The flutters

When I first thought about moving to Canada, I had never been there. I don't even think I had ever met a Canadian! But I persevered. It came to nothing. So, no Canadian lumberjack for me! Then I set my sights on Norway. A country I had never visited. Went on two short holidays, liked the place, got a job and moved. 

Odda

I love where I live. It's beautiful. I like my job. Of course it has its ucky yucky moments, but doesn't every job? And I decided at the start of my new life that yes would be the word of the day. Would I like to come on a tour? Yes. Not knowing where it went, not knowing what it was about. I would answer in the affirmative. 

There were blue plums, yellow plums and morelles for sale all along the roadside

So, that's how I found myself on Saturday morning on a coach headed towards the innards of Norway. Where we would go hiking. Now, you may remember my previous hiking experience. If you don't or are new to my life: here's a link! I told everybody about my experience, but I was told it would be allright and it would fine and it would be fun. So, YES it was. 

It would take about six or seven hours towards our destination and since I have this little condition called car sickness (don't snigger), I sat in the tourguide chair the whole way. Taking photos of this, that and the rest. The main road towards Oslo was little more than a country road. Then again, the traffic was little more than country traffic too! 

We saw some cyclists clearly on holiday. We saw a cathedral like roundabout in the middle of a tunnel. We saw some more cyclists on a tour from Voss to Geilo (mad the lot of them). We saw waterfalls and plums, tunnels and sheep and lots more besides that. 

Hardangervidda

And I fell, finally, head over heels in love. Flutters included. I love Norway!

Falling in love

I will tell all very very soon (probably tomorrow), but I need some rest and some Doctor Who, not necessarily in that order! Because, yes, I gone and done it again: climbed up and down some %#$@* Norwegian mountain. I didn't know hair could hurt, nor did I know there were muscles in my back. I do now!

For now however, I leave you with the photo of the backside of the package I got in the mail today. Thank you Pepperfly (and S)!

To be married or not to be married, that's the question

One of the things I often hear is 'are you married/in a relationship' and the next question is almost invariably: 'why not?' (since the answer to the first question is obviously no). But I am lying a little really. As a matter of fact I did get married once and I also wore a wedding dress. Though not at the same moment. Have you got question marks in your eyes now? Are you looking at the screen now and thinking: what on earth? And she never told us?

The thing is you see, I kind of forgot all about it. Because it happened quite a while ago. About 33 years in fact. The marrying part that is. The wedding dress was about 29 years ago. Totally unrelated.

Now, don't think my parents gave me up for a camel and three goats (although they might have done, we didn't go to my grandparents' farm that often). In fact, I don't even think my parents knew about it. SURPRISE!!!

So, since you are all great mathematicians and you can count and you all know of course I am at this moment 39, you have gathered that I must have been 6 when I got married. Well, that wedding. It was great. I think it was attended by my brother and the groom's sister and it happened in my bedroom. I think I wore a veil, although it has been so long ago, I can't quite remember. His name was Kees and he lived on a river freighter (a boat). I had seen him once before and our 'wedding' was the last time. We never did officially get divorced though...

More counting fingers proves that I was about 10 when I wore the wedding dress. My teacher wore the grooms' outfit (albeit only the top, the bottom was a soccer outfit) which caused quite a bit of hilarity. This time my parents knew of it: the dress I wore was my mother's actual wedding dress. Shortened a bit of course. 

Of course in latter years I have been proposed to three times (one drunk, one for sex, one for money, all turned down) and I have had some very dodgy boyfriends or nearly boyfriends. A Northern Irish guy who looked great. Even in the Interpol 'Wanted' photos after he held a couple at gunpoint while robbing their hotel. And a baker with a sideline in stripping (didn't stay with him long enough to actually see that). 

So, now you know! Any questions? 

Wooing Italian style

In happier times

I used to live in England for about two and a half years. Great country, lovely people, fantastic food. I lived and worked at a four star hotel in the middle of nowhere (well, Castle Combe, but it might as well have been the middle of nowhere). My room was situated at the back of the kitchens together with a few more rooms. One was occupied by an alcoholic Frenchman working as a washer-upper, one by a slightly less alcoholic Frenchman working as a porter, one by a couple of Italians sharing a single bed and one by an Italian working as a waiter.

The Frenchmen were both a bit older than I was (at least in their forties, while I had just turned 21), but the Italians were my age. Roberto had a car and on occasion the four of us (Elisa and Alessandro making up the four) would set out and visit something like Avebury or Bath. Now, you have to imagine me at this time to be quite naive and even a bit dumb to anything relating to the opposite sex. So, I never noticed Roberto liking me a lot.

Then, a few weeks before Christmas, Roberto came to ask my underwear size (which I hasten to add, was still quite okay at that time). Since I had a massive hangover and was extremely bleary-eyed, I told him and tried to not vomit and go back to sleep. When I was properly sober again, I had forgotten all about it.

Fast forward to New Year's Eve and Roberto shows up with a little gift. In it was a bright red set of underwear: bra and knickers. What?? Why would he give me something like that? I thanked him and went back to the partying.

In the weeks after, I noticed Roberto wasn't talking to me anymore. In fact, he completely ignored me. He would say goodmorning when I said it first, but he wouldn't start a conversation anymore and would go out of his way if he saw me coming. In the end I asked Elisa (the Italian girl) what had happened, since Roberto obviously didn't want anything to do with me. It turned out that when an Italian man gives a woman red underwear for New Year's, ít's basically to stake a claim because he loves her. Rrrrrrrriiiiiight.

Well, it never happened between Roberto and me. Not enough love my side, too much hurt love on his side. He didn't speak to me until he left and I realised something very important: I am not one for roundabout ways: tell me straight or not at all. And the underwear? I wore it until it shrank...

Blue

Over the last few days I've felt a bit dejected. The weather of course not really helping, nor did the washed-out wishy-washy things to keep my windscreen water free, the blown radio fuse or the soaking wet feet (and all that only on Saturday). But I think what was bothering me most was (is) the fact that when I get home, nobody is there to greet me with a kiss (not counting the monsters), nor is dinner waiting on the table for me. I get home to a cold house, mail still on the doormat and dinner yet to be prepared.

I am single and most of the time I'm not really bothered by it. After all, having sole ownership of the remote control... But on occasion, I just wish for that significant other, that soulmate, that person who will listen to me ramble on, instead of me writing it down and throwing it to the world.

So, if anyone knows someone who: likes cats; doesn't mind a very talkative woman who can cook and do laundry, but who hates cleaning; is not too much into football (soccer); non-smoking; over 21; is single; please send him my way.

Thank you...

Love

It's the weekend. And like so many other weekends, I'm spending it on my own. I occasionally feel sorry for myself, but then I have to remind myself: if I wanted, I could go out and meet people. I could go and post my profile on a number of dating sites and try to meet the weirdest and craziest guys. Or I could get lucky and meet the love of my life! But to be quite honest, I can't really get bothered about it. Besides that, I never know what to put in a profile, let alone what to say to men when I would go out and meet them.

A few years back there was a program on British television, something about how to turn someone who was lousy at dating into a person who was great at it. They showed everyone on their first date, which of course was extremely lousy and then gave them a few make-overs. Clothes, attitude, the lot. At the end they went on another date and of course it was great! I could do with that.

Sometimes people ask me if I would like to meet someone. I always think that it's a stupid question. Yes, I would like to meet someone. Yes, I would like to come home from a hard day's work and find dinner on the table and the house in order. And yes, I would like to get down to the physical side as well.

Now of course there's an added problem. I want to move to Canada. What if I met a Dutch bloke who didn't want to move. What if I met a Canadian bloke, would my moving mean it was for him or for the chance to move to Canada. Difficult situation. And for now I don't know the answer. For now I don't need to know the answer, since I'm not seeing anyone anyway.