Annual report 2021

At this time of year I habitually write an annual report. I have just discovered, to my amazement, that I didn’t last year, and when I contemplate the reason it’s probably exactly why I am hesitant about doing it now. While most people I know, and millions that I don’t know, are experiencing the worst time imaginable, my year has been exciting and enjoyable.

True, there were two losses in the family, one profoundly tragic, the other perhaps less so, while it hit me more than I had expected. When I walked off three years ago I thought the hurt was so huge that I would never care whether my partner of almost forty years was dead or alive. Yet when he passed away this past autumn, it was as if the three years apart had been erased, and grief was acute. In a weird way it felt good since it was a closure much needed, as it turns out. To my surprise, I miss him terribly and only remember the good things from our years together. So, paradoxically, even a loss can add depth and meaning to your life.

Apart from that, and apart from some worrying health issues in the family, my life has not been affected by the global disasters. I eventually got covid last month, but thanks to three vaccine jabs, I had it mildly and was fully recovered after a week. Sweden has never had a full lockdown, and even during the tightest restrictions I was able to meet my grandchildren outdoors. This autumn we went to concerts, theatre and movies, met for coffee and meals – almost as normal. (There will never be the former normal again of course). I am blessed with grandchildren who want to spend some time with their old granny. I don’t think they do it out of duty. Maybe they find me interesting in some way. And not to forget – a granddaughter got married last September!

This year saw some great accomplishments, some planned, others unexpected. I took a three-day training to become a certified walking guide, and since then I have been leading walks both in my own neighbourhood and further away. I enjoy it a lot – hopefully my co-walkers do too. I made some new friends that way.

I have also continued my urban walks based on children’s books. I know these have been appreciated.

From my post-retirement wish list, I started learning Welsh. I had a choice between Welsh, Japanese and Hebrew, and I was perhaps a bit reluctant to choose a language with totally unfamiliar script, but Welsh proved challenging enough. I am learning for fun, as a brain exercise so I have no aspiration of ever getting fluent (“Bydda i erioed yn rhugl”). I do half an hour every day, sometimes more. I have learned just over a thousand words since I started last January. I don’t know (it has been such a long time since I learned a foreign language) how it compares to an average pace of learning, but I can construct simple phrases and even write brief journal entries. I speak Welsh to myself whenever there is an opportunity, like “Dw i’n mynd i gwneud coffi nawr”. I have joined a Facebook group of Welsh learners, for support and for fun.

An unexpected new activity has been ikebana, Japanese flower arrangement. I have always been fascinated, but never considered pursuing it; a friend invited me to a digital meeting of their Ikebana International chapter, I contacted my local chapter, they offered me a free trial class, and I was hooked. I had claimed repeatedly that I hate cut flowers because I feel upset when they wither, but ikebana is by definition an ephemeral art form where flowers are supposed to die so it turned out I could accept it. I have now received the first certificate and am halfway through the second one. A certificate is like a completed term in college, with a certain number of assignments to submit, and there are ten levels so I have yet far to go. I like clear goals, but the important thing is the joy of creation, as well as the sense of getting better. When I look at pictures of my first arrangements, they are pathetic, and I was so proud of them back then.

My miniature-making has also moved on to new heights. My business is going well with its premises. Since I am not dependent on it for a living, I feel satisfaction from the simple fact that people like my stuff and even make special orders. I now feel confident to make things I never dreamed of making a few years ago so when asked whether I can make this or that, I say: I have never made it before, but I can try. I don’t like mass-producing things (although I have occasionally made fifty tiny pumpkins on request), but rather inventing new things. I am a recycler and like using rubbish for my projects. I have the privilege of belonging to a hugely selective miniature club where I am learning a lot. I have participated in my first miniature show. I am building up a reputation. Luckily, so much networking can be done online, even though there is nothing like live events.

Book-binding hasn’t been as prominent this year, but I have tried some new techniques there as well.

I continue with balcony gardening (although not right now when it’s minus fifteen), enjoying the colours of my flowers and the taste of my veggies. I haven’t done as much as I could have, but I have made several improvements. 

In my communal garden, I enjoyed tulips and daffodils I had planted the year before; I harvested blackcurrants that I had planted the year before, and our maintenance team have, on my request, planted lilacs, magnolias and rhododendron we will enjoy next year.

I haven’t achieved my walking goal of 1,500 km, being short by 300. Maybe I set the goal too high, or maybe I was lazy. But how could I have been lazy when I walked almost 80 km on Camino de Santiago? A dream come true, after three postponements due to well-known reasons. 

Moreover, I went on two more walking holidays within Sweden, one of which my first mountain hike. Sweden is great for walking, and there is so much to explore!

With other exercise, my Pilates gym was closed for a while, but this autumn classes resumed, which was great. Since the gym is in town I frequently combined it with meeting a friend for lunch. I have also tried climbing and loved it. I will certainly do it again.

In spring, I took two online classes at Seniors’ University (aka University of Third Age), one in astronomy, the other on deserts. The latter proved more interesting. I realised I had been to half of world’s famous deserts, but I had no idea why they were where they were. Now I know. Always fun to learn something new.

My reading goal this year was 30 books, and my challenge was reading recent Swedish novels that I had neglected over the last ten years. I have read 35. Some were great reading experience, and many critically acclaimed and award-winning books were awful. At least I am now better informed about what is going on in Swedish literature.

I have enjoyed a lot of music this year. While concert halls were still closed I listened to free streamed and recorded concerts, but this autumn I went to a live concert almost every week. I have also been to opera, ballet and musical. Every morning and every evening I listen to Spotify. I like its feature Weekly Discovery. The algorithm alternates my favourites with its own suggestions which are indeed discoveries I probably wouldn’t have made myself. (By the way, “concerts” for me is exclusively classic music). Spotify tells me that my most listened-to artist this year was Alison Balsom, which was unexpected. My top piece, for second year running, is “Farewell to Stromness” since it is my bedtime music.

I have become quite fond of TV series – a genre I used to despise, which is of course a snobbish prejudice. My favourite this year was “The Good Place”. Occasionally I binge-watch, but mostly I watch one episode a day, looking forward to the pleasure the day after.

I still enjoy cooking for myself and trying new recipes. A Cambridge friend and I have had several cook-along days when we choose a cuisine and exchange our experience, in words and pictures, through WhatsApp. We have done Greek, Basque, Swedish, Sicilian, and more. When you cannot meet live, digital sessions are almost as good. 

I never thought I would bake so much, or bake at all, but here I am, baking buns, cakes and biscuits and even bread, just for myself.

Last but not least, my feline masters are getting more and more benevolent. One day they will sit on my lap.

Unlike most previous years, I have no publications nor any other academic accomplishments. There may have been some, but I have totally ignored them. I am still getting tons of invitations to give a conference paper, to contribute to a volume, to examine a thesis or review a book proposal, to which I reply: “You have received my auto-response, and I can confirm that…” The only thing that reminds me of my academic past is regular royalties.

I have been consistent in my anti-consumerism, and apart from craft supplies and a couple of essential kitchen utensils I honestly haven’t bought anything this year. I haven’t bought a single item of clothing, except a black skirt I needed for a funeral, and I got it from a second-hand shop. The only book I bought was a guidebook for the mountain area where I went hiking. My first-generation iPad from 2011 still serves me well.

This year marked forty years since I left Russia. My son and I celebrated appropriately, agreeing that it was the right thing to do. I have never regretted it.

As I have stated before, perception of time is different when you get old. I feel no stress, no pressing goals; every day is long and full of meaning. The pace is slow, and if at the end of the day I state that I haven't done anything useful, there is no need to be upset. I don't believe in happiness, but this is peace that you could not possibly imagine when you were young. 

At this point we typically make plans for the coming year. I can hardly imagine it being better still, but I do have things to look forward to. To begin with, I will be three-score and ten, and I intend to celebrate in style. I hope to walk another bit of the Camino. There may be another interesting travel experience. I have signed up for more craft shows. There are concert and theatre tickets waiting. Of course none of this may happen at all, but I have learned to take one day at a time and be grateful for every day I am alive and able to enjoy it. I am profoundly grateful for the joys of 2021.

My day-to-day life

A lot of friends have expressed concerns about how I would cope after retirement, and I won't repeat my grand plans, some of which I am already successfully implementing, but will attempt to give a glimpse of a retired academic's day-to-day life, to keep you all reassured that I am doing fine.

I get up at seven, just as I always did before. I cook my breakfast. I have had the same breakfast for the past twenty years, except I used to have a slice of ham, and I don't anymore. My breakfast consists of freshly pressed orange juice, cottage cheese, a boiled egg, three vegetables and coffee with frothed milk. I drink my coffee on the balcony, and if the weather is bad, in a sofa in my sitting room. I don't read or surf during breakfast or any other meals. I eat sitting down and set the table nicely (see Gatehouse rules, still valid).

Then I check my email and social media, still wearing my fluffy bathrobe. The amount of work-related email has magically dwindled. Private emails are mostly invitations to various events, which feels good. I spend some time on social media which includes news and features.

Then I shower and dress (see Gatehouse rules). Depending on the planned activity of the day (see below), I either go off to the relevant activity or do something at home or go for a walk. I have mid-morning coffee at 10.30-ish, again, sitting down and not doing anything else. I have a biscuit with my coffee. If I am still at home, I do whatever I am doing (which can be work-related, like reading student drafts or writing references), taking short breaks every 30 minutes to take out garbage, prepare a meal, clean the bathroom and things like that.

For lunch, unless I go out with a friend, I have a home-made soup or a hearty salad. Then I go on doing whatever I was doing, with breaks, etc. I may go and get groceries in the afternoon. I haven't yet managed to sync my consumption of eggs and oranges so my shopping is irregular, as demand dictates. Otherwise, if I haven't walked in the morning, I go for a walk in the afternoon. Sometimes I have a goal, for instance, return library books and borrow more. Sometimes I make up a goal or just stroll around. If I am at home around three, I have fruit. Occasionally, I feel like having a cup of tea, but for me tea is a social thing, not something I do on my own. The Swedish Consumer Board recommends three snacks a day, but I really cannot see where I could squeeze another snack break. For dinner, I cook something nice. I have almost stopped eating meat, but I eat fish and allow myself to buy fresh fish from a local fishmonger every now and then. I have become really skillful at cooking for one.

 Monkfish cheek on a bed of spinach

After dinner, I might make miniatures (which I probably was doing in the afternoon or even the whole day) or read some more social media, or write. By 8-8.30 I am usually tired and call it a day. I have three bedtime choices: watch a movie, read or listen to music. I rarely do more than one of these things, and I have periods when I just do one of them every evening. I watch movies on my computer, and I read and listen to music in bed. I don't do anything else while listening to music, and I never listen to music while doing something else, particularly not when I am walking. I also write my journal before lights off, in a nice notebook with a nice pen.

Regarding my weekly activities, on Monday mornings I go to gym in town, a bit far away to walk, so I take a commuter train, which is more convenient and faster than the underground. I am back in time for lunch (and my, am I hungry!). On Mondays, I water my plants. Sometimes I have to water them more often, but it's good to have a fixed day to do it so that I don't forget.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I walk with a group. Tuesday walks are longer and more demanding, and if they are more than 10 miles, that's too much for me. Thursday walks are shorter and classed as “easy”. Some require travel to the starting point. However, unlike my Rambler group in Cambridge, they never require a car (I found it frustrating that fifteen people would drive thirty miles to the meeting place in fifteen cars). Sometimes I walk on other days with other groups, depending on what's on offer. There is always something on offer. I am getting to know people. I have already been asked to become a leader. I said not yet, but maybe later. 

Every other Wednesday I go to a concert. I have bought an expensive subscription to the Concert Hall, but if you spread it between individual events, it's not too bad. And I get 15% off other concerts. If there is no concert, I may go to the cinema, and there are theatres as well to consider.

I have no regular activities on Fridays, but there is a lot to choose from. I walk either in the morning or in the afternoon and do something else: make miniatures, meet friends, go to a museum, or write. Most museums in Stockholm are free, and those that aren't often have one day a week when they are free. Since I can decide when to go, I can choose a free day. I have bought an annual senior pass to Skansen.

On Saturdays and Sundays, if there is no interesting group walk, I go to flea markets and car boot sales. There are several choices every week. Even if I don't find anything, it's great fun. If you wonder what I am looking for, it's mostly plastic and wooden dollhouse furniture that I can upcycle, but occasionally I find treasures. I am also looking for various recyclables for miniature-making: cheap scarves, men's ties, lace and other fabrics; buttons and junk jewellery, and various odd objects I can turn into something interesting.

 Found at a flea market on a lucky day

On some Saturdays, I attend miniature-making classes or get-togethers. I haven't yet started studying a new language, attending cookery classes or volunteering at hedgehog rescue, because I have been quite busy as it is.

In between, I meet friends and family.

While you may think my life is monotonous and boring, I find it peaceful and enjoyable. 

 

The noble art of laundry

I have never before lived with a communal laundry room. When I mentioned this to my youngest son, he wondered: But didn't you have communal laundry rooms in Russia when you were young? Well, no. I had never seen a washing machine before I came to Sweden, aged 30.

According to the family legend, when my grandfather was a young man, he washed his only shirt in a soup plate.

When I was a child, there was a washing woman coming to do the family's laundry. She was old, with wrinkled face and one tooth. She looked like a witch, and I was mortally scared of her. I cannot say how often she came because the sense of time is different when you are a child, but I would guess maybe twice a month, and it took her a whole day. She washed our linen in the bathtub and hung it to dry in the kitchen, with gas stove at full capacity. Then she spread an old blanket on the kitchen table and ironed the sheets with huge black irons heated on the gas stove.

Later on, laundry would be taken to a state laundry place, or actually, there would be someone to collect and deliver. The sheets were heavily starched and smelled cheap soap. Smaller laundry, like women's underwear, would be done discretely by the owner in the bathtub. Those lucky to have a balcony would hang their things there to dry. You may have seen this in old movies. Washing powder was in short supply, so it was soap, and your hands would get coarse. (Hard cream was in short supply too). If you happened to be in a shop at the right moment when washing powder was in stock, you'd alert your friends, and they would be there within half an hour. The sense of community was strong in those days.

I think the first washing machines came in mid-70s, but they were expensive, and, more importantly, there was no room for them in our crammed housing. No one I knew had a washing machine back then.

During my first year in Sweden we rented a house, at a nominal price, from a friend; more or less house-sat while the house was on the market. Thinking back, I realise that there was a laundry room in the basement, used by two more families. Maybe my husband did the laundry during the time, because I don't remember ever doing it.

The house we eventually bought had a huge basement with plenty of space for both washing machine and tumble dryer. Ever since, I have taken it for granted. When we bought the house in Milton, it didn't have a tumble dryer, but we quickly discovered that in Cambridge climate a clothline worked just as well, and it did for ten happy years. The past year, in Gatehouse, I had a tumble dryer again, and I could wash and dry as I pleased.

Now suddenly I understand why my youngest son would sometimes say, as we skyped: ”I cannot talk to you now, I must do the laundry”. In my new home, there is a communal laundry in the basement. You have to book your laundry time through an app. I find it exciting, like a new game. Although I must admit that I was a bit apprehensive first time. What if I did something wrong? Well, I didn't. I booked a morning slot, and I went down with my laundry, chose an appropriate programme and went up to the flat again, set an alarm and tried to focus on something else. Went down, moved my stuff to the tumble dryer, went up, set the alarm. Two hours later, all done, and all my things folded neatly, Marie Kondo-style, and I reward myself with coffee and biscuit on the balcony.

But this is just the beginning. I have never contemplated the frequency of doing your laundry because I could always do it whenever I felt like it. Should I decide on a particular day of the week? I am privileged in that I can choose the least attractive slots on weekdays in the middle of the day. Or shall I just see when I need it? If you are laughing now, consider that I am in my late sixties and have never had this dilemma. Everything is new. Isn't life just wonderful?

Looking back at my childhood, or remembering women I saw during my African holidays, washing by the river, beating their washing with stones and hanging it on trees to dry, I remind myself to be humble and grateful. Also, being ecologically minded, I want to plan my laundry so that I don't do it more often than absolutely necessary.

New habits

When I moved to Gatehouse I was worried about noise. I have never lived so close to traffic. My bay windows look straight into the pavement, and people walk by. People: mostly students, noisy, shouting, laughing. Cars and buses. There is a traffic light right in front of me; it squeals when it changes to green. But after just a couple of days I don't notice it any more. It's just part of my environment.

I was worried that I could not open windows. I like sleeping with windows open, and obviously I cannot now. I hate curtains; I like to see light when I wake up. I am used to waking up to see a green lawn, roses, conifers. There isn't much of a view from my windows. I am used to seeing the moon and Jupiter through my bedroom window. Now I have to draw a curtain because there is a street lamp right in front of the window.

I hate closed doors. Particularly when you have cats, you can never close doors because cats need to be able to come and go as they please. But even otherwise I don't like to be in a room with doors closed. It feels like being in a hotel. In Gatehouse, I need to close doors to keep heat. My front door is a very British front door – excuse me for being prejudiced. The gaps are almost large enough to put a hand through. If it gets really cold outside I may need to hang a blanket over the door. The British have never learned how to insulate their homes. So I have to close all doors and conserve energy, and it makes me feel claustrophobic. But you know what? I am used to it now.

Back in Sweden, we had a tumble dryer. It is essential in Sweden, particularly in winter. When we moved to Woodside ten years ago, there was a washing machine, but no tumble dryer. The first thing to do, we said to each other, is to buy a tumble dryer. But somehow we never did, and it turned out that in the mild Cambridgeshire climate you could have an outdoor clothesline. Now I am back to tumble-drying which feels odd.

I have few clothes that need ironing. Gatehouse came with an iron, but no ironing board. I haven't brought my ironing board. On a rare occasion when I might need to iron something, I will probably miss my ironing board. That said, I lived the first twenty-nine years of my life without an ironing board so I believe I can cope.

In the past thirty-seven years, we made coffee one cup at a time with a funnel and paper filter. It took a lot of persuasion to switch from boiling water in a pot on the hob to an electric kettle. During a very short time we had a fancy coffee machine that I loved, but my significant other hated, so we gave it away when we moved to the UK. Now I got myself a cafetiere. I have been skeptical toward them, for no reason, but I have read instructions and learned how to use it, and it's perfect. I should have learned it long ago.

 

My new best friend

Topographic idiot

This year's Nobel Prize in medicine has been awarded for identifying the spot in the brain that enables us to know where we are.

I must have been born without this spot, or it was somehow damaged early in my life.

My father used to call me “topographic idiot”. In those days it was acceptable to say something like this to a child without considering life-long trauma. But I was an obedient child and believed what I was told.

I have been lost in places I had known for ages. I have been lost driving, biking and walking. I have been lost in Moscow and in Stockholm, my two hometowns; and I have been lost in unfamiliar places more times than I like to remember. I have been lost while picking up people from airports – it's totally embarrassing. I once had to call my best friend from a payphone – it was long before mobiles – and ask her to come and find me because I was lost, two blocks from her house where I has been hundreds of times. I can still get lost in Milton Country Park where I walk at least twice a week. I constantly get lost in central Cambridge. 

Obviously, this important part of the brain that helps other people to know where they are is missing.

But there is hope for people like me. (I am sure I am not the only one in the world; it is just too embarrassing to admit). Last Sunday I went to Ely to see a friend. I have been to Ely scores of times, and I know how to get to the Cathedral parking, and if it is full, I know how to get to another parking. Anything beyond that is too challenging for a topographic idiot. In such situations I gratefully remember one of my wonderful granddaughters who insisted, two years ago, that “Granny wants a smartphone for her birthday”. There are many things I use my phone for (least of all for phone calls), but is was the first time I used voice navigation. Wow, how much I loved this nice lady who told me, softly and patiently, like you should speak to a topographic idiot: “In a quarter of a mile, in the roundabout, drive straight through and stay on the road”.

Books are dangerous!

 You think books are harmless? You think book cannot kill? Let me tell you something.

Last week, as I was at home indulging myself with a PhD examination on a bright, sunny morning, I got an email from Reception at work. My bookshelf had come off the wall. My first reaction was, “Hell, I must interrupt my pleasurable pastime and go to the office”. My second reaction was, “What a nuisance, I have just sorted all the books, and it will take me ages to put them back”. Third reaction, “All my Alice and Moomin mugs will be broken”.

I didn't go to the office that day because it made no sense: what could I do other than watch the ruins? I suppressed all thoughts of it, but yesterday I felt that I had to go, out of propriety. (Mind, I could have been away on holiday or conference).

My first reaction as I opened the door was, “It doesn't look all that bad”. The holes had been painted over, the books were in neat piles all over the room, the Alice and Moomin and Peter Rabbit mugs had miraculously survived – a few other mugs of less affectionate value were broken, as well as some picture frames.

The porters saw me coming and gave me a full account of what it looked like when they discovered it. “Did you have your books in any particular order?” asked one. “Luckily no one was there when it happened, another said. It would have killed them”.

Fifteen minutes later it hit me.

This bookshelf with its sharp corners and its tons of books could have killed me. Or a student. Or a cleaner.

It doesn't help to know they have filed it as a “serious incident”, that an inspection stated that wrong fittings had been used, and that they will give me a new and safer bookshelf. It's like having been in a minor car accident, and cannot keep imagining what could have happened a second before or after and turned it into a major accident. A fatal accident. I may not have been here to tell the story. 

Image: Colin Thompson

Rebirth

I know I have said this before, but it cannot be said too often. The miracle is repeated every year. The first day of gardening, mostly inspection, but some tidying, some weeding, some trimming. I say: "Hello, mate" to a bluebell that has come in the same spot as last year. I say: "And where did you come from? Welcome!" to a couple of snowdrops I have not seen before. I say: "Come on!" to daffodils that will bloom any day. I state that the new roses have survived the frosty nights. I see that the day lilies I replanted in the autumn are coming out. I see that the d-d deer have not eaten all tulips. The lilacs and the blackcurrants have large buds. The clematis has first tiny shoots. The bamboo is now higher than myself. My battle with ivy and brambles will go on.

Everything is as it should be. 

Routines

Unless something spectacular happens in my life, there won't be much for me to blog about. From now on and until mid-April all my days will be the same. I get up between eight and nine, which is a luxury. I try to get up at eight so that I can have a quiet breakfast and still be at my desk by nine. I check my work email quickly. It is set to Auto-Response, but people haven't realised it yet, so there are emails still coming in. I try to reply at once and keep the number of inbox messages under 25. I don't open my private email, my Facebook or my Blogger.

It takes me about an hour to read through what I had written the day before, by which time I am ready for another cup of coffee. Then I write until lunch. Then I write a bit more. Then I go for a walk, unless the weather is really awful. Then I write a bit more. By four in the afternoon I am too tired to be creative, but still capable of other work, such as writing recommendation letters and reading PhD theses. I have managed to keep the list of urgent tasks below 10. I am not taking on any new urgent tasks, but I cannot refuse to write a recommendation letter for a colleague or student.

At this point I also check my private email and read Facebook. I read my colleagues' interesting links, so it takes some time. I skip all status updates about what people had for lunch and what their pet did and what weather they are having. I skip all witty quotations and jokes. Occasionally, a colleague catches me on FB, and we have a conversation, and sometimes people Skype me when they see I am online.

My wonderful husband cooks dinner. After dinner we sometimes watch a movie, most often a nature documentary. At other times I play with my dollhouses - no, sorry, I make miniatures in 1:12 scale. I go to bed at ten and read non-work-related books for a couple of hours.

In the predictable future, there is very little that can disrupt this routine.

Twelve days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas Julia, Pontus and I went for a wonderful walk along the river. It was warm and sunny. In the evening we watched Gremlins which is just the right sort of Christmas movie.

On the second day of Christmas we did nothing much, except that we discovered that there were no trains to Stansted that day, and the kids had to take a bus and have a good margin. When they had left, I assembled and tested the new colour printer I got for Christmas.

On the third day of Christmas I graded student papers.

On the fourth day of Christmas I graded more papers, read and ranked postdoc applications and responded to zillions of urgent emails.

On the fifth day of Christmas I read a Norwegian PhD thesis on ethical values in Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. When I got sick and tired of it, I read more postdoc applications for a change. In the evening I made some miniature knitting books for my yarn shop room box.

On the sixth day of Christmas I finished the Norwegian thesis and wrote my report; wrote a recommendation letter and a conference abstract.

On the seventh day of Christmas, which happened to be the New Year Eve, I made lobster thermidor in the morning and set the table. I read some more postdoc applications. We ate far too much for dinner and watched An American in Paris. We celebrated the New Year by Swedish time, listening to church bells from the thirteen Swedish cathedrals. I was fast asleep by the New Year GMT.

On the eighth day of Christmas I was still slightly behind my schedule. I finished the last batch of postdoc applications and spent the rest of the day making a miniature cabinet that I had got from Julia and Pontus for Christmas.

On the ninth day of Christmas I finally started writing my new book. I spent the day going through two years' files: initial, intermediate and final drafts of articles and conference papers, notes, reviews and bibliographies. It is a most ungrateful task, and I always warn my students against keeping multiple drafts because then you have to go through them all in case there is one stray clever sentence hiding somewhere (usually there isn't). My first surprise was that all in all I had more text than I had expected. My second surprise was that the text was in less completed state than I had remembered. In the middle of the day I went for a walk. A lady came toward me just as I was leaving the gate, saying: “It's very muddy in there”, meaning the park. Nice of her, but I knew it already and thefore walked toward and along the river. In the evening Staffan and I watched the first part of the three-hour documentary about Olof Palme.

On the tenth day of Christmas I continued working on my book. I merged several papers into two chapters, which felt highly satisfactory. Then I started on a very difficult theoretical chapter which I had thought was finished. In fact in was all in bits and pieces and yellow highlights with notes to myself in caps: DEVELOP! We watched the second part of the Palme documentary

On the eleventh day of Christmas I went on with the chapter and came up with an idea of exactly how to DEVELOP it. We watched the third part of the Palme documentary

On the twelfth day of Christmas I worked hard on the chapter. I went for a walk along the river.

I allowed myself to finish early and made some more miniatures. In the evening, I watched Werner Herzog's Into the Abyss. It isn't exactly a cheerful movie, but very thought-provoking.

Now the Christmas season is over. I am working on my book. I have set up a goal of walking 150 km and have already done 7% of it. I have four exciting room box projects. Stay in touch.

Creative lawn-mowing

Staffan and I have different approaches to lawn-mowing, just as we have different approaches to loading the dishwasher and to other domestic chores. We almost never make a row about such trifles, with the agreement that whoever does it is free to use their own method. Yet Staffan has firm ideas about lawn-mowing that he tries to support with evidence from websites. He likes straight lines. He would like them to go south-north, but our garden is not oriented to his liking. Neither does it have straight lines. Therefore I prefer to follow the natural soft curves of the landscape, watching the irregular island in the middle get smaller. I know this may sound ridiculous, but it is just another expression of my creativity.

 PS The dark ring in the middle of the lawn is not a token of my creativity. Or maybe it is. It was a witch ring, and I exterminated the toadstools and grew new grass.

Snake watch, day 3

Click for beginning, Part 1 and Part 2 of this story

Uneventful day from the snake-watching point of view and otherwise. Woke up as usual, breakfast, coffee on the patio. Realised that I needed to get my repeated medical prescription to the surgery and made it a reason to take a short, quick walk (now experimentally proved that the distance through the park is 500 m and takes 5 minutes). Then back to work, writing the last (?) chapter, checking email every now and then and replying to everything urgent – don't people at the Faculty ever take vacation? Looked up some web sites to research red-head characters in children's books, but didn't find anything helpful. Brief lunch break. More writing. Didn't go out at all.

Had a very nice tea with some of the students who are still around, talking dangerous beasts (flying ants, frogs, turtles), grammatical gender in different languages, train journeys and educational systems. Back home, quiet dinner. Then we watched a movie while the rest of the world watched the opening of the Olympics. We saw a little bit of it (James Bond and Mr Bean), muted during the rock, and switched off after Denmark.

My smart friend

When I bought my first mobile phone, many years ago in the Stone Age, I told the very young assistant in the store that I wanted a senile mobile. He was at a loss and called an older colleague who knew exactly what I meant: basic, big keys and one button for everything. It served me well, especially since I never had it switched on unless I was expecting a call or needed to make a call myself. For these two tasks it was perfect. If absolutely unavoidable, I could text.

Some time ago when I was in the middle of something and for some reason had the phone on, I asked a student to answer it. She didn't know how. She had never seen such an antedeluvian artifact.

Since a month ago, I am the happy owner of a smartphone. We aren't quite good friends yet - it hasn't even told me its name. I got it for my birthday, but didn't dare to open the box before Julia and Pontus came to visit a week later. Pontus did all the initial magic tricks, downloaded this and that, and suddenly I could read my email and Facebook on the tiny screen. Some days later I learned how to zoom. I learned how to scroll and swipe. Yesterday I learned how to switch windows. All on my own!

I had resisted a smartphone because I couldn't see what I needed it for. The old phone was just fine to make phone calls. But I do admit now that my new friend can do a lot of nice things. Maps and star charts was what I had fallen for. I am still not going to have it switched on. But it proved very useful when I travelled. Normally I would bring a laptop. This time I thought I would only need to check my email, and that's just what a smartphone was for. I even considered leaving my Kindle behind and read on the phone, but didn't want to take the risk. After all, the phone and Kindle together are smaller than the laptop. Since it's an old laptop they can apparently do ten times as much. Possibly, thousand times as much.

Since I had plenty of time at airports, on trains and in my hotel room, I played like a child with my toy. I checked my email and read my Facebook. I set the Clock for London and Stockholm. I downloaded a ringtone app and set one ringtone for the phone and another for the alarm. I fed my appointments into Calendar (it is, amazingly, synchronised with my computer. New horizons!). I took pictures and shared them on Facebook. I checked my email and read my Facebook. I found an Italian restraurant near my hotel where I went for dinner. I set Weather for Cambridge and found train timetables. I fed my imminent tasks into Tasks. The phone reminded me the next day that I had a Task. I checked my email and read my Facebook. I tried to read an ebook, just to confirm that Kindle was better, but in emergency I would cope. I read a newspaper. I checked my email... I believe each operation takes me ten times as long as an expert user, but I am learning.

Now I am back home, the phone is switched off, and I don't know when and why I would need it again. But we are getting to know each other. I may even use it to make calls.

Object of sentimental value

 

I am normally not attached to material objects. I have lost so many in the numerous moves that it's just as well to adopt a Moominish attitude: worldly possessions are merely a nuisance. Every now and then I wonder where this or that thing has gone, whether it was just thrown away as garbage, sold for a fortune at Sotheby's or is hidden away in somebody's cupboard. Yet there are some few objects from my childhood that I have very special feelings for. This sugar bowl has been in the family as long as I remember and far beyond. In fact, I have just noticed that there is a stamp on it that says 1883.The bowl was always filled with lump sugar, and there was a pair of tongs in case someone wanted half a lump. The bowl symbolises the stability of home for me, the centrepiece of the tea table around which family and friends would gather. (A Freudian would of course come with any number of interpretations, and a Jungian would add the albedo phase to it. Be my guest). 

When my granny died almost twenty years ago, my mother asked me whether I wanted anything in her memory. Sugar bowl, I said. Fine, said my mother, it's yours, but you will not be able to take it our of the country so let it stay here for a while. For many years I went back to Moscow, to what without granny wasn't my home anymore, and watched the sugar bowl in the centre of the tea table that wasn't any longer the centre of the world. Every time I'd say that I wanted to take the bowl with me, and every time my mother said, not yet. Then I stopped going to Moscow, and the sugar bowl became just one of those many lost objects that are of no value to anyone. Actually, I have no idea, it can be awfully valuable. 

After my mother died two months ago, my son, who is her sole heir, asked me whether I wanted anything from the house. Sugar bowl, I said. My sugar bowl. Yes, I know it's yours, he said, but you won't be able to take it out of the country. It will buzz in security. It sounded familiar so I dropped any further argument, but lo and behold! someone smuggled my sugar bowl from Russia to Sweden, and my dear daugher brought it from Sweden to me. Twenty years later, it is turly mine. 

The funny thing is that you'd think that with such a cherished object I would remember it well. Yet when I unwrapped it, I was shocked to see how much smaller it was than I had remembered. I can imagine that it might look large to me when I was a child, but I did see it repeatedly when I was grown-up, and yet the memory saved the image from childhood. I could also swear that the monogram was Russian BH, for Vera Nikolajeva, my grandfather's aunt. This was the mark on all our family silver. But it is actually Latin VR, which must be Victoria Reutersköld, who was my grandfather's grandmother. From her, the sugar bowl apparently went to her daughter Ernestina, my great-grandmother, who somehow managed to keep it through the wars and revolutions. 

The balance of the world is finally restored. The sugar bowl is once again in the middle of the tea table.

So many things...

I haven't blogged for a while, and I don't know where to start. I should blog about wonderful days with Norton Juster when I was a bit jealous because he and Staffan got up very early and talked and talked. I should blog about the death of Maurice Sendak, trying to say something that hasn't been said by everybody else. Just two days before, Norton was telling us about Sendak - they were so close friends. Before that, I was planning to blog about another, much less famous children's writer who had passed away, Leila Berg, whose book The Adventures of Chunky, I loved passionately when I was a child. I should also blog about the anxiety and despair of a young mother whose four-year-old child is taken away from her into a hospital, with the words: "It was good you came now, two hours from now would be too late... You can call the day after tomorrow".  The memory comes as we read reports about a grandchild in a hospital in Sweden, luckily surrounded by the loving family. I should blog about Julia's little cat who, sadly, is no more, which brings memories of just a couple of months ago. I should blog about yesterday being the Victory Day in Russia and what it once meant to me. In the first place, I should blog about the imminence of three-score.

What professors do when they are grandmothers

We always tell our children that they are welcome to visit us any time in any numbers, so there wasn't much I could say when Sergej announced that he was bringing four kids for half-term. I certainly prefer to meet them one at a time, not so much because I cannot cope with all of them (which I know I cannot, so there is no point worrying) but because I enjoy them more. Even a five-year-old can make a very interesting conversation when you have them on their own. But here they were, all of them, and here is how we spent the week.

They flew into Stansted on Saturday evening, but since they are too many to fit into a car, I instructed them to take the airport train to Cambridge and collected them at the station. Yes, they were still too many to fit into a car, but in the darkness we could hide one in the back seat. I thought they would be too tired to be hungry, but they weren't. They were hungry and too excited to be tired.

On Sunday I made a huge breakfast. Or so I thought. Two humongous cartons of juice were gone almost before we opened them. Since the boys didn't get up until noon, breakfast transformed into lunch, with a snack in between. Sergej and I sat outside and enjoyed the sun while the kids played croquet which the boys cleverly remembered that we had in the garage since their previous visit. Then we went for a walk in the park, fed the swans, explored the playground – I had had a vague feeling that there was a playground in the park, but I normally avoid it during my walks. We had ice cream in the park cafe – another place I normally avoid. Then we went home and did nothing special for a while until it was time to make dinner. After dinner we watched an old movie. The cat hid under my bed, but would emerge every now and then.

On Monday I took the kids to Linton Zoo while Sergej worked (he had no half-term! Neither had I, incidentally). The weather wasn't great, but we enjoyed it anyway. Lunch was unsatisfactory, but there were doughnuts waiting at home. The girls played with the dolls' house they were allowed to play with and were very good at seeing but not touching the ones they were not allowed to play with. The boys have their smartphones that keep them busy at any time. We watched another movie in the evening.

On Tuesday I dispatched them to Duxford Imperial War Museum while I had to go to work. I barely got back home to prepare dinner before it was time for me and Sergej to go to Homerton Formal Hall which just happened to be Harry Potter-themed. I wore a pointed hat, and like last year there we owls flying over the Hall. Between main course and dessert we were allowed to fondle the owls. It was another long-time dream come true, just in passing.

On Wednesday the boys went to London. On their previous visits I told them that there was no way I was going up on London Eye and they would have to do it another time with someone else. So now was the time. They took the train, and did London Eye, London Dungeons and what not, while I took the girls to town. Natalie had expressed a wish to ride a double-decker, and after three and a half years in Cambridge I finally took this ride which was the most boring sightseeing I'd ever done (you don't see anything from a double-decker squeezing through narrow streets). For the girls, however, the pleasure was in riding a double-decker, not in seeing sights, so they didn't mind the absence of sights. Then we went punting, and I enjoyed it thoroughly because it was the best punter ever, while the girls thought the swans and ducks on the river were fun, and a boat trip is a boat trip. Meanwhile they kept reminding me that the real reason we went to town was that I had promised them belated birthday presents, of the kind “you can choose anything you want”, knowing that at this age they would probably not want a diamond necklace. In fact, it was interesting to watch them go back and forth between kids' fashion and toys, as they realised that “anything you want” didn't necessarily have to be a toy. They have more toys they can ever play with. We left John Lewis with a box of kids' makeup and a pair of slippers, and I think they were perfectly happy. In addition, I discovered that the family toilet in Grand Arcade was very practical when you had two little girls who needed to pee. We watched The Dark Crystal in the evening, and they made some clever observations, especially given that they didn't understand the dialogue.

Thursday was my really busy day, starting with a studio interview for BBC and an afternoon meeting. In the morning, the girls wondered whether they absolutely had to go on another excursion or could possibly play at home, so their wish was granted, while I dropped the boys in town to wander on their own. It was fascinating to hear them report afterwards what they had seen and done, and why.

Viktor had a favourite Chinese restaurant in Cambridge where Staffan had taken him a couple of times. He had been looking forward to going there again and was very upset to hear that the place had closed down. To compensate, I had promised Chinese take-out, and that was our meal that day. The boys walked to the shop, with some cash and free hands to get whatever they wanted, and they made some very good choices. And guess what? We watched a movie.

During the whole week Sergej hadn't seen anything of Cambridge, and I thought he should at least see some landmarks, but he had more work to do, and the kids were playing happily in the garden, and finally we didn't go anywhere at all (except to Tesco to get more milk, but it doesn't qualify as a pastime since it was a routine). In the evening, Sergej went to see a schoolmate who just happens to live in Milton. I understand that they paid tribute to all local pubs, while we had ice cream and watched a movie.

This morning, they were exemplary in getting up at five to catch the train. They haven't left much behind: just a sock and a toothbrush. They are very nice kids. I wish they could be delivered with volume control.