How I came to be in England – Part 21

The same Sunday night in late June 1982 I'd said my tearless goodbye to the Englishman I started to be sick. When two days later I still couldn't keep a glass of boiled cooled water inside me, I phoned the student health service in Töölö, in the centre of Helsinki. They told me to come and see them straight away.

The doctor wore a white coat. He had round gold rimmed glasses and grey thinning hair. I sat on his examination table while he took my temperature, tapped my knees, looked into my eyes, felt my glands and my stomach. I hurt all over, but I was so tired from two days and nights of diarrhea and throwing up, I had no energy to even utter a sound. He took two steps back and wrote something on his notes.

‘I think you might have salmonella poisoning.’

I nodded. All I wanted was to be allowed to sleep. The doctor regarded me for a moment. ‘Did someone bring you here?’

‘No.’ I suddenly realised it was the journey from Espoo with a bus, walk to the tram stop and then another long walk to the health centre that had exhausted me.

'You need go to bed, take these and sip a mixture of this,’ he gave me a packet of tablets and a few sachets of something. ‘If you don’t improve within the next 24 hours, get an ambulance to take you to hospital.’ The doctor had kind eyes. 'Can you phone someone to come and get you?' He nodded at his desk phone. ‘You can use that.’

I couldn’t think who to phone. My friend was traveling around Europe for the summer and my mother and sister were in Stockholm. I hadn’t seen my father since Midsummer, didn't know if he was back at work. I dug in my handbag for my address book.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me. I’m not very well, I’m in Töölö Health Centre and the doctor said I should have someone to pick me up.’

‘Oh.’

‘There’s no-one else I can call.’

‘Can’t you take a taxi?’

I was close to tears. My father sounded so irritable.

‘I haven’t got any money.’

My Father inhaled loudly. ‘Of course not,’ he said dryly. ‘What’s wrong with you anyway?’

When I told him he said he’d come and meet me at home and pay for my taxi there. ‘I don’t really want to catch it so I’ll stay away until you're better.’

I was ill for two weeks. I slept for most of it and had nightmares about sinking U-boats, nuclear mushroom clouds and men in uniform laughing at the suffering women and children. I didn’t go anywhere, I didn’t see anybody. My father phoned half way through the second week and when he heard I was still not able to eat anything, he told me he’d stay away for another week just to be safe. ‘You do that,’ I said and decided I would never forgive him for abandoning me like this. My mother didn't know how ill I was. She was too far away anyway.

During those strange summer weeks in 1982 I didn’t hear from the Englishman. There was no letter, or phone call. I didn’t even know if he had reached his new nuclear submarine in Scotland, or whether he was away at sea, or on dry land at the base. I didn’t know if we were still together, or if his disastrous week in Helsinki had finished our two year romance. It was strange, but I wasn’t sure I cared one way or the other. Not worrying about him, not longing for his touch, hearing his voice, or reading his letters seemed oddly liberating.

When I returned to my internship at the bank in mid July, I’d lost 10 kilos in weight. All my clothes hung off me and I loved it. Something good had come out of the suffering. The nice doctor at the health centre had signed me off the sickness register and given me a note to take to my bank manger. ‘I was quite worried about you, young lady,’ he said and smiled. Why couldn’t my father be worried about me if the doctor who doesn’t even know me was?

Finally three weeks and three days after the Englishman had returned home, he called.

‘You OK?’ he asked after we’d said the usual hellos. I noticed he hadn’t said he missed me.

I told him about the salmonella poisoning. ‘You didn’t get it?’

‘No.’

Hearing the Englishman’s voice I realised I was angry with him. Angry for spoiling our week together, angry for being an officer in the Royal Navy, angry for not being here with me, angry for not understanding how angry I felt. I said nothing.

‘So…’ he said.

‘Yes?’ I said.

‘You OK now, right?’ he tried again.

‘Oh yes.’

‘Right.’

I’d had enough. ‘Look, I’ve made a decision.’

He said nothing. I could hear noises in the background. Was he in a pub? ‘Where are you phoning from?’

‘Oh, the mess. I couldn’t get away, we’ve been at sea all this time and I couldn’t even get a letter to you.’

‘Oh.’

‘Hold on,’ he said and I heard him talk to someone. ‘Five minutes,’ I heard him say.

Now there was a time limit, of course. Foreign calls were expensive. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I’ve decided it’s probably best if we stop this.’

‘What?’ the Englishman sounded absentminded, then his voice sharpened. ‘What did you say?’

I inhaled deeply and repeated my words, even though as I said them a strange lump formed on my chest, as if a heavy weight had been placed against it. It made me struggle for breath.

‘You can’t say that.’

‘I just have,’ I said breathlessly.

There was a silence. ‘Oh my God.’ He sounded truly shocked and I felt dizzy. Surely I was only saying what he thought too? Or…?

‘We never see each other. I’ve got another year at uni. How am I going to get a job in England when I’m finished? And you’re always away at sea. And…’ Tears were running down my face. I sniffled.

There were more voices behind the Englishman. ‘Look, I have to go, but please don’t cry. We have to talk about this, OK? Can I call you tomorrow night? Please.’

I could never say no to the Englishman.

With shaking hands I replaced the heavy telephone receiver on the hook and sat down on the floor. My heart was racing against my rib cage, it felt as if the lump had now engorged and was crushing the whole of my upper body with its weight. My heart had no space to beat and no air was reaching my lungs. What had I done? What if the Englishman didn’t call back, what if having thought about it he knew I was right? Our relationship was doomed, our future together hopeless. I put my head in my hands and howled like an animal.

Blog Awards

While I was away in Rome, I was blessed with not just one, but two awards. Many thanks to Wildernesschic and A Life Reclaimed for nominating my blog for One Lovely Blog Award. Also thanks to Oneof365 for further nominating me for Premio Blog! And I've got a MEME from Truestarr! I must go away more often...

So here goes, my nominations for One Lovely Blog are:

Mid-life Job Hunter A lovely blog about life, children growing up and what happens after.

Cajun Delights Great recipes with a great Louisianan atmosphere.

Old Who Me? You have to read this blog to believe it.

Prospero's Cellphone If you've ever dreamed of relocating somewhere in the sun, you must read this blog.

And the Premio Blog goes to:

Trout Towers I've only recently stumbled upon this blog, but already enjoying her observations immensly.

A Confused Take That Fan, 30 A funny blog about life as it happens.

Backwards in High Heels Tania Kinderley's smart, entertaining blog. I love it.

Motherhood The Final Frontier An intelligent, heart-warming blog.

Finally the MeMe. I'm reading a book in Swedish, Bitterfittan by Maria Sveland, which will only come out in English in the New Year so I can't even cheat, but must translate the 5th sentence on page 161 myself. Here goes:

He went alone to the editorial office, and the producer, and presented to them the same idea that his female colleagues had just come up with.

Now I do want to cheat a little. I'll throw the gauntlet to all the above blog writers for the MEME. You must quote the 5th sentence on page 161 of a book on your desk.

I am truly interested in what you are all reading (or just keeping by your computer)!

How I came to be in England - Part 20

It wasn't until June that year of the Falkland's War in 1982 that I and the Englishman finally managed to see each other. We'd been apart for four long months, during which I'd feared for my submariner's life my every waking hour. He telephoned me very rarely. When the news of the sinking of the HMS Sheffield came, I didn't sleep until I had a letter confirming he was OK. How, during those war months, I wished I'd have someone I could call, someone who would've understood what I was going through. Instead I tried to study hard, and by the end of the term I'd passed all my exams with good marks.

Watching him collect his bag through the glass wall at the Helsinki airport arrivals lounge, I thought about the two years I'd spent waiting for his letters and phone calls, counting the days till I'd again be able to lean against his warm body. It seemed strange how my life had changed so dramatically, and so quickly, at the British Embassy cocktail party in October 1980. Before the handsome British Naval Officer had come over and talked to me, my life had seemed settled, pre-planned even. I was going to complete my studies, marry my boyfriend, move into a house his parents had promised to buy us in the same leafy area of Helsinki they lived in. As long as I didn't upset his mother, I had nothing to worry about. And of course she and my boyfriend wanted me to produce grandchildren, three to be exact. Instead I now stood in the deserted arrivals hall, again nervously waiting for my Englishman to see me, with no idea what the next year would bring let alone the next month, week or even day.

It was a hot, sunny afternoon, two days before Midsummer. In Finland the third Friday in June marks the start of the holidays. Everybody flees Helsinki for the weekend to go somewhere by the sea, lake or forest. Most stay away for two or three weeks leaving the city quiet and dusty. I'd booked us a room at a lakeside hotel an hour's train journey from the city. My parents had taken us there when I was little. It was an all-inclusive package which my father, uncharacteristically, had paid for. 'Show the Englishman how beautiful Finland is,' he said.

On the posh Finnair bus home from the airport, with the air conditioning on full blast, making me shiver in my thin cotton dress, the Englishman didn't seem impressed with my plans.

'We're going where?' he demanded. I tried to explain, but the Englishman sat next to me on the velveteen bus seat, holding my hand with his face turned away from me, towards the front of the bus. I looked at his profile, at the dark stubble on his chin. 'Don't you want to go,' I asked nervously.

The Englishman turned his eyes to me and kissed me lightly on the lips, 'Of course I do. No problem, let's do it.' But he didn't sound at all sure.

The Rantasipi Aulanko wasn't as I remembered it. The vast, low ceilinged lobby was shabby. There was a large mark on the carpet right by the reception desk. The room, for which a surly woman at reception had handed us a key, had two single beds arranged head to toe. The Englishman saw them and laughed. I wanted to cry. Instead I went to open the curtains of a large window at the end of the small room and saw what we'd come for. The lake, Vanajavesi, opened up in front of us. The sun, still high up in the afternoon sky, was blinding.

I went to hug the Englishman and tried to kiss him, but he turned away from me to put his bag down. 'Let's go, I'll show you around.' I said grabbing his hand.

I was eleven when my Father took the whole family to have lunch at the newly built Rantasipi Hotel. It was a drive away from Tampere, but it was Mother's Day. We had the buffet from a long table laid out with various dishes on a crisp, white linen tablecloth. The dining room was a square space with a high ceiling and large windows, which reached down to the floor. I wondered if the restaurant too would look shabby to me now as I led the Englishman around the paths through the Häme National Park, at the edge of which the hotel was built.

The Englishman was unusually quiet. When we first kissed at the airport, it felt the same as before. When we'd made love that night, it had felt the same as before. But today he had hardly touched me. Perhaps he really didn't want to come to this place with me? When I felt a few drops of rain fall onto my bare arms, I began to regret the whole idea myself. I ran into an old, circular shaped wooden summer house, with chipped paintwork, and sat on a half rotting bench to wait out the light shower. The warm summer rain fell softly against the old pointed roof. I felt close to tears. Even the weather connived to spoil the Englishman's week in Finland. Why had I not consulted him before booking this midsummer package? I looked at his straight back. He was leaning against the railing looking out to what I thought was the most beautiful view of the lake. But he didn't seem to be admiring it. Instead he turned around and looked at me. His face was serious. An awful thought entered my mind. Perhaps he was not upset about the hotel at all. Perhaps it was me - us? Perhaps he'd come over to finish it and didn't want to do it in a hotel? That was probably why he hadn't even wanted to do it with me on one of the ridiculous single beds just now. I shivered.

The Englishman came to sit next to me and put his arm around my shoulders, 'What's the matter?' His voice sounded soft.

'Nothing.'

The Englishman let his arm drop. We sat in silence until the rain stopped. When I got up, he took hold of my arm and said, 'What's really wrong?'

I sat back down and looked at the shifting clouds. The sun peeked out from behind the tops of tall, dark pine trees on the other side of the lake. 'You know the sun won't even set tonight? It'll never get properly dark. It's supposed to be a magical night.'

'Oh,' the Englishman said.

'It's you!' I said, 'Something's wrong with you, not me!' I was nearly shouting.

The Englishman looked startled. Now he'll have to say it, I thought. Now I've made him do it.

'It's this hotel...' he began.

I couldn't speak.

'It's expensive isn't it?'

I stared at him. 'Money?' I said. 'You're worried about money?'

The Englishman looked down at his hands and said very quietly, 'Yes'.

I wanted to laugh. 'Oh, that,' I said lightly. 'I've already paid for it, or rather...'

The Englishman looked at me surprised, 'How...?'

'My father paid for it.'

The Englishman's face changed. His jaw became more square than it already was, and his eyes became even darker than they were when he looked at me just before he kissed me. 'Your father has paid for me to stay here?' he asked with a steely voice.

That midsummer's night was all but magical. The Englishman told me he would pay my Father back for the hotel, and then refused to discuss it further. I couldn't understand him. As far as I was concerned my Father owed me big time for all the years my mother had to skimp and save for our school fees and food bills, when all he contributed was the occasional fifty Marks for a birthday or a Christmas present. And even those he sometimes forgot. But the Englishman wouldn't let me explain. We left the hotel almost without speaking to each other. I felt as if he'd suddenly turned into someone else.

Back in Helsinki, at night, my Englishman returned. As long as I didn't look into his eyes, where something had changed, he was as before. He whispered lovely things into my ear as before, his touch was as wonderful as ever and his kisses as sweet as always.

On the Monday after Midsummer I had to go back to work in the bank, where my annual summer internship had already begun, and leave the Englishman alone. He didn't seem to mind but stayed asleep in the morning while I tiptoed out of the house. In the evening I cooked him steak and salad while he read his book. We watched Finnish TV, which he thought was funny, and retired to bed where my old Englishman returned.


The night before the Englishman was due to fly home, he told me he was joining a new submarine at the Scottish base in Faslane. 'It's a nuclear sub,' he said. I'd been reading about the women protesting at Greenham Common against nuclear weapons. I was against them too. As a Finn you felt vulnerable between two superpowers wielding their nuclear armaments. I shivered at the thought the Englishman would be part of that deadly machinery.

'Don't you think the nuclear arms race should be stopped?' I said.

The Englishman regarded me for a moment. 'It's not for me to decide.' he said firmly and continued packing his things.

When we parted at Helsinki airport, we didn't discuss the future. The Englishman bought me a red rose, but I didn't cry.

That awful expression

I'm told what I'm going through is called 'Empty Nesting'. But I'm not a bird. I do not nest, I have no feathers of my own (only expensively acquired ones on some of my garments), have no wings (that I admit to) and I've not got a long beak (nose is a different matter).

Still, my last baby bird has gone.

OK, that sounds too dramatic. She’s eighteen and has not left home for good, nor has she travelled to Timbuktu, nor gone to war in Afghanistan, nor is travelling around the world on a shoestring. No, she’s working with a family I've met in Finland. She has her Grandmother fairly close, her Godmother in the same city, and several of my good old (sorry, girls, don't mean in age) friends who she can contact any time of day or night. So it’s not that I’m desperately worried about her. Apart from the normal of course.

I never thought of myself as one of those mothers who’d mourn the departure of their children. When they were smaller, I used fantasise about coming to an empty house, and if on a rare occasion it happened I’d turn the radio and TV off and sit quietly enjoying the silence. I was keen for them to grow up, to be lovely adults (which they are) and to lead lovely, happy lives.
So I guess I just miss them. It’s an emotion hard to explain. I’m not a control freak. If you saw my house you’d know how true that is. When everyone’s home, I let the kids do what they like, even if it means that I curse under my breath when I’m faced with a messy kitchen first thing in the morning. So it’s not as if I want to have them under my wing all the time. No, I just really like their company, and the company of their friends.Yet it’s not even that simple. If they were just friends, I wouldn't suddenly have a lump in my throat driving alone in the car, or feel desolate when finding the house empty and eerily quiet at the end of a day. Or feel close to tears at the supermarket when realising how much less food just two people eat. Wondering if it’s even worth cooking anything?

I know I need to move on and move on I'm indeed doing. Goodness knows there aren't enough hours in a day to do what I have ambitions for, in addition to those everyday annoyances like sorting and paying bills, and (God forbid) paid (with actual money) work, let alone mourn the departure of perfectly well adjusted, clever, ambitious, healthy grown up children. Or are there?

Rome and Italian women

There's something I have to get off my chest about Italy and then I'll shut up about my wonderful holiday. First, though, a few more pictures.


I can't even remember where this street was, let alone what the church (is it a church?) was called, but the street scene was again incredibly beautiful.





This is 'my square' where I enjoyed an early morning Cappuccino while my friends were still asleep, and several quick Espressos amidst hectic shopping and sight-seeing. It was also opposite a Carabinieri station where I could but admire the stylish uniforms the Italian policemen wore as they paraded in front of me.

This is the cafe, on a busy afternoon...

...and here it is on an early morning. (Spot the uniformed dish in the distance?)

The Tiber at night. My camera is too old for night photos, but I was pleased to at least get one out .

And now onto my rant...

Whenever we're abroad, we try not to read English newspapers or watch BBC, Sky or CNN, but instead peruse local TV and radio channels. I knew about Italian television, UK comedians have run sketches on the quiz shows with scantily glad women for years, and of course I'd been to Italy before. But I was still shocked to see on prime time telly, on RAI 1, the Miss Italy contest running on two consecutive nights. We watched until husband said he felt as if he was watching a soft porn programme with girls the age of his daughter being caressed by the TV camera, dressed only in the tiniest of bikinis. How Italian women allow this nonsense to go on, I wondered.

On the third night when we once again tuned in while getting ready to go out, there was a heated discussion on RAI 1 with a panel perched on a crescent shaped white leather sofa, including a girl wearing some clothes (phew) and a 'Miss Italy 2009' sash. As this was Italian TV, she was hardly allowed to speak, but did get a few words in. I pointed at the TV and said to husband, 'At last, they're discussing the ridiculousness of the beauty contest!'

'You're sure it's not an Italian parliamentary candidate election programme?' he replied dryly.

I laughed.

Although I can get by in restaurants, I don't actually speak any Italian. This was apparent as I could not have been more mistaken about the content of the panel discussion. While surfing the net, waiting for me to get ready the next morning, husband found an Italian newspaper translation. Apparently there had been a scandal at the Miss Italy contest: the female presenter had mistakenly crowned the wrong girl as 'Miss Moda', a sub-category (of which there appeared to be several) of the Miss Italy competition. A sash had for a few moments been placed on the wrong girl. And this is what the heated panel discussion had been all about.

I'm not a fully signed up member of the feminist tribe, but felt that surely Italian women must rise up against this? Not only does Berlusconi make complete fools out of women in Italian politics, nominating his European parliament members on the basis of their looks, brief research done on the interweb showed that Italy has one of the lowest numbers of women on company boards in Europe. I greatly admire their style and general natural gorgeousness, but it seems they have little or no political or economic power. What happens when they age, their husbands start spending more time with their mistresses and their children leave home? I know I'm generalising, but I thought this stuff was fought for, decades ago, by our mothers and grandmothers?

I'm not saying all the other European countries are equal, non-racist or non-sexist, and the recent events in the UK with the ousting of older female TV presenters in favour of young and pretty ones, and the disparities in male versus female salaries in the City or elsewhere show that Britain is anything but fine on the subject. But at least BBC One doesn't run Miss UK contest as its headlining programme and Brown seems to be able to keep his trouser snake from interfering in his choice of ministers.

Don't get me wrong, I still think women should be women and men men. And in Italy they certainly both look wonderful. But when the gentlemanly and feminine behaviour is hiding a serious social disparity between the sexes I must but agree with actress Anna Magnani and journalist Maria Laura Rodotà who are leading a backlash on the sexism on Italian television. Apparently Rodotà's open letter to Italian women a couple of days ago has had a huge response. Thank goodness sanity seems to be prevailing. Then perhaps I can just remember my Roman holiday for the good food, great shopping and certain 'half-past ten' (size ten and a half) shoes and not for the sexism on Italian TV.

Falling in love with Rome

I can't quite believe that this is my first trip to see the Eternal City. Just as well, younger and hungrier I would've never left this place. I'm back to the UK on Saturday and already dreading it. More posts to follow, now off to get ready for dinner at the famed Il Pagliaccio at Via dei Banchi Vecchi. I leave you with some pictures of my time here so far.

Our tempoary home here in Rome. Lovely newly decorated flat. Unfortunately it's been done by a man so no hairdrier (new cut in constant bed head state), no pictures, no dressing table, too few mirrors. You get the idea. But very central by Via di Ripetta.



A very Roman street scene. Boxes were removed a few moments later, but I loved the contrast between the rubbish, shiny scooter and ancient door.

We had lunch in this small family run taverna. Bread and wine to die for. Fiaschetteria Marini, near Via Veneto and walking distance from Galleria Borghese with its stunning collection of Renaissance and Baroque art.


OK, had to put this in too...to add to the millions of pictures just like it.

Another narrow Roman street, with light playing on the contours of the crescent.

Do I really have to return to dreary, cold, practical England?

My new Roman haircut

Not quite. But I had this done for my holiday in Rome. I've had long hair for ages now I thought it was time for a change. Last time I took this bold step was about three years ago, and regretted it for a year at least afterwards. This time I decided not to go so short, and my new lovely hairdresser cut it into a soft bob.

In the picture I've tried to blow dry it myself, with not much success. I'd also run out of any product to put in, so that didn't help. And not wearing a stich of make-up wasn't such a good idea either. But you get the general shape of the cut. So what do you think?

How I came to be in England - Part 19

The Englishman never told me if he went to war. During the Falklands conflict we spoke very rarely. I felt I was an undesirable, living as I was close to the Soviet Union. Even his letters dried up.

I tried to concentrate on my studies and spent most of my time in the University Library. It was still used as the pick-up spot, and was ever busy. I kept bumping into the 4th year boy in the lift, or on the landing where he'd stand leaning against the steel banister, taking long drags on his cigarette. Once when I went for a smoke with my friend, he came out alone from the library and was so startled to see us he stopped dead. His worn-out leather jacket was undone, and his dark brown hair flopped over his eyes.

When he finally moved away from the door and pressed for the lift, the devil in me said, ‘Can I have a light?’ I dangled the cigarette between my fingers. He stared at me for a moment then lit a match and held it in his cupped hands. They were shaking.

My friend and I couldn't look at each other until we heard the lift stop at the ground floor and the outside door open. We both burst out laughing at the same time.

‘He’s still got the hots for you, you know,’ my friend said, growing serious. 'I can’t believe what I just saw!’

In the bus on the way home I thought about the boy, or rather, man. We'd worked out he must be at least 26. According to the School of Economics myth, that group of students had been at the University since the mid seventies. This year would be their 7th. I couldn't believe it, besides, stories grow in the telling. But the guy intrigued me. I couldn't help it. I had so little contact with the Englishman, I was beginning to forget how his lips tasted when he kissed me. We hadn't seen each other for 3 months. As the Falkland’s war progressed, his image grew more and more distant.

No-one in Finland understood what it meant to me to have the Englishman at sea, not knowing whether he was involved in the war or not. If a British submarine was lost to the Argentine Navy, would Thatcher let the world know about it? I doubted it. Eventually his parents would be told if anything happened to him but would they think about letting me know? They’d be too grief stricken to even think of anyone else. Had the Englishman told his mother about the proposal? How I wished I’d said ‘yes’ on that magical night at the ball. I’d now have an official role in relation to my love, and a right to know if the Englishman had been sunk.

My Father was the least sympathetic of all. ‘You should find yourself a good Finnish man.’ He seemed to have forgotten the night at the Russian restaurant. I wondered what had caused this change of heart, but wasn't surprised. He’d always been like it: One day he’d say one thing, the next the complete opposite. For the past few weeks he'd spent all his evenings and weekends at home. Mostly in a bad mood. I wondered if he’d had a row with his girlfriend, but didn't dare to ask.

I was in limbo. I was confused. I was lonely.




The night the news of the sinking of the Belgrano was shown on TV, my Father had been drinking vodka all evening. The bottle of Koskenkorva stood on the floor next to his chair. The Finnish newscaster didn't say if there were any British casualties, but who’d know if several British submarines were involved? I'd seen enough war movies to know submarines hunted ships in packs. I sat on the plush sofa and watched the pictures move in silence. Involuntarily I put my hand against my mouth. My Father narrowed his eyes and glanced sideways at me. ‘You know the Englishman is not there!’

I ran out of the living room. I cried into my pillow, trying to keep quiet. And then the phone rang. I heard my Father answer. He said, ‘Just a moment,’ in English. I ran out into the hall and took the receiver from him.

‘Hello?’

To hear the Englishman’s voice! It sounded as if he was far, far away, but I knew better than ask where he was calling from. I sobbed into the telephone, I couldn't help myself.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, I was just watching the news, and I didn't know…’

‘I’m fine, except, I’m missing you.’

I sighed and sat on the floor in the hall. We spoke for over twenty minutes. I cried, laughed and whispered into the receiver, not caring how much of it my Father heard. When the Englishman said he had to go, I told him I loved him once more, put the receiver down and walked quickly to my room. I fell asleep dreaming of my handsome Englishman.

August is for Crayfish

I must confess I have no idea where the tradition for crayfish in Sweden and later Finland comes from. (I hope I've got this the right way around, else I'll have a lynching by Finnish friends, and possibly a deportation order, when I next step off the plane at Helsinki to look forward to.)


All I know is that when I was a little girl, come 1st of August my Father and his friends went off to the river with a strange net basket and bag clanking with bottles (I'd like to think it was beer but fear it may have been vodka) and tried to catch the little fighty devils. They were seldom very successful and we ended up with the bought variety.




Bringing the angry, live crayfish home from market in a brown cardboard box was a frightening experience. As I held them I jumped every time I heard their claws striking the edge of the box, and each other, in a vain attempt to escape. Even then, I was a complete coward when it came to wildlife. I've tried to keep away from anything untamed and dangerous since (not counting men), but I do love a home cooked crayfish.


As well as eating the overnight marinated crayfish, the Finnish/Swedish tradition involves a quantity of dill, toasted bread and cheese. Oh yes, and a few glasses of vodka. And some drinking songs.

Even though in the UK we could get crayfish other times of the year, we like August, and so our annual crayfish party was held a couple of weeks ago. We get the crayfish from a wonderful man who fishes them in a clean, fast flowing stream, leaving the fish naturally washed and ready to cook. But first they have to be transported home, something I no longer get involved in, and leave it to the men of the house. Oddly this arrangement has worked for years now.


When they arrive, we try to cook them straight away. I supervise. I really do not like to get my fingers bitten. Do you see how very unsuited I am to this good life in the country?


However eating them, while singing and drinking vodka, I excel in.