NORMAL LIFE: Finns And Their Babies!

Once again, cultural differences have risen to the surface; this time it's relating to Finns and their babies. Popeye, my closest colleague, recently returned to work after two weeks of paternity absence. While clearly amazed by the experience of fatherhood thus far, he took time out to give me some negative feedback: he didn't like the fact that I had communicated to our colleagues that he was on paternity leave. It wasn't the fact that he was out of the office that he had an issue with, it was the fact that I had mentioned paternity. This somehow revealed something about his private life.

Furthermore, throughout his two week absence, I had heard nothing. As a colleague, I don't expect to be informed as to baby's arrival or Mum's health, but two weeks of silence did nothing but conjure thoughts of birth-related complications which I thought was quite selfish. I explained this to him, but regardless, I shouldn't have communicated something so personal such as paternity in the first place. I didn't argue because I knew this was a cultural thing - Finns have a very obsessed-bordering-on-secretive view about the way their free time is shared/communicated with others.

As a gay man on the slippery slope towards his 30th birthday, I have reached an age where I'm constantly confronted by friends and colleagues having babies. While procreating is indeed the 'normal' thing to do, this does nothing to dispel my own unwanted feelings of inadequacy. My colleagues, indeed my own parents, do nothing but rave about parenthood. Well, if that is true and having kids is so bloody fantastic, then why are Finns so bloody unwilling to publicise it? I harbour no deepdown wish to father a child, if I did have a child, I would shout his/her arrival from the rooftops. And I would shout it out once or twice, not drag it out every Monday morning in the office in long-winded accounts of how someone's child managed to roll over onto it's stomach for the first time or how a child's illness has managed to spread within a whole family only to render your most valuable colleagues useless and, indirectly, add more stress to your own life.

The incident with Popeye occured yesterday, but this morning I received an email announcing that one of our colleagues - who had a baby just two weeks ago - would be visiting the office to show off her newborn bundle of joy. And I'm like oh for gods sake!

And get this: Finns don't even name their child for the first month or two. I can't stress enough how delicate and private the process of naming a child is so don't pry, whatever you do. I got to thinking what do Finnish parents call their child until it's named? Thing? It? Oi?! But the child isn't totally unidentifiable. You see, it leaves the hospital with its very own social security number! How useful, I thought to myself! As if the nine month pregnancy isn't long enough to decide on a name for your child! In this case, Popeye and his wife call their son 'Pupu' (bunny rabbit). How unflattering when the Father of the child could just do the decent thing and declare, quite unoriginally perhaps: "I hereby name this child Mika Jukka Sami".

Individuals aside, these incidents have made me think about my own situation and how lucky I actually am that biology has denied me fatherhood. Quite frankly, I love my life. I have a challenging job so the days fly by, I have time in the evening to do my hobbies, to exercise and plan my next amazing adventure abroad. If I were to have a child and become a dedicated parent - of which their are precious few, let's face it - I would lose my individuality, no doubt put on weight, say goodbye to saving for that rainy day and would be confined to child-friendly holidays in the Costa del Sol or equivalent for the next ten to fifteen years. What a waste of life.

Ultimately, the number of times I have heard people's theories on parenthood, this one comes up again and again: it's nice to know that there's going to be someone there when I'm older. I'm like how naive can you get? Children born in the 21st Century will have more opportunities than ever before. It's very likely, as globalisation gathers pace, that family life will further lose it's impetus while man continues to go off in search of money, career, quality of life etc. While parents naively believe that their children will remain close by, the prospect of success and riches in a foreign land is a much stronger force.

NORMAL LIFE: What's In A Number?

Still not feeling 100% after my recent bout of Influenza, here I am on a Sunday afternoon attempting to catch up with my Finnish language studies. It's almost unimaginable that, three years into my studies (I've retaken some courses just to be confident to go to the next level), I am still dealing with numbers at Level three (of a potential six).

If I want to indicate that something is in 8,765,432nd place, the written form, in words, would be something like:

kahdeksasmiljoonasseitsemässadaskuudeskymmenesviides-
tuhannesneljässadaskolmaskymmenestoinen

They talk often about what's in a name, but in a Finnish number, there's certainly alot of letters! But it goes to show just how difficult Finnish is if you're still mastering the numbers after three levels of courses.

ANNOUNCEMENT: Madeira

With just seven or so weeks until our winter break, Bree and I have just booked a nine night break on the sunny island of Madeira. The moment I hit the official webpages of Madeira's tourist board, I was hooked, with promises of grand scenery and a temperate climate. Together with perfect flight times (on this occasion, Finnair proved to be the best option which is very unusual) and a hotel right on the beach (honest!), how better could it get?!

Already, the island is basking in temperatures in the early 20s. I say basking because, compared to the weather in Helsinki right now, it's practically tropical! We will be flying into Funchal on the day of Madeira's flower festival and, somehow, I can sense the warmth and colour already!

NORMAL LIFE: When In Rome..

I had never heard of the Commission on Integration & Cohesion before. What a snazzy name, I thought, clicking on their link from an online news article; its name says pretty much all you need to know, but in case you're intimidated by the big words, the reasons for the organisation's existence is to promote diversity and respond to the tensions it can sometimes cause, dealing with issues such as segregation and the dissemination of extremist ideologies.

The Commission's report that Not Speaking English is the single biggest barrier to successful integration comes as no surprise. What shocks me is how many people there must be in the UK right now who, for some reason or other, can't even put two English words together. By not learning one iota of English, they have expressed their desire neither to assimilate - nor respect - our culture and way of life. Furthermore, did you know that Social Services translate their benefit claim packs into more than ten languages? No wonder they have all come running, seeking refuge from afar! As Darra Singh, Chief Executive of Ealing Council who chairs the Commissions, right says: "Translation should never be a substitute for learning English in the first place."

I speak out right now because I know what I am talking about; I have been struggling to get through course three of six courses that constitute the basics of Finnish, reputed to be among the top 10 most difficult languages to learn. Wouldn't it be just pompous and empirical of me to expect everybody to speak English? When in Rome... hello! My stance on the matter is give benefits to those willing to attend English lessons; if they repeatedly fail the English tests, the claimant's brother - who is most likely a dentist or doctor anyway - can buy their dinner and pay their gas bill! Fuck off!

When you're living in London, you naturally come across people who can't speak English, but these are largely those tourists that have ventured away from the beaten track. However, some years ago, I was sitting on the Picadilly line a hundred-or-so metres below London's West End when a guy sitting opposite me looked rather worried. He studied the map of the London Underground above my head with a concentration that bought the veins in his head to the fore. The train was deserted, and the guy got my attention with the wave of a hand, pointing to the train stops listed on the wall and then pointed to the floor as if to ask if the next stop would be his proposed destination. I shook my head, no. The guy was still some six stops away from Hyde Park and so this continued for about fifteen minutes; whenever the train started to slow, he pointed at the stops on the wall and then the floor, seeking reassurance. When I finally nodded, confirming he had arrived, he rushed off without even a thankyou.

What infuriates me, even after all these years, is that I think he was living here. He looked Afghan, sporting a long dark beard and wearing one of those flat-topped caps with school uniform grey trousers and a long, draping jumper. He must have been around fifty years old and I thought to myself even then that it is wrong that these people are living here. But what can you do, except encourage them to learn our language? The Commission on Integration & Cohesion was set up last year and not before time.

NORMAL LIFE: Can 'Britishness' Be Taught?

One thing that I love about Brits is their willingness to engage in small talk, which is something Finnish avoid at all costs; whenever I am in England, I don't have to lead conversations. Every now and then, you come across a traveller who wants to talk about something topical, something that's really getting on their nerves. During a train journey in the UK recently, while discussing the race divisions sweeping England, one remark from a sixty-something was that she wouldn’t be surprised if the UK became a Muslim-state within 50 years.

I pondered on this not-all-too-unrealistic view for a while, and the late Princess Diana came into my mind. Anybody who cared about Diana had a theory as to why she died, mine being that the Establishment had killed her to prevent the future King of England from having a Muslim stepfather (e.g. through marriage between Dodi Fayed and Diana). Given the race divisions sweeping the UK at the moment, I couldn't help but wonder are we heading towards some kind of Statehood unknown to us throughout history?

I was reading a Readers column in an English newspaper recently, and was saddened by the extent to which readers felt a need to engage in the subject of Britishness. The absence of a celebratory day in aid of our own Monarch, as well as the absence of national days for England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales has, without doubt, contributed to the watering down of our very culture. Isn't it saddening that I, at 29, don't know who Saint George (apparently the patron saint on England) is?

I'm very interested in history - it was one of the few subjects I excelled in while I was at school. That's why I was very shocked that one of my own siblings was unable to tell me who killed two of his six wives. I was amazed at this total ignorance to what I regard as one of the most illustrious histories in the world. I think it was Prince Charles who said a while back that "to know your history is to known yourself". I totally agree with him. How can we even set a unified front if, as Brits, we have no idea of what has been sacrificed for us? It angered me when one reader wrote that she felt that compulsory Britishness lessons 'will ostracise an already alienated youth?'. How, exactly? The only way they will feel alienated is by having some guidance for a change, but this is a temporary alienation which I am sure will fade.

I can't help but feel that the teachers have taken on too much responsibility. It is not their job alone to preach of the dangers of drugs and guns, or to explain globalisation and function of the European Union. Why do mothers think they can give birth to children, raise them during the maternity period so they can rush back to work and trust their children grow up to be responsible adults? It doesn't work that way - it never has done. To think it would work in this way shows staggering naivety.

One reader goes on to tell how remarkable it is that, for a thousand years, these Islands haven't been invaded and bloody revolution has been avoided for a few hundred years. This is in contrast to life in France and Germany during the same period. The reader proposes that simply learning about those nations will tell children alot about their 'distinctive British identity'. The reader, from Cambridge no less, might have a good point there.

Another reader interestingly dismisses the importance of history, simply believing that "Britishness comes from the heart... it is about a love of Britain and a feeling of belonging". If that were true and we were to enforce this belief, let's deport the 2-3 million people who have shown no love for - nor a sense of belonging to - Britain.

Another simplistic, but equally valid point is that the "criteria of Britishness are, first, laugh at yourself and, secondly, do so in English!" This came from a former immigrant, now a citizen, who I only have the highest respect for.

NORMAL LIFE: Setting An Example For Child Harmers

I wrote recently, during a visit to the UK, that my country had 'somewhat depressed' me, what with the tales of paedophilia, rape, racism and child abuse filling the daily papers. In the exact same week as my visit, three men were found guilty of conspiracy to rape and sentenced to between 8-11 years in jail for 'planning another Soham' (see here).

Online, in a chat room, the three men planned to pounce on two young girls, aged 13 and 14, on their way home from school, exchanging indecent pictures of young children as they did so. While the three men had never come into contact with eachother nor their prospective victims, the police used chat transcripts - which readily identified the victims and the locations and explained what they planned to do to the children - as the basis for the charge. While the conviction might be seen as lacking any material evidence, the fact is that "these three men took a step beyond fantasy" while making reference to the Soham muders (see here).

Why do I feel a need to write about such an awful subject? On February 9th, I read this article, which points out that we all have a role to play in stamping out this lurid and disgusting behaviour. Living in Finland, I often see TV shows depicting British tourists on holiday and, continuously, I'm faced with images of English women wearing next to nothing. This is totally acceptable, isn't it, because it sells TV programs? Isn't it possible that our exposure to such images has desensitised our respect for the body, somehow made it less taboo to tamper with it? And how is this different to Finns going to the sauna naked together? First of all, men and women sauna separately. Secondly, the act of going to the sauna has no sexual connotations, at least not for those who are right in the head.

Yes, I personally believe that men like those convicted have a screw loose; either they are born that way, or something has made them that way, but allowing women to cavort in next to nothing simply feeds the imagination of these monsters. Personally, as a gay man, when I see a woman wearing next to nothing on a Friday night out, I do tend to think to myself: she's asking for trouble. So why do an increasing amount of women insist on dressing in this way? It's all to do with women's low self esteem in the 21st Century, which has been brewing for quite some time; firstly, there was the countless number of diets launched in the 90's by every celebrity known to humanity, followed by excessive media coverage professing to know how a 'real' women should present herself. Millions of women suddenly became self-analysing freaks, which spawned TV shows such as the anorexic I'm-so-successful Ally McBeal and Sex & The City, where women presented themselves as objects to be seduced.

'

The fact that Bel Mooney managed to even get her article published is testament to the Daily Mail's determination not to simply sweep this issue under the carpet. Indeed, there is alot that the media could do if it would just stop portraying women primarily as sexual objects. What the media could also do is continuously inform readers on how to surf the internet safely. But Bel Mooney is right: "How can we teach them to show restraint when there is little or no restraint in the culture around them?" When a friend visited Finland recently, I asked if he wanted to come to the sauna with me. Almost immediately, he made suggestive noises and I realised then that British people have alot to learn about what is acceptable and what isn't.

'

Next time you see Girls Aloud or the Pussy Cat Dolls on TV, ask yourself what is to be gain from the fact that they may be wearing next to nothing? What signal is this sending out to your child? What is to stop your child dressing up like these tarts on-stage, and 'getting what they deserve' the minute they are out of your sight? While the media can play it's part, parenting in the UK is primarily to blame. The police set an example this time by convicting three men who, in fact, had never even met their victims. But will they stop your child becoming a victim?

NORMAL LIFE: When It's 39.7°C

No, Finland hasn't suddenly warmed up! This is the temperature that my body registered last Wednesday, rendering me no more useful than a pair of flipflops. When Bree returned from work that day, he held me up as he drove me less than one kilometre to the nearby private hospital.

Totally lacking in energy, he held me up as we took the lift to the second floor reception. The fever was once again taking hold, as I entered yet another seizure of chills as we registered my arrival. I was shown to a room where I could wait, which had a bed where I could rest. The nurses were great, covering me with blankets until a doctor was available. In a daze, somebody arrived to take a sample of my blood, but also took a swab from deep in my nose.

Twenty minutes later, the doctors arrived, telling me that I had full-load Influenza. For the first time in my life, I realised that I had never actually had influenza before. I - indeed many of us - have had flu-like symptoms, but never before had I had the kind of flu that was in your blood and, if left untreated, could kill. I was immediately put on Tamiflu, one of the drugs that the UK is stockpiling should birdflu mutate so that it is transmittable from human to human.

Within 24 hours, all seizures had stopped and the redness in my face had disappeared. I still felt fatigued, and the other symptoms of sore throat and aching limbs were more pronounced. I was just absolutely amazed by the speed in which the doctors had analysed my blood, reached a diagnosis and started my recovery.

Out of curiousity, I visited Wikipedia and downloaded the pages relating to Influenza (see here). I was blown away by how little I actually knew about Influenza, suddenly realising how few of us had actually had the 'real' flu. Last night, on the Finnish news, we were told that the A-Virus was slowly making it's way through the Finnish population. I only hope those unfortunate enough to catch it get themselves to hospital and get the treatment I had - there's still another week or so of recovery, but the first 24-48 hours makes you feel like death warmed up.

NORMAL LIFE: Another Day In Europe

A beautiful shot of my homeland, starting a new day...

NORMAL LIFE: Partying, Audiologists, Dentists, Snow, Bingo, Sushi & In Manchester For One Night Only!

I land at midday on February 2nd, after the warmest January in the UK since 1916. The doors to the aircraft open, and I step out onto the tarmac, welcomed by an inviting clear blue sky very unlike the funereal grey one I had left in Tampere. I follow the swarm of tourists who have no doubt come for a fun-filled weekend in the city of London, only to be greeted by a 50metre-long immigration queue which succeeds in making me feel unwelcome in my own country.

It took an hour to get out of Stansted Airport - I quickly booked my ticket onboard the Stansted Express to Tottenham Hale. It was just unfortunate that, having waited so long to clear immigration, I needed to use the toilet. I was absolutely amazed by the filth in the toilets, with piss all over the floor and graffiti splattered all over the walls. My first thought wasn't for my own comfort, although I would be forgiven for being selfish considering I had paid an exboritent amount of money for the train fare, but one of embarrassment: just imagine, this is one of the first experience tourists are greeted with, and that's before the congestion.

At Tottenham Hale, I got onto the Victoria Line, where freedom of expression takes on a new meaning with punks, music loving i-pod dudes and foreign people in abundance. The drama-loving Brits and their love of reading tabloids hasn't changed with baseless headlines screaming LABOUR IN MELTDOWN, while the recent Big Brother race row still seems to be selling newspapers. The closer my train get to Victoria Station, the fuller the train carriage gets and one thing strikes me: people in Britain look tired!

My great friend Nick meets me at Victoria station and, as usual, the time that has passed falls away; the last time I saw him was at the beginning of October last year. Nick had been shopping for software for his Mac and I was highly amused by some software he had bought called StuffIt! At his place in South London, we guzzled down most of a bottle of wine before heading to Strada, a modest Italian restaurant in Clapham High Street. Afterwards, we went to the nearby KazBar, a pre-clubbing meeting point for the area's gays. With a down to earth clientele, the DJ plays hard music while TV screens smaller than the black and white portables of the olden days senslessly showcase unrelated music videos. We whiled away the evening there with Nick buying endless doubles of Bacardi and coke. All the while, I was getting merrier and merrier, but we decide to call it a night around midnight.

The next morning, we made that all-time British favourite breakfast of Bacon Sandwiches doused in tomato sauce. With a cafetière of coffee, we chatted for most of the morning around the breakfast table, before deciding to head into town. By town, I mean London's West End; over a period of two to three hours, we walked through Leicester Square, Soho, Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. By this time, I had spent enough money which meant that getting back to Finland on the budget airline would be a hell of a challenge now that they were monitoring the weight of passenger's luggage. Knowing this, I put my wallet away and told Nick to get me away from stores!

We headed back home, ordering a Chinese. As we ate, we watched Madonna's most recent tour on DVD, Confessions. I've been a bit hard on Madge for some time, but I have to say that she gave one hell of a performance on the night in which the DVD is based. We watched the concert, together with Nick's flatmate Gina and his landlord, Herman the German who was sitting next to his new partner from the Czech republic; between you and me, they are made for eachother - they are both miserable, uptight and downright bloody rude. To give you an example, I have put on something like half a stone since the last time I saw them in October (you try staying slim when it's -10°C on a good day) and they did nothing but point it out again and again and then they claim that Englishmen are rude. I'm like, what are you on?!

As the evening wore on, we decided to go out. All of us! So, we literally ran down to the bottom of the road where the train station was and made our way to Vauxhall. In BarCode, a trendy and hip new gay bar situated under one of the Vauxhall Arches, Nick, Gina and I danced the night away. Of course, Herman the German and the Czech were too preoccupied with eachother to contribute in any meaningful way to the winding up we get up to on the dancefloor! I enjoyed the venue, but I should point out that the highlight of my evening was when a guy dressed in a tight PVC shirt and shorts shouted at me on the dancefloor: "your dimples are sexy!" At least he wasn't talking about my fadoobas! Given his attire, I was speechless, unable to formulate a suitable complement in return. If it had been one of the countless muscular dudes in the place, then my reaction would probably have been quite different!

Later, Nick, Gina and I waited for our bus at Vauxhall bus station. It was 3am, and the alcohol was now wearing off. It had been a good night, but tiredness was quickly setting in. When I woke up the next morning, it was about 10am. I felt groggy and woke myself up with a long shower while the rest of house slept on. For perhaps the first time, the Sunday morning gathering around the table had been a pleasant affair, which I attribute to two things; first of all, I've made an effort not to take things too literally with Herman the German. Secondly, I think Herman has equally lightened up, given that his affections are now focussed on the new man in his life.

Just after midday, I set off for Brixton, taking the Victoria Line to Kings Cross from where I would take the train to North Hertfordshire. I rummaged through my many bags of purchases, and settled down to the hilarious to-the-point prologue of Bill Bryson's Notes from a Small Island. To my left, I couldn't help but notice the Indian couple engaging in what can only be descrided as 'foreplay with clothes on'. The guy admired her fingers, regularly kissing her furiously before giving her breasts a series of not-so-light slaps. The first time I witnessed this, I blushed, shocked by this very behaviour. By now, the train was speeding through the countryside - blue skies in London had turned to grey on the capital's outskirts, giving way to a dense fog in Hertfordshire. The Indan guy is up to no good again!

I arrive in town and, 100 metres away, I can see my father smiling at me. We hug and the rest of the day is spent drinking endless cups of tea (as you do in England) and catching up on all the goings-on of the last five months. Mum told of how Bree had made it easier to digest my homosexualily, indicating that he is decent man who genuinely cares. Yes, I said, he does. After a long soak in the bathtub, I head to bed at 10.30pm, gushìng with pride to have parents who love and accept me for who I am.

On the Monday, I wake up to a bowl of cornflakes and a cup of milky tea and realise I am truly back with the people who raised me. My niece arrives (my parents take care of her during the day) and for her 3 years amazes me as to how well she can articulate her speech and formulate sentences. We drop her off at nursery, easily the best looking child with red curly hair and a clear complexion, dressed in a cute, pink Addidas tracksuit. Dad dropped me off at the station, and my deep rooted dislike of the trains resurfaces when I realise that I had misunderstood the information given to me by the offshore British Rail representative over the phone last night; I waited 30 minutes, and spent a further 40 minutes on a journey that shouldn't have taken longer than 15. I'm remind that nothing ever changes on this island.

The day went quickly and I nearly fainted when my warm train back home arrives two minutes early. The fact that it also left two minutes early made me realise the trains will either always be annoyingly late or will leave annoyingly early, leaving travellers perpetually flabbergasted! When I got home, I got into tracksuit trousers, a shirt and drank tea in the kitchen. Tonight's Weightwatchers meeting showed that Mum and Dad have lost 17 and 21lbs respectively since starting their diets in the New Year; what a fantastic start! Dinner consisted of an all-time traditional Shepherds Pie with baked beans, downed while watching an epside of British soap, Coronation Street. After, we watched Flightplan with Jodie Foster, a great movie. I was in bed by 11pm.

The next morning wasn't without problems, either. Two trains were due southbound; one at 9.39, which would stop at Finsbury and Kings Cross, the other at 9.41 to Kings Cross. I thought I would take 9:41 as it would probably gather speed, arriving earlier. The minute the 9:39 had arrived and departed, however, the information for the 9:41 train changed, indicating that the train would actually be stopping at eight stations along the way. Well and truly pissed off by this, you can imagine that my mood wasn't changed when I read the Daily Mail with the front page screaming: 'Britain: Europe's Burglary Capital'. Truth be told, my nation had somewhat depressed me since my arrival: the trains were filthy, never on time, crime was rife and Bird Flu had arrived the same day as me. In the press, there were reports of paedophilia, rape, racism, child abuse.

All that was quickly forgotten, however, when I arrived just in time for my Audiology appointment. My regular audiologist wasn't available, but I spent an hour with a charming trainee audiologist from South Africa. Having noticed a decline in my hearing, we - with a woman from IT assisting the trainee - 're-mapped' my hearing device. This involves setting high and low T-values (tolerance) for each of the eight frequency channels used to stimulate the nerves in my Cochlear. These levels, based on my perception of the quietest and the loudest beeps across the various frequencies, are used to create a unique algorithm for my hearing device. It is truly amazing - when I was switched on again, I could hear them, but it sounded like they were talking into a tin can and that I was somehow receiving their voices second-hand. Afterwards, I had an audiogram (a normal hearing test where you indicate if you can hear a series of beeps), to ensure I didn't leave the hospital without a programe that was no good. It turned out that the audiogram hadn't changed much since 2001, which was a relief.

I headed back to Kings Cross with a black coffee; I tucked into the ham, cheese and coleslaw sandwich lovingly prepared by my Dad. As I started on my buttered hot cross bun, the imposing Alexander Palace, opened as "The People's Palace" in 1873, hovered past. Serving as a recreation centre for the Victorians, the original palace burnt down after just 16 days of operation. On 1st May, 1875, a new palace opened covering an area of some seven acres.

It wasn’t long before I was in the office, sharing files and endless bytes of information with my American and Finnish colleagues via cyberspace. It was a short day in the office, since I had arrived during off-peak hours and would need to leave early to keep a 4pm dentist appointment. On the train back home, I called Bree; we chatted, catching up on the news until my train arrived at my destination. I made my way for the nearby dentist, apprehensive as to what he might uncover; I hadn’t been to the dentist for nearly two years and, in that time, a lot can change. My teeth were very clean, the dentist said, but an impacted molar to be removed, which would involve surgery. Yikes! The good news is it is free on the National Health Service, but I need to pay £100 for general anaesthetic. Bizarre, I thought to myself, thinking that we were slowly regressing to the standards of an Eastern-European country. In the meantime, the dentist – who sported a turban - said I would need a filling. I made the necessary appointment (for the coming Thursday) as I left the dentist, before whizzing through some of my favorite stores: WHSmiths, Virgin, Marks & Spencers and Clarks.

I manged to restrain myself, and called my Dad to come and collect me. By surprise, my eldest sister who I had not yet seen because she had been ill, pulled up. We chatted non-stop during the ten-minute journey to our parents. Relations with my other sister are a bit stressed at the moment so it was reassuring to know one of my kin cared. When we got back to the house, I presented some presents to my niece, which included a black beach towel featuring the outline of countless reindeer in the colours of the Northern Lights. As my mother and I sipped tea, my niece sat quietly on the sofa adjacent to us. My mother asked “Why are you so beautiful?” to which my niece responded in a matter-of-fact way: “Because I am!” Awww! The rest of the evening was whiled away with a visit to the gym and watching some telly.


The next day was Wednesday, and a fine frost had given the land a fine frosting, as if lot's of icing powder had been scattered overnight. After dropping off my niece at daycare, my father returned to the house and we set about making poached eggs and toast for breakfast. As a result, I got into work a bit later than usual, but it was a very productive day.

When I left work at 5.30pm, I got back onto the train with the idea of meeting my Mum in town – I had offered to take her to bingo, one of her lifelong passions. After a while, I could understand why my Mum raved about it. While it’s not the pastime that a twenty-nine year old male would boast about partaking in, it is surprisingly addictive as the numbers get ticked off and the countless times when you nearly won was oh-so-close! The real stress came when, during the national game where players stand to win £100,000, I waited on just two numbers for what felt like an eternity. At least ten numbers had been called and during that whole time, neither of the two numbers were called. With each number, I could feel a tension in my bladder and when somebody finally claimed the prize – some bitch from Aberdeen, apparently – I felt robbed!

Thursday was the day when I woke up, and the UK had been paralysed from a minimal fall of snow (read here). Surprisingly, though, the trains worked on time and, with meetings organized Stateside and in Helsinki, it was yet another productive day. I was a bit annoyed, however, to discover that my dentist had lied to my mother claiming that, because of the weather, there were no staff to undertake the appointments of the day. Later in the morning, I called the dentist myself, and someone answered. I was told that the dentists would be doing a half day today, although they had told my mother that the dentist wasn’t actually open at all. A white lie, perhaps, but when I asked what the rationale for canceling the afternoon appointments was, I was told that it was so that staff didn’t spend hours getting home during rush hour. In the back of my mind, I was struggling to understand how exactly this was my problem? Without realizing it, I had actually voiced what I was thinking, to which the receptionist suggested I book another appointment. I explained that I had flown into the country to get my teeth checked and that today was the only day I was in town. She said she couldn’t help it. Without helping myself, I said I hope the dentist gets home in time to watch Neighbours.

When I returned from work that afternoon, I met my parents in town and explained to my parents what had actually happened. I was shocked when they somehow sympathized with the dentist. Suddenly, I realized that it was me who had the attitude problem, and that I was trying to impose the Finnish love of efficiency onto my own countrymen. I was failing miserably, and just let it go. Yet another reason to stay away from this country, I thought to myself! I was shocked even further, due to my own misinterpration, when my father suggested I shouldn't come back to the UK anymore because it stresses me out so much; this echoed a similar suggestion that my sister made when she visited Finland at Christmas. I must be becoming unbearable, I thought to myself. I went to the gym in the evening, before picking up a Chinese takeaway for my parents and I; it would be out last evening together for a while, and I wanted us to have a little treat.

The Friday came whereby I would travel to Liverpool, to meet my friends Fred and Sweetpea. Due to a fault that had developed with my hearing device, I would take an earlier train, traveling to Kings Cross before heading to Euston to catch the lunchtime train to Crewe. I arrived at Euston, with a new hearing device in my possession, with plenty of time to buy a filling Marks & Spencers lunch and to settle down into my Virgin Pendolino train seat.

Next to me sat 62-year old Angela, who was traveling with Max, her very social eight-year old Yorkshire Terrier. Angela liked to talk; her loneliness had me listening to her life story, which proved eventful. She bore no bitterness, even though her husband succumbed to cancer after just two years of marriage. Happily remarried and enjoying her retirement after many years as a cancer researcher, she kept me engaged with her funny stories and similar points of view; we share the same birthday, and had bought the same Newspaper. In a short space of time, although 33 years separated us, it was bizarre how much we had in common.

From time to time, Max would jump from Angela’s lap to mine, and I didn’t mind. She was great company and, before we parted, I gave her my business card. The train pulled into Crewe, ten minutes later. As the train slowed to the platform, another one was pulling in which just happened to be my connection train to Liverpool! Dashing from platform to platform, I made it just in time. For some reason, tiredness overcame me and I dozed throughout the 40 minute journey. It was just after 2pm when I arrived - I made my way to Liverpool's Central Library and whiled away some time in the IT department, checking my email and updating this blog.

I received a text message just after 4pm that my friend, Fred, was waiting outside so I packed away my things and dragged my luggage and laptop bag from the second floor back to the ground floor. On my way, I saw a group of youths, foreign in origin strolling through the library seemingly devoid of purpose; what drew my attention to them was that they were clad in gloves, wooly hats and jumpers with hoods and, yet again, I was thinking to myself what has this country come to?! Half of the group must have been in their early teens yet their very demeanour bore signs of resentment and I wondered if they would mug me for my laptop bag. I hurried down to the ground floor, where Fred was waiting for me in the pouring rain! We hurried to a nearby cafe, taking time to catch up before I turned up on Sweetpea's doorstep just after 6pm.

No chocolate, no cheese, no fun (but one night off)!

Sweetpea and I opened a bottle of Rose wine as we catched up. Apparently, Sweetpea has high cholesterol so no chocolate or cheese. In fact, no fun at all by the sound of it, but she's prepared for a 'night off' as we take a black cab into town to Sapporo Teppanyaki restaurant, a sushi and noodle bar set in the centre of town. Strikingly original with immaculate seating and wooden floors granting the venue a seal of authenticity, the interior reflects the Japanese taste of minimalism. The packed-out venue on this Friday night, however, casts away any feeling of minimalism with each arriving diner.

Before long, a chef arrived at a cooking station, around which diners anxiously awaited each portion of their succulent food. Despite the fact that the previous helping of food may have cooled considerably, there was plenty of wine and chatter to engage in to pass the time, rendering the chef's slightly casual approach acceptable. By surprise, the chef flamed the grill, bathing the walls in a swathe of glowing orange. Simultaneously, patron's faces glowed from the sudden change in room temperature, resulting in whoops of and cheers from diners. While it's debatable whether or not this is truly a Japanese restaurant, the group feel combined with the relaxed atmosphere make it a restaurant truly worth a visit.

With set seating times, the experience feels a bit rushed, but we had been there for two hours and it was time for the chefs to do it all over again, but with different guests. We left the restaurant and made our way to the nearby Tea Factory; I had been to this bar before, but at that time it was packed. I suspected that the chilly night had deterred many regulars from heading into town. After a couple of drinks, we were actually both tired and headed back to Sweetpea's place. In a way, I was relieved that we had decided to go home reasonably early because I knew that Fred had a wild night out planned for me.

Manchester - One Night Only!

When Sweetpea drove me to Fred's place the next day, I felt like I had arrived! It was time for Fred and I to go to Manchester for our groovy night out. As Fred put it, the city should prepare for my arrival in Manchester - for one night only! Makes me sound like some international pop star!

We drove to Manchester, an hour away, bound for the Merchants Hotel, off Oldham Street. This is the bit where I get on my soapbox. I admit I paid only £55 for the night for this backstreet hotel, but I honestly didn't know that hotels like this still existed. I have stayed in hostels that had better heating, better bedding AND hot water; this hotel had none of those. It was SO basic that I am prepared to send a letter of complaint to the Manchester Tourist Board, warning them not to promote this hotel to prospective visitors.

We checked in, stared disapprovingly for a while at the room and then headed down to Canal Street, the main street of Manchester's Gay Village. We had a late lunch at Via Fossa, followed by a dessert in the not-so-nicely named bar, Queer. Afterwards, we went back to the hotel; I needed to rest my eyes so I dozed for 30 minutes, waking up about 6pm. Before long, we were dressed up and back in town. Already, the streets were swarming with people looking for somewhere to go, but we knew where we were headed.

Our first stop was Queer and, once again, I was surrounded by the I'm so up myself crew. Apart from nearly being set on fire by an overactive lesbian dancing with a cigarette in one hand and a plastic cup of booze in the other and risking further a burst eardrum from the unecessarilyy loud music, the drink was starting to lighten me up. The music in this place is very original with no repetition of basic Radio Edits being showcased, but I couldn't but wonder: what am I doing here? Nearly five years into a relationship, I think I'm reaching my limit with these places - do people really meet other people in these places? When I met Bree (see here), we were really in the right place at the right time. I haven't heard of anyone else who had the same fortunate circumstances to kick off such a relatonship.

After several hours in Queer and, by this time, quite merry on the sauce, we headed to Essential, a nightclub over three floors with different music being played on each floor. Around midnight, the shirts started coming off! Not mine, of course, but those of guys who think quite highly of themselves. The minute a guy takes his shirt off in public, no matter how attractive he might be, I lose respect for that person. I think it's rather sad that, in February, people take off their shirts in nightclubs and bars; fair enough, you're in a nightclub and it's hot, but it's February.. hello! Duh!

It was Fred's turn to take his shirt off and I called him a tart! We laughed! If I had a body like his, maybe my opinion of taking your clothes off would change. Despite the mass of unclothed upper bodies around me, I closed my eyes, raising my Bacardi and coke in the air, moving to the beat of the music in a trance-like state. In the back of my mind, however, I was conscious that I would soon be thirty and that behaving like this would naturally come to an end. Anyway, we got back to the hotel about 3am, totally knackerred. I fell into a light sleep and, as if only 10 minutes had passed, 11am had arrived. It was time to check out of our hotel. Aware that there was no hot water, there was nothing to shock my face into looking half decent. We grabbed a cooked breakfast, before we drove back to Liverpool. After a couple of hours at Fred's place, we were on our way to Liverpool airport where I would encounter my latest dispute with budget airline, Ryanair.

As I entered the airport terminal, I found an un-used check in desk to measure the weight of my suitcase: I was relieved to notice that my suitcase weighed only 19.4 kilos. The allowance was 20 kilos, or so I thought. After waiting in the check-in queue for more than half an hour, the check-in girl beckoned me forward and I placed my suitcase on the weighing belt, confident that all would go well. When asked if I had hand luggage, I lied, saying 'no' because my laptop bag must have weighed something like 15 kilos. The check-in girl pointed out, that with effect from December 1st, 2006, all luggage was limited to 15 kilos. I was like oh for gods sake, not again! I explained that I wasn't aware of this. She explained that the weight allowance was detailed in the Terms and Conditions of Carriage. I explained that everytime I fly with Ryanair, there's another change in the Terms & Conditions, asking how can customers keep up with all the changes???

She apologised, but she said that she needed to charge me £36 (~€52) for the excess baggage. "What if I take out the books, and carry these onboard?" I suggested. That would work, she said, if I had no hand luggage. So I did precisely that - I removed three hardbark novels I bought, a box of teabags and my Finnish study books. After check-in was completed, I stumbled away from the desk with an already heavy laptop back and a pile of books laden across my chest. Despite the burden of carrying this weight through Security, I felt like I had got one over Ryanair. When I settled down into my seat on the plane, I was sweating - security clearance had taken ninety minutes and I had just ten minutes to locate my Gate and board the plane. All the passengers looked at eachother in congratulatory glances since we had been glancing at eachother nervously through the slow-moving security queue. Before the plane even took off, I had already fallen asleep.

Once the seatbelt signs were switched off, light filled the cabin. My eyes opened and I felt refreshed, although I must have been asleep for less than 15-20 minutes. I looked out of the window, reviewing the week that had just passed. It was great to see Nick in London, my family during the week and my friends in the north, Fred and Sweetpea. But I was amazed at how much had actually gone wrong. Perhaps I would heed my sister's and my father's advice to stay away from the UK for a while. If anything, my living in Finland proved that ignorance really is bliss when I can't understand what is going on where I do live and I don't need to understand what is going on in the UK because it doesn't affect my everyday life. With that thought running around in my brain, I realised that I was the lucky one!

NORMAL LIFE: I Can't Hold The Silence Any Longer

Unlike the oh-so dignified Kylie Minogue, I can't hold my tongue anymore. That Olivier Martinez - who Kylie now refers to as "the Frenchman" - is an absolute pig-headed, heartless lowlife. I mean, how can somebody cheat on such a gorgeous woman who is recovering from breast cancer? Sounds like the guy couldn't hack it, and felt like he was lacking some kind of attention or something. Well, I hope this dipping of his wick in the wrong places has made him happy. When I first heard that Kylie was dating a Frenchman, I knew she would come to her senses one day and see the guy for what his people really are like.

Culturally, I would never partner an Australian, famous for their casual attitude, with a Frenchman who, in contrast, are famous for being arrogant, abnoxious and a little bit up themselves with their voulez, voulez, voulez nonsense! While I try to restrain myself by reminding myself not to believe everything I read in the British press, I read recently that Olivier (a poofy name, for sure) is overtly nationalist. Just imagine dating a patriotic Frenchman! I would rather shoot myself in the head!

In yesterday's edition of the Daily Mail, a journalist told of Why we all adore this very human superstar (even if she can't really act or sing). Having seen two Kylie concerts, I am amazed by her stamina and her ability to deliver a pleasing live performance night after night. For sure, Kylie has been an example for women to follow for more than two decades; words used in the article describe her are bubbly, bright, kind, generous, funny, happy, hard-working, loyal and down-to-earth, characteristics that are hard to find in celebrities these days. Given the fact that men continue to mistreat her is simply an indication of how her generosity is repeatedly being taken for granted. Or is it just true that all men are pigs?!

I've been a bit hard on Kylie's rival, Madonna, recently; in Kylie's absence from the music world, Madonna has enjoyed some renewed popularity. It's true, though, that "... when she [Kylie] is performing in one of her barely-there costumes, she never looks cheap. When Madonna wears next to nothing on stage, she looks like a transvestite." Sorry, Madonna, but I totally agree with this journalist!

Ultimately, I admire Kylie's resilience in maintaining her public profile during this latest setback in her life. She was quoted as saying last week that if she can recover from cancer, she can get over a Frenchman. Go, girl! And I loved the way she got him out of her life: by FedEx-ing everything from her properties in Sydney and London to the hotel room where he is staying in LA! Quality!

NORMAL LIFE: I Was Right (Nearly!)

I have spent all of the last week moaning about British Rail, how expensive the cost of train travel is and how they are never on time. But all credit to them today. True enough, my train was 18 minutes late, but when you consider that five airports have been closed in the south of England as well as hundreds of schools, British Rail delivered today.

The cause: 10cms of snow. Given that I came to the UK this week to have all my health matters addressed, it's typical that my dentist calls me to tell me that my appointment has been cancelled because staff cannot get into the office. This is because of 10cms of snow! In part, I was right (see yesterday's entry here), but where all the others failed, British Rail triumphed!

Related article here, UK in pictures here and here.
Great forecasting tool from the BBC here.

NORMAL LIFE: Lucky To Be Away!

By god am I glad to be away this week? When I say 'away', I'm referring to the fact that I am in the UK this week. Meanwhile, Bree is shivering in temperatures as low as -27°C in the South of Finland. But I haven't got away completely unscathed; this week, it's been -6°C in Hertfordshire just north of London.

It's laughable, though, that the media says that the UK is going to be paralysed by a forecasted fall of 2-5cms of snow tonight. In reality, I'm scared - with the slightest threat of snow or wind or rain, my journey to work on the train tomorrow will be absolute chaos. What amazes me is that year on year, the UK finds it acceptable for the country to come to a complete standstill. Related article here.

Halfway through my stay in the UK, I have had a great trip; there's some things that never change, which can be frustrating, but there's also an opportunity to spend time in a multicultural environment which, only when you've spent some time outside of it, can prove amusing. There's a long blog entry coming soon so watch this space...

NORMAL LIFE: Why Do I Bother (Again)?!

In my view, a language is made easier to learn simply by being exposed to it. When I saw this, I am referring to how people in foreign lands may, from a very young age, have been exposed to an English-speaking program on TV or an English-speaking advert (such as Coca Cola, for example) at their local cinema.

Furthermore, a willingness to learn is often driven my a need or necessity. When I mention need, I am refering to those organisations in small countries who want to compete and in certain industires such as tourism when one language is often used as a platform for communications.

A willingness to learn is especially true of new EU members who, desiring increased social status, need to consider learning English, French, German or perhaps even Spanish depending on the local requirement.

If English wasn't my mother tongue, I would probably really want to learn Finnish, merely to aid communication. In a country where English is spoken more fluently by more people than Finland's second national language, Swedish, I can't help but ask what really is in it for me?

The other day, whilst in a lift when I was leaving work, I proudly told a fellow colleague (a native Finn, no less) that I was going to my Finnish lesson. "What do you need that for?" he asked. Why do I bother? It go me thinking along the lines of why couldn't the Nordic Countries have been part of the Empire?!

See earlier Why I Bother link here.