NORMAL LIFE: Need For Unity

The recent events in Iran, where 15 British navy personnel were seized for allegedly entering Iranian waters (read here) have got me thinking just how troublesome the Middle East is. Have we made it that way? Or are they just hell bent on causing mayhem?

Since the tragedy of September 11th, it's debatable whether or not the world has become a safer place. After hunting down the Taleban in Afghanistan and the removal of the Sadam Hussein regime in Iraq (both lead largely by Western forces), it shocked me when Israel started bombing the Lebanon to smithereens last summer.

The BBC website has been a useful source of information regarding the most recent Iranian affair. When Iran refused to quit developing its nuclear knowledge, part of me thought why should they just because we say so? As a compromise, it was recommend that we 'observe'. To this, Iran objected vehemently and, since then, it has been so obvious that Iran is up to something.

One reader posted a comment on the BBC News website: "Iran wants to take a long, good, hard look at itself as to how this [the seizing of UK navy personnel] will look to the rest of the world". Hear, hear! Over lunch at work the other day, I explained to one colleague that even if we were in Iranian waters, fifteen people on board doesn't exactly constitute a threat. Furthermore, the Iranians should be grateful that there weren't 300 navy personnel onboard as we would have bombed them to bits.

One thing I am pleased about, however, is in the unity (for a change) demonstrated by the European Union and the United Nations over the matter. Since September 11th, there has been a need for a new kind of unity. With growing knowledge of the world in this Communication/Information Age, an awareness of the evils that lie within have been revealed. The West isn't ideal, but I sense that the East is constantly provoking a war of never-before-seen proportions.

Together, in Europe, we can continue to enjoy the relative peace we have enjoyed for the last fifty years. Let the United States continue with its Axis of Evil 'project'; it has done nothing but destabilise the Middle East. The UK's future lies with Europe, not with the Hamburger loving, gas guzzling cousing on the other side of the Atlantic.

NORMAL LIFE: Business In Brussels

Brussels, the capital of Belgium, is also known as the capital of Europe. Don’t ask me why or how, but I suspect that it has something to do with the fact that NATO and the European Commission are headquartered there. Ask people about the history of Belgium the world over and you might be greeted with a deathly silence. Little is known about Belgium’s history and, having read a brief version of the history, I’m stunned.

In the middle ages, business people rebelled against the privileged bourgeois class while, from 1384 to 1477, Burgundy controlled the region until the Hapsburgs (god, they got around, those Hapburgs did) gained control, spurring growth in the capital area by building the 28km-long Willebroek Canal. In 1555, Charles V of the Hapsburgs abdicated the throne, granting power to Phillip II of Spain (who was married to Mary I of England, the elder sister of Elizabeth I and daughter of Henry VIII).

Religious, cultural and class differences at the time, not helped by the distant rule of Phillip II, bought about violent protests. Spain managed to hang onto power until the 1713 Treaty of Utrecht by which the Spanish Netherlands, including Belgium, were handed over to the Austrian Hapsburgs. Not long after the French revolution, France marched into town and claimed the now Austrian Netherlands as their own.

In 1815, Napoleon happened upon Waterloo, the site of the infamous Battle of the same name, not far from Brussels. The result: the creation of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, incorporating modern day Belgium & Luxembourg (BeNeLux). In 1831, King Leopold became the first ruler of an independent Belgium.

Though neutral, internal divisions between the Flemish speaking and the French speaking peoples emerged. Meanwhile, Belgium’s empire saw the acquisition of African nations more than 70 times the size of Belgium itself.

During World War II, Germany violated Belgium’s neutral status and occupied the country. Siding with France, Germany bombed and occupied Belgium from 1940 to 1944. Nowadays, Belgium is a major centre for international relations and, to this date, struggles with its identity, which is somewhat understandable given the far-from-stable past. Language, too, is still a heated topic.

You probably stopped reading a while back, but why am I going on and on and on about Belgium/Brussels? Basically, I had a business trip there over the last couple of days, attending a Congress. Due to some kind of misunderstanding (see here), my boss had suggested that I represent our department to customers visiting our stand.

And so it was that I reluctantly boarded a flight to Brussels on Monday afternoon. The fortunate thing was that two colleagues from other departments were on the same flight so we checked in together. During the flight, I wowed them with my knowledge of Finnish grammar; while my grammar was good, my ability to actually speak converse was less impressive.

Anyhow, the flight went very quickly and, when we arrived, I dropped my colleagues off at their hotel and took the taxi onward to my hotel. I stayed at the Marriot Hotel just off Anspach Boulevard, apparently not so far from Grand Place; everything I had read about Brussels indicated that Grand Place, dating from the 12st Century, was the Number 1 place to visit. I keenly checked into my Executive Suite, costing the firm a whopping €290/night.

The mini bar was included as was internet access and, as I sat on the bed and removed my shoes from my hot feet, I thought to myself: well, that’s the least that could be free! I quickly showered, got dressed in casual jeans and shirt and headed back to my colleague’s hotel on foot. Halfway along Adolphe Max Boulevard, I could see a crowd of people gathering ahead. As I neared, a throng of women let out a sudden scream, but it wasn’t a scream-for-help kind of scream, but the kind of scream a fan let’s out suddenly when spotting a celebrity. And that’s just what it was; I caught sight of Hugh Grant doing his bit along the red carpet as he entered the cinema where his latest movie, Music & Lyrics, starring Drew Barrymore was being premiered.

When I finally reached my colleague’s hotel, we settled down for a pre-meeting of the Congress that would take place over the next four days. I had stand duty on Tuesday and Wednesday and any free time would be spent speaking to customers and trying to understand their challenges while getting to know our own colleagues, based throughout Europe, better. The evening went by very quickly, the later hours spent drinking the remaining white wine accompanying the meeting.

The fifteen minute walk back to my hotel allowed me to take in Brussels by night. I headed down Adolphe Max Boulevard once again and was surprised how, darkness having arrived, the same street had actually transformed into a neon sign haven of sex shops featuring, apparently, all the latest DVDs and live shows. Having a vivid imagination of my own, I have never had to resort to such 'alternative entertainment'. I was glad to find myself in bed by midnight, well and truly knackered.

When I woke up the next morning, I headed to the Congress by taxi. My taxi driver, clearly not from Belgium, told me he was Iranian which was kind of topical given that Iran had seized 15 naval personnel just a week before (see here). I asked him about his views on Iran. In a succinct, convincing manner and with near-perfect English, he basically gave a speech during which he claimed that:

• the West doesn’t want to understanding the East


• How life in Belgium was much more materialistic than in Iran; and


• How Iranians had more respect for life.

But to provide a contrast he, for some reason, revealed that Iran does not tolerate homosexuality. Had I been too obvious, or was he speaking from his own personal experience? I explained to him how, on a similar note, deaf children in England were actually incarcerated during the Victorian era which just goes to show how much we have ‘evolved’ since then. He didn’t get the hint, nor did I even try to indicate that perhaps Iran needed to modernise somewhat.

We arrived at my colleague's hotel and, in Finnish, I told her what the taxi driver had said. She looked into my eyes and, looking back at her, I sensed that she somehow knew what the taxi driver had detected. The taxi rallied through backstreets, quickly making its way out of the city centre towards the Brussels Congress & Exhibition Area.

The day went very quickly and, before I realized, it was 6.30pm, time for a free bottle of sparkling wine signifying a successful first day at the stand. Like a herd of sheep, we ambled from the exhibition area toward the metro station. Shuttling back into town, we planned an evening dinner, which resulted in us arriving at a very prestigious restaurant with hand-painted walls and ceilings. It took nearly four hours to be served a starter and a main course and then I happened upon a thought: are they expecting to be paid for this service or should I charge them for my time?

I slept restlessly that night, having forgotten my travel alarm clock. I woke up with a start at 7.45am, dashing to the shower and then to the breakfast before checking out hastily and hailing a cab to the Congress Centre, stopping en-route to pick up another colleague from the other hotel. The morning felt long, with tired feet setting in quite early on. When my shift ended just after lunchtime, I headed straight to the airport, not wanting to spend any more time at the exhibition than I had to.

Outside the Congress Centre, I flagged down a cab for the airport; the drive was black and, with French audibly being his native language, I asked where was from. At first, I thought he said Ghana, but he shook his head. The second time around, I though he said Uganda. Wrong again, he indicated with a more rapid movement of his head from side to side. My brain was trying to recall all of the African nations and suddenly I realised: Rwanda. Oui, he said, oui! He was very easy to get on with - I told him about my stay in Brussels, he told me about his move to Belgium when he was very young and how he enjoyed being a taxi driver.

When I arrived at the airport, I was unsurprised by the adding of €10 to my fare for the pleasure of paying by credit card; corrupt bastards, I remember thinking to myself. I was relieved to find just myself and one other in the check-in queue.

There was more than three hours until my flight, but I didn't care; I whiled away some time with a bit of shopping, admiring some of the airport terminal's imposing art and writing this blog entry using the firm's laptop.

Before I knew it, I was in my seat on the plane and, before the plane had shuttled down the runway, I had fallen asleep. It was as though I was leaving Brussels as soon as I had arrived. Given that I hadn't even wanted to go on this particular business trip, I was just happy to be going to a place where service was still somewhat reasonable and where cab drivers didn't rip you off.

NORMAL LIFE: Wouldn't You Want To Know?

I recently wrote about how Finns are ignorant (read here). I got a reminder proving my point yesterday, but this time, the person to prove me right was my one and only Bree.

It happened in the gym. We both headed to the running machines; there were three available for use. We opted for the two adjacent running machines, but after five minutes of trying, the one I was attempting to start up just refused to work. Bree had started his run and, admitting defeat, I chose to use the other still-free running machine at the end of the row of machines.

On several occasions, others tried to start up the same running machine which was clearly not working. Over the course of my thirty minute run, I estimate that at least fifteen people had tried to use the defective running machine. One guy must have spent more than five minutes punching the buttons, well and truly pissed off, unaware that the reason why the only machine that wasn't in use wasn't being used was because it just didn't happen to work.

Throughout my run, I was constantly amazed that neither of the patron, to the left (Bree) nor to the right (some meat-head who kept admiring himself in the mirror) had been courteous enough to tell patrons that the machine didn't work. Instead, they just let people bang away at the keys.

I can't remember the number of times when I have told people that the cash machine I just attempted to withdraw cash from didn't work. It doesn't take much to do the courteous thing so why don't these people say something? I mean, wouldn't you want to know?

NORMAL LIFE: Finnish Management: Is It Me Or Is It Them?

In the UK, the hierarchy in the workplace still very much exists. The boss is there to tell you what's going to happen and not the other way around. In Finland, there's more flexibility in how things get done and there's more negotiation as to the timing. This was very much the case until our new boss started on January 1st. Our new boss actually made a very bad impression on me already last September when, for the sake of meeting some important colleagues, he was invited to an annual event in the US.

We met our boss for the first time and I, the only non-Finn in the Helsinki team, just didn't get on with him. On the return home, for example, I was waiting at the Gate to the aircraft reading one of the many supplements of USA Today. Without even asking, he took the remaining supplements from my lap and didn't even return them. Is that just rude, or am I overreacting?

It's now the end of March and, while he has for sure introduced some good processes which will help us to get organised and make sense of all the industry chaos, as people we just can't get on. Two things anger me about the Finnish work ethic:-

1. Finns believe that coffee breaks are a god-given right. There's nothing wrong with having a coffee break, but when people get comfy on the sofas for an hour and I'm forced to listen to their phone ringing because none of their fellow colleagues will pick up your extension, my own productivity is affected.
2. Decision-making takes forever. Each and every issue must be discussed in detail and, quite often, you leave a meeting and realise that the matter that was discussed hasn't been resolved because no decision was made; this is where the negotative style conflicts with the hierarchical approach.

I'll give you an example of the latter. A month ago, I had a meeting with my team. We had received a request for some support at an upcoming exhibition in Brussels. The team requesting the support should have sufficient manpower of their own so, naturally, we questioned their rationale for asking us to participate. Nobody responded. A month passed and a fellow colleague - one of the members of the team who had requested the support - called me to ask if we would be supporting their team at the exhibition. I was embarrassed that we, as a team, hadn't decided nor communicated our say in the matter. I emailed my boss, who was away on business about it and awaited his response.

The first thing he said to me this Monday morning was that I would be going to Brussels. I was speechless because, out of the team, I was the least experienced. Unashamedly, I pointed this out (it's his own fault because he has refused to approved my requests for training), claiming that it wouldn't be good to be at the exhibition and, when asked by customers about such and such, that I wouldn't be in a position to answer. He thought I wanted to go, because I had written the email to him. I explained that getting our boss to make the decision about whether or not we would support our other team was the courteous thing to do and that, ultimately, I didn't care who went to Brussels. I was amazed at how he had misunderstood me for he is oh-so-proud of the fact that he has worked in various countries throughout Europe.

Our meeting actually escalated into an argument of sorts. My boss suggested I organise some customer visits and meetings. I explained that, due to contractual issues, I'm not allowed to talk to my customers and, due to the short notice (five working days), arranging a meeting or customer visit was out of the question. Still, no go! My boss was insistent that his way was the only way and, rather suddenly, he said: "I'm not even sure if you want this job anymore!" His comment echoed something that a boss had said in my last job. Instantly, I realised that Finnish managers just cannot handle objectivity nor rationality. Immediately, the question that had plagued me all along was answered: it isn't me, it is them! Rather cooly, I responded: "If I didn't want this job, I wouldn't even get out of bed to come to it!"

When I left his office, I was reeling from the argument, amazed at how unwilling he was to listen to my rationale. When I had calmed down, I realised that I was actually fighting against a Finn who:

a) had never had a job in Finland before yet had;
b) somehow learnt how to rule like a British boss tends to do in the hierarchical structure.

I went home on Monday night and discussed this with Bree. As a manager, himself, he could see my boss' perspective, but he said he would have made the decision earlier to allow for myself to planning adequately. I pondered upon this episode all night, unerved by the similarities between this and my previous boss. I simply told myself, if I didn't want to face a repeat of what happened in my last job, that I should just imagine that my boss was British and that I should assume/act the role of subordinate in the workplace.

Given my boss' international work experience and the fact that he dated an English girl for a while, I'm amazed that he had misunderstood me so easily; so much so that I have read the email I had sent him more than a hundred times and I just don't get how he had got the impression I wanted to go to Brussels. If anything, this proved that you can take the Finn out of the country, but you can't take the Finn (known for bad management) out of the person.

NORMAL LIFE: Over-Socialising & Too Much Relaxing!

Last week was an exhausting week which saw my Finnish lessons take an evil twist with the introduction of Monikko illatiivi astevaihtelu and the revelation of the language's only grammatical exception. During the lesson, I recall thinking to myself: why am I here?! Meanwhile, Zack and I started up with Badminton at 7am on Wednesday with the rest of the working week spent nursing sore hamstrings as a result of some game-winning lunges.

Having been to an Orthopeidic Specialist recently for a second opinion on my neck injury, I had an appointment with a Physiatrist (not to be confused with a psychiatrist) who recommended regular stretching. Condemned to what I believe has turned out to be a longer-than-necessaary recuperation period, I know of at least three specialists in Finland who haven't earned their salary.

The highlight of the week was when Miss Knight and I had a platonic fumble of sorts. Using two plastic implements, she practised her newest skill on me, Zone Therapy. A branch of Reflexology, Zone Therapy focuses on the main pressure points below the knee. By gently massaging and pinpointing tension points, she could potentially alleviate common ailments such as backache, tension in the shoulders and sleeplessness. She certainly succeeded with the latter for I slept like a baby on the Thursday night. On Friday morning, I awoke feeling somewhat groggy, but quite quickly I reached an unfamiliar state of alertness.

The working day went quickly and, at 3pm, I was on the InterCity train that would whisk me away to Tampere. I reclined my seat and looked out of the window, the soothing late-afternoon sun warming my face. I dozed throughout the journey inbetween reading work-related reports. Arriving just before 5pm, I made my way through the crowd and, upon leaving the station and, the unmistakable sound of Scottish Bagpipes filled the air. For a minute, I thought a strange sounding bout of Tinnitus had just start, but true enough, as I walked towards Hameenkatu, Tampere's main street, I spotted the source: a very Scottish, stout-looking thirty-something sporting a thick chocolate-brown beard. As the people rushed by, he seemed to be in a world of his own.

I headed into Stockmanns, buying three bottles of red wine (South African, Chilean and Californian) and a bunch of tulips for my overnight hosts, the Savolainens. I called Bree as I waited for a bus that would take me to one of Tampere's suburbs; we consoled eachother on the day's office politics in our respective workplaces, thankful that another weekend had arrived as quickly as the week had actually even started. As I reached the end of the bus line, the sun cast its warm glow on my face.

Within minutes, I was in the cosy apartment of the Savolainens. After the kids were in bed, Mamma Savolainen presented a board laden with nibbles. Downed with red wine, we covered every subject under the sun like we always do when we are within earshot of eachother. Come 1am, it was time to turn in. The night was set to be far from peaceful for, at 4am, I found myself in the hallway in a semi-conscious state. I recall clutching at my trousers and, sensing a wet patch, my state of awareness raced from semi- to fully conscious. Realising that I had indeed wet the bed, I went into a panic, not knowing what to do as I stood in the hallway. My first thought was to strip the bed and, as I did so, I had roused Mamma Savolainen. How am I going to explain this one?, I thought to myself.

Taking her hand in mine, we headed to the light of the dimly lit kitchen. I finally managed to find the words, apologising profusely. A mother of two children under three years of age, she was no stranger to mopping up piss! Her understanding, however, did little to alleviate my own embarrassment, but we quickly proceeded to replace the bedding. I took me a while to fall asleep, the shame of the incident tormenting me within.

When I woke at 8am, I felt dehydrated from the red wine. Mamma Savolainen told me she had a theory: could the Zone Therapy I had received on Thursday evening have relaxed me so much so as to render me unaware of - and there unable to regulate - my body functions? I pondered upon this idea, concluding that the bed wetting and the Zone Therapy must be related since the timing was so coincidental. I called Miss Knight and she was absolutely mortified, apologising for any role her treatment may have had on my water works. She promised to take my case up with her teacher and report back to me.

After breakfast followed by a walk around a nearby community of ornate houses in the traditional Finnish wooden style, Mamma Savolainen dropped me off in town and I waited for a a colleague who I had not see for more than three years at the Cafe on the fourth floor at Sokos department store. Having secured a seat by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, I sipped a cup of coffee while I scanned the main street of Hameenkatu below; the weather was drizzly with fewer than usual shoppers lining the pavements. On the other side of the road, I caught sight of the local bagpiper, whom I had seen the day before.

Suddenly, a familiar voice from-the-past said 'hello' to me. I looked up and there was Miss Goody Two Shoes who, now 27, looked as beautiful as ever. Wearing jeans and a tight grey, long sleeved shirt, she hadn't aged a day. Over the course of our one hour together, time just fell away. She was now married, the proud owner of a five bedroom house just outside town and it wasn't long before our favorite topic of discussion surfaced: god and religion. A devout Christian, DoGooder - the name I will use for her on this blog - spends most of her free time advising troubled teenagers while preaching Christian values. For work, she is a career advisor for the unemployed. We parted as quickly as we had met and, during a tight hug, promised to see eachother during the Summertime when I would visit Tampere again.

I made my way down to the ground floor where Blue was waiting for my by the main doors. We made our way along the puddle-filled main street, crossing the bridge where you could hear the roar of the Tammerkoski (Tampere's waterfall) bearing bearing to the right. We were headed towards Amarillo, a tex-mex/American diner/restaurant, situated next to the towering Hotel Ilves. Over the next two hours, Blue astounded me with her tales. She never fails to amaze me and her constantly laughing amuses me even more. At times, she has the mouth of a sewer, but that's just one of the many things we have in common! Blue is one of the few people who I can really be relaxed around and the day when Mr. Right comes along and sweeps her off her feet will be a sad one albeit a good one for her!

During our meal, we joked about how the French fries were healthy because potato is a vegetable and how the salad in the burger rendered the meal equally healthy due to the balance it bought to the meal; we conveniently ignored the fact that there was tons of mayonnaise, but who cared?! After two hours together, it was time to meet Zeus, a guy I had met at a Christmas party hosted by a mutual friend. Blue and I waited outside in the drizzle until Zeus drove by to come and collect me. After a tight hug and several platonic kisses, I finally managed to pull myself away from Blue and get into Zeus' car. As much as the name Zeus convey thoughts of masculinity and ruggedness (minus the beard, thank you very much!), this particular Zeus' being in no way reflects the Ancient Greek ruler of Heaven and Earth; this was a name he chose for himself for the sake of protecting his identity on this blog.

We drove to his place a couple of kilometers from town and I have to say he was the perfect host. A friend of his was visiting at the same time and, over coffee and sweet bread, we got to know one another better. At the Christmas party where we had met, we hit it off and, taking his number because I had lived in Tampere two years, I told him that I would give him a call whenever I was in town. And here I was in his tastefully done, albeit in a minimalist fashion, apartment. Bearing the standard wooden floors, the orange wall with reindeer skin and the oh-so-soft rugs throughout bought a cosiness to the apartment rarely felt in other Finnish homes, who choose to retain the clinical white walls in every room.

I looked at my watch and it was nearly 8pm. It was certainly time to get going for I had a ninety minute train journey ahead of me in order to get back to Helsinki. Zeus drove me back to town; it was a shame I had to leave because I really enjoyed his company. I felt so comfortable that I had even been able to tell him about my waterwork incident from the previous evening. Despite this, it didn't stop him suggesting that we go out partying one night in Tampere with the possibility of staying overnight at his place. The minutes were ticking and, as I dashed through the small station, I rush to Platform 1 where the InterCity train was just coming to a stop. Phew! Thirty seconds later and I would have missed my train and been forced to wait an hour for the next one.

The Pendolino train soon reached speeds of 191km/hr, shuttling across the dark countryside on its way back to Helsinki. Surprisingly, I hadn't seen any ticket inspectors onboard so, in effect, the trip didn't cost me anything. When I arrived at Helsinki just before 10pm, I was surprised at how deserted the railywa station was; I had somehow imagined that people would have travelled from the outskirts of Helsinki into the centre on this Saturday night, but no. When I arrived home, I was greeted by a 'not-feeling-100%-Bree'. Apparently, he had a really bad migrane and it is true that I cannot leave him alone for one night without him succumbing to something. He laid his head on my lap as we watched TV and, as he slumbered, I looked down at him and thought to myself how much I loved him and how lucky I was to have the friends I have. Next time I am feeling down, I will simply recall this week and remember what a fantastic one it was!

NORMAL LIFE: No More 'How Are You?'

I have been studying Imperatiivi ('imperative' to you and I) in my Finnish lessons, and I'm starting to understand the natives more and more. While Finns love a good whinge and are so good at giving someone they don't like the cold shoulder with their intolerable Finnish silence, the briefness of their communication could be misconstrued as uncivilised. The truth, however, is that they want to keep communication to a minimum which is a contradiction, given that they are happy to write thousands of words per day in emails to colleagues sitting in the next room!

For five years, I thought the Finns were uncivilised, but having studied Finnish Imperitive, I think I've finally got it! This blunt aspect of language appears much moreso in Finnish that in English. For example, if a Finn wants you to shut up, they will just say so without meanning or intending to cause any offence. Meanwhile, a native English speaker might choose to be more polite, asking "Could you be quiet" or "Please be quiet" not just "Be quiet!". Admittedly a small difference, but it speaks volumes in diplomacy.

To illustrate a Finn's love for minimum face-to-face communication, I asked my closest colleague how she was this morning. Her reply was: "I'm the same as I was two hours ago when you asked me and I'm the same as I was yesterday and the day before that". I thought to myself, fuck you, misery! Why don't I ever learn that these people don't like small talk, not that asking how your colleague is could possibly be considered small talk? It's either me or them that is the problem because exactly the same thing happened in my last two jobs for Finnish companies. I am the foreigner in their land and, yes, I should adapt to the local ways. However, it's astonishing that my colleagues don't open their small minds just one moment and think, Hey, he's not Finnish and maybe he's just being polite!

What I find really hilarious is that, an hour later, I 'pinged' the same colleague on the online chat facility to ask her a question about a mutual project we have and she was nice a pie. This just illustrates how technology has taken over Finnish life moreso than English life because, last time I checked, English girls and boys still enjoyed going to the pub after work for a good old natter!

That was during my working day. During the evening, I went to my Finnish lesson and then rushed to the gym in desperate need of toning up. First task: 30 minutes on the running machine. The line of running machines are situated in front of a long mirror measuring from floor to ceiling so, as you run, you can see everything behind you which is a good way to while away the exhausting 30 minutes jog. As I ran, the vibration of the running machine caused the battery element of my hearing device to detach; it fell to the rotating belt and came to a stop at the end of the running machine. Halfway through my run, and reluctant to halt the burn, I left it there.

What surprised me was that, over the remaining fifteen minutes, I counted four people who passed behind the running machine I was using; I could see them because of the mirror in front of me. All of them noticed the one inch square battery lying on the floor and, incredulously, not one of them picked it up or took a closer inspection to see what the hell it was. Is that weird? If you saw something in a relatively clean environment such as a gym, wouldn't you think to pick it up and hand it over to reception so they could log it as a lost item? Deep down, I hoped somebody would pick it up and ask if it was mine. Each of them avoided the item as if though it might harbour traces of the bubonic plague.

It was then that I deduced that these people are just ignorant. How else could there be hundreds of zebra crossings in the city of Helsinki which the vast majority of drivers refuse to stop at (read here)?

NORMAL LIFE: Queen Camilla

What am imagination that Sue Townsend has. Years after unleashing Adrian Mole on the nation, the writer still has what it takes to take readers into a different place and time. In Queen Camilla, we are transported to a time when England has become a Republic and the Royal Family have been exiled to one of the thousands of Exclusion Zones set up to control those guilty of encouraging antisocial behaviour.

As absurd as placing the Royal Family in an Exclusion Zone sounds, it doesn't end there. Surrounded by an uneducated youth without a hope in hell (Prince Harry turns out to be no exception), the stars of the book turn out to be the talking dogs of England who, faced with deportation to Canada when the government announces that dog ownership is limited to one per houshold, stage a revolt that sways an election victory in favour of Boy English, leader of the New Cons, who want to bring back the monarchy.

From quite early on in the book, it is obvious where the book is heading while the all-too-predictable ending is disappointingly crammed into just ten pages. I think the most memorable pages were when the Royals swore at one another in that unbelievably human way. As usual, the Queen is still in control whereas Camilla is portrayed as faultless.

Perhaps I have been living abroad too long, but as I was reading through this book, I was amazed at the number of words that I didn't actually know the meaning of. I made a note of them. Words such as prevaricate, suplatives, ubiquitous, repartee, micturate, placate, acerbic, misogynist, vitriol, pariah, rebuke, codicil, elucidation, probity, palliative, nihilistic, discomfit, insouciance, slake, preambulation, philately, allegory, provenance.

Here's a tip, Sue, and it's free: lighten up on the big words! Did you know that 11 years olds (including this 29 year old) in England can't read anymore?!

NORMAL LIFE: Bored, Bald, Bold.

I never noticed it before. Perhaps my love for Bree has rendered him faultless, but over breakfast a couple of days ago, I had to laugh at how he managed to make three distinct words sound very similar.

He was talking about a bald guy at work who was getting on his nerves because he was so bold. He went on further to say that he was starting to get bored with his work. It was only after hearing the last of the three b-words words that I realised his pronunciation needed a bit of work.

Over the next ten minutes or so, we were laughing at how difficult it was for a Finnish tongue to say these words distinctly. And then it made me realise that this was something that affected all languages. For example, I have same problems in Finnish with pusu (kiss) , pösö (slang for Peugeot cars) and pysy (stay). Let it go, I told myself, he's still perfect even if can't say those three words properly!

NORMAL LIFE: Different Aspiration, Same Future?

I got home at 5am this morning, after partying with my friend, Zach, and his girlfriend, Jenny. Both Finns, they have now been in a relationship for about a year and a half. He's tall, nearly 100 kilos yet still looking good while she is petit and stunning. In Finnish terms, Zach is special; at 27 years of age, with three years experience of working in the UK and having recently complete his National [Army] Service, he exhibits considerable maturity.

We are very like actually, except for the fact that Zach returned to Finland and has felt somewhat and 'suffocated' bored by its homogeneity. While I understand his frustration, I urged him not to be impatient. When Jenny finishes her studies in the summer, perhaps they could go abroad together for a spell of time? "But she's so different", he said. I pointed out that, compared to him, most ladies will be different because he really has pushed the boundaries and 'broken the mould', compared to the vast majority of Finns. What saddened me was he said that he felt no emotional attachment nor sense of pride to be Finnish.

I realised that, in front of me, was sitting a young man not even thirty years of age, who was just confused and wanting more. His girlfriend listened on intently, hanging onto his every word the way someone who loves you does. My fear was that his impatience would alienate his girlfriend, somehow create an uneccessary divide between them. This is something they have cleardly discussed in depth and I realised that, for young Finns, life is hard; there's a necessity to get that international experience, especially if you desire all the benefits a career can bring.

I explained how ironic it was, in contrast, that when I had returned to the UK in September, 2005, nobody would employ me. While the international work experience of a Finn is highly regarded and returnees are snapped up, I was basically dumped, given the impression that my work experience in Helsinki wasn't exactly Tokyo or New York or for that matter, the City of London. Short-term international work experience can have very long term-term effects in their own country. But who is to say that, while on that contract abroad, they actually did something of value, that they really learnt something useful, that they developed skills that would help to drive Finnish industry? Such is the superficiality - or rather, naivety - of modern day Finland.

NORMAL LIFE: What Does HE Know?

The name Bill Bryson stirs up funny thoughts for many. Yes, the famous American author has a humour and a way with words. In the past, I have read books such as Neither Here Nor There and Down Under as well as the more serious titles such as Mother Tongue: The English Language and A Short History Of Nearly Everything. In truth, all of these books were insightful, enlightening and humourous.

And so I recently embarked on reading one of his older titles, Notes from a Small Island. After two decades in the UK, the author decided that he would move back to the US, but not before visiting various sites around the UK one last time so he could provide one or two useful facts about each location whilst, it seems, bitching about it at the same time. While the guy has got some good points, I felt somewhat offended by his constantly degrading remarks and often got bored of what I can only describe as incessant whinging.

As I turned the pages, I noticed that there were certain characteristics between my very self and the author that were similar and thought, in hindight, that maybe these similarities are what annoyed me. For instance, he likes a good unjustified whinge and he's an economical sort; I have to point out, thought, that he is a miser beyond comprehension.

What drew me to the book in the first place was the endorsements emblazoned all over it's front and back cover. For example, The Times claimed 'Not a book that should be read in public, for fear of emitting loud snorts' while the Daily Express writes 'Bryson is funny because he is not afraid to give completely of himself'. I have to totally disagree with the Good Book Guide's claim that the book is 'Laugh-out-loud funny'. Having read the book, I thought to myself what a group of arselickers who want to get into Bryson's pants!

Quite accurately, Bryson points out that all British towns are like a carbon copy of the one you just left; each town seems to have a Marks & Spencers, W H Smiths and a Dixons store. Towards the end of the book, when in Aberdeen, he illustrates his point by stating that 'British towns are like a deck of cards that have been shuffled and endlessly redealt - same cards different order' and I have to admit the guy isn't wrong!

Other insights include how, between 1980 and 1985, if you drew a line between Bristol and the Wash (therby dividing the country into two with roughly 27 million on each side), 103,600 jobs were lost in the South compared to 1,032,000 in the industry-rich north. He points out how dire local TV news is, what with the revelation of a cat that was rescued from a tree. Sarcastic twat! And I love it when he caught out a waitress in a Chinese restaurant trying to extract a service charge AND a tip; I have experienced exactly the same thing (read here).

When visiting Liverpool, he is sitting in a pub when he is approach by somebody claiming to be collecting for charity. He questions the collector's intentions, donating a measely 20p (you might as well not bother). He writes and I quote: The factories may be gone, there may be no work, the city may be pathetically dependent on football for its sense of destiny, but the Liverpudlians still have character and initiative, and they don't bother with preposterous ambitions to win the bid for the next Olympics. Throughout the book, I sense that he was criticising things indiscriminately while then paying homage to something very closely related, as if doing so would limit the damage of his criticism.

He quite cleverly suggests that anyone who uses public transport 'comes to feel like some unwanted sub-class, like the handicapped and the unemployed'. There is some truth in this comment, but to write it so explicity reeks of provocation just like the time when he retorts in a hang-on-just-a-minute moment, that 'whether they [the British] appreciated it or not, British speech has been enlivened beyond measure by words created in America, words that they could not do without'. I was like what planet are you from? What a egotistical, if not arrogant, attitudes towards a language that was literally handed to them [the Americans] on a plate so they could randomly butcher it! Admittedly, he was provoked by an old woman who had criticised the size of the food portions in America, the use of words such as 'normalcy' and the over-friendliness of the American people. The author asks Do they think I'll appreciate their candour? I respond to this with: do you think WE appeciate YOUR candour, all 351 pages of it?!

You're probably wondering where I am going with this. The thing I am trying to point out is that common courtesy seems to be dead. Yes, dead! There was a time when you visited another country, observed its custom and its funny ways and quietly shared whatever concerns you had with your fellow countrymen upon your return to your home country. What this guy did was he visited our country, set up camp, got one of our English roses knocked up, enjoyed our rich multicultural environment and its relatively safe for more than twenty years before proceeding to slag it off to make money and get rich in the process! One thing is for sure: he's definitely an American because decency eludes him!