The Realisation of the Promised Vestiments

(or, catch-up number 1)



Next stop, West-End costume designers

Don't worry, the bananas didn't get it.

Catharsis III: Finishing My Beans

One of my most hilarious character flaws is a perpetual need to stock up on food. Normally, I am unaware of this phenomenon. But the minute I decide to move houses and start checking out my cupboard contents, there it is! Enough food to keep a family of five alive for a month.

This time, the amount of bean types hit me particularly hard. In my cupboard, I found no less than 8 kinds of beans distributed in 11 cans and two bags: soy beans, mung beans, chikpeas, green lentils, kidney beans, canneloni beans, berlotti beans and, of course, baked beans. Through ingenious smuggling techniques, I have now made my friends help me consume most of these. I do, however, have 5 left, and only two days to eat them. Don't warn Toby and Maria! Hehe

Catharsis II: Library Returns

Post-Dissertation Catharsis

Finishing a big piece of work requires serious celebrations. This is the moist side to the ongoing process of riddance. Please don't feel sorry for my liver - I am flying back to the Kingdom of Imposed Teetotalism, Norway, in only two days.

Thursday
2 Stellas
2 Leffe
- memory gap -
At least 2 beers of unknown type
1 Malibu Pineapple

Friday
Water x 10

Saturday (Oh My God)
An unknown number of glasses of wine,
spread out in time and interspersed by
gypsy dance

Sunday
I thought white day,
but as Sunniva aptly reminds me, we had:
2-4 Erdinger and Stella
at least 2 glasses of rosé

Monday
Another white day.
Max. 2 glasses of red wine

Tuesday
1.5 can of exciting beer on the roof, then 1 cup of rosé
- time gap -
1 glass of white wine
2 glasses of red wine
2 Erdinger
1 Malibu Pineapple
1.5 Tequila

Idun in the Sky with Extremely Many Diamonds

I am done. I am done. I can't believe it.



(Photo: Hans-Marius Foeleide, Sandane. Nicked from NRK Sogn og Fjordane)


Toby, who patiently helped me print my four coupies of about 57 pages each before doing his, is also done, or better still: he is running for his life just now to UCL, which closes at 5pm, with his bound dissertation in hand, just as I ran to SOAS to try and make it before our closing time, 4pm. The last text message read:
"At Russel Square now, 20 minutes to go!".

The drama, which was not that real since the deadline is tomorrow, was still memorable: We printed, found mistakes, printed again, found mistakes, and then printed without looking, and eventually ran to the binding shop in Angel where the colour pages were printed and the darn thing was finally bound.



This was at 3.30, and I tried to calculate if it would be possible to get it in today. Then I ran to the bus, ran from the bus, bolted up the stairs at SOAS past sweaty professors who have forgotten what writing a dissertation is all about - and made it by about 30 seconds. I have to add at this point that I had no less than 20 books from the SOAS Library in my backpack, so this was not only running, but running with a certain edge to it. I could feel people staring at my sweaty chest, messy hair and pathetically flushed face, thinking "My God". This did, however, not affect me to any mentionable extent, as I had arrived on the second floor and caught a distant glimpse of the door to the promised land.

Just as I stepped in, the lady went "Oh, it's four" and shut the door (behind me, luckily). And so it was done. I know it's only Thursday, but more importantly, it is NOT Friday, and in this fact lies a personal victory of unimagiable significance. Now I will go and swim in a barrel of beer.

The Pact

Kids' screams down from the market pierce my hard-pressed head like sharp needles. I'm drinking tea as if tea was magic potion with the ability to magically reduce my scandalous word count. The deadline is Friday, but I have pledged to hand in my dissertation by Wednesday. Below, the co-signer of the pact, Louise, one month ago, about to discover how little time she had left for writing. Like me, Louise is notorious for her time consumption. But we can do it! See you Wednesday, Louise!

Recent Events III: Python eats pregnant ewe

So far, this picture has been the only good thing about the ongoing newspaper war in London, which entails that about 20 people will attempt to force LondonLite into your bag and another 20 will throw the London Paper at you (in a single afternoon).

The memorable caption goes:

"A python sits on a road after swallowing a pregnant ewe (ei søye) in the Malaysian village of Kampung Jabor, about 124 miles east of the capital Kuala Lumpur. The six-metre reptile [after this I will NEVER walk barefeet in the woods or visit Malaysian villages, I repeat, NEVER], weighing in at 198.5lb, was too full to move, making it easy for firemen to capture it.

Epilog
Biletet har sett meg så til dei grader ut av spel at eg heldt på å døy av skrekk i dag tidleg då eg skulle dusje og mistok kjønnshåra mine for ein enorm edderkopp. Pistre!

Recent Events II: More about the Canal

By some beautiful coinsidence, I discovered a notice one day for a canal festival in Islington, went there on the day, and, two days later, hitched a canal ride through the Islington tunnel with a woman who turned out to be the organiser of the event.

This wonderful enthusiast used to work in an office next to the canal at King's Cross, and told us (as we travelled through the Islinton tunnel underneath Chapel Market and all the rest of it) she had rented a boat for seven years on which she lived half the week. From her residential docks, she set out every morning to her workplace, tying up her boat by the canalside. After seven years she had saved enough money (from not renting a flat and commuting) to buy the boat. Having retired, she can now puff along Britain's waterways all year long, at the pace of a trout, having coffee, watching the geese and chatting with other life-indulging narrowboat owners - while the rest of us lead fast lives right nextdoor.

Canal people are nice people. As you can see from the photos, they know how to relax and enjoy a nice, sunny day.

Recent Events I: Fire!

Don't we just love nightly events that, despite waking us up, will add spice to our breakfast conversations! This fancy fire engine decided to pay Chapel Market a visit one night at 3 am. For a while we wondered if we were in fact on fire, as the van seemed to park dangerously close to the bakery downstairs. But we were not, a rubbish bag was. Any action, though, is good action in times like these.

Living With Men

It's funny, isn't it, how women just seem to take on all the boring tasks that prevent kitchens, worldwide, from turning into stinking garbage pits?


This seemingly harmonic photo from the kitchen this morning, of Toby and my father contemplating breakfast, actually conceals a darker, more inconvenient truth: active avoidance of dishwashing.



Both of the depicted individuals claim that on several occasions in the past year, they were actually quite close to doing the dishes. Unfortunately, both have yet to produce any substantial supporting evidence of this, which begs the inevitable question: Is this what living with men is always going to be like?

Double-speak?

Toby's fed up with kitchen papparazzis. Or is he?

NEWSFLASH: controversial dissertation photograph released

This exclusive picture shows what is believed, by experts, to be someone actually working on their dissertation.

The grainy photograph was delivered to our office earlier today in a sealed anonymous e-mail. Speculation over who could have taken the photograph and for what purpose has dominated the conversation in the kitchen.

In response to calls to act, government Minister for Misinformation, Kermit T. Frog, this evening poured scorn on the claims saying: "This is a load of codswallop. Someone idiot has taken a photograph of an innocent blogger, and faked it to look like they're actually working. I can't believe anyone would fall for such a load of nonsense."

Sources close to the Chapel Market intellegence agency, Darrel the fishmonger, indicated that bosses do not believe that anyone in this country is currently working on their dissertation, and that the public should remain calm.

"In a break from our normal programming...

...we bring you the Notting Hill Carnival."




With far too much time on our hands here in Chapel Market (ahem!), we thought we'd use up an afternoon down at 'ole Notting 'ill. Little did we know*, someone had arranged a giant party with lots of barely-clothed people dressed up in colourful feather outfits.



"What the 'ell is this?", said we.



"Why, 'tis the Notting 'ill Carnival, mate", said the kindly police man. "Enjoy the show...!".

So we did.

(NB: if you happen to be the person depicted in the above photograph : please contact Toby immediately at t dot wilkinson at lineone dot net, I repeat, immediately, thank you.)

(Hi, yep, um, just a reminder, if this is you, I'm still waiting, um, right...)

---

*(Actually that's a lie: we did know it was on, but why spoil a good story with the truth?)

It is said to have advantages

Rain, rain, go away,
come again another day.
Little Johnny wants to play.

Rain, rain, go to Spain,
Never show your face again!


But listen to this: The origin of the lyrics of Rain rain go away are said to date back to the reign of Queen Elizabeth I (1533-1603). During this period of English history there was constant rivalry between Spain and England culminating in the launch of the Spanish Armada in 1588. The Spanish Armada consisted of many Spanish galleons and was sent to invade England.

The Armada was led by Duke of Medina Sedonia and the the fleet numbered over 130 ships. The English fleet, under Admiral Lord Howard, totalled 34 small Navy vessels and 163 armed merchant ships. But the great Spanish Armada was defeated. Only 65 Spanish galleons and just 10,000 men returned to Spain. The attempt failed, not only because of the swift nature of the smaller English ships but also by the stormy weather which scattered the Armada fleet.

Søket ga 471 treff

Er det ikkje litt pirrande at vi blei akkurat oss? Ein dag søkte eg på Gule Sider for å utforske tilfeldigheitane nærare. Der fann eg mange Idunar eg potensielt sett kunne ha blitt i staden for ho til høgre.


Viss eg ville vere unik:
Idun Idun
Idun Vakt Telefon
Idun Ring (og burde ikkje dei to møtast…)

Viss eg ville vere verkvinne:
Idun Storm

Viss eg ville vere politikar:
Idun Brustad
Idun Søviknes
Idun Kleppe
Idun Halvorsen

Forfattar:
Idun Tiller

Fotballstjerne:
Idun Flo

Kunstnar:
Idun Backer

Viss eg ville vere vanleg:
Idun Olsen
Idun Larsen
Idun Johnsen
Idun Nilsen
Idun Hansen

Viss eg ville vere syster til Krudle-Reidun:
Idun Mo

Viss eg ville vere syster til Evy:
Idun Solbakken

Viss eg ville vere kort og grei:
Idun Sem
Idun Vik
Idun Eid

Viss eg ville vere i slekt med naboen min:
Idun Drageset

Viss eg ville vere bittelitt frekk:
Idun Skrukli
Idun Våtsveen
Idun S. Assen

Viss eg likte bokstavrim:
Idun Sunde Semb

Viss eg ville legge egg:
Idun Vagle

Viss eg ville vere litt utanlandsk:
Idun Smith
Idun Sommerschild

Viss eg ville vere artig:
Idun Kannelønning
Idun Haanshuus

Viss eg ville vere transe:
Idun Frank Folkedahl

Viss eg ville hatt færre feilskrivingar:
Idun Andersen (med 1 s)

Viss eg ville hatt heftig samansette namn:
Idun Ida Solhaug
Idun Irene Utne

Viss eg ville vere ultrakomplisert:
Idun Elisabeth Henden Al Hajjam

Viss eg ville vere rik:
Idun Reitan

Viss eg ville vere morosam i England:
Idun Herring

Viss eg ville vere engel:
Idun Dale Rein

Viss eg ville vere naturleg som naturen sjølv:
Idun Foss Myrmo

Viss eg ville vere den andre Idunen på Leikanger:
Idun Berit Svensson Himle

Viss eg synst namnet mitt var for kort:
Idun Emilia Lervik Roesen
Idun Elisabeth Stenbakken Østgaard
Idun Elisabeth Findalen Stenbakken
Idun Kristine Sverdstad Bjørvik

Viss eg sakna eit kjekt mellomnamn:
Idun Nelly Johanne Liland
Idun Nordis Hesenget Larsen

Viss eg ville bake namnekake:
Idun Wathne + Idun Mehl + Idun Egge Nilsen




Til alle Idunane der ute som i eit øyeblikks narsissisme googla namnet sitt og blei støytte: Det er for all del ikkje personleg. Til sjuande og sist er vi jo alle ein Idun, og hugs: Det er Stabburet som er vår eigentlege fiende.

Writing is a Prison

Procrastinate
* verb: postpone doing what one should be doing (Example: "He did not want to write the letter and procrastinated for days")

* verb: postpone or delay needlessly (Example: "He procrastinated the matter until it was almost too late")




Buying Hungarian "chimney bread"





Soft-terror workshop

Monitoring the local construction work




Going to Greenwich




All in all, there should be no doubt that writing is hard.

The Pepper Can Strikes Again

It's one of those days - again. Both Toby and I are now starting to feel as though the devious little pepper can is surveying the atmosphere in the room in order to strike, with lethal precision, just as we arrive at the lowest point of the weekly mood curve - to push us even further down.

A Difficult Day

Some days are more difficult than others.

These are some of the common symptoms of a Difficult Day:

- the entire contents of the pepper container lands on your breakfast (exemplified in Toby)
- you have breakfast for more than one hour
- you stare at your computer
- you check your e-mail every 10 minutes or more
- you do unusually many wordcounts
- the weather is shit
- people on the street swear at each other, and you listen instead of working
- you decide to clean your ears
- you burn your dinner
- you can't upload pictures to your blog but keep trying for 2 hours
- and finally, there is no ketchup for your omelette, which forces you to go ketchup-hunting - while your dinner turns cold (exemplified in Toby)





This, however, turned out to be the only success story of that incredibly difficult day, which in fact lasted from Monday morning until Tuesday evening.










Toby got his ketchup in the end.

Millipede Murder

It's been a weekend of brutal bloodshed.

I don't normally kill. Killing is wrong, and I'm usually scared that the insects will attack me before I have the time to smack them. Yesterday was a rare exception, but I put it down to shock. While comfortably stretched out in the staircase in a phone conversation, this squiggly, long creature starts worming his way underneath the floor carpet right in front of me, giving rise to all sorts of scenarios. I get hold of a shoe to try and smack it, not realising that the enemy has sought refuge in a corner, out of access of non-pointy Camper shoes. I slam and slam while still on the phone, but the millipede wisely plays dead. Or is he? That's when I discover that red shoes, unlike black shoes, leave red stains.

At this point, poor Toby returns from a four-day stay in a tent under a tree in rural France (apparently the drawback of country manor weddings). As always, this wedding attracted a swarm of couples, leaving Toby to hang out with (and share the campsite with) the only other single person around.

This, unfortunately, was the Murderous Mr X, who soon into the conversation mentions that he killed two squirrels the day before. Why, Toby asks, and then, just before bedtime in the dark garden by the manor, the campmate admits without trace of regret that he drowned them (!!!). A friend of his apparently needed some stuffed animals for a new chess board, and Mr X thought he'd help him out by providing two of them, so he grabbed them from a friend's pest control van, and svush. (Police...)

Toby calls his mum to report the madness.

This was the first of Toby's sleepless nights under the tree in France. Not that I think his fears are justified, but after discovering the millipede scene, Toby doesn't seem to sleep all that well in his London bed either.


PS. This is Toby's 20cm-long Chinese millipede friend, which justifies my actions. But not Mr X's.

Warning

This is not just an invitation. This is a THREAT. From Toby and Idun.


And we're serious. You have only one option if you want to save the bananas. Be here at 7.30 on September 16th WITHOUT your disgusting dissertations.


"I'll eat them!"



We do, however, command that you come dressed as your dissertation. Guidance follows...

Uyghur Reponses to Chinese Rule


Cultural Ecology of Google Earth (or Toby after a mass consumption of the bananas' friends)


As we said: We are serious. Be there.