The Great Equaliser

On the back of some conversations I’ve had over the last couple of months regarding body image, nudity and cultural differences, I decided to take to my keyboard after a “little” blog hiatus to put down my two cent’s worth of thoughts. About bodies. Our own and those of others. How we see them, how we don’t and how we really need to look at the way we treat them.

A six-year old girl telling her mother she thinks she’s too fat.

Two teenagers comparing their bodies wondering why they don’t look the “way they should”.

The young man at the gym because he thinks he’s too skinny.

The older man at the same gym because he thinks he’s too pudgy.

The woman in her thirties online shopping for every cream and lotion available to get rid of cellulite.

The woman in her forties flicking through ads for wrinkle removal.

We’ve all been there at some stage. Some of us never leave that stage and continue to poke, prod and criticise our own appearance. Looking at our thighs in the mirror and lamenting the fact that there may be a blemish, or dimpled skin or just the “wrong” shape. And then try to change it. Why?

There is this mythical creature that is The Ideal Body. We’ve all seen them on screens big and small, in the pages of magazines and even on the street and sighed “why don’t I look like that?”. Or maybe you haven’t. Maybe it’s been just me looking at someone with long legs, slender waist and sleek hair and have lamented the fact that I was born of a gene pool where my legs are more adapted to herding cattle through boggy woods that they are to gracing an ad for stockings.

Truth is, even the supposedly ideal body looks entirely different in real life once you see it without airbrushing, careful lighting or clothes. *gasp* Yes, I mean naked. Completely naked. You see, I grew up in a culture where, from a young age, you would see other human beings naked on at least a weekly basis. *larger gasp* While I understand most of you outside the Nordic sauna culture will possibly struggle to grasp this, for me and millions of others this is the norm. You go to the sauna at least once a week. With your family. N A K E D.

Every house has a sauna. Every apartment building has a sauna. I moved to my first apartment in college and was presented with keys to the front door, keys to my apartment and the rota for your weekly sauna slot for the sauna that was in the basement. You got half an hour every Saturday (the traditional sauna day in Finland) and there also was a free-for-all sauna on Wednesday evenings for two hours where anyone could go. Yes, anyone. Well, anyone who lived in the building. So on Wednesdays you could see your neighbours naked.

Sauna is so ingrained in the Finnish culture, there are very few events that don’t involve stripping down and enjoying the gentle heat. Midsummer: have a sauna and swim. Christmas: have a sauna and a roll in the snow. Visiting friends or family: have a sauna and eat until you burst. Hosting foreign diplomats: have a sauna and discuss politics while in there.

You see, the sauna is a great equaliser. Go into any public swimming pool or a public sauna anywhere in Finland and there you are, among other humans and their bodies. You could be sitting next to a doctor, a teacher, an engineer, an astronaut or a secret agent and everything and anything in between. You don’t know and you don’t care. You don’t care because there you are, all humans with your bodies that all look different and yet somehow the same.

What I am trying to say, in a very convoluted way that is dangerously close to becoming an Ode To The Sauna, is that it’s no wonder that living in Ireland, I’ve come across so many people who seem to think there’s something wrong with their bodies because they don’t look like the ones in ads look like. It took me a while to realise that there’s no weekly nudie routine here. There’s no normality in nudity. There’s nowhere to see another human being naked, unedited, in a neutral setting.

I used to go swimming in the local swimming pool daily, if not more often if I had the time. They urge you to use the sauna and showers before putting on your swimsuit and getting into the pool. The pre-teen me saw women of all walks of life at all stages of life. I saw wobbly bits and hairy bits and smooth bits and toned bits. I learned that all our thighs spread out when we sit down. I learned that we all have belly rolls when we’re sitting hunched over letting the steam roll off your back. I learned that no two bodies look alike.

We used to gather our friends in a cabin by the lake for a night or two, go to the sauna together and have a few drinks, cook some insanely garlic-laden food and stay up until the wee hours talking shite. A mix of males and females, naked in a sauna together is nothing out of the ordinary to a Finn. Nor is it anything sexual. Again, it was a safe environment where you could, quite literally let all hang loose and just be. There was no judgement, nobody pointing out that you didn’t look right, I’m pretty sure nobody was even looking. We were too busy talking. Or just too busy sitting quietly and relaxing.

I understand now what an advantage this was. From a young age I was exposed to the fantastic variety of humanity. My Irish friends did balk at the mere idea of seeing your friends or family naked. I understood that I was so so lucky to grow up in a culture where nudity isn’t necessarily sexual. An old saying in Finland claims that you go into the sauna like you would into a church. Quiet, contemplative and as you are. In the sauna there’s no big beardy guy in the ceiling to tell you you’re going to hell for looking at your neighbour sideways, though so I’ll stick with the sauna, thank you very much.

Yes, we are all bombarded with the images of what is for most of us, unattainable body shape. There’s no avoiding it or even trying to pretend you’re not affected by it, even if it is just for a moment. For most of us, it’s not a just for a moment. But at least I’ve seen the real thing. Not just my own, but those of others. Different shapes and sizes and all beautiful in their own way.

I’m not saying let’s all get naked and take a good long look at each other. The Irish psyche probably wouldn’t be ready for it. But maybe, if you get the opportunity, go to a sauna. Go to a sauna somewhere where it’s a place for cleansing and relaxation. Where you’re not allowed to wear a towel or a swimsuit. Where you are just like everyone else with all of your bits.

Breathing Space

I was just wondering whether or not six months was long enough a break from blogging. I decided that it was. I've been busy in a good way, enjoying good company and making memories. My parents spent a week with us in April, my brother with my sister-in-law, niece and his friend's family were here earlier this month. One of them has stayed to experience the Irish summer. *insert rain here*

There's too much to put down in words, so here's some photos instead:

I've been walking here:

I've enjoyed the summery weather:

I've had a few lazy mornings:

I've had a few nights out featuring this:

And a few nights in featuring this:

I've had fun with these:

I've been reading these:

I've seen some amazing sunsets from our front porch:

And I've spent some quality time with these:

See you soon!

The Joys Of Packing

I have once again brought out my battered and much travelled suitcase. The cats were very interested as to how they might gain access inside the case. Lily in particular knows that the appearance of The Pink Thing is always followed by the absence of a Food Bringer/Belly Scratcher. She needn't worry this time, Mr. S is staying home so the two furballs won't have to encounter the horror that is The Strange Food Bringer.

Excuse me? How do I get in here?

I am going home (Finland) for the first time since last October and can barely believe it's been a year. I got my flights very cheap from Aer Lingus. A quick look at their site now and it would seem that I really did get a bargain; same flights now would set me back about €100 more than they did in the beginning of September. And what's more it's a direct flight. I normally fly with Scandinavian Airlines because they fly throughout the year whereas Lingus only flies between March and November, but all of the SAS flights include a stopover in Copenhagen, Oslo or Stockholm. Saying that, shopping at Copenhagen airport is bloody fantastic!

So, anyhoo... I need to decide what to pack for two weeks while leaving room for stuff to bring back home (Ireland). Stuff like salmiakki sweets, rye bread and some moose meat. Normally on the flight back to Ireland I'm hoping and praying my bag doesn't get chosen for a random security check. Packing for Finnish autumn weather is tricky to say the least. You could pack your summer and winter wardrobes and still find yourself woefully unprepared for the weather conditions. I have been religiously checking the weather at my parent's town and have decided to bring layers that'll keep me warm and dry but at the same time I'll be able to peel stuff off in case it gets warmer.

I am ridiculously excited to get going. I finish work on Monday, and I'm catching a bus from Galway to Dublin 1am that night. Travel up to Dublin, check in, four hour flight to Helsinki, grab a taxi to the train station, four-something hours on the train to Eastern Finland and the final leg of the journey in the car with my parents for an hour. I'm looking at a little over 20 hours of travel in total. Better charge up my iPod! I'm lucky enough to be able to sleep on planes and trains; all I need is my earphones in and my trusty megascarf which doubles as a blanket. Sorted.

I have very little planned for when I actually get there. Catching up with friends and family, eating my body weight in Finnish foods, relaxing and recharging my batteries. Not having had more than a few days off together since last christmas has taken its toll. I feel tired and drained but knowing a two week break is just a few days away will be enough to get me through until Monday evening.

Real Men

I've been meaning to post this ages ago. It was a random conversation with a few of the girls that reminded me of this topic. We were talking about what, in our own opinion, makes a man a Real Man. Despite the ladies taking part in this particular conversation being educated, modern, liberal and free-thinking, all of us shared the same, rather old-fashioned image on a Real Man.

1) He can, when needed, put up a shelf. And the said shelf will withstand substantial weight put upon it, and it will, most importantly be level. What it is about this thing with shelves and putting them up that appeals to me and my friends, but it seems to be a deal-breaker. So basically, if you can't put up a sturdy, level shelf, there's no point in coming over knocking on our doors.

2) He can wire a plug. And change a light bulb. Or a fuse. Or anything relatively simple to do with household electrical stuff. I suppose it is comforting to know that you share your house with someone who will save the day when your hair dryer has decided to blow a fuse, or when turning on the washing machine has somehow caused a blackout throughout the house. Just don't go fixing the toaster with a fork and you're okay in our books.

3) He can change a flat tyre and change the oil in a car. The former, I can do without breaking a sweat. Mainly because my father wanted to make sure I knew how to change a tyre in case I ever got stick in the middle of nowhere with a flat. I know how to do it, but still, when given the choice, I would expect Mr S to do it for me. The feminist part of my brain screams in protest when the princess side of my brain makes my mouth utter the words "But I'll get dirty...". I pride myself in being independent and self-sufficient, but there's something about cars that make me automatically turn to a man. I am also ridiculously easily impressed by Real Men, who know exactly what is wrong with a car just by listening to the noise it makes. To me, that's nothing short of magic.

I cannot help but thinking, am I really that conditioned by traditional values and my up-bringing that I automatically conform to these old-fashioned stereotypes? I grew up in a house where both of my parents worked, but where my mother worked from home up until I was in my early teens. My father travelled a lot because of his work and was sometimes gone for weeks at a time. So there were times when my mother ran the house for both of them.

But if anything needed fixing, building or tinkering with, we never called a handyman. My dad would fix anything that was needed. The only time we had tradesmen in our house was when we were extending the house. Building regulations stipulate that you need a registered tilers, plumbers, electricians etc. to do the work in order for the building inspector to approve it. Outside of that, my father has built a barbecue hut, a back porch and few other bits, not to mention the house itself. Him and his brothers and brothers-in-law are all handy with a hammer.

Maybe it's just that generation. Are those skills disappearing? My paternal grandparents' place needs a bit of fixing up every year. It's my dad, his brothers and brothers-in-law who do the fixing. No need to get the builders is, everyone mucks in and the job gets done. And it gets done right. Real Men doing Real Work. Last summer, at the time of my cousin's wedding the whole family was there. The timber cladding at the front of the house needed to be replaced. What better way to spend quality time with your extended family than partake in a small project like that? Myself and my brother's fiancée were painting said timber boards that were later to go up to clad the house, in +35 degrees centigrade, being eaten alive by horse flies. But it got done.

So maybe it is just our family. Everybody mucks in, but men are expected to do the hard work. Real Men.

I appreciate sensitivity in a man, I love a man who knows his art and his culture. I like being able to go to the theatre with a man without dragging him there. But at the end of the day, despite being quite handy with the cordless drill, I want a man who will put up a shelf for me, and hang pictures on the walls without having to call someone else in to help. A Real Man. Lucky for me, Mr S is just that. A Real Man.

Absence

Oh, hello! Long time, no see. I've been preoccupied for the last few weeks, and for that, my sincere apologies. I will, however, make no apologies for thoroughly enjoying my self-imposed blog absence. During which, by the way, I didn't go anywhere near my laptop for anything other than a spot of online banking. It's handy having an iPhone, isn't it? Email, Facebook and Twitter all there, with me all the time with no need to sit down at a keyboard and type anything. For blogging, I find the iPhone just too small. I like having more room to play with when it comes to posting. I have a few blogging apps on my phone but none of them have felt right. Any suggestions are more than welcome, by the way.

Anyway, the last week of august saw my dear old brother visit us with two of his friends. Him and his friend flew over from Finland, rented a car in Dublin and headed towards the lovely west coast. Meanwhile his other friend was on his motorbike, somewhere between Cork and Mr S's hotel en route. My brother arrived around dinnertime with his friend. Friend on motorbike appeared about a pint and a half later, walking like John Wayne. 650km in one day on Irish roads on a motorbike will do that to you, I guarantee it.

The following day was dedicated to travel up north to Enniskillen via Sligo and Bundoran. In Enniskillen the lads very nearly became local celebrities when people realised the lad on the motorbike is the spitting image of Brian O'Driscoll. Newspapers were pulled out to demonstrate the uncanny resemblance. Couldn't argue with it, he does look a lot like him. Needless to say, for the rest of the trip he was known as Brian.

After a night in Enniskillen it was back to base where Brian had to follow his obsession to climb a mountain. The rest of us decided on a slightly less arduous activity of visiting our house and having a couple of drinks at the local before heading back to the hotel with the promise of heaps of mussels and prawns accompanied by nice, chilled Pinot Grigio. Brian had found his way back down from the mountain, but it was the road leading to the hotel that had him stumped. Determined, he was marching along the road in the wrong direction when a friendly local picked him up and dropped him off at the hotel. A detail Brian failed to mention until quizzed on it.

My brother didn't think there was enough lemon
on his friend's prawns

Brian deep in thought after is mountain trek

We ate (some more than others) until fit to burst, after which Brian retired up to his room. Three of us continued propping up the bar until it was decided it was far too late to be up, considering the lads were to travel to Dublin the following day. Bedtime.

Some of us ate more than others

Friday morning saw my brother and Brian having their now customary topless wrestling match on the front lawn of Mr S's hotel, to great amusement of Mr S's mother. And hotel guests. And passing motorists. After a brief visit to the abbey, where Brian decided to sit that one out and my brother and his friend came up with a brilliant idea of a karaoke bus, it was time to say goodbye. The visit was brief but most welcome. The tail lights of the Astra and Honda were the last thing I saw. They all made it home, safe and sound.

Tail lights say goodbye

 Do call again!

Surprise!

Ahh, I felt a proper feeling of accomplishment when I got to yell that at Dublin airport Thursday morning two weeks ago. That was the little surprise myself and Mr S had planned for my visiting family. I had emailed dad with bus timetables and the like, instructing them to take the bus from the airport to Galway where we'd pick them up. Tee hee. They were pleased and so were we.

The five days they were here went by in a blur. We walked miles in the national park, the abbey, on the beaches, we ate well (thanks to Mr S's mother) and drank even better, listened to traditional music and generally showed them what my life is like here on the edge of Europe. It was so good to catch up! I got the usual pressies, too; rye bread, salmiakki sweets, coffee, chocolate and sausages. Yup, they really made sure I wasn't going to go hungry any time soon. Most of the sweets are gone, as is most of the sausages, too. I'm rationing the rye bread, mainly because it has an interesting effect on my digestive system, something Mr S calls "the after burn". So, in order for him to avoid having to use a gas mask on entering the house, I'm limiting myself to a couple of slices per day.

My parents brought me this painting. It's been sitting in their house waiting to be moved here and finally, after 10 years of me getting it, it's finally here! The vase/pot in the painting is the spitting image of a pot my granny used for butter in my dad's home. Granny brought the pot from what is now Russia, where she was born before the war when it was still a part of Finland and I'm sure it's seen a lot in it's day. It's still there, in the old kitchen where my dad's side of the family gathers for midsummer every year. Mum and dad spotted the painting somewhere and got it for me as a graduation present. It now has the pride of place on our dining room wall.

  My little bit of a holiday was over too fast and I returned to work with a bang. This Easter was the busiest we've ever seen it, making it exhausting to work in the process. It was all worth it, though, we did have a very successful Easter egg hunt in the gardens, and two Easter bunnies hopping about the place. More on that later, I'm off to enjoy the lazy day off with Mr S.

Visitors

There's some excitement around the place. Ireland is getting some high profile visitors in the coming months. Prince Albert of Monaco paid us a little visit here in "The Wessht" of this lovely island just last week. I always find myself distracted by the fact that I think Prince Albert is the long lost twin of Neil Delamere. Just look at them, the resemblance is uncanny. Maybe it's the Irish heritage of Albert's mother, the lovely Grace Kelly, whose homestead in co. Mayo was also on the to-visit list of Albert and his lady friend whose name escapes me.

And just today, His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama is visiting Dublin and Kildare as I type. Now there's a cool dude I'd love to meet. Adding to the list of visitors, Liz and Phil from next door are popping over the small water for a quick hello and a catch-up. Nothing formal, nothing fancy, just a quick visit. Or so I've been told. And we might as well keep the nice tea set dusted and in use, because Barack Obama did mention something about visiting us sometime after Liz and Phil have departed. Ireland is going to be busy playing hostess to all this folk.

I, however am having not-so-high-brow but infinitely more exciting (well, exciting for me, anyway) visitors tomorrow (eep!). My parents are flying over for a visit with two of my mother's sisters and their husbands. A sextet of relatives for a whole of four nights. And because I have been working until today, it is time to cue the mad dash around the house dusting, hoovering, mopping and tidying up. I'm not sure why I'm doing this seeing as they won't be staying in the house. Six was just two people too many to accommodate, so they've opted to stay in Mr S's hotel instead. Handy thing to have, a hotel, last my a gang of my family decided to drop by, there were 16 of them. Yup. 16.

We have a little surprise planned for them on their arrival, but apart from Mr S, my brother Mika and his fiance Terhi, nobody knows yet. And I'm not going to put it up here until I'm sure they have no access to internet and therefore have no way of finding out until they get here...

Tee. Hee.

Time Flies

...even when you're not having fun, it appears. Work has been busy, days have been longer, and I have been, as a result of all of the above, more tired than ever. I fixed all that today by treating myself to a lovely, 11-hour sleep. My body is actually sore from sleeping the sleep of the dead, as Mr S likes to put it. Apparently I fall asleep and don't move at all during the night, which makes me and my belly an ideal bed for Lily, who curls up on top of me nearly every night. She also functions as an alarm clock by purring in my face with her mouth slightly open. The combination of a purr and a fishy cat-breath are a foolproof way to wake me up, even if it is only 6am. Yuck.

We had some lovely weather last week. We're making up for it this week. Gale force winds and horizontal rain. Really doesn't encourage setting foot outside the front door at all, so much for my attempts to go walking every day. My exercise bike has been getting more use as a result, so all is not lost. I'm told we're getting more sun towards the end of this week. When I'm back to work. Typical. There's one thing rainy days are good for, and that's cleaning. And since we finally got our wheelie bins, I've been taking so much pleasure out of having a good clear out. Mr S was a little bit sceptical as to whether we had anything to clear out since the move, which we quite successfully used to get rid of loads of stuff. I did find a few boxes up in the attic that I went through and decided to get rid of, among other things, 12 VHS tapes that we have no idea what they contain as they have no labels and we don't have a VHS player. For all I know, I may have just got rid of some lost gem of cinematic art. Oh well...

I'm also getting ready for my family to come over. My parents, my mother's two sisters and their husbands will be touching down in Dublin a week from Thursday. They're staying until Monday and flying back to Helsinki early on Tuesday morning. I got a dirt-cheap deal on hotel rooms for them for the Monday night at the airport's Premier Inn; €29 per room! I couldn't believe it, but booked it fast and got a confirmation email stating the price so that's me covered in case they try to charge anything else. I have a surprise in store for them as well, but I'm keeping that under wraps for now just in case they find out...

I'm going back my cleaning for now, I'm getting company later on and I must make the house a bit more child-friendly for my friend's 20-month old son. Last time I left scissors and a nail file laying around. Yup. I'm not very child-oriented but I'm learning. At least I took the axe away from beside the fire...

Cousin It

My cousin recently friended me on Facebook. Not that unusual, granted but a couple of friends have pointed out to me how little I’m in touch with my cousins. I have two who are the same age as I am, another three a year younger or older, and the rest are more than 5 years older or younger than me. Any difference in age doesn’t really matter when you’re over 25 but when you’re growing up it makes all the difference.

I guess I just never got to know them. I mean got to know them beyond the family occasions such as weddings and birthdays where we were all herded together, given sweets/crisps/ice cream and told to keep quiet and out of the way. We lived so far away from my father’s side of the family, I only got to see my cousins at midsummer when we all gathered to my paternal grandparents’ house in the middle of nowhere. Eight siblings with their partners and children, how did we ever manage that before we added a few extra sleeping quarters? I do remember spending a lot of time in a tent.

Pick the odd one out :)

My mum’s side of the family was closer by when I was young, but the cousins closer to my own age were all boys. And there were three of them. I didn’t exactly feel like I fitted in, even though my very best friend was the boy next door. I don’t know what happened there, I suppose we just never connected. My other cousins on my mother’s side are two boys who were closer to my brother’s age, who is eight years my senior. The three of them usually ganged up on me of just took of leaving me on my own. I didn’t mind, and I must say there are some very funny pictures of us sitting somewhere and it’s obvious I have been shoved into the photo under extreme protest.

I know a lot of my friends who consider their cousins as their substitute siblings. Sometimes I wish I could say that, but I often wonder whether or not I actually have anything in common with my cousins. I get along with them, talk to them on Facebook, see them at family functions, am genuinely interested in what’s going on in their lives and all that, but I don’t think I’d consider any of them as anything more than a relative. You can’t choose your family, but you can choose your friends, they say. If my cousins were strangers, I’m not sure how many of them would make the cut. It’s just that I don’t really know them. Why, I don’t know.

It’s great to catch up every now and then, but I don’t think any of our lives intersect beyond the relatives we share. I know which cousin is married, dating, has kids, has moved, is building a house etc but most of this information comes from my parents or I get indirectly via a post on Facebook. These little snippets of information is all I really need, if truth be told. And I’m pretty sure my life isn’t so riveting and exciting that my cousins are hanging onto my every blog post and Facebook status update.

Or maybe I am the odd one out. Maybe all of my cousins get on great with each other, talk on the phone frequently, visit each other regularly and every now and then my name is mentioned and they all go “Mmh, yes, her. Cousin It”.

Turning into my mother

I suppose there are people who'd say it's only a matter of time. I really didn't think this would happen so soon. I really am turning into my mother.

I recently purchased a bird-feeder and placed it outside our kitchen window so I can watch the birdies flying in and out. Just like my mother!


As soon as it gets dark, I go around switching of lights and lighting candles and nighlights around the house. I keep a supply of candles in a designated candle cupboard. Just like my mother!


I find myself falling asleep on car journeys. Even short ones. Just like my mother! Just to point out, when I'm a passenger, obviously. My mother doesn't drive, by the way. Despite having a driving license. Reasons for this are still a mystery to me.

Sticking with the sleep-theme, I do seem to be going to sleep earlier and earlier every day only to get up ridiculously early even on my days off. My mother has the ability to sneak in a few naps throughout the day which still baffles me. The woman goes to bed at 9pm and gets up at around 5am. AND she naps if she at all gets a chance. Soon I'll be spending the daytime snoozing on my couch. Just like my mother!


I buy my Christmas cards early and love picking them out, having a certain person in mind when picking up a certain card. Just like my mother!


I don't just drop in to visit friends, I plan ahead, usually ring the person well ahead of time just to inquire whether of not it's a good time to drop in. Just like my mother!


I'm not saying turning into my mother is a bad thing, all I'm saying is that I'm genuinely baffled by the inevitability of genetics kicking in. It's hilarious. I'll best be off now, I have arranged to go and visit a friend. I might have a cup of coffee first, sit in the kitchen, watch the birds outside. Maybe fit in a sneaky nap, too. I imagine myself spending a lot of time asleep in my future. I like it.

Dream a little dream

All has been quiet on my western front for the last week or so. Nothing out of the ordinary, the few days I have been working have been quite hectic which suits me just fine, nothing worse than hovering about with nothing to do. Had an impromptu night out with friends on Friday, which seemed like a really good idea at the time. Unfortunately our night ran a bit long, so I only got home at 6.30am fully aware of the fact that I would have to be at work at 9.00am. Going to bed wasn't an option, because once I go to sleep, that's it for at least 4 hours. So I opted for a long shower and gallons of coffee.

I did make it work bang on time and was promptly told by the head chef that I looked like a zombie. I love the people at work, they are honest to the point of brutality sometimes. I take that any day of the week over someone being nice to your face and then bitching about you behind your back.

All these things going on in my head have obviously had an effect on my dreams. Really, they're getting stranger by the night. Just the other night I dreamt I was having lunch at a pub with Mr S, who kicked off when I refused to eat a pizza that had candle wax "shaved" into it by our waitress who was trying to whittle down a candle to fit the candle stick at our table. Yeah, I know. And that's one of the saner ones. 

I'm still spending a lot of time in the kitchen. Nothing beats comfort food. Mr S is having a stressful time of it, not least caused by his father who is looking after Mr S's nephew and doing quite a bad job of it. The nephew isn't lifting a finger around the house and Mr S's father is continuing to everything for him. Families, eh?

I'm going to see my family at the end of this month for two weeks. Cannot bloody wait. Haven't seen them since June last year, it's about time I showed my face. My parents are currently in Thailand for a month(!!) and my brother flew over with his fiance and daughter to see them. Lucky sods...