Flyttekaos

Just another perfect day. The sweltering sun and numerous kids being sick on the London-buses should have been strong enough signs that no straineous plans should be made. But Margunn decides to play superhero by packing up her six last years in Britain. Miraculously she survived. Four big boxes later, an entire wardrobe poorer and with only a couple of flimsy discs to prove she actually did complete her university degrees, life is packed and ready to go on.
Brussels bring it on!

Escaping to the Countryside

At the peak of last week's heatwave, we had enough of dehydration, sweating and fleeing to not-so-cool parks or clean waters. On the meadows outside Oxford with homemade ice-creams in our hands, we finally found the right temperature, peace and tranquility. The Thames was lukewarm and inviting, and we accepted. A whacky professor and other hydrophile creatures provided riverbank entertainment. When hunger set in, we walked to the nearest source of food, ate, and then sleep-walked back, skinny-dipping in the dark amongst whispering couples. So, admittedly, the heat is not all bad and summer in London can be recommended.

Killer Heat

Life in London is incredibly challenging these days for people who aspire to get dissertations written. The temperature crept up to a viscious 38 last week, which felt like a whole lot more. What is worse, our friendly, little flat has been turned into an oven.

On the worst days, there is only one option after 2 o'clock in the afternoon: evacuate to an air-conditioned building. Option 1: The hotel bar on the corner. Option 2: A friend's office. This week, during heatwave number two, I tested a third option, my school, with catastrophic results. SOAS has no air con, of course, and horror: A class of beginner world music students were practising the flute in a room dangerously close to the library. I tried not to think about it, but my head wanted to explode with the dual impact of disharmonious flutes and killer temperature. So I left, steaming in more than one way, and desperate did not fully capture my condition.

And hurrah: A third record temperature heatwave is reported to be on its way.



Paradoxically, this was also the week I decided to get myself a winter coat - a woolen one too! It was sold to me by an old granny dealing in dusty clothes in our garbage alley. These street hawkers tend to pop up in the filthy side streets on Saturdays and Sundays, selling ugly but random and funky things. The price was ridiculous: £1,50, or 17 kroner - how wonderfully bizarre! So I had to.

Beibi-besøk

Denne helga har vi hatt besøk av eit nydeleg, lite vesen: Hannah Rose, 7 og ein halv månad, pappaen hennar (Anthony) og mammaen hennar (Rahel, som eg gjekk på skule med for 7 år sidan). Singelreiret blei støvtørka og renska for øyrepynt og andre farlege duppedittar. Etter det var det berre dikkedikk. Sjå kor fin!!

Spying in Broad Daylight

Muslim Seaside

Bitten by Brighton

I remember being very puzzled when Pat, Mack, Sam and Ann, the cartoon protagonists of my primary school English textbook, went to the beach. I was something like 11 and deeply fascinated, because proper big-scale beaches were a completely alien concept to me. Norway's seaside cities are more about fisheries, ships or oil; to go swimming and be amused we head for small and amateurical beaches outside of town.






This is perhaps why, one week after our expedition to Brighton, I am still incredibly elated by the vastness of Brighton's seafront, not to mention its corollary, a fascinating culture of amusement indulgence.









Streets run straight from the railway station down towards the sea, as if Brighton's just sitting there waiting for a massive invasion of ocean worshippers. The endless, rocky beach is their destination, the sun is their god. To cool down, the sun-cravers drift to the pier and go teddy-shooting with ice cream in one hand, fish and chips in the other.




Deeper into the bowels of Brighton, Italian alley restaurants wait impatiently for visitors to start craving for food. Above their heads everpresent, arrogant seagulls, heads set at funny angles, monitor the goings-on from every corner and pole.






Two things struck me as supernaturally beautiful about Brighton. First, Brighton's Royal Pavillion, hiding deep in a lush park, like a bewildered Taj Mahal of the British coast.



Next, the twin piers, one very alive - its twin a burnt-out island of charcoal, left some way out in the sea like surreal piece of art. I was taken by the utter creepiness of the sight; a bit like the feeling I had when holidaying on Thailand's eastern beaches right after the tsunami had struck. This pier seemed like a massive snake in the paradise of relaxation.






Margunn, her brother John Torvald and I could hardly leave Brighton, which is probably why we missed the last train home. Resisting a friendly policeman's advice to "stay and enjoy the night until the first morning train", we risked our lives speeding to Gatwick in a minicab to catch a train there. But at £13.50 we'll surely be back any day.

Call me Minor Delays

Chance or fate?

In a drunken moment, returning from Kilburn to Angel station late Monday night, I rudely snatched a magnetic sticker from Travel For London - one of those informing of the current service on the underground. Dared by an equally drunken co-traveller, I snatched one more, allegedly for him. The stickers are now stuck to the magnetic tube sticker section of my heater.

This happened to be an identical one. Now, ask yourself, what is the probability, in a city of "Good service" stickers, of me randomly grabbing TWO that say "Minor Delays"?

After spending a long morning cleaning the bathroom, the kitchen and the livingroom while contemplating this puzzle (instead of reading another dust-sprinkled article for my dissertation) I have concluded that this was a Telling Incident. Telling Incidents tell you things; in this case that the incident was nothing to do with chance. The clever little stickers decided to jump on me in order to drive home a message.

Message received.

Bror på ein snurr

This is the true story of how a thirsty little brother got very smashed. Thanks to his angelic sister he was nursed back to life just in time for the flight back home.


Vi har en liten søster
vi har en liten bror
som er litt annerledes
enn andre barn på jord.



Det var tid for heimreise. Margunn pakka sekk. Drikkeglad vetlebror på ferie var trygt forvart på stampuben med ein kuwaitisk bekjent. Så kom telefonen med den dyrisk enkle bodskapen: "Hjelp". Drikkegal bror var ein drink forbi stadiet der ein finn vegen heim. Snill storesøster gjekk for å sanke han heim. Det var to timar til flybussen skulle gå.

Fleire dyriske stunder seinare er det ein fattig time til søskenparet Indrebø skal vere på bussen. Lidande russebror bedyrar at han aldri har vore så full før. Kvalm kuwaitar, framleis i baren, er i ferd med å nå ein liknande konklusjon. Vi prøver å skaffe skyss per telefon. Margunn pakkar to sekkar. Vi tørkar opp tequilaslim frå parketten og heller vatn inn i munnen på bror. Samtidig ler vi litt i skjegget, for jammen er det rart å ha blitt stor.





Med løyve frå anonym lillebror

Heten tek oss

5 dagars hetebølgje, eller meir! I dag tidleg vakna eg med teppet og lakenet mitt i ein bylt oppå bringa. Huset blir groteskt varmt rundt klokka tolv, og vi må rømme ut for å unngå å drukne i vår eigen sveitte. Luksus! Eg elskar sommaren

Ei tåre for England

Eg skal innrømme det. Eg felte ei tåre for England i går.

Eg låg og las på Maria si seng i saunatemperatur då kampen starta. Huset var stille, men brått skjedde det noko med lydane nede frå Chapel Market. Kvardagskaklinga døydde vekk, sjauekarane med Tourettes klappa att, og nokon stemde i med ein nasjonalsang. Så kom det første kollektive brølet frå The Alma på hjørnet. Etter ei lang, lang stund ga eg opp konsentrasjonsforsøket og gjekk for å trene, forbi flokkar av andektige menn samla rundt ein skjerm. Eg kunne ha sprada naken gjennom Islinton - ingen ville ha merka det.

Den korte briten bak disken var så klistra til skjermen under disken at han ikkje hadde tid til å sjå opp då han aktiviserte kortet mitt. Nede ved treningsmaskinene var det dødsstille; fire forrædarar sat og trødde i kvar sine hjørne.

Først då det kom eit smertestønn frå tredemølla bak meg, besøkte eg fotballkanalen. Det var ekstrarunde og drepande kjedeleg, og eg skifta sporenstreks tilbake til ein potpurri av familievideoar der treåringar syklar inn i lyktestolpar og får softisen sin i ansiktet. Då det blei strafferunde let eg meg pirre att; den er så herleg strippa for forvirrande reglar. Stolt noterte eg meg at eg kjende at éin spelar (Beckham)( Liknar han ikkje litt på han i Forbrukerinspektørene frå Førde?).

Og så tapte England, då. Det var jo trist. Det har i grunnen vore ein spennande månad der eg oppdaga korleis englandsflagget ser ut (biletet) og fekk sjå heile blokkbygningar tapetesearast av flagg ettersom England vann fleire kampar. Som sagt, så grein eg litt for vertslandet. Det rørte meg nemleg at ein av senebuntane hulka så inderleg der ute på grasbana i Tyskland. Men så sykla eg vidare, mens fyren attmed meg kviskra "Unbelievable. Unbelievable". Trass alt, folkens.