A Retired House Husband in Sweden

The aim was to open on the Sweden Day weekend and they succeeded. Okay, the building wasn’t quite finished but a couple celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary managed to be the first guests, yesterday, at the newest Trosa café at the mini putt putt.

And, as you can see, The Day After Sweden Day this year was glorious. My walk to the ICA was drenched in sunlight and everyone I passed was beaming. (That may be an exaggeration though I didn’t pass that many people.)

The ICA itself was pretty empty, something which pleased me greatly. The old men’s club was, as usual, present in the bistro. I took my usual seat and had my usual latte while they, as usual, nattered on. I’m waiting for the day when I’ll be asked to join them. Of course, I’ll have to be able to speak Swedish for that to happen.

Back at home, Freya was hanging on (she has a hospital appointment on Thursday) and Mirinda was still really sick. I concentrated on admin for most of the day.

I heated up bland soup for Mirinda for dinner. It’s what she’d asked for, and I found something called ‘mild tomato soup’ which, apparently, was perfect for what is ailing her at the moment. Obviously, my soup would be nowhere near bland enough.

Late in the day, there was a sudden flurry of messages on the WhatsApp cooking retreat group. Following my posting of a photo of my tartlets, Suzanne decided to indulge in strawberries and posted about it. Almost everyone joined in with messages of encouragement.

She concluded with this photo:

And this message: “No pictures ofter this but it was a grand time.” I have no idea what she meant.

Five years ago saw us visit Trosa for the very first time. It was Sweden’s National Day, the weather was beautiful, and the town was a fairytale come to life. Little did we know that we would wind up living here. At the time, we were just escaping small-minded stupidity and the plague. In a strange way, these things did us a massive favour

This year’s private celebrations were very muted. For one thing, the planned French dinner was abandoned given Mirinda was sick. We’re hoping today was the worst of it as she was feeling particularly awful. Apart from driving over to Nicoline’s to feed Selma, she didn’t leave the house.

On the other hand, I took Emma up Mount Trosa and through the woods, something I haven’t done for ages.

For the most part, Emma led the way. She is not used to my slow pace over uneven ground and would wind up a long way ahead. She would stop, look around, realise I was a long way behind and come trotting back, just to make sure I was still there.

In fact, I was so slow that she picked up a stick at the top of the mountain and carried it almost the entire way home because she thought I’d throw it for her, something that only happens when stopping to rest.

It was a lovely day for a walk during which we didn’t see anyone, except for a chap who, I think, was doing the Everest Challenge. During our one climb, he passed us a few times, raising his arms in victory every time he reached the top. Clearly mad.

At the top, I noticed that the big phone mast was finally finished. And one of the small, graffiti strewn, electricity, I think, out-buildings has gone. Hopefully the other one will remain in situ as I use the step outside to recover immediately following my ascent.

Ironically, I didn’t wind up doing any cooking today given that Mirinda only wanted soup and I just had a salad for lunch which carried me through to dinner when we finished off the strawberry tarts I made yesterday.

They were delicious. When we finally have the ill-fated French dinner party, they will make an excellent dessert.

The other thing I did was record my latest Letter from Sweden except it wasn’t from Sweden, it was a Letter from France, detailing the cooking retreat. Here it is:

Today Mirinda managed to arrange for a non-emergency appointment at the pet hospital for Freya. It will be next week and will include x-ray and ultrasound, two things that the vet wants her to have. There will also be a blood test. Poor Freya. Mind you, today she seemed a lot more like her old self than she has for a while. And she ate. Of course, I realise that’s the drugs she’s on but still…

Talking of pets, Nicoline is away for a few days and asked if we could pop over and feed Selma for her. Of course, we said yes, and so, this morning, I gave her some cat food and, as per Nicoline’s suggestion, sat and watched her eat.

It took a while to convince her to come and eat but, eventually, her meowing gave way to her tummy and she strolled into the kitchen for a feed. Obviously, I didn’t get to stroke her given her anti-social attitude, but maybe she’ll let me after a few days. Who knows? Only Selma.

Back at home, I made the amuse-bouche for Saturday night’s French dinner. It was soon sitting in the rapidly filling fridge. ‘Rapidly filling’ because I did most of the shopping for the meal this morning. Note that I already did some last week before the postponement.

On my way to the ICA I came across a surprising scene.

Last week, we listened to a story on Sweden in Focus, a podcast from The Local which we listen to during dinner. The story was concerning the fact that, it seems, Sweden is currently the number one country when it comes to people not smoking. I read something similar in, I think, The Guardian as well.

According to the World Population Review, only 5.5% of Swedes smoke tobacco. I assume this includes pipes and cigars as well as cigarettes. But, obviously, not snus. 5.5% is, apparently, as good as zero in this context.

The Swedish population, as of today, is 10,702,896. Given that 5.5% of them smoke means that 588,659 of them are still puffing away. Which is a long way from zero, if you ask me. It’s like the rule that a train in the UK is only deemed late if it arrives more than five minutes late.

Anyway, the reason I’m writing about this is because I reckon 5.5% of Trosa’s population has decided that the Second Bench is clearly their meeting place.

They are not an invisible percentage. I wonder why they felt the need for earplugs though. Surely gas masks would have been more appropriate.

And, can I just say that Nicoline is enjoying my book. That has made me very happy.

I had an appointment with a physio therapist today. The main aim was for him to help me with a few new exercises for me to include in my growing work out schedule to principally prevent atrophy as a result of my mysterious drop foot. Or feet. The mystery being why it happened in the first place.

He couldn’t provide any reasons, obviously, but he was very helpful in terms of continued care and maintenance. He also suggested that there may be a link between the drop foot and gout though not a strong one. In particular though, he provided me with a method to avoid cramp during thigh extensions.

I was actually dreading going, mostly because he works out of a gym that is quite a long walk away from the house. The walk to the ICA was fine, but it was the extra 200 kilometres beyond that that wasn’t appealing. Still, given I gave myself a lot of leeway, I arrived early enough to have a sit down in some shade to recover before my appointed time.

And, to be honest, the walk there wasn’t that bad. No, it was totally the walk back during which I really suffered. In order to alleviate the heat and distance, I walked straight through the woods rather than the slightly longer route around the woodland track. Even so, I returned home a helpless, soaking mass of sweat and pain.

It took a while for me to recover. Consequently, the rest of my day was pretty sedentary.

In the meanwhilst, Mirinda is still feeling the effects of my cold germs and Freya remains mostly asleep, and I realised today that we missed her birthday last Friday. She was 11.

Call me weird but I have a favourite suitcase. Given the amount of travel we have done over the years, a good, strong, reliable suitcase is pretty essential, and we found one in, what I call The Parrot Bag. (It’s not particularly important but the images on the bags hard shell surfaces are not, in fact, parrots but toucans. And toucans are NOT parrots. Still, I call it the Parrot Bag just because I’m me.)

Its capacity is good for around a fortnight. For instance, I took it with me to Toulouse for the Cooking Retreat and it served me well. Sort of. No, it did but there was an incident which almost doomed it to the knacker’s yard.

The wheels on the Parrot Bag had started to wear, as you’d expect, and, during the trip down to the south of France, one of them threw off its solid rubber surround. This meant I was, essentially, dragging it on three wheels. It was not good. At first I thought it might be terminal.

(I had flashbacks to our 2009 trip to Edinburgh, walking home from Farnham station, dragging a full suitcase because there were no taxis, and the wheels fell off, rendering the bag as effective as an anchor. It met with a rather vicious pair of scissors.)

Anyway, having read The Maintenance of Everything: Part One for BookBusters, I knew I should make an effort to repair the bag rather than just dump it. And, of course, my first stop on this road was YouTube. Various videos alerted me to the fact that spare parts could be purchased and replaced.

I took the important measurements and hunted down a set of new wheels. They arrived yesterday and I fitted them today. And it’s like having a new bag for a fraction of the cost.

I was well happy with the result.

I was not so happy with the vet’s assessment of Freya’s condition when we visited today. The poor thing is not well. She seems happy, but it’s really the drugs that are keeping her that way. We will have to take her to the pet hospital for x-ray, ultrasound and various other horrid tests.

All we can do is keep up the dosage and try to make her comfortable. It’s such a shame I can’t just replace her broken bits.

And now I keep remembering when we first met our little monkey back in 2015. Back in happier times.

Today marks a major achievement for me. While I have actually written two previous novels that will never see the light of day, today, for the first time, I completed the second draft on a third. And I am excited because, for the first time, someone else will be reading my first Suki Baines spy thriller. For it is now in the hands of Nicoline, who has volunteered to read it and give me some staunch and valuable criticism.

Actually, while Nicoline is the first human other than my wife, to read one of my novels, I did get an AI editor to read it this morning after I’d completed the draft. It was very complementary. There was a lot of praise and very little criticism. It also only took it ten minutes to read, analyse and write about it.

Of course, I take its opinion with a pinch of salt, given AI is generally programmed to flatter. A real human opinion is always going to be better.

That was all first thing this morning. Following this achievement, I started cutting the grass, something that was a lot easier the second time around regardless of the fact that we had rain last night. In fact, following a few recharges, the job was completed by mid-afternoon.

There was a delightful break during the mowing when Nicoline surprised us with a short visit. Always a pleasure, we chatted and had cool drinks in the kitchen as the deck was far too hot under the blazing sun.

Later, following lunch, we headed out to collect then staple some posters around for Riksteatern. It was not advertising any upcoming performance this time. Rather, the poster lists the many benefits of belonging to the society with details of the various Stockholm theatres where patrons can get discounts with their membership.

Anyway, we drove around with me hopping out of the car at various intervals and placing the bright pink posters where people will be likely to see them over the summer.

Time didn’t allow us to complete the usual round so we shall complete the job tomorrow.

Looking at the photo above, the poster looks decidedly red. The camera lies! It really is shocking pink.

Speaking of cameras, during the Cooking Retreat we had a professional photographer along with us for a couple of the days. She was called Valerie and I mentioned her on our first day when she ate a steak.

Anyway, we were promised copies of her photographs a while back and I’ve been eagerly, waiting. I wanted to get a print of the big group photo that Valerie took, in order to frame and hang it at home.

Well, today they turned up and there are some lovely pictures, particularly the group one. The trouble, for me anyway, was that the files were very low-res. For obvious reasons, I hasten to add. But, of course, there is no way I could get a decent picture to frame from a 150kb file.

I wrote and asked if I could buy a hi-res image and, unbelievably, I was generously sent one for nothing, along with a message from Madame Voyage, saying it was a lovely idea. Here’s the photo in blog form.

So now I have more than just the Retreat to thank Madame Voyage for.

I find it quite interesting that I post fascinating stories about my adventures in various countries of the world featuring such amazing things as a French cooking retreat and images of Mad Joan but the post that garners the biggest reaction is one that features a photograph of me looking half dead with a cold.

For that reason, let me begin this post by saying that, in usual Gaz fashion, the cold has gone, and I am healthy again. Also as usual, my germs have jumped to Mirinda but, as for me, all is good. Based on past evidence, there’s probably little reason to keep reading.

If you are still reading, let me tell you the sad story of the demise of the perfect aubergine.

So, given I was feeling well again this morning, I headed off for the ICA to shop for dinner. I was making Joey Layer Cake which requires an aubergine of just the right size and weight and was looking forward to the selection procedure.

Arriving at the fruit and veg section, I noticed that there were a lot of aubergines ready for testing. It took a while but, eventually, I found the perfect one and placed it, carefully alongside the rest of the contents of my shopping trolley. I continued shopping with a smile of aubergine contentment on my face.

Eventually I found myself at the check-out. It was a young lad, obviously a part-time Sunday shift, still at school worker. He was pleasant, like all ICA staff and he scanned my stuff with ease. That is, until it came time for the aubergine to take its trip along the conveyor belt and into my trolley.

It never made it.

In ICA, the conveyor belt is divided into two. There is a sort of barrier that goes one side or the other, directing the groceries down each side as required. In order to keep different customer purchases apart, there is a single piece of wood sitting a few millimetres above the belt. In fact, it’s so few millimetres that I’d never noticed before. Until this morning.

You see, as the aubergine started down the belt, the stalk became wedged beneath this piece of wood and was carried, by the conveyor belt, further towards the wrong side. With great tears starting to well in my eyes I watched as the perfect aubergine was reduced to so much smoosh.

I let out a cry of despair and the young lad noticed what was happening. He turned off the belt and tried to carefully remove the now useless vegetable. It was not pleasant to watch as he struggled and his actions became increasingly violent. Still, eventually his youth provided the strength he needed and the aubergine was released and put out of its misery.

There then entailed a discussion about whether I still wanted an aubergine or not. I assured him that I did indeed want an aubergine only not that one. It was decided that he’d finish our transaction and then I could go and get a replacement without paying again.

Having packed my trolley, I then went in search of the second best aubergine. Which I found.

Back at the check-out, I was about to wave the aubergine at him so he knew the mission had been accomplished. He barely acknowledged me. He wasn’t being rude. He was scared. One of the senior staff members was standing nearby discussing various security issues with another member of her team.

I nodded my understanding and left, aubergine safely packed on top of the rest of my shopping.

Back at home, and feeling chirpier than I had for a few days, I cut the grass and installed hooks on the front windows so they could stay open in strong winds.

What a day. Aren’t you glad you’re not an aubergine?

What a total waste of a day it was today. To think that a few days ago I was planning a special French dinner party, celebrating The Retreat; excitedly ticking off everything I needed to prepare. Then, reality set in and I spent the day in bed instead. Stupid cold.

From lovely French food to a bowl of ice cream. That’s all I ate today. I know you’re supposed to starve a fever and feed a cold but I just couldn’t face food at all. Well, except for the aforementioned ice cream which my wife thoughtfully bought for me. And, as we all know, ice cream isn’t really food, it just slips in between everything else and eases the throat.

Anyway, suffice it to say that I spent almost the entire day in bed, half asleep and half complaining about snot and headaches.

During one of my sleep periods, I came up with an excellent idea for a new novel. In my mind, I even managed to write the first page. In my dream, I kept urging myself to write it down. Stupid Dream Gary didn’t do that so I can only assume that it will be forgotten by the morning.

Of course, being sick means my blog post will be very short.

And that, as they say, is that. Zzzzzzz.

I woke up feeling like shit today. Yesterday, I had the croaky beginnings of a sore throat but I figured it would just vanish, as inexplicitly as it arrived. I thought wrong because today, not only was my throat croaky but my nose was a bit blocked and my limbs had started to ache. But I had to go into Stockholm to buy a few essentials for my French dinner party tomorrow night.

And, to be fair, the trip in and around the city was fine. The sunshine helped and the fact that I spent a lot of time sitting on public transport should be included. I totally dozed off on the train. Both ways.

I was, initially headed for a kitchen supply shop I’d found online. They had what I needed and it was easy to get to. And what a find it was. I could have spent a lot more time and money than I did. The wall of knives was truly something to behold.

I had a delightful chat with the fellow at the counter. He asked me what I was preparing for dinner and we discussed my menu. He told me of the wonderful time he’d spent in Aix-en-Provence – he saw the bull fights which we both agreed were excellent bovine revenge – and his three months living in Paris. (Lucky bastard!)

When I mentioned that I was using confit de canard he laughed and said he’d lived on it while in Aix. When I told him about Toulouse he said he might have to head off again.

Still, as much as I was enjoying myself, I had to head back into central Stockholm in order to get some things (quail eggs especially) at the Hötorgshallen. I may also have had a sneaky ice cream given the day was hot and my throat needed it.

I then headed back home, collapsing once reaching the house. Now I REALLY felt like shit. Mirinda said I should cancel the dinner party but I suggested I wait till the morning given I’d have to go shopping for ingredients and if I didn’t feel up to that then I would cancel.

Bed was very nice, and I dozed for the rest of the day.

I hate being sick.