Rick´s News

My acquaintanceship with Albin began one day in the Spring of 1973,  Sweden had been my home for just over 2 years and in a month or so I was to be married. Learning Swedish had been a longer process than I had anticipated as most Swedes speak good English and when speaking to me preferred to practice their foreign language skills. I was more or less consigned to learning Swedish by eavesdropping other people´s conversations allthough Swedish subtitles in films and television series helped a great deal.By this time though I was quite at home both understanding and speaking Swedish. Even the news on the television no longer presented an obstacle. My first meeting with Albin abruptly reminded me of being too complacent in the comfort of one´s own bubble. 

Opening the door to our ”farstu”, a small 2m x 2m self contained porch with its own roof allowing people to sit down on a small bench and take off their shoes before entering the house via the front door, I noticed a man walking up the drive. ”Hej,” I said (pronounced hey) to which he replied ”hej” followed by a string of words that had me convinced he was speaking another language. I gave him a wry smile retreated into the house and said to Gunilla ”there´s a man out here who just said hello and that was the last and only word I understood.”  Soon realising that I was back to square one as far as my Swedish was concerned and that having a house in Värmland meant I would have to learn if not a new language at least a new dialect very different to the Swedish I was accustomed to. Actually I acclimatized fairly quickly discovering that my new found skills even included a better ability to understand Norwegian. 

Albin and his wife Lilly were our closest neighours and despite the fact that we had very little in common we developed a friendly relationship that lasted many years and contributed to our feeling of being at home in Värmland. On one of our first visits we were ushered into their living room which gave the impression of never having been lived in, in fact a conclusion we came to a few years later when we were never invited in again. The clue lay in the room being called a ”finrum” or grand room, only for very special occasions such as births, marriages, wakes or the odd Stockholm couple on their first visit. Life was lived in Albin and Lilly’s kitchen and it was here sitting at the small table just large enough for 4 that Gunilla and I learnt to drink coffee. ”Kokkaffe”  meaning coffee brewed directly in a kettle on a stove as opposed to coffee brewed in one of the many electrical contraptions that are nowadays almost universal. When I say the table had room for 4 I should add that Lilly never sat at the table but stood or sat on a small stool by the stove ready to serve Albin with whatever it was he wanted. It was the natural order of things for the master of the house ”husbonde”  to be treated in this fashion and I suppose we only felt slightly uncomfortable when, putting a sugar lump into his mouth and drinking the coffee he had poured into his saucer he mildly scolded her for something not to his liking. 

Albin was old enough to be my father and for a one time lumberjack-cum-smallholder he was surprisingly in tune to the outside world. Having said that I don´t think there were many days in his life that were spent outside of Värmland. I have a vague recollection of him talking of having visited Stockholm once.  Politically we had no matching colours although conversations about the hardships of the 1920s and emigration from Sweden to the US was less dangerous ground for political discourse than contemporary party politics. For him Conservative politicians were a distant evil in Stockholm and he reserved a special dislike for members of the Centre party, a party favoured by farmers and landowners. This came as a surprise to us at first as Albin had a sizeable piece of land yet it fitted another piece to my jigsaw of Swedish life and politics. Most of Albin´s land was arable farmland which was no longer used for crops or livestock. Every year however he spent many hours using his scythe to keep his land from becoming overgrown. Considering his age at the time and the effort this took it was a mystery to us. A combination of habit and pride I suppose. The only crop that Albin planted was potatoes in a large patch in front of his house. I remember him complaining once that his ”jordäppel” (literally earth apples used in dialect as opposed to ”potatis”) were smaller than usual. When I suggested that crop rotation might help he reminded me in no uncertain terms that agriculture was not my forté and in fact that was the only time I ever saw him angry. 

Potatoes and pork prepared in various ways were his staple diet which is why we had cooked a meal of smoked pork loin after inviting Albin and Lilly over for dinner thinking we were on safe ground. As Gunilla was serving the meal Albin said he wasn´t hungry because he had already eaten. Lilly explained he was worried that he might be served something he didn´t like and had had a helping of pork and potatoes before he left. You knew where you stood with Albin. His realism could be a little enervating at times like when at the height of midsummer when Värmland is at its most beautiful and our senses were tuned to the delights of Summer he might pass a comment to the tune of ”now we´re heading for winter” or ”now the days will be getting shorter.”  I have no evidence of this but I am convinced he wore long johns for at least 10 months of the year. 

Whilst we´re on the subject of pork, Albin and Lilly once offered us a half share in a pig they intended raising for slaughter.  Lilly did most of the work looking after and feeding our piglet until it had grown large enough. On the big day Albin insisted that we come over to help, suggesting to Gunilla that this was important knowledge for a teacher. Our pig was led outside to where a huge tub had been placed in readiness. Next to the tub was a bucket and a chain. A local neighbour possessing the required expertise as well as a ”slaktmask” (literally slaughter worm) consisting of a spring loaded bolt ended our pig´s life at second attempt. The first attempt had resulted in an ineffectual ”click”, causing everybody to jump except the pig. As the metal bolt finally found its mark the journey from life to death was short and brutal. The pig slumped heavily to the ground, its throat was cut, its blood was collected in a bowl and poured into a bucket. Gunilla was instructed to stir the blood to prevent it coagulating. In hindsight it´s a wonder neither of us fainted. Before our pig was hung up ready for carving, it was placed in the tub over the chain and boiling hot water was poured over the dead animal into the tub. Then the chain was pulled to and fro under the carcass. I didn´t understand the reason for this and was told it was to remove as much hair as possible. A sort of last minute shave, so to speak. I don´t remember how long it was before the animal was carved up but it was later in the day and after packaging our share in plastic bags to put in our freezer that we walked home carrying our newly slaughtered and packaged pork in a large plastic container between us.  The juicy pork chops for dinner that we had been looking forward to earlier in the day were passed over in favour of pancakes.

Events trigger memories. Remembering exact dates though, without a diary notification or some other documentary evidence, is both difficult and often enough unnecessary when it comes to private matters. It´s when you can look them up in a history book or as I did just now Google a date that you become aware of having been more than just a contemporary onlooker of historic events. In the future the present Corona crisis will no doubt be bestowing that particular feeling on a vastly larger number of people than in most previous scenarios. For me the present crisis reminded me of my first lockdown experience albeit a limited one but no less ominous.

Arriving from Israel I landed in Athens on Saturday the 17th November to partake in an international school book exhibition at the Hilton hotel. The trip to Athens including my taxi ride to the hotel was uneventful and I was looking forward to a pleasant stroll in the city and a meal in a local restaurant. From my hotel room overlooking a neighbouring roof top I noticed what looked like the silhouette of a man carrying a rifle. An embassy guard maybe, then I thought no more of it. 

On my way out of the hotel one of the staff came up to me and suggested that I should perhaps not go out. His English was either not very good or he was frightened of saying too much because all he managed to stutter out was, ”no go out, students very bad” Today I realize that it probably wasn´t bad English that was the cause of his stunted warning it was more likely a careful effort to warn me without making what could be construed as a political statement in a country ruled by a military junta. 

Even today at 73 and most certainly at the age of 26 there are very few serious problems that spring to mind at the mention of the word students.  You understand of course that I didn´t heed his warning and walked out into the Athens´night. 

Actually nothing happened, in fact I hardly remember my stroll or whether I had a meal in a restaurant or later at the hotel. The consequences for me of the student´s revolt on this day were yet to come.

From a publisher´s point of view I believe that the exhibition was considered a success perhaps more so in highlighting the importance of education against this intimidating backdrop of political suppression. The soldiers and tanks policing the streets had no direct effect on our daily exhibition whereas the nightly curfew on the other hand meant that for those of us staying at the hotel it was work all day and lockdown every evening. Learning that Athens´ airport had been closed added to the uncertainty as to where all this would end. 

Spending a restricted week in the Athens Hilton might be considered luxurious and limited enough to belittle the use of the word lockdown yet recent events surrounding Corona, with many people suffering a lockdown in their own homes, highlight an anxiety and a pain that is other than physical. Situations such as these show us with brutal clarity that the things we often take for granted such as the freedom to interact with our loved ones, our friends our neighbours are vital for our wellbeing. They show us we are creatures of habit and servants to expectations.

Towards the end of the week there were rumours that the airport would be open from Friday onwards and this had a great effect on the atmosphere at the closing banquet on Thursday evening. The relief was palpable and the food and wine never tasted so good.

The following morning I woke up early, unfortunately not early enough to get to the airport in time for my very early flight. Desperate attempts to get my taxi driver to drive faster were in vain and whether I was feeling sick at the thought of getting stuck in Athens should they, as was rumoured, shut the airport again or whether it was my body pointing out to me that there are limits to alcohol indulgence whatever the reason, did not preoccupy my mind at that moment.

Needless to say I wasn´t the only person at the airport in need of a new flight booking and after much ado and nail-biting I finally squeezed in onto a stopover flight from I believe Cairo to Copenhagen. 

Of course I missed my connecting flight to Gothenburg which would have left me ample time for the final flight to Karlstad. Luckily there was another connection which would have got me there in time but it was delayed, thus missing the last flight connection of the week to Karlstad. When the SAS lady pointed out to me the next flight to Karlstad was on Monday the idea of one extra night in a hotel morphed into 3 nights and just about robbed me of the little energy I had left.  

Obviously I only had myself to blame but the fact SAS had not kept to their timetable resulted in a courtesy of SAS taxi ride from Gothenburg to Karlstad, a total of 278km. On the way I negotiated a price with the taxi driver to take me the further 104km to our home just outside Ekshärad.

Late in the night the taxi´s tyres crunching on the snow was the only sound to be heard as we slowly drove the last kilometre to Stenåsen with snow clad pine trees standing to attention on either side of the road in a peaceful and wintery Värmland forest. I was not too tired to appreciate this and in retrospect probably the closest I will ever get to travelling in time.

The toilet paper is back on the shelves, not that I would have actually seen it as we now do our shopping on line and on a weekly basis drive over to our local supermarket to pick up the goods including as much toilet paper as we need.  Sign of things improving? Not the way I see it.  In fact I never saw the necessity of hoarding toilet paper of all things.  Some people are so stupid you wonder how they find their way home every day.  A Lockdown positive perhaps? 

It doesn´t stop with toilet paper. The latest from the White is the new mad House in the land of the nutters across the pond is that injecting or drinking Dettol or the like will do wonders for your health.  Should you find that a little uncomfortable the alternative on offer is to shine an ultraviolet beam up your backside.  The most frightening thing is not the Nutter in Chief giving this kind of medical advice but his medical advisers sitting in the same room and in front of the cameras and not reacting.  It´s not often I feel the urge to tell 331 Million people to shape up but you really have to do something about your NiC. 

Having said that there is a lot of support in right wing Dixie for Sweden and its ”lagom” approach to Covid 19. People in Dixie are more concerned about the economy than the virus. In contrast today´s conservative national newspaper Svenska Dagbladet is showing more concern about the Social Democrat government´s approach (resulting in a large increase in the polls) rather than the economy.  Garnished with a grim looking reporter in a beard. Who would have thought that? 

Fighting like ferrets in a sack, a good old Hollywood film fist fight or just children banging each other over the head with a plastic spade over who´s got the best virus policy, I don´t know and I despair. Life has become a reality show with the ”Corona Olympics” sucking people´s energy as they keep track of the latest ”results”

Being part of a so called risk group I have resigned myself to the fact that people like me will not see life return to normal, if ever I may add, for at least another year. That means we have to stay away from anything or anybody that could transmit this virus to us. For the rest of the population their best chances lie in living in a country that offers comprehensive medical care.  Lockdowns are like panic braking.  if you want to get there, drive sensibly.  This virus is not going away anytime soon.

Is the day of reckoning upon us? I don´t think so although at the same time I feel that were it true it would bloody well serve us right. No I am not about to give a sermon on the failing of our ways to back that up but to deliver a snapshot of the state of our little nation at the very top of Mälargatan 6C in Västerås. 

Things have moved rapidly in the past few days reminiscent of my childhood Saturday morning matinees when the film broke, speeding up the action and the sound track to suddenly plunge the whole cinema into total and silent darkness for a few seconds before the lights were turned on. 

No apocalypse so far but our film has certainly picked up speed. Will it break? Your guess is as good as mine. A week ago we went shopping not unduly concerned with reports of the Corona virus tightening its grip on Europe but with extremely clean hands. No shortages although on a normal day I might have reflected that our supermarket was running low on toilet paper. Sweden´s civil defence authorities have a policy of encouraging each family to be prepared for a self sufficient period of up to 72 hours including rations and a few other necessities. Having heeded this advice for a couple of years now we see no reason to stock up further. 

Last week we also attended our weekly Bridge session although there were significantly less people there. Only the week before that we hadn´t given up on going to to Spain to see an old friend. This despite the fact that at the time he was stuck with his companion and her elderly mother and described the situation there as being under martial law. It´ll probably all blow over before May, we thought then. However with the dramatically mounting death toll in Italy and Spain and daily reports of the increasing number of deaths in other countries resulting in stricter measures to restrain the virus,  we have for the time being decided it might be wise to place ourselves into voluntary quarantine. This strategy is being recommended to risk groups including the over 70s by the Swedish health authorities. 

The strategy adopted by Sweden is facing a great deal of criticism abroad and I have of course no way of knowing who is right and who is wrong. There is however a small degree of consolation in the fact that whatever expert you listen to you will at worst be listening to some imperfect science rather than a perfect populist politician. It may be well to remember that the former will do all in his power to save lives, the latter all in his power to save himself. Small pause for reflection…..

As Gunilla and I are both retired, self isolation was actually quite easily done. In fact it is remarkable how a few routine changes, in our case mainly on a weekly basis, can result in us not getting closer than 2 metres to another human being. Sadly, family gatherings, our weekly Bridge sessions and my beer club evenings will be on hold for a while. In this day and age we no longer go to the bank or Post Office and payments both large and small can be handled by credit card or mobile phone Swish transactions. Supermarkets even have automatic lockers outside for orders made on the Internet to be picked up, once for the stressed, now for the worried.  No more meals or a beer at the 19th hole of course but a round on the  first 18 is something which will be on the cards as soon as the weather improves. Thank you Anders Tegnell.

Decisions as with personal goals are best made with the intention of complying to them or achieving them and they gain credibilty as well as stability by being time tagged. In this case we have given ourselves a time frame until the end of April coupled to an ongoing analysis of the world surrounding us and the different approaches countries are adopting in their fight to keep their citizens alive.

A Swedish proverb ”hope is the last thing to leave a human being” gives me some comfort and saves me a portion or two of embarrassment when I hope things that really are not all that hopeful. On a personal level I hope that we (kids and grandkids) will still be able to travel to the UK in July for a canalboat holiday. I hope that the virus will succumb to warmer weather. I hope that a vaccine will turn up sooner than the assessed 18 months. I hope that whatever measures are being taken in various countries that they are all successful in reducing the spread of the virus and deaths. I also hope that this teaches us all a lesson whether it be about the climate, pandemics or populist politicians.

A tradition that has fast taken hold here in Sweden is that of a Christmas turkey. I am a little unsure when the bird is actually eaten in Swedish homes as Christmas here is focused on Christmas Eve, or if this culinary migrant comes with a complementary Christmas Day dinner.  Whatever, for me it has made things a great deal easier in purchasing our yuletide fowl. This last Christmas I called our local poultry farm and as usual put in an order for a family of 12 sized bird. In contrast to earlier years I was quite specific in the description of the bird I required. In fact after repeating my requirements a second time or possibly even a third time I would not have been surprised if the woman on the phone was wondering where on a scale of slightly less intelligent to complete idiot the person she was talking to would comfortably slot into. Life has taught me that getting good results more often than not requires an extensive toolbox of personal skills. Ranging from education to experience to social skills where not bothering about looking foolish can be an added price worth paying in order to achieve success or as in this case avoid disaster. 

Just over a year ago, that is the Christmas before last, my then 9 year old grandson and I drove over to pick up our Christmas turkey. After giving the lady in the farm shop my name and the weight I had requested she walked into a back room where I assume recently slaughtered turkeys were kept only to almost immediately re-appear holding a strange looking turkey wrapped in cellophane. I couldn´t quite make out what was so strange until she put the half-bird onto the counter in front of us. “There you are, just under 6 kilos,” she said without a hint of anything being wrong.

It is at times like these that I think we human beings become aware of how quickly our minds work. There was a silence that lasted no longer than 2 or 3 seconds but in that time the following went through my mind.

• “the stupid cow has chopped the fucking turkey in half
• must have been a big bugger to start with
• how does she expect me to serve it?
• it´s Christmas tomorrow, slim chance of getting another turkey
• maybe they have a spare one?
• if not how do I serve this one?
• prop it up with toothpicks and place it at the end of the table, inwards outwards so to speak 
• only one drumstick!
• where do I put the bloody stuffing?
• keep cool Rick, no bad language, Leon is with you”

”Errm, actually I would prefer a whole turkey which I assumed was what I had ordered,” was my calculated reply that broke the silence. If there are gold medals for not blowing your top I definitely deserved one. As it turned out this calamity sorted itself out when she said she could replace this bird with a slightly larger one. I felt like snidely pointing out that what she had offered me was not a turkey, since when is a steak a cow, but the job of grandfather comes with a set of rules.

On Friday the 31st of January at 11.00 PM the United Kingdom will formally no longer be a member of the European Union. The agreed upon period of transition where much stays the same is set to one year and, according to Prime Minister Boris Johnson, will under no circumstances be extended. When Boris Alexander de Pfeffel Johnson is categoric about things most people have come to realize that the opposite is just as likely to be the case. For all the talk of a no deal crash out Brexit desired by some acceptable to others, the consequences are far too damaging, not only to ordinary people but pertinently enough to the holders of an eighty seat majority, to harbour credibility. The risks of not only losing this majority but destroying the Tory party´s chances of winning an election for a generation are too great. 

Recently the Chancellor of the Exchequer Sajid David claimed there will be no alignment with EU rules in the forthcoming negotiations. For reasons of the above that sounds like posturing to me but it also casts a shadow on Johnson´s claims that he will get a good deal by the end of the year. All very confusing as, again for reasons of the above, some sort of accomodating deal is essential and believing or lying that it can be done without alignment is like saying you would have no problem claiming an expensive seat at the Proms without having bought a ticket and dressed only in your underwear. I get the impression we are dealing with politicians who think that keeping the campaign alive will somehow make do in lieu of tangible politics. Theresa May began the process with her ”no deal is better than a bad deal” which ended in political humiliation. This kind of blackmail did not wash with the EU and ended up with Theresa May agreeing to a dogs dinner like withdrawal deal. True to form, on becoming Prime Minister, Johnson bamboozled his way to and boasted about getting a better, revised deal by putting a border in the Irish Sea, something he had voted against during May´s tenure. 

After this, much was made of getting a future trade deal with the EU and the, in the government´s view unnecessarily long transition period of two years for negotiations was reduced to half. Since then the new mantra is ”no alignment.” This makes the one year withdrawal period less understandable as no alignment will undoubtedly lead to Britain leaving the transition period without a deal. The obvious question is why bother with any period of transition at all? I can´t rid myself of the feeling that Johnson and his government have not learnt any lessons and are putting the country at risk in a new chicken race. I am reasonably convinced there is no intention of a cliff edge exit as the transition period would seem to underline and that bluffing despite the risks will see us through and the EU will eventually back down. 

As with any country, Britain´s future is reliant on where the money is made to pay the bills. After forty years of membership of the EU decisions now have to be made on the basis of non membership.

 The first step might be seen as deciding on whether to align to US standards and any potential trade deals there. Politically this would be like eating chocolate with the paper on and geographically akin to doing your shopping in Manchester whilst living in London. The obvious choice is of course to turn to our nearest neighbours and start talking which I despite everything, believe will be the outcome. All things considered the man on the street would appear to have little understanding of EU membership outside of the government´s Pied Piper sound bites, ”we want our country back, we want control of our borders, we want our sovereignty back.” It is frightening how easy it is for a government to mask its own failings by demonising something or someone else. There is little danger that Johnson and Co. believe any of this clap trap as so often with mindless campaign slogans but there are many people who do.

When it comes to living up to politics based on false promises, obfuscation or direct lies, there comes a time when they have to be addressed. In that sense shortening the transition period to one year is the child of ”no deal is better than a bad deal” and we know how that ended.

In company with walking under a ladder, crossing paths with a black cat or ensuring seven years of bad luck by breaking a mirror, a  Friday on the 13th of any month is considered bad news. Election day the 12th of December will be the day that goes down in history as the day the United Kingdom decided on Brexit. This may be so but for most of us, the shit doesn´t hit the fan before the votes have been counted and reported, that is to say on Friday the 13th of December and everything associated with that particular, unlucky day. This will be the day that etches itself into people´s memories or will it?

A society founded in the late 19th Century by an American named William Fowler sought to provoke the superstitions surrounding the number 13 by dining regularly on the 13th of every month. Googling on the subject I discovered that walking under a ladder before dinner was one of the rituals yet I found no evidence of any unlucky consequences. One might hope that the food was good to balance the obvious anti-climax of success.

Likewise, this next election will be anything but decisive and will in the following months or years be seen as just one of the steps in the torturess Brexit process with any of the outcomes being nothing but a gigantic question mark. 

1. A Tory majority = what will the deal be or hard Brexit in a year? 
2. A Labour majority = which deal will be put up against a promised referendum and then what?  
3. A hung parliament = another referendum or people´s vote and the outcome?

Brexit has from day one been a political tornado that has ravaged the country, opened up old wounds and re-drawn political affiliations. Ironically it will result in the exact opposite of the promise of taking back control. The United Kingdom as such may well not exist in a few years but even if it does it will have ruined its historical reputation as a sound and reliable democracy and possibly have relinquished its predominant place at the decision making table of european power thereby accepting a minor role on the global stage. 

Friday the 13th give or take,  this is self inflicted bad luck.

What´s the next best thing you can do if you can´t afford a winter trip to the Canary islands? For some people it would be to shame a person who can. Climate change has effectively put an end to the usual envious responses like, ”it´s too touristy for me” or ”sunbathing all day is not my cup of tea.” Of late the smug reply by anyone in need of offering such is a snide remark about climate change and flying. Before you read any further let me hasten to add that I am not a climate change denier and come out in full support of effective policies to address one of the greatest threats to our planet. Unfortunately belittling the argument for climate smart change by reducing it to a ´dog in the manger` level is not very helpful and possibly even counterproductive. 

At a friend´s dinner party the other day I was asked about our recent  trip to Australia. Before I had a chance to answer someone chirped in, ”how does that relate to being climate smart?” The person in question having once enjoyed the benefits of a university education could hardly have been in doubt as to the lack of options available , other than those at the disposal of Phineas Fogg, in reaching Australia from Sweden. So I shall leave it to whoever reads this to draw their own conclusions on why the question was asked. Without going down that path I merely pointed out that our 7000 kilometre trip from Darwin to Brisbane via Adelaide and Melbourne involved 4000 kilometres of rail travel and the 900 kilometres we flew from Adelaide to Melbourne were due to there not being a train on that particular day. The remaining 2000 kilometres from Brisbane to Cairns were by car as we wished to explore more of Queensland. 

This answer effectively put an end to the climate shaming and at the same time any further discussion which in itself is a shame. Our justice of the climate was a little put out yet silent, giving everyone the impression that we were exonerated. This is rather silly as we prefer travelling by train or boat whenever possible with flying being the last resort. Kicking down is so much easier than kicking up and may be rewarding as a stimulant to the brain such as alcohol or coffee but is less effective when it comes to catalyzing change. Kicking up is rather more difficult and apart from requiring courage it is also best done with a healthy mix of passion and knowledge. A 16 year old Swedish girl has been showing us how it´s done.