Nothing happened...

“You haven't blogged for four weeks”, Staffan points out. He is right. I haven't. When I don't blog for a long time, it can be for two reasons. 1) nothing has happened. This doesn't happen often. 2) far too much has happened. This happens all the time. When it happens I don't know where to start and let still more time pass and more things happen.

With reference to my account of imminent events, the viva went well, but I was so worn out when I came back that I cancelled all travel until Christmas, except Stockholm where I had too many important commitments. The Stockholm trip went fine. Staffan took me to Stansted. I was picked up at Skavsta by my oldest son who “happened” to be in the vicinity (which he has now admitted implies that someone dear to his heart lives close by). He took me to the place where I was staying, which is the International Writers' Guesthouse, in the very centre of the city. It is a small, but comfortable flat with three rooms and shared bathroom and living room-cum kitchen. During the week I stayed there, I saw a glimpse of my neighbours twice.

In the morning, I went down to a cafe for breakfast. It felt weird. The guesthouse didn't have wi-fi, only a USB cable, while I had brought my paddy. But every cafe with self-respect has wi-fi these days. Some of them have “coffee” for password. Then I bought some stuff for future breakfasts and topped up my travelcard. I had a long, pleasurable lunch with a friend, ending in incredible luck in a thrift shop where I found some remarkable dollhouse miniatures and spent more money I would be prepared to spend “at home”. But I wasn't at home, I was travelling, and then you are allowed to spend more. In the evening I went to admire how the youngest and his girlfriend had re-recorated their flat and to taste her famous and fabulous onion soup. The next day was also full of children and grandchildren, and that night I got horrendous neck pain. I often get stiff neck and know how to deal with it, but this was unbearable, and eventually I gave up and went to Emergency. It transpired that I wasn't a resident. “It will be expensive”, said the receptionist. “How expensive?” I asked. She named the fee. “Do I have a choice?” I said. So much for having paid taxes in my own country for twenty-five years. I got painkillers, and my clever daughter made me buy a wheat pillow, which is a bag of wheat that you heat up in a micro and put on your neck. I have now become addicted to it. I sat with it on my neck throughout the conference.

It was a very strange feeling because normally you go away to a conference, and although technically I was away, I also was kind of at home, but not really, since I didn't stay at home, but in a hotel. In the middle of the conference I escaped to attend a family crayfish party which was marvelous and far too noisy. It was also weird to travel back to Cambridge with the students (back home) and with my friend Kin (going away together) who was to stay with me for a couple of days. On top of it, Staffan was going to Stockholm the day after, but I won't go into more detail.

Kin and I had fun together when I wasn't busy with examination boards and crisis team meetings. We did all the necessary sights in Cambridge and around, went to Formal Hall (where I was obliged to say grace, as I happened to be the most senior at table) and even watched a movie. Then the pre-term business hit me: meetings, business lunches, early supervisions, arriving visiting scholars, a row of formal dinners with details I wish I could write about, but I shouldn't. And the next week it finally starts for real: PhD induction on Tuesday, masters induction on Wednesday, academic assessment meetings and meetings about the new Head of Faculty, more supervisions (I have four new PhD students), more formal dinners, various committee meetings, College Council, research seminars – all this in addition to teaching which I, according to my job description, am supposed to do “every now and then”.

Old Hags' Day

Tomorrow is the International Women's Day, another holiday I do not celebrate. Women's Day once a year, and the rest are men's days?

Many years ago I was asked to speak at the International Women's Day manifestation in Stockholm, to tell my poor oppressed sisters about the liberated women of the Soviet Union. I could not make the date, so I didn't have to explain to my oppressed sister how wrong she was in her perceptions. Women in the Soviet Union had to work full-time to make ends meet AND do all the house work on top of it, because men would never do a thing in the house, but once a year they were expected to give their wives a bunch of flowers and a bottle of perfume. After that, they had an extra occasion to get drunk because it was a holiday. The day after, they took an extra holiday to treat the hangover.

In school, Women's Day was about female teachers. At home, it was about mothers and grandmothers, a variant of Mother's Day. In my family, we did not celebrate it. We made the most of it being a holiday and went skiing.

At my workplace in Moscow, the union – which was just another administrative structure, nothing like a real union – had funds to give every female employee a present. After a couple of years of paper doilies and plastic pins, we asked for cash. The male union reps took a sigh of relief.

If there was anything political in Women's Day it was about oppressed women in the capitalist world who needed our solidarity. We didn't care about oppressed women in the capitalist world because we had enough of our own problems. When feminist movement started in Russia after the fall of communism, the highest point on the agenda was every woman's right to stay at home and take care of her family. 

Fortunately, Staffan never tried to honour me on Women's Day. I would have been deeply offended.

My wonderful great-aunt used to say, when greeted on Women's Day: “I am not a woman, I am a librarian”. Rather than Women's Day, I'd celebrate a Hug-a-Librarian Day. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

The best things in life are free

It costs a huge amount of money to get a masters degree from Cambridge. But there are ways around it. I now have a masters degree from Cambridge without having done anything to earn it. So unfair toward students who have worked hard for it.

This morning I went to town to the robemakers to collect my hood. Graduation is by college, and it was already going on - the robemakers are conveniently just across the road from Senate House. But I had to go to Homerton for rehearsal. I had never worn a hood before so I was glad there were people there to help with the robing. We had been told to bring three small safety pins and one large. Hoods were not meant for women, Men just put them behind their bow tie. Women have to secure them with safety pins.

Then we went through the ceremony. The procession within the college goes by degree. The doctors go first. They have hoods with red lining. There was just one doctor this time, so she went first. I was alone in the second category, master of arts by incorporation (there is a fancy Latin wording for this). I had a hood with white lining. The rest came in fours, with hoods of all possible colours. The Praelector - the college person who presents the graduands to the Senate - extends them a finger each. I got her whole hand. Right hand. And my right hand. "If I don't take your hand it means you've given me the wrong hand. It has to be the right hand". Then we were called out by name, had to kneel down, put our palms together as if in prayer and have a Latin phrase read over us, stand up, take a step back and bow. No curtsey. In some colleges they do curtsies, but not in Homerton. I had ticked the box in my application that I didn't want a Trinitarian blessing, so the Principal wondered whether I was happy kneeling down. I was.

There was tea for graduands and their guests, and that's where I realised that I should have invited Morag and David and all the students who were still around to be my guests. It was weird sitting there, chewing my prawns on my own. So I got over it quickly and decided to walk to town. The weather was lovely, I had plenty of time and good shoes. It was a nice walk. In fact, I think it was the first time ever that I walked from Homerton to town. I was there well ahead of time and stood watching other colleges go in and come out. I felt terribly lonely. One of my former students was graduating so we chatted a bit. Nothing happened for a long while. Apparently somebody had fainted during the ceremony, and there was ambulance and a lot of panic, which delayed the whole thing by forty-five minutes.

Suddenly Clementine turned up. She just happened to be there. Well, she did know I was graduating, but she just happened to be there. We stood and chatted and then it was Homerton's turn, and Clementine promised to wait and cheer when I came out.

It was all very grand, and my Praelector was nervous because the master of arts by incorporation is an unusual degree and she wasn't sure of her Latin. I told her that if she just talked Harry Pottish nobody would notice. The Principal - glorious in her scarlet robe with ermine lining (fake I hope)- forgot I didn't want the Trinitarian blessing so now I have my degree in the name of the Father, etc. It was meant to be.

I went out of the hall, got my diploma, went down the stairs known as "doctors stairs" and there was Clementine waiting for me. It would have felt terrible if she hadn't been there.

Then we went to an unrelated party, and it's all over, as usual in such cases, far too quickly.

May Day

"Today, today
is the first of May,
on this happy day in May
little children dance and play"

I have no idea where this masterpiece comes from; not from Mother Goose, for sure. We had to recite it in our English class when I was a kid.

For many people, the first of May is important, and it is for me, or used to be, in a peculiar way. Long before I was old enough to see through the official lies and propaganda, I hurried to switch on the television in the morning of the first of May to watch the May parade on Red Square. It was impressive, and it went for hours. Military parade first, then civil parade, called "workers' demonstration". My grandfather had to go on that, and I always begged him to take me along. I thought it would be grand to march there, waving flags and flowers. 

My patriotic feelings died eventually, and May Day became just one of those few holidays the Soviet authorities granted their citizens. May holidays - with luck, you could get four days including the weekend - implied an exciting trip, highly unlike the standard summar holidays. It would be something like a boat cruise from Moscow to Gorky where the Oka river joins the Volga; or hiking in Armenia to see the mountain monasteries from the 3rd century, or exploring the less touristy beaches of the Crimea.

However, in my first undergrad year I was, like my grandfather before me, ordered to join the civil parade on Red Square and show my enthusiasm and support for the land of triumphant socialism. This was imperative: truancy could lead to suspension. Some days before the event, we were gathered to make paper flowers and banners ("Language students toward communism!"). On the day, we were told to arrive at eight in the morning and were taken by buses to the place, half way to Leningrad, from which we were supposed to march. It was terribly cold, and some of the boys had cleverly brought strong spirits which they generously shared. Our teachers, who were just like us ordered to participate, closed their eyes - or perhaps accepted the drink. We were all hungry, for nobody had thought about bringing food. About eleven we started moving slowly, and well over midday we were outside my house, two blocks from the Kremlin, It was tempting to bolt through the police chain and go home to have lunch, but it wouldn't do. You had to be loyal to your friends. Nobody asked to be part of the circus. We were rushed through Red Square like cattle, hardly having time to wave our flowers or display the banners. The problem was then to get home, since all traffic in the centre was stopped. I had to call a friend who lived on the other side of the river and invite myself for a cup of tea. It was not until late afternoon the city got back to normal. I understood why grandfather had not been too eager to bring me along.

My first year in Sweden, Staffan took me to a May Day celebration, with paper flowers, slogans and speeches. I was chocked to realise that for some people, this day actually meant something. Twenty years later, I went to listen to my daughter speak on the first of May. We hold hands and sang The Internationale. I still feel ambivalent about it.

Happy Rabbit!

Today is the Chinese New year. In my youth we would celebrate it with pomp and circumstance. It was exciting because it was secret and private, for family and close friends. In the authorities' eyes, it was as bad as Christmas, or worse. You didn't advertise it to everyone.

My mother was an Orientalist, and it was she who introduced the Chinese calendar to us all. I don't even remember how it happened, but suddenly there was a wooden animal whom we decorated with jewelry and gave a little bowl of rice to eat and worshipped all year until it was time to switch to the next animal. Somehow we managed to find out the right date. You couldn't just look it up in an encyclopedia (and internet hadn't been conceived yet). My mother found the description and characterstics of the animals in her Japanese art books, and we translated them, typed out and shared. Getting the right animal in time was a problem as such, because you couldn't just walk into a shop and say: "Can I have a dragon please". Well ahead of time, a hunt would start, and if you happened to see suitable bulls or monkeys you bought a lot and gave to friends. As a last solution, you could draw your own. Planning twelve years in advance is weird when you are young, so I never kept the animals, except my own. In fact, I have a set of my animals, in clay, wood, silk, glass and jade, and they have followed me in all my displacements.

It isn't as exciting now, like evething that once was forbidden but isn't any more. When I was in China I considered buying a whole Zodiac, but the pretty ones were too expensive. I don't have a rabbit to decorate and feed with rice. Perhaps I can draw one.

Lucia

My oldest boy and I came to Sweden twenty-nine years ago yesterday. The day after, we were immersed in Swedishness as we were invited to a Lucia party. I was sort of prepared because I had read some textbooks and fiction, while my poor son must have been thoroughly confused by all these girls wearing their nighties with red ribbons and electic lights on their heads. On the other hand, life was confusing as it was, one more weird experience didn't change much.

Next year, Sergej was given a large role for the Lucia celebration in his school. The teacher said he was the only one in his class who could memorise the lines (Russian school training!). School Lucia in Sweden always takes place inhumanly early in the morning so that the parents can come and relish before they go to work. In his next school, Sergej used to choose a less conspicuous role of a gingerbread man. 

I made Julia's first Lucia dress, and Anton inherited the tomten costume from someone. The gender roles were unquestionable, at least in pre-school. Every year, we got up an hour earlier on the 13th, took the kids to preschool, sat on uncomfortable benches, listened to horribly oversimplified Christmas songs and were treated to weak, lukewarm coffee with gingerbread that the kids had baked. Yet every year I started crying, because I love traditions and I was happy that my kids were part of a tradition that they didn't have to keep a secret (unlike me with my secret Christmases in Russia). When the kids grew up a bit, I would prepare a tray in the evening for them to bring into our bedroom next morning, with coffee and gingerbread. We pretended to be asleep and allowed to be awakened by song. Year after year, and eventually Anton and Julia both went to a school with great musical traditions with a specially written Nativity play, and I cried when I saw the procession moving down the church aisle. No oversimplifications, and a real multivoice choir.

By the time the grandchildren started in day care Staffan and I had had our share of uncomfortable benches and lukewarm coffee, so I don't miss it. I didn't quite expect Staffan to enter the bedroom this morning with candles on his head and a tray with coffee, but I wouldn't have been amazed if he did. He never stops surprising me.

Trendsetting

I went back a year in my blog to see what I wrote about my glögg party and was disappointed to discover that I didn't. I have a clear memory of having a party in this house, with the fire burning, candles, saffron buns and gingerbread that Julia and I had baked during her visit the previous weekend, but apparently it wasn't reflected in my blog. There is, however, a post from two years ago, when we were still living in Chesterton, and the guests were crammed in the tiny living room, but presumably enjoyed it anyway.

Lucia party was my first encounter with Sweden and its traditions - goodness, twenty nine years ago in a few days. Our friend Dalia had her traditional Lucia year after year, and we never missed it except when we lived in California.There, however, Lucia had been claimed by Anne-Charlotte Harvey, Professor of Drama at SDSU, who maintained her Swedishness that way. It feels therefore highly satisfactory to have set a tradition here in Cambridge with a Swedish glögg party that, I think, has now been imprinted in people's minds. This year we have moved it a week because I am away next weekend, and after that everybody will be away. Nothing wrong with it: it is actually Second Advent Sunday tomorrow. For the first time in my life I am making a non-alcoholic glögg for the non-drinking friends. Hope it tastes ok. Otherwise I discovered that I was out of genuine glögg spices and sent Staffan to get cinnamon sticks and dried ginger while I rummaged cupboards in search of cloves, and of course found a bag of Swedish glögg mix that had been hiding. Staffan also bought mulled wine mix to be on the safe side, but that's beyond my dignity.

Trees and awards

Two remarkable things happened today, both weather related. (I guess I could have taken them as two moments in my blog marathon). First, Homerton College planted a tree. There were lots pf pictures taken, but none uploaded yet. It was a Memorial Oak, to mark, once again, the Royal Charter. Why this ceremony had been planned for the beginning of December is a mystery. Perhaps nobody had expected - it always seems to come unexpectedly - that it would be winter. Anyway, the invitations were sent out, and dozens of alumni and retired staff were coming, so it could not be cancelled. I had never before seen so many colleagues, including the Principal, wearing coats, fur caps and muffs. There we were, crowded around a large frozen hole with the tree stuck in the middle and a pile of soil on the side. The Principal took the first spadeful, and then the spade went around. Let's say it takes ten seconds to push a spadeful of soil into a hole. There were surely forty people or more. After a while, the less courageous started making their way toward Combination Room where refreshments were served. Somebody said that the hole was in the wrong place and the tree would have to be replanted.

In the afternoon, we had an award ceremony for the first Jacqueline Wilson Award in children's literature research, yet another dream come true. Jacqueline Wilson has donated a sum to be awarded every year for the best masters thesis in children's literature written at the Faculty of Education, Cambridge. What a reward for a teacher to be able to reward the best student! When I approached her I was thinking a token sum, but she was so generous! And apparently liked the whole idea. When I met her a couple of weeks ago she was full of anticipation about coming to Cambridge to present the award.

But - what a shame! - she couldn't because of adverse weather (meaning: "snow"). Instead, she sent a wonderful message to the winner, that Morag read with tears in her eyes. I felt quite sentimental myself. We had some sparkling wine, and I told the current masters students to work hard to win the award next time.

The winner's mother came all the way from Brussels on Eurostar and somehow managed to make her way to Cambridge: ironically it proved easier than for Jacqueline Wilson to come from south of London. 

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.

Full cycle

So it's Halloween again. Or is it my daughter's birthday? When I went into labour twenty-seven years ago I didn't think about bringing a Halloween baby into this world. Firstly, I had other things to think about. But secondly, Halloween wasn't at all that big, not in Sweden anyway. We only really encountered it when we lived in California, but when we came back to Sweden it had become huge. Now Julia's birthday parties are inevitably Halloween parties.

Last year I had bad experience with Halloween. My proudly carved pumpkin was stolen, and no one came to trick or treat. Today I've carved the pumpkin and will place it by the gate, hoping that the long dark driveway will not scare away trick-or-treaters. Later tonight, we are going to a party. The invitation says: "Costumes not required". I am disappointed.

Full-fledged

Now I am a proper Cantabrigian, a college Fellow. I have repeatedly tried to explain to outsiders why this is important, and failed. So just trust me. It is important, essential, fundamental, imperative. Yesterday, I was sworn in and officially accepted.

I haven't done anything similar since I joined the Soviet scouts ("pioneers"), which was mandatory and therefore nothing to contemplate. "I hereby promise..." I suppose all oaths have been copied from some early model.

There were five of us, we were asked to wear gowns, all other Fellows were encouraged to wear gowns, and most of them did. I had learned the oath by heart and practiced, which as it turned out wasn't necessary, since we were given a card to read from. When it said "YOUR NAME" you weren't supposed to read "YOUR NAME" but your name. Then the Principal shook your hand and welcomed you to the Fellowship. You had to write your name (not "YOUR NAME") in a book. Then the Principal said: "Back to business", but someone pointed out that there was champagne served to toast to the new Fellows.

The business was a half-awayday, which was called something else, to distinguish from the Faculty. With my double loyalties I must now be careful to keep to the right vocabulary. In fact, when I had a query at the Porter's Lodge the other day, they asked prompty: "Are you College or Faculty?" Now I am Faculty and College.

As a pure coincidence, later in the evening there was a matriculation dinner for new HD students. (No, not high density, but higher degrees). Matriculation means that they sign a pledge, with quite a long list of rules. They don't have to read from a card, it would take too long. And to say it in chorus, as we did in my scout past, would perhaps feel wrong. The teachers were invited as cheerleaders. As usual, there were first drinks at the Combination Room, but not sherry, just wine. (Sherry is a professorial drink, Staffan says). Very festive dinner at the Hall, finished by a ceremony I haven't yet experienced. Homerton College has a drinking horn, prettily set in silver. The ceremony is to hold the horn, bow to you nieghbour and say something in Anglo-Saxon. As opposed to Latin in other Colleges. The neighbour replies in the same, drinks from the horn and passes it on.

Unfortunately, the ceremony this year was purely virtual because of swine flu.

In front of the gate

Yesterday I had one of the most remarkable experiences of my life. I was invited to the annual dinner at St John's, an event called Ante portam latinam, St John's Day. Invitation card specification: "Black tie, academic dress, doctors wear scarlet". I only own one evening dress, and I am not allowed to wear scarlet, because I don't have a degree from Cambridge. But a combination of evening dress and academic gown was enough for me. That is, untill I saw all those other people in scarlet. I guess I have seen pictures, but to see it in real life... The preprandials were served in Master's Garden, one of those esoteric spaces that common mortals have no access to (a simple tour of St John's is impressive enough). The male dominance was tangible, and the average age high. And the splendour beyond anything imaginable. Not least in the dining hall, and there was a proper grace, not the short version, and there was a choir. Table conversation was radiant, the six course meal exquisite, the wine selection refined. Coffee was served in Combination Room, with a separate table placement. To say I was awed would be the understatement of the century. Now I feel I've had a real taste of Cambridge. Or is it just a game?

Christmas is saved!

There is one thing about Christmas that is more sacred than food and presents. Take the ham from a Swede, and he will sigh and comply. Take his Christmas Disney from him, and he'll kill you. Over forty years running, a Disney medley has been shown on Swedish television on Christmas Eve, at 3pm. All family activities are arranged around this important moment. No child, however impatient, would dream of opening a present before Disney. This is the only cultural heritage all Swedish people, young and old, share. The quotes, the songs, the jokes.

So how shall I survive? (I must admit that we survived in California).

Thanks to my clever daughter I now have a link to YouTube. If you want to share the most Swedish of all Swedish traditions with me tomorrow, click here.

A horror story with a happy ending

It is "the day before the day before the day", as the Swedish saying goes, and it is the day to get a Christmas tree. Some people might say: what's the point of having a tree when you have no small children. But we have always had a tree, except maybe some years when we went to warmer latitudes for the holidays. So after we had loaded for Christmas dinner we crossed the road to the garden store, where Staffan some days ago had investigated local supplies of Christmas trees. But, what a chock! - not one single tree. "No sir, sorry sir, we're out of trees, no we are not expecting any more". Unbelieable. We checked the B&Q nearby. Not a tree. "Sorry sir..." I have never been so disappointed since my parents did not give me a dog when I was small. We had a couple of days ago seen a flower shop with a gimmick outside used for wrapping Christmas trees, and I also remembered the farm where we occasionally go for meat. However, I envisioned all the food we had just bought and that I had to cook, so I entrusted Staffan with the task of tackling the tree issue. I did suggest that he might ring before going there.

Off he went, leaving me with ham and red cabbage and beans. It takes a lot of time to cook a proper Swedish Christmas dinner, and somehow it takes just as long time to cook for three as for twenty. I forgot the time, but when it had gone two hours I wondered whether I should start worrying. I know Staffan well, and I know that he is stubborn, but in two hours you can almost go as far as Manchester. I didn't really feel a Christmas tree was worth the trip.

He called some time after, could not explain where he was, but asked me to check an address on his computer screen. Two hours later he came in triumphantly, and I must admit that it is one of the prettiest trees we've ever had.

Mulled wine?

They say that a hostess must not enjoy her own party. Sorry to admit, but I almost always do. I enjoyed our glögg party yesterday. My saffron buns were apparently a success, since people even took some home for their absent partners and kids - I hope they didn't just pretend to be polite. I had to make another batch of glögg - someone said it was very much like mulled wine, but "we didn't hear that". Everybody brought something to share too, which was very nice. I had managed to fix a Swedish seven-armed candlestick in a window, a hard task since there are no window sills. We had our fake fire on, and many candles, and it was just as it should be on the first Advent weekend. At the very end a charming puppy was allowed to come in (he had been waiting in a car, poor thing) and showed a great interest in gingerbread.

I hope I have set up a tradition.

Lost Christmases

As I baked the gingerbread listening to Swedish Christmas songs I could not help crying. I always cry when I hear "Silent Night", but I felt especially lonely, because normally I bake gingerbread together with my children (or grandchildren as might be). This is quality time together. My daughter Julia is extremely artistic, so she would decorate the ginderbread with icing, and she always made a gingerbread house swearing in a most un-Christmasy manner when the walls wouldn't stick.

When I started the gingerbread this morning I realized that I had given Julia the gingerbread forms. Stars and hearts and piglets and moons and moose. I thought I would ever need them again. How silly! I hope Julia makes use of them.

But there was another thought that made me still more melancholy. I had already lost my Christmases once. Despite my name, I come from a Lutheran family, and in the Communist Russia we had a family secret: we celebrated Christmas. It was not an religious occasion, but an extended family gathering, with carols and the smell of candles and the taste of honey cakes and nuts. It was such a wonderful night - that no one of my classmates had - and I had always thought that I must keep the tradition for my children's sake. I did, with my oldest son.

Then we moved to Sweden and a different tradition, different songs (though "Silent Night" was still there, therefore I can never near it without tears, it brings back the memory of relatives long gone), different food, different wrapping paper (there wasn't any in Russia, it was just plain paper), different candles, different decorations, different meal times. Christmas was also official and commercial, and "Silent Night" was played in supermarkets. I was upset because we never had a large family gathering. No cousins, no hords of aunts. Occasionally, Staffan's mother would come to spend Christmas with us, but never his beloved uncle. He did not celebrate Christmas.

I kept some of my childhood customs, incorporating them into my new life. I wanted my children to feel the way I did when I was a child. Saffron buns and gingerbread and hyacinths (there were no hyacinths in Russia, not in winter). It was hard to make the kids sing, not until they were old enough to pamper me. They had enough of singing in school.

For many years, we used to flee from Christmas stress to a warmer climate. We moved Chrismas Eve two weeks ahead to gather all the children. It it so difficult to manage Christmas with several sets of stepparents and grandparents and eventually in-laws.

The two Christmases in California were funny. We sat on our sundeck in shorts and T-shirts.

By the time we came back, the first batch of kids had kids of their own, and their own Christmas traditions. Every now and then one of them would decide to grant us either Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. I tried to preserve my childhood traditions and give them to my grandchildren, so that many years from now they would say: "Do you remember Christmas at Granny's?" The two younger kids moved away from home, but faithfully came on Christmas Eve. At least for a while, on their way to another party.

"Old folks' Christmas" is a short story, I think there is an old silent movie too.

Now I have lost my Swedish Christmas as well. New traditions. They don't even celebrate Christmas Eve here! I have brought my candlesticks, my tree decorations and some other trifles. It feels weird to decorate the house just for ourselves.

I am happy to think that Julia is coming over soon.

Further experiment

It is not only saffron buns you must have for your glögg party, but gingerbread. I hoped to find gingerbread in a supermarket, but apparently English gingerbread is different from Swedish. As a poor translation of Pippi Longstocking says: "Pippi was baking pepparkakor - a kind of Swedish cookie". So I had to bake those too. Fortunately, I had brought spices from Sweden, but again: syrup, baking soda, flour... No baking pan, and unfriendly oven. But I only burned one set, and I fed it to the ducks in the river.

Risky experiment

Next weekend we have invited friends for a genuine Swedish glögg. Glögg is, as I wrote in the invitation, hot spicy wine with raisins and almonds, imbibed at this time of year accompanied by gingerbread and saffron buns.

It is always hazardous to bake in a new country. You are not familiar with flour or yeast or their relationship with each other and with other ingredients. You are not familiar with the oven. But I took the challenge.

The first thing I discovered was that saffron came in shreds. Luckily, I do have a mortar. The dough didn't really behave the way it should, but there was nothing I could do about it. The culmination of my despair came when it turned out that there were no baking pans in the oven. Apparently, baking pans do not come automatically with ovens in England. Since I had the dough ready I had to think of something really clever and I did. I put baking paper direct on the grill. It worked fine. The buns taste slightly different, but at least I know now that I can do it.

My next deed will be to bake gingerbread.

The Gunpowder plot

It is the fifth of November. I know all about it from a children's book by Edith Nesbit, The House of Arden. All essential knowedge comes from children's books.

Everybody is talking to me about fireworks and bonfires. Local newspapers are full of information about fireworks and bonfires. (Among other things, there is information about protecting your pets). So we must go and see fireworks and bonfires. It is just a short walk along the river. Crowds of people. It reminds me of my childhood with mass celebrations on Red Square. But Red Square is a bit larger than Midsummer Common in Cambridge. It gets really scary when all these people, including bikers and prams, try to leave through a narrow gate. I get panic, and we sit down on a bench, waiting for the crowd to pass. There is a fun fair on the premises which takes away a bit of the magic of the fireworks. Now we have been part of the community once again. On the way home, we look into our favourite pub and state that we are not the only ones to have got this marvelous idea. Even Staffan admits that we'd better go home.

Halloween

It is Halloween, and our friends have told us that the local kids will burn our house if they come trick-and-treating and don't get their treat. Staffan has consulted a lady in our Tesco and came home with two boxes of candy. He also bought a pumpkin! I had no idea that he knew what a pumpkin was. Usually when I ask him to buy something, like ruccola or squash, he claims he doesn't know what it is. I have never carved a pumpkin. In the old country, the custom has not really been established yet, and when we lived in California, our artistic daughter did the carving. I took a photo of her pumpkin as a model, and I think it turned out quite nice.

I hope some trick-and-treaters find their way to our house.