And It's Done

We have moved. Officially, completely fully moved into our new house. It took all day Wednesday but at least it's done now. The smallest bedroom in the house is full of boxes and bags, bits and pieces. But that's what doors are for, isn't it? To block out the things we don't want to see.

The fire has been tested and it truly is a luxury to have it after going so many years without one. I love a big, roaring fire. Who doesn't? Obviously there are a number of things that need our attention; pictures to be hung, curtains to be put up, furniture to rearrange. But all in good time. We'll get there one box, one picture, one table at a time.

The cats have been very confused, understandably so. Poor kitties, they spent the first night wandering around the house. Lily eventually set up camp under our bed and Tom stayed in the hall, not entirely sure what it was that he was supposed to do.

They seem much more at ease today. Lily is sat beside me as I'm typing and Tom has stretched out in front of the fire. We'll get settled soon enough. Cats and people alike.

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”.

Taking It Easy

It's the start of the weekend for normal people. To people with nine to five, Monday to Friday jobs. I'm not one of those people. I do feel somewhat left out at times. Come Friday there's a sort of calm that descends on people, accompanied by giddyness. It's the blissful feeling when you know it's nearly time to head on home and you don't need to think about anything work related for another 50 or so hours. Nice, isn't it?

I get that feeling on Monday evenings. Monday isn't a great day for many people, but it is my Friday. I get all happy and excited an plan my days off. People around me tend to get irritable and mutter something about only starting their week and how lucky I am to be taking my days off during the week.

Friday giddyness has taken over me tonight. I feel nice and calm and relaxed and mellow. I think I'll celebrate than with some cheesy tunes and maybe a glass of wine. TGIF, people!

Told you it was going to be cheesy, didn't I?

Book Worm

I love reading. Always have, and I strongly suspect that I always will. I’m not all that choosy about what I read, either. The back of a cereal packet will do me, in a pinch, or a leaflet out of a box of tampons. Really, I love reading.

I remember the first book I ever enjoyed reading. Reading myself, I mean, not a book that was read to me. My mother read to me a lot, she worked as a child minder at the time and she worked from our house, so there were other kids to entertain, too. I always got the best spot right beside her and got to turn the pages, too. But the very first book I took out from the library, brought home and read from cover to cover in one day was Matilda by Roald Dahl. I was so engrossed in it, I wanted to bring it to the dinner table, just in case the words dripped off the pages while I was eating and I’d miss the ending. I fell in love. And I wanted more.

Funnily enough, I didn’t read anything else by Roald Dahl. How I ended up reading Enid Blyton, I don’t remember but I thoroughly enjoyed every single one of her books. Under the influence of Famous Five, me and the boy next door, Sami, went around looking for secret passageways out of our houses and suspected every adult we didn’t know to be a smuggler out to get us. I had no idea what a boarding school was, either, there aren’t any in Finland, at least not to my knowledge, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to go to one. I even asked my parents to send me to one. I was promptly told it wasn’t an option.

My two best friends

There are few books I read over and over again. Matilda being one of them. Brian Hall’s Saskiad is on me permanent reading list, as is Pat Conroy’s Beach Music and Anne Rice’s Vampire Lestat. I have a bookcase jam packed with books I haven’t read yet. All kinds of books. I love the smell of the pages, the weight of a good book in my hand, and I love putting in my bookmark, leaving it to one side and then picking it up again like a good old friend called in for a catch up and a chat.

And while I’m sure Kindle is a fantastic idea and works for loads of people, it will never work for me. It makes me a little bit sad because I do love my gadgets, but  there is nothing in this world that beats the sound a book makes when you’re opening it for the first time. Of the book-y smell of the pages as your turning them.

Right now, I’m reading Victoria Hislop’s The Return which is turning out to be a very interesting read. I’ll let you know what I think when I’m finished, ok?

I Told You, Didn't I?

About the dreams, I mean. I did tell you. This is what I was dreaming about last night.

www.topgear.com

I was in a lovely seaside town somewhere in continental Europe. Perhaps Spain, Italy or southern France. I was filming the TV show Top Gear with Richard Hammond and James May. I was Jeremy Clarkson. We were gathered outside a nice little café or a restaurant. One of those with large windows at the front so you can see the people sitting at the tables beside said window. I was sitting inside, having lunch with someone I went to school with more than ten years ago. It's closer to fifteen years, now that I start doing the math. Anyway, the me sitting in the restaurant is the me sitting here typing this. The other me, the Jeremy Clarkson -me is outside filming and looks in through the window and sees me-me. Still with me? No? No matter, I shall carry on regardless.

Clarkson -me has some sort of a mini-aneurysm and decides he's madly in love with me-me. Clarkson-me takes out a sheet of A4 and a pen and scribbles out a note saying "MARRY ME PLEASE" and shoves it up against the restaurant window for me-me to see. Me-me jumps up off of her seat, gives out a big squeal and runs outside. At this stage I stop being both me-me and Clarkson-me and I'm just me. Clarkson has turned into that old school mate I was just having lunch with. I said yes. To the Clarkson/school mate hybrid.

And you wonder why I wake up exhausted and confused...

Boxed up

I thought I'd better remind you of my existence here. I've been spending my days packing things into boxes and have made a great new friend in a tape gun. Who knew there's be so much stuff? Seriously, it's only two of us in this house, yet it seems like the amount of stuff corresponds more to a family of four hoarders.

But there's no need to despair, or so I keep telling myself. I was up at the new house yesterday with the first load of boxes, armed with a tape measure and my trusty notebook. The new house is only 3km from the house we're in now, and it's on my way into work. So it's quite handy for me to drop off few bits and pieces every day so the actual move won't be too painful. Who knew I owned enough CDs and DVDs to fill five cardboard boxes?

Having tweeted several times about the move, complaining about having to pack boxes and whatnot, I'm now being followed by a couple of removal companies, too. They're in the UK, though but I'm sure they'd make the journey provided I paid them enough. I did get a legitimate offer from one of my twitter followers who, in his own words does furniture removals, office relocations, IKEA shopping & delivery service, and pretty much everything else to do with removals etc. Come the end of this week, I may well take him up on his offer...


Needless to say I'm getting quite handy with the cordless drill and assorted screwdrivers. I've been dismantling shelves and anything else that can be dismantled, putting the pieces and accompanying screws and brackets into boxes ready for the next car load going up the road. Work is proving a welcome distraction from all this packing but I'm already looking forward to our first night in the new house. Feet up, beside the fire with a nice cup of coffee of maybe even a glass of wine. Roll on, next week!

Mares and Terrors

I'm sleeping very poorly lately. Just like anything, given a long enough run, it's starting to get annoying. I keep getting woken up by very strange dreams, usually something involving a struggle, or me being stuck somewhere against my will. I'd love to know what to make of it all, but there is that skeptical part of my brain which lumps dream theory into the same category with homeopathy, rip-off psychics and mind reading. Then there's the other part of my brain which checked the two dream books I have and now knows dreams of captivity or imprisonment can be brought on by feelings of guilt and duty or my feelings of being restricted or stifled either in my personal or professional life. Yeah, it doesn't really go in any way to explain how I could get a decent night's sleep.

Getting the occasional bout of insomnia (about two months without any serious disruption to my sleep pattern, touching wood as we speak) I'm more than familiar with the usual home remedies. I've cut down on my coffee intake (easier said than done I might add), gone for walks in the evenings; I've sprayed lavender everywhere, lit candles and downloaded some relaxation music and ocean sounds onto my iPhone to lull me to sleep. And it's not the getting to sleep part that's the problem, it's staying asleep. I've always been a light sleeper, Mr S will tell you how many times I've elbowed him in the back for waking me up when all he's done is roll over in his sleep. I'm starting to think maybe I need an isolation chamber to sleep in.

But it is amazing what your mind conjures up during sleepy-time, isn't it? Over the last couple of nights I've been held captive in a log cabin which I've tried to escape via a wardrobe with a fake back to it; I've been kept in a prison camp of sorts where I was on top of a metal tower, overlooking the gate to freedom which was covered in pink barbed wire; I was also escaping my captors through very dense woods in super-fast quad bikes which in hindsight looked a lot like the speeders Luke and Leia had on the forest moon of Endor in Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi. Even my subconscious is a nerd.

Nightmare by Kalessaradan

I know they're probably my brain sorting through some extra stuff that needs to be sorted away, or my mind acting out scenarios and putting me in situations which cause me anxiety in order for me to be able to cope with those feelings in my wakeful state. Or any number of other explanations you might want to grab off Jung, Ferenczi or maybe Hartmann. It doesn't make it any more pleasant waking up from one of those dreams, laying on the bed in a dark bedroom and wondering can you safely close your eyes again or will you be chased down a very steep hill by aliens again. However fleeting, the feeling of anxiety and fear is real.

Luckily I don't often remember my dreams, not for very long. They tend to stay with me until I have something else to think about, which is when the dream seems to disintegrate, sometime leaving behind a fragment or two, more often not even that. One has stayed with me for over 20 years. I think I was about 7 or 8 at the time, and I was sick with a flu with high temperature and sore throat. I remember this dream as clear as day even now. I'm at home, in the house my parents still live in, and I'm on the roof. I spread my arms out to my sides, jump of and I fly. I remember, in the dream, thinking that this was a dream. I looked down and saw our vegetable garden and swing set. I swerved down and to my right, flying low over our neighbour's birch tree and play house. I was circling our back garden quite happily until I woke up. The fact that this dream is still etched into my memory speaks volumes. I would quite happily pay money to feel the way I did in that dream again.

I'm off to spray my bed with lavender, stuff my pillow case with hops and drink some chamomile tea. Here's to a good night's sleep. It's bloody hard to sleep with your fingers crossed.