NORMAL LIFE: A Week At The Home from Home

Monday 14th May

I haven't half felt like someone has been messing about with my head today. I headed to work a little bit after 10am, having gorged on fried bacon and egg rolls for breakfast, only for my PC to be infected by some kind of virus the minute I connected to the local office. While Helpdesk set about resolving the matter remotely, which rendered me temporarily redundant, I headed to the local swimming pool. There, I swam 1.5km and, hitting the showers afterwards, was surprised by a message screaming in red, block capital letters: CHILDREN REGULARLY FREQUENT THIS AREA SO WE ASK SWIMMERS TO SHOWER WITH THEIR SWIMMING CLOTHES ON. What a liberty, I thought, that I should have to leave the establishment with chlorine clinging to my goolies. Again, I'm struck by how much has changed since I left England.

Upon returning to my hire car, I couldn’t turn the lock in the ignition. The stress of earlier in the day was quickly returning so what I did was I called the AA (that’s not Alcoholics Anonymous, by the way, but the Automobile Association) number printed on the keys. I waited about 30 minutes in a call-queue before being put in contact with a Vauxhall Expert who, in the first instance, asked me to ensure that the steering wheel was unlocked. At first, I thought I had misheard him, but when I suddenly realized that I hadn’t even unlocked the steering wheel, I muttered a string of swear-words to which the Vauxhall Expert uttered a slight giggle. Slightly embarrassed, I don’t think I have ever felt more blonde!

When I returned to the office, my PC was proving just as useful as it had been earlier in the day so, admitting defeat by technology, I headed home. I picked up some ready-cooked chicken and ribs from Tesco, realizing that Britain has become a haven for cheap, too-tasty food no doubt contributing to the nation’s well-publicised obesity crisis. Back at home, I shared the story about my incident with the steering wheel to which my family squealed with laughter.

Tuesday 15th May

Today was a day of exposure and inadequate feeling. It started with a visit to Addenbrooke’s Hospital in Cambridge, where I spent some time with one of the firm’s Sales Reps and one of the hospital’s Clinical Engineers; it was a good learning exercise and I left with some ideas that I hadn’t thought of earlier. Later on, I made my way Hinchingbrooke Hospital in Huntingdon where, after a very similar visit to a Clinical Engineering department, I sat down for a rather unexpected confrontational showdown with two of the firm’s sales reps; concerned by a lack of a concrete strategy, they were venting their frustrations on me.

After the meeting, as I sped down the A1, I felt like a wally for not having anything of value to give the salesmen. Seriously demotivated, I started to wonder what my team could do to ease their pain out in the field. I drove home, welcomed by my four year old niece who called after me incessantly and, slowly but surely, the harsh reality of the feeling-small-at-work faded. In fact, the comedown rendered my exhausted and, after a two-hour nap (which hardly qualifies as a nap, does it?), the family in its entirety headed to a restaurant to gorge on a feast of yummy Chinese food.

Wednesday 16th May

A day in the office, with a PC as useful as having soap and no water. The day was spent going through what few papers I had bought with me while studying a book related to my work. During the day, I contemplated staying overnight in London so at to be nearby for a meeting early the next day. I called my friend Nick and he was all for meeting up in the evening so I did some searches and booked a room at the Jury’s Hotel near Bond Street.

Later in the day, having checked into my hotel, I met Nick in London's Gayland. By Gayland, I'm referring to none other than Soho or, more precisely, Old Compton Street. We dined at Balans, a trendy, somewhat overcrowded restaurant which, by 9pm, was heaving. Having indulged in a three course meal, we made our way to nearby Rupert's, a popular bar (also heaving) in none other than Rupert's Street. The evening reminded me just how easy it is to meet people 'like us' in London. Later, having bade goodnight to Nick, I settled into my hotel room, located just off infamous Bond Street.

Thursday 17th May

The day starts with some kind of swim in the hotel's 16 metre-long pool. How pathetic! Running late, I quickly showered, dashed down to Bond Street Station and took the Jubilee Line to St. John's Wood, the location of my meeting with a very important customer. The customer happened to be the Wellington Hospital, which brings back memories of perhaps the one thing that made my childhood a miserable one: Acne. For nine years, I was plagued with spots which would burst at random, causing unimaginable pain. At the Wellington Hospital, a private institute no less, I was diagnosed with Nodular Cystic Acne back in 1999. Three months later, the condition that had plagued me since puberty, had vanished.

I waited for my colleagues to arrive before announcing my own arrival at the hospital. The customer visit turned out to be a very disappointingly brief one, during which I presented the firm's short term solution to a problem affecting countless customers. Ultimately, the purpose of the three-colleague visit was a show of faith to the customer. We grabbed a coffee after our meeting, each of us somewhat struck by the brevity of the meeting.

I headed back to the hotel, intent on collecting my overnight bag. I dodged the rushing oh-so-important passersby, thinking to myself that I could never tolerate this madhouse on a daily basis. Back at the office a few hours later, IT had worked on my PC with success so I left the office feeling quite relieved.

Back home, I called Bree; the news of the missing toddler, Madeleine, who had been abducted from a hotel room in Portugal on May 3rd, has finally reached Finland. While this is a tragic case of how unsafe the 21st Century still is, it has surprised me how there has been no mention as to the carelessness of the parents. I mean, the parents are a surgeon and a doctor. How could they have been so careless to leave three children under four in a hotel room (with the balcony door unlocked, apparently) while they dined several blocks away? The media intensity has been quite shocking, reminiscent of the death of Princess Diana. The coverage is typical of the UK's classist society for, if the parents had been factory workers or similar, I doubt the coverage would have been as overwhelming.

Bree and I were missing eachother, and the evening was spent drinking ridiculous amounts of tea (how could anyone in England stay slim drinking this tea?, I asked myself!) and watching a plethora of soaps on TV.

Friday 18th May

On my way to my sisters, I drove along one the bypasses which takes in the wonderful scenery of North Hertfordshire. It was the first sunny day since my arrival the previous Sunday night and, by god, it was gorgeous. I turned up the music and one of my favourite songs, Tornero by Romanian Mahai Traistariu boomed from the speakers. I sang along. Later, breakfast at my sister's turned out to be a feast of all things you would find in an English Breakfast; fried eggs, bacon and sausage, black pudding, baked beans, plum tomatoes, toast, jam, tea and juice! Yummy!

My day at the office was one last opportunity to collect ideas from my colleagues which we formulated into a wishlist which I would share with the team in Helsinki. When I returned the hire car later in the afternoon, I dashed to the station and was, once again, on my way back into London. The fast train to Kings Cross, followed by the Underground to Victoria, reunited me with Nick, my best pal in London. With minutes until out train would depart from Victoria to West Norwood, we grabbed some Chinese food from the nearest Marks & Spencers and a bottle of Australian White.

The evening was spent indoors, watching an episode of oversexed northerners in an episode of a TV comedy series I had never heard before, Shameless. Afterwards, we watched Saw III, a gory movie just like it's two predecessors. How do people think up these movies?, I remember thinking to myself. It was an unlikely evening in the sense that I had visited a friend in London, one of the greatest cities in the world, yet had spent the evening indoors watching TV, eating lovely food and gorgeous wine. Fantastic!

Saturday 19th May

After waking up, I made coffee and had a slice of cherry cake and a package of blueberries. Nick woke up and we soon went our separate ways; I had arranged to meet Red, you see, the girl I had done my Masters Degree with. While I waited for the train, I saw a sign warning against mobile phone usage with a sign screaming: BE AWARE OF PHONE THIEVES. How pathetic, I thought, who would steal a phone?

By 1pm, I found myself standing amid a mass of dashing travellers at London's Paddington Station. Home of the bear of the same name, I quickly spun around when Red poked me from behind. After a quick hug, we headed to a nearby very British looking pub where we downed sandwiches as we caught up. We chatted about competitive relatives and current marketing issues - by god, Red doesn't half have some amusing stories.

After lunch, we headed to a cafe on the main road to while away a bit of time before meeting our friends. It was somewhat amusing because, occasionally, the ground beneath us would rumble and we would emulate that scene from Mary Poppins when the help would try to keep ornaments from leaving their places whenever the captain on the roof fired a cannon ball by holding onto the table and touching the paintings on the wall. It was all good fun! Even weirder than the occasional rumble was the bizarre sign in the toilet requesting customers not to put paper down the toilet because it might get blocked. What is this?, I thought to myself, Greece?

Having said goodbye to Red, I found myself back on the Circle Line, this time bound for South Kensington. Nick and I met up on the main steps of the V&A museum, one of the world's greatest museums of art and design, with unrivalled diversity. Under the roof of the museum's Kensington branch lays 3,000 years worth of artefacts from many of the world's richest cultures. Our presence here was not to subject ourselves to a bit of such culture, however, but to absorb our love for Kylie Mingoue at the Kylie Exhibition.

The exhibition is fantastic, it really is. Free of charge, visitors are treated to a visual feast of all things Kylie. You can see many of her famous outfits spanning her 20 year career, starting with the fluffy, white nightdress worn in her I Should Be So Lucky video to the gold hotpants that sparked off her comeback with Spinning Around to the more recent white hooded jumpsuit from Can't Get You Out My Head. Well, if you have an arse like hers, you might as well show it off! The exhibition has six themes - Music & Video, On Tour, On Stage, Image, Icon and Backstage. 600 constumes and accessories, many by leading fashion designers, are used to reproduce her life onstage. Given that entry was free, I parted with £19.99 for an official book of the exhibition about the woman who has been in my life for as long as I can remember; I Should Be So Lucky was actually the second single I had ever bought. I was 10.

While we were in such a building containing such extravagent stuff, we ambled along the main corridors and we came across a moving statue, called 'Mother Teaching Child'. It is very rare that a piece moves me so I couldn't resist taking a shot with my phonecam.

It was time for a bit of retail therapy. DVD shopping at the Piccadilly Virgin Megastore followed by underpant shopping (for Bree) in Soho. Inbetween, it was saddening - and shocking - to notice that the Regent Hotel has been closed permanently due to the presence of asbestos. In one store, I was prompted by a fellow Cochlear Implant user who asked which device I was using and how good it was. We stopped for a coffee at Costa in Old Compton Street, bumping into The Belgian and The Portguese, two guys I have been introduced to by a mutual friend of Nick's. I told the Portguese guy about my recent trip to Madeira and he proceeded with a diatribe of the recent Eurovision fiasco.

Back in West Norwood, we watched an episode of Doctor Who on TV and I was thinking that, even now, as always, this program does nothing for me. Opening a bottle of Rose wine, we got prepared for the evening; dinner at Nando's in Clapham, followed by a drink at the nearby Kazbar before taking the Northern Line to Borough to visit XXL, a premier gay nightclub. I like XXL, although it's a bit difficult to take the place - and it's clientele - seriously. The music started with camp numbers such as Barbara Streisand and Donna Summer singing Enough Is Enough. Later on, Finland's very own Darude played electronic-music-only track, Sandstorm.

By this time, well past 1am, we had bumped into Rob, a self-styled 'rubbish gay guy' who, in my opinion, was far from a rubbish gay guy. He was great company and his forwardness was refreshing. The three of us danced to an extended version of Kylie's On A Night Like This. The dancefloor was packed with semi-clad guys slicked in sweat; the mix of body smells was often overwhelming and I wondered: why do guys strip? Where's the beach? Around 3.30am, a guy started chatting me up, telling me I was sexy and that he wanted to do 'things' with me. I came clean and told I was in a relationship. In evident exasparation, he ranted about how difficult it was to meet someone and asked my advice on how he could meet someone. My advice was: keep your shirt on, don't try to be something you are not and, most importantly, be positive and cheerful. He left, losing interested in a conversation he had started. As I watched him leave the bar, I felt for him as he seemed very lost. May he was - this is London, after all!

Meanwhile, Nick is ready to leave. It's already 4am. We walked along the Albert Embankment, dawn well and truly underway, and the Houses of Parliament fade into the background. Eventually, we reach Vauxhall and, from there, we take a bus home. We arrived at home about 6am; my mind is screaming oh my god, but I fall asleep quite quickly.

Sunday 20th May

I managed to sleep only until 11am, a victim of my own body clock; sunlight fills the room through the skylights above and, in the kitchen, I fumbled around to make coffee, which I ate with another slice of cherry cake. Nick's flatmate is already up and about and, on TV, we watched Pure Pop on E4. Tragedy by good old STEPS played, reminding me of my rendevous with Scooch the previous Sunday. This was also a reminder that, like last Sunday, I would be going on a plane back to Finland.

Nick finally wakes at 1pm, just enough time for a bacon sandwich before heading to Heathrow. We make our way on foot to West Norwood training station and, on the way, I noticed a sign that says: THEY WANT YOUR POD. The purpose of the sign is to warn i-Pod users that they are valuable items for muggers. What has the world come to, I think to myself, when you can't even listen to your favourite music on your way to and from work? At 2.30pm, Nick waves me off on the platform and, with another great weekend under my belt, my mind tells me how lucky I am to have a friend like Nick. I arrived at Heathrow at 4pm, having spent 90 minutes on my feet as per my beloved London Transport.

At the airport, I wandered around the stores before making the spontaneous decision to forego a meal onboard and treat myself to a freshly cooked pizza at Est Pizzeria with whatever currency I had left. I ate with my sunglasses on, watching the aeroplanes take off a nearby runway. My flight was called so I paid in a rush, dashing to the paper store for my beloved English Sunday paper and some beloved English Photography magazines. When I arrived at the gate, I was greeted with a sea of passengers that all had two things in common; most of them wore glasses and nearly all of them waited in silence for the boarding of the flight. This silence was a welcome one after a week in England and I found it amusing when, onboard, Finns happily read their newspapers (in silence), ate their hot meal in silent contentment and savoured a tipple of their choice, also in relative solitude. Long live Finnair!

I read my Sunday newspaper, pleased that I would no longe have to read about the Missing Madeileine, a redundant Prince Harry who has been forbbiden from going to Iraq, humbled-my-arse Gordon Brown and touring-the-world-at-taxpayers-expense Tony Blair. The flights lands just after 11pm and, by 11.30pm, I am on a bus; the taxi queue was ridiculous, a reminder that Finland surprisingly lacks a rail connection between the Capital and it's airport. Before I start whinging, however, can I just say how glad I am to be home? Olen kotona, Suomi!