Bloodsuckers

I love True Blood. Just plain love it. I think that makes me a “Trubie”. I’ve always been fascinated by vampires. Well I say always, but in the name of accuracy let’s say from the age of 12 or thereabouts. When I first saw Interview With A Vampire, I was hooked. I scoured bookshops for Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles and am pleased to say that I own all of them. And do they bear marks of being read over and over again! My copy of The Vampire Lestat, which I picked up somewhere in Camden, looks much worn and I’m afraid it will fall apart the next time I go to read it.

I tried to read the Twilight books. I really tried, but I found them to be too childish for me. I understand, they’re this generations Vampire Chronicles. I’m too old. So now I would love to extend a heartfelt thank you to Charlaine Harris for penning the Sookie Stackhouse novels. And to HBO for making it into a fantastic TV series.

And I’m not the only one. But what is it about vampires and other sinister mythical creatures we find so fascinating? Do we have a secret desire to be drained to death? To be bitten? To be savagely attacked, fed upon and left for dead? Or is it indeed the idea that out there somewhere are people, creatures who have cracked the secret to eternal youth and immortality?

Imagine being an improved version of yourself. With better senses, greater speed, and some handy superpowers thrown in for good measure. Obviously there is a price to pay. That price being unable to see sunlight and having to feast on the blood of people. I for one was always more of a night person anyway. Seriously speaking, there is an allegory there about all of us having a dark, savage side and all that jazz but why thread onto a path so well travelled?

To be honest, I think the main attraction here is the fact that those vamps are really quite sexy. It’s not just the fact that they’re young for all eternity, although that is a bonus. Besides, none of these novels, films or TV series seem to have an ugly vampire in them. If you had all of time to do as you pleased, I’d imagine there’d be a fair amount of sex involved.

I know Anne Rice’s books were more sensual than they were sexual, and Charlaine Harris truly pushes the boat out in her work, but the premise is there nonetheless. Sex is great when you’re immortal. Or with someone who’s immortal. And ladies (and some gentlemen); would you be able to kick this one out of bed?

For those interested, you should check out Mick Farren’s The Victor Renquist Quartet for some bedtime reading, I found them quite good.

Miss manners

Is there such a thing as too good manners?

We’re all told how important it is to have good manners; say “please” and “thank you”, smile, ask how the other person is, not to offend anyone, etc. But I have actually begun to wonder whether or not it’s always the best thing to do. I mean, there’s good manners and then there’s being a door mat?

I used to be terrible at complaining at restaurants. I remember sifting through soup which resembled baby food in texture, and out of date milk in flavour. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself or to our table in this small, intimate restaurant. I was sure the horrid soup was an one-off incident and felt that I shouldn’t make a big deal out of it. I know now I should’ve sent it back seeing as it was my money that I was spending on what I was expecting to be nice, tasty food.

If somebody bumps into me on the street, I always turn to apologise even when it isn’t my fault. I know it’s not my fault but I do it anyway. Why, I’m not entirely sure. Probably for the same reason I’d clean my house before a cleaner got in to make it easier for them to get to work. Same method in the madness drove me to clean my car before getting in professionally valeted and to do my hair before going to the hairdresser in case she thought I wasn’t looking after her creation well enough.

Yesterday I sat at my hairdresser’s chatting away when she asked me if wanted tea or coffee. Now anybody who knows me, knows that I truly love my coffee. My coffee maker at home is one of the ones which grinds the beans at the press of a button making the coffee so beautifully fresh it makes me wonder how I ever drank filter coffee. I don’t even recognise instant coffee as being coffee. So, when asked, I of course asked for coffee. I was presented with a mug of brown water with a drop of milk in it. I dutifully said “thank you” and took a sip. It was vile. Did I say something? No, of course not. That would’ve been rude. Or would it?

All this is utterly ridiculous, I know. But I’m not the only one doing it. I’ve seen it happen so many times in so many different places it really got me thinking, who do we think we’re doing a favour to by carrying on like this? How many women will walk out of their hairdresser of 8 years sporting a look they don’t like just because they don’t want to offend someone they’ve known for so long? It’s hardly going to be beneficial to you, walking around looking like something out of the 80’s, and certainly not beneficial to the hairdresser because everyone is going to wonder who did that to you and you are going to tell. That happened to a friend of mine who wore hats for a week and then changed her hairdresser to one who actually listened to her.

I have mended my ways since the soup incident. If I’m paying for something, I do want it to be the way I like it. There’s always the problem of overstepping the line and landing all the way across to the land of the obnoxious, but let’s not go there. Having worked in the hospitality industry I can tell The Moaner a mile away. The one who will, without a fail, find something to complain about. It’s usually the price, or size, or temperature of the food. I met a Moaner once who complained her soup wasn’t hot enough. I heated it up to a boiling point, brought it back to her and had her turn around and complain that now it was too hot to eat. What can I say? You wouldn’t have problems like that with salad.

Lack of manners can be just as irritating as having too much manners. Asking for something without adding “please” to the end of the sentence sounds rude. I find it quite fascinating how fast I adopted frowning upon people who don’t say “please” considering how my native tongue doesn’t even have a corresponding word. We have 48 for “hangover”, though. Us Finns, hilarious. Being met by the Americanisms such as “Lemme have the...”, “Gimme the...” and “I’m gonna have the...” makes me cringe. There’s no excuse for not being polite, especially if you’re speaking the same language. Some faux pas’ can be forgiven because there is a language barrier. “Please” barked at you in a German accent is going to sound aggressive no matter how much you try. I German friend of mine, a lovely, pleasant and polite young man still says “I will have...” rather than “I would like to have...”. Unless I’m there to correct him, obviously.

I think I’m done now...Thank you for reading. Do pop by again soon. Please.

Raging road-aholic

I don't really have a great track record when it comes to rental cars. Not driving them, but driving behind them. Especially around these parts where the roads are built for 1.5 cars rather than 2, or 2 cars with half an inch between them, and overtaking or meeting other cars requires a hearty mixture of self-confidence, bravery and prayer to whatever higher power you happen to rely on.

And I am completely aware of the irony of me writing to moan about tourists, when, at the end of the day it's them who pay my wages, but still. I can't complain to their faces, now can I? Can I? Please?

There is just something about the tell-tale sticker on the rear window of the car in front of me that immediately makes my shoulders creep up to my ears, my blood pressure climb up a notch or five, and my knuckles turn a lovely shade of white as I grip my steering wheel while muttering aggressively under my breath.

Yes, I know you're visiting this country and while doing so, contributing to the economy, but it doesn't mean you get the right to drive at the steady speed of 30km/h, in the middle of the road thus blocking anyone unfortunate enough to be stuck behind you from even attempting overtaking. And every so often you see a sheep, or the sea, or a thatched cottage, a pile of turf on the bog, of all of the above, skid to a halt (okay, 'skid' is an overstatement considering you were crawling along to start with), leap out of the car (which is still positioned in the middle of the road), and start taking photographs!!!

I would like you to know, that as I'm writing this I am in fact, working myself up to rage. I would love to know how many accidents are caused every year by people either plowing into a car stopped in a corner or in the middle of the road, or in frustration overtaking in a place where you probably shouldn't but can't take looking at the heads turning as if they were at Wimbledon while the car sways from side to side on the road.

I was stuck behind a Nissan Micra not that long ago. Just seeing one of them makes me annoyed. I don't know

anyone who owns one, apart from car rental companies. The image it evokes is one of a middle aged European, usually German or french (Americans tend to go for the biggest car available even if it means shaving off the wing mirrors while trying to avoid being involved in a head on collision with an oncoming bus). Spanish and Italian people I find, in general good drivers for these roads. I would imagine the Greeks being the same way. A nice mixture of overconfidence and disregard of rules and the welfare of yourself and your rental car.

Now, this Micra in question was travelling along at a break-neck speed of 20km/h. After being stuck behind it for what felt like an eternity, I decided to overtake, as that part of the road was wide enough for me to do so, and there wasn't any oncoming traffic. i don't know what people usually do when they see someone behind them indicating that they're going to overtake. Me, I just carry on as normal, the decision to overtake lies with the overtaker, they have obviously deemed this to be the best moment to do so and there is absolutely no involvement required on my part. The driver of this little Micra decided otherwise. As I was going past, he had come to the conclusion that the road was too narrow for me to overtake, and steered his car into the bog. Seeing this from my rear-view mirror, I pulled over and went to see if they were okay.

I was met with an irate Frenchman and his wife, who started screaming at me telling me I had driven them off the road. Now, I can assure you, this wasn't the case. The man then proceeded to tell me how all Irish people drive like lunatics, how he had been driven off the road three times during his holiday and how he was never going to drive in Ireland ever again. As I tried, in vain, to explain to him how it wasn't necessary for him to drive off the road when someone was overtaking, the man launched into what I can only imagine being an extremely derogatory outburst in french. I held up my hands and walked away. I could still hear him as I got into my car and drove off.

I must admit, I did feel a little bit sorry for him. The roads here are something to get used to, I know it took me some time to be confident in the knowledge that even if I do meet my neighbour on the road, neither one of us is going to lose mirrors or paintwork.

Intermission

Hello, there! How have you been? It's been a bit mad lately, hasn't it? I really don't know where August went. Apparently I blinked a couple of times and sort of missed it. I did manage to get my hair cut in between the 12-hour working days and I quite like it. Judging by other people's comments, it is a all-round success. Mr. S keeps playing with it. It is quite short now and so much easier to manage than the halfway-down-to-my-back mane I had before. I did let it grow a lot longer than I normally care to have it for the wedding because I wanted a cool 'do. The wedding is well and truly over so it was time.

Dropping half a stone in weight by having your hair cut is the only real step towards my Better Life I have taken. Having thought I'd be finishing work earlier in the day starting September, I had planned to do great things with my extra time off. Turns out I don't have as mu

ch time as I thought. So the gym has been put onto the back burner for a while to be replaced by walks on the beach.

Walking is all well and good

but the weather hasn't been my friend lately, either. I quite literally bounce outside whenever it looks like there mig

ht be a gap in the rain clouds long enough for me to sprint down the road.

I have become slightly obsessed by Mum

ford & Sons and Laura Marling lately. It's the season that's in it and I know it. I tend to go towards folksy, acoustic mellow tunes in the

autumn/winter a

nd poppy, upbeat dance-y ones in the summertime.

Besides, Mumford & Sons feed into my secret love of banjos and bluegrass without me having to pay a visit to the Mississippi region any time soon. Something I'd love to do, FYI. New Orleans being the first port of call. Preferably during Mardi Gras. My expectations of The Big Easy are mainly based on romanticised images and moods created by popular culture but I'm intrigued nonetheless. Jazz, blues and voodoo, yes please! If you have read Pat Conroy's Beach music you'd probably be tempted to visit the deep south, too.

Vol. 318

I have decided to join a gym. Scary thing is, I actually want to join. There is no scary gym-man the size of an average wardrobe behind me forcing me to do this. I have picked one 30min drive away because it seems really nice, is open until late and doesn't allow children in after 7pm. Now to figure out how to ask whether or not they think I'll be the fattest person there. Le sigh

I don't like broccoli...

...which stands greatly in the way of my pursuit for Better Life (vol. 317). And it's not just broccoli, it's majority of vegetables I don't like. I remember being insanely jealous of a vegetarian friend of mine in college, who managed an entire week's food shop for roughly around 10 or 15 euro. That left a hell of a lot of money to spend on drink and cigarettes. What was I thinking buying all that minced beef and ham for my sandwiches!? Well, I was thinking that I don't like vegetable so I'll just buy some processed crap instead, spend a lot more money on than my veggie loving friend and spend last four days of each month eating nothing but pasta with a drop of ketchup mixed in.

I would love to eat healthy. I know I probably should start now rather than five years down the line. But I don't like healthy food. If it really is so good for us, how come it doesn't taste better. Surely it is some kind of an evolutionary fuck up that the things that are good for our bodies, things that supposedly fight of diseases and generally make us live longer, aren't the things we crave in the wee hours after a hefty drinking sessions when our poor abused bodies are most in need of a health boost. Why don't the late night revellers flock to a steamed vegetable van instead of the one that sells deep fried meat from an undetermined animal source?

I'm sure broccoli would taste alright if you deep fried it, covered it in ketchup and stuffed it inside a burger bun. Our old head chef used to make me taste vegetables as a part of his little twisted ways to figure out whether or not your taste buds actually changed every 5 years or so. Problem was, he drowned the offending articles (in this case broccoli and it's nerdy little albino cousin, the cauliflower) in so much melted butter, the only thing I could taste was an impending arterial blockage.

With all this "food science" around, surely the boffins and Green Isle could manage to make the vegetable taste better. If they can make a deep fried potato shaving taste like a perennial 1970's dinner party starter or better yet, bacon, there must be a way to make lettuce taste like chips.

My sister-in-law has a talent for that, should she ever wish to give up her career as corporate banker, she could quite easily make a living showing notorious veggie-dodgers such as yours truly how to cook them in a way that makes them taste of things other than fertiliser. One of her famous successes must be The Aubergine. I never liked the look of them, all strange, shiny and purple like an alien egg. She slices them up, puts some red pepper slices and Parmesan on top and bakes them in the oven until crispy. My mouth is watering, yet we're talking about two types of vegetable and some cheese. Maybe it is the cheese. Everything is made better by the presence of cheese. Maybe the Americans have got it right after all. Would you like some cheese with that?

Ahem...

One measly post in the entire month of July? Shame on me. Just goes to show how easily my resolve to write something at least once a week crumbled like the last hob nob you fished out of the bottom of the packet of biscuits.

I have returned from spending time with my family, weighing a good few pounds more and having done some possibly irreversible damage to my already long-suffering liver. The wedding was a great do altogether, lasting all in all for about three days. It was great to see family I haven't seen in years but I must admit, 4 days staying in close proximity of each other did in fact confirm that I did make the right decision in moving out of the country. Some family members more so than others, but we'll leave the details open to speculation.

Booze and food. Staple summer holiday diet. I should've known where it all was heading when, on my arrival to my brother's house I was presented with a champagne breakfast. It was 8.30am on a Friday morning. In my defence, it was ridiculously hot. +32 being the average temperature in the shade for most of the time I was there. And everybody knows nothing quenches your thirst like a nice, ice cold beer on a hot summer's day. Or morning.

So in my post-holiday food and booze hangover I have resolved to start a Better Life. Vol. 317 by my calculations. In all seriousness, I am aware that largely this is due to me approaching 30, and starting to be painfully aware of the fact that I am not getting any younger (physically, that is, mentally I'm still somewhere between 13 and 18 depending on the day). More exercise, less crap food and most definitely less booze. That last bit might have to wait until the end of the summer. See how determined I am?

We'll see how it goes, but I'm starting to feel sorry for Mr S already. When I deny myself things it's usually him, who gets the brunt of my frustrations...