How I came to be in England - Part 18

When the Englishman left after his week long visit to see me in Helsinki in February 1982, I was heart broken, but didn't cry. Clutching the red rose he’d again bought me at the airport I sat in the posh Finnair bus on my way back my father’s place in Espoo, full of determination to do well in my studies at the School of Economics. I was enjoying my new subjects. Learning about political systems, about the workings of the labour market, about the intricacies of parliamentary democracy was a pleasure. And I was safe in the knowledge that the Englishman was serious about our relationship. I kept thinking: the sooner I get my degree, the sooner we can be together. Though we hadn't discussed it, I knew I’d have to move to England. Not a big deal. I’d moved countries before and didn't want to stay in Finland.

The house was cold and quiet when I got back. My father was at home, sitting in a dark room with a bottle of Koskenkorva vodka next to him. ‘Gone then, has he?’ he asked. I heard the sarcasm in his voice and knew better than to answer. It was his Jekyll and Hyde moments that I feared most, so I went into my room, locked the door and put on the latest cassette the Englishman had brought with him. I decided to read Karl Marx’s Das Kapital for an assignment due in the following week.

As spring arrived and the snow slowly melted in the small patch of land outside our living room, my work load at the School of Economics grew. My friend was still very upset about the Hulk and had immersed herself fully in her studies. She’d lent me all of her Doris Lessing books and I’d fallen in love with her writing, as well as her principles.

I found an old bike in the communal cellar next to the sauna compartment my father said I could use. When the weather was a little warmer I cycled to see an old school friend who’d started at the School of Economics a year after me. She lived with her parents a kilometre away and we sat in her bedroom and talked about university, men and fathers. Occasionally I’d go out but had little money or time. The Englishman wrote as often as he could, and phoned when he wasn't at sea. Which was more and more rarely.

During that spring I also spent a lot of time at the School of Economics library, reading or borrowing books too expensive to buy. It was situated at the top of a modern office building, with one lift constantly ferrying students up and down. The staircase, which we only used when absolutely necessary, was the library smoking room, whilst the library was the meat market. Much like a book you needed, you could pick up a date there for the evening. Needless to say, the year 4 boys spent most of their afternoons in the library. But I was invisible to them now. The boy who’d asked me out ignored me studiously. If I passed the desk which his legs were sprawled on, his eyes pretending to examine the text in a book held high above his eyes, he’d not look at me. But if I turned around abruptly, I’d catch him assessing my rear.

What did I care about him, the Englishman had proposed to me! And I’d see him in April. This time we were going to meet in Stockholm, where my sister had promised us her flat for the week. I couldn't wait to show the Englishman my second home town. Besides, Spring would be so much further along there. The city would be filled with greenery, with Easter decorations and sunshine. The very opposite of the dreary, grey, cold, windy Helsinki.


On the 3rd of April 1982 I got a phone call at 3 am. ‘We've declared war.’ The Englishman’s voice sounded grave.

‘I know.’ I’d seen it on the news, how the mighty United Kingdom, a former colonial power, had been humiliated by a small South American dictatorship. But to declare war, in the 1980’s?

‘And on my birthday!’

I realised the Englishman had had a drink. ‘And they've cancelled all leave.’

I sat down on my bed. ‘Does that mean..?’

‘Yes, I can’t come to Stockholm.’

The Falkland Islands, a small group of islands I’d never heard of, somewhere off the coast of Argentina was spoiling my plans to see the Englishman. How could this be? Absurdly I asked, ‘What about the flight?’

‘Act of War is Force Majeure. I’m in the Royal Navy, I’ll get all my money back.’

Act of War. That was all I could think about. ‘Are you…?’

There was a silence at the other end.

‘I mean, are they going to send you to…’

The Englishman interrupted me. ‘Please don’t ask. I can’t say.’

My life as a spy

My career in UK started as translator/ journalist at the BBC Monitoring Service in Caversham. There I listened to Finnish and Swedish radio broadcasts, selected relevant news items and translated them into English.

The Degree in Political Science from the Swedish School of Economics in Helsinki gave me the language skills as well as an understanding of society. That was the theory. But the translation work wasn't easy for me. The transcripts had to be quick and accurate. There's no such thing as old news.

I'd learned Swedish in the school playground in Stockholm, and had no idea of grammar. My Finnish mother tongue suffered during the three years spent in Stockholm. Although I took my Baccalaureate in Finland, I still have some serious gaps in the language. And those of you who know Finnish know it's complicated. Some say only Cantonese is harder to learn. My school English was just that, school English. The little I'd learned at university was useful, and the learning curve at the BBC was steep. But after only six months I was a fully fledged Monitor, and was let loose on the news all on my own.

Translation became second nature. Even now when I hear Finnish or Swedish spoken I immediately think of how I'd put it in English.

The news aspect of the work thrilled me. While I was there, Chernobyl happened. Suspicions of a nuclear accident were first reported on Swedish radio, before the Finns admitted to some seriously high levels of radiation in their atmosphere. This was few hours before the story broke worldwide and the Soviet Union released the awful truth of the nuclear catastrophe. Our little four-man team worked through the night to translate everything Finnish Radio said, as well as the comments on Radio Moscow in Finnish and Swedish.

Many other nationalities were also represented at the Monitoring Service. As I'd only recently moved to Britain, it was wonderful to be with people who were fellow aliens in this country. Many of them had not arrived here as easily as I had. Many of them were homesick for a country they thought they'd never see again. I often think of my friends who now freely visit their homes in Estonia, Czechoslovakia, Poland or Russia.

The reason I'm reminiscing about my time at the BBC Monitoring is that the current manuscript, The Lost Daughter, tells a story of a Finnish girl working at the Monitoring Service. She befriends a Russian girl whose quest to find her missing father takes them both back to Helsinki. The story is fictional, but based on my experiences at the BBC.

My Finnish team leader once said, 'We're all spies here'. And in the same breath she told me I wasn't allowed to discuss anything I heard or saw with anyone outside the organisation. 'You signed the form didn't you?'

So is it any wonder that even after all these years I'm still intrigued?

A fashion post from me

I'm a fashion addict, but I fully accept that I don't know enough to blog about it, so I usually don't. But I could not help pointing out the beauty of this dress.

Net-a-Porter fashion editors describe it as,

'Stella McCartney's dark yet demure black stretch-wool lace-detailed dress is a super-feminine LBD that's perfect for a sophisticated cocktail look.'

This does not go far enough. The dress is a work of art. The lace teamed up with black wool is both beautifully contrasting and practical. The zip detail at the back continues this naughty but nice theme to perfection. The ruffle adds a romantic air. It's stylish, fun and sexy all at the same time. Total perfection. Unfortunately it's quite out of my price range.

How I came to be in England - Part 17

I felt a tap on my shoulder. My friend's face looked serious. 'Loo, now?'

I smiled at the Englishman, 'Sorry, I'll be back.'

He looked surprised but I didn't have time, my friend was already dragging me away from the table.

We made our way through of throng of people on the dance floor and passed the bar where my eyes met with the year 4 boy who'd asked me out. He lifted his glass as if to toast me. He'd loosed his black bow tie and undone the top button of his shirt. He was leaning casually against the bar, with the drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I smiled confidently back at him. I was so happy I didn't care what he thought.

'Guess what?' I said once were were inside the gleaming ladies' room. The School of Economics Ball was held in a smart private club in the centre of Helsinki. I'd never been inside. Every room was decorated in a thirties art deco style, with black marble and shining chrome. Absentmindedly I wondered how they could keep a bathroom so clean all the time.

My friend looked at me through the mirror where she'd started adjusting her make-up.

'The Englishman asked me to marry him!'

My friend dropped her hand, 'What?'

'Just now, isn't it wonderful?'

'What about your studies?'

I looked down at my hands. It was as if she'd splashed cold water over my face from the white shining sink. 'Yes, I know, I'm not going to drop out - again - but isn't it...

'Have you even read Doris Lessing's The Perfect Marriage?

'Well, no...'

'I'll lend you the book.' My friend turned back to face the vast mirror. She was dabbing at her make-up while tears ran down her face smudging it further.

Suddenly I remembered she'd wanted to talk to me. 'What's the matter?'

'He's dancing with another girl!'

'Who?'

My friend shot me an accusing glance, 'The Incredible Hulk. I saw them smooching before and just now I saw him kiss her. On the mouth!'

My friend's boyfriend had an incredibly strong physique and with his spiky dark hair, he looked just like the cartoon character. The Hulk was her partner at the ball. I knew she was really smitten with him, although she said she didn't believe in love.

'The worst of it is , I know her. We went to school together, but she didn't get into the School of Economics. No brains.'

I hugged my friend. 'Bitch.'

She nodded and took a deep breath in. 'They can both go to hell. I was getting bored with the Hulk anyway.'

We walked out of the ladies room through a set of double doors. 'But, you must promise me that you'll not marry the Englishman. You can't just become some one's wife. You have to finish your studies.' My friend was facing me, her expression eager.

I knew she was right. I'd been to England, I'd seen how difficult it was to get a job. I didn't want to end up being a barmaid in a pub somewhere, bringing up the kids while my husband was away at sea. Or worse, have no job at all, to become a housewife. 'I promise.'

The Englishman was sitting just as I'd left him, with one elbow on the table holding a cigarette. He stubbed it out and got up. His politeness broke my heart. No Finnish boy would even have known that's what you do when a lady comes back to the table.

'Everything alright?' he said.

'It's a long story.' I watched as my friend made her way to the other side of the long table. I was glad to see she had another boy, our mutual friend to talk to. There was no sign of the Hulk.

The Englishman's gaze was steady on me. I knew he was waiting for an answer.

He took my hands into his. It felt trapped. I had a sudden desire to pull away from his grasp. I lifted my eyes to him. His dark eyes were wide, his mouth set in a straight line.

'I have two years left at university.'

The Englishman let go of my hand. He lent back in the chair. 'I thought you might say that.' He was smiling. He gave me a light kiss. The Drinks Master had climbed onto the table. It was time for another drinking song.

A levels - Done

Just a quick post to say that daughter got the results she wanted. I wasn't surprised at all, call it mother's intuition, but I sort of knew she'd do well. But she wasn't at all confident, and how ever much I tried to reassure her during the last two months, she was convinced she'd do badly. You may remember I wrote about the exam pressure in this house at the time.

So there, I can say, 'I told you so'. How satisfying is that for a mother...

I think we'll open some bubbly this evening.

Well done my lovely!

How I came to be in England - Part 16

The Englishman didn't seem at all fazed by the idea of meeting my father. 'You've met all my family,' he said and put his arm around me. He'd just arrived from London and we were walking up from Mannerheim Street tram stop to the bus station to catch the number 105 to Espoo. The year was 1982.

It was strange to meet up so quickly again, after only five weeks, rather than the many months we'd endured without each other before. With the Englishman's lean taut body next to me, chatting about what I'd planned for the week, I was relaxed and comfortable. Again I felt as if we were a real couple. Had I imagined his doubts in Hyde Park? He put his hands inside my coat to warm them from the bitter cold of the late February afternoon. When he kissed me in full view of the other people queuing for the bus, I couldn't imagine he'd be with anyone else. But I couldn't ask. I couldn't even bring up the subject of 'The Future'. I was afraid he'd repeat what he'd said to me in the summer. If he did that I would die. I would never want to see him again and that alone would kill me. Never mind what the failed relationship would do to my ex, who still phoned me on any pretext. Asking, 'Are you still running after that Foreign Sailor?'

In the cellar of my father's place was a sauna with a pool shared by a couple of other houses in the development. I'd booked it for that first evening.

'I didn't bring my swimming trunks.' The Englishman stood in his underpants in the middle of the small changing room. After all we'd done in bed he was shy?

I pulled my top off, and stripped down to nothing.

'Ah,' the Englishman said and followed me into the hot, darkened sauna.

After a few moments, when our bodies were getting used to the heat, I threw water on the coals. 'This is called a löyly.'

The Englishman made a sound and ducked. The steam filled the space and the lovely prickly feeling of the heat touched my body. Like most Finns, I love the sauna. When I was only three days old my father took me into one in our summer cottage by the lake. I enjoyed the heat so much they called me The Sauna Baby.

'You OK?' I said to the Englishman. He was almost doubled over on the bench next to me.

'Yeah, a bit hot.'

'Sorry, we'll go for a swim to cool down.'

'I feel wonderful,' he said after we'd had a few more of rounds of löyly followed by another swim in the cold pool. I smiled. I'd make a Finn out of this Englishman yet.

We met my father at a Russian restaurant called Sashlikki. I’d never been there, but my Father said, ‘She likes it.’ I realised he was going to bring his girlfriend.

The place was decorated with dark red and blue colours, the table cloths looked like satin, the wallpaper velvet. Lamps were slung low over the tables. As we sat down my Father nodded to an unseen waiter who brought a round of clear vodka.

‘To the Finnish Ladies,’ my Father said and lifted his glass. The girlfriend giggled.

I took a sip of my schnapps, the girlfriend drank half of hers and both the Englishman and my Father emptied their glasses. His eyes did not leave the Englishman’s face. The waiter came around with the bottle to refill the glasses. My Father nodded to the man, who was dressed in an old fashioned Cossack’s outfit, to leave the bottle of Koskenkorva on our table. I glanced over to the Englishman at my side. He put his hand on my knee under the table and gave it a little gentle squeeze. ‘I’m fine,’ he whispered in my ear.

‘So, you like vodka?’ My Father said and lifted his glass again. We hadn’t even looked at the menus yet.

My memory of that evening is a little hazy. But if I recall rightly, no-one fell under the table. No-one had as much as an argument. The food was excellent. Beetroot soup, rare spiced beef with dark sauce, garlicky potatoes, cabbage of some kind. We laughed a lot. My Father bought both his girlfriend and me a long stemmed red rose. He wanted us go dancing together. When instead we decided to leave, he looked sad and embraced me as well as the Englishman warmly.

‘I think I passed,’ the Englishman laughed outside the restaurant. My Father had insisted on giving us money for a taxi and ordered it for us. It was as if the past ten years hadn’t happened. It was as if the Englishman had resurrected my old Father. During the evening he’d even called me ‘My Best Girl’ again. I curled up against the Englishman on the strongly smelling leather seat of the taxi and fell asleep.

The Englishman's visit coincided with the annual School of Economics Ball. My friend wanted to know if he was going to wear his uniform, but on the phone from Faslane the Englishman had told me he wasn't allowed to. I'd been a little disappointed but thought it must have something to do with Finland being so close to The Soviet Union and the Cold War. Not that I could see anyone in Helsinki being interested in my British Submarine Sub-Lieutenant.

On the night, he looked handsome in his DJ. I wore a ball gown an old school friend had made. It was a strapless white silk dress, with a narrow black belt, which tied with a small bow at the back of my waist. The long ends fell behind me.

This was my first university ball, but the Englishman had been to many during his time at Dartmouth and since. But none quite like this one. According to the School of Economics tradition, long tables were served rounds and rounds of schnapps, which were consumed along to various drinking songs. There was a Drinks Master who led the proceedings and towards the end of the evening some of the top table climbed onto the table to sing. One of them was the Finnish Foreign Minister.

But the Englishman didn't just watch the other people in the room. We danced. I floated in his arms on the vast dance floor. I wanted everyone to see, especially the gang of year 4 boys, how in love we were. Back at our table the Englishman turned to me and said, 'You're beautiful, did you know that?' I smiled and felt his warm hands around mine. He looked at me intently. I burned under his gaze. 'Can I ask you something?' he said.

'Of course.' I felt out of breath. Was he going to talk to me about 'The Future'?

'Will you marry me?'

New lovely followers wanted

You know you want to!

Following a Blog is like saying, 'Thank you, I really enjoyed reading that. I'll pop in again when I have time.'

The way to do this is twofold:

1. You can enter you email on the Subscribe by Email box on the left, just above my lovely Honest Scrap Award. You'll get an email asking for confirmation of you subscription and then when a new post is up, you'll get an email. That's how easy it is.

2. Or you can Follow and be listed on the blog. To do this, click on Follow with Google Friends Connect above the pictures of my lovely followers. Then you can opt to follow either with Yahoo, Google or some others. If you don't have any of the listed accounts, you can create a Google Account. It's easy, you choose a name, password and a verification email will be sent to your mailbox. If you don't want to be named on the list or download your picture, that's no problem, though I would prefer if I knew who I was talking to...

Of course the best possible option is to do both. You'd get email notifications as soon as I've posted something, and I would get the little thank you on my blog to remind me that you are there, following my musings.

So, go on, make me happy, read my blog and if you like it, take the plunge and follow. I promise you it won't be as bad as the icy dip above. You see, there was a reason why I had to post that picture...apart from the obvious.

How I came to be in England - Part 15

I was back in Finland at my father’s place on January 4th 1982. It was Monday morning and I was tired from the travelling. First the late night flight from London, then the overnight ferry from Stockholm. I’d hardly slept on the free bunk bed, even though it had been a quiet crossing.

My father was at work. I wondered if he’d remembered I was coming home today, because there was no food in the fridge. Perhaps he hadn’t been home since Christmas which I knew he’d spent with his girlfriend in Töölö. To think of her as a girlfriend seemed strange. She was so much older and yet unmarried. A spinster.

I sat in the kitchen and looked at the thick covering of snow outside. There was a sharp Northerly wind and people passing were huddled against it. I went to bed and put on the cassette the Englishman had given me. The words of ‘Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic’ by The Police rang in my years as they had been sung to me by the Englishman on New Year’s Eve. I could still smell his aftershave on my clothes. I curled up on my bed and slept.

I woke up to the telephone. ‘I’m coming home later. Is there any food?’

‘Happy New Year, Dad.’

‘Oh, yes, Happy New Year to you too. So, I guess I have to go to the shop?’

I put the phone down and went back to sleep. I was so tired, I didn’t even care for my father’s veiled criticism. Or that he obviously thought me merely a nuisance. I’d be gone soon, and when I left I’d never see him again.

The Englishman phoned me in the evening. 'I love you so much. I can’t bear to be without you.’

I held the receiver close to my ear and listened to his breathing. My father had been home, eaten some raw herring and beetroot salad straight from the container and left again. I was glad to be alone. ‘Me too.’

‘Listen, I haven’t got much time to talk. But, I’ve got news.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve just bought a flight to Helsinki!’

I listened in stunned silence. The Englishman was coming to see me in February.

‘That means we’ll see each other…’

‘In just five weeks!’ the Englishman was jubilant. I could hear the laughter in his voice.


My father’s face fell when I told him the news the next day. ‘What, he’s coming here?’

‘I suppose we could go and stay with Mum in Stockholm.’

‘How did that woman manage to get a big enough place for you two to stay?’

I ignored my father. I wished I hadn’t mentioned my mother. We were sitting at the kitchen table, eating. I’d made him meat balls with a creamy sauce, boiled potatoes and courgettes. He looked at the green vegetables, ‘What’s this?’

‘It’s good for you.’

He reached out for the salt and sprinkled it liberally over the food. ‘Just like your mother, can’t season food.’

I looked down at my plate and sighed.

‘When is he coming then?’

Eventually my father agreed to stay at his girlfriend’s place for the week the Englishman would be in Helsinki. ‘But I want to meet him.’

I looked up at him. His pale blue eyes were serious. For a fleeting moment I could see my old father, the one who called me ‘His Best Girl’ and who took me to the park and who let me sit on his knee and stroke the soft flesh of his earlobe.

He got up from the table, leaving his plate with the uneaten courgette on it. He belched loudly. I looked away.

‘I’ll teach him how to drink vodka,’ he said and left the kitchen. I heard him sit down heavily in the TV room. ‘You tell that Englishman he’s not to bother coming to Finland unless he’s prepared to drink like a man,’ he shouted over the noise of the TV.

How I came to be in England - Part 14

My sister told me a company called Fritidsresor organised chartered trips from Sweden to London. A week in a cheap hotel cost half of a Finnair flight from Helsinki to Heathrow. Especially if I travelled by ferry to Stockholm.

In late December 1981, the Englishman had never been to Stansted. When I arrived, he was the only person meeting the plane full of Swedish tourists, apart from an efficient travel guide, wearing a red and yellow shirt. She held a clipboard above her head. ‘Stockholm passengers please report to me,’ she shouted in her singing Swedish.

‘I’m not going to be staying in London,’ I said. She glanced sideways at the Englishman and crossed my name off a list. ‘Make sure you’re not late for the flight's departure.’

I ran into the Englishman's arms. He smelt of the cold outside air. He gave me a long kiss. ‘God, I’ve missed you.’

The airport was at the end of a narrow road which followed the perimeter fence of the runway. With the roof up, the yellow Triumph Spitfire was cosy and warm. ‘We’re going to my parents for Christmas and then Pompey for New Year, OK?’ The Englishman reached over and squeezed my thigh. ‘We’ll be there in about three hours.’

I relaxed into the low seat and closed my eyes. This time I’d been even more nervous about coming to see the Englishman. But as soon as I saw him and felt his lips on mine, all that happened at the end of my last visit seemed like a bad dream. Had the Englishman really said he wanted us to be free to date other people? His letters since, and his behaviour now, was even more passionate and loving than before. It was as if we were a real couple, not just two singles meeting up for occasional sex.

The Englishman’s mother embraced me warmly. She made me a cup of sweet, milky tea and placed a slice of strongly spiced fruit cake in front of me. The kitchen smelt of her baking. The Englishman sat across the table and smiled while her mother fussed over me. I didn't dare to say I didn't like tea, milk, or fruit cake, but instead tried to sip the hot, sickly drink.

I heard the front door open. The Englishman’s sister walked into the kitchen. She kissed me lightly on both cheeks and sat down. She was dressed smartly in a navy blue skirt and a white blouse. She was seven years older than the Englishman and had the same dark features, with her eyebrows plucked into a neat shape and her eyes made up with discreet pale blue. Her smile was friendly when she looked from me to her brother. ‘I bet you two love birds are glad to see each other at last.’

I blushed and the Englishman shifted uncomfortably in his chair. We hadn’t made love yet. The yearning to touch each other was overwhelming. It was as if the Englishman’s sister had sensed it. Then with immaculate timing, his mother said, ‘I’ve put you in The Blue Room.’ I looked from her to the Englishman. My face felt hot.

‘Let’s get your things from the car.’ The Englishman led me out of the kitchen. Outside, he kissed me behind the open boot of the car. ‘They've agreed to let us sleep in the same room.’ I relaxed my body against his. He held me and whispered into my ear, ‘The things I’m going to do to you tonight...’

On Christmas Eve morning, the Englishman said, ‘I need to do some shopping.’ I was surprised. He hadn’t bought all his presents yet? He drove us into the nearest town, Trowbridge, bought some scented soap for his mother and a book for his father. Then he took me into a pub in the corner of the high street. It turned out to be a bar in a hotel and full of people and noise. A large chested woman approached the Englishman, embraced him and kissed him on the lips.

‘How are you darling?’ She was holding a drink and a cigarette above the heads of the other revellers. Her complicated hair do had ash blonde streaks in it. A few curly strands fell around her face.

The Englishman introduced her, ‘This is a friend of my sisters’.

‘So at last I get to meet the famous foreign girl!’ The woman let her gaze wander from my high-heeled beige boots, my tight jeans, to my cream satin blouse.

‘She’s very pretty,’ she said and winked at the Englishman. 'No wonder you're smitten.'

In Finland we celebrated Christmas Eve with a church service followed by a meal of special Christmas foods, which took my mother weeks to prepare. When my sister and I were small we were allowed to watch a little television, but the highlight of the evening was the arrival of Father Christmas. He bought a sack full of presents for each of us, and as we played with our toys, the grown-ups had a drink or two. But no-one went out to a restaurant, or a bar. Even visitors were discouraged until Boxing Day. I couldn’t believe how different the celebrations were in England.

‘Oh, everyone goes out on Christmas Eve,’ the Englishman said, ‘and then you end up with a hangover on Christmas morning,’ he laughed.

The Englishman and I exchanged our presents on Christmas morning in the privacy of the Blue Room. When a week later I told my friend at the School of Economics about our gifts for each other, she smiled. ‘So sweet and so Freudian!’ I bought the Englishman a leather wallet and he gave me a fountain pen.

The Englishman’s house was busy on Christmas Day morning. The rooms were decorated with glittery paper streamers, balloons and tinsel. At around ten, the Englishman’s sister and her boyfriend arrived, followed by his brother and sister-in-law. His mother was rushing from one room to another, wearing an old-fashioned pinny, waving a tea towel, laughing. One by one the guests arrived for drinks. Soon the large sitting room was filled with cigarette smoke and noise. I was shy at first, but slowly I relaxed as the Englishman introduced me to the various family friends. Then suddenly, as if by previous agreement, the room emptied and with wishes for ‘Happy Christmas’, the guests departed.

Now there was a rush to get the food to the table. I’d never seen so many kinds of vegetables, roasted, boiled or mashed. The gravy was dark and juicy, and the turkey slices large and white. I felt drunk, but the Englishman poured more wine into my glass. ‘It’s Christmas,’ he said and kissed my cheek. Everyone around the table smiled at me.

‘How do you like Christmas in England?’ The Englishman’s father asked. His dark eyes had a spark to them I hadn’t seen before. He too was a little tipsy.

‘I like it very much,’ I said.

He patted my hand. ‘We like having you here.’ He nodded to his son in the seat next me. The Englishman put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed me closer to him. I looked through the French windows at the well tended garden with its green lawn and wondered if being this happy would make up for the lack of snow, or a little quietness, at Christmas.

The Honest Scrap Award

I'm away from blogging for a few days and what happens? I get not one, but THREE awards.

I am honoured and humbled and must first of all thank Wildernesschic, Looking Fab in Your Forties and Oneof365 each for giving me this most prestigious award. And I must thank my family, and gosh, gather, gather. OK, that's enough Kate Winslet references (Ed.)

There are rules attached to these awards, and they are as follows:

1) Brag about it.
2) Choose seven blogs to receive the award & link to them.
3) List ten honest things about yourself.


The first one is easy, but how to choose only seven blogs? Here's a try:

Liberty London Girl - I am addicted to this blog. She's the reason I started blogging, so all complaints should be sent to her.

Oneof365 - This blog is getting better and better and I am in awe of her daily posts.

Belgian Waffling - You must visit this blog, it'll change your life (or at least give you a good laugh).

Mrs Trefusis Takes a Taxi - This woman can write. If she chose to write about painting a wall white, it would be riveting. I hate her.

The Intern - You have to read this blog to believe it.

Cheryl de los Reyez Cruz - For visual beauty and for a wonderful insight into an artist's life.

Bringing up Charlie - Witty blog charting the life of a stay at home Dad.

Then onto the most difficult part of the award...

1. I'm an Accountant by profession. It's amazing the lengths one goes to earn the children's school fees. But it's true. I could actually complete your tax return for you.

2. I'm really a city girl. Never lived in countryside until we moved to our current secluded location 13 years ago. Been trying to escape to the city ever since.

3. This is not the first award I've received for my writing. When already living in England, I got news that my thesis on British Party Politics (don't nod off, we're just getting to the interesting bit) won an award. Not for it's academic achievement, but for making something quite boring an interesting read. So there. Already at the tender age of 22, I knew how to write. If only...

4. I have two and a half manuscripts hidden under my bed. (OK, actually on the hard drive of my pc). I took an MA in Creative Writing a couple of years ago, but am very bad at approaching agents. I've only spoken with a couple, one of whom nearly took me on.

5. When pregnant with my second child, I was so desperate to have a girl, I worried endlessly about it. I feel the luckiest ever person to have a son and a daughter. Both of them are about to leave home and though I joke about it, I'm petrified.

6. I can eat a whole jar of Nutella in one sitting. And then feel very bad. (Not bad enough to be sick though, more's the pity.)

7. I cannot write short stories. The story of How I came to be in England was meant to be in three parts. I'm on part 13 and there's no end in sight. Sorry...

8. I hate gardening, but love eating my home grown veg. We have acres of garden.

9. At this very moment I should be in the gym. Instead I'm at my computer blogging. I'm an addict.

10. At last, number 10! The honest facts has been the most challenging post to write.

Over and out.

Fighting the bulge

I’ve never been fat. Nor have I ever been thin. Except when very, very much in love. I’m tall, from good old Nordic blonde, blue-eyed stock. But as the years advance, I’m no longer able hide the increasing bulges behind the jeans-wearing faux athletic appearance.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always kept myself fit. I was an early adopter of jogging, aerobics, then step aerobics. I try to do some kind of exercise twice a week and I couldn’t live without my weekly Pilates sessions.

But I love food. My family love food and we all cook. Now son’s at home from university, we prepare veritable feasts every night and sit together around the table, drinking wine as if we were all on holiday every day. This is lovely, of course it is, but it’s not doing my body shape any favours. The jeans are getting tighter and tighter. This is not a good look.

So a couple of weeks ago I decided I’d step up the gym sessions. But instead of losing weight, I’m gaining it. And no, it’s not muscle. It’s because my mind is also playing tricks on me. Due to the increased exercise I eat even more. And I cook even more calorific treats for us all.

Like the blueberry pie above. It’s divine, especially with strong, black coffee. And, as I told myself when I made it and later when devouring it, the blueberries are good for you.

All I hope is that when son leaves us for his brilliant career in London, and daughter starts her gap year in Finland, I will not be able to justify the baking of cinnamon buns, blueberry pie, home made pasta or Dauphinoise potatoes anymore and will lose my appetite as I pine for my grown up brood.

Roll on empty nest.

How I came to be in England - Part 13

My father, who had two daughters, called me 'My Best Girl.' As I grew up his obvious favouritism became a burden to me, rather than a source of pride. So when my parents finally split up after years of fighting, it was a relief to both of their two daughters.

Our parents gave us a choice of which side to take. My sister was fifteen and I was thirteen. They sat us on our plush velveteen sofa and asked us each in turn who we wanted live with. My father didn’t take the rejection well. ‘You’ve made your bed. There’s no more money from me.’ He stormed out. That night he came home drunk again.

But in 1981 I had no choice but to go and live with my father. In spite of the threats, over the last few years he occasionally invited his two daughters to lunch. As we parted, he always handed over a few dark purple 100-mark notes. When I told him about the School of Economics, he gave me a small allowance. And when I eventually phoned him from Stockholm, he promised me a temporary home in his house in Espoo, a town of suburbs just outside Helsinki. Of course I hesitated, but my mother said, ‘It’s about time he took some responsibility for his daughters.’

The Englishman on the phone from Scotland couldn’t understand what the problem was, ‘But he’s your father?’

I couldn’t tell him about the drinking or the violence.

At the School of Economics, I was greeted with a hug from my friend. ‘Coming back to study is absolutely the best decision you could've made.’

The blonde haired woman at the students’ advisory office agreed. ‘Why don’t you change your subject? Commercial Law is a difficult one to specialise in,’ she remarked, ‘especially as Swedish is not your mother tongue.’ Her kind eyes were fixed on me. ‘The next Committee meeting is early December. If you get two exam passes by then, we can re-approve your grant.’

So I became a student of Political Science at the School of Economics. The department was small and homely. We studied the theories of Karl Marx as well as those of Keynes. My horizons were widened. While the other students at the university learned how to make money, or account for it, our department taught us the principles behind the desire for wealth and power.

At the house in Espoo, my father got drunk only rarely now. He’d given up his bedroom for me and was mostly staying over at his new girlfriend’s flat in Töölö. I cooked for him when he was at home, and when he was in a good mood, he made Gravad Lax.

While I tried to forget about the Englishman, his letters wouldn’t allow me to. He wrote to me at least once a week and called when he was on dry land. Most often he was away with the submarine, to unknown destinations, for weeks on end. Then one night, I was woken up with a phone call.

‘We’ve just sailed in, and I’ve been told I can take leave for Christmas. Can you come to England?’

My grant came through in December and if I continued to live with my father, I’d be able to afford the fare. I told the Englishman I'd think about it, but I knew what my decision would be.

My friend at university shook her head. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? You remember what happened last time you came home from England?’ We were standing in the semi darkness of the student’s union disco in centre of Helsinki. We’d started going out a lot, most often to Monday night ‘Ladies Nights’ at the club when girls were let in free. The disco was full of students from all the Helsinki universities, but mostly students from the School of Economics. The gang of year 4 guys were always there, and I’d see them laughing and gazing at me and my friend. I wondered what would've happened if I'd agreed to go with the dark haired one. Would I now be arm in arm with him instead a tall red-haired girl he was with that week.

‘Nonsense,’ my friend remarked, ‘you know exactly what would have happened. He would have fucked you and that’s that. It’s what they do: as many as possible in as little time as possible.’

I laughed. But was this what all men were like? Was the Englishman like that too? Was he only so loving and seemingly committed to me because he was lonely up in Faslane, or Faslavatory, as he called it? Where he said there were no pubs or clubs. In other words, no places to meet girls in?

When I got home that night, I got another call. 'Well, are we going to meet up at Christmas?'

'Of course we are.'

I could hear the Englishman take a deep breath, 'Only two weeks!'

Lights, Camera, Action

There’s now concern that young girls send photos of themselves via their mobiles (disrobed as it were) to their boyfriends. So called sexting. When the relationship breaks up, the boyfriend shares these pictures with all and sundry. The consequences can be tragic and the dangers are obvious.

But this is not a new phenomenon.

When I was engaged at the tender age of 16, my boyfriend liked to take photographs. He did a lot of hunting and shooting and therefore spent a lot of time in the forests surrounding Helsinki. Photography was part of this hobby.

He also liked to take photos of me.

Needless to say when the Englishman came into my life – see posts here – I was very keen to get the negatives and the photos back. But he wouldn’t do it. He gave me the prints, which I promptly destroyed, but in spite of several attempts at being nice to him (not in that way – shame on you, reader) and pleading with him, he maintained that as the injured party in the break-up, he was entitled to the negatives.

Even now, nearly thirty years later, I still regret having been so stupid as to allow this.

I have no evidence that he ever shared the photos with anyone. Nor do I believe he did. But just the knowledge that he still has access to them makes me shudder. I've not spoken with him for all this time, and I am not about to. So what am I to do? Just continue ignoring the issue and hope I never starred as ‘Reader’s wife’, or that I never will. I hope that the quality of photography is such now, that the pictures wouldn't be usable. Or, that sanity prevailed with my ex and he did indeed keep them locked up as he promised and has by now destroyed them.

How I came to be in England – Part 12

The smart new ferry smelled of carpet freshener and paint. A large bellied man in uniform greeted the passengers with a smile at the end of a long ramp. ‘Welcome on board, Miss.’ My arm ached from carrying the suitcase and I barely managed a grimace in return. To my relief the luggage store was close by. I placed my heavy bag on a shelf and checked I had all I needed for the overnight crossing: Toiletries, a small towel and my purse. I placed the items into my small Marimekko holdall and went in search of the free bunk beds.

I felt like a refugee, fleeing Helsinki in the autumn of 1981. Escaping my unpaid rent and the wrath of my ex-boyfriend’s family. When my mother said on the phone, ‘Darling, come to Stockholm,’ I hadn’t hesitated. I had nothing to stay for. No money, no energy to study, no boyfriend. After the initial elation caused by the Englishman’s last letter, I’d began to doubt him again. I remembered his mother’s words about all his girlfriends and the Englishman’s own wish to remain free when he wasn’t with me. How ever much he missed me, he didn’t seem worried he might lose me. I wondered whether I should write a reply, but then, the night before I was due to leave, came a phone call.

‘To Stockholm, when?’

I told the Englishman he was lucky to have caught me. There was a silence.

‘What if I hadn’t called tonight?’

I didn’t say anything. I wanted to seem nonchalant, but his pain was hurting me. ‘I was going to write from Stockholm,’ I lied.

During the overnight crossing I slept very little. I had a prawn smörgås and a beer in the ship’s cafeteria before turning in with a large bar of Marabou chocolate. The tastes of my childhood in Sweden.

Not all the bunks in the free sleeping quarters were taken. During the middle of the night a drunk came wandering into the room and for a moment I was scared, but a large man occupying a bed opposite told him to leave. ‘I’ll call the ship’s crew,’ he said. As I lay motionless listening to the drunk’s slow, but loud, departure I wondered if I’d always be this poor. Too poor to afford a cabin, like the man opposite me.

I cried when my mother embraced me. ‘Your sister’s at work, but you can stay with her until you find a place of your own.’ I relaxed. I wasn’t alone, my family would look after me.

My sister worked at a large hotel in the middle of the city. She asked me to meet her after a late shift. ‘The staff go out together after we close. The bars and nightclubs are open till very late in Stockholm,’ she said.

She too, had fled Helsinki. Not for money, work or studies, but an unsuitable boyfriend. My sister was two years older than me. We’d always been close, and spent our teenage years going out together.

‘Just like old times,’ she now said and took hold of my arm. She smelled of perfume and her hair was done up with large bouncy blonde curls. I had no money but she told me not to worry. ‘Pay me back when you get a job,’ she said and laughed. Her job as Maitre d’Hotel paid well. I couldn’t believe how full the bar was at half past midnight. The music was playing loudly, and all the tables were taken. My sister waved at a large group at the back of the room. Two empty chairs were found for us. I was introduced as Little Sister, the name too from the old days.

From the bar we went to a disco, and for the first time since arriving in Stockholm I felt at ease. I danced with several of my sister’s friends, as well as totally unknown guys who’d just come up and asked me to the floor. Men in Sweden were so much more subdued than in Helsinki. You could talk to them without instantly being hit on

‘It’s because most of them are gay,’ my sister laughed later in her flat. She was making late night sandwiches. We were listening to a new Rod Steward LP, ‘Blondes have More Fun’. It was past three o’clock in the morning.

The loud ringing of the phone made us both jump.

‘It’s the Englishman for you,’ my sister said handing me the receiver.

‘I’ve tried your number all evening.’

‘Sorry, I was out with my sister.’

‘Oh.’

My first job interview was with Handelsbanken, the largest bank in Sweden. The office on the third floor on Karlaplan was bright with desks separated by low walls. Smiling faces looked up at me as I followed a friendly woman to her desk. The office staff wore jeans, or casual trousers and tops. In the bank in Helsinki we had to wear a shirt and skirt, or a neat dress. Even on a hot summer’s day, the dress code was strictly adhered to.

At the end of the interview, which I thought had gone very well, the Swedish woman closed the file on her lap and smiled at me.

‘Can I give you some advice?’

I was surprised. This didn’t sound like a job offer after all. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘I know you’d make a great employee here at Handelsbanken. And I could quite easily give you the job, and I know you’d be good at it. But,’ the woman hesitated for a moment and looked at me, ‘I’d do you a disservice if I didn’t turn you down and tell you to go back to Finland to finish your studies.’

I looked down at my hands.

‘This is what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?’

I didn’t know what I wanted. The past two weeks in Stockholm had been wonderful. The Englishman had phoned nearly every night. Every night he’d told me he loved me, and missed me. Every night I’d wanted to ask him why he had said what he had said in Hyde Park. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the words to.

When I told my mother what the lady in Handelsbanken had said, she took my hand into hers. ‘You think she might be right?’

Exactly three weeks after the ferry crossing to Stockholm I was on my way back in the other direction. This time I’d decided to make the journey during the day, and together with a good book, the hours sped past. As I watched the ferry dock at Eteläsatama jetty I hoped I’d made the right decision in returning to Helsinki and my studies.

I had no doubts until I saw my father waiting for me just inside the ferry terminal. He didn’t smile, just bear hugged me and took hold of my heavy suitcase. ‘We’d better get you into the car then.’ He sighed and walked ahead of me into the already dark Helsinki afternoon.

The Kindness of Strangers

Perhaps I’m going through some kind of early middle age crisis but I seem to be very forgetful of late. The grown up children put this down to ‘just being you, mum’, but I don’t think I’ve always been such a scatter brain. Even if I am blonde.

This week I went to London just to meet up with a friend for lunch. Son drove me to the station and promised to pick me up whenever I was ready. ‘Don’t worry mum, just give me a call or text when you know which train.’ I felt the harsh stubble of my baby boy’s face as he gave me a light kiss on the cheek. Where did all that time go, I wondered as I fumbled for the mobile in my handbag. It wasn’t there. Suddenly I saw my Blackberry where I’d left it, on the kitchen top attached to a charger.

Thinking fast, I told son to email my friend and tell her I had no phone on me. I’d use her phone to let son know which train I was taking back. No problem, a day without mobile communication would be refreshing.

On the train I did what I always do: write notes on whatever project I’m in the middle of. Not having the distraction of the phone was good, as I nearly completed Part 11 of the current blog tale ‘How I came to be in England’ during the hour and a half journey.

And lunch too was undisturbed. My friend and I caught up with news, laughed and enjoyed each other’s company. By the afternoon I’d forgotten such a thing as a mobile phone existed. Until back at Paddington, bottle of water in one hand, the Standard in the other, I remembered I needed a lift from the station at the other end. I’d forgotten to use my friend’s mobile. I scanned the concourse – surely there must be such a thing as a public telephone somewhere?

I’m not sure when I last used a phone booth. Armed with two 20 pence pieces I proceeded to listen to the low female voice telling me to feed coins and press this or that digit, all while trying to block out the loud rail announcements over the Tannoy. After several attempts, and only three minutes until my train was due to depart, the machine had eaten all my cons, refused three credit cards and driven me to complete distraction.

I ran to the train, trying to convince myself a solution would present itself.

The train was oddly empty. I sat in front of a woman with an unsettled baby. She might let me use her mobile, but would I want to be disturbed in such a situation? Most probably not. The baby continued to whine gently behind me as I looked around the compartment. On the opposite side of the aisle two men were deep into their laptops. In front of me I could see a younger man fiddling with his Ipod. Suddenly I felt too timid to ask any of them for help.

After Reading the conductor came into the compartment and I had a brainwave.

‘I don’t suppose there’s a phone on board?’ I said very loudly as the man checked my ticket.

It worked. The young man in front of me handed over his phone.

‘A gentleman,’ the conductor said.

And indeed the young man was a gentleman. He could not have been friendlier as he listened to me explain the situation to son. For the rest of the journey I wondered how we’ve become so dependent on the mobile. And how did we survive before? And how had I lost the ability to use a public phone? Middle age?