tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280975632024-03-16T02:11:22.814+01:00 Phyl's BlogWater droplets of nothingness...Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.comBlogger2916125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-2016397769644426032024-03-07T20:51:00.001+01:002024-03-07T20:59:39.323+01:00More on the maybe-auntMaybe I'm just slow, or naive, or dare I suggest too sweet at heart, but it has taken me a good number of days to realise I may have jumped to some premature assumptions on my grandfathers' front <a href="http://www.phylsblog.com/2024/02/genealogy-tips-anyone.html">the other day</a>.<div><br /></div><div>When I was mulling over the mystery of the internet stranger who's in her 70s and apparently, according to DNA at least, a direct descendant of one of my grandparents and therefore a younger half sibling to either my mother or father, I naturally assumed one of my grandfathers must have been a naughty boy. That was quite a logical conclusion of course, because in my head the only other option was one of my grandmothers having an affair and giving birth a few years after my mum or dad, then giving the child up for adoption, all without anyone noticing their new addition... sounds fairly unlikely, no? Also given it was pre-DNA-test times, would they not just have kept the sibling and passed it off as a full sibling?</div><div><br /></div><div>So, once again during my night time musings, it suddenly hit me that there's in fact a third option! What if one of my grandfathers actually wasn't my grandfather!? What if one of my grannies had an affair that resulted in my parent and simply pulled the wool over my grandfather's eyes? Then, none the wiser, the biological father could have gone on to have this maybe-aunt with a different partner; they'd still be a half aunt to me genetically. Bloody hell, my life is turning into an episode of Dallas!</div><div><br /></div><div>This, of course, means I'm now sitting here with a magnifying glass and some very old and blurred black and white photos trying to ascertain whether my mum looks like gramps or my dad looks like granda. If that turns out to be the case, then my money would now definitely be less on mum's side of the family given rumour had it my maternal granny, how shall I put it, preferred a nice cup of tea to anything in the bedroom department, no comment there. And I could add that mum and gramps are very similar looking, the only dark-eyed, dark-haired members of what had been up to then a very blonde, blue-eyed family.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sadly, my knowledge of Phyllis Buchanan Senior is quite limited. I was named after her as she died just six days before my birth. This untimely loss left my father orphaned at the tender age of 24, and as a result, discussions about Phyllis were infrequent and emotionally charged throughout dad's life. She, like many who depart prematurely, was revered in our family conversations, her memory enshrined as an almost celestial figure. Consequently, I am left with scant insight into her personal character or potential actions. Might she have been inclined towards indiscretions, could she have passed another man's child off as my granda's? I simply have no idea. I do know dad and granda had a wonderful and loving relationship and that granda was distraught when he lost Phyllis at the age of 50 but is this enough to rule it out? Dad had Phyllis's eye colour and his beard was red like her hair but I think he still looks like granda, a bit at least. </div><div><br /></div><div>And given neither of my parents had any siblings, I have no one to compare them to either physically or in personality. Arg! If mum was still about, at least I could have quizzed her about these options, and maybe asked her what her mother-in-law had been like. And I've still not tracked this woman down geographically which would help.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think on balance last week's grandfather having an affair is still the more likely scenario, but in the meantime I'm not ruling today's option out fully.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll stick a pic or two on here to see if anyone else has any theories.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mum's family: gran, mum, gramps</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZZ0j0E-b5gu-I0QAoh4rkxIK36vynq5uFIEqrDvOjdFP0fAbIP8yfhplJbCD6n7vNzyhXQXNh4mpuYBX8WEclGXcpdcx6e5XGXLLiaa7-OEjhgFJ_79b5CEcVD1LVxelXFQuAacOabssOKLyxD8rFMl6Q0kkaZO_mv-kIyC_4VhRQeW-5fs5Dw/s1536/crazy%20gran.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1164" data-original-width="1536" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZZ0j0E-b5gu-I0QAoh4rkxIK36vynq5uFIEqrDvOjdFP0fAbIP8yfhplJbCD6n7vNzyhXQXNh4mpuYBX8WEclGXcpdcx6e5XGXLLiaa7-OEjhgFJ_79b5CEcVD1LVxelXFQuAacOabssOKLyxD8rFMl6Q0kkaZO_mv-kIyC_4VhRQeW-5fs5Dw/w219-h166/crazy%20gran.jpg" width="219" /> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTva0Eq5KKeOuMm3uGgHeyk5FToJM9Bjl_hbnA5TvsaMx-zvRoSejtvVzQOq8YweCxLERdamDtugGy2Jk3Gjthp8bNdXqDkIpv2ERVuPFC7QAHa46lDfdCaxg-5A3oqjrXYpoJCIoBGzajfnaLqMyTNzvjgkSILoHQdcSCA2fzvKCzpqOQUlS1sA/s1500/08-03-02%20(7).JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1198" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTva0Eq5KKeOuMm3uGgHeyk5FToJM9Bjl_hbnA5TvsaMx-zvRoSejtvVzQOq8YweCxLERdamDtugGy2Jk3Gjthp8bNdXqDkIpv2ERVuPFC7QAHa46lDfdCaxg-5A3oqjrXYpoJCIoBGzajfnaLqMyTNzvjgkSILoHQdcSCA2fzvKCzpqOQUlS1sA/w159-h200/08-03-02%20(7).JPG" title="mum" width="159" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzaQO5dqL19IF6Co7oeUF-vZhfvhIZ9_cX8EJhwYWaolf-QLlYIgEsDrLuS089kdYptGuv_uCxMMYqnu6iX9C5OnPAxI1tmA7RK8NSBBiSLiSX_lBGN7XRr3m6JOkB3hRJJikziKG_b0j2ssuUUU7Oe9hzFDnCqtcDOCm3Zc8ED33-nCf8heWSw/s1170/gramps%20xmas%2095.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="1116" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzaQO5dqL19IF6Co7oeUF-vZhfvhIZ9_cX8EJhwYWaolf-QLlYIgEsDrLuS089kdYptGuv_uCxMMYqnu6iX9C5OnPAxI1tmA7RK8NSBBiSLiSX_lBGN7XRr3m6JOkB3hRJJikziKG_b0j2ssuUUU7Oe9hzFDnCqtcDOCm3Zc8ED33-nCf8heWSw/w234-h246/gramps%20xmas%2095.jpg" width="234" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzaQO5dqL19IF6Co7oeUF-vZhfvhIZ9_cX8EJhwYWaolf-QLlYIgEsDrLuS089kdYptGuv_uCxMMYqnu6iX9C5OnPAxI1tmA7RK8NSBBiSLiSX_lBGN7XRr3m6JOkB3hRJJikziKG_b0j2ssuUUU7Oe9hzFDnCqtcDOCm3Zc8ED33-nCf8heWSw/s1170/gramps%20xmas%2095.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Dad's family: gran, granda, dad</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgombDeaaDBY7ACrBLKFAsKOUfahN0GDJaZv0D1UsGNdeHnlOHwCZ7LYdt-mnZ5BSoUaj9ZPQ_tqv9KhkZANOZ5hy4ufj3iKiE-v8H9MAQ59xdm6D_b21rt1SP7JirDgeGqCHVmOQTvNWajAZa-bKGQUgt53MqkiUOHWh5jY2L3wySKKJePqrM_8w/s572/Phyllis65.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="572" data-original-width="500" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgombDeaaDBY7ACrBLKFAsKOUfahN0GDJaZv0D1UsGNdeHnlOHwCZ7LYdt-mnZ5BSoUaj9ZPQ_tqv9KhkZANOZ5hy4ufj3iKiE-v8H9MAQ59xdm6D_b21rt1SP7JirDgeGqCHVmOQTvNWajAZa-bKGQUgt53MqkiUOHWh5jY2L3wySKKJePqrM_8w/w224-h256/Phyllis65.jpg" width="224" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltVmjFDNx2mkZfA8GW-CvQQoCKu7iW4PL4wz_HMEATdFBSlKH3R0FsACL-GskklG7Waymz2g12WSk04MAumkDIWv38U8AGyR6YvmPmQsef8GL-mEbgDV2CL7Bz3wTj3XAAVoP9zQyBe6zQsEP8gbkNWnFe3hLzKNJVL6ZkkXYSrYDQ0OpKmDWtg/s450/grandaalone.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="387" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltVmjFDNx2mkZfA8GW-CvQQoCKu7iW4PL4wz_HMEATdFBSlKH3R0FsACL-GskklG7Waymz2g12WSk04MAumkDIWv38U8AGyR6YvmPmQsef8GL-mEbgDV2CL7Bz3wTj3XAAVoP9zQyBe6zQsEP8gbkNWnFe3hLzKNJVL6ZkkXYSrYDQ0OpKmDWtg/w210-h244/grandaalone.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje3pKJ9l16gnYLVdt3Y8NwMojk-Bkxoc5mtLroap432Prm099eE_OrlFaBBZ3zPQMh7X6WgdFToAg92K3qdXPGWdT8onDf9u789IJ4lzzsVHXa7XCm7PE8AmziqyF3ks5XrgjI27ZjFi8IGHOHzQvi4H6aCSkczMPgT2dklqWoeJdaRq4OMfZFSw/s1494/06-10-22%20055.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1494" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje3pKJ9l16gnYLVdt3Y8NwMojk-Bkxoc5mtLroap432Prm099eE_OrlFaBBZ3zPQMh7X6WgdFToAg92K3qdXPGWdT8onDf9u789IJ4lzzsVHXa7XCm7PE8AmziqyF3ks5XrgjI27ZjFi8IGHOHzQvi4H6aCSkczMPgT2dklqWoeJdaRq4OMfZFSw/s320/06-10-22%20055.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br />Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-85993753057505009182024-02-29T17:07:00.011+01:002024-03-01T16:04:47.579+01:00Genealogy tips, anyone?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-5MpulmkjJaabIfmTTWo9RFu7qaNmMHyeR5HppYAOhOjqFHmTSejaoW8b-verwVhTw4r6amNLYvpbFY1qf5u4JHgdFxEOceX-GTrzGblE5FBaWflwOBD6KuEqZ76jL42NSsklura2cLd3LwsVfpiHD5f1TGFDrDDsyjWjq3pp6M-oEpnFrDN2mA/s2660/Screenshot%202024-03-01%20at%2010.51.57.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1231" data-original-width="2660" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-5MpulmkjJaabIfmTTWo9RFu7qaNmMHyeR5HppYAOhOjqFHmTSejaoW8b-verwVhTw4r6amNLYvpbFY1qf5u4JHgdFxEOceX-GTrzGblE5FBaWflwOBD6KuEqZ76jL42NSsklura2cLd3LwsVfpiHD5f1TGFDrDDsyjWjq3pp6M-oEpnFrDN2mA/w635-h293/Screenshot%202024-03-01%20at%2010.51.57.png" width="635" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Thomas got the two of us those genealogy test things for Xmas as he thought it would be fun. He knew his dad was German, his mum Danish, but had always suspected given how swarthy some of his ancestors on his mum's side were that there might be some fun little gems in there too. <p></p><p>As for me, we kind of figured I'd be entirely boring. I knew my great gran was from Ashton-under-Lyne in England and my great great grandpa was Irish, but other than that to my knowledge I was entirely, boringly 100% Scottish, though like Thomas my family was entirely fair-skinned and blue and green-eyed until my gramps and mum suddenly popped out much darker than expected, and brown-eyed. A born traveller, I secretly hoped against all evidence that I would be more exotic than I realised, even just a wee 2% something else, but I didn't dare get my hopes up too high. </p><p>So, we did the wee swab things, sent them off to Germany and more or less forgot about it after that, till ten days ago when we were in Scotland.</p><p>Then the two emails came in...</p><p>So, sadly we're still in the dark as to why Thomas has several ancestors with dark eyes and skin, which he didn't inherit himself, as his DNA came back even less exotic than just half German, half Danish; it actually pinpointed that he is half Schwäbisch, half Jutlandic! With a mum from Odder in Jutland and a dad from Stuttgart, I'm not sure that was overly enlightening. Money back time????</p><p>I, on the other hand, got much more than I was bargaining for and it more than made up for Thomas's yawn-worthy results! Mine came back only 78% Celtic, which was a shock, but more of a surprise was that I was 15% Scandinavian. Given I thought even my Scandy kids were only 25% Scandinavian until last week, this is a huge surprise for everyone. I did chuckle to myself thinking that even my French kids were part Scandinavian. I'm not sure my ex-husband would approve. He might even accuse me of having had an affair with Thomas five years before I met him! 😂 </p><p>So, maybe I was originally Danish and could find some loophole to actually qualify for a Danish passport after all these years here as it is one of the hardest passports to qualify for! Moving further across Europe I'm also apparently 7% Eastern European, probably Polish/Ukrainian! Having booked to meet up with my bigger kids in Gdańsk for a week next month, I might go looking for some long-lost rellies while I'm over there! 😃</p><p>So, blown away by this info, I hardly noticed the other info attached to my findings and went off to bed mulling over my new multifacteted, jet-setting background. At 3am however I found myself fully awake, sitting bolt upright...</p><p>My subconscious had well and truly kicked in.<i style="font-weight: bold;"> Wtaf</i><i> did I read under my ethnicity results? </i>Sleeping in my nephew's bedroom, I searched the floor under his futon with my fingertips till I found both my phone and glasses. Under my ethnicity results was a list of people on their database that I was very distantly related to. Our DNA matched 2%, 1.6%, 0.8%. This wasn't overly interesting, but one person on their long list stood out: a woman. The only info on the database was her name, her age (70-79) and that she is resident in the UK. Our DNA match was over 12.5% and it stated that she could only be one of two relationships: a first cousin or a half aunt. And they indicated with a neat graph that half aunt was much more likely than cousin. </p><p>But here's the Halloween-sized family skeleton! Because both my parents were only children, I knew I definitely didn't have any first cousins. But till last week I didn't think I could have any half aunts either! 70s would make her most likely a half sibling to one of my parents who currently would have been 79 and 80 had they lived. My dad's parents were never apart, not even during the war as granda was an essential munitions worker at Glasgow forge with flat feet into the bargain and though dad was an only child, he was more an only surviving child as his parents had two further kids after him who died at birth of Rhesus disease. I'm not fully ruling out dad's dad having an affair or a drunken one-night stand but it seems highly unlikely. Gramps (mum's dad) however was a different kettle of fish. In the RAF till 1948, stationed around Blackpool, while mum and gran lived in Springburn alone, he spent the majority of the first four years of mum's life leading a very separate life from his wife and child. Later in the 1940s my gran had to move to England (Wolverhampton) to care for her older sister who was dying of cancer, so once again the family was apart for some time.</p><p>And here's the most frustrating thing. There's a contact email for this half aunt, so of course I contacted her (extremely tactfully!) to try to work out at least from geography who she's most likely to be related to, but she hasn't replied. Is she in shock? Hasn't she seen it? Has she died since her DNA was analysed? Arg, I'm so frustrated!!!!</p><p>I don't know if the surname on her DNA results is her birth name, married name or other. Her first name is a diminutive form too, so is that her real full name or has she shortened it? Anyway, the bottom line is that I have checked the birth records from 69-80 years ago for anyone of that name in Scotland, England and Wales and when that drew a blank, I looked for anyone with that first name to see if she'd married a man of that surname any time between the 60s and now and that drew a blank too! So what now?! Just a hint as to where this woman was born could confirm or negate any of my grandfather suspicions. I don't know where to look now, but the bottom line is that someone covered up something big in my family back in the forties. It's sad to think that if I do manage to do some sleuthing neither mum nor dad is about to find out about their potential long lost half sibling.</p><p>Oh the scandal and intrigue!</p>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-8860873857535393082024-02-26T15:59:00.003+01:002024-02-26T23:28:28.639+01:00Mum and her mum<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn0wiJuA__sxDZnqSnAlRqqNuVyTNKPQeI6_RQpW4XT4db69iDCQNKKJDVbqaur2tj-YNpINfLT2_BIsx1zsYSzWi1bfi1Z1YrZKPZPpqRZj8vEhyIZ5I9QjnRGx_npTv9vKFhFOHWH8y8Xu-f7lrOKh2bZE3S4tSseSJ4IiZg-mzWCaiuS_MLGg/s944/IMG_5666.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="944" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn0wiJuA__sxDZnqSnAlRqqNuVyTNKPQeI6_RQpW4XT4db69iDCQNKKJDVbqaur2tj-YNpINfLT2_BIsx1zsYSzWi1bfi1Z1YrZKPZPpqRZj8vEhyIZ5I9QjnRGx_npTv9vKFhFOHWH8y8Xu-f7lrOKh2bZE3S4tSseSJ4IiZg-mzWCaiuS_MLGg/w289-h193/IMG_5666.jpeg" width="289" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />I'm not usually much of an anniversaries kind of person. If someone forgets my wedding anniversary, I'm not devastated. After all it falls on an arbitrary date nearly 3 years after we actually wanted to hold it, decided partly by the date my ex finally gave up his nearly 4-year battle to not let me divorce him and was brought forward when my husband was threatened with redundancy leaving us without the funds to marry when we'd actually planned. Romantic, huh? I always wanted a summer wedding as I love summer. My wedding anniversary is in February🙄<p></p><p>Maybe it runs in the family? As a child I remember asking my granny when she got married, to which she replied <i>'it was either 6 o'clock on September 7th or 7 o'clock on September 6th. I can't remember...'</i> either that or she didn't want to, she always found my gramps a bit of a handful. </p><p>My own mother, her daughter, was the opposite. Birthdays, anniversaries, Mother's Day etc were big. Expensive cards and flowers marked every occasion and you daren't forget. Long after I had given up sending Christmas cards, for the sake of the planet, honest, I still sent one - to my mother. Dad was a bit more forgetful, often wishing me a happy birthday on my brother's birthday or similar, but he wouldn't have dared forget one of their special couple dates. </p><p>Death anniversaries, well deaths that marked her, mattered too. I once noticed the symbol 'x' on her kitchen wall calendar. The year was 1986 and there seemed to be an 'x' on the 11th of each month, starting in March. I enquired what the 'x' meant and was told each 'x' marked a month on from the day someone had run over her cat, Snoopy. A decade later there were no 'x's on 27, the date of her own father's death. Hmmmm.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCK3AG-9ZT2FdoBtrEidgcfCR9A589mlUfdbixwAkMVCWr9ID45Yjp0ZzilADFyLl3Ehnfap1JVrCfQaw94rQSg_Psg496QfjZTcHkmqgSTyo2efGcI-MH1esUFBozs3maPnXdvkSEIu2mZ9UCsCA76aBNhLo5w3FtB7XIkOSo42YjSJQKghX8CQ/s1110/Balloon%20tennis.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="1110" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCK3AG-9ZT2FdoBtrEidgcfCR9A589mlUfdbixwAkMVCWr9ID45Yjp0ZzilADFyLl3Ehnfap1JVrCfQaw94rQSg_Psg496QfjZTcHkmqgSTyo2efGcI-MH1esUFBozs3maPnXdvkSEIu2mZ9UCsCA76aBNhLo5w3FtB7XIkOSo42YjSJQKghX8CQ/w182-h129/Balloon%20tennis.jpg" width="182" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I've always found grieving to be more something that can hit you unexpectedly. I can hear a song I associated with my dad, happen upon an old photo, smell mum's perfume or catch a look in my kids' eyes that reminds me of how one of them looked, or I even a glimpse of myself in the mirror first thing in the morning with no makeup and that sets off the pain much more than a simple date on a calendar. </p><p>Maybe I relate less to dates because I have moved time zone in my life. Had I had my boys where I live now, both would have a different birthday to the one they actually have, given both were born in the UK after 11pm, so dates are less set in my head.</p><p>Years later, mum's date obsession became an issue for me. My dad died on May 11 2012. Every 11th of the month that year, her usually sad and lost demeanour visibly worsened and she wanted to talk about little other than how awful the 11th made her feel. This broke my heart at first; she had never been without him in her adult life; she, like dad, was only in her 60s; it just wasn't fair but as the months passed I got more agitated. It felt almost like she was deliberately gearing herself up to be extra miserable on the 11th of each month, than she already was and I had a vested interest. Of all 8 of her grandchildren, only one had a birthday that fell on the 11th and she was one of mine. Approaching 3, I didn't want her birthday tied up in the spiral of sadness that the 11th was becoming. And give her her due, she didn't let that one 11th descend into depression just eight months on, but I certainly dreaded it more than I should had dreaded my baby's birthday that year.</p><p>So, today my mum has been dead for two years. It feels both like she's been gone for a decade, and simultaneously like she died last week. Growing up, February 26 was always a fun day as it was my gran's birthday. We knew we'd get nice fairy cakes and we'd spend the weeks beforehand saving up to buy her a little something: a cotton hanky with flowers on, a pin cushion, a hairbrush, a vase from a corner shop, something small that would be greeted with great appreciation. Even after she died, I still tended to remember Feb 26 with a smile as it had always been a big deal. It also marked the beginning of a big surge of birthdays in our tiny family. There were only the four of us, two grandfathers and one grandmother and of those all except my brother had their birthdays in the six weeks around Feb 26. To me that date was synonymous with endless cake and the making of cards. And by adulthood one of my best friends also had that birthday so there was always something to celebrate, usually over a shared plate of chips in the Collins canteen.</p><p>So now I'm not really sure how I am meant to feel about Feb 26 anymore. There's something rather unnerving about mum dying on her own mum's birthday. </p><p>I really am at a loss.</p>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-19690155538792510392024-01-17T19:41:00.009+01:002024-01-18T15:38:37.117+01:00Animal farm revisited<p style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; border: 0px solid rgb(217, 217, 227); box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 1.25em; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Yd1_LuHRvntmUnu0sxHK5u_jAlqolg4dms6YF91WGcEAx5J4WwFW1NGtmESUaxptBViRkua50XsCPDJS36dV0PyNM3mP-BUn-49BRF6QQsFrCSc9wTTCmv8oeF6BPAsn73f3B1dYHUHPMygFnJhjbi_uBcF88_xGWs_YfrzAzmvhP_rSXkf9qg/s4032/2023-09-29%2011.12.32.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Yd1_LuHRvntmUnu0sxHK5u_jAlqolg4dms6YF91WGcEAx5J4WwFW1NGtmESUaxptBViRkua50XsCPDJS36dV0PyNM3mP-BUn-49BRF6QQsFrCSc9wTTCmv8oeF6BPAsn73f3B1dYHUHPMygFnJhjbi_uBcF88_xGWs_YfrzAzmvhP_rSXkf9qg/w172-h229/2023-09-29%2011.12.32.jpg" width="172" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.phylsblog.com/2024/01/queen-out-king-in.html">Yesterday's post</a> left me ruminating on the concept of equality, and its impact struck me more profoundly than I initially realised, beneath the veneer of my flippant tone.</span><p></p><p style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; border: 0px solid rgb(217, 217, 227); box-sizing: border-box; margin: 1.25em 0px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For any immigrant in Denmark, especially during their initial decade of residency, the foremost stressor is often the instability stemming from the lack of either permanent residency or citizenship. Let's juxtapose the journeys of two couples. It starts out along the same path:</span></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">one partner is born in 1968, the other in 1972</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">he is a Dane, she is a UK citizen or a dual UK/Aussie citizen</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">they meet in the home of the non-Danish partner in the early 2000s</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">they have a few kids together and stay married till at least 2024, with no plans to change that</span></li></ul><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">So far so good but things diverge then...</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">In couple one, they marry and the non-Dane is granted full citizenship on the day of their marriage just four years after their first meeting and less than two years after arriving permanently in Denmark. Hey, the government even rewrites the immigration rules for her and has the Monarch okay the change and it's given the cutesy title <a href="https://www.retsinformation.dk/eli/lta/2004/212">'Mary's law'</a>, because after all it only applies to one person, Mary. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Let's look at the other couple now... </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">With only eight weeks preparation they move to Denmark in 2019 unimaginably stressed because of how precarious their predicament has become in the UK, where they had set up home together in 2006, four years after they first met. They are up against the Brexit clock because moving after the UK's exit would have huge repercussions. The date for Brexit keeps changing so they have no idea what they are up against. She has just undergone a full hysterectomy because of two pre-cancerous grapefruit-sized tumours on her ovaries so can barely stand up but be that as it may they have no option but to move before Brexit to be ensured a future as a family. After the magical, yet illusory Brexit date:</span></div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">She wouldn't be allowed to own a house in Denmark for the first five years as she would have lost her EU citizenship</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her rights to stay with her family wouldn't be covered by the UK's EU withdrawal agreement</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her driving licence wouldn't be valid any more</span></li></ul><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks Britain, just thanks!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">So in a rush, they arrive in Denmark in early 2019. She finds out that to obtain a guaranteed secure future in the country of her husband and children's citizenship, she needs to go through the following steps:</span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Live in Denmark continuously for 5 years to apply for permanent residence (it's usually 8 if you're Australian)</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Apply for no money from the Danish state, and therefore remain ineligible for all help in finding employment for the first five years. You're on your own with that task.</span></li><li><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Be fully self-sufficient</span></span></li><li><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Have no breaks in your residence in Denmark</span></span></li><li><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pass a C1 Danish language exam</span></span></li><li><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pass the knowledge of Denmark Naturalisation exam</span></span></li><li><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Have no criminal convictions</span></span></li><li><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Live in Denmark a further 2+ years after the 5 you needed for your permanent residency card before attempting to get citizenship</span></span></li><li><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Have a full-time job for at least 3 years and 6 months within the 4 years prior to applying for citizenship*... lose it for 7 months and you're back to square one requiring a further 3.5 years work. Non-EU citizens must earn a minimum of DKK 487,000. (Covid getting you laid off is not a valid excuse, neither is serious illness!) It's like playing a grotesque game of snakes and ladders with your life and future.</span></span></li><li><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Swear allegiance to the state and the monarch (I guess the two couples converge again here momentarily!)</span></span></li><li><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sign up for a naturalisation ceremony</span></span></li><li><span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pay DKK 3,800</span></span></span></li></ul><div><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The journey becomes even more stressful with changes in government over the course of that decade often moving the goalposts after years of diligent effort.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span>Finding and sustaining full-time employment in one's mid to late 50s poses a significant challenge, particularly when seeking further training or assistance from the local job c</span></span><span>entre would nullify t</span><span>he terms of your residency for the first five years. So far I am no closer to my goal as I can only find freelance jobs, and as I turn 56 next month I suspect the </span></span><span style="font-size: 16px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">insurmountable</span></span><span style="color: #374151; font-family: Söhne, ui-sans-serif, system-ui, -apple-system, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Noto Sans", sans-serif, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", "Noto Color Emoji"; font-size: 16px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">3.5 year rule will be the hurdle at which my ability to ever gain the same citizenship as my husband and children ultimately falls. And with that goal goes all hope of security and a guarantee of a future no state can remove from us at a whim.🙁</span></div></div><p></p><p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Reflecting on the divergent trajectories of these initially parallel paths, I'm compelled to acknowledge that the concept of equality seems to have slipped through the cracks.</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>Fully 22 years after I met my Dane and five years after our move, I am no closer to what she magically achieved in four short years than I have ever been. <span style="font-family: inherit;">Her family matters much more than mine; the trauma they would suffer if she was no longer allowed to reside with her husband and kids is considered somehow greater and more important than the trauma my kids and husband would feel in the same situation... It all feels kinda sucky. 🙁 </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I come from a country where even Royal foreigners are made to jump through hideous hoops to be allowed the peace of mind that lets them stay with their partner, married or not, parent of a UK citizen or not. Don't get me wrong, I am not part of the school that adheres to the idea that I had to suffer so you bloody well should too. I am more someone who thinks that this modern situation where parents do not have an automatic right to live in the country where there kids have citizenship or with their partner of many years, without fearing which whim of the current administration will potentially send them into a tailspin of terror is a sad place to be. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eighteen years and several kids down the line, ours obviously wasn't a marriage of convenience, so it would be nice if one of our governments saw us as human beings rather than just statistics.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />*Education doesn't count towards citizenship, so if like Léon you came here at 13, you can only start to work towards your 3.5 years of work requirement once you finish your uni degree at the age of 25, so in his case citizenship will have taken much more than half his lifetime to achieve: Arriving at 13, working till 28.5 (15.5 years later). </span></p>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-12671689854924951962024-01-16T16:24:00.014+01:002024-01-16T19:20:49.013+01:00Queen out, King in<p>It would appear Denmark has a new monarch. </p><p>Back on New Year's Eve I happened to see the Queen's speech. Normally I don't make a habit of watching it, but I'd been ill all Xmas with some flu-like thing and hadn't been outside so I was lying on the couch when it came on so I just let it roll. It's actually quite a compliment that I bothered given I have never, not even once in my life, seen the UK monarch's Christmas speech! As a good Scottish republican family, I was brought up to know that the one thing you really must never do is sit down to watch old Lizzie address the nation, though I guess it is probably Charlie these days. </p><p>I saw the Danish one the first year after I arrived here as my homework for Danish class was to listen to it to see what I understood. Unlike most Danes the old Queen speaks very slowly and clearly and is positively a delight if you're a foreigner, from a comprehension point of view anyway, even if you have your reservations constitutionally! Most foreigners coming here really struggle to understand spoken Danish more than any other form of the language as Danes mumble, swallow the ends of their words and speak quickly. Given I learnt Danish passively by hearing it over many years, understanding spoken Danish is what I find easiest, even today. It definitely outstripped my ability to speak the language back then for sure, but I followed the teacher's instructions as my first lesson on arrival here was the last one before Xmas, only to find out that when I went back in January that I had been moved into a whole different class with a different teacher and completely different homework!</p><p>So, there it was running in the background when two minutes from the end of a fairly long and not overly riveting speech she nonchalantly announced she was going to abdicate in a fortnight. This was a bit of a shocker given no one has abdicated in Denmark for 878 years. Denmark went into meltdown. First there was a half hour of shocked silence where people acted like she'd upped and died during her speech but they all seem to worship her the way bees do their queen, so within half and hour the hive mind had collectively decided that if their beloved Daisy had decided to resign then that must be the most wonderful event ever to befall the Danish people and not only would it be ideal for her to step down but it would also be just perfect to see her son and his wife take over the throne two weeks later and they would turn their love and adoration to him as well/instead. Polls on the day said support for the monarchy was up at 80% 😮 (wtaf!) with only one in five Danes having any reservations about spending their hard-earned tax money on this family's luxurious lifestyle, oops I mean service to the nation. Wow, what an interesting take from a country that professes to prize equality over most things. I guess some really are more equal than others...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTEjmcq1CFvemLHHiHxs_COWq-TiOwknHwMkTD0Gw3pY6pi9PgwkRliKP5TLoPAPqmBNVxbGUCew5pHtBJzKlBX61PrOGw1rrK6OLFtzEgBzD9eo8Tn9onUeMqW6dbf15u_yf6XJbEtRuIkQZA1krvl4Gx-idp7-Y023ntVlUAW1q0DZXc6lardw/s1170/2023-12-31%2018.14.07.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="858" data-original-width="1170" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTEjmcq1CFvemLHHiHxs_COWq-TiOwknHwMkTD0Gw3pY6pi9PgwkRliKP5TLoPAPqmBNVxbGUCew5pHtBJzKlBX61PrOGw1rrK6OLFtzEgBzD9eo8Tn9onUeMqW6dbf15u_yf6XJbEtRuIkQZA1krvl4Gx-idp7-Y023ntVlUAW1q0DZXc6lardw/s320/2023-12-31%2018.14.07.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>So last Sunday was the day. I figured I should get into the spirit of being Danish by buying a cake to celebrate the big event. Unfortunately the whole of Funen had the same idea and my favourite prize-winning bakery had already tweeted this before I woke up!</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSq8R_tVUTXrRPCCcpkZ3KnibqDxgAXHnkdc8vsHtlDRRxorqqHmKekhyphenhyphenIzlLC8eIoJioC1j6h7w4-jlgw1EsgBz0cbsaS2BhZ5YsJc8NwBLVY-ZPuWM68oWDB3UPvDEtbQ-MVNEksdCJjlK5EBaTiCVmHuMploMFJO9FhQFQV6AyrQZ-ajbvLg/s1295/Screenshot%202024-01-16%20at%2015.35.06.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="884" data-original-width="1295" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSq8R_tVUTXrRPCCcpkZ3KnibqDxgAXHnkdc8vsHtlDRRxorqqHmKekhyphenhyphenIzlLC8eIoJioC1j6h7w4-jlgw1EsgBz0cbsaS2BhZ5YsJc8NwBLVY-ZPuWM68oWDB3UPvDEtbQ-MVNEksdCJjlK5EBaTiCVmHuMploMFJO9FhQFQV6AyrQZ-ajbvLg/w182-h124/Screenshot%202024-01-16%20at%2015.35.06.png" width="182" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>But when it comes to cake I am not that easily defeated, so off to the big Coop bakery in Søndersø I went instead. It was a ghost town, not to mention almost sold out too. There were maybe two cars in the car park, while the rest of Denmark sat glued to the telly or better still in the courtyard of their parliament building waiting for the new monarch to be presented.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjJ_B45BAw9RX8cnzM-ehhp9fVdCUPItheK68UdopsF5cAFFO2g9vbIGjIGUTXs4RmvhFHHZHAa5InXMbQw8xZGpL9F2XPwKKrKe1vfkAVHaHl9BiKo7GYzU4zr59Czrc5dr27YptoiDkszyaMwI533REZNtUAL6QmgV1Qeq3OJNvBvoGObrZ7UA" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1735" data-original-width="2628" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjJ_B45BAw9RX8cnzM-ehhp9fVdCUPItheK68UdopsF5cAFFO2g9vbIGjIGUTXs4RmvhFHHZHAa5InXMbQw8xZGpL9F2XPwKKrKe1vfkAVHaHl9BiKo7GYzU4zr59Czrc5dr27YptoiDkszyaMwI533REZNtUAL6QmgV1Qeq3OJNvBvoGObrZ7UA" width="320" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAqIJjowsxqJ1KrWO7C3MOx4x3iXX7zTDCyxJ40GRz1P4Ygq0F8TRYJl9RZ_JswWFuCIi30wPB7NGl84pqV9bCOEKlE5Zj15_YEtVawQT0nKf1-pn8mFCpFcric_Kry1QesMXWyPFu_JEWgp1HCzdFhR86_c5uM8Wjx8XCDjPNSZC03EvUbjFWGw" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAqIJjowsxqJ1KrWO7C3MOx4x3iXX7zTDCyxJ40GRz1P4Ygq0F8TRYJl9RZ_JswWFuCIi30wPB7NGl84pqV9bCOEKlE5Zj15_YEtVawQT0nKf1-pn8mFCpFcric_Kry1QesMXWyPFu_JEWgp1HCzdFhR86_c5uM8Wjx8XCDjPNSZC03EvUbjFWGw=w164-h218" width="164" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>
There's nothing quite like a change of the head of state in one's new country to make you feel reeeeally foreign in your adopted home...</div><div><br /></div><div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8J9X4333nW0?si=jCuYffqgaSPWUto1" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div>There were flags up in people's gardens, kids wearing crowns looking like they'd been on a mass outing to Burger King, folk waving flags galore, weeping pensioners, 90 000 people on parliament square in the freezing cold chanting 'hurrah' in unison with the Prime Minister in some vaguely culty manner! They were even all over TikTok sharing this kind of thing: </div><div><br /></div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ENRepPBB6wI?si=XKUs55nUdgdM35HI" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div>Watching their traditions, for example that the monarch has to ride in some golden horse-drawn carriage presumably without the heated seats and comfortable suspension of the car used to transport the rest of the entourage seemed a bit to me like they'd drawn the short straw. No wonder the old girl decided to resign if it got her out the carriage into the limo! One thing I could never have in Northern Europe is a car without heated seats in the winter!</div><div><br /></div><div>Nor have I ever been overly comfortable with all the deferential curtsying and bowing. There was King Frederik bowing to his own mother. What?! My kids sure don't so that when I'm around! It's just plain weird. And as she stood up to leave the room she proclaimed <i>'Gud bevare Kongen!' (God save the King). </i>Again, it's just not something my mother ever said leaving me or my brother to go into another room! It's just all kind of unrelatable! Maybe it's actually monarchies in general rather than specifically this one that I struggle with. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is a little country and seems to function more like a clan than a nation. As a foreigner, I could see how they all felt, but I couldn't feel it. I didn't know how to. What makes this family different to any other here? The new King was born the same year as me, has four kids instead of five. Are we really that different? Apparently, so, but I am not sure why! I definitely felt very much an outsider watching this national family party that I felt I just hadn't been invited to, mentally at least! I secretly wonder whether the new Queen herself, a fellow foreigner, felt just a tiny bit on the outside of all this too, or maybe it's easier to feel part of it all when the crowd is going wild for you, the state is filling your bank account and instead of a ten year plus battle for Danish citizenship, you're simply given it as a freebie on your marriage!</div><div><br /></div><div>Interestingly, when the kids went into school on Monday morning, Léon whose Gymnasium class is in their final year and full of 19-20 year olds, said that to a man they were gushing over the weekend as if a member of their own family had married and thrown the best party ever. Anna whose class is two years younger and still in the first year of Gym were on the whole the same, though a few were more neutral, however Amaia who is in her first year of the 3-year middle school, surrounded by 14 year olds, said no one mentioned it and when the history teacher tried to engage them on the topic of the historical occasion from the day before no one showed the slightest interest in any of it! Come to think of it the kids in the crowd at the actual event were all very much younger than Amaia. Maybe it is cool to rebel at 14, but by 20 you are back securely in the fold of this enormous family.<br /><div><br /></div><div>I suspect this is all very familiar to those who watched Charles' do last year in England but you see I was way too busy washing my hair that day to catch any of the footage. 😉</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Anna summed it up on the day for this house succinctly... </div><div>Anna: <i>You see that crowd of people waiting outside in the cold to greet the new king of Denmark, mum?</i></div><div>Me: <i>Yes.</i></div><div>Anna: <i>I can guarantee you one thing... My future husband is not in that crowd!</i>🤣</div>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-27071938801726306332024-01-15T11:29:00.003+01:002024-01-15T15:12:03.508+01:00Flores de Pascua?<p>I know I know a language or two, but I wouldn't say my Spanish is quite up there at the level of some of the others I've learnt, though I am attempting to get better at it given my daughter seems to have moved there! I could probably write a short blogpost in it, even if I still find it harder to converse with the natives as yet.</p><p>When I was over for a week just before Xmas, I noticed the festive decorations in Madrid seemed unlike those I was used to from other countries I have spent Christmas in: Scotland, France, Germany and Denmark. The predominant white and cream lights I was used to were replaced by spring flowers in myriad colours. I asked Lots if this was traditional all over Spain and she admitted she was puzzled. She'd been in Barcelona a week earlier and also in Segovia and their lights were more what she was expecting.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5qJZF_yfXBkqmOs7eJDoUjYrKffsorqVLDu4uWtzgvgY76WQQQEz_F1YeQ_c9pXnK-AiseOKPucf7jRUPqnEmcnhmeerQhjg6SsJKgTmpwK0i4imlHwAyunRza_YtHngtUV_aotPmGTJ11u34REChdNqRMchcj6bNYvVSk7EkLYH0bVZrJncNw/s4032/2023-12-08%2019.13.07.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5qJZF_yfXBkqmOs7eJDoUjYrKffsorqVLDu4uWtzgvgY76WQQQEz_F1YeQ_c9pXnK-AiseOKPucf7jRUPqnEmcnhmeerQhjg6SsJKgTmpwK0i4imlHwAyunRza_YtHngtUV_aotPmGTJ11u34REChdNqRMchcj6bNYvVSk7EkLYH0bVZrJncNw/s320/2023-12-08%2019.13.07.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Madrid had daffodils, tulips, fuchsias and snowdrops above the road on the Gran Vía! I happened to remark that it all felt a little more like Easter flowers than Xmas ones. Charlotte started to laugh.<i> Do you think they maybe used a foreign contractor to manufacture and provide this year's lights?</i> she asked. <i>Why? </i>I wondered. <div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq8do4iCRqNaKSIFrjKT9fziJBUYWkwg1RUW_izT5b1oL-LtINUzQq4f3uoI7g55iq1JvTbllgCGZVw_QcdjfZWdPivsqbJjph_I-QwixHPK1_qKEekCjHvkh9lMCXHKBTqmgQ5Jv9QbEu28IAFHgKnehB0mInaS8Cl0PsNlwfU6P26IHzufvo3w/s4032/2023-12-08%2019.17.04.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq8do4iCRqNaKSIFrjKT9fziJBUYWkwg1RUW_izT5b1oL-LtINUzQq4f3uoI7g55iq1JvTbllgCGZVw_QcdjfZWdPivsqbJjph_I-QwixHPK1_qKEekCjHvkh9lMCXHKBTqmgQ5Jv9QbEu28IAFHgKnehB0mInaS8Cl0PsNlwfU6P26IHzufvo3w/w187-h249/2023-12-08%2019.17.04.jpg" width="187" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOmgA9gFdqZZA3YwO00BygGC-qT_of69a-0r1YSKpRvW7ATmjUvE9y7Y0RLILqELLSHmkYB37voopnoIBEObNwLhLBmchKQs6PvGIbF-cgR-gSEgtyJQL94EIfTRR-5mHAMblF4fHS8o7iCpwMyITomA1m3oYCBn8ewPNP6-3LQ3BBSqxJFOx8fQ/s4032/2023-12-08%2019.10.41.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOmgA9gFdqZZA3YwO00BygGC-qT_of69a-0r1YSKpRvW7ATmjUvE9y7Y0RLILqELLSHmkYB37voopnoIBEObNwLhLBmchKQs6PvGIbF-cgR-gSEgtyJQL94EIfTRR-5mHAMblF4fHS8o7iCpwMyITomA1m3oYCBn8ewPNP6-3LQ3BBSqxJFOx8fQ/w186-h248/2023-12-08%2019.10.41.jpg" width="186" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fUAIwka5s2xRqQGIpTxN9K4jHNbOrwvBJ2XdmLpVVWXmlK4dMQ7PbQG4LqrO560yDvkLVF7zeEBb4yjPOsdI0xVv_PD81CyK45050Su65KuMdqcDiHhUbMXF9I7NpzxP-MucZRpW6bL6EeKedimcCzUytffeVcnPfAQyWlMy5LjR3o6W0f_5lQ/s4032/2023-12-08%2019.08.22.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fUAIwka5s2xRqQGIpTxN9K4jHNbOrwvBJ2XdmLpVVWXmlK4dMQ7PbQG4LqrO560yDvkLVF7zeEBb4yjPOsdI0xVv_PD81CyK45050Su65KuMdqcDiHhUbMXF9I7NpzxP-MucZRpW6bL6EeKedimcCzUytffeVcnPfAQyWlMy5LjR3o6W0f_5lQ/w186-h247/2023-12-08%2019.08.22.jpg" width="186" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNhO0m4kOwIPFhyphenhyphennqOSQ8nFP_xhPblCC64a8FI7SZBJ8MwNm4Gbb7jSyYg9MVS_XgQIMsatPnin4fiJDWC_MJCt_Ga9eBzKu6orjVwvzfwSmss-CfqCe0p72LoeGjOGIBuNMSMY5CkaKQU8rr3qF-9J3MPDva-K_CT0UHnPiKEFmNxaDajej0YlQ/s4032/2023-12-08%2019.07.47.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="377" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNhO0m4kOwIPFhyphenhyphennqOSQ8nFP_xhPblCC64a8FI7SZBJ8MwNm4Gbb7jSyYg9MVS_XgQIMsatPnin4fiJDWC_MJCt_Ga9eBzKu6orjVwvzfwSmss-CfqCe0p72LoeGjOGIBuNMSMY5CkaKQU8rr3qF-9J3MPDva-K_CT0UHnPiKEFmNxaDajej0YlQ/w503-h377/2023-12-08%2019.07.47.jpg" width="503" /></a></div><br />Well for some strange reason the Spanish word for <i>poinsettias</i> is <i>flores de Pascua</i>, or <i>Easter flowers</i>, so if they had asked for poinsettias, a non-Spanish contractor could easily have thought they meant tulips or daffodils! And once they arrived the mayor would have had the choice of no lights or these unexpectedly fancy ones.<p></p><p>An interesting and amusing theory, but I'm definitely leaning towards it!</p><p><br /></p></div>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-2376807796083357292023-12-12T11:24:00.001+01:002023-12-12T11:24:19.790+01:00Retiro at Xmas<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-f1LFpzw1qIE5qG2f2w9MSn4R35OM_QS3FuNFZ_U6AurFuMOlOjXsxXS88NrK1U8422ElLi5WHOMZmuFbCE7t-GnvRALSq7GBRskEvAqKhyQ_1V8MRePkykEEmpZz0VZRWlaSZ37uTQheWP-cEliTpvRcSWEakskS4_EmPJBjeReLvHRt3c0Njg/s2048/393102156_849320496931975_873830193772873666_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="945" height="569" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-f1LFpzw1qIE5qG2f2w9MSn4R35OM_QS3FuNFZ_U6AurFuMOlOjXsxXS88NrK1U8422ElLi5WHOMZmuFbCE7t-GnvRALSq7GBRskEvAqKhyQ_1V8MRePkykEEmpZz0VZRWlaSZ37uTQheWP-cEliTpvRcSWEakskS4_EmPJBjeReLvHRt3c0Njg/w263-h569/393102156_849320496931975_873830193772873666_n.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>Charlotte and I had an interesting experience the other night...<p></p><p>Madrid is knee-deep in Xmas decor at the moment, so we decided every evening after dark to go for a long walk and discover a different part of town's contribution to the festivities.</p><p>On my last night we opted for a trip over to the Retiro park as we were sure it would be a highlight. Being sensible, as always, Lots checked if the park had a closing time and we saw it was 10 pm. We wandered round the lakes, taking pics and finally made our way to the main exit. The park was pretty full as many had had the same idea. I stopped to take one last photo of a pink Xmas tree reflecting in some water, three steps from the gate. As you can see on my last photo, time-stamped at 10pm, there were a number of us.</p><p>None of us, however, spied the bloke I have circled in red. The park attendant who was tasked we thought with emptying the park... In fact his job actually seemed to be more specific than that - more <i>locking up</i> the park than <i>emptying</i> it. Despite being less than three steps from Charlotte and within shouting distance of everyone in the picture, do you think the bastard shouted over <i>'closing time!'</i> or do you think he sneaked some hefty padlocks onto all the gates then disappeared in a puff of smoke?! </p><p>Yup, you got it in one! He didn't utter a peep! So one minute later when we attempted to leave, he was nowhere in sight! A crowd of about ten of us figured we should probably walk to the next entrance/exit, though given the main one was shut, it was a long shot.</p><p>The crowd had swelled to about thirty, including some elderly Spaniards who were finding the going quite hard. Needless to say the next exit was also bolted, and the next and the next! By 10:19 I was beginning to wonder if my Iberia flight the next morning could be moved if I was still locked in the park! </p><p>Finally after about 25 minutes of walking the perimeter in the dark, we found one park attendant who let us all out, but I am still puzzled as to why the first guy didn't simply announce it was everyone's last opportunity to escape. I guess he was maybe just in grinch-mode and having some free fun at our expense!</p>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-78109062411625507412023-12-04T11:27:00.003+01:002023-12-26T12:22:31.385+01:00A tiny surprise about my granMy kids had a bit of a falling out with their dad back in 2012 and it took till this year for them to decide to visit him again. Long story...<div><br /></div><div>Marcel was running the Côte d'Azur marathon and Milly the 20K, and Charlotte and Léon were cheering them on. That is where their dad currently lives so they invited him to spectate, had lunch with him two days in a row and did a little sightseeing. They got to meet the woman who, on paper, has been their stepmother since 2016 too. I always thought it would be better if they had some contact with him but the amount was, of course, up to them. <div><br /></div>
So, because of this rift, from early childhood Léon has been known as Léon Buchanan-Widmann. That was always unofficial as it would have required his father's consent until he reached adulthood, so his passport and Danish residence permit still insisted on Gautier. Now he's 18 he wanted to make it official after all these years but found out that adding the ‘-Widmann’ he has used since he was six would have caused all sorts of bureaucratic nightmares with the change of his French passport unfortunately. </div><div><br /></div><div>Changing to your other parent’s surname is a box-ticking exercise now thanks to a change in French law from July 2022, but changing to anything else requires courts and can be declined. Poor Lots tried to change her name in 2020 so had to pay over €500 and go through the French courts to change hers, Marcel waited till after the new law (accidentally - he didn’t actually know the law was going to change) and it took him 6 weeks as against Charlotte’s 3 years. Anyway the upshot is that Léon finally decided following Marcel’s route might be a tad less stressful than following Charlotte’s, so dropped the ’-Widmann’ with a little pang of regret and became Léon Buchanan. </div><div><br /></div><div>When the message came in from the Scottish register to say it had been changed, he logged on to order the new birth certificate he needs to change his UK passport. While I was on helping him, I got lost down the rabbit hole of the registry. </div><div><br /></div><div>First, I checked if my great auntie Cathie was still alive, and strangely she seems to be! The woman must be 100, and still doesn’t talk to the remaining members of the family despite still having all her marbles, weird woman! </div><div><br /></div><div>Then I checked a few of mum’s friends and from there I looked back at old records of family members' births and deaths. </div><div><br /></div><div>Growing up I used to moan to my gran about disliking my name, feeling it was too old for someone growing up in the 70s, yes I know I was named after my other dead gran but that didn't please me at the age of 7... and she confided in me that she felt exactly the same. Her name was boring and too common in her age group… not exactly my issue but we could relate at least! Gran was called Jean and confided in me that sometimes as a kid she signed things Jeanne and pronounced it the French way to make herself see much more exotic. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoSspjxT4NcZ7cfhU3DjO1XOFnltFRbnrUr5jlEMMj1iVbxtHQtAiNc-kV46eY-7J0pNEsbOkXUHnjVsLf81q48nDVQ2SpVEhQ5rZw6kX5hYbSYHZfPpb0bViSSoJ2ZMGH6_Ynjxw3caS8Gv1mQpRiIKJGinM6Q_hvwfpHGA8OkauH4c1cSOGngw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="322" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoSspjxT4NcZ7cfhU3DjO1XOFnltFRbnrUr5jlEMMj1iVbxtHQtAiNc-kV46eY-7J0pNEsbOkXUHnjVsLf81q48nDVQ2SpVEhQ5rZw6kX5hYbSYHZfPpb0bViSSoJ2ZMGH6_Ynjxw3caS8Gv1mQpRiIKJGinM6Q_hvwfpHGA8OkauH4c1cSOGngw" width="160" /></a></div><br /></div><div>She soon realized as a little girl in Springburn that Jeanne was a little farfetched so often contented herself simply with changing her name to Jeanie, just to be a tiny bit more exciting. Longing to be a little more than just a Jean and a Phyllis became a leitmotif between us during our brief 16-year overlap on this planet. </div><div><br /></div><div>I found gran’s death certificate from 1984. Jean Stirling had died of metastatic cancer of the lungs and brain at the age of 68. I found her marriage certificate from 1943. Jean Napier Henderson had married Matthew Thomson Stirling. Then I went back to 1916, but Jean Napier Henderson had never been born!</div><div><br /></div><div>That puzzled me, given I knew she was definitely not born down south or elsewhere. I stuck in a wildcard and to my surprise found little ‘Jeanie Napier Henderson’ born to Annie (née Venters) and Allan Henderson in 1916. All the names matched. </div><div> </div><div>In those days things weren’t digital. Records were written and recorded by hand. My gran never learned to drive, never owned a passport, so probably never saw her own birth certificate which had been lost in the first world war. Her mother had died when she was a child, her father has a breakdown when he was left to raise two young girls alone. Her family called her Jean, so she thought her name was Jean. By the time she married, it had changed de facto as she filled in Jean on her marriage certificate, but she was never the plain Jean she hated so much, she was the Jeanie she always dreamed of being and never knew she had been! </div><div><br /></div><div>My own mother died in 2022, not knowing her mother’s first name was not what she had always believed it to be! How weird is that? I’d love to ring them both up today and tell them, but that is obviously never going to happen. </div><div><br /></div><div>Excitedly, I did double check my own birth certificate, but apparently <b>it</b> wasn’t a mistake. I am still frumpy Phyllis with no middle name alternative! Ho hum!
</div>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-47208955572186592372023-10-13T19:43:00.003+02:002023-10-16T10:33:44.038+02:002 days, 2 years later<p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWexjHaoeb9iN2LlGyOPslSZ117qgMDTC8RbrYsNdSUqb4-PdkFx1uNFHWSNa8O4VfZFxzSGPHs4T0l0I96w7ktsNLxOe9gJKe8bSnqtIjHueMZWENWxEnifxDd8JyD3O6llYpE3WNx1azK14cnDwNMyAEZ4QcolpIF02bFPv4iJOBP2eLlVJIBA/s4032/2022-07-14%2013.29.10.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="469" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWexjHaoeb9iN2LlGyOPslSZ117qgMDTC8RbrYsNdSUqb4-PdkFx1uNFHWSNa8O4VfZFxzSGPHs4T0l0I96w7ktsNLxOe9gJKe8bSnqtIjHueMZWENWxEnifxDd8JyD3O6llYpE3WNx1azK14cnDwNMyAEZ4QcolpIF02bFPv4iJOBP2eLlVJIBA/w352-h469/2022-07-14%2013.29.10.jpg" width="352" /></a></p><p style="text-align: left;">Every so often I feel like writing about a quasi-taboo subject matter and then go to delete it once I have. But the only way to make those topics less frightening is writing about them; maybe it'll help someone else go through something similar one day.</p><p style="text-align: left;">It's now been 2 years and 3 months since I rather carelessly lost one of my boobs. Let's just say you can no longer call me a 'right tit', no matter what I do!</p><p>Humour is one way of tackling the situation. Another is distancing yourself from the occurrence to the point where you almost can't believe it happened, to you at least. </p><p>It is never a good sign when they tell you at your mammogram that they would rather you didn't put your clothes back on, but instead follow them to an ultrasound room to meet a consultant.</p><p>That in itself was a rather surreal situation, because you are at best psyched up for reading mammogram results a week after the most unpleasant boob-squeeze. You are not psyched up for watching your own boob on an ultrasound screen within five minutes. </p><p>Having been in lockdown almost since my arrival in Denmark, I hadn't had many opportunities at that point to practise my Danish. My passive Danish was fine, I'd been listening to it for 13 years at that point, but I was just learning to speak it out loud, which is no mean feat as there are some seriously hard-to-pronounce sounds in this language. And this mammogram was at the height of the covid outbreak, which didn't hit Denmark anything like as badly as the UK, but it did still mean I had to attend this appointment alone.</p><p>To my untrained eye, things didn't look dire. There were no obvious clumps of dodgy cells, suggesting a tumour, there were no lumps or bumps and none of the outward signs you get on that diagram that makes the rounds of Facebook every few months. The only surprise I could see were long strands of white that looked vaguely like long worms. The consultant explained that these were long, maybe 10cm, areas of calcium built up in my milk ducts. I had breastfed five kids for two years each so it was of no surprise to me that there might be a little build up of something in there, some wear and tear, some damage. And they kept using the word <i>calcium</i>, so that isn't a bad thing, is it? They gave me a leaflet on calcium in technical Danish and booked me to come back for a biopsy. That word I liked less, but again, if it was to determine if there was a calcium build-up, how bad could it be?</p><p>The biopsy made the normal mammogram seem like a walk in the park. Every older woman knows the horrors of a mammogram. I don't know about in the UK, but here there are signs up claiming the procedure isn't painful, mere uncomfortable. Bullshit! They take a carpenter's vice, squish your boob into it, turn the handle till your eyes water, then turn it just a little more till you think you might pass out, take a photo, then repeat the procedure from different angles three more times. For the biopsy, however, they need to see your boob in real time. So you get to lie face down on a bed with a hole to put your boob in. A nurse pulls and tugs on you till they have you in place in that vice and onscreen. Instead of the usual 5 second photo, you lie there while the insert a knitting needle into you to extract cells. They keep you clamped while they check each sample to see if they have enough cells, they repeat this procedure for about half an hour. All the while a second nurse holds your hand looking incredibly sympathetic, which is both nice and terrifying, in equal measures. Even if you weren't being investigated for a cancerous growth in your breast, it would be a bloody nightmare, but add that psychological layer on top and it is almost too much to bear. </p><p>As you go to leave, you're given a further booklet on <i>calcium</i>, and they mention almost as an afterthought that very occasionally, if you are really unlucky, the biopsy needs to be repeated if they didn't get the right cells. A week later of course I got the email asking me to come back to repeat the entire ordeal as I was one of the unlucky ones. The bruising was quite a sight!</p><p>After the second biopsy, I was invited in, this time with my husband, an ominous sign, to discuss the way forward. That was when I was first given a leaflet of DCiS, (ductal carcinoma in situ). The consultant told me Danes usually react ok to this as they mainly know germanic languages so know none of those words, but as a speaker of many romance languages, I didn't need any explaining of that condition. They went on to explain that if the carcinoma was still in situ in the duct, I would be ok until it grew and burst out into my breast or was carried round my body by means of my lymphatic system. All in all, it would probably be around ten years before it mutated into incurable cancer. The only way to tell was to inject dye into me and trace which lymphs were being used by which ducts. More than two years on my breast is still blue where the dye went in! Once the lymphs were located, they were removed and biopsied. They came back clear so it was indeed still contained to my duct.</p><p>In the UK, they usually perform a lumpectomy at this point, according to the NHS Scotland website anyway. In Denmark the standard procedure, and only one on offer to me was a full mastectomy within a week. I could decide whether or not to be reconstructed during this operation, later or not at all. In my head there were only two options: 'then' or 'never' (and 'never' was not even a close second in my head). I couldn't face going through it all, healing, physio and then going back to square one. Had they removed both, I might have managed to consider the option of 'never', but I couldn't face it with only one. I had been 'top-heavy' since my teens, it was part of my femininity and I couldn't imagine what having only one breast would do to me psychologically in my early 50s. Already I was facing looking like a train wreck naked, but in my clothes I could hide and feel normal and that mattered to me. It was six months before I could bear to have anyone look at me, even reconstructed with all the scarring, so I am not sure I could have got my head round the alternative. I have nothing but admiration to the stronger women than me who opt for 'never'.</p><p>I expect if your mind is strong enough, 'never' is probably more comfortable. I have no feeling on one side from my shoulder to the bottom of my ribs. I can feel tugging, but pinch me, burn me and I have no reaction. It aches but it doesn't feel like it is part of me. With all the muscles cut away, it took six months of physio before I could lift a salad bowl down from a shelf or close the boot of my car. I simply couldn't reach upwards with my right arm. Even now it is harder to use my right arm than my left.</p><p>For the first few months, you are so caught up with the physical aftermath, you don't get as far as analysing the psychological. When I think back now, I am gobsmacked. I took the three youngest kids to Hamburg (3 hours away) for a four day holiday 3 weeks after my op, 1 week after the drains were removed from my body, because I felt I had let them down by not being able to go on the summer holiday given I was operated on at the beginning of July. With hindsight I must have been insane. What on earth was I thinking clocking up 20 000 steps round Hamburg and Lübeck so soon after such a huge operation?</p><p>I didn't even tell my mother or the members of my family who weren't in Denmark, because Covid restrictions meant they couldn't get to me, so I didn't want to worry them. I rang my mum on the Monday for our usual chat saying I was busy Tuesday and Wednesday and then rang again on the Thursday as if nothing had happened. She died six months later thinking I had had nothing more than a minor procedure at my GPs to remove a little calcium, not imagining I had had a lymphadenectomy, a mastectomy, a breast reconstruction, a breast reduction on the other side to even things up a bit. And those were only the physical things.</p><p>The mental side of things was a whole other realm. It was two-pronged. On the one hand, it had been caught early enough that major surgery was enough, meaning I got to bypass the horrors of chemo, radiotherapy etc, and I wake up eternally grateful for that every day. But on the other, it was one of the worst things you can go through without reaching that final level of horror. So, I was in this odd limbo where I didn't feel mentally I had the right to mope or complain because I had been so lucky; so many people have it so much worse. It did seem weird though to go through what I went through with no acknowledgement from myself or others of the depth of that trauma. On balance though, I think I coped reasonably well with it all and was sure it was all behind me.</p><p>Two weeks ago, I went for my first mammogram on the remaining breast since that whole rollercoaster ride. I hadn't needed one till now as the tissue from the remaining breast had been biopsied when the reduction surgery was carried out. I managed to attend the appointment without being too traumatised, driving myself there, chatting to the staff in the health centre. It is hard for me to undress in front of strangers now, which is odd as I was never shy before. I look completely normal in clothes, so as I undressed, I warned the woman who was going to be doing the xrays and the young male student who was obviously there to learn about the job, before turning to face them. Yes, they probably see this every day, but I still struggle with how I look, even if they don't. Maybe one day I'll have the balls to go topless sunbathing in Spain again and simply tell people I was attacked by a shark or similar but I am not quite there yet. They said they had read my notes and tried to put me at ease.</p><p>I wasn't taken through to the ultrasound this time, which had to be good, right? Yet, three days later when I got an alert that there was a new message from Syddanmark health service in my private email box (all medical correspondence is secure digital in Denmark), I couldn't open it. I thought I was fine, but I simply couldn't bring myself to read it. Thomas asked if I wanted him to read it, but I would know from his face, so I sat on the message for a full two days until finally on the third morning I woke up with enough mental strength to finally dive in and read my results, which were fine this time. So I guess it did affect me more than I am willing to admit if it took me two days and a night simply to open an email.</p><p>Onwards and upwards, I guess.</p>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-51748190562189989532023-09-29T12:14:00.004+02:002023-09-29T12:17:27.883+02:0018 today<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQlkT_SjF9xJ-qpCWXSIKE_CNuLCghqT3A_AhR0xq-dzzG9scv7WPa1CaK4qc0gscM6520hf1RTzNn8OWcgQE_VWwGfhpanzRvnGOk_Wwt8AcuQhY8JLrEIprv5NHfctnMd10hHmun9CrTbX-3Hz0fFY-pVMO5u9Our-_ePHAl_FNsnWEWNRGvGg/s1560/384488754_1509239109875294_3233161746895964323_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQlkT_SjF9xJ-qpCWXSIKE_CNuLCghqT3A_AhR0xq-dzzG9scv7WPa1CaK4qc0gscM6520hf1RTzNn8OWcgQE_VWwGfhpanzRvnGOk_Wwt8AcuQhY8JLrEIprv5NHfctnMd10hHmun9CrTbX-3Hz0fFY-pVMO5u9Our-_ePHAl_FNsnWEWNRGvGg/s320/384488754_1509239109875294_3233161746895964323_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>So my boy is 18 today, except he isn't really! He was born at 23:45 on 29/09/05 in the Queen Mother's Maternity hospital in Glasgow, Scotland, so given he now lives in Denmark, although on his birth certificate his birthday is still September 29, if he wants to raise a glass at the moment of his birth, he now needs to wait till 00:45 on September 30! <p></p><p>I guess in a way it is a metaphor for the complicated path his life has taken till now. He was born after my marriage to his father died. French by birth, he was brought up from the age of one by a Dane so even before we moved to Denmark, his Danish was better than his French. Now we live here and have done for 4.5 years, he is what a truly bilingual person looks like. He's not just good at both Danish and English, he is native in both now.</p><p>He's a Dane living in Denmark, but not eligible for Danish citizenship, at least not until he's sat a whole host of qualifying exams about Danish language and culture, despite having studied till 19 at a Danish STX (the highest level of Grammar school). When he leaves school next year many of his mates want to do a gap year travelling, but Léon can't as he's on the kind of residence permit that doesn't allow you to leave the country for more than six months without losing your right to be here. </p><p>To be Danish he needs to work a minimum of 4.5 years full-time before he can apply, but for some crazy reason university doesn't count towards that goal so whereas he could become Danish 5 years from now if he doesn't go to uni, he has to wait nearly 10 years if he does, as the degree will take 5 years before he can begin the compulsory 4.5 years of work. It's so unfair given he feels every bit as Danish as his two Danish passport-holder sisters. He will have lived in Denmark nearly 15 years before he can apply to be a citizen at the age of 28 and he will have been brought up by a Dane since before his first birthday. He will have called a Dane Dad for more than 27 years before he can apply. </p><p>It is almost as if the government is encouraging foreign-born kids, however bright, not to go into further education. Why penalise someone for wanting to be say a doctor, and encourage them to go work full-time in the local supermarket instead? I thought Denmark prided itself on the level of education given to its young people and I also thought it needed more doctors than it needs unqualified supermarket workers.</p><p>Anyway, however long it takes, I have no doubt he will one day qualify for a Danish passport. I just wish he got to celebrate his coming of age in a more equal manner with his peers.</p><p>Happy birthday Léon!</p>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-27479179218360522102023-08-13T16:42:00.004+02:002023-11-23T16:36:27.403+01:00Should I be worried?We had a Spanish girl staying with us for three weeks. Since she was 18, Charlotte has au-paired off and on for Sara and her little sister Paula and their cousin Eva in Madrid. When she first met Sara, she was 10 and her parents wanted an English-speaking au pair to help her with school. As the years went by, Sara got too old to need a babysitter but our two families had become entwined, culminating in us finally flying down last year to meet them for the first time. <div><br /></div><div>They had brought Charlotte food parcels when she was isolating in her flat in Madrid with covid at Xmas 2020, they had invited her to their house for her 21st when covid restrictions had meant she couldn't see any of her family, and she had visited them most summers becoming more like an older sister to her two Spanish sisters. </div><div><br /></div><div>So when their mum tentatively asked me last summer over dinner if I would let Sara come and stay so she could live in an English-speaking house for a few weeks, I was more than happy to accept. She's 15 now, and so is Anna, so I knew it would be good for both of them as Anna has chosen to do Spanish at Gymnasium too.</div><div><br /><div>On arrival early July we thought a few board games would be a good way to break the ice. The kids had only met her once over dinner last year in Madrid and she seemed quite shy. <b>Articulate</b> would be a good one to help her with English, we thought. (You get a word and have to describe it to your partner and they get to guess which word you are describing.)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF9TTJNIp_z5hiVLBnOZNdKKNNdq251nlCvbpKcmZBq104WdPVN7X27BuTpygbg-jiRSL6Npt8lAD10I2DYz6e8QS95_b9Gn_RPkyNAPol2Gth7yTj-N9CB-6W3c4KHBfCN25y814zZXUX5i4GWoOXNBTA13HuE__FY1LVWFCNcHAw4iOCbKD8wg/s1170/367402946_1226043071423969_1980201152199495936_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="938" data-original-width="1170" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF9TTJNIp_z5hiVLBnOZNdKKNNdq251nlCvbpKcmZBq104WdPVN7X27BuTpygbg-jiRSL6Npt8lAD10I2DYz6e8QS95_b9Gn_RPkyNAPol2Gth7yTj-N9CB-6W3c4KHBfCN25y814zZXUX5i4GWoOXNBTA13HuE__FY1LVWFCNcHAw4iOCbKD8wg/s320/367402946_1226043071423969_1980201152199495936_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Léon was first up, describing for Anna. He drew the word 'van'. His description: <i>'A vehicle that is often white and used by bad people who want to kidnap small children'. </i>I was somewhat surprised that his go-to use for a van was kidnapping rather than say deliveries or being used by a worker of some sort such as a gardener or plumber, but Anna guessed it immediately and the game continued.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The following day, Amaia, who had been out with friends on our first games evening, joined in. By some coincidence she too drew the card 'van', this time describing for Sara. She had neither been there the night before, nor heard of our game, so I was more than surprised when she started immediately with: '<i>it's like a car but bigger, people use them for kidnapping kids!'</i> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Am I living in a much more sinister world than I realise or are my kids all just quite disturbed?</div><div><br /></div></div>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-51870373559810527582023-06-15T21:15:00.005+02:002023-06-19T21:06:32.382+02:00Quick update<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Quick update on <a href="http://www.phylsblog.com/2023/06/charlottes-unforgettable-uni-years.html">yesterday's blog post</a>: </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span color="var(--primary-text)">Charlotte finally found out yesterday that she was one of the lucky few who would be told her final grade before the day as she’d scored enough on the 75% that’s already been marked to get a First class degree! I can’t begin to imagine how she managed it</span><span color="var(--primary-text)"> </span><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="-1"></a><span color="var(--primary-text)">through all that but she is one of the most determined people I’ve ever met, so I’m just bowled over. I can’t wait to see what she does next. For now she’s gone to see friends in Madrid, then later in the summer she won a scholarship to go on an all inclusive extended Catalan course being held in Majorca, then she’s going straight back to spend another year in Madrid teaching while she considers her options for the future, so watch this space!</span></span></p><ul aria-hidden="false" class="x1n0m28w x1rg5ohu x1wfe3co xat24cr xsgj6o6 x1o1nzlu xyqdw3p" style="display: inline-block; line-height: 12px; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px -8px 0px 4px; min-height: 15px; padding: 3px 0px 0px;"><li class="x1rg5ohu x1emribx x1i64zmx" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline-block; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-left: 8px; margin-right: 8px;"></li></ul>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-2236297726775248442023-06-14T11:15:00.014+02:002023-06-18T09:47:52.610+02:00Charlotte's unforgettable uni years<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgemxpEwoUjLvcRoz4GR84DDwjKsZTDA1r5dn1JlpKOX4Y0FPKhffYtrV-3aYiex7tkf8awRRujgWZNzpRzIxrQ4iseOH8OxuOKBGtM3yv04vVJk1PMNsrTc58is_rlJuDndi1uW0dflTfojOoQBWeRTcrKAxz48ALUlJrinfnn5Om07KPKYbg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgemxpEwoUjLvcRoz4GR84DDwjKsZTDA1r5dn1JlpKOX4Y0FPKhffYtrV-3aYiex7tkf8awRRujgWZNzpRzIxrQ4iseOH8OxuOKBGtM3yv04vVJk1PMNsrTc58is_rlJuDndi1uW0dflTfojOoQBWeRTcrKAxz48ALUlJrinfnn5Om07KPKYbg" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjESgsVt9kJDTbN9hrwGBQvQ7uakd4DqnuVvgo2vhcYZltPXLmOyxIq1AtR0Y2y0NNMT33HFh1F7ji3WjJ6PlqtU6h5NmzSvG4AqvyYYissqx1zsCwh7KXaLkFM8TYreln0Nukd4T-15obT92Uwv1oA8CYCia3WLgfDX-gK1ZTJCVuA-wRx5-Y" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjESgsVt9kJDTbN9hrwGBQvQ7uakd4DqnuVvgo2vhcYZltPXLmOyxIq1AtR0Y2y0NNMT33HFh1F7ji3WjJ6PlqtU6h5NmzSvG4AqvyYYissqx1zsCwh7KXaLkFM8TYreln0Nukd4T-15obT92Uwv1oA8CYCia3WLgfDX-gK1ZTJCVuA-wRx5-Y" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">It's been a wild ride. The five years of Charlotte's university life have been, shall we say, an unorthodox mix of trials and tribulations that feel more like a roller coaster designed by Salvador Dalí than the blissful journey of self-discovery and academic enlightenment I'd optimistically envisioned back when she left Mearns Castle in 2018. </span></div></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Year 1:</b> <b>Bombs, Pre-cancer and losing her family:</b></div><div>The inaugural year kicked off with a bang - almost literally. A bomb scare served as a less than warm welcome to university life with the whole campus being evacuated within days of her start. Sitting home in Newton Mearns and receiving texts telling me that police had ringed campus because of a bomb threat but not to worry because she was '<i>just fine</i>' was not quite how I'd envisioned Charlotte's welcome by my alma mater! </div><div>And just when we thought things couldn't get any more dramatic, I had my own little scare. A seemingly innocent visit to the doctor turned into a two-month ovarian cancer scare leading to a full hysterectomy and not one, but three, hospital stays for infections over Christmas. Fortunately everything had been caught in time so the damage was mainly psychological rather than life threatening. </div><div>You'd think we had faced enough excitement for one year, but no, Thomas got a job interview in Denmark while I was under the knife in hospital. We'd been considering leaving the UK since it became clear how EU citizens would be treated after Brexit. The kids, all dual nationals, were fine but I was on the cusp of losing my freedom of movement, so it was then or never. He got the job, quite unexpectedly given he'd been in the UK for nearly two decades and they needed a Danish expert. With extremely heavy hearts, we decided to sell the house the kids had grown up in, pull them out of their good East Ren schools and emigrate. So, Thomas left in March and the rest of Charlotte's first year was spent helping a recuperating mum (who'd been told not to lift anything heavier than a kettle for the next three months) pack a lifetime up in boxes while looking for student accommodation for the following year. Where we found the reserves for that at the time, I don't know.</div><div><br /><div><b>Year 2: Strikes and a mystery pandemic:</b></div><div>Just as we were trying to adjust to our new normal, Charlotte's lecturers decided to go on strike for the whole of her last term, which wasn't great for her academically, though we could fully empathise with their motivation. But that was merely a prelude to the pandemic opera that was about to ensue. The last week of her last term, which was cancelled because of strikes was further cancelled by Covid lockdown! Charlotte found herself suddenly deserted in her halls as the Covid lockdown sent international students fleeing the country, but although she was in international halls, Denmark had closed its borders to Covid three weeks before the UK went into lockdown, leaving her unable to get home to us until mid-June. And because the first lockdown was so strict, before the concept of bubbles was invented in the UK, she couldn't even move in with her very lonely granny or her aunt and uncle whose flat she could ironically see from her halls window!</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Year 3: Spanish Lockdown, Xmas Alone, and what a 21st!</b></div><div>Charlotte's third year saw her bravely navigating a year abroad amidst the ongoing pandemic. I had always assumed I'd fly down with her and help her find a room, but we were a few months into a pandemic and Madrid had been hit worse than most cities, only people with work contracts were allowed in. For a while it wasn't obvious she would even get to go abroad, the year before had been sent home in March instead of at the beginning of July, so I took her to Copenhagen airport with her big case and her masks and waved her off alone. However, the virus soon locked her within the Madrid region though the schools never closed so her year was more successful than we had imagined when she set off. She caught Covid for the first time around Xmas before the vaccine was available, which actually turned out to be a positive! It meant she couldn't leave Spain over Xmas and return home. Many of her flatmates who did leave Spain for a week at Xmas weren't allowed back in until Easter because of the pandemic. It also meant she had a less exciting than expected 21st a week after Xmas with no family and no flatmates. Fortunately for us she has au paired for the same family in Madrid since she was 18 and they made her a cake and bought her some cosy socks as a gift so she wasn't completely forgotten, but that'll definitely be a 21st to tell her kids about one day!</div><div>She caught a second bout of Covid within six months and weathered it again fine. I had my own health problems that summer, but as Charlotte was locked in, I played them down at the time, so as not to worry her unnecessarily, so she didn't get to hear about my DCIS scare and mastectomy till she got home two months after it, when I was very much on the mend, physically at least.</div><div>They finally lifted travel restrictions four weeks before she was due to leave Spain, so I knew I wouldn't be seeing her any time soon. The now completely mature and self-sufficient Charlotte decided to spend the first six weeks after her job ended back-packing around Spain alone, seeing all the places she had expected to see over the year she lived there and she came home eventually around the beginning of September having seen none of her family in over a year!</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Year 4: More Strikes, Granny, and French Frenzy</b> </div><div>The hits kept coming in Year 4. More strikes, dropped courses, and a limited choice of exam questions made studying a Herculean task. In the midst of all this, we lost her Granny, diagnosed with a terminal illness and gone within five weeks. By then Charlotte had moved in with her aunt and uncle as student accommodation is seriously hard to come by in Glasgow, especially if you want to be there less than 51 weeks, and she was only meant to be there 20 September - 15 March, with a month in Denmark over Xmas. Meanwhile mum also moved in with them as she needed to be cared for and then all 5 of us from the Danish side of the family and Marcel and Milly from London also moved in there so she would have her whole family around her on her final journey. Poor Amanda had nine extra bodies in a four bedroom flat! There were a loooooot of airbeds! This probably wasn't the easiest time for Charlotte's studies either.</div><div>To add to the turmoil, as part of her degree, Charlotte had to find a job in France, arrange everything, and move just days after the funeral.
Shockingly, her internship-paying job soon turned into a full-blown teaching role when the teacher she had been employed to assist in the small private school in Toulouse turned out to be 8 months pregnant and going on maternity leave within days of her arrival. Essentially, she was thrown into the deep end paddling furiously on less than minimum wage. Though four months full-time teaching experience in a private school will be ok for her CV, I imagine, and Toulouse was lovely; I sneaked down for a wee week alone with my biggest girl in May, just to check the granny straw hadn't finally broken the camel's back, and of course it hadn't.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Year 5 Just when you thought nothing else could go wrong, year five said "<i>Hold my beer!</i>" </b></div><div>Strikes decided to make an unwelcome encore, this time for three days a week. If your classes were Monday or Friday, you got taught, if your classes were mid-week, you didn't. Some students threw in the towel. Lots, forever resourceful, opted to camp out on the floor of the Monday class she wasn't enrolled in, so she could get the info anyway. Having befriended a good number of Spanish and Catalan guys, she spent her weekends hill-walking and partying in Spanish and Catalan to help with her language-learning but the uni had one last surprise for them... Their finals were to be hit by a marking boycott, leaving two of Charlotte's final exams unmarked in time for graduation. Yesterday was the final deadline for degree classification and she now has the results of 180 of the 240 credits her final degree classification will be based on. Many of her fellow students are also missing grades. The uni has decided to 'grade' all ungraded final work (in Charlotte's case all her Catalan papers and all her written Spanish language papers) at D3, the lowest pass grade available, to see if the final total comes to a pass mark, thus allowing them to graduate. This decision was made so they do not need to lower anyone's grade afterwards, only raise them, but is so far from what she is likely to actually have, it is quite underwhelming. When the boycott is over, these papers will be re-marked and the degree classification adjusted accordingly. Yes, in real terms, this isn't going to affect her actual life or future employment, but what a dampener on graduation day to not know what you are going to get. This should be a time for celebrating with your classmates, supporting those who haven't done as well as they had hoped, and none of that will be happening if their grades come in over summer once they are all in far-flung places. Graduation, the culmination of years of hard work and camaraderie, will now have a surreal tinge. As she dons her purple robes and receives her still-blank certificate, she will be celebrating a success tinged with the bitterness of yet another university experience tainted.</div><div><br /></div><div>So there you have it. Five years that have been far from the standard, run-of-the-mill university experience. Despite the insanity, the strikes, the scares, and the virus, Charlotte weathered it all with a determination and grit that leaves me in awe. She's graduating now - with stories to tell and strength beyond her years. And even though her transcript may be peppered temporarily with a few unjust D3s, she's earned an A1 in resilience and fortitude in the University of Life.
</div></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEif28_tX_zSZVeEHpH87lK_O_A1ocYSidNYPSaZ6W2PGgFlNSw0T5Pfq71AnmmXnlIl_96hjSHn0NwGyIY_TV7xKHRa9oPa7C1f6RUEYAaKC6M0E9PB6Vn8KGOfCGY-0THKPqufdGjGF6OEbb9Ot7bI8SrO1irw40cGTTg_61h5by2zzb0QtxA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEif28_tX_zSZVeEHpH87lK_O_A1ocYSidNYPSaZ6W2PGgFlNSw0T5Pfq71AnmmXnlIl_96hjSHn0NwGyIY_TV7xKHRa9oPa7C1f6RUEYAaKC6M0E9PB6Vn8KGOfCGY-0THKPqufdGjGF6OEbb9Ot7bI8SrO1irw40cGTTg_61h5by2zzb0QtxA=w363-h484" width="363" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">On top of Ben Nevis with her Spanish and Catalan boys</span></div></div><div><br /></div>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-76357603601283411432023-06-10T22:13:00.002+02:002023-06-14T22:59:11.343+02:00Whooooosh<p>Thomas got himself a Norwegian (the airline) credit card a few years back, mainly because it gives you 1% cash back and free air miles. After a number of years of shopping, he finally amassed enough air miles to take both himself and me away for a weekend to Oslo. We've never left the kids home alone before, so it was quite a nail-biter. Three kids with an empty, a cat, two tiny kittens and us a whole flight away, but hey ho, you have to cut the strings at some point and it isn't exactly like we have anyone nearby who can babysit, so we bit the bullet and went for it! And what a weekend it was! </p><p>The first thing that struck me about Oslo was its sound. The city seems to have fully embraced the electric vehicle revolution, making its streets oddly quiet for a bustling metropolis. More than half the cars and all the public transport and taxis in the capital were electric. The absence of noisy combustion engines gives Oslo an air of serene futurism – like stepping into a tranquil, otherworldly dream where cities whisper rather than shout. All around us seemed to be nothing more than an eerie whoosh. I had to learn to cross the road all over again, no longer able to gauge the speed of an approaching car by its engine noise.</p><p>But, the surprises didn't stop there. As a proud Scot, I have a penchant for potato scones. I really miss them since moving here, though occasionally make my own, but they are always on the menu whenever I am over visiting Derek and his family. So imagine my joy when I spotted what I thought were these delightful treats in a local supermarket. I immediately took a pack home and opened it. There were no cooking instructions and I could see they had some sort of filling, so I bit in expecting maybe cream cheese or similar only to find they had strangely been filled with sweet buttercream! A surprising twist, though, and I kind of think it grew on me after the initial shock! Potato scones meet cake... why not? And for a country that is known to be expensive, I was more than surprised at how cheap and omnipresent their sushi was. I guess they have a thriving fishing industry over there!</p><p>The language was fun too. The news was on on the train into town from the airport with subtitles and I could understand every single word. It just looked likely badly spelled Danish to me, though I suspect they think of it more as Danish being badly spelled Norwegian! I could easily read a novel in it anyway, so that's a nice bonus, suddenly realising I passively know one more language than I thought I did!</p><p>Oslo has also mastered how to get tourists onto its public transport network. The downloadable app is easy, can be used for buses and trams alike with every ticket valid an hour and every new ticket you buy being discounted more each time. It's a far cry from trying to use the bus or tram in Odense as a foreigner when you are left scratching your head as to how to navigate the system and you can't even ask the tram driver who is barricaded into a glass box!</p><p>Oslo is the furthest north I have ever been and its bright nights are even brighter than here or my native Glasgow, with the sun refusing to set entirely, bathing the city in an ethereal twilight long after 10 PM. It was as if the city existed in a state of eternal sunset, a spectacle that left me appreciative of our wonderful world. </p><p>One of my biggest surprises hit me on touchdown in Oslo. Despite the current heatwave, huge piles of snow greeted me on the runway at Oslo airport. Yes, you read that right – mountains of snow in a heatwave! I can only imagine Oslo must be truly baltic in the winter months as there was more snow on that runway than I have seen all the years I have lived in Denmark!</p><p>Above the cityscape I glimpsed another hint at their true climate, I could clearly see a ski jump – a surreal contrast against the summer skies, a testament to Oslo's love for winter sports. It made me think of mum, a woman who never saw or tried on skis in her life, yet managed to beat the kids at Wii ski jumping every time we visited after we moved to Denmark. The kids had so much fun ski jumping with their granny, I'd have loved to have sent her a photo of a real ski jump!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipHWRua1LySgaqmJM8ew4h_PbH_VjW7oyurW5LJBcMhboghJPHTN6GBorrm0CdNj_34DtsgVyIFKn3RXrcdVKVm4HXrBaAoDgpQI7kNpp4VzQ3xqgMs6S7gJwC96hIOpVUOF52RtmP89qRscdmlnO0L8Jhbt1WBwtsEUnGwEC51Vmx2SJclmM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipHWRua1LySgaqmJM8ew4h_PbH_VjW7oyurW5LJBcMhboghJPHTN6GBorrm0CdNj_34DtsgVyIFKn3RXrcdVKVm4HXrBaAoDgpQI7kNpp4VzQ3xqgMs6S7gJwC96hIOpVUOF52RtmP89qRscdmlnO0L8Jhbt1WBwtsEUnGwEC51Vmx2SJclmM" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjESgw0PPqbYGsygBAlRrTVtcZesCjR8YLq19vmBv9TYwOe1q1mJN4_7m8UqoCfUv2F2nHHmbzz_8KeoHPJeva2yxW4FwFJg32ofdcpzl8Ghg9cRc0katPPcSOZMzSNeJkd6_XF-_56oAGcOLJpmzkizh7T16Yrf1qNsgVqos-t5HQRhGD9PNY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjESgw0PPqbYGsygBAlRrTVtcZesCjR8YLq19vmBv9TYwOe1q1mJN4_7m8UqoCfUv2F2nHHmbzz_8KeoHPJeva2yxW4FwFJg32ofdcpzl8Ghg9cRc0katPPcSOZMzSNeJkd6_XF-_56oAGcOLJpmzkizh7T16Yrf1qNsgVqos-t5HQRhGD9PNY" width="180" /></a>'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1zFx2-Em7qfKDJJZRyrVoosxlfy5ga0QnZFoWsBv0nHpfvsr70UXJH_N15SCwL0EetO09mFteXbNUrf8HFfdaIFGMvQo0_jPE0TvXws3XCxRRGmMj-RsNMq6fUspAV12PlSgZdiCsvfj_qJSZPBP0Q2qNnQi8vQjmqOsaIb8NRApGd-XK-PI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1zFx2-Em7qfKDJJZRyrVoosxlfy5ga0QnZFoWsBv0nHpfvsr70UXJH_N15SCwL0EetO09mFteXbNUrf8HFfdaIFGMvQo0_jPE0TvXws3XCxRRGmMj-RsNMq6fUspAV12PlSgZdiCsvfj_qJSZPBP0Q2qNnQi8vQjmqOsaIb8NRApGd-XK-PI" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-31200402422895390262023-06-10T13:30:00.004+02:002023-06-10T13:31:52.069+02:00Haggis and SushiEvery time in the last two years that I've tried remounting the blogging horse, life has thrown me from the saddle. From mastectomies to dying mothers and cats, I feel like it's all been a bit too much at times! I don't really have any intention of getting fully back on top as I want to reserve some time to longer writing projects but it is time I either write the odd article, or throw in the towel altogether, and I guess but I can't really opt for the second option or it leaves me no outlet for potential ranting or wonder at the ways of life.<div><br /></div><div>Life is currently a little chaotic thanks to the addition of a pair of crazy kittens to our life. After Nacho was killed back in March, poor Samosa took to pacing around depressed, only showing any excitement whenever the other ginger Tom in our village passed the window. It was heartbreaking to see quite how excited she got whenever she thought she'd spied him from the window; god only knows what was going through her mind if she thought Nacho was still outside but we were no longer allowing him to come into the house. I guess we should probably have shown her Nacho after we found him back on that horrible wet winter's day so she could have tried to understand, but at the time I was too distraught to think of how difficult she would find the sudden disappearance of her best buddy.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, we initially decided to get her a new wee brother as a playmate. By sheer chance, we happened upon a Burmese cat breeder who had a little problem on her hands... She was a vet who bred Burmese cats in her spare time. Her mummy cat had accidentally escaped, unknown to her and when her babies popped out, it turned out that they were only half Burmese and therefore not sellable as pedigrees. She needed a solution and we needed a kitten. Kittens can't legally be given away in Denmark till they are older than 12 weeks, so having found him at six weeks, we decided to visit him until he was old enough to leave his mum. That didn't go quite to plan, however, as when we went to meet him when he was eight weeks old, it turned out he had one beautiful, gentle sister who had no loving home to go to... and somehow our quest for a playmate turned into a duo who are now running rings around her. She loves them both and is definitely a little more cheery than she had been of late, though I know she still misses her Nacho.</div><div><br /></div><div>The kittens, like Nach both have really loud purrs which is a nice reminder of how things used to be. I still find it hard to contemplate that my boy is gone but their antics ease the pain a little. He will always be my special boy. I feel I somehow let him down by not realising he was going near the dangerous road. Had I known I'd have tried to protect him, but what ifs and if onlys won't bring him back, so I need to move forward with the new norm, that is my sweet threesome: Samosa, Haggis, Sushi. I'm sure my Nacho Cheese would have loved them both.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's baby Sushi And this is baby Haggis</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0Kd52DG6WKUGvyVFq639HH-McNJCf0EHbn-Sxi1J7M9up8CN8Jt7kNHD9-E3lHlT3DUyKycSiKr40-Ee-e6r7m8mEWefee1jILkxO9QI2fTo3jzpxKOinQ2RD0kLK9THs5FvT9qIgtRmu8AigPOP38v5a-zxdmbLGWEHflrPgnqNUspvMzXE" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0Kd52DG6WKUGvyVFq639HH-McNJCf0EHbn-Sxi1J7M9up8CN8Jt7kNHD9-E3lHlT3DUyKycSiKr40-Ee-e6r7m8mEWefee1jILkxO9QI2fTo3jzpxKOinQ2RD0kLK9THs5FvT9qIgtRmu8AigPOP38v5a-zxdmbLGWEHflrPgnqNUspvMzXE=w194-h258" width="194" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3Biuu7iPnKezNxf_PoiRf6fcx_mUOTUxWaY2pWHrJcnVE-s_7TnI46saGdcnvfNQes9MQXkghniioGjGSJ80FcHSffspWMbFNxnHNs7XJHAer3Jnt1Xot5SxsmmAS1fTO0ezWp4fFt4OG36XoGc6GiaXYoP4mdUANkQ1tySGSOh89uBUtNwU" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3Biuu7iPnKezNxf_PoiRf6fcx_mUOTUxWaY2pWHrJcnVE-s_7TnI46saGdcnvfNQes9MQXkghniioGjGSJ80FcHSffspWMbFNxnHNs7XJHAer3Jnt1Xot5SxsmmAS1fTO0ezWp4fFt4OG36XoGc6GiaXYoP4mdUANkQ1tySGSOh89uBUtNwU=w193-h257" width="193" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>And doesn't Samosa look content and relieved?<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbfjuOxjhp0WLwLtZySq4MPPUC6HixDGITXVaeTWYZF0uj_f3Ugc3VrNfoUMBCUMA0PN5KyE_Ntd9eCWc1nx3tdUB0dji1-7DmJe9cxtUaKFPGjbCu_hyUDrz7sdJK7hqQrd0BqTsZtPoDYz7AAzfxcdGszAIqTdxrQSWcyeLqOGbh_Ez2cTk" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbfjuOxjhp0WLwLtZySq4MPPUC6HixDGITXVaeTWYZF0uj_f3Ugc3VrNfoUMBCUMA0PN5KyE_Ntd9eCWc1nx3tdUB0dji1-7DmJe9cxtUaKFPGjbCu_hyUDrz7sdJK7hqQrd0BqTsZtPoDYz7AAzfxcdGszAIqTdxrQSWcyeLqOGbh_Ez2cTk" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinldR4c7KEKZwyONUDcyCSdk-joFTCjNdNqCPpRZtaCYT-9Nojw-E7PObkAn_BXIKXzOD1s952YFjreU30Ulx3riihkNy2tKedE6QmAC7OFbaVYGTEcaomXLH6KcigA1_zfb9NVmutxHHOAZoreP8xAbDVeKev1XU5OOahpnoZuFJUdUOX0nQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="1170" height="441" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinldR4c7KEKZwyONUDcyCSdk-joFTCjNdNqCPpRZtaCYT-9Nojw-E7PObkAn_BXIKXzOD1s952YFjreU30Ulx3riihkNy2tKedE6QmAC7OFbaVYGTEcaomXLH6KcigA1_zfb9NVmutxHHOAZoreP8xAbDVeKev1XU5OOahpnoZuFJUdUOX0nQ=w430-h441" width="430" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><br /></div>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-7774119033012174892023-05-03T20:26:00.003+02:002023-05-03T20:26:29.463+02:00Nacho Cheese<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDaUtflT0KDVcwwlUK3CvcNqj5ApeSc-hx9JfLGQbpHrssTKWuaNwU1hfzha5_ssZSQ3_rMnXRfnJbm1kRSFNONJHCbiS3VUgweEfD9MZ74hIKVliAm2SZlYHRldQw7B94c2YEhLGcAcUO043ViCpirMsvm_Pusl7oYOHM7cLq0ST2DcQOCpc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1678" data-original-width="1258" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDaUtflT0KDVcwwlUK3CvcNqj5ApeSc-hx9JfLGQbpHrssTKWuaNwU1hfzha5_ssZSQ3_rMnXRfnJbm1kRSFNONJHCbiS3VUgweEfD9MZ74hIKVliAm2SZlYHRldQw7B94c2YEhLGcAcUO043ViCpirMsvm_Pusl7oYOHM7cLq0ST2DcQOCpc" width="180" /></a></div><br /></div>It's taken six weeks for me to be able to even write the words. Six weeks ago today someone ran my Nacho over and left him dead by the side of the road. All day I shouted and looked for him, knowing in my heart something was wrong. He hated the rain, you see, and was never out in the dark but that day he went out around 9am and when the heavy rain started an hour later, I called him, but he didn't come running down my field, a streak of cream fur against the grass as he always did. <div><br /></div><div>By midday he was still a no-show and as the rain got heavier, I put on wellies and a coat and tried all his usual haunts, mainly in the fields and the woodlands behind my house. I didn't try out front because he never went out front. He never ventured near the road as it scared him and there was so much nature in the other direction.</div><div><br /></div><div>By dinner time as darkness was falling, I was beside myself. I stayed up all night with the door open and a plate of his favourite biscuits, just in case he'd been locked in somewhere but he never showed. It was a long cold night on my sofa. It was a long, cold, wet and dark night outside. I couldn't imagine my baby out in the winter rain. At 8am I knew something bad was going on. I dressed and got in the car, thinking I'd go straight from my house towards the next village, but at the last second without knowing why, I turned right onto the road through our village. I knew he was a homebody so once I had gone around four houses, they are spaced out, I figured he must just have got locked in somewhere because he would never have gone any further than that, especially not in that direction. I decided to go as far as the inn where Léon works as that is the easiest place to turn the car. And there I saw something; opposite the last house before the inn, lying on the grass verge on the other side of the road was a ginger cat. </div><div><br /></div><div>I pulled to a halt and could see he was dead, stiff but unblemished. He was wet so looked ginger, not cream and for a few moments, I almost convinced myself that it wasn't him but a different missing orange cat. The first thing I was drawn to were his toe beans; they were so pale. Nacho's were always a deep pink, whereas Samosa's are pale, I felt hope for a second before I realised that cold and lack of circulation would take their toll. I willed someone else to be dead instead but I turned this wee man over and he had his one black whisker on his left just like my Nacho, next I checked his head and he had an ear tattoo just like my boy, he even had his extra fang. Nacho had five fangs instead of four, having retained a baby tooth on the right-hand side. My world shattered. There I was with his basket, some treats as I knew he would be hungry after his night's adventure and I suddenly I knew he would never be having treats again.</div><div><br /></div><div>I laid him gently in the car, in the towel I had brought as I thought he might be wet and cold when I found him.</div><div><br /></div><div>We'd been having a problems with a cat from the next village over the winter. She's a lovely cat around humans but is very territorial and had decided this side of the road was her territory too. Nach, Mos and Smilla, the tortie next door, didn't agree and she was often seen chasing our cats. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder if she chased him across the road as he just never went that way. He was way too timid to choose the road side when we own 9000m2 of grassland and forest that he happily spent his whole life in. Only something like that could have spooked him out of his routine.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have been over that morning in my head so many times, asking myself why I didn't tell Thomas to keep them in as the weather didn't look like it was going to be great. I blame myself, I should have known to keep him home, somehow I should have known. I couldn't sleep for weeks as every time I closed my eyes, he was there again, on the verge, cold and wet. My poor darling boy who hated to be wet, who was never out in the cold and the dark before. My beautiful boy who wasn't yet two. Now he lies under an apple tree he loved to climb. It catches my eye whenever I go out with the bin and sometimes I think how beautiful it is to have him near, other times I cry because he is out in the rain or the cold, which he really didn't like.</div><div><br /></div><div>The night before he died I took a few photos of him on my phone: one, a live photo, loops. He barely moves so all you can see is his breathing. I would watch it over and again, just to see my boy breathing. I had no idea he had less than 24 hours to live. </div><div><br /></div><div>He had the loudest purr of any cat I have ever met, now my house feels a little too quiet. </div><div><br /></div><div>Samosa had turned one that week and had never been catless for a single night in her life, having moved from her mum and siblings to being Nacho's shadow, following him about, tormenting him, washing him, loving him. She seems so sad and quiet now. She often stares out the window at the neighbour's cat or chickens, looking curious, but not full of anticipation. Then it happened, this morning. There's another cat in the next village, not the one who was causing the problems, but a pale ginger one who looks similar to Nacho, other than his smaller, greener eyes. He rarely comes up here, but when he does the kids call him<i> 'Fake Nacho' </i>as they are so alike. It was him I thought I had found that morning back in March as he is slightly darker and with wet fur, you look darker. This morning <i>Fake Nach</i> was sitting on our lawn and Mos saw him. Her tail started swishing, she ran up and down the window ledge, standing on her hind legs, miaowing and clawing to get out. She saw her brother who she used to sleep and eat with and who suddenly disappeared and she wanted him back. She was so excited it broke my heart in a million pieces. As she ran up and down watching him, I stood with the tears running down my cheeks. How can I explain to her he isn't coming back when she so obviously wants him to? Her reaction was so different to seeing any other animal in our garden.</div><div><br /></div><div>To help her and to help us, we decided to get her a wee buddy. He would never be Nacho Cheese, but he will be someone else she can wash and play with and snuggle up to. When we recently visited a family whose cat had had kittens, their daughter talked us into taking two instead of one, the little runt of the litter had no home to go to and our hearts melted. For a five-year-old, she'll make a great saleswoman one day! So tomorrow, Mos finally gets her new playmates after six weeks alone. I hope she will come to love them the way she loved her big brother who we all miss every day. </div>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-68990963816166292792023-03-13T14:07:00.002+01:002023-03-13T15:39:19.730+01:00You miss the most unexpected things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDHWd5kdrTigXZID7M6CKq55ybiAHJEIMguCaH7XH8x2r4S5PBEqUX45_7V3TVjgipii7iMEyubBVHObCvEB9qLWfRTAiIqrZ0wOsA7OC01MHwsLxzfT86qKvkRVqJhUDKc-q3D4HwhaQaUrKmoQSX8GJqs8nixwIuiswrKgI5diJ09I-eNFE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="998" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDHWd5kdrTigXZID7M6CKq55ybiAHJEIMguCaH7XH8x2r4S5PBEqUX45_7V3TVjgipii7iMEyubBVHObCvEB9qLWfRTAiIqrZ0wOsA7OC01MHwsLxzfT86qKvkRVqJhUDKc-q3D4HwhaQaUrKmoQSX8GJqs8nixwIuiswrKgI5diJ09I-eNFE=w329-h494" width="329" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Denmark is weirdly flat, not quite the Netherlands flat but flat enough that there are points where I have stood on this island (Funen) maybe 10km inland and watched as a thunderstorm sweeps in from the sea with no barriers in its way. The highest point in Denmark is 171m! I am sure I have had piles of garden rubbish back home that could more or less have rivalled that!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As a Scottish person who has been up the odd Munro, I thought I would pine most for the hills and the mountains of home, and I do sometimes. I miss those spongey-looking mountains you get in Scotland where there isn't a tree in sight, just the odd white crumb, that on closer inspection turns out to be a sheep on the hillside. Obviously Alpine mountains look much more spectacular and I marvel at them every time I fly over them to visit my in-laws in Tuscany, but they aren't my home countryside.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Interestingly though, I am beginning to realise that there is something I miss just as much, if not more than the hills from home, but that I hadn't pre-empted: waterfalls. When a country is flat or flattish, there are almost no waterfalls. I was brought up in Newton Mearns so the nearest park, where I went all the time as a child and then with my own kids had this beautiful waterfall. Nearby Linn park also had a beautiful waterfall, unsurprisingly given linn means waterfall! Almost every park I knew in the vicinity of Glasgow had a waterfall, almost every walk I ever went on in nature involved a waterfall.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I loved to photograph waterfalls and to watch them, but even more than that I loved to stand and listen to the power of the water, to marvel at its endlessness, and that is something I took for granted.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When mum was still alive, I used to hire a car when I went to Scotland so could visit all my old haunts and friends but now I tend to stay with my brother in Glasgow in a paid parking zone, I can't. I guess I'm going to have to find myself a public transport waterfall trail for future visits, just to give me my annual dose!</div>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-72965811480531947872023-02-25T14:58:00.002+01:002023-02-26T13:31:15.361+01:00Samosa<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdfv7PzmwwPb3U33b6p0dxwJmlyfcNO6HBjfqcj0HVMX9CoXMUvfqVAn55a6mhXZBomJit1_mqtfC9blonu6WZ-LPniW5LSCKS6UWt8Ez-Zt5OiywiPL4ZezhuMGUpEuKm2k2OUjvtprOskbFC8lMHpk1mG95vWQxYErn1HEDacv-TaBTjdOE/s822/2023-02-19%2000.57.24.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="822" data-original-width="628" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdfv7PzmwwPb3U33b6p0dxwJmlyfcNO6HBjfqcj0HVMX9CoXMUvfqVAn55a6mhXZBomJit1_mqtfC9blonu6WZ-LPniW5LSCKS6UWt8Ez-Zt5OiywiPL4ZezhuMGUpEuKm2k2OUjvtprOskbFC8lMHpk1mG95vWQxYErn1HEDacv-TaBTjdOE/s320/2023-02-19%2000.57.24.jpg" width="244" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmQJWEOwseY0kv_H-L5xpstYnuJovB28XVSN-bxLouUk7x3-v1FtRWdVOigq6woSu5-VGvi1Weq-3xzt-CyvikeVKOlFmxuxb-_cOd8MgG5eGeYDqDoTXKaRxeflSF1le34_sTbYOAMJuwVmzJGux8o-B2QQqGOetE9dh_CV2cboqVLSWdjo/s1740/2023-02-20%2012.53.01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1740" data-original-width="1305" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmQJWEOwseY0kv_H-L5xpstYnuJovB28XVSN-bxLouUk7x3-v1FtRWdVOigq6woSu5-VGvi1Weq-3xzt-CyvikeVKOlFmxuxb-_cOd8MgG5eGeYDqDoTXKaRxeflSF1le34_sTbYOAMJuwVmzJGux8o-B2QQqGOetE9dh_CV2cboqVLSWdjo/s320/2023-02-20%2012.53.01.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>When we got the cats, we discussed whether to give them English names, given we are an English-speaking family, Scottish names, given we are a Scottish family, or Danish names given the cats are technically Danish and will likely spend their entire lives here. The advantage of Danish names would be simpler vet visits and catsitter stays. First of all we googled the top 15 cat names per gender in Denmark and got these: </div><div><h3 style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 1.3; margin-bottom: 11px; margin-top: 22px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Søde kattenavne til hankatte<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Gode kattenavne til hunkatte</span></h3><ol style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; margin-bottom: 11px; margin-top: 0px;"><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Charlie 1. Nala</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Winston 2. Fie</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Simba 3. Luna</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Abyssi 4. Lunka</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sham 5. Fia</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lio 6. Fortuna</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ra 7. Desdemona</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Calle 8. Maui</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Balder 9. Wiwi</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Balou 10. Lani </span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bandit 11. Nayla</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Evian 12. Mis</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eddie 13. Nanna</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ditlev 14. Åse</span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Djengis 15. Sussi</span></li></ol><div><span style="color: #333333;">The kids rolled their eyes and vetoed the Danish lists. So they started suggesting names from back home. Thomas ruled half of them out as unpronounceable. Eventually they compromised on food items that were (at least potentially) known in both places. So we ended up with Nacho Cheese. </span></div><div><span style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4sjqNXAacT72BlakmTai6tD3zD8dkkdtj4HMxBHXU557nCaWcn2eUWukwxQ1A2wyRzIy-ewgUMj9p5aZcr8Rs7ZDnO6bjS7hcwzUOM1Q0VSzxKTS5o-WB9rDsOLmlw73qZ7NBhoUdgUetASSJDaIM8BEnMizfMXIao7Qj7LZPjpAPOC9tc2I/s2981/2023-02-03%2022.12.48.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2981" data-original-width="2236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4sjqNXAacT72BlakmTai6tD3zD8dkkdtj4HMxBHXU557nCaWcn2eUWukwxQ1A2wyRzIy-ewgUMj9p5aZcr8Rs7ZDnO6bjS7hcwzUOM1Q0VSzxKTS5o-WB9rDsOLmlw73qZ7NBhoUdgUetASSJDaIM8BEnMizfMXIao7Qj7LZPjpAPOC9tc2I/s320/2023-02-03%2022.12.48.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #333333;">Nine months later when we got Samosa, we decided to go through other snacks/foods. The girls had Salsa, Chilli, Dorito, Mango etc on the list but couldn't agree. Léon happened to wander in at that moment and point out that Samosas, like Nachos were an orange, triangular snack food and, given she was also partly ginger, it stuck.</span></div><div><span style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #333333;">I half expected it would get shortened to <i>Sam</i> or <i>Sammy</i> within weeks, but you never know with these things and within days she was being shortened to <i>Mosmos. </i>Amusingly, that in turn gets shortened to <i>Mos</i>, which she seems to like best. And that in itself takes us back to an interesting compromise: <i>Mos</i> is Danish for <i>Mash</i>, as in mashed potatoes, so maybe she ended up with a Danish food name after all!</span></div><div></div></div>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-69983976549125216512023-02-17T22:23:00.007+01:002023-02-17T22:33:10.291+01:00Store bededagAnyone who has been living in Denmark since the last general election (1/11/22) knows all about 'Store bededag' or 'Great prayer day'. The new three party coalition centrist government spent a month in negotiations before visiting the Queen and offering to form a government, then out of the palace they trotted and announced their brainwave - if we scrap this one bank holiday, we'll make enough money to fund the entire Danish defence budget, half the health service and god knows all what else. I think they thought Danes, with their great faith in the state, would just nod and happily agree to working an extra 7 hours a year for the good of the land. It is a very secular country after all so I doubt more than half a dozen pensioners actually spend great prayer day praying. But they seem to have miscalculated; Denmark is incandescent with rage with people's protests and sieges of parliament on a daily basis. (<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/jan/26/danes-furious-over-plan-to-abolish-public-holiday-to-fund-defence-budget">Here is an article in English to explain the ins and outs</a>).<div><br /></div><div>Unions think they should have negotiated it, workers want a say, the church isn't happy etc etc. Though, to a man, Danes swear it is entirely about workers' rights, I suspect the crux of it is also partly buns! You see, when Denmark, back in the 1600s, scrapped all the minor religious bank holidays in favour of one great prayer day which falls on the fourth Friday after Easter, everyone other than ministers presumably had to spend the day at prayer. Everywhere is like a ghost town on Store bededag, nothing is open. It's like Christmas day with knobs on! Local bakeries weren't even allowed to open, so they invented these very yummy warm cardamom buns that could be eaten for 24 hours, so everyone could buy them before the bakery shut on the Thursday night. They are quite delicious especially toasted with melted butter on top. <a href="https://www.valdemarsro.dk/varme-hveder/">Here's a recipe</a>, (but it is in Danish). So, once a year everyone visits a proper bakery and buys dozens of these delights, and the bakeries presumably take in half their annual income in 24 hours! I, for one, am more worried about the loss of this tradition, than I am about the kids being in school an extra day a year!</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHkJwrqLl0Lk-bka37OBPppN0OY2qPnesuBcy2EGJhYKNeZLPLpqhtRwzQ0sJgSl5i3kQtGbBJAdpVS2PCpyy0Or0GW8JvEBuF_Wd-UJYW1UK98-FZGzhkUncbYnqetfLkBS0l6h6NlAAurHLGcHKnuZORvVLY8DlZlaWDOOZ4bcNN2HPwles" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="204" data-original-width="168" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHkJwrqLl0Lk-bka37OBPppN0OY2qPnesuBcy2EGJhYKNeZLPLpqhtRwzQ0sJgSl5i3kQtGbBJAdpVS2PCpyy0Or0GW8JvEBuF_Wd-UJYW1UK98-FZGzhkUncbYnqetfLkBS0l6h6NlAAurHLGcHKnuZORvVLY8DlZlaWDOOZ4bcNN2HPwles" width="198" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway we happened to be discussing it over dinner when Léon came out with a rather sweet confession!</div><div><i>You remember when we first moved to Denmark, mum? Well, our school took us all to the outdoor swimming pool to celebrate Store bededag the first two years and because I have never been in a church and know nothing about prayer days, I thought everyone was saying Store badedag</i><i> </i>(Great bathing day)<i> but just pronouncing it weirdly, maybe in some local dialect</i>. <i>So, I thought we'd moved to the best country in the world! One where the government gave everyone a day off a year so they could go to the pool together and have a lovely time socialising!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>What a sweet idea! </div>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-79281591255992032962023-02-15T14:16:00.008+01:002023-02-15T22:43:36.452+01:00Danglish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjte0KaAOdlu57PWvEAwKu9by3cCEc-V0xVaB0rxdJn7DaH5OjfY3dnWdPyQrCVWR2BEjO4txlGTUtt-mYALvNIko1_55X9Le-bgeQyH1-8Mpv4d4dSSDSEOvJlaD3KS-RfjjRJwPpWkxBqsjBbFKOkshAcmdSGmmtI84qo1DjmeoHeot2tlfY/s4032/2020-02-08%2010.53.07.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjte0KaAOdlu57PWvEAwKu9by3cCEc-V0xVaB0rxdJn7DaH5OjfY3dnWdPyQrCVWR2BEjO4txlGTUtt-mYALvNIko1_55X9Le-bgeQyH1-8Mpv4d4dSSDSEOvJlaD3KS-RfjjRJwPpWkxBqsjBbFKOkshAcmdSGmmtI84qo1DjmeoHeot2tlfY/s320/2020-02-08%2010.53.07.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div>Danes are great at English. By the time most Danes reach end of Scottish primary school age, they can understand a thousand times more than their Scottish peers have learned in French (or whatever other foreign language their primary concentrates on). They can discuss most topics and understand most accents. By the second last year of high school they are reading Shakespeare in the original! Most Scottish kids in their second last year at high school struggle with Shakespeare even though it is technically in their native language! If anyone considered introducing Shakespeare translated into French or Spanish in a Scottish Higher class, it would be a non-starter! In addition to this all Danes do a minimum of two foreign languages over and above Danish, which would probably not go down too well back home either. So, in principle, I take my hat off to Danes and the level of English they tend to acquire.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other week Anna (who is in the equivalent of s4 in Scottish terms, (Year 9 in Denmark); she's 15) came home chuckling. <i>'Guess what my homework is?' </i>she laughed<i>. 'I've to speak to my parents only in English for the whole of the next week!' </i>Can you imagine a teacher back home having the confidence to assume firstly that a child of 15 had enough French to use only that for a week, and secondly that their parents also knew enough to keep it up!? Here it is taken as a given.<i> </i></div><div><br /></div><div>Despite speaking only Danish at school, my kids are in standard state schools, not international schools, they still speak English at home and to each other. They moved here nearly four years ago when they were aged between 9 and 13 but claim <i>'at home Danish just doesn't feel right,'</i> and yet they all pass as Danish natives outside the house. What is more Thomas always spoke to them only in Danish, even when we lived in Glasgow! I doubt now that it will ever change but only time will tell. So, Anna found her homework far from taxing!</div><div><br /></div><div>Their above-average level of English comes with a downside however... They are so proficient, they believe their English has reached native in standard, and that's the problem, it invariably hasn't. Somehow the Danish education system instils a huge amount of confidence in its citizens, and they rarely stop to question their own ability. The English textbooks used in Danish schools for the under 16s are as far as I can see written exclusively by Danes and they sure as hell don't think they need a native English speaker to copy-edit them. </div><div><br /></div><div>Danes learn British English at school but sit glued to Netflix and watch American media content 24/7, the young (males in particular) game online in English-dominant group chats from their early teens upwards. Léon always says you can tell if a Dane is a gamer or not without discussing computer games; if they speak English with a Danish accent, they don't game, if they speak with an American accent, they almost always turn out to be gamers. This also means that unlike in Scottish schools where 90% of a given Modern Languages class is likely to be female (once they pass the point of compulsory French/Spanish/German), in Denmark young men are often better, at least at the spoken part of English, than their female classmates, who, on the whole game less. </div><div><br /></div><div>The result of this mix of English input from a young age is textbooks spelled in British English but which use US terminology, for the most part. Amaia actually had an (approved) English textbook a couple of years ago where one of the exercises stated<i> 'Turn to the person sitting beside you and ask them what colour of pants they are wearing'</i>! I fully get that you can easily ask your <i>neighbor what color their pants are</i>, but you most definitely should not ask your <i>neighbour what colour their pants are</i>, not in a school setting anyway! Danish speakers of English often happily mix different variants of English and jump about in register, using both formal and spoken English within a sentence, and don't even get me started on their use of English swearwords, that's a post in itself, if not a thesis! </div><div><br /></div><div>They don't seem to learn about English style either so in a business setting often write long-winded technical texts repeating the same words again and again in what would be considered bad style by a native. When copy-editing English written by a Dane, although there are sometimes no concrete mistakes I often have to break one of their sentences into three or even four before it begins to sound English. When inventing stories for school textbooks, they make cultural errors such as naming the characters badly. I know this sounds a strange, and maybe pedantic point, but they often set a story in a contemporary classroom, the kids all on their iPads, working away, but the kids in this 2023 setting are described as being 12 years old but named Deborah, Helen, Jacqueline, Carol, Gary, and Steven. I had five kids and they had shit tons of classmates, but those names were much more likely to belong to their parents than the kids themselves. I'm half expecting one day to come across a baby Phyllis in one of the kids' text books 😂</div><div><br /></div><div>As an English expert with over 30 years experience in language publishing, I find it depressing that I can find mistakes or awkward turns of phrase in almost every web page, ad, textbook or talk given in English here, but at the same time really struggle to get anyone to understand the need for a native speaker to proofread anything. I have rarely had as little luck freelancing as I do here. I do get work but not nearly enough! And after a couple of years, I am now seriously considering throwing in the towel altogether and looking for something completely different, despite seeing on a daily basis how useful I could actually be to my adopted country. I once applied for a job writing tourist brochures in English for the island I live on and was rejected with a lovely letter (which sounded rather strange and stilted!) explaining that although I could probably do it faster, I had less local knowledge of Funen, so they had gone for a native Dane instead! This was far from being a one-off!</div><div><br /></div><div>My kids, all English native speakers who speak English at home and have been educated in the UK are corrected at school by teachers who are somehow confident they know better, (they don't!) I remember Amaia using the word 'Santa hat' in a story she wrote for her English class here: <i>The kids all wore Santa hats on their last day at school in December... </i>Her essay was returned to her with<i> Santa hat </i>underlined and she was told to change it to <i>gnome cap, </i>(she didn't!) Every English 'mistake' they have ever had corrected in Danish school was not a mistake and they have stuck to their guns! But I do find it fascinating. If I was teaching French in Scotland, or Danish for that matter and a native pupil of that language handed in a dialogue they had written, I would ask them to explain their writing to me, I would not assume I am right and the native is wrong!</div><div><br /></div><div>This whole rant was inspired by Amaia's current homework. Amaia is the equivalent of s1 in Scotland, (Year 6 in Denmark; she's 13). The class is working on short sketches to perform in English for the school. The book the sketches are taken from is entirely in English, written exclusively by Danes and is quite frankly horrendous! In the six pages we're working on, I have counted at least six mistakes. I'm so inspired I am considering writing a book of dialogues for schools and sending it to publishers here, though I know before I even open my laptop to start on it, that it would be viewed with suspicion as it would use turns of phrase the Danes themselves were not familiar with, and the contemporary kids would be called weird and wonderful names such as Olivia, Katie, Adam and Aaron, so it would inevitably be rejected in favour of a reprint of Amaia's appalling little textbook! Strangely, Danes trust Danes much more than they would trust the likes of me to write a school textbook! The errors in this sketch book range from mild:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>We will never see our son any more</i> instead of: <i>We will never see our son again</i></div><div>to awkward:</div><div><i>Darling, our son is playing with that devilish device again! </i>Said by a father whose son is playing computer games</div><div>to downright Danish:</div><div><i>I'm leaving to go to school now mum, hi! </i>instead of:<i> I'm off to school now, bye!</i></div><div>(The Danish word for <i>Hi</i> is <i>Hej</i>, the Danish word for <i>Bye</i> is also <i>Hej</i> (think <i>Ciao</i> in Italian)).</div><div><br /></div><div>I have lived many places abroad: France, Germany, Italy and Denmark, and nowhere else do they confidently use foreign speakers of English to write all their English content. Everywhere else I have lived, I could easily find school pupils, students, or even business people to tutor in English. My daughter is always tutoring a minimum of three or four Spanish kids at any given time, they are positively clamouring for native input to improve themselves, but not in Denmark. Back when I lived in Newton Mearns, although my kids were all at one of the top 5 Scottish state schools where the standard of teaching was excellent and the facilities top notch, they were almost the exception in their class as they were the only ones who didn't have a private tutor after school! I have never met a Danish parent who uses tutors in ANY subject, such is their faith, at least here on Funen, in their state education. </div><div><br /></div><div>I guess if things continue in this direction, Danglish risks becoming a separate variant of English as they are developing their own way of speaking it, in a bubble and passing it down from generation to generation. It'll be fascinating to watch, though I am already prepared for a great deal of eyeball rolling!</div>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-80992887711530544282022-11-01T16:40:00.009+01:002022-11-05T11:39:27.782+01:00ABBA, without mum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6sMNjQbWHoRfINzSbYSqE13nTZfmX4ayNWAbzkitgLuq9QyfYuk7185llM_jgSAhl5c52tcccJscLTZ_FaJUmzdfnb6bWka-CPB5RlVgdqVbM72vWLfM1m9K-kJNwRBR8TfnNA/s4032/2022-10-17+18.45.05.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6sMNjQbWHoRfINzSbYSqE13nTZfmX4ayNWAbzkitgLuq9QyfYuk7185llM_jgSAhl5c52tcccJscLTZ_FaJUmzdfnb6bWka-CPB5RlVgdqVbM72vWLfM1m9K-kJNwRBR8TfnNA/w645-h484/2022-10-17+18.45.05.jpg" width="645" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>In October we went to London to visit Marcel and Milly (and their flatmate, Anton). It had been on our to-do list since they moved there at the beginning of Covid, but for the first year after the pandemic began the world was a bit mad. Denmark did so much better than the UK during the pandemic, the kids all visited me here rather than there whenever possible and I only ventured to the UK to visit mum, not London. The following summer I had a breast operation so couldn't fly until autumn when we needed to go see mum. And by that Xmas mum's quick illness and death meant everyone in the family meeting several times in Glasgow instead of London, once again.</p><p>This time last year ABBA had just announced their <span><a href="https://abbavoyage.com/" style="color: red; text-decoration-line: underline;">Voyage Abbatar concert</a>. </span>I knew Marcel lived there, so if I could get to whole family there, we could go. With this in mind I decided it was the obvious Xmas present for the eight of us. I spent ages toying with whether or not to buy mum a ticket for her Xmas too, given she liked ABBA and concerts and it was definitely going to be a show to remember. I put it in the bigger picture of a week in London. Obviously I would not hire a car on a city break, so it would have meant getting her to London, then many buses and tubes all around and probably an airbed at Marcel's. Eventually I concluded that it probably would be too much for someone who would be 78, so didn't get her a ticket. In the back of my mind, I was still tossing up whether to make a separate trip to Marcel's just with mum for maybe a weekend, especially as she had made an annual trip to see him in Edinburgh after he moved there in 2015. She loved being nosey about where he was living and taking him out for a couple of drinks in town and he loved the street cred afforded to him by taking his granny and her pal Joyce on a pub crawl once a year. Mum would have loved to see her first grandchild buy his first house. </p><p>When I booked those tickets the week before Xmas for October 2022, it didn't even cross my mind that she would be dead within two months and all my mental logistics about how to get her to London would be in vain.</p><p>So, last week was the concert. I definitely got a wee bit twitchy in the last few days in the run up to it. NOTHING was going to come between me and my trip to see ABBA. When I fell off my ladder a month ago I had decided I was going even if I was on crutches!</p><p>ABBA had come to Glasgow in 1979, hence the <i>'I was sick and tired of everything, when I called you last night from Glasgow' </i>lyrics used in Super Trouper. I was 11 years old at the time and it was long before the Internet. To buy tickets, you had to phone the venue and book them. I was so terrified on missing out, that although I was a painfully shy, phone-phobic child, I rang up only to be told the tickets would not be on sale till the following week. When I rang back the following week, the concert was sold out and I collapsed in a heap on sobs and didn't stop crying for a month... in fact I didn't get over it till last Monday, at the age of 54!</p><p>On arrival last Monday, with my husband, my five kids, my daughter-in-law, her mother and her auntie, I was 11 years old again. All the hurt from November 1979 was finally laid to rest. In the queue to go in my darling boy bought me a T-shirt that I was too tight-fisted to buy myself. He sensed how to please his 11 year old mummy on the night! I guess if you work in London banking, concert merch is more affordable! In the foyer many, many people my age wandered around, often accompanied by friends or their kids... so many of the 11 year olds from the 70s. There were people dressed in well-known ABBA costumes, such as the blue and yellow cat T-shirts or the outfits used in the 1979 tour. There were people in 60s flower power dresses, there were sequins, sparkles, platform boots, bearded men in blonde Agnetha wigs, camp, loud, happy people hand in hand, all sorts of exuberance. It was just perfect!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_WMph_JYrjvwj8vzVh5c0uKo4_uEeCUjVmSbv8YRFwNrQlMNq_sQu53psK29br7W4TosCOtFbwqJfRvavYeuFHKTRevkfetXd8CqLx9CpKWp1z0hSzXhAsf7t4kMdNFrz68xm4hkVg6hbxYj_Y6OAjDElyRGfYyMW6Di2g4kCg6Z7A33O1kU/s173/abba.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="143" data-original-width="173" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_WMph_JYrjvwj8vzVh5c0uKo4_uEeCUjVmSbv8YRFwNrQlMNq_sQu53psK29br7W4TosCOtFbwqJfRvavYeuFHKTRevkfetXd8CqLx9CpKWp1z0hSzXhAsf7t4kMdNFrz68xm4hkVg6hbxYj_Y6OAjDElyRGfYyMW6Di2g4kCg6Z7A33O1kU/w201-h165/abba.jpeg" width="201" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXX4DmXn0h7UFkP1bARShki3oF9-4pOy6wDLZF1BBctq6b_MQmZ0PHpuIlvNVErFowxI5NZ8NAZ01Z7Nq_WCFTDo52Ko8rBqkkAi3rnXPx5iABAporHBWO4dvb4PNs2PwsIEuesGf5GUp8oDr3uCx9w2F6lEdd9cR5RZIEB10DdvFjbP6b8zU/s4032/2022-10-17%2019.15.23.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXX4DmXn0h7UFkP1bARShki3oF9-4pOy6wDLZF1BBctq6b_MQmZ0PHpuIlvNVErFowxI5NZ8NAZ01Z7Nq_WCFTDo52Ko8rBqkkAi3rnXPx5iABAporHBWO4dvb4PNs2PwsIEuesGf5GUp8oDr3uCx9w2F6lEdd9cR5RZIEB10DdvFjbP6b8zU/w137-h183/2022-10-17%2019.15.23.jpg" width="137" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>The show was absolutely magical, the sound system perfection. They were so real I could believe I was finally there in the room listening to them sing to me and speak to me. Although we were in the seating rather than the dance floor, everyone was on their feet for the greatest of their hits singing and dancing along. I won't go into details about the content in case anyone is planning on going, but I will say that if you are an ABBA fan, you have to go, no ifs no buts, sell your house if you need to! And I was right, mum would have loved it.😢</p><p>I have now vowed to myself, though might not yet have mentioned it to the rest of the family, that I intend to go every time I visit Marcel and Milly. And if anyone is desperate to go but has no one to accompany them, gimme a shout!</p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0bU3vBF_oSwQnUc8t_6cLjUO0vq_nF6xYQXj_cZTePN7Z2na021guas0qVyBpBtWjhBDO-caGtabDbrAuc7Gdy1ePEvE3Q6eP95M4FPsreFoO9IydVChiiIqQBao1kU1Q_EDPFlusdIfzRl8npxAk-FVIlWGuQgRe4Yv0sWJalQQqcbgAhU0/s3088/2022-10-17%2021.53.53.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0bU3vBF_oSwQnUc8t_6cLjUO0vq_nF6xYQXj_cZTePN7Z2na021guas0qVyBpBtWjhBDO-caGtabDbrAuc7Gdy1ePEvE3Q6eP95M4FPsreFoO9IydVChiiIqQBao1kU1Q_EDPFlusdIfzRl8npxAk-FVIlWGuQgRe4Yv0sWJalQQqcbgAhU0/s320/2022-10-17%2021.53.53.jpg" width="240" /></a></p>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-9111478269771899582022-11-01T14:02:00.003+01:002022-11-01T14:39:10.936+01:00Greenhouse hell<p>I'm slowly developing a loathing of greenhouses.</p><p>It started in 2009... interesting he didn't buy one in all the years we lived together but waited till we were married to get one. I wonder if he was waiting till I'd signed on the dotted line, making escape harder <img alt="🤔" aria-label="🤔" class="an1" data-emoji="🤔" loading="lazy" src="https://fonts.gstatic.com/s/e/notoemoji/14.0/1f914/72.png" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; height: 1.2em; vertical-align: middle; width: 1.2em;" />.</p><p>Yes, in 2009, my beloved other half bought a wee lean-to for our Newton Mearns house. At first I was quite excited, having grown cherry tomatoes in the window of my west end flat and even having bought myself one of those little plastic zipped bags back when I was with my first husband.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjamifmfULrVdxpWLfKZ5HMyMil-BfgldtWct_GJgTgg1awhmwU4eBdNoEH9QzHfmYzaH84Il2g4PqrnVUTAI4EKOWQkKV5cCo1z30IRzFfkCLspvRWs35GMRSw1vuvy3Ly00XQh_o34h3HYKn5YzrDMWg2l3Z8oUdBN-8V_98Pjqr5XxO__Pw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="991" data-original-width="647" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjamifmfULrVdxpWLfKZ5HMyMil-BfgldtWct_GJgTgg1awhmwU4eBdNoEH9QzHfmYzaH84Il2g4PqrnVUTAI4EKOWQkKV5cCo1z30IRzFfkCLspvRWs35GMRSw1vuvy3Ly00XQh_o34h3HYKn5YzrDMWg2l3Z8oUdBN-8V_98Pjqr5XxO__Pw=w110-h168" width="110" /></a>I imagined juicy tomatoes galore. </div></div></span></div><p></p><p>The model he chose was the masochistic greenhouse model. Every piece of glass was different, all with number codes in the tens of thousands and no pieces of the frames were repeated. The 50 page instruction book nearly beat Thomas, despite his 12-year university education! In a final gasp at putting the bastard together we laid every pane on the lawn and penciled each number on a post-it and stuck it to it. We spent two days working out which piece went where, only to finally realise that glass left on a lawn in June leads to scorched grass that takes a whole season to grow back! I wrote up <span style="color: #cc0000;"><a href="http://www.phylsblog.com/2009/06/greenhouse-from-hell.html">the whole saga</a> </span>at the time.</p><p>I vowed back then never to let him near a greenhouse purchase site again, but 13 years is long enough that I dropped my guard momentarily and suddenly this enormous pallet of metal and polycarbonate was delivered to the middle of my driveway a few months ago.</p><p>For some reason, Thomas waited till the weather got autumnal before suddenly deciding it was now the optimal time to build the bugger.</p><p>Give him his due, he did 85% of it himself, coming in again and again covered in mud, looking exhausted, but the last 4 days he's needed help. The last 4 days I've had a stinking cold and zero desire to be outside holding massive sheets of polycarbonate while he drills and screws. Suddenly all the kids had other places to be or were simply 'washing their hair' that day and I was 'it'!</p><p>Not only did he overrun the weekend, but he needed to take a day of his annual leave to finish it. He'd got it into his head that some storm that was meant to be coming today or tomorrow would see it destroyed, upended and flown off to Oz or similar if all the walls and doors weren't on. I was dubious, but given manual jobs aren't something Thomas is a greater finisher of, I played along, rather than ending up with half a greenhouse for the best part of the next decade.</p><p>I came home from my evening class yesterday to find he still wasn't finished so had put up floodlighting. Lucky me! Such bright floodlighting it turns out, that you couldn't even see the frame when you walk eye-first into it😠. We were out till after 10pm in the cold screwing tiny little screws into the frame at ground level lying in the mud, following instructions which were helpfully only written in Cyrillic. Thomas loves a challenge.</p><p>The bastard had the cheek to finish up the evening with <i>'Remind me if I ever have to assemble another greenhouse, that it is best done in summer!' </i>I retorted<i> 'Remind me if you ever have to assemble another greenhouse to find myself another husband!' </i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrq26XmjQRj51CtapeLsy0hFlcDeGDrSzTslzarx5WXXPTwBiC2mMwbzyuYLypi9T1Gh2t3WF1Dx270eiv0MaRelq-d0kUXaGDn4e-Gt_4yfUotttOeA9RjJADiGNsSx23WRuw8j_tPFGxCGOqks62kwbhtgNh7fA0BvasQT_tZO0RICIdsFE" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrq26XmjQRj51CtapeLsy0hFlcDeGDrSzTslzarx5WXXPTwBiC2mMwbzyuYLypi9T1Gh2t3WF1Dx270eiv0MaRelq-d0kUXaGDn4e-Gt_4yfUotttOeA9RjJADiGNsSx23WRuw8j_tPFGxCGOqks62kwbhtgNh7fA0BvasQT_tZO0RICIdsFE" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMSDyDPKSL1uzhQDtBRDw36VNhnuL4LQ6xgtirQ7bRwrHodofxEb4s0uO50RhsJnRxO5rKBctsNBhzJbu3ZrRM1ltPfCNZ6Jp6Oz0DuI5tCJ3TzpIfNLeQCZC-LnPFrmj-0c3KD9j4TkAL1Gs9OXNR0NdT0DoY0ySQ_FTSLL84cRDyK8pHvl4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMSDyDPKSL1uzhQDtBRDw36VNhnuL4LQ6xgtirQ7bRwrHodofxEb4s0uO50RhsJnRxO5rKBctsNBhzJbu3ZrRM1ltPfCNZ6Jp6Oz0DuI5tCJ3TzpIfNLeQCZC-LnPFrmj-0c3KD9j4TkAL1Gs9OXNR0NdT0DoY0ySQ_FTSLL84cRDyK8pHvl4" width="180" /></a></div><p></p><p>I have since threatened him with ending up under the patio if he even thinks of buying another one, so hopefully my greenhouse days are now over as I am way too old for crawling around in the mud looking for small nuts and bolts.</p><p>He still has the door to put on, but found a work-around last night around midnight when it became obvious he wasn't going to get it completely sewn up before the storm. I fear it may end up looking like that for the rest of the winter! Why finish a job 100% if you can leave it 98% done after all?!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZJRhHZWYfN-HwusHYs2RC5UdMgj7SOK0eXi0TJ_J8S7vo7VzYO4YMPI9e5XOvgxcd_RucllQdp9XjjQ2EY1iSFyopj4h7xula-9SlXiMAtQ-_6rVp_dn0gOMOZNnJUBfij2R9tRHUNgLz92loyiNVcAW4pJM1bZliMIupGrCjiCn96XiYAA/s4032/2022-11-01%2011.59.44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZJRhHZWYfN-HwusHYs2RC5UdMgj7SOK0eXi0TJ_J8S7vo7VzYO4YMPI9e5XOvgxcd_RucllQdp9XjjQ2EY1iSFyopj4h7xula-9SlXiMAtQ-_6rVp_dn0gOMOZNnJUBfij2R9tRHUNgLz92loyiNVcAW4pJM1bZliMIupGrCjiCn96XiYAA/s320/2022-11-01%2011.59.44.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-61277346603550330422022-10-27T18:25:00.002+02:002022-10-27T22:09:51.816+02:00Naw!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNDmoefUn_lrsel4MC7ylcYFh2f28Ke0V6Un29K8oLJxP4F5vDD_j4Z9nRYdNdMPNynn5G1juyEvkD4A-9z-L7Er8A_IyBKUvlXNnUwXWBRy5v4v1E4KXd_sDv6GEd43nj0gmR4BR_wlZoBlLqCFR9WNrYZ04fzHwSaAEpcp4aAnArWTCP0qM/s4032/2022-10-19%2011.26.40.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNDmoefUn_lrsel4MC7ylcYFh2f28Ke0V6Un29K8oLJxP4F5vDD_j4Z9nRYdNdMPNynn5G1juyEvkD4A-9z-L7Er8A_IyBKUvlXNnUwXWBRy5v4v1E4KXd_sDv6GEd43nj0gmR4BR_wlZoBlLqCFR9WNrYZ04fzHwSaAEpcp4aAnArWTCP0qM/s320/2022-10-19%2011.26.40.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Having been at his school, with the same English teacher now for 18 months, Léon decided she was probably up to speed with his Glasgow accent enough that he could stop enunciating quite so much when answering her questions. Asking him something today in the passing, he mumbled the reply 'Naw!' She looked blank, he repeated himself, she looked even more blank. She crossed to the board and wrote down four letters... <i>Is this what you are saying Léon?</i> she asked. He looked up and couldn't help but laugh when faced with the word <i>'GNAW'</i> hahahaha. Think he'll need to go mid-Atlantic for a while longer!<p></p>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-83324084001944110292022-10-27T17:33:00.001+02:002022-10-27T17:33:03.783+02:00London<p>I'm just back from a week in London visiting my son, his girlfriend and their flatmate who have been working there for the last three years. The visit was meant to have taken place years ago but what with Covid, boob ops and my mum's recent death, it didn't materialise till now.</p><p>I hadn't actually been to London since 2010. When you have family abroad, holidays don't tend to send you in that direction, though now my family abroad is London, I guess I'll be there more often in the future.</p><p>Visiting London post-Brexit is fascinating. As someone whose main friend and family group is based in Scotland, the decline in the UK is glaringly obvious when I go back home. There are more pot holes, more empty shelves, products are dearer or missing, the immigrant shops have closed down, you rarely hear foreign languages in the street any more, the high streets are full of empty retail units, homelessness is on the increase. My daughter, who's in 5th year at Glasgow uni, tells me about the chronic lack of student accommodation to the point that the uni actually messaged people the week before uni started to say that students who hadn't yet found a room should not turn up! (what exactly is that meant to mean if you are half way through a degree?), uni staff members who don't show up till a course is half way through as their work visa hasn't come through yet. Charlotte's six or seven weeks into a course that is yet to receive both a native French speaker and a native Catalan one. I could go on...</p><p>London is still a wonderful, vibrant, reasonably well-functioning place! The shops around Marcel's area are still all in use, you hear ten different languages in the space of one tube ride, you can still buy Polish products if you so desire, the roads are in a better state etcetc If you live in London, you could be forgiven for thinking that Brexit has not changed the standing of the UK and given the MPs with the power to do anything about it all live in London 90% of the time, I have to sadly conclude that it will be a long time before the penny drops and they realise that one city cannot support a country of nearly 70 million people. I will never stop being angry and I will never stop mourning the country that used to be so welcoming.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0FF6tvH3PZbDrWJRyO9fJI-KmfH-TLIJbbF4umVbjXNMxI5f_pQBmNt-WrefuxbAKAkT8koc402iKC2F7XjT0xj1qR9kUxUNoG6USg5FtuSZG1dOMMjhyEaLKzL_t5siN9zHrHE2DxQ4U_1429GzerM5zLxefC3-VcqgsofDv22vgi-vBa34" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0FF6tvH3PZbDrWJRyO9fJI-KmfH-TLIJbbF4umVbjXNMxI5f_pQBmNt-WrefuxbAKAkT8koc402iKC2F7XjT0xj1qR9kUxUNoG6USg5FtuSZG1dOMMjhyEaLKzL_t5siN9zHrHE2DxQ4U_1429GzerM5zLxefC3-VcqgsofDv22vgi-vBa34" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Still, like in Glasgow, the house prices there, as far as I can see, are becoming even more unrealistic than they already were. Marcel and Milly have spent just shy of a half million on a quarter of an old house in Streatham. It is lovely and has great potential but is in need of modernisation but at half a million, it is pricing most young people out of the area. I can see walking around Streatham and Brixton that the people who live there could not afford to move there now, so I'm not sure where their kids will go as they grow up and leave home. Could you afford to pay over 2 million for this house?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZgftV_R6VfOjrQ3RPG2iXrwVOZiIb_yJ1LwoeRG7XCoaftxFdd80aQlacwuQb4ZvA7gOPHlduiEyi7-6VJFleJIqj81TGMpYS2CZeQCCawbtTXwU3AkivhU97xdIJJ5AggWWvsHmkefOkbWs9CTREnTqYsOq_bxY6_OGsgX1LfiYCh3O1UMw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZgftV_R6VfOjrQ3RPG2iXrwVOZiIb_yJ1LwoeRG7XCoaftxFdd80aQlacwuQb4ZvA7gOPHlduiEyi7-6VJFleJIqj81TGMpYS2CZeQCCawbtTXwU3AkivhU97xdIJJ5AggWWvsHmkefOkbWs9CTREnTqYsOq_bxY6_OGsgX1LfiYCh3O1UMw" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>It feels slightly like the whole city is on a knife edge and things could suddenly take a turn for the worse when the economy fails to live up to the expectations that have been set for it. I hope I am wrong, given I'd hate to see a housing crash where my child has bought a house.</p><p>We were actually there the day the lettuce ousted Truss and within a few streets of Westminster. We wandered over to watch developments in Downing street. There were fifty or so protesters, but for the most part life was going on as usual. Shanghai TV actually stopped and interviewed me, asking whether I thought a change of Prime Minister would solve the UK's problems. I managed both to keep my face straight and to refrain from shouting 'Are you fucking kidding me?' I said that in my humble opinion even a change in government wouldn't solve things given the opposition is so terrified to admit Brexit was a wrong move or prepare people for the reality of the hole they are actually in. The guy almost rubbed his hands together in glee as he filmed the footage, so I guess that was the angle he was looking for.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJt6fpg63noIWPYC2ag8adpcIEl1tw6amFdmUoTwJXBPB0-peIT1qHohweOM7Dsmn2YH08TnjilZY6AM6HXB_mTh3W-tW7G1sov6WnpznhnWbNUhRIyaRAWO9_yuFpoVlXkqaxTf-1lRbq4fNI6PxrL8Y5nC2Xi7QK0tcv4oQp4GtkNXKHmbY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1542" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJt6fpg63noIWPYC2ag8adpcIEl1tw6amFdmUoTwJXBPB0-peIT1qHohweOM7Dsmn2YH08TnjilZY6AM6HXB_mTh3W-tW7G1sov6WnpznhnWbNUhRIyaRAWO9_yuFpoVlXkqaxTf-1lRbq4fNI6PxrL8Y5nC2Xi7QK0tcv4oQp4GtkNXKHmbY" width="181" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28097563.post-29728134377247050992022-10-26T17:04:00.002+02:002022-10-26T17:04:42.303+02:00More annoying foreigner rules in Denmark<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCRxc52zULqEMw6IyelJ9h-gtToJY_sUx6_7e1IHjQ46iRC-e5EWAIbtexWdSfZiza3RVxFYWGy73aIZHnFtqHAm1rVTxlSuGZ030F5UDe0FF3oDtJtcIHpRgX3YY2sSyOfTt1xTBRMej3mo7rgxOXL5pAHNHRekcrDz5vJqSaEJRTNPweKAA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCRxc52zULqEMw6IyelJ9h-gtToJY_sUx6_7e1IHjQ46iRC-e5EWAIbtexWdSfZiza3RVxFYWGy73aIZHnFtqHAm1rVTxlSuGZ030F5UDe0FF3oDtJtcIHpRgX3YY2sSyOfTt1xTBRMej3mo7rgxOXL5pAHNHRekcrDz5vJqSaEJRTNPweKAA" width="180" /></a></div><p></p><p>I have three kids living here in Denmark. All three have lived their whole life with me and Thomas, all three have grown up hearing Danish at home, celebrating odd things like Fastelavn and eating klejner at Xmas. All three sound completely Danish and are somewhere near the top of their class. Unless you have a conversation with them in English and suddenly hear their Glasgow accents, you cannot guess they haven't been here always. Léon, unlike the girls who have picked up standard boring Danish accents, speaks in the local dialect, with a rather Funen accent and I am often asked if he has ever left our island. Some aren't even sure he's ever left Stillebæk! There is only one thing that differentiates my three kids and that is their citizenship. Where Anna and Amaia have Danish and British passports, Léon has a French and a British passport. My marriage to Léon's dad, to be quite honest, was on the rocks long before Léon came along and I had moved in with Thomas before he was a year old. Léon has always considered Thomas as his father and last saw his biological father when he was 6 years old, (he's 17 now). </p><p>As EU nationals we decided to escape the UK when it went down the Brexit route. We did it more for the kids' futures than for either of us, as we could probably have just about muddled through in the UK till retirement, avoiding potholes and improvising toilet roll or whatever!</p><p>Until the early 2000s kids who grew up with one or more immigrant parents in Denmark, and who stayed in full-time education through to its natural end, could bypass some of the many adult requirements to gaining citizenship here. That seems only natural given they feel Danish, having grown up here. They didn't need to sit the fairly difficult language exam as they could show their Danish high school diploma instead. They were exempt from the fulltime 4.5 year work requirement, as long as they applied straight after school and went straight to university or further education. I'm not sure whether they got out of the ridiculous citizenship exam (that few Danes can pass, and the other week Anna's class tried in school and all failed). That was abolished a few years back unfortunately so now Léon has a mountain to climb. Léon is at Gymnasium majoring in Samfundsfag (which is like a mix of Modern Studies and Political science) and History, with Danish, English and Spanish all at the most advanced level. So it seems unfathomable to me that when he finally leaves school he needs to sit tests to prove he knows about Danish History, Politics and can speak Danish. Surely showing his high school leavers' certificate should be enough. There is no way he will fail the language requirement as it is two years below the level of his school certificate.</p><p>But while these requirements are irksome, the work requirement is the part that really angers me. To apply for citizenship, despite having moved here as a child, Léon will need work for nearly 5 years fulltime before he can apply. I have no doubts he will one day fulfil that requirement but by saying that only work, not higher education counts towards the citizenship requirement, Léon is indirectly being encouraged to go to work after school instead of university. He will leave school around 19 and a degree would take him to around 24, which would mean he couldn't start to work on the employment requirement for citizenship till his mid-twenties. He would therefore be nearly 30 before he could apply to be a Dane, something he already feels himself to be. He will have grown up here, gone through a Danish education system, and will have lived in a Danish family with a Danish father. He could have kids of his own before he is eligible to attempt to be a Dane! </p><p>Léon's young and impatient and although he is definitely bright enough for uni is leaning towards working first so he can become like everyone else. What kind of country pushes bright kids away from higher education, making them into second-class citizens, just to please the knuckle-dragging right wingers?</p><div><br /></div><p><br /></p>Phylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10810079414061023335noreply@blogger.com0