I Have Nothing to Write About

Well, that's how it feels at least. I just can't get started. I find it difficult to focus on material for this blog. Self doubt has started to creep in.

I could write about the goings-on in the garden, the in-fighting greenfinches, the cheeky squirrels, the blackbird splashing in the bath, the new bird feeder stand in black metal and preying cats, but I don't.

I could write about the progress of the book I am trying to write (in Swedish), currently at around 100 A4 pages after a lot of editing (deleting mostly), how I struggle sometimes to write anything for long periods of time, the joy of actually achieving something, but I don't.

I could write about my part-time work at a boarding house where I sleep in an uncomfortable bed, supervise spotty teenagers and drink lots of tea, but I don't (partly because of confidentiality).

I could write about how I invigilate GCSE and A-level exams, but that would be plain boring, so I don't.

I could write about life as a civilian dependent in a NATO community in Germany, the imminent relocation of half of this community to the UK, the many second-hand cars in the main car park people are trying to sell before they leave, the anxiety of many colleagues because of an uncertain future, knowing the whole garrison will close in a few years' time, but I don't.

I could write about our own situation, where to move next, where to settle and eventually retire, Sweden (where only I have lived), France (where we only have a holiday home) or the UK (where both of us have lived), but I don't.

I could write about my health and the complication of doctors trying to establish which type of diabetes I have got, type 2 or 1.5 (LADA), but I don't.

I could write about the joy of still having my mother (87), my son and two grandchildren, other family and friends, but I don't.

Why don't I?

Arctic Conditions All The Way

What a lovely holiday we had! But it was the wintriest journey and stay I can remember. The first, short leg to Bremen took over four hours instead of three, and Bremen to Malmö, including the ferry between Germany and Denmark, took nearly seven long hours, all due to snow and -10 degrees C. The gritters and snow ploughs ganged up on us, cars, coaches and lorries coming off the ferry, and blocked the motorway driving at 50 kph (30 mph) for about 20 kilometres. Not everybody was happy about that!

The return journey was even worse, close to disastrous, twelve hours and forty minutes! Just before the Danish ferry port the snow started to come down faster than I have ever experienced before . All motorists were very cautious, but about a kilometer from the actual ferry terminal an articulated lorry spun round, jackknifed and ended up the wrong way in the snow-covered field, luckily without personal injuries to the driver. We saw him jump out of the cab with the windscreen wipers still trying to keep off the persistent snow.

When we reached the check-in, the snow fall (some would have called it a blizzard) had intensified and you could hardly see more than thirty metres. The whole waiting area was soon covered in thick snow. Everybody stayed in their vehicles, engines and wipers running. Only some, desperate for the toilets, man and dog alike, braved the conditions and walked, ran or jumped in a rather comical fashion to relieve themselves.

After one and a half hours of waiting in the car, we finally found shelter on the ferry. Most drivers left ample space to the one in front in order to clear the snow blanket, 20 centimetres thick. The cars looked like igloos! Less than an hour later we rolled off to encounter even more winter.

The remainder of the journey was extremely slow, sometimes just crawling on the icy, snow-covered  autobahn in heavy snow fall. Other times you tried to see through the slushy spray from the car in front.

When we finally got home after midnight I found my reward in the drinks fridge!

But between these troublesome journeys we had a wonderful time in Sweden. We celebrated Christmas with family and met up with friends, some of whom I had not seen for sixteen years. Southern Sweden was wintry white, but welcoming.

I leave you for now with some pictures.

 

At Last!

Yes, it is finished. Well, enough to move into. No, no, it's not our house, but I'll explain.

It all started with a casual coffee conversation. " Why don't you use ours?" Those words, or words to that effect, were spoken by Mrs Swenglish nearly two years ago. Ours what? House, was what she referred to.

We were talking to some friends of ours in France, an English couple, and they were selling their big house to build something smaller, more easily maintained. They had not organised where to live in the meantime yet, so we offered them to live in ours while they were building. We don't spend many weeks there in a year, especially since we go to Sweden quite often these days for family reasons. They planned on building a wooden house, which comes in a kit almost, but that came to nothing, so they opted for a more traditionally modern house, French style. Building time was estimated to about six months.

They hired an English builder to oversee everything and to be the one to co-ordinate with French specialists, like plumber and electrician. Our friends speak only a little French, and did probably not feel confident enough to take on a French builder. Today I believe they regret that decision. They have been through all sorts of trouble with this builder, and things dragged on and on and on. In the end they sacked him and finished some of the remaining work themselves. They are very hands-on and not afraid of putting the hours in, as well as ache and pain and worry. You see, they are in their early seventies and not much for a lie-in. They have achieved a lot in their lives through hard work.

A few times during the building process we have shared our house with them when we have been there. They had stored many of their belongings with other friends, in their barns and garages, and also our house was full to the brim with their furniture as well as ours. We even had guests in the summer for a few days. No major problems. Amazing, isn't it?

But when we got to our beloved house in Normandy last week, they had eventually managed to move into their new house, basically just the phone and a few pots and pans were left. The six months had in the end turned into 17 months! Yes, nearly a year and a half. Now you will understand better how the title of this post should be spoken, with a great sigh of relief and a smile.

So in the last week we have enjoyed having our house back, doing a lot of nothing and sitting in front of the wood-burning stove. Home sweet home, at last!

Happy Valentine's Day to All My Bloglings

 

 

Ride My Pony

Some of my long-standing readers might remember that I played in a band in my youth. Originally there were five of us, but when this picture was taken one member had left. We, the remaining four, tried to re-launch ourselves and went on a photo session all over town for promotional purposes. So we had lots of photos with us posing in front of interesting old doorways, derelict buildings and all sorts of backgrounds typical of the time.

As we were moving between locations we came across this Ford Mustang, a sixties icon among cool cars if there ever was one (sorry Mini fans!), so naturally we did not want to miss the opportunity, but had to snap a shot in front of the car we could only dream of. To be honest, I would not really want to have one, because it was a bit of a poser's car to be blunt.

I was nineteen at the time and can be seen in white on the left. A few years later I could afford an old Ford Cortina, having saved some of my earnings from taxi driving when I was at university. It wasn't until the following year that I had the opportunity to sit in the back of a Ford Mustang; that was when I visited my sister in Washington DC and had to be her chaperon when she did not know how to handle this guy who had asked her out on a picnic or something. Only time in my life I rode a Mustang!

Have you guessed yet which year this might be? Judging by the glasses I and the bearded one are wearing, it could have been today. That goes for the way we dressed as well, I might add. Fashion recycled you know. The year was 1967, when some of my readers were hardly born.

I still wear glasses; as I am typing this I have the same ring which my parents gave me when I graduated from school, and I am very nearly as slim as in the picture. Then I am quite a lot wiser of course!

Summer Flowers with Granny

I just love the closeness and the friendship that this picture (old, salvaged slide) demonstrates between grandmother and grandson. They are out to pick some flowers in the meadow to decorate the summer house.

They are still close despite the 600 km that separate them today. She is now an almost 86-year-old lady and he is a proud father of two children himself. She takes a loving interest in him and his family and he keeps in contact much more often than duty demands. I am proud of both of them. They are my mother and my son.

Time For Change

 

Congratulations to all US blogger friends!

My Sikh Friend

An envelope turned up in the post and I immediately reacted to the ominous timing. Why do I get mail from him now? I thought. It looked like his handwriting, but could it be his widow writing? I'll explain.

Six years ago when I had to spend a month in hospital, I had a bed neighbour whom I got to know quite well. He was an elderly gentleman waiting for some procedure which would take place sooner if he stayed in hospital rather than going home to wait there. It was a bit like standing in the queue in a supermarket, then remembering an item you've forgotten to put in your trolley. Would you go and get it, risking having to start all over again? So this old chap was in the priority queue so to speak, being pretty bored just waiting.

He and his family had been chased out of Uganda by Idi Amin together with thousands of others, moved to the UK and set up a business there. His family who came to visit always had a chat with me (and Mrs S if she was there), and they often brought him home-made food which looked very appetizing. Once I had got my appetite back I found the hospital food rather uninspiring, to say the least. So guess what, I was offered some of their tasty food to compliment the hospital Halal alternative, which I found more interesting than the standard food there. So there we were, a Swedish Englishman and an African-Indian Sikh sometimes having a Muslim meal or an Indian home-cooked dish. Sadly I could not offer any Swedish meatballs in return, but Mrs S offered my friend not only Tesco's yummiest fruit yogurts sometimes, but she also regularly took care of his lottery ticket at the newsagent's.

Since that hospital friendship we have always sent each other Christmas cards, despite the fact that I am not a believer and my friend is not of the Christian faith. He will be in his eighties by now, so I feared the worst when we had this letter, which turned out to be a card, our first Christmas card this year. My old friend Devi certainly knows how to meet a deadline, early! (Sorry, no pun intended!)