It was all about the pants last night

Photo by Johan Persson

When I sat down at the Donmar last night I suddenly realised that I knew absolutely nothing about the play we were about to see, The Prince of Homburg. As usual my good friend had booked the seats months ago so normally I have time to at least read a review or two. But because of the Big Move and the long time I'd spent  'galavanting around the Nordic countries' (words of my good blogger and twitter friend, Wildernesschic) I hadn't read an English paper for weeks.

When the lead, The Prince played by Charlie Cox (above), entered the stage wearing very fetching knee-length military boots, with his braces hanging down, my heart sank a little. Only a little because as those of you who read my theatre reviews know I do quite like a man in old fashioned attire, especially if he is a Dominic West lookalike. But I generally hate military themed plays, Shakespeare excepted, of course.

Reading the programme I soon found out the play is set in the 19th century, and was used for war propaganda by the Nazis. An intriguing study of power written by Heinrich von Kleist, but really not my cup of tea. Had the men's uniforms not been so sexy, and the acting been so wonderful, I wouldn't have enjoyed it at all. But the cast which included Ian McDiarmid, Siobhan Redmond, David Burke and Julian Wadham were so outstanding it was difficult not to engage with the action, however far-fetched and arcane the plot was. Charlie Cox's Prince had the perfect combination of naivety and courageousness which was the eventual downfall of his character. And Ian McDiarmid as the Elector was so frighteningly authoritative you could quite imagine him ruling a whole nation single-handedly.

The excellence of the acting did not, however, take my mind of a more urgent matter. In the taxi on the way to the West End, I noticed that the zip of my newly acquired trousers had broken. The Joseph ski type pants were only being held up by the top bit at the waist. Luckily I'd paired the outfit with a loosely fitting Episode top which came to the top of my knees, so no-one would be any the wiser about the disaster lying beneath. There was just one problem - going to the loo.

I held on at the theatre but later, after we'd ordered our food at the Ivy, I just had to take the plunge and visit the Ladies. 'Good luck,' whispered my friend as I, wearing (for me) high heeled Prada sling backs started the walked across the crowded restaurant. In the privacy of the cubicle I tried to work the zip down from the top. But it would not budge. Finally, quite desperate now, I got one side down and was able to wriggle myself out of the pants. What a relief! Victorious, and not more than a little affected by the Bellinis we'd had as aperitifs, and the wine at the theatre, I decided to tackle the zip and fix it. Of course you'll know that things are never that simple in my life. Naturally I broke the bloody thing. 'It came off in me hand, Chief' as the naval saying in our household goes. There I was in the Ladies' loo at the Ivy with pants that would no longer zip up. 'A safety pin?' I hear you ask. I know I'm a mother, and (nearly) a responsible adult, still, I'm not the kind of person who even carries a packet of tissues with her, nor an umbrella, unless the skies are clear with the sun beaming down. So the chances I'd have a safety pin were pretty remote.

I was thinking fast. The food would have already arrived at the table; I needed to go back. There was nothing for it. I took the trousers off and blessed the sunny weather in Finland which had left a little bit of colour on my legs, as well as the unusual foresight I'd had to shave in the shower earlier. My pants just about fitted my Top Shop clutch bag, although it was bulging badly. I stuffed the bag under my arm and strutted out of the restaurant, trying to resist the temptation to pull at the short dress. I reminded myself that when Kate Moss had a wardrobe malfunction last year at the Dorchester, she just tied her dress up around her waist and carried on partying. I was in good company.

I didn't notice anyone's reaction in the restaurant because I didn't look. Only Husband made a comment, whispering, 'Your legs look great.' Bless him.

Bad hair day - Mark II

Some time ago I wrote a post about how awful it is to go out with unkempt hair. But recently I found out that too much of a good thing can be bad too.

Having my hair nice-looking has always been really important to me. I spend a small fortune on my hair, and when living back in the sticks used to make the trip up to London just to visit my hairdressers. Local friends took the mickey out of me mercilessly and some were incredulous that I should 'waste' a day just to have my hair done. Of course when the children were small these trips were far and few between, but when they started school, ahem, just a few years ago, I had a standing two monthly 'hair-run' up to town.

So I don't let just anyone touch my hair. Hence I'm not sure what came over me recently. I had a couple of hours to kill in Tampere before taking the train to Helsinki. I chose to spend them in a hairdressers chair in an unknown salon in the middle of Finland in a town I was born in but haven't lived in since I was eleven years old. I must have been temporarily deranged.

In this state, however, I skipped and hopped to a salon in a well-known department store in the city and asked if they could wash and style my hair. It was a Thursday afternoon and the salon had no bookings. 

The girl asked me the usual questions about where I lived, etc. and was mightily impressed when I told her I'd just moved to London. I said I wanted to have my hair done because I was going to see my friends in Helsinki and would love it if I didn't have to do my hair again for a couple of days. The girl nodded and as she pulled at my wet locks I decided to stop the chatting. It obviously affected her concentration. By the time I got out of the washing area she'd managed to wash half of my face as well as block my ears with the water. I was beginning to feel a little faint thinking that if she couldn't even wash hair properly, how could she blow dry it? 

When I sat down in front of the mirror and she told me that I had ' a lot of hair and it was all very strong,' I regained some of my confidence. She knew something at least. Besides  with wet hair I was too far gone by now. I just nodded and said that it does take a long time to dry and it might be best not to try to style it from absolutely wet. The girl nodded and started to pin my dripping hair up and blow dry it section by section. Just what I had told her not to do.

I sat back in the chair and tried to concentrate on Gloria, the Finnish Vogue.

But the pain of having your hair pulled by an inexperienced hairdresser was too much. I was compelled to watched in silence as she struggled to dry my hair in just the wrong way. Finally when she'd finished, I started to pull at the uncomfortable gown and got up.

'Ill just backcombe it a bit,' she said and gently pushed me back down onto the chair. 

Now, I'm very lucky yo have strong, plentiful hair, I have never even tried to backcombe it. Mainly because it just doesn't need it, and partly because the practise just reminds me of the kind of hair that women in Heartbeat and other old TV series set in the 1960's have. It looks good on a 18-year-old but if I tried it people would probably think I'd jut never got around changing my hairstyle...ok, I'm not THAT old, but  you get the picture.

But this girl loved backcombing my hair. As well as the top, she did the fringe, the sides, everything. And then she flicked the ends up. While she worked she sprayed hair lacquer all over my hair. I watched in shocked silence. I wasn't able to say anything, nor remove myself from the chair. The end result was a bad version of this:

I think what the hairdresser was trying to do was the hairstyle Zoe Lucker sports in East Enders, above. 

As soon as I got out of her clutches I ran to the ladies' loos on the top floor of the store and with my fingers tried to flatten the bouffant. But the hairspray stood fast and I resigned myself to having to meet my old school friends looking like our mothers did when we were born. 

The one up side was that I didn't have to wash the hair for about a week. In that sense the Tampere hairdresser did exactly what I'd asked her to do.  

A crayfish party for two

'I've never had a crafish in such polite society,' said husband as the friendly waitress tied our bibs on and asked if we wished to order some schnapps. We looked at each other and smiled. 'Of course,' he said.

We were sitting at a window table in a restaurant called von Knorring in Mariehamn's East Harbour. We'd picked out one of the few days it rained on Åland during our holiday to go out to dinner a deux. The town was deserted, partly because the season was coming to an end and the tourists were leaving, partly because of the weather, and partly because the islands' most famous philanthropist and business mogul was hosting a concert in his acres of prime coast-line in Järsö. Some 3,000 people attended the charity concert in aid of The Baltic Fund. That's a lot of people for Mariehamn.

Indigo, a popular cafe/restaurant/bar - empty.

But to our surprise von Knorring was full. We'd heard from the locals that the food was good here, and obviously a few other people thought so too. I saw online the restaurant on board a steamer was serving crayfish and  immediately phoned to pre-ordered some for us. (The season officially starts in early August). After a few moments a plateful of native Åland river crayfish arrived at our table, smelling of the sea and decorated with dill flowers. Then two glasses of chilled Marskin Ryyppy were placed in front of us, followed by two glasses of locally brewed beer, Stallhagen.

I can still taste them.

We had a rainy view of Österhamn - the East Harbour in Mariehamn

While the rain poured down outside, we chose our first crayfish. They were fresh-tasting, large and delicious. The brine was just right, not too salty or sweet. The dill was fresh and the cumin-spiced cheese, traditionally eaten on toast with crayfish, was excellent.

Me tasting the crayfish

Then it was time to taste the schnapps. Husband raised his glass, leaned across the table and in a low voice started singing,

Helan går

I joined him, in a whisper. Not because I was embarrassed but because I really, truly cannot sing. But it seems it's physically impossible not to sing when taking schnapps with or without crayfish, whether in public or not.

Sjung hopp faderallan lallan lej

Helan går

   Sjung hopp faderallan lej

Och den som inte helan tar 

Han heller inte halvan får

Helan går

We drank the purest tasting vodka there is and continued,

Sjung hopp faderallan lej

The post-schnapps beer to dull the hit...

Strangely the other diners hardly batted an eyelid as time after time we sang our schnapps songs. There were a few envious glances directed at the crayfish but none at us. We left the restaurant happy and just a little worst for wear. The town was still deserted so we decided to head back to Lemland where a bottle of champagne somehow got opened and drunk. 

The Esplanaden. This was 11 pm on a Saturday night in early August...

Oh, I wish I was still on holiday!

A love re-found and broken equipment

I played a round of golf with husband week before last in Åland, on the lovely Slottsbanan. Before this my fair hands had not touched a driver, nor an iron, or a putter for five years. When we walked up to the range, I wondered if I'd still be able to hit the ball, let alone make 100 yards. The kind English Pro at the clubhouse had lent us a set of clubs each. Mine were Big Bertha's and as I prepared to take my first shot, a strange rattling noise emanated from somewhere near my right ear. I carried on with the swing and heard an awful cracking sound as the club head hit the ball. I looked down at the borrowed driver and saw a shocking sight: the head was lolling on a broken shaft (can you tell golfing terms were invented by men?). Dumbfounded, I turned to husband who was practising behind me.

'Must have been broken before you took the shot,' he said, nonchalantly. Too nonchalantly; I could tell he thought I'd broken the club because he pretended to make a joke about always knowing he'd married a strong Finnish woman.... Luckily the lovely Pro went along with the pretence and even offered to find us on the course later to deliver a new driver. I declined and promised myself never to hit with a driver again.

Until two days ago. My friend and her husband love all sports. Well, almost. They ski (downhill and cross-country), sail and do golf. All of these sports they excel in, unlike me who - to put it VERY mildly - dabble in all of the above.

On Sunday we decided to take advantage of a 'free' day in my busy holiday schedule, as well as the lovely late summer weather, and booked a round of golf at their club, Nevas, which lies about 30 kilometres East of Helsinki.

I don't have my clubs with me so my friend's husband very kindly offered to lend me a set of his. I took a deep breath. 'Are you sure?' I said and told him the tale of the broken Big Bertha. He went only slight pale and nodded, 'Don't worry, this is an old set.' Off we went, me with borrowed clubs, glove, shirt, balls, towel, etc. paraphernalia that one needs to spoil a good walk with trying to get a small round thing in a small deep hole.

I jest, of course. Though I am a little rusty to say the least, I absolutely love playing the game.You get to compete a little (a lie: compete a LOT) with yourself, you get to be with your friends, you get a good walk in the fresh air - and you get one of these at the end of the round.

But I must admit I was a little nervous about the Taylor Made driver that I was borrowing. I tried a couple of tee shots with it, but duffed every one. My friends wouldn't let me give up, so eventually I hit a fantastic shot and literally jumped up and down on the tee. And now I want one. I absolutely need one. It's got a HUGE head, it's light and the sound it makes when you hit its sweet spot is magic. (You see what a male orientated sport this is...) There was another club in his bag, a hybrid Mizuno 4 wood which looked like an iron. It could be used on the fairway in places that you cannot use a wood, say in the slight rough. Though it took a little getting used to, it too could make the ball fly much faster than any normal iron, if hit well.

I know I sound very golfy of of a sudden, and apologise to any non-golfers who've by now fallen asleep out of sheer boredom. But it's just so lovely when you are re-united with an old flame, and find that he's still as demanding and as enthralling as ever before.

Finally a picture of my golfing partner. Isn't he sweet?

Nappi lives here

Nappi was really my sister's teddy but since we both discarded him in turn, he's been adopted by my father and his wife.

When he first arrived in the family he was larger than my one-year-old sister. Older, but too young to understand the importance of this furry friend, we two naughty sisters decided the name of the teddy, Nappi (Button in English) should be permanently engraved on his paw with felt tip pen, lest anyone should forget it. Which one of us gouged his eye out, or left him with just the one ear, I'm not sure. Neither do I remember the doll he's now been put in charge of.

In his old age Nappi gets doggy bags from restaurants, cards from abroad and is generally better cared for than either my sister or I managed. 'He's easier to leave than a dog would be,' says my step-mother. But I'm not convinced. He gazes me with great sadness from his vantage point on the top of the wardrobe as I sit up in bed writing this.

Living out of a suitcase

I'm planning a capsule wardrobe to pack from the capsule wardrobe I took with me from London. Luckily I bought a few items in the shops in Stockholm today (more of this later with hopefully pictures) which makes life a little easier, still I'm not particularly looking forward to the next week. I'm going to see family and friends (which is great) but I'll be staying in two different cities - first Tampere then Helsinki - and in three different places.

I've organised it all myself, and am grateful and really, really looking forward to seeing everybody, but trying to pack for the week away just seems too hard tonight. Perhaps I've been away for too long?

In any case, I'll probably not be able to blog much, though I am hopeful some of my technology savvy friends will have the equipment needed to get pictures out of my camera, so you never know there might be some eye candy on here at least for the next seven days or so. I'm also writing with a Swedish spell checker tonight so apologies for any mistakes.

Be patient, my lovely followers and readers - I'll tell all when back in my new office in London, overlooking that lovely house opposite.

Sleepless in Stockholm

I can't sleep. Perhaps it's the noise of the city after two weeks of gazing at the sea in Åland, perhaps just the excitement of being in Stockholm in mid-August, just when the city wakes up from its summer slumber. The children go back to school here today; the Stockholmare return from their islands in the archipelago, tanned and even more good-looking than usual; the number of tourists in Östermalm slowly reduces; the traffic outside my mum's flat increases from the one car in every half an hour to two.

As I sit here on her cool balcony (the temperatures here are still over 20C – very unusual for this late in the summer) and look over the well-tended gardens of the houses opposite I wonder how it would be to live in this orderly city. I've been here before, so I'll try not to go on.

But I'd forgotten how good the shopping in Stockholm is. I know I wrote before about Södermalm, but boy does Östermalm too offer some goodies to a Nordic girl living in fashion starvation in London (OK, not quite true....) Although makes such as Marlene Birger, Filippa K, Sand and George Jensen are also found in London, their stock here seems quite different. I even found American designer stuff here that I haven't seen in London, or online.

In spite of spending nearly a whole afternoon in town yesterday, we didn't manage to buy a single thing. We saw lots we wanted to get, but somehow the day turned into a series of stops for coffee, wine, lunch, wine and dinner. I guess it is such a long time since we've had proper Mother-Daughter time.

We started the day off with a walk around the island of Lidingö where my mother lives, then breakfast at a wonderful bakery, Gateau, opposite her flat. I had liver pate and dill cucumbers on sour dough (you see I've gone native). In town we headed straight for NK and the cafe & champagne bar where we both had huge, healthy salads. Then it was off for a coffee via a bit of browsing in the store, then when the shops shut at five we had wine in Kungsträdgarden. We did a little more window shopping around Östermalmstorg and then decided to head for dinner at an Italian place, Capri on Nybrogatan where the waiters had a strange combination of Swedish and Italian arrogance. Once I told them the stylish blonde sitting opposite me was actually my mother, they calmed down a bit.

Today we know exactly which shops we're heading for, having done such a comprehensive reccie yesterday. I'm hoping for a few items at both Marlene Birger and Sand as long as we can keep away from the bars and coffee houses....

PS. Sorry no pictures, I've had a bit of a technology fail on that front.

A rainy day in Stockholm and the best jeans in the world

I've always loved Stockholm. Perhaps it's because I spent my formative years there, or it may just be all that water which surrounds the city and its beautiful buildings.

In any case, when the opportunity arose to spend a day in Stockholm together with Husband and Daughter I grabbed it with both hands. We boarded the 7.30 am ferry from Mariehamn and after a buffet breakfast on board drove into Stockholm just as the city was starting to stir. We'd decided to look around an area which I at the tender age of thirteen wasn't allowed to enter alone, Södermalm. Nowadays it's famed not only because it was the stomping ground of Stieg Larsson, and his famous characters Lisbeth Salander and Mikael Blomqvist, but also because of its trendy, more edgy shops and restaurants. Some 30 odd years ago Slussen and Götagatan was an area where drunken, violent, knife-carrying immigrant Finns veered from one poor commuter to another, or where Ladies of a certain old profession traded their wares. Now the area has been taken over by the modern intelligentsia. But during all my past visits to see my mother, I'd not managed a trip there.

Daughter wanted to find a vintage shop called Beyond Retro Söder whereas Husband and I just wanted to find a good place for coffee, followed by a good place for lunch. But driving in Stockholm, especially on the south side which was completly virgin territory for me, with the aid of a pop-up tourist map, turned out to be a bit of a marriage-testing affair. Daughter said afterwards that she was very impressed that we didn't have a domestic. With both of us pining for a coffee Husband and I became a tad terse with each other. He was driving while I was trying to read the map devoid of most street names or any indication of the one-way system which Swedes seem to be particularly fond of. When we eventually managed to negotiate the various tunnels and bridges over the water from the North side of the city, which I knew quite well (Me, 'We want to be there, on the OTHER side of the harbour!', Husband all silent fury.), it started raining. Not just a few drops, but proper summer rain. In the sleepy, early morning rush, we'd stuck three sailing coats in the car -  just in case. All were too big for us, and put an end to any ideas of being stylish on the trendy side of town, but being dry seemed suddenly much more important.

We ducked into a coffee shop housed in a half-cellar affair and had one of the best latte's I've had for some while, served by a friendly Swede. It turned out to have the same colour walls as Daughter's freshly painted nails.

Then it was time for Daughter to go her way and we ours. The rain stopped for just long enough for a little wander, looking into all manner of shops with the most fantastic window displays.

And as we turned the corner of Götagatan I saw a sign I didn't think I'd ever see again. I've written posts on this blog before about my jeans addiction, and it was here it began. When I was eleven, the best shop selling jeans in Stockholm, in Sweden, in the world in fact, was Gul & Blå in Jarls Birgergatan. The shop was trend city. It had wooden floors, yellow and blue steel railings where the best fitting jeans known to man were stacked up high. It was an old warehouse, minimally decorated, with a steel spiral staircase leading up to the unisex changing rooms. It was the latest thing for us in the 1970's, and had a free-love kind of mentality, because even the fitting rooms didn't have any curtains. You had to be trendy to work there, not to mention to be able to shop there. The best-looking guys would hand you the jeans and then you'd just have to get changed in full view of everyone downstairs as well as the staff at the top. But my Sister and I loved the place. Together with hundreds of other teenagers we'd spend hours queuing up for a new delivery of V-cut jeans (cut to a V shape at the knee and then flared). I remember how happy I was when I bought a tight-fitting faded jeans jacket with puffy sleeves from there. I wish I still had it - it would be perfect for Daughter now.

When we moved to Finland, I'd take day trips to Stockholm just to buy a pair of jeans at Gul & Blå. Even when in the UK, I'd still get most of my jeans there, and buy in bulk for my friends who'd admired my Gul & Blå's and wanted to know where to buy them. But in the 90's something happened and the shop disappeared. So you can imagine my delight, when in front of me I saw the shop in a slightly different incarnation, slightly different area, but still selling jeans of good quality and style. Of course there was only one thing for me to do.You guessed it - this was one of those kinds of times when you have to break the rule of never buying another pair of jeans again because you own more than one for each day of the week.

And here they are, a perfect fit as always, and they are high-wasted, something I've been wanting for a while. They are stretchy, light grey and straight. And they are a pair of Gul & Blå jeans! This girl could not ask for anything more.

I spent the rest of the day in Södermalm on cloud nine. We had lunch at a vegetarian place and spent a very reasonable amount of money for it. Daughter bought two dresses, a broach and a handbag for next to nothing at Beyond Retro and at about three o'clock we decided we'd had enough of the rain which had become more insistent again and headed for a rest in my mother's flat on the other side of town.

I shall not go into the even more taxing drive we had back to Östermalm. All I'll say is the the Fathers of Stockholm City could have a close look at their signage, place names that have no reference on a map are next to useless to those who don't know their way.  And that having a proper map is a very good idea when you drive in any strange town. And having a Husband that insists on knowing best can be very annoying indeed. There.

Home thoughts

Being back in your home country can be equally as tricky as being a foreigner - immigrant - abroad.

First of all there are all the emotions that family re-unions can ignite. Sometimes they are beautiful and lovely, sometimes an old, deeply buried resentment raises its ugly head and bites the homecoming queen in the bum. The least said about this the better.

Then there are the small cultural differences that you've forgotten about. When I come anywhere near any of the Nordic countries, be it Finland, Sweden or the Åland Islands (where we are at the moment), the first thing that strikes me is the lack of general politeness and social consideration. No-one holds a door open for you. No-one greets you with even the slightest of  nods, whether you are the only other person walking along a deserted country road or not. Very few people smile.

It takes me a few days to remember that these people are not miserable, nor impolite. It's just the way they are; serious and private. Finns are more extreme then Swedes; Ålänningar lie somewhere in between. They say what they mean, they don't speak unless it's necessary to say something. They arrive at parties on time and they expect you to do the same. But the consequence of this sincerity is that ferries run on time, bank cards arrive a day before they were promised. Everything works and you can trust that if a person says they're going to do something, it'll happen.

While we were considering the Big Move, both Stockholm and Helsinki were mentioned. But however much I love being able to catch a train and know it'll arrive on time, or walk along a street and know it'll never be as crowded and claustrophobic as Oxford Street on any given Saturday afternoon, I don't think I could cope with the insular Nordic character. Of course not everyone is like this - I'm generalising terribly. My friends and family are completely different; besides they know my English ways and pander to them.

But I believe that if I'd moved back, after a few months in either Helsinki or Stockholm, I'd be that crazy woman shouting obscenities at passers-by, venting my pent-up anger at my fellow countrymen. In other words, I've become too English, too corrupted to leave the UK. It's just simply too late for me to go back. And that, ladies and gentlemen, makes me very sad indeed.

A large small town

That is how the tourist site Visit Åland describes Mariahamn. Something lost in translation there perhaps? For me, however, this fits perfectly, but then I speak both Finnish and Swedish (spoken here) and have by now after twenty odd years even acquired the Åland accent and use the odd, little quirky word that only the island people know. To give you an example, Nojsa means to make a racket, a word obvioulsy adopted from English. (Explained by the islands' history of seafaring.)

In the tourist season, which basically means the duration of long summer school holidays from June to early August, the capital of the Åland islands is busy with visitors from mainly Finland and Sweden. There are many sailing boats moored in both Österhamn, the Eastern harbour facing Finland, as well as in Västerhamn, the Western harbour, which looks out towards the Swedish coast. Due to its tax free status, the large ferries that criss-cross the Baltic stop here, bringing with them more tourists to the islands and Mariehamn. By the time we usually arrive in mid-July, the tourists are already well settled and planning their return to either mainland. The weather also turns slightly colder in August, and as the tourists flee, the big town becomes a small one again.

Son says there's tumble weed running through Mariehamn by mid August when we walk along the deserted Storgatan. What we and the other tourists forget is that this is what life is normally like here in the 'large small town'. There are only 11,000 inhabitants, a number which at least doubles during the summer months. The telephone directory is the size of a small leaflet, including the Yellow Pages. Everyone knows everyone else. The local newspaper is so starved of news it's invented a new level of sensationalism.

'Joy Riding Arrives in Åland' was a title a few years ago. Reading the article you realised it was nothing more than a set of keys left in a parked car on Torggatan in Mariehamn which had then been driven by an unknown person two blocks north to Norrgatan and abandoned there, unharmed with same keys in the ignition. Today's paper carries the shocking fact that there can be many cars on the roads of Åland with falsified MOT certificates....no figures are given, but the paper claims that there are vehicles on the islands that are dangerous. Big news for a small place.

Don't get me wrong; I love the quirkiness of Åland and Mariehamn. I'd hate it if I didn't find the odd story of stolen flower pots being returned to their rightful owner after a small notice in the paper. I'm most perturbed when I find things have changed from my last visit. I'm not yet sure I like the new traffic filter which takes us from the main road, Hamngatan, to Lemland without having to negotiate the 'large' roundabout. That there was absolutely no need for this new road is another matter altogether, what I find difficult is to see change here on the islands. Perhaps I've just become very British in my outlook, or perhaps I just want to go back in time when I'm visiting my favourite large small town.

Semi-deserted Storgatan 

Whatever, I cannot wait to go into town later today and have my favourite kanelbulla (cinnamon bun) with coffee, or perhaps a slice of Ålandspannkaka with sviskonkräm (pancake with plum jam). I've tried to make it at home, but it just doesn't taste the same without the strong coffee and the hum of quiet conversation in Svarta Katten, our favourite kaffestuga in Mariehamn.

Svarta Katten coffee shop

Island life

We arrived on the island of Åland five days ago now. It was late at night and we'd spent the whole day travelling, first by plane from London to Stockholm, then by ferry to Mariehamn. My mother and step-father's house where we've spent most of our summer holidays since the children were born is just a few minutes drive from the Capital, but you'd not know we are anywhere near 'civilisation'. Well, apart from the occasional rush of cars that speed past when the bridge is lowered after it's let a 'rush' of sailing boats pass the Lemströms Kanal.

The 'busy' road

Husband and I were delighted to find we were going to be sleeping in the sauna cottage, where the sun coming up over the horizon wakes us early and where a swim in the Baltic is just a hop and a skip away. The quality of sleep is different too; we never get so many hours solid rest as we seem to do there. It could be the sea air, or it could be what my mother calls the suopursu-effect. She says the plant, in flower, has calming properties. The sauna cottage is surrounded by these flowers. As this year we have wireless internet access for the first time, I was going to investigate if there was any truth in it, but decided to suspend disbelief instead. Knowing the science behind it would, I'm sure, affect my sleep.

Our abode

Sun rise day before yesterday

Perhaps it's just the slower pace of life on the island that makes us restful and relaxed. Although my mother still works part time in Stockholm where she has a small flat, she has a large vegetable garden here on the island and produces everything from raspberries to courgettes to potatoes. While my step-father helps with the vegetable gardening, he also looks after a few cottages he rents to summer guests, as well as makes the occasional fishing trip and makes sure everyone's glass is always filled at parties. He's also known for his excellent schnapps singing voice.

My mother with some of her produce - I love her Marimekko wellies!

Two days ago I wasn't so thankful for my step-father's ability to welcome his guests, as my head was thumping after the first of (I predict) many parties during our stay here. But today we were all feeling a little sharper.

So this evening my stepfather asked husband and daughter if they'd like to go with him to pick up nets he'd placed just off the shore by the sauna cottage earlier. 'Don't think we'll get any, though,' he said and got onto his bike, closely followed by husband and daughter. After about half an hour daughter ran into the house shouting, 'We've got at least 15!'

The fishing party is off

'Oh oh,' said my step-father. He's a typical fisherman. 'I wanted four or five, not this many!' I could see what he meant; getting the awkward slippery things out of the nets with a poor eyesight wasn't easy. Luckily husband helped. When all were freed, we counted 17. 'Jävlar också!' said my step-father.

A tricky task

Truly fresh fish

Then it was time to gut the fish and salt them. Ready for the smoker tomorrow evening.

I cannot wait to taste the home-smoked abborre - don't they look delicious?

Lets just hope there's no rain tomorrow and we can sit outside and eat while watching the sun set behind the tall pine trees in the distance.

Monday's wishlist

Even on holiday I had to check the new arrivals at Net-a-Porter. And look what I found. A vertable wardrobe for my return to London. Oh, how tempting....

Maison Martin Margiela Shearling-lined leather boots

Antik Batik Dream embellished blazer  

Acne stretch skinny pants

Rick Owens Lilies Angora and wool blend dress

Just as well I'm not due back home soon, otherwise it would have been very difficult not to press the 'Proceed to purchase button.