Blog challenge Day 19 – Something you regret

They say you never regret what you have done, only what you haven't done. There is one thing that I have done that I regret. When I was little I had a toy clown who played cymbals if you pressed his tummy. He wasn't my favourite toy, and once when I was told to clean up the mess in my room I threw him away in the garbage.

The thing I regret I didn't do was playing – it has just occurred to me now, honestly! - if not cymbals, at least percussions in a student orchestra. I was sixteen and had by then given up my music lessons, but the conductor, a family friend, tried to persuade me that anyone who could read sheet music would be perfect with chimes, tambourine and triangle. I thought the whole idea was ridiculous. The conductor's stepson, a few years older and without any knowledge of music took the job. He got tons of good friends in the orchestra, travelled all over and had a lot of fun.

Blog challenge Day 18 – Your favorite birthday

You only turn half a century once in a lifetime, so I decided to have a big party. Because of my peregrination I had friends here, there and everywhere whom I wanted to invite, and the only way I could do it was to organise an international conference. This brought in people from the USA and Australia, and it was a bit easier with Russia and Finland. I had to book the venue a year in advance because it was a castle, the Royal Horse Guard Mess in Stockholm. Possible because of Staffan's connections in military music. There was a reservation in the booking contract that if the Commander-in-Chief of the Swedish Armed Forces wanted the venue at short notice he would have priority. We took the risk. We also had to get special permission to take foreign citizens into Swedish military territory.

The catering at the Mess helped me to compose the menu and plan the schedule. “Birthday? Count with at least four hours at table”. She was right. We started with arrival drinks in the magnificent rooms, and then sat down at table in a huge hall with marble columns and crystal chandeliers. There were speeches and songs and sonnets written and performed by friends and family, and I laughed and wept and laughed again. There were people from all the many periods of my life, my former teachers, my former students, my present colleagues, my co-authors, my travel companions, my family and my Cucumber Mum, a Swedish children's author who had adopted me as her “sweet little cucumber”. The food was superb, and there was a surprise desert that I had not ordered. There was dancing to a band in old-fashioned army uniforms. When the clock struck one, nobody wanted to go home.

I cannot imagine a grander birthday. Thank you all who made it such a wonderful day. Peace over those who are longer among us.

Blog challenge Day 17 – Your favorite memory

Many years ago in the Dreamtime I went to Australia together with Anton who was then eleven years old. The proper age for initiation rite. We had been in Australia two years before, travelled around from Ocean Road to Barrier Reef, from Penguin Island to Jacob's Creek, and we had also been to Ayers Rock. We had called it Ayers Rock because we knew no better. But we wanted to know. So we went back to stay for a longer period and try to understand. We would write a novel about an eleven-year-old Swedish boy's encounter with Dreamtime.

The people at Ayers Rock resort thought I was crazy when I wanted a place to rent for three weeks. They told me nobody ever stayed there for more than two days. We rented a caravan and a car. Every morning we went either to Uluru or Kata Chuta and walked and talked. We saw Uluru at sunrise and sunset and even in the rain, which we were told only happened once every ten years. We read stories and made stories. In the evenings I wrote down our made-up stories and read to Anton who would say that I had got everything wrong.

I had a permission to go into Aboriginal lands which I had applied for and was granted six months before. The community where I could go was three hundred kilometres into the desert, and you needed a 4x4. There was no guarantee that we would even be allowed to fill the car with gas. I didn't take the risk. Well into the second week, when we thought we had read every piece of information available and taken every guided tour, we saw a small inconspicuous ad promising an unforgettable experience. The understatement of the millennium.

We joined a group of five and a female guide. The other people had booked years in advance. We went five hundred kilometres into nothing in a vehicle that looked like a merrily painted tank. We slept in swags on the ground and cooked over a fire. Water for personal hygiene was rationed to a little bowl every morning. The Milky Way rotated over our heads at night.

On the second day a group of Aborigines approached slowly. Linda, the guide, had told us that we had to be patient. They would come when they decided we were ready. There was no point trying to rush. Meanwhile we gathered seeds and made bread. Not the way they show you in tourist resorts: here are some seeds, try to grind them on a stone, and now taste the bread. It takes hours to gather enough for a very small loaf. It takes hours to grind. You get a new sense of time.

Then finally came the storytelling, moving around, observing every detail in the landscape. Where we only saw sand and stones, suddenly there was a waterhole. There were five kinds of edible tomatoes and fifty deadly poisonous. There were honey ants to dig from under the sand. There were kangaroos to hunt. Not with boomerangs, but with rifles. One of the elders made a spear for Anton. I wanted a spear too. He said, through Linda, that women did not have spears. We women were taken to women's sacred places. Anton was allowed to go to some men's places because he wasn't smoked yet. We danced the Lizard dance. We followed the Lizard Man's tracks across the country.

Eight days in the Dreamtime. The Aborigines have a special tense to indicate Dreamtime, something like “he has always been doing...”. Anton and I have always been walking through the desert listening to stories.

Blog challenge Day 16 – Your first kiss

This is the first heading in this marathon that I dislike. Excruciatingly boring. All first kisses are the same, and we have seen them zillions of times in movies. Instead I'll write about my most bizarre kiss - or better still, I'll show it.

Visiting Jesus

Each college in Cambridge has its special charm and its own customs. Last Thursday I was invited to Education dinner at Jesus. Education dinner means that all students in college who study education are invited, whether they are undergrads or PhDs. Brilliant idea. And some teachers are invited too. Jesus is a very old college, and the dinner was served in the old refectory, with low ceiling and lots of wonderful period details. Food was excellent, which I cannot say of all the colleges I have so far had the honour of being invited to.

It doesn't happen often that you have a chance to talk to students whom you meet once in a huge lecture hall. My hostess was just about to introduce me when one of them exclaimed: "We so much enjoyed your lecture!" Now, I have no illusions, I would perhaps say the same to somebody I was introduced to. But they went on talking about the lecture and the images I had shown and how interesting it was. I asked the student whether she had considered doing a masters in children's literature, and she had. So I may have recruited a student in passing. Otherwise it was a pleasure talking to them, and it was half past ten before I noticed (I had told Staffan that I would be home early). This is Cambridge to me.

Blog challenge Day 15 – Your dreams

I am not sure whether the heading refers to dreams as when you are asleep or dreams as in aspirations. My sleeping dreams are vivid, colourful, emotional, sometimes aggressive. I still fly in my dreams. The most recurrent dream, that I have heard many people tell of, is that I find a spare room in my house, wondering why we haven't been using it all the time. The house is sometimes real, sometimes completely imaginary. The room is mostly empty, but occasionally on the contrary crammed with things. I also dream that I am on a train or boat and have to get off soon, but all my luggage, especially the children's toys are scattered all over. When I dream about the children, they are always small and only two: Sergej and Anton merge into one symbolic Son.

Dreams as in aspirations have mostly been fulfilled. I used to dream of having a house, preferably with a fireplace, and a beautiful garden. I used to dream of driving a car. I used to dream of travelling to London (now that I can do it seven times a week it doesn't feel like much of a dream come true). I used to dream of becoming a writer. I used to dream of becoming famous. I used to dream of being able to buy any book I wanted (this was in a country when getting hold of any book was a problem) and to see all movies. I used to dream of true love. I used to dream of having children. When Sergej was born I dreamed of waltzing with him while I was still young enough to do so. I did at my doctoral ball in Stockholm City Hall. I used to dream of being a wise old teacher sitting under a tree surrounded by disciples (I once did teach a class under a tree in San Diego when it was too hot to stay inside). Three years ago I dreamed of having a research centre in children's literature.

Most of my dreams have been fulfilled ten times over. Is there nothing left for me to dream of? How frustrating. Maybe at my age, you no longer have those big dreams, but small ones. I dream of next spring when the garden will come alive again. I dream of seeing a total sun eclipse. I dream of an eccentric rich lady who will give my centre a million pounds to use on student scholarships (now, that was a big one!). I dream of going skiing with my grandchildren in March. I dream of winning a prize for my latest book. Not too bad. Still plenty of dreams to come true.

Blog challenge Day 14 : What you wore today

I don't know whether the repetition of this subject is intentional, but surely it makes a difference since last time it was on the weekend, and today is a working day. My working uniform is, most days, black pants, a top or shirt, jacket and a scarf. Highly unimaginative academic clothes. I like pants because I can wear sensible shoes and do not have to think about tights, which I am always anxious will get a ladder in a most conspicuous place. So it's much safer with pants. Black pants go with almost anything, and I have a variety of jackets, but I don't have to think about wearing different clothes every day. This was a pain in my old-old country, where you had to invent something new each time you went to work, which in my case was no more than twice a week, but even with a huge wardrobe you soon ran out of options. That's why it was so popular to trade clothes with your friends.

My current solution is wearing the same clothes and taking the risk of being extremely boring for the students. I am sure they say after the class: “Did you notice? She is wearing that old top again”. I know they at least make mental notes, because I do with other people. Especially if you have to watch them for two hours.

I have only recently developed a taste for scarves and learned the various ways of wearing them. Today's scarf is a present from an Oriental guest and makes a huge difference against a dark jacket. Wait a minute, I didn't wear a jacket at all today! It's one of my jacketless days when I feel a bit more relaxed and allow myself a jersey instead.

Tonight I am going to a formal dinner, and the invitation says “casual smart”. I have already written two blog posts on this particular dress code, so I won't do it again.