How I came to be in England - Part 30

I finished my drink in a few large gulps and asked the Englishman to get me another. We were leaning against the low balcony wall at the Dolphin mess. Music was flowing in from the rooms beyond, and people were moving in and out of the long, wide outdoor space overlooking the harbour mouth. Lights from Old Portsmouth opposite flickered against the dark water. Men were handsome in their pressed uniforms and polished boots, women glamorous in their long ball gowns.

‘Alright darling, what would you like?’ the Englishman asked with a puzzled look on his face. Ladies weren’t supposed to ask for a drink, they were supposed to wait to be asked, I thought. But I didn’t care. I saw the large beer glass in his hand and nodded towards it.

‘A pint? Are you sure?’

I said nothing, just looked at the Englishman.

‘I’ll get these, it’s my round,’ one of the other guys the Englishman had been talking to said and walked inside the noisy mess. He too was on the OPS course and the Englishman had also been to Dartmouth Naval College with him. ‘He’s really, really rich,’ the Englishman now whispered into my ear.

I should have been impressed, but all I could think about was what the old guy had said to me.

‘Who was that man I was talking to before,’ I said, trying to sound nonchalant. Or as if I was just making conversation.

‘Oh, he’s Commander SM. He sort of runs this place. Why, what did he say?’

But the Englishman didn’t really want to know. He wasn’t even looking at me. He was surveying the crowd. He waved his hand to some-one. The buzzing sound returned to my ears. A pretty girl wearing a salmon-coloured silk satin gown, clinched around her tiny waist with a huge bow at the back, was walking towards us. She was flanked by three men in uniform.

‘Hello, handsome,’ she said to the Englishman and kissed him on the cheek.

The Englishman introduced her. ‘This is the lovely Tash. The girl we were all in love with at Dartmouth.’

I managed a smile, although my ears were buzzing ever louder and my face seemed to have frozen into an unmoveable stare.

‘Nonsense,’ Tash said. She dipped her chin and looked up from under her thin eyebrows at the Englishman, feigning shyness.

The drinks arrived. As I was handed the pint, there was a silence. All eyes seemed to follow the glass of beer as it travelled from the tray to my hand.

‘Well, cheers,’ the Englishman said.

‘Cheers!’ all said in unison.

‘You know, I once knew an Australian girl who drank pints.’ One of Tash’s entourage said, nodding kindly to me.

‘Yes, and I’ve heard all the girls down under do!’ said the other.

‘I bet in Norway girls drink pints too?’ asked the Englishman’s friend who’d brought me the drink.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘I’m from Finland.’

Another silence.

The Englishman took hold of my waist and said, ‘She can drink any of you under the table, though she hasn’t grown a beard yet.’

Laughter.

As usual, I thought, I’m the butt of a joke. I drank my beer quickly and when asked if I wanted another, I nodded.

By the time we sat down to our meal I was drunk, but all I wanted was to drink more. Occasionally the Englishman took my hand under the table, and asked if I was alright, but for the most part he laughed and talked loudly with the other people at our table. One of whom was the infamously lovely Tash, or Natasha, as the Englishman told me she was really called. ‘But everyone calls her Tash,’ he’d added.

She was sitting at the other side of the round table, attended to by a handsome naval officer either side of her. I felt sorry for a dark-haired girl who sat next to one of Tash’s adoring fans. Her purple dress had a deep cleavage, showing off her plump breasts. Occasionally I’d catch a guy around the table staring at her assets, but for the most part she was ignored, leaning across her partner to catch what Tash was saying.

As soon as the Englishman left my side, or I went to find the ladies’, other uniformed men approached me as if I was fair game. I thought somehow they’d guessed I was foreign. And that I was inferior, even desperate. Just like nurses. The Englishman had said there was a joke amongst young naval officers: ‘There are only two certainties in life: death and nurses.’

We weren’t home in the little house in Southsea until gone two o’clock. I was sick in the bathroom all night. Even after I’d brought up everything I’d eaten and drunk that night, I couldn’t sleep and sat at the edge of the bed. I felt like crying. The alarm clock on the side table said 5.30. Sleepily the Englishman put his head on my lap and said, ‘You got room spin?’

I looked at his dark eyes. ‘No.’

The Englishman closed his eyes and lay back against the pillow, ‘Come to bed then.’

I knew I should have done as the Englishman said. I should have lain beside him and slept. I should have waited until the morning to talk. It was a Saturday and we’d have the whole day together. Our last whole day before I was going back home to Helsinki. But, still drunk, I couldn’t help myself.

‘You’re never going to marry me, are you?’

There was no response. I turned around to see if he had gone back to sleep. If he’d dared…Anger surged inside me.

But the Englishman was lying on his back, eyes wide open, looking at the ceiling. I turned away from him again. I felt such rage at the Englishman for putting me through the night. He must have known what the people would be like, looking down their noses at me, a foreign girl daring to dream that an Englishman, a British Naval Officer, would ever marry her. Introducing me to a girl like Natasha, who I’d learned later in the evening was the daughter of an Admiral. Who’d be the perfect wife for my Englishman. She’d know how to behave at cocktail parties and naval dances. She’d not wear a dress that was obviously cheap and too revealing, or drink pints.

‘Well?’ I said.

‘Come here.’

Oh, how I wanted to go and lie next to the Englishman. To feel his strong arms around me, to put my head against his warm chest, to cry about everything in his embrace. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t going to be charmed by his empty words, by his warm kisses, or by sex. I had to be strong, and not be seduced. I had to know if we had a future.

‘No.’

I heard the Englishman sit up. He yawned loudly. I waited, with my back to him. I heard him breathe heavily, deliberately, in and out. ‘You know how much I love you.’

I turned around, ‘You don’t even mean that any more!’

‘But I do, darling, please, I’m so tired…you’ve been sick all night and…’

‘Oh yeah, it’s because I’m so uncivilised, foreign girls do that you know. Especially we Finns, we’re barely human, so we can’t really be trusted to attend fancy balls like tonight. Unladylike freaks, we drink pints of beer, not tiny glasses of wine like your lovely Tashes of this world.’

The Englishman got up. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ He looked angry, standing there in his boxers, his arms by his side, his fists tightly bunched.

Tears started to run down my face. I wiped them away with the back of my hand, swallowed hard and said, ‘That man, the Commander, he told me you knew you’d never be able to marry me.’

Silence.

The Englishman sat at the edge of the bed next to me. He put his arm around my shoulders, but I shook it off. I didn’t want his pity. I was shivering, thinking he’d soon tell me it wasn’t true. That he loved me and would marry me as soon as I wanted, that he’d never been in love with that pretty Tash, that he would die rather than lose me forever.

‘Look, I wasn’t going to tell you…’

‘Tell me what?’

The Englishman was looking down at his hands. I couldn’t see his face when he spoke. ‘I wrote to my Appointer and asked him if there was a problem with marrying some-one from a near-Communist country.’

I could hardly breathe. I stood up and shouted, ‘Finland is not a Communist country!’

‘I know that, but as far as the Navy is concerned…’

I was speechless.

The Englishman came up to me and took me into his arms. I was stiff in his embrace while he spoke.

‘I was told by some-one that marrying a girl….from…you know.’ The Englishman took a deep breath. ‘You’ve got to admit Finland is a bit different, so close to Soviet Union…anyway they told me my career in the Navy might be affected.’

I wriggled out of the Englishman’s grip, but he took hold of my arm and held onto it. ‘So I thought I’d ask directly, you know from the one person, my Appointer, who makes the decisions on my career.’

He stopped there.

I looked at his face. ‘So what did he tell you?’

‘I’m still waiting for his reply.’

Talking of obsessions....

I was reading a post by the incredibly talented Thatgirl39 (talented because she wrote a post when feeling under the weather which inspired me to write this one, some people...) which mentioned obsessions, clothing ones in particular.

In the face of the impending move from our house in the sticks, where we've been for the past thirteen years, I decided to sort out my clothes and recycle as much as I could bear. Before the Big Move we're going to have builders in, and need to relocate to a temporary home in the sauna cottage. All furniture, clothes, bedding etc, etc. is going to be moved out so that the upstairs can be rearranged and decorated. To say I'm not looking forward to the upheaval is an understatement. But I digress.

My first aim with the clothes reorganisation was just to put away the remains of the summer wardrobe, paying particular attention to items that were never worn this past season. This has been my motto for some years now. If it goes unworn for 12 months, it's out. That's the theory, the reality is rather different. Particularly as this summer was such a poor one in the UK (again) and we didn't have our usual break abroad in the sun, due to the Daughter's operation. So even a halter neck sun dress which I bought for a special occasion didn't get a wear this year.

While I went through my clothes rail and drawers with the critical eye of Gok, he the God of all wardrobes, I tried, as well as to decide what to keep and what to throw away, also to colour co-ordinate and place items in piles of similar pieces of clothing. (Can you tell I was supposed to be actually writing an actual manuscript today?)

And what did I find?

Fifteen - yes 1 5 - pairs of jeans.

This did not include cut-offs for gardening, jeans skirts, jeans jackets, or jeans shorts. Five pairs were by my favourite make, 7 For All Mankind, three of which looked more of less identical. Feeling brave (and shocked), I threw away five of the 15, not, however, being able to give up any of the 7's.

I always knew I had a black dress problem. I didn't even bother to count how many of those I have. But jeans? I had no idea I was this obsessed with them too. When I found this out, I became so deranged that I told husband not to let me buy any blue jeans or black dresses ever again.

Now I'm really regretting that remark. He has the memory of an elephant when it comes to my clothes shopping. What if, which is highly likely, I find a beautiful pair of 7's in - say - the January sales? At 30, 40 or even 50% off? They do, as I have found, last for a long time, fit my bum like a glove (not an easy task I can tell you) and remain forever in fashion (I hope!).

Or, even more likely, I find a perfect black number for the Christmas party season?

Help!

Feeling somewhat jaded, I turned to my shoe cupboard. Now here, I cannot use the same 12 month principle. It just isn't possible. I love shoes. Even more than I love jeans. I'm aware that I have a fondness for one particular style and colour (I bet you can guess), but I can live with this. Did I mention I love shoes? Just because I never wear most of the them does not, I repeat DOES NOT, mean that any should be thrown out. OK, I did manage to give up a pair of Dune sling backs and Scholl canary yellow clogs that I haven't worn for three years. As for the rest, they're coming with me, however small the clothing arrangements in the cottage. If necessary, I'll sleep next to them. And place my jeans carefully under the mattress....

How I came to be in England - Part 29

I arrived at Helsinki airport only twenty minutes before the flight to London was due to leave. I’d missed the bus from Espoo, where it stopped outside my Father’s house, by a whisker. The nasty old bus driver had, I was sure, seen me running towards it dragging my heavy suitcase, but nonetheless had driven off, leaving me breathlessly cursing the bloody man. He had something against me, even though I’d barely exchanged one word with him during the two years I’d been living with my Father. Then I’d just missed a tram and had to wait for twenty minutes for a Finnair bus at the terminal in Töölö.

‘The flight is full,’ the heavily tanned, red-haired woman at the check-in said. Her bright pink lipstick clashed with her colouring, and with the sky blue Finnair uniform.

‘Oh,’ I said, not really comprehending how I could be booked onto a flight and not have a seat reserved for me. An awful sensation came into my stomach: did this mean I’d miss the flight?

The woman revealed a set of white teeth, ‘You’ve been upgraded to Business Class.’

I looked at her. I was still feeling dizzy.

‘Have a good flight, Miss.’ She handed me the boarding pass, and nodded politely, as if I’d suddenly become a more important person.

I was wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt under a pale blue jumper. Everyone else in business class wore a suit, and I was the only woman in the whole compartment. Apart from the air hostesses of course, who I felt sure knew I didn’t belong there.

The plane was absolutely full. I had a window seat next to an older Finnish man, who started talking to me as soon as we took off. ‘Going to London for work?’

‘No, I’m a student, going to see a friend.’

‘Do you study at Helsinki University?’ The man smiled to me in a kindly way, like a father to a daughter. I guessed his children were my age.

‘No, at Hanken, The Swedish School of Economics.’

This really seemed to impress the man, ‘Oh!’ he said.

I turned towards the window. We were hovering above white clouds. The air hostess brought us a meal and I asked for orange juice. I looked at my watch: only 2 hours fifteen minutes until we’d land at Heathrow and see my Englishman.

‘You must be excited about the elections then?’ the man said. He was chewing a piece of chicken and I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.

‘The elections?’

‘Yes, Margaret Thatcher! You must like her radical views on the Economy?’

I looked at the man. His thin hair was going grey at the temples. I had no idea of the politics of the newly re-elected British Prime Minister, only that she was right-wing. I agreed with everything the man said, trying to avoid further questions. Eventually he gave up when I dug the latest Graham Greene novel I’d borrowed from the British Council out of my handbag.

The Englishman was waiting for me with a dark red rose in his hand. He kissed me for a long, long time. I’d forgotten how he smelled of cigarettes and aftershave. His mouth tasted minty. I felt breathless, my heart beat so hard I felt sure everyone around us must have heard it.

The new car was on the second level of a concrete parking lot. It was a grey and black Ford Fiesta and looked dull compared to his old yellow Spitfire, but the Englishman told me the sports car was always breaking down. We headed down to Portsmouth and I was struck by the bright colour of the fields we passed. It was a hot June day. Some farmers were already cutting their crops of hay. In Finland we didn’t start doing that until at least a month later. Summer was so much further ahead here, I thought, and wished I could stay in England forever.

‘You didn’t forget your dress, did you?’ The Englishman said.

‘Sorry?’

‘For the Dolphin Summer Ball?’

‘Yes, I remembered.’

‘Great. It’ll be good fun!’

The Englishman had told me about the ball which was held each summer at the submarine base in Portsmouth. I was nervous about meeting a new set of friends. I’d brought the same dress, (the only ball gown I owned) that I’d worn to the University Ball in Helsinki year and a half ago. I was afraid it’d be far too ordinary-looking. I was sure the other girls would be wearing designer gowns, not one that was made by a friend from cheap material.

We were the only ones out of the old group of navy friends who that summer stayed in the terraced house in Southsea. It belonged to the Englishman’s best mate who was in Northern Ireland. Another friend, who’d lived there two years ago when I’d been to stay for the first time, was working for NATO in Brussels and another was in Faslane, where my Englishman had just ‘escaped’ from.

Each morning after the Englishman left for work, looking handsome in his uniform, I walked down to the shops at the end of our street. I cooked Finnish dishes, searching for the right ingredients at the small butchers and greengrocers.

I made Karelian stew out of diced beef, pork and lamb’s kidneys, pea soup from a hock of ham and dried peas, fish chowder from cod and new potatoes. I struggled to work the gas oven and hob in the little kitchen at the back of the house, often burning my fingers with matches. It seemed so old-fashioned and dangerous to cook with gas, but the Englishman told me it was much better and cheaper than electric.

The Summer Ball was two days before I was due to return to Helsinki. I’d been dreading it, trying not to think about it. The Englishman wore his summer dress jacket, white with the gold lapels. When he was ready and I was still getting dressed, he kissed me on the cheek and said, ‘No rush, darling. I’ll go and fix us G & T’s’

I took a deep breath and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t want to wear too much make-up but I looked so pale, I added more blush to my cheeks. It was another hot summer’s evening. It had only rained once during the whole two weeks I’d spent in the house in Southsea. But tonight I felt cold. I couldn’t understand why I was so nervous about this evening. Was it the fear of perhaps seeing the girl, the Englishman’s ‘accident’? We hadn’t discussed the past, or the future. But still, she had to be somewhere. She had to be someone. The two weeks had gone by in blissful haze of domesticity. It was only now, when I knew we had to go out together, it occurred to me that I still didn’t know if we really were a proper couple. I’d again not been brave enough to talk about anything important with the Englishman and I certainly couldn’t do it now.

The Englishman drove us to the jetty in HMS Vernon, where we boarded a pass-boat over to Gosport on the other side of the harbour. The Englishman went in first, then gave me his hand to guide me onto the small vessel. I felt as if I’d entered the last century when we sat down next two other couples. The ladies in their evening gowns, made out of luxurious velvet and silk, wearing long satin gloves, smiled. The men took of their caps and nodded to me.

‘Good evening,’ one said.

‘Good evening,’ I replied. It was still warm, but I was shivering.

The Englishman sat next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘You OK?’

‘Are Lucinda and Richard going to be there?’

The Englishman laughed. ‘No, I don’t think you’ll know anyone, but don’t worry I’ll look after you,’ he whispered into my ear as the loud engine of the boat started and we headed towards the other shore.

The Dolphin submarine school knew how to organise a party. There were different areas for food, dancing or just socialising. There was a disco, a Caribbean steel band, and a live group called ‘The Smugglers’, who played old-fashioned music from the Seventies.

The Englishman led me to a vast balcony overlooking Old Portsmouth and Southsea. He handed me a drink and introduced me to a string of his friends and their wives or girlfriends. As soon as they told me their names, I forgot them. I couldn’t follow the conversation over the music which flowed from the different rooms inside. Everyone was happy, the men were making jokes and the women laughed out loud. I smiled too, trying to pretend I’d understood the punch lines.

‘You stay here, I’m going to check where we’re sitting for supper,’ The Englishman said and left.

A slightly older man, who seemed to be on his own, came to stand next to me. He had watery eyes and thinning pale hair. His jacket had several gold rings on it so I guessed he must be more senior than the Englishman.

‘He’s not given you a set of Dolphins yet then?’ he said, bending down to look at the top of my dress.

I placed a hand over the low-cut cleavage. I felt very exposed, and cursed my decision not to buy a proper ball gown after all. Mine was made of very thin fabric. It had narrow straps, making it impossible to wear a bra. I’d told the Englishman I thought it too revealing but he’d just laughed and said I looked very good in it.

‘Sorry, I don’t understand?’ I said. The man pointed at a small brooch-like pin on his uniform jacket.

‘Oh. No, he hasn’t.’

The Englishman had told me about the Dolphins, the emblem of the submarine service. Once you passed your exams and had done the sea time in a boat, you had to earn your Dolphins by catching the pin between your teeth from a glass of rum. I remembered how proud he’d sounded when he told me about the ceremony. But I didn’t realise the ladies could have them too.

The man laughed at my confusion and said, ‘I don’t suppose he’s told you he can’t marry you either?’

I looked at the man’s red, flushed face.

Just then the Englishman reappeared by my side. ‘C’mon darling, there’s some-one I want you to meet.’

I was still staring at the man.

‘Excuse us, Sir,’ the Englishman said to him and led me away.

My ears were ringing. The Englishman took me to the end of the long balcony. I saw how the lights from the other side of the harbour reflected against the dark water. The floor beneath me felt uneven, as if I was still on the boat. Or floating in the water. Noises around me seemed muffled. Had I gone deaf? The Englishman rested one hand on my waist, drinking a pint of beer with the other. He was half-leaning over the low balcony wall, talking to three other officers, who’d appeared from no-where. I wondered if I’d met them before. Their laughter seemed to come from somewhere far, far away.

I shook my head and slowly regained my hearing.

Housekeeping matters...

Apparently there is a problem with following me. When you press the button 'Follow', nothing happens. Also, I am loosing followers out of no reason at all. This is disastrous for me and I am doing everything I can to remedy the situation.

While I'm investigating the problem....here's a picture of the pumpkins I have left over from Halloween.

Hope they cheer you up as much as they do me each morning I see them on the window sill in my kitchen.

Why I can never wear animal print

Meet my grandmother, the first fashion addict I ever got to know. Now, she wasn't actually my grandmother, she was my mother's aunt. My mother and her three brothers were all adopted after their parents died by various members of two feuding families. Feuding because they didn't approve of my real grandparents marriage. Feuding because one family was rich whereas the other was poor and therefore classed as 'no good'. Things haven't changed much in the world?

Both of my parents worked when my sister and I were little, and we were looked after by my step-grandmother. She was a formidable lady. She had two passions: food and fashion. Not to be rude, but you can probably spot the difficulty she had in marrying the two. She was born at the beginning of the twentieth century and never stopped talking about the food and clothing shortages during the war. There was no butter, no pretty fabrics, no new shoes.

'In the twenties I had a pair of beautiful light brown leather boots, with laces. They looked so pretty under my skirt,' she sighed, slightly lifting one leg up. My sister and I listened, our eyes wide trying to imagine this large lady with ankles the size of tree-trunks, and one swollen arm, looking young and pretty.

What we didn't realise was how tragic her life had been. Born to a poor family, but I guess a happy one, she fell pregnant young, and had the boy adopted. (This I found out many, many years after she had died). Then she met a kind man, who asked her to marry him. She said yes, but his family said no. They eloped, and spent a year in Paris, where my step-grandfather studied painting. Instead of a farmer, he wanted to be an artist. Picasso was his hero. His father, a wealthy landowner, disinherited him, and he became a steel worker at the Tampella factory, and a part-time artist. They were never blessed with children together, but had saved enough money to buy a flat in Tampere. That was a lot for someone like my grandmother in those days.

Then disaster struck. My step-grandmother got breast cancer. This was during the Winter War in 1939-40, the first war which Finland fought against the Russians. The hospital was short of surgeons, medicines and equipment. They managed to remove my step-grandmother's breast and save her life. But after the operation her arm filled with fluid, which the doctors didn't know what to do with. They told her she was lucky to be alive. To have to live with a vastly expanded left arm and a missing left breast, was a small price to pay.

When my step-grandmother's brother died after his wife - my real grandmother - had succumbed to a brain tumour, she adopted my seven-year-old mother. She dressed her in pretty clothes and fed her well. But she didn't know how to love. I guess she'd just had too much tragedy in her life, or then she just couldn't spare the time with all the cooking that needed to be done.

I remember sitting in her kitchen in Tampere helping her make everything from rye bread, biscuits, Tiger cakes, Karelian stews, meatballs, jams or kissels while my step-grandfather painted at his easel. She talked incessantly, he just painted and said nothing. Sometimes he'd turn around and wink at me with his pale blue eyes when my step-grandmother nagged him about something or other. Usually something he hadn't done, like take the rubbish out, or something he had done too much of, like pick too many lingonberries from the woods. Though my step-grandmother liked to cook, she didn't want to be made to cook. She wanted to have the choice of what to cook and when. If my grandfather picked too much of anything, like berries, or wild mushrooms during his many wanderings in the forest, she complained. If he didn't bring anything home at all, she complained.

When I was younger I blamed my step-grandmother for the fact that my grandfather spent longer and longer time in the forest, instead of painting, and for the fact that he eventually went mad. Of course I now know he had Ahltzeimers, but in those days the illness he was put into a secure institution for, was still called lunacy, or the Kekkonen disease.

But back to the fashion bit of this post. I promised the wonderfully fashion-conscious, Looking Fab in your Forties, that I'd blog about why I could never wear animal print.

As I said before, my step-grandmother was a true fashion addict. Not put off by her rather large frame, or the tragedy of her permanently swollen left arm and poorly fitting false breast, she had several going-out outfits made for her by a seamstress. And she made up for all the war years of not having butter to cook with or pretty fabrics to make clothes from with the outfit for my wedding. What's not instantly apparent from the picture is that the whole of the get-up is in animal print. Underneath the hat, and the coat, is a tightly fitting shift dress, also made to measure for her from the same fabric. She told me she wanted to have shoes made out of the same, but couldn't find anyone who could do it.

So, you see, it's impossible for me to wear anything made out of animal print that would even come close to the effect of my grandmother's outfit at my wedding. I've tried it many a time, but it just doesn't feel right.

Dirty laundry

There's one thing I value more than anything: a good dry cleaners. When we relocated our business premises some years ago, we stumbled upon a great place on the High Street. A shiny star amongst the ramshackle newsagents, charity shops and general tumble weed. And I got to know the man who owns it quite well. He treated my favourite Issa dress with the gentleness it deserves. We had a lot in common..

We've since moved away from the business, but I still take my dry cleaning to him, especially after a Milly dress was ruined by a branch of a well known high-street chain of cleaners.

But possibly not for much longer.

It may not be immediately apparent to the average reader of this blog (especially as I have decided to share my life story with you) that I am in fact quite a shy person. So when the dry cleaner man shares his secrets with me I grow uneasy. When he talks to me about his love life, I blush. In the last six months he's told me everything about his recent divorce and about the love he found with someone new, who 'looks a bit like you'. It's got so bad that each time I visit his shop I pray that instead of the owner, I would be served by some of the ladies he employs. Anyone but him.

This, together with the distance, is why the dry cleaning bag has recently got out of hand. It's mostly summer stuff from our late holiday to Rome, but still needs doing. Last weekend, as husband and I were on our way to Portsmouth and would for once go in the right direction, I decided to take the plunge. Before popping the bag in the boot, I went through it, checking that there was nothing that could be hand washed. (Dry cleaning also costs a small fortune.) That's when I spotted the Myla underwear husband had given to me the previous birthday. I checked the label, 'dry clean only'. My mouth went dry.

'Did you put this here?' We have an arrangement at home: husband is in charge of washing clothes, while I do everything else. It works well, at least for him. 'There's no way I can face him with this.' I said lifting the delicate silky pieces up for husband to see.

'Don't be silly!'

I gave him my serious look.

'OK, I'll go in with it,' he said laughing. It is he who should be the Finn, I thought. He's much more at ease with nakedness, doesn't worry about what people think, and in general has a much thicker skin than me.

But when we got to the High Street, unusually, there was no space to park in front of the shop. On top of that it was raining heavily and we were running very late.

'Shit,' said husband and gave me a look from under his dark eyebrows. He was driving. 'Shall I double park?'

'No, I'll run in with it. He's probably not even there.' I felt I was being a little silly; what's shameful about a few pieces of underwear?

'Hello, Mrs H!' The owner of the shop greeted me like a long-lost friend.

I emptied the bag of clothes onto his counter and prayed the empty shop would remain so: empty. I didn't need an audience as well.

'I've got quite a few things, but I'm in a bit of a rush.'

Immediately the man's eyes found the skimpy knickers, bra and babydoll. All in dark lilac colour, with satin bows and see-through silk tulle arranged what to me had looked artful and sexy, but now seemed seedy and far, far too young.

'How are you? Haven't seen you for ages,' the man said, lifting his eyes to me from my underwear for just a fraction of a second.

'I'm well, but in a rush, as I said. I think there are two pairs of trousers, a couple of dresses, and, well...' I took a deep breath in, 'those things, which I'm a bit embarrassed about.'

'Oh, those...' He looked up at me again, 'No, don't be. I've cleaned everything from...'

'Anyway, I'm in a bit of a hurry, so...' I managed to stop him in time. I really, really did not want to hear about other people's embarrassing dry cleaning as well as my own. I resisted the temptation to grab the clothes, and run out of the shop never to return. Instead I straightened my back and thought about the ruined Milly dress.

Eventually after about fifteen minutes, while the man slowly lifted every item of my dry cleaning and entered it onto his till, I got the yellow receipt and ran out of the door and into the car.

'OK?' said husband.

'It'll be ready on Friday. And you will be the one to get it back. Now drive!'

Husband laughed almost all the way down to Portsmouth.

Southsea on a stormy day

Every time we go down to Portsmouth to see our friends we decide that we're going to sell up in the sticks and move down there. This lasts for a week or so, until we realise that it's completely impractical from job/children's schools/family point of view. And we remember that what we really want is to be 23 again, footloose and fancy free.

For me Portsmouth is home in England. It was the first place I settled to when I moved from Finland. Besides, I love the sea. I've written here about how landlocked I've felt in the country. And some of our oldest friends live in Southsea. It's become a universal joke, 'Why don't you move down here when you love it so much?'

'I really think we will,' I reply.

We know how to have fun.

Usually all that happens is that we look at estate agents windows before or after a stroll on the old battlements in Old Portsmouth, and then head home to Sticksville.

This time the walk was impractical as it was truly raining cats and dogs, and in a horizontal direction. But we managed to see a couple of flats in a new development in Old Portsmouth. And we fell in love.

Again.

Seeing the high waves with seahorses crashing against the harbour walls from the rooftop of a penthouse we were viewing was fantastic. To be so close to water, all year around, to always have a friendly face to meet in a pub, oh, to be 23 again...

Driving home we discussed the possibility of moving to Portsmouth. And realised there are far fewer obstacles in our way this time.

This time we could actually do it.

Scary.

How I came to be in England - Part 28

In February 1983 I got a part-time job at Stockmann’s department store selling fabrics on Friday evenings and Saturday mornings. My studies at the School of Economics were going well and I’d passed all the exams I took when I came back from Edinburgh. I continued to get good marks for my coursework, even though as well as working, I went out every week with friends to the University Disco. Once or twice I bumped into the 4^th year guy who’d been flirting with me, but his attentions didn’t bother me anymore. Once I even saw the tennis player there. He walked towards me and our eyes met. I just nodded and turned my back to him. My friends were on the dance floor and I feared he’d come and talk to me because it looked like I was alone again. Just like the summer before when he picked me up. I held by breath and was glad he didn’t. Then I thought, well at least he recognised me, and smiled to myself. But I had no desire to speak to him, or see him ever again.

I missed my Englishman wherever I found myself.

He wrote nearly every week, his words full of longing and love for me. Occasionally there’d be a late night phone call. Sometimes a fortnight would pass without any communication, and all I could assume was that he was away at sea onboard his submarine. I replied to each letter, but often our messages to each other would cross in the post, and a question would take two or three letters to be answered. We didn’t write about anything important though, such as The Future, but just what happened to us each week. I told the Englishman about how Russian customers at Stockmann’s would try to buy dress fabric with a bottle of vodka, or what marks I’d got in my exams. The Englishman told me about his nights out with his mates, about a trip down to Portsmouth to see his old friends. He said very little about his work, only sometimes referring to ‘refits’, ‘work-ups’, or ‘programmes’. I didn’t understand what the ‘boat’, as he referred to the submarine, did when it sailed, nor what my Englishman’s job was. I assumed I wasn’t supposed to know or understand.

In April he told me that when he visited his parents they gave him money towards a new car as a birthday present. He sold the yellow Spitfire and bought a more reliable car, a Ford Fiesta. I mourned the open top sports car and couldn’t imagine my Englishman at a wheel of anything else.

I spent my 23^rd birthday later the same month with my Father and my sister, who was over from Stockholm.

‘If I were you I’d just move to England,’ my sister said.

We were sitting in the Happy Days Café where our Father had taken us to have a buffet lunch. For once the girlfriend wasn’t with us, even though it was a Saturday. I looked at the uneaten Gravad Lax and pickled herring on my plate and sipped at the half litre glass of beer my sister had insisted I should have. ‘It’s your birthday and he’s paying, for goodness sake,’ she whispered in my year when I’d hesitated on what to order.

‘But I won’t be able to get a job without a work permit.’ I said.

‘Get a work permit then.’

‘You can’t get one. There’s huge unemployment in the UK, just like here, and no-one outside the EEC gets a work permit. Unless you’re a brain surgeon or something.’ I looked at my sister’s blonde curly hair and dark eyes. Living in Stockholm suited her. She looked slim and fashionable in her short black skirt and frilly blouse. I continued, ‘I’d have to marry him to be able to live and work there.’

My sister smiled broadly. ‘So, what’s the problem? You love him, he loves you.’

‘I know.’

‘Besides, he’s already asked you to marry him, so just say yes!’ My sister lifted her glass and clinked it with mine.

Our Father had a large plateful of food and sat heavily next to me in the leather booth. ‘Yes to what?’ he said, looking suspiciously at my sister.

‘Oh, I just think some-one should marry and leave this godforsaken city and country for ever.’

My Father’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath in. I wondered if I could ask them not to fight on my birthday. But it was already too late.

‘You’d think that, wouldn’t you! You, who scarpered over to Sweden to follow that bitch of a mother of yours. Foreign men, that’s what you’re after, just because no Finnish man would have you. I bet you’ll marry some soft, milk-drinking Swede.’

There was a silence. The little appetite I had before, vanished. I didn’t know what to say. My sister was looking down at her plate. She glanced at me under her eyebrows. Her eyes were dark, dangerous-looking. Father was staring at my sister, holding his knife and fork upright. Like a man-eating giant about to pounce. Waiting for the retaliation. But my sister was silent, for once not rising to the bait.

A waitress came to the table. ‘Any schnapps here?’

My Father’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, we’ll have a round of Koskenkorva.’

I glanced at my watch. It was barely 11.30 am.

‘Oh, I don’t care what he thinks,’ my sister said later. We were walking along the Esplanade towards a restaurant where a friend of hers was working. It was a sunny, almost warm day. Trees along the park were beginning to bud. Spring was definitely on its way, at last. We’d left Father drinking himself stupid at Happy Days Cafe. His mood had improved with the Koskenkorva. After we’d eaten, he told us to go out and have fun, pressing a few hundred Marks onto each palm. The same old routine. ‘Might as well use the money as His Pisshead Lordship wishes,’ my sister laughed and took my arm.

The Englishman phoned later that night, wishing me ‘Happy Birthday’. I very nearly told him what my sister had said about moving to England and marrying him, but at the last minute I hesitated. It was for the man to ask the woman, not the other way around.

‘I’ve only got three weeks left of term.’ I said instead.

‘Right, and then what?’ the Englishman said.

‘I start at the bank on Monday 23^rd May.’

‘Oh.’

That was it. I couldn’t get any more out of him. I tried not to worry that he had stopped loving me or that he’d accidentally slept with another girl, or even the same mysterious girl. In bed that night I again re-read his last letter. He swore his undying love for me. Perhaps he truly didn’t know or couldn’t tell me what he was doing in the next few months, or even weeks? There was a Cold War on after all. Goodness knew who might be listening in on our telephone conversation. It always sounded as if several lines were open when the overseas connections were made. I often heard a click or two as if some-one put the phone down during our call. The Englishman’s jokes about sleeping with a spy, or the ‘honey traps’ the ship’s company had been warned about when we’d met still rang in my ears. Surely he didn’t suspect me of being a Soviet spy after all this time? After two and a half years?

A month later, when I’d already started my fourth summer internship at the Kansallis-Osake-Pankki on Erottaja in the centre of Helsinki, a letter from the Englishman was waiting for me at the doorstep at home. Just that day, I’d discovered the British Council library in a building next to the bank and borrowed Graham Greene’s spy novel, The Human Factor, in English. I was looking forward to curling up in bed reading about England in English, but first I ripped the blue envelope open.

‘I have been so miserable here without you all this time. But now I finally know what my schedule is going to be for at least the next few months. As you know our refit has been delayed so many times now, and as a consequence they’ve decided to send me on an OPS course in Portsmouth. I’ll be on dry land and away from Scotland for six months! The course starts early June and ends at Christmas.’

The Englishman was going to live in his friend’s house in Southsea again and he wanted me to come over ‘for as long as you can, as soon as you can make it.’

I sat down on my bed. My father was still at work, or perhaps he wasn’t going to come home that evening. I was glad, I needed to be alone and think. I had no idea what an OPS course was, but it didn’t matter. How could I ask for time off at the bank when I’d just started? Would they understand I needed to go and see the Englishman? I was OK for money, I’d saved some from the part-time job at Stockmann’s. At the end of the month I’d have my first pay check from the bank. Even though it was just for one week’s work, it would cover the cost of the flight.

The next day I went to see the Manager at the Bank.

‘Young love,’ he muttered and smiled. I’d known him since my first summer at the bank He’d graduated from the same university as me ten years earlier and kept calling me ‘The Lady Economist’. He thought me very smart and I feared the day when he’d realise the truth.

‘Take two weeks paid leave. I’m sure we’ll manage without you.’

I was amazed. It was unheard of for summer interns to get leave, unpaid or paid. We were there to cover for when the permanent staff took their holidays after all. I shook his hand and thanked him. I skipped out of his office.

That afternoon walking back to the bus stop along Mannerheimintie I hummed to myself. Straight after work I’d gone to the Finnair travel agents in the corner of Aleksi and reserved my flights to Heathrow. In only two week’s time I’d be on the aeroplane on my way to London. In only fourteen days’ time I’d be in the arms of my Englishman.

Football and the elusive book deal

I'd forgotten how much I enjoy seeing Spurs play at White Hart Lane. My husband, who's been a die hard Tottenham supporter since childhood, has a season ticket at the Lane and goes to as many home games he can. It took me a couple of years to buck up the courage to go, because I hated the first football match I'd ever been to. It was years ago in Portsmouth when it was all standing only on the terraces. I was shoved and pushed by drunken men, shouting abuse over my head at the players in language I'd never heard of. As I was a lone woman amongst so many testosterone filled bodies, I decided it was a man's domain, and left my husband alone to his ball games.

But I've always been interested in sports. I have to be dragged away from the tennis during Wimbledon. As a child I was an avid supporter of Ilves, the best ice-hockey team in my home town, Tampere. And I love the European football matches. A few years ago when on holiday in Spain I enjoyed immensely watching Real Madrid play Valencia at the Bernabeu. Spurred on (excuse the pun) by my enthusiasm for that game, husband begged me to go with him to one match at White Hart Lane. And I was hooked. (The pre-match lunch at the excellent San Marco nearby might have had something to do with my positive reaction.)

But I also have a life, and often there are other, more deserving activities on offer in London, like going to see an art exhibition with a friend or shopping. And sometimes the off-spring or husband's friends are keen to take my place too. So at times, as happened on Saturday, I'd missed a few months worth of football. During which time a miracle had happened: Tottenham had started winning.

Now, if you're not very well versed in British footie, you will not know that the team we support are the original under-achievers. Tottenham are a little like English football in general: we have a glorious past. But I shan't bore you with my theories on why we have been not so good, or why we seem to be getting better now. I'll leave that to those who are far more qualified to talk about football: men...

We are amongst a group of people at the Lane who we only know through sitting close to them. We sit there by a happen chance of getting just those seats, so there's no advance selection of who you're getting friendly with. Of course you don't have to talk to anyone, and some men (it is still mostly men) just sit there, miserably not saying a word. But they are in a minority. And when we arrive, there are nods or handshakes from some, and kisses from others. As if we were long lost friends. Which we all are in a way. We have a common cause: the team. We have a common enemy: the Arsenal. We have thousands of opinions of how to beat the opposition, what the manager should do, who should be taken off, who is playing well and should stay, who should be brought on instead. We have a myriad of songs to sing, witty remarks, made by others in the stands, to laugh at, perceived cheating (by the other team only, naturally) to boo at.

During half time we tell each other the news. There are births, deaths, marriages, heart attacks, job losses, new jobs, new girlfriends, new pregnancies. And sometimes nearly gained book deals.

'Ah, yes, no, I'm afraid not quite yet, ' I replied to the polite query. I'd forgotten I'd let that information slip. And I'd forgotten how confident I'd been then, all those months ago, about the success of my manuscript. 'But I write a blog,' I said.

The game restarted and after feeling a little sorry for myself I looked at the Tottenham players, who even though they'd scored in the first half had been playing badly. In spite of this they came out after half-time full of energy, enthusiasm and willingness to continue the game. With the desire to win. They weren't downbeat by previous losses, or the long history of promising seasons coming to a disappointing end. And they scored again, finishing off the opposition's chances with a beautiful strike by Huddlestone, which hit the crossbar but came down on the right side of the goal line.

Walking back to catch the train, following the mass of people also leaving the match, under the darkening North London skies, I thought that's exactly what I needed to do. Come back, refreshed and ready to win another battle. Send my manuscript to new agents and publishers. Try and try again.

Oh, and the picture is of the latest pin-up at Spurs, the midfielder Nico Kranjcar. Just because I can...

How I came to be in England - Part 27

The drive from Edinburgh to Newcastle was much shorter than the journey from Wiltshire to Scotland had been five weeks earlier. Sitting next to the Englishman in his yellow Spitfire I wished time would stop and we’d be on the road South forever.

‘You must take one of these,’ the Englishman said. We were on-board the musty smelling ship, standing in a 4-berth cabin I’d booked for the crossing to Gothenburg.

‘Why?’ I looked at the packet of Stugeron.

‘It’s going to be choppy.’ He put his arm around me. ‘The North Sea at winter.’

It hadn’t even occurred to me I might be sea sick. I'd never been sick on the ferry between Finland and Sweden but when I tried to explain this to the Englishman he laughed and said, ‘Just take them, believe me you don’t want to take the chance. There’s a saying in the Navy, “When you’re seasick, first you fear you’re going to die, then you wish you would.” ’

I put the packet into my handbag. I didn’t need to be seasick to wish to die. The tannoy announced that the ferry was leaving in fifteen minutes. I lifted my eyes to the Englishman, trying not to cry. He took my face between his hands.

‘You’re eyes are very blue today.’ He looked at me for a very long time, then whispered, ‘I love you.’ We kissed.

And then he was gone.

I stood in the middle of the large space wondering if the ache would ever pass. A woman in her late thirties came into the cabin, dragging two heavy suitcases. She introduced herself, but I couldn’t talk. I nodded to her and mumbled my name. I sat on my bunk and pretended to look for something inside my bag, hoping she’d not see the tears running down my face. I tried to control myself but all I wanted to do was scream. My stomach ached, my chest felt as if it had caved in. As I watched the ferry pull away from the dock, with the afternoon light fading, it felt as if my heart was left on the jetty, a part of my body being ripped away.

I went to the cafeteria, which was full of lonely men, lorry drivers, I presumed. I bought myself an egg and anchovy open sandwich and a bottle of Elefanten. My Father had told me this was the strongest beer you could have and I wanted to be anesthetised. I spotted the packet of travel sickness pills in my bag and swallowed two, downing them with gulps of beer. After the meal I walked around the ship. I went up to the deck, or the 'Upper Scupper' as the Englishman called it. I smiled, then fought the tears again. I saw there was a film on later, some adventure tale or other in a couple of hours’ time. It was only six o’clock, but I felt tired and drunk from the beer so I decided to go and lie down in my cabin.

I slept for 23 hours. I woke once or twice to the movement of the ship and once or twice to people coming in and out of the cabin.

‘We were worried about you,’ the woman who I’d met when the ship was still docked at Newcastle said. She had blood shot eyes and smelt strongly of alcohol. ‘Thought you’d died on us!’ she giggled.

I’d slept through the crossing. The woman told me the seas had been heavy and that many people had been sea sick. She’d decided to spend the time in the bar and had met a great guy. Why was she telling me all this, I wondered wearily. I felt slightly drunk myself, as if I’d been drugged. Then I remembered the sea sickness pills. Perhaps I shouldn't have taken any alcohol with them?

The short train journey up to Stockholm passed quickly. My mother greeted me warmly and I spent two nights with her and my sister. Eventually I had to return to Helsinki and my Father’s house. He met me at the ferry terminal, together with the girlfriend. It was a Sunday morning and the sun was bright against the white snow at South Harbour.

‘The wanderer returns!’ my Father said. He hugged me and I felt as if he was truly glad to see me. The girlfriend giggled and my Father said, ‘I’m going to take you both out to lunch!’

I nodded and thanked him, though I wasn't at all hungry. In my ruined suede jacket I felt the cold and shivered. We walked towards my Fathers’ dark blue Saab.

‘Happy New Year,’ the girlfriend nudged herself close to me, ‘How did you celebrate the arrival of 1983?’

‘Oh, we went to the pub.’

She launched into a long tale about a language course she’d attended years ago in Eastbourne. How she’d survived the month on Mars bars because the food was inedible. But how she’d loved the pubs and the beer in particular. I was bored and tried not to listen. Besides, she knew nothing about England, the real England. There was no proper coffee, that was true, and the whole country seemed to smell of milk that had gone off, but there was some good food. I’d never had chips which tasted as good as the ones the Englishman’s Mother made, or the cabbage salad, called coleslaw, they served with ham in pubs. And the ham was thickly sliced and tasty, not like the thin salty stuff my Father bought from the local shop. And there was no cheddar cheese in Finland. I felt like crying again when I thought about the Gorgonzola I’d eaten with the Englishman, sitting on the floor of our flat in Edinburgh.

My friend at the School of Economics was glad to see me too, ‘I thought you might not come back,’ she said when she hugged me.

I looked at her serious eyes. That must have been what everyone thought, I realised. My Mother, Sister, Father, the girlfriend. That’s why everyone was so glad – relieved – to see me. What did they think, that I’d just stay, marry my Englishman and abandon my studies for good?

The possibility hadn't even occurred to me. Or to the Englishman.

Why hadn't it?

New Catch-up Blog

Just a quick note to say I've started a new site where the story of 'How I came to be in England' is published in proper order.

I know how difficult it is to follow the chapters in reverse, and as this blog is also littered with my other thoughts about haircuts, holidays and theatre reviews I thought it might be useful to have the story so far in one place.

So, if you've missed a part, or want to read from the beginning, start reading here.

I'm off to write Part 27.

Breakfast at Tiffany's

There's almost nothing I hate more than seeing a bad play. Perhaps expecting a good evening at the theatre and then being utterly disappointed is worse. The waste of your time, money and effort is infuriating to say the least. Added to this, you then have to sit there, clap before the interval and then again at the end of the play.

OK, I'm sounding like a complete lovey, an art buff, who's life is filled with art gallery visits, plays, exhibitions and champagne events....but I'm not. I am a perfectly normal, financially challenged person who'd rather not pay for bad art.

So you've guessed it: I really did not like the Theatre Royal Haymarket's production of Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Firstly, the American accents were universally awful. The actors spoke in put-upon phoney inflection no New Yorker would have understood, let alone dreamt of expressing themselves in. Even Miss Friel seemed to have forgotten herself and descended back into 'English actress does American' rather than use her considerable experience from starring in a US TV series.

Second, the script, which I believe was probably quite good, lost its effectiveness due to the fast and frequent stage changes. One or two actors would barely have time to deliver their lines, before the stage was dimmed and furniture was moved about, by these same actors or stage hands, and we found ourselves in a different room or a different time of day. If the production was aimed at the 30-second attention span society, it succeeded. I don't think there was one scene that lasted longer than this. In a two and a half hour play this means a lot of stage arranging.

Many of these short scenes played for either laughs or wanted to titillate. We saw the lovely Miss Friel naked. In what I can only presume was in the interest of balance, the male lead also stripped down and showed us his assets. Give me Dominic West any day. In fact give me a Donmar production every time. Even a bad one. At least what you see at Donmar is in some way honest, done with integrity, with the aim to want to put across the theme and message of the play, rather than what I believe was attempted here at the Haymarket: to sell as many seats as possible with a favourite and actually a good actress in a play that the theatre knew would be popular, in a way (with nudity) that would be popular.

I have nothing against popularity, or popular art. It's what makes it possible to have culture, to produce art, I get that. But call me a purist and a spoil sport. Nudity is not sexiness. And there was no sexiness in this play which after all was about a prostitute and her life during the Second World War. How can you do that? How can you produce a play with these actors, with this script, with this subject and not make it sexy? Somehow The Royal Haymarket managed it.

Husband, who loved Anna Friel in Donmar's Lulu, which had more than its fair share of nudity and titillation, had been looking forward to seeing Miss Friel again. But even he thought the play poor. After we'd discussed the various artistic merits of the piece (or lack of them) he made a comment which became my favourite, 'Her bum was a bit saggy.' In hindsight, just for those lovely words it was worth sitting through one of the most painfully boring plays I've seen in a while.