How I came to be in England - Part 26

The Englishman and I spent our first day, New Year's Eve, in the flat in Edinburgh kitting our room with a few missing essentials. Our street was just off Leith Walk where small shops sold everything from light bulbs to loaves of bread. On the corner of our street was a place called Naz Superstore. In there the Englishman bought a cheap reading lamp, a travel alarm clock and small transistor radio. I felt like we were a young married couple buying our first supplies for our new home, when the Asian man rang the till and with heavily accented Scottish told us what we owed. We walked out of the shop hand in hand, carrying our purchases, back to the flat. It was cold and rainy outside but inside it felt even cooler. Our landlady, the dark haired girl, was standing in the hallway as we entered. She wore a short skirt, long leather boots and a black waxed jacket. Around her neck she'd tied an expensive looking silk scarf. I felt shabby and inappropriately dressed in my new suede jacket, which wasn't standing up very well to the constant rain. Wet streaks had formed in the front and back, soaking through to the padded lining.

'I'm off to a party tonight. You guys doing anything?'

'I'm on duty tomorrow morning,' the Englishman said. The girl kissed him on the cheek, nodded to me, and disappearing out of the door, shouted, 'Too bad. See you in 1983!'

'How come she's got a big flat like this?' I said, scrutinising the Englishman's face. I still wasn't sure about this girl, though I just couldn't believe he would be as stupid and unfeeling as to bring me to the home of someone he'd been to bed with. However much a 'mistake' it'd been.

'I think it belonged to her aunt or something.'

We planned to see in the New Year in a small pub opposite the tenement block. It was full of middle-aged chain-smoking men. When the Englishman asked what I'd like to drink, I said 'A pint of 80 shillings'. In Finland girls always drank what the guys did and the Englishman always had a pint.

The Englishman turned to me from the bar and said quietly, 'I'll get you a half.'

I looked around the brightly lit pub. I was the only woman there. We drank our drinks quickly, amongst the men who'd stopped talking as soon as we entered and didn't start again until we handed our empty glasses to the barman and headed for the door. When I asked what that was all about, the Englishman said, 'They hate the English.'

I didn't understand any of it, but my Englishman looked upset, so I took his arm and started running towards the door of our block.

The mattress on the floor was a narrow single one, but the room was so cold, we were glad for the warmth of each other's bodies when we slept. In the mornings the Englishman would get up first and put on the electric fire, before I could even think of getting out from under the blanket. To keep warm I wore the Englishman's thick submarine socks and his long white uniform shirt in bed. On the days when he went to work in the morning, I'd lie in until ten, then either walk into town or take the bus to the university library. The room was too cold to do any studying in, and I didn't feel brave enough to use the lounge in the flat in case I'd bump into the dark-haired girl.

It rained every single day of the five weeks we spent in the cold, dark flat in Edinburgh. I realised early on I'd brought exactly the wrong clothes. My suede coat, that I'd been so proud of, was ruined, my beige leather boots looked dirty.

But I fell in love with Edinburgh. The imposing presence of the castle, which at night was lit up and looked like a fairy tale fortress, bewitched me. The people I met in shops along Leith Walk or on Princes Street, in the more affluent part of the city, or at the university, were friendly, in a direct, almost Finnish way. This was Viking country after all, I thought.

Though we had little money, the Englishman and I were the happiest we'd ever been. The longer we spent together, the more in love with him I was. I tried not to think about the future, or that time was ticking away, my return home getting closer by the day.

The Englishman taught me to eat blue cheese, after we found an Italian delicatessen on Leith Walk. We ate the Gorgonzola with water biscuits and red wine on the floor of our cold room, laughing and listening to Radio One on the small transistor radio. In the the small kitchen at the other end of the flat, he cooked new foods I'd never heard of, like kebabs: strips of beef fillet tucked into pitta bread, eaten with shredded lettuce and yogurt. Some nights we met up with his many friends in the small, dimly lit pubs scattered around the old part of town. It's cobbled streets and low buildings were as charming and enchanting to me as the castle. I felt I was living a dream.

The evening before the Englishman was due to drive me down to Newcastle to catch a ferry to Gothenburg, the first leg of my journey back to Finland, I cried my eyes out. The shoulder of the Englishman's shirt was soaked from my tears.

'I know this is the end, ' I sobbed. Again we had no idea when we'd next see each other. The Englishman didn't know where he'd be based next, or even when that would be.

'This is just the way the Navy is. You must trust me,' he said taking my face between his hands. 'You know I love you.'

I looked into his eyes. Before I knew what I was saying, the words came out of my mouth. 'But what if...what if there's another girl, just like our landlady, and another accident?'

The Englishman stared at me. He dropped his hands and walked over to the large bay window. He formed his hands into fists and looked down at the dark street below. I held my breath. I wanted to take the words back, yet at the same time I wanted to hear what he had to say. I couldn't bear another long journey across Europe, not sleeping, thinking about this girl my Englishman had slept with. I had to know the truth. Who was she? What had she meant to him? If as he claimed it was nothing, a mistake, what then of our future? Did he still want to spend it with me, did he still want to marry me one day? Or should I return to Finland without a boyfriend. To carry on as we were, together, but 'free'. I had to know before I left. I just had to.

'You know I love you,' the Englishman said, not turning around. He folded his arms across his chest.

I got up and went to stand next to him. I put my head on his shoulder. 'And I love you.' I burrowed myself between his chest and his hands. He laughed, briefly. A dry sound, almost a cough.

'I need to know.' I said quietly.

'It wasn't our landlady. How stupid do you think I am?' he said, freeing himself from my embrace. He walked to the other side of the room.

'Who was it then?'

'I told you, nobody.'

I thought for a while. 'So what are we going to do?'

The Englishman came over to me and took my hands into his.' We'll find a way. I promise. You know I'm going to miss you so much. Being here on my own in this flat, in this room.'

'I know,' I said. His eyes looked sad, his hands were trembling. I knew he was speaking the truth. 'I won't be a naval wife like Lucinda, you know. Never.' I looked into his eyes.

He laughed, relieved now. 'I know that. And I bloody well hoped you wouldn't.'

How I came to be in England - Part 25

The Englishman and I drove up to Scotland on Boxing Day after a lovely, jolly Christmas with his parents in Wiltshire. The journey took a whole day. The Englishman had bought new tapes for the trip, ABC's Lexicon of Love, Night and Day by Joe Jackson and East Side Story by Squeeze. We sang along to the tracks and I tried not to think how apt the lyrics of Tempted were to us. We stopped for lunch - scampi in a basket - in a pub somewhere near the Lake District, in the shadow of an imposingly dark mountain. The sun never made an appearance that day in December and we arrived in Edinburgh in the dim light of a Scottish winter afternoon. It was raining, but the warm welcome the Englishman's friends gave us made up for the bad weather outside.

Lucinda was the first naval wife I'd ever met properly. Her husband, a balding man with a constant smile on his face, Richard, immediately went to 'mix the drinks'. Then he took our bags upstairs. I was ashamed for the amount of luggage I carried. I wanted to explain that I'd taken heavy text books with me, but Richard just smiled and said, 'Don't worry your pretty little head about it.' He winked at my Englishman. 'You've done well there.' I was glad Richard had turned towards the stairs and didn't see me blush.

Lucinda was heavily pregnant. 'I'm at the waddling stage,' she said the next morning when she poured hot tea into two brown glass mugs from a flower patterned tea pot. I smiled at her and looked down at the steaming milky stuff in front of me. I turned my face away from the smell. How to tell Lucinda I didn't drink tea?

The 'boys' as she called the men had left early for work at the Rosyth base. I'd not seen my Englishman in uniform since I'd met him at the British Embassy cocktail party in Helsinki two years before. He looked even taller than usual in his black trousers and a navy jumper with golden lapels. His eyes appeared darker. When he kissed me goodbye, I got a smell of diesel from the scratchy wool. 'You girls can natter to your hearts' content,' Richard smiled. My Englishman winked at me and placed the white cap on his head.

Trying to drink my tea, I looked over to the central garden between the semi-detached houses that made up the naval quarters. The grass was lush and green, but the grey concrete of the houses opposite and the steely skies above made the space look oppressive. I glanced at my watch. It was only nine o'clock, eight hours till I'd see my Englishman again.

'It's laundry day today,' Lucinda said and sighed, heavily lifting herself up from the chair. 'I like to have a daily routine. Makes time pass quicker.'

I looked at her. She had a pretty face, with large pale blue eyes and a luminous complexion. Her long hair, which she kept in an old-fashioned loose bun, was very fair, almost grey. Her vast tummy had spread around her hips and to her backside. The middle of her body looked out of place with her slender wrists and small ankles. I wanted to ask how long she'd been married, if she'd had a career. Or what she'd done before dealing with washing and ironing, dusting and tidying. But Lucinda liked to talk, not to answer questions. She wanted to show how I too could become an efficient housewife. I promised myself never, ever to sink as low as Lucinda had, and never, ever have children.

We stayed two nights with Lucinda and Richard at their naval quarter, until a room in a flat became available on the day before New Year's Eve 1982.

The Englishman and I drove to a part of Edinburgh called Leith in the dark. 'It's an old tenement building,' the Englishman said, but I didn't know what that meant. He parked the car on a narrow street, and hauled our luggage out of the boot. All I could think was that we'd have our own place for five weeks. We could come and go as we pleased, we could stay in bed all weekend if we wished.

The vast hallway had a wide, stone staircase. There was a strong smell of disinfectant. On the second floor landing the Englishman stopped in front of a door, one of many that looked exactly the same, and rang the bell. A slim dark-haired girl appeared, and immediately flung herself onto the Englishman. He kissed her cheek, and freeing himself from her embrace, pulled me to his side. 'This is my girlfriend.'

'Hi,' the girl said and took my hand. Her slim fingers felt bony and cold.

The flat had high ceilings and smelled musty. Our room was the largest, overlooking the street. There was a mattress on the floor, an electric fire and a comfy chair covered in dark green velveteen fabric. Heavy brown curtains were drawn across a large bay window.

'This is great,' the Englishman said.

'How do you know her? ' I asked as casually as I could after the dark-haired girl had left us alone in the massive room. The Squeeze lyrics rang in my ears, 'Tempted by the fruit of another, Tempted but the truth is discovered'. Was this slim girl with the cold fingers the Englishman's 'mistake'? Would he really bring me under the same roof as 'the girl'?

'Oh, she's the sister of a friend.' The Englishman took me into his arms and kissed my neck. I closed my eyes and decided not to think about anything else but the sensation of his body against mine.

Sacred Made Real at The National Gallery

My day in London turned out to be all about bodies. My good friend and I started the day off at the 'Sacred Made Real' exhibition at the National Gallery. The impressive Spanish 16th and 17th century sculptures and paintings strived to bring the human embodiment of religious characters to life in brilliantly executed works, assembled for this unique exhibition. There was gore, humanity and ridiculousness in these works of art. The inventiveness of the artists was incredible. The tears of the Virgin Mary were made of glass, the congealed blooded wounds of dead body of Christ from tree bark and red paint. His eye lashes were horse hairs. All the sculptures were made of wood, but looked as if they were marble. I could understand perfectly well, how 400 years ago, a churchgoer might have imagined the sculptures of saints real. As a not very conscientious or pious Lutheran, I could but admire and be baffled by the limits to which the artists went to project the approved Christian faith of the time.

The spiritual start to the evening must have been the reason I had no hangover this morning. A highly unusual state of affairs after a night out with my friend. Perhaps we are at last growing up?

How I came to be in England - Part 24

The Englishman and I spent the week in August 1982 playing happy families. We stayed in every night, cooked together, and smiled into each other's eyes. In the mornings I went to work at the bank, and the Englishman went shopping for food. He told me the women at the meat counter laughed at him when he tried to use the Finnish phrases I'd written down for him.

When I came home from work he poured me a gin and tonic. We sat outside on the small patio at the back of the house and had our ‘sundowners’. The Englishman told me that’s what the officers called the first drink of the evening when on a naval visit somewhere hot. They'd watch the sun set against the horizon before it rapidly disappeared into the sea.

'It goes, psshht,' he made the noise of a lit match dropped into water.

I saw the noisy children from the houses around us play on the swings in the middle of the communal gardens. There was a the small area of neglected grass in front of us, grown patchy and yellow during the scorchingly dry summer. The sun was still high up in the sky. This far North it didn't set until much later in the evening. Still, in my mind, sitting next to the Englishman I was in Gibraltar or the Caribbean, smoking a cigarette and drinking a smart cocktail.

We didn’t talk much about serious things. Or not enough. At the end of the week when we said goodbye at Helsinki airport, I nearly pulled him back, wanting to start the week all over again. Later in bed, alone, my mind turned to what we hadn't talked about, and a chill spread over me. I wrapped my thin summer duvet tighter around my body. I tried not to think about the ‘girl’ he’d slept with. The Englishman said it was a ‘stupid accident’ that just ‘happened’. When I asked if it was someone I knew, he vigorously shook his head and didn’t look at me. I ransacked my brain for anyone, any girl, who'd shown signs of being smitten with my Englishman. But I hadn’t met many of his friends; I’d only been to Britain twice.

He blamed the drink. But how drunk did you have to be to accidentally sleep with someone? I’d been drunk too, too drunk to realise that I shouldn't have had a one night stand with a stranger, but I didn't call it an accident. I was fully intending to do what I did before I even set out that night. Did that make it better or worse? Had the Englishman, like me, decided that we were finished before he had his accident? If he had, what had changed his mind?

None of it made any sense and now he was gone I couldn’t ask him. Perhaps I should write to him? No, the wait for a reply would kill me. Perhaps when he phoned? I didn't have the courage to spoil a telephone conversation with my doubts. I too had been unfaithful, so why not just forget about it and plan for the future?

At the end of our week together the Englishman told me that in the New Year he was going to be shore based in Rosyth, near Edinburgh. He said I should come over for a longer visit.

Time passed slowly. In late September I re-started my Political Science course at the School of Economics and negotiated a postponement of my exams with my professor, a rare Finnish Anglophile. He organised a pass to Edinburgh University library for me, and recommended books I should seek out there. I could stay in the UK for six weeks. To save money I travelled to London by train and ferry. The whole journey would take 4 days, but I broke it up a little by staying over at my mother's in Sweden.

‘Can’t believe you're still going strong after two years,' my mother said as she helped carry my heavy bag to the Stockholm Railway Station, T-Centralen. ‘Must be love.’ She hugged me hard. I didn’t want to tell her how much I doubted the relationship.

On the first leg of the journey, I had a bunk in a four berth sleeping compartment. In late December Stockholm had a thick covering of snow, but as the train made its way South the landscape turned dull and brown. It soon became dark and there was nothing to see out of the window. I climbed into my bunk and was awoken sharply by loud clanking noises. It sounded as if the train had driven into a ravine. I gasped, and heard a voice in the darkness explain to someone below me, 'The carriages are pulled and moved into the ferry.' I sighed and lay back against my thin pillow. We were in Helsingborg, about to cross over to Denmark. I glanced at my watch and saw it was 1.30 am. I struggled to sleep for the rest of the journey. Tossing and turning under a scratchy thin blanket, I wondered what made me travel through a Continent to be with a man. I wondered if the Englishman did truly love me, and even if he did, was he to be trusted? Would this 'accident' of his be one of many. But I kept reminding myself I was just as bad. At the end of the night I'd convinced myself there was no future for us, and that we'd find this out during the next six weeks - the longest time we'd ever spent together.

Early next morning, when the conductor made his way through the compartments knocking on doors and giving a wake-up call in Danish, I was already in the loo washing my face. Tired after the sleepless night, I entered the busy Hamburg station. I had an hour to kill and found a place to have a bun and a coffee. I hauled my suitcase up a set of escalators and boarded the train to Ostend. I was to arrive there late afternoon and then take an overnight ferry to Dover.

Finally, three days after I'd said goodbye to my Mother, I was on British soil. I took in the warm sea air, and followed the line of equally exhausted passengers from the ferry to board the train to London. The carriages were full and the only free seat was in a smoking compartment full with noisy football fans.

A guy opposite me opened a fresh can of beer and winked at me. 'Fancy a drink, love?' I shook my head and looked away, out of the window at the green grass. I longed for my Englishman's touch. I closed my eyes and willed the train to move faster. I suddenly realised I knew what loving someone more than life itself meant. If the Englishman left me, I wouldn't survive. I had to make this work at all costs. It didn't matter about the 'girl' or the 'accident'. I had to make him want me, only me. There was no other option. I was going to be like Chrissie Hynde, tough and sexy. I started to hum a Pretenders track which the Englishman had given to me two years earlier.

Cause I'm gonna make you see

There's nobody else here

No-one like me

I'm special, so special

I gotta have some of your attention

Give it to me

How I came to be in England - Part 23

I woke up with a dry mouth and a screaming hangover. I felt constrained, and realised I was pushed against the wall in a narrow single bed. The shape next to me moved and I looked around the room. A studio flat somewhere in Ullanlinna. There was a window draped with a see through curtain, a sofa covered with discarded clothes, a table stacked with books. I was incredibly thirsty.

I felt a hand on my waist, then a bulge against my back. His hot mouth closer to my ear. I froze. ‘Sorry, I feel a bit sick.’

He removed the hand, and got up. I closed my eyes.

‘Fair enough,’ he said and slapped my bum. I saw his strong hairy legs disappear into the loo. The sound of his peeing reverberated against the water in the pan. Then the noise stopped and started again. I shuddered, got quickly out of bed and found my clothes. I cursed my stupidity. Why had I agreed to come home with this guy? Because he was a tennis player? Third in the Finnish rankings. Or because the 4^th year guy hadn’t even looked at me when I’d stood next to him at the bar upstairs in the university disco? Because the tennis player with his strong thighs was the only one showing any interest in me in my short skirt and sexy sandals? I was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully clothed when the guy came out of the loo. He looked surprised to see me, as if he’d forgotten last night.

‘Can I?’ I nodded towards the small bathroom door.

‘Sure.’

The loo smelled. I held my breath and splashed cold water on my face and wiped it dry with paper. I must get away, quickly.

When I re-entered the room, the tennis player was on the phone. Looking out of the window, wearing just his boxers, he laughed at something the other person said. I found my handbag and opened the front door. ‘Bye then.’

Startled, the tennis player swung around and with a brief recognition passing his face, nodded and turned back to face the window.

The bus driver looked down at my short skirt and sandals. It was obvious I was still in my going out clothes. He knew me. I took this same bus into work and university every day. I felt so ashamed. Is this what I wanted – to feel cheap, used, not loved, just fucked? Is this what it was like to be free from my fiancé, who was obsessive but at least I always knew he loved me. Or from the Englishman who was forever deemed to be absent? Was this the alternative? Skulking back home in the morning after a cold, senseless one night stand? I looked at the people taking Sunday walks in the heat of the day, normal people with normal lives, not sluts like me with a hangover and dirty knickers on.

When the bus stopped in Tapiola, a woman in her thirties or forties, wearing a stylish one piece white jumpsuit and pretty white espadrilles, got out of the bus. I’d seen her before, though never with a man. Still, she looked happy, always smiling even to the miserable bus driver. She didn’t seem to need a man, so why should I?

It was 1982 after all, not 1882.

When I got home I realised the tennis player hadn’t even asked for my phone number. I must have been very disappointing. He was probably used to women like the one in the Tennis Girl -poster in the Englishman’s room. Slim things with a tiny pert bottoms and no fat on their thighs. I was in the shower, washing away my shame, when the phone rang.

‘I’ve been trying to ring you all night!’ the Englishman sounded angry. He had a nerve!

‘I was out.’

‘Must have been a late night?’

‘I stayed over with a friend.’

‘Oh.’

Silence.

‘So how are you?’ The Englishman sounded hesitant now.

‘Fine.’

‘Please don’t be like this.’

‘Like what?’

‘Look, I’ve got more leave, and I’ve decided to come and see you. To talk. That is, if you want me to?’

My heart started beating very hard. ‘When?’

‘Week after next. Is that OK?’

There had never been such a short amount of time between us seeing each other. Only five weeks! When I told my Father the news, he just grunted and shot me a quick glance. ‘Guess you want me out of the way again then?’

But I didn’t care about my Father’s grumpiness, not now. I only had ten days to prepare for the Englishman’s visit. I decided not to arrange anything special. Helsinki was still basking in the most glorious summer weather, so I’d take him to Seurasaari, or Suomen Linna, or for a walk along the Esplanande, just like on that first wintry evening two years ago. We’d do just as much or as little he wanted to, but we would talk. I would tell him how much I missed him, how lonely I felt, how I worried about him being in the Navy, operating nuclear weapons, how I feared I’d never get a job in England. And I would have to tell him about the tennis player. I knew I should have told him over the phone, but then I thought we were finished, didn’t I? I felt so guilty, and for what. Why had I been so stupid? What if he wouldn’t forgive me? What if he never wanted to see me again?

We sat on the edge of my bed. The Englishman had arrived an hour ago. At the airport he’d hugged me tightly and kissed me for a long time. But now, he was sitting next to me looking down at his hands.

‘What’s the matter?’

He lifted his head and his eyes rested on me briefly, before he turned and looked away. ‘I’ve got to tell you something. I’ve been so stupid.’

I waited. What was he talking about?

‘I’ve slept with someone else.’

I heard the words even though they were whispered in a low tone. They were like daggers piercing my heart. This is what he had come all this way to tell me? I couldn’t speak for a long time. Then anger surged inside me.

‘Me too,’ I said, quickly.

‘What?’ he turned around and his eyes were black.

I couldn’t face him. I lowered my eyes and looked down at my hands. But the Englishman wouldn’t let me be. He took hold of my shoulders and shook me. ‘What did you say?’ His grip was strong.

‘You’re hurting me.’ I sobbed. I couldn’t help myself. I wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand and stood up. ‘This is it. We’re both as bad as each other. What kind of a start is this to a relationship? We might as well stop here.’

The Englishman followed me into the dark kitchen. A lonely street lamp was shining against the August twilight. The refrigerator hummed into the silence between us. I don’t know how long we stood there either side of the small kitchen table.

‘Come here,’ the Englishman said.

I turned around and looked at his face. He’d been crying too. I ran into his arms and started sobbing again.

‘Shh, it’s OK, we’ll be OK.’ The Englishman stroked my hair, then took my face between his hands and looked deeply into my eyes. ‘Let’s go to bed. We’ll talk after?’

Let's hear it for the boomerangs

I read in one of the Sunday papers that this it what grown up children who return home when they've already once flown the nest are called. A growing phenomena now that so many newly graduated youngsters don't immediately land their dream job. Or any job...

Husband says our boomerang is 'back on the payroll'. Rather harsh in my view as to me he's a gift from God in more ways than one. I shall count the ways:

1. His return coincided with daughter's departure.

2. He's an excellent, innovative cook. We spend hours planning menus with simple fresh ingredients, and sometimes he even cooks lunch after a session in the gym.

3. He knows when I want (read 'need') a drink. He knows which wines I like, usually Sauvignon Blanc, and that it needs to be nicely chilled and poured into my favourite, large glass.

4. He has definite opinions about everything from politics to literature to fashion and can argue his case intelligently until the cows come home (and does...).

5. He's got a wicked sense of humour.

6. Best of all, we never tire of his company as he leaves us for weeks on end to 'be a social butterfly' or to be with his girlfriend in Oxford. A perfect boomerang.

10 Things British I haven't succumbed to

I have nicked (OK borrowed with permission) this idea from a fellow lovely ex-pat blogger Expat Mum. She wrote about things she hasn't embraced in her host country,USA, whereas I (she takes a deep breath) am going to write about the UK...here goes:

1. Strong, milky tea. How can you drink that stuff? After 25 plus years in the UK I'm still a true Finn: it's got to be strong, black coffee.

2. Instant coffee. See above. When I came to the UK I was always offered something that I can only call teacoffee, weak, mud water-like stuff with a few grains of instant coffee floating on the surface. Then they'd pour fatty milk in it and expect me to drink it. Thank The Lord for Starbucks.

3. Damp, cold, drafty, old houses. In Finland we have to have warm houses, otherwise in the winter we would die. And OK, I admit, I have sort of succumbed to this. But, when we moved into our old house, I did insist on installing efficient central heating, and good showers. And I use them. I insist on not being cold in my own house.

4. Saying one thing and meaning something quite different. Here are some examples:

'We must get together soon' = 'Please let me go, I don't like you'.

'That's so interesting' = 'I am sooo bored.'

'No problem' = 'You're such a nuisance'

'Don't mention it' = 'You should be kissing my feet'

You get the picture. Finns may be considered a little uncouth and impolite, but they say what they mean.

5. Being obsessed with animals. I have dogs and cats but to me children are more important, sorry.

6. Calling complete strangers, 'Mate', 'Love', 'Dear', or 'Darling'. Its' so obviously insincere, and at worst patronising, so why do it?

7. Serving chips with everything, or eating everything in either a batter or pastry. We live on an island, why can't we have proper fish?

8. Bread sauce. Just think about it, what could be more wrong?

9. Not dressing for the weather. For example, wellies on a snowy day? They're cold and slippery...?

10. Chit-chat at business meetings. No-one's interested in the weather, no-one cares how long it took you to get to our offices. Let's just save time and get down to business.

Why I'm Afraid of Women

Where to start on this? Honesty? OK I'll try that.

In the past few years I've become very close to my daughter. We've become good friends. I know this is not unusual. Besides, she is my only daughter and as you know we live in the middle of nowhere, where making and retaining friends isn't the easiest task in the world. (I know I go on about where we live, but as the nights draw in I'm getting increasingly fretful about the prospect of lonely nights spent in this rambling old house in the middle of rolling, deserted fields). So when I knew she was leaving home, I decided to make a real effort to find new local female friends. But, since I'm very bad at being sociable, this hasn't been an easy task.

Plus I think I'm scared of women.

I have friends, several lovely women, some of whom I've known since we were at school together, but most of them live either in a different country (Finland) or somewhere else in the UK. 'Haven't you made any local friends over the 15 years you've lived in the country?' I hear you shout. Well yes, I did have a very good friend once. And she's the reason I'm afraid of women now.

We met when our sons were nine or ten. They were at the same school and we lived a few villages apart. We hit it off almost as soon as we met. She was vibrant, sexy, loud and funny. Everything all the other English women I'd met since I moved to Britain weren't. She didn't care what she said to whom, she wasn't demure, she never compromised, she was as far from a delicate English rose you could get. And we shared a passion for shopping, particularly designer fashion.

She introduced me to New York, a city which I still remember fondly and always want to return to. Our trips to NYC became legendary, I could write a novel just about them. We took full advantage of the low Dollar rate of the early Noughties and stayed in the best hotels, ate in the best restaurants, went to the most exclusive clubs. We were Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda all rolled into one (or into the two of us). We were best friends for nearly five years.

But something happened. At the root of all the shopping and partying there was an underlying unhappiness in both of our personal lives and we reacted in very different ways to it. Suddenly she wanted us to do everything together. It seemed I couldn't move without letting her know about it first. And she became aggressive and hostile for silly things; if I couldn't meet her of an evening out or go to the gym with her. We had fights, real fights. The first time it happened we laughed afterwards and were truly puzzled how a couple of forty-year-olds could act like a couple of fourteen-year-olds. But then the fights continued and became more acrimonious and serious. I was trying to work on my marriage while at the same time being pulled to pieces by my so called friend. Even now, years later, when I think of the things she said to me I get upset all over again. And scared. Afraid to let myself care so much about a friend again for it hurt so much.

So now whenever I meet a nice new person, a potential good friend, I back off as soon as it gets more personal. I don't want to get hurt again. The flip side is, now my daughter has gone, there's no-one I can do silly girly things with, like gossip about the articles and fashion on Grazia, drool over the latest arrivals at Net-a-Porter, get too drunk at a party (OK, I DID NOT do that with my daughter BUT do frequently do it with another great good friend who shall remain anonymous - you know who you are) , meet for a quick coffee and moan about life, go shopping and overspend. Or go for lunch and end up making it for dinner and a late night out too (see above!).

My London friends keep telling me to move up and then I'll be able to see them more often. But alas, the housing market is stupidly contriving against us once again. Besides, lonely and deserted as this place is, it's still a unique house in a unique location which I'm not quite ready to give up yet. And I'm not sure I am ready for London traffic and noise after the peace and quiet of our current location.

So, lucky me, I found blogging! And today, my ether friends, I really need that cup of coffee and moan about life in general. Here's my list.

1. It's bloody raining. It's quite warm outside but the house inside is freezing. How does that work?

2. I've finally after three weeks managed to get the windscreen man to call and replace a cracked one in my car and he turns up with one for the wrong model. I've told him to go ahead and fit it anyway and hope an extra antenna doesn't affect the eventual re-sell price. I couldn't face sending him back the mile and half country lane (plus some) to go and get another. Besides, it would mean another day waiting around for him.

3. I should be getting on with tax returns, but cannot face the most boring task of the year quite yet.

4. When I came back from Rome I decided to cut down on drinking and keep off the SB at least during week days. But, with son here to 'look after me' while his father is away on business (as he often is these days), it's felt like I'm still on holiday and have only managed one measly wine-free day in two weeks.

5. Doctor confirmed today I have a rare virus which is attacking my immune system. Not dangerous, but just uncomfortable. That's alright then!

Huh, huh, I feel so much better now...

How I came to be in England - Part 22

The Englishman didn't phone the following day, or the day after that. On the Saturday morning, three days after I’d told him I wanted to finish it, I was woken up by a knock on my door.

A strong light filtered through the half-closed Venetian blinds on my bedroom window. The weather was continuing to mock me. That summer of 1982 was the sunniest I’d ever seen in Helsinki. It made everyone smile on the streets and in the bank, where, as the young summer intern, I was processing people’s mortgage applications. I had no desire to join them in their happiness. I just wanted to go to work, come home, watch TV and go to bed, where I’d lie awake trying not to think about the Englishman.

This weekend was supposed to be the hottest of the summer so far and, by the looks of it, the sun was already high up in the sky. I climbed out of bed and opened the door.

Even my Father looked happy. 'We're taking the boat out to the archipelago. Do you want to come?'

I thought for a moment, then nodded to him and closed the door. ‘Don’t forget your swimming trunks or whatever you women wear,’ he shouted through the door.

Without wondering too much about his good humour, or the strange desire to include me in the first outing of his latest purchase, I got ready and was soon on board the legendary ‘Paula’ as he’d christened his speed boat. The girlfriend and I sat at the rear while my Father, proudly wearing a blue seaman’s cap, steered the thing at high speed under the bridges on the Western shore of Helsinki. He was behaving like a child with a new toy, veering it this way and that, making us scream as he accelerated and made the boat bounce on the surface of the sea.

The girlfriend had made a picnic. ‘Did you have a nice time in Aulanko,’ she asked when we sat around a checked tablecloth she'd placed on the ground. I didn’t know what to say, but instead looked down at the food: a plateful of my father’s Gravad Lax, a packet of thinly sliced smoked ham, a loaf of rye bread, butter, salted gherkins. She handed me a paper plate and my Father picked up slices of ham with his fingers and stuffed them into his mouth. ‘Don’t talk about that Englishman,’ he mumbled to the girlfriend.

She stared at him, the sea breeze making her messy hair blow over the dark brown eyes. ‘I just wondered, because the weather…’

‘She doesn’t want to talk about it – can’t you see that?’ my Father barked.

Here we go, I thought and lay down shutting my eyes. The deserted cliff, which my Father had finally settled on, was warm against my bare back. I was so tired. I hadn’t slept through one night since the phone call from the Englishman.

‘Give her a Lonkero,’ I heard my Father say. The girlfriend handed me a cold bottle of the gin and bitter lemon drink. I smiled. I felt sorry for her. She had no idea what she was taking on with my Father. And I felt a pang of guilt – should I warn her about his drinking and his moods? Should I tell her that he’d hit my Mother? But all men were pigs. She was old; surely she would've worked that out herself by now?

As I lay in the warm sunshine, I wondered how it was that I’d let myself be completely steered by men. First by my Father, then by my fiancé and now by the Englishman. Wasn't it high time I took decisions on my own life without considering a man?

We stayed on that small, rocky island all day. We swam in the sea and talked of old times. My Father told stories about when I was little. How he had to buy me a large box of chocolates to stop me crying when my older sister started school. How, lying on his back, he used to rock me on his belly when I was a little baby, and how my hair was wispy and thin. How I’d been ill with diarrhoea and vomiting and nearly died when I was four. How useless my Mother had been, just crying, and how he had to be the one to take me to hospital. I looked over to his large frame splayed on the rock, the round, smooth shape of his belly mirroring that of the cliff, and wondered if he remembered what happened just a few weeks ago when I was sick with a similar virus. But there was no sign that he’d made the connection. So I listened and smiled and laughed when required to. But I knew this brief interlude of good humour with my Father would not last.

At the end of the day, when he steered the boat into harbour, my Father pressed a few purple hundred Mark notes into my palm and said, ‘There’s a bit of money for a Lonkero or two. Go and enjoy yourself!’ He'd decided to stay with the girlfriend for the rest of the weekend. On the bus home, I though for once he was right. But how did he know about me and the Englishman? He wasn’t at home during the fateful telephone conversation. How, when he didn’t even remember that I was seriously ill a few weeks ago, did he notice that I was in need of cheering up now?

But I took his advice. When I got home it was only seven o’clock. I looked at myself in the mirror and noticed how the day spent in the sun had bronzed my face and limbs. There was no-one around to go out with, so I decided to do something I’d never done before.

Wearing a bright green miniskirt, with a matching scoop neck top and black lace-up sandals, I walked alone into the University disco. It was half-full even though it was a Saturday night. Most students must be either travelling around Europe on Inter Rail or at their parents’ summer places. At least that’s why my friends were out of town. I went up to the bar and ordered a Lonkero. As soon as I turned around I spotted him. Leaning against the railings of the bar upstairs on the mezzanine floor was the 4th year boy I’d flirted with since I started at the School of Economics. He was looking at the dance floor, but hadn’t spotted me. I ducked out of his sight. My heart started racing. I realized it was him I'd come out to find. But now I didn’t have the courage to go and talk to him, or even invite him over with a covert glance or gesture. I lit a cigarette and tried to look cool. I gulped down the drink and ordered another. I needed get drunk. Fast.

‘What’s the hurry?’ the guy at the bar said and handed me the second bottle. I stubbed out my cigarette and said, 'No hurry, I'm just thirsty.' The barman smiled and in his eyes I saw that I looked good. I smiled back and holding an unlit cigarette and the drink headed for the stairs to the mezzanine level.