15 February 2010
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..."
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..."
Sunday, 14 February 2010
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...
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...
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Sausage mix with sugar
Have I already harped on about how appalling Norwegian supermarkets are? Well, they are. They're about the size of a newsagent, in dire need of refurbishment and ready meals have not yet been invented. They just don't exist. Imagine! The worst aspect of all is the fresh produce. Firstly, if something is off season, you just can't get it. Correct me if I'm wrong, but in Sainsbury's if one needs something off season it's still there but general not as good quality or rather over-priced. Oh, not so here! I won't see rhubarb again for nine months! Not that I have pressing need for rhubarb, but still. This is not the worst of it. The fruit and vegetables that are here, well. I've seen mouldering oranges, green potatoes and black onions and strawberries, on display, in a supermarket (one of the ones which claims to be upmarket) writhing in aphids. Even the fruit and vegetables we get delivered at work are mouldering half of the time. The most irritating aspect is that everyone just seems to accept that this is alright and puts it down the fact that Norway is a long way from anywhere else. Rubbish! Cleethorpes is a long way from the Cayman Islands, they've still got decent bananas! Well, I've never been to Cleethorpes, but I imagine they have decent bananas. Actually, I used to have a boss from Cleethorpes and she did say it was rather backward. Her old friends didn't appreciate her fancy London ways when she went home. She pointed out that she'd been locked in a fascinating conversation with one of them about continental breakfasts and she realised halfway through it that her friend didn't know what a croissant was.
Well, to further compound the frustration of shopping, not only do the supermarkets not really contain anything you might want to eat, but once you get to the checkout there are so many pointless and unfathomable vending machines that half of the time one ends up leaving without paying anyway. In Spar for example, if one wants to buy cigarettes (which I don't, incidentally) one picks up a card with a picture of the cigarettes one wants before one gets to the checkout. One hands the card to the cashier, pays, and gets another card. Then, one queues up at a large blue machine and sticks one's new card in it and is presented, hopefully, with one's purchase. Why? Why? Why?
Not only this, but in Spar they have some sort of automated system, if, heaven forfend, you want to pay with cash. One is told the amount one has to pay by the unhelpful cashier, and the coin element of one's payment is slotted into a small blue box in front of one, which makes a number of buzzing and whirring noises and then showers one's change out all over the floor in front of one. If one has any notes one hands them to the cashier. She slots them into the top of something behind her which looks not unlike a pinball machine which proceeds to make a number of buzzing and whirring noises and then fires different notes by way of change back out at her. Why? Why? Why? Isn't cash the basic element of how we trade in western society? How is any of that easier than a till drawer? How?
Well, alongside these various inconveniences there are a number of vending machines in and around checkouts in larger supermarkets which after six months I still have no clue as to what their purpose is. They're generally about the size of a skip and have pictures of smiling, healthy blond children or smiling, healthy, young blond Scandinavian couples standing by mountains on the front and a very large opening at the front, but no indication of their purpose. The only one I thought I understood was the drinks vending machine in RIMI (a sort of ASDA equivalent, although about one twentieth of the size of an ASDA). Well now, I can generally understand Norwegian menus, and as I was waiting four people in front of me to be served at the checkout (all of them purchasing frozen pizza and that three-flavour neapolitan ice cream that everyone in the UK stopped eating in 1986 but which is still all the rage here, I'm afraid there's no hope of Ben and Jerry's) I perused the choices which could be vended from said machine. There was, unlike in RIMI in general, an astonishing array of choice. There were all the usual suspects - tea, coffee, hot chocolate with various degrees of powedered milk and artificial sweetener. But about two thirds of the way down my eye stumbled across an offering neither I, nor anyone I have asked since, has been able to explain. Wiener mélange. Wiener mélange. What, in the name of all that is good and holy is wiener mélange? My initial thought, not unreasonably, I'm sure you'll agree, was that it was some sort of sausage mix. In a cup? Perhaps a slightly lighter equivalent of a cup of hot Bovril? But, to the right of wiener mélange was the choice of wiener mélange med sukker. Those language experts among you will have deduced that means with sugar rather putting paid to my Bovril theory. The only solution, of course, is going to be to get one. I'll report back.
Well, to further compound the frustration of shopping, not only do the supermarkets not really contain anything you might want to eat, but once you get to the checkout there are so many pointless and unfathomable vending machines that half of the time one ends up leaving without paying anyway. In Spar for example, if one wants to buy cigarettes (which I don't, incidentally) one picks up a card with a picture of the cigarettes one wants before one gets to the checkout. One hands the card to the cashier, pays, and gets another card. Then, one queues up at a large blue machine and sticks one's new card in it and is presented, hopefully, with one's purchase. Why? Why? Why?
Not only this, but in Spar they have some sort of automated system, if, heaven forfend, you want to pay with cash. One is told the amount one has to pay by the unhelpful cashier, and the coin element of one's payment is slotted into a small blue box in front of one, which makes a number of buzzing and whirring noises and then showers one's change out all over the floor in front of one. If one has any notes one hands them to the cashier. She slots them into the top of something behind her which looks not unlike a pinball machine which proceeds to make a number of buzzing and whirring noises and then fires different notes by way of change back out at her. Why? Why? Why? Isn't cash the basic element of how we trade in western society? How is any of that easier than a till drawer? How?
Well, alongside these various inconveniences there are a number of vending machines in and around checkouts in larger supermarkets which after six months I still have no clue as to what their purpose is. They're generally about the size of a skip and have pictures of smiling, healthy blond children or smiling, healthy, young blond Scandinavian couples standing by mountains on the front and a very large opening at the front, but no indication of their purpose. The only one I thought I understood was the drinks vending machine in RIMI (a sort of ASDA equivalent, although about one twentieth of the size of an ASDA). Well now, I can generally understand Norwegian menus, and as I was waiting four people in front of me to be served at the checkout (all of them purchasing frozen pizza and that three-flavour neapolitan ice cream that everyone in the UK stopped eating in 1986 but which is still all the rage here, I'm afraid there's no hope of Ben and Jerry's) I perused the choices which could be vended from said machine. There was, unlike in RIMI in general, an astonishing array of choice. There were all the usual suspects - tea, coffee, hot chocolate with various degrees of powedered milk and artificial sweetener. But about two thirds of the way down my eye stumbled across an offering neither I, nor anyone I have asked since, has been able to explain. Wiener mélange. Wiener mélange. What, in the name of all that is good and holy is wiener mélange? My initial thought, not unreasonably, I'm sure you'll agree, was that it was some sort of sausage mix. In a cup? Perhaps a slightly lighter equivalent of a cup of hot Bovril? But, to the right of wiener mélange was the choice of wiener mélange med sukker. Those language experts among you will have deduced that means with sugar rather putting paid to my Bovril theory. The only solution, of course, is going to be to get one. I'll report back.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Five hours I'll never get back
I join you from Cheshire. I have just returned from the most calorific dinner you can possibly conceive of, from a gourmet burger establishment with the unlikely name of What's Coooking? A heart attack, that's what's cooking tonight.
I'm so in to prescription drugs. I hurt my neck a couple of years ago. I woke up on a Friday morning in agony and I could not get my head straight (I mean literally not metaphorically, for once). I had to mince into the doctor's surgery with my head cocked to one side and demand immediate medical attention. Anyway, the nice doctor (not the one with whom I am infatuated, but another, very pleasant one) gave me some Cocodamol. As it happened, I was working in Sheffield (ugh!) that weekend and not looking forward to it. Best weekend of my life. I wasn't high, but everything was wrapped in a beautiful warm woollen blanket. Everything was just alright. I think perhaps I should do a Kelly Osbourne and just take them all the time.
Incidentally, I popped in Casualty in Bergen a few weeks ago as I had a brief health paranoia moment. Bit of a tired joke about waiting rooms having old editions of Good Housekeeping, I know. However, in Accident and Emergency in Bergen there was a copy of Bonytt ('Live New') from November 2003. Is that not taking the Michaela just a little? If one has a broken leg or rectal prolapse or a nasty case of syphilis and is waiting for seven hours in some hellhole with strip lighting the last thing one wants to look at is a dated chintzy throw.
Anyway, back to the main thrust of these inane meanderings. I was feeling a little stressed earlier and I thought hang and blast it I've had a bad year so I popped one of my mum's Valium tablets in an attempt to cheer myself up. I waited half an hour and didn't feel any different. I didn't have much on today, so I thought well dash it I'm going to have another. I did, I waited for half an hour and nothing happened. This was at about 1pm. I waited another ten minutes or so then woke up at a quarter to six. I understand that they're supposed to reduce anxiety - that's why I took them. It seems to me, however, the wrong approach. I mean, it's all very well and good not being anxious, but being totally comatose for an entire afternoon makes it a little difficult to achieve anything. I mean, I wasn't anxious any more, but I was, well, asleep.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Vague attempt at light cultural insights
We miss out, in the UK, on foreign culture. As I was perusing the best-sellers section in Platekompaniet (the equivalent of HMV) I pondered this thought. The best-sellers, you see, were from all over the world. Sitting down to an evening of television in Norway (or any non-English speaking country) one is presented with an array of subtitled choices. It's different in the UK. One has to be in a particular mood for world cinema. Sometimes I do get a little queer feeling all over me, and think to my myself 'I know, I'll watch a foreign film'. The beauty of this is that one feels like one is being edgy and cultured and alternatif, when one is, in fact, just sitting on one's behind eating popcorn, as one would be if one were watching Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Cafe. Not so up here. I feel it's a good thing. Unfortunately most of the subtitled television available is Midsomer Murders but you've got to take the rough with the smooth.
Well there you have it. Two, in fact. Never have I seen such emotion conveyed in stone. It's all about, you know, universal suffering and shared humanity transcending physical barriers and what have you. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of people depicted. Amazing. Well, I'd love to give a detailed analysis but I'm dead inside. Perhaps those of you with more intelligent blogs will step in on my behalf. But anyway, all I'll say it that it's worth braving the sub-absolute zero temperatures in Oslo just to see it.
Well, after that little cultural exposé I'm going to have to go and do the Daily Mail crossword by way of counterbalance. I've done it again. It's even worse this time. Not only did I buy it, but I paid £3.20 for it, I used my credit card as I didn't have any cash with me and I only bought it to read about the riddle of Stephen Gately's final hours. I feel so dirty. I have nothing left to offer the world. Nothing.
On the opposite foot, I have a restricted choice of literature. I do tend to pick things up when in London, but going to a bookshop in Norway and their having only fifty titles in English is actually rather a boon, because one is forced to make choices that one perhaps wouldn't otherwise. The only novels that I can read in Norwegian feature Miss. Marple and the only reason I can manage those is because I am familiar with every intricacy of each plot, so even if I don't understand a whole paragraph I still know who had hidden the revolver in the aspidistra in the library. Consequently I have recently read Shantaram and The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, neither of which I normally choose but both of which were, in their own way, rather moving and both featured in Oprah's Book Club. I fear that Oprah's Book Club is the sole criterion upon which imports of English paperbacks are decided in Scandinavia.
Talking of things that are moving, I'm going on a train on Friday. Across Norway. Norway is a very narrow country, but being that there are so many mountains and lakes and fjords it takes forever to get anywhere. I'm told that the first of the snow will be on the mountains. It's October! When I last saw the inland mountains it was June, and the last of the snow was on the mountains! It really is three months of summer and nine of winter, with very little in between. I rather like chilly weather, but not all of the time. Where I live in Bergen is relatively mild, but everywhere is absolutely brass monkeys. I am getting the train to Oslo. Last time I was there I didn't take my longjohns off for the entire weekend. Not even in the shower. I shall manage. Anyway the mountain journey is supposed to be beyond breathtaking in its romance and scenery, so I'm very much looking forward to it. I shall take some photos and place them on le livre de visage.
To round up on the culture (these are the only cultural references you will ever find in this blog) there is an amazing sculpture park in Oslo to which I will pop. I'm not one to come over a little queer just because of a sculpture. I'd like to be that sort of person, but I'm not. I'm dead inside. However, these scultpures. Amazing. They really put the willies up one. I can't even describe it. I mean we're talking pant-shittingly good. I'm going to try to insert a picture, hang on.
Well there you have it. Two, in fact. Never have I seen such emotion conveyed in stone. It's all about, you know, universal suffering and shared humanity transcending physical barriers and what have you. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of people depicted. Amazing. Well, I'd love to give a detailed analysis but I'm dead inside. Perhaps those of you with more intelligent blogs will step in on my behalf. But anyway, all I'll say it that it's worth braving the sub-absolute zero temperatures in Oslo just to see it.
Well, after that little cultural exposé I'm going to have to go and do the Daily Mail crossword by way of counterbalance. I've done it again. It's even worse this time. Not only did I buy it, but I paid £3.20 for it, I used my credit card as I didn't have any cash with me and I only bought it to read about the riddle of Stephen Gately's final hours. I feel so dirty. I have nothing left to offer the world. Nothing.
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