Equality & a Nutcracker

In the midst of a socially exhausting calendar and the sensory overload of that treasured season, I was taken to two very contrasting, culture-sating events. The first was at a wonderfully interesting outdoor theatre called Bamboo, the other half of a well-renowned cocktail bar. The stage alone is a terrific, ingenious idea, and one that must be wonderfully good fun to perform on. It mingles the classical Greek amphitheatre with a rather gentle, Balinese-esque place of worship. Although the oriental vibe may come down to the purveyance of bamboo; the name must of course have purpose. Frankly, just being able to see that kind of facility made the night worthwhile. I had been worried about the theme of the performance(s). I tend to shy away from the self-aggrandising, self-interested and self-important performances for which many actors and similar nights are famed. For me the term rather rhymes with bank. (Apologies for hinting at anything untoward.)

And in many respects I was not disappointed on that front. The premise of the evening was an Amnesty International Arts evening. A group of actors, musicians, directors, producers, dancers, choreographers and sound technicians (amongst others no doubt) were given twenty four hours to develop fifteen minute pieces based on the subject of Equality. In all we had six pieces performed before us. With minimal rehearsal time on top of composing a whole piece, the results were impressive. Some a little bankery of course. The problem with collecting a group of very middle-class people and have them try to demonstrate their understanding of and relation to issues such as domestic violence will never work seamlessly. But it was a noble effort. One in particular I thoroughly enjoyed. It was the soliloquy of a university tutor, railing against his apathetic students. He was desperate for debate, passion, life, and it was very funny. I can relate, being the annoyingly vocal member of most of my tutorials as most sit idly by. But perhaps that's how I like it, competition grows dull. I say that as a staunch free-market advocate, mind.

After the thought-provocation at Bamboo, it was to the transporting world of a wealthy German family Christmas in the form of the Nutcracker. I have been incredibly lucky this last year. From Giselle with the ENB to Don Quixote with the WA Ballet. Nothing beats the Nutcracker for pure festive joy. Tchaikovsky composed such lovely music and this production was so charming. By the Graduate College of Dance, the sets belonged to the Australian Ballet at one stage and the costumes were splendid. Having friends perform always adds to the enjoyment of a spectacle. And they cast students of all ages, the miniature gingerbread men were particularly endearing. My favourite fell over as she took a bow, with such grace and poise, such promise! She absolutely made the second act. She looked barely two feet tall on the stage, it was wonderful. We left the elegantly parochial Regal Theatre feeling very much uplifted and full of the spirit of Christmas. In a city where Christmas day currently has a forecast of 38 degrees, I verily need all the help I can get.

To everybody floating about the ether, be you a visitor past or new, admirer or critic, a very happy Christmas to you and yours.

Christkindl

"Secret Santa is a Western Christmas tradition in which members of a group are randomly assigned other members to whom they anonymously give a gift. Often practised in workplaces, or amongst large families, participation in it is usually voluntary. It offers a way for many people to give and receive a gift at low cost to those involved." Wikipedia.

One need not scroll far down to see my unbridled enthusiasm for Christmas. Reading Mrs Trefusis's latest post brought on a wave of nostalgia for the simple joy of baking Christmas cakes with my grandmother, running through her garden with my cousins and being frequently stung by bees hiding amongst the fallen jacaranda flowers (forget not that I grew up in the southern hemisphere). It often took several days before the swelling in my feet went down. But now that I have returned to the heat (and gosh it has been hot lately, hottest November on record) I am also nostalgic for peacefully white, wintry landscapes of my spiritual northern home. The pictures of Britain in a cold snap have left me in fits of envy. Though I remember fully the chaos of London snow last year, the memories I take from those days are of strangers playing together in the snow, reveling in a Dickensian world of white. Billions of pounds may have been lost, but after all, it's only money.

Which brings me to Christmas. I feel a miserly scrooge-type character, but I am entirely unhappy about a recent spate of Secret Santas pervading my nice quiet world. I am entirely opposed to the idea. I am a poor student and I object to being forced to buy complete strangers tat. Instead, I am baking gingerbread biscuits, and to hell with people's reactions. You will get what you are given and be happy I am bothering at all! I have long been of the opinion that gift-buying is a most inefficient function of money. We waste money on things people invariably do not, have never, and never will want. It is an inefficiency at both ends. And we all have to behave so politely about being bought such things as wallets. Now, I already have a wallet. I have had for many years. What on earth possessed you? Did you suddenly have an epiphany, Oh! The very thing. A Wallet. I'm almost certain that he will need one. Well, how do you think I have managed to carry around the various cards and monies I have done the past 10 years?

That said, I am always incredibly touched that people would think to get me anything, and feel incredibly guilty if I don't like something. But, I'm sorry. I am an increasingly old and bitter man. I want for nothing and need for little. If you want to show your affection, or to wish me a happy Christmas, write me a card (home-made), bake something, create something. Write me a poem. I want a piece of you, not of your wallet.

I worry this attitude will increasingly alienate me from friends and family. Mr London Street recently wrote of peer pressure. The same side of the family with whom I would always make Christmas Cakes at the onset of Advent has now moved away from the simple joys of Christmas, to a highly organised Secret Santa operation. All family members have strict instructions as to whom they buy for, how much they spend, and frankly, what they buy. I have ordered my mother (who is a reluctant member of the board) to opt our branch of the family tree out of the nonsense. I have told her if she doesn't insist on it, I shall. And of the two of us, she is the more likely to be tactful. Christmas should not be about brutally commercial organisation. It should be fun, spontaneous, well-fed amongst good company. It should be a celebration of life and family (and food). I think when children are involved, there should absolutely be plenty of beautifully wrapped gifts under a Christmas tree. The latest thing simply must be in a stocking, so long as children are giving a thorough appreciation for how lucky they are, considering so many other children have so little.

Am I hugely out of step with the rest of the world? Have I any right to impose my will on the rest of the family? Should I keep calm and carry on? Am I fundamentally wrong? Any thoughts welcome and appreciated.

3/7 & 4/7

This one will not surprise many. It is perhaps one of the primary incentives for my push to the green and pleasant land: my preference for colder climes. As a child I yearned for that "rainy day" which almost never came. This is, in my mind, the most likely reason for my inability to save anything. Least of all  - nay, especially - money.

I adore a frosty morning, one so cold as to make the thought of leaving the bed quite abhorrent. To sit by the fire, pot of tea (or glass of sherry) and good book in hand. Or perhaps even a very good film to watch. My pleasures are generally the indoor pursuits. But equally too, I love Winter walks. Rugging up and stomping about in Wellington boots - such fun. The sunny Summers sadly do not suit me. I burn very easily, my hay fever is quite debilitating and I do not suit swim-wear. Or shorts. Not that I think they suit many people any way. But mostly, I dislike the heat. I cannot stay cool. In the Winter it's fine, one dresses appropriately - and rather more smartly - and there you are, quickly warmed up.

Not so in Summer, particularly when one lives without the luxury of air conditioning. At it's worst, I cannot sleep. This was rather brought home to me the previous week, on a Balinese sejour. A family holiday, all rather lovely in theory. Escaping the Wintry "depths" for heat and humidity, endless pools, food, cocktails and shopping, it sounded rather wonderful on paper. However I had forgotten how little much of the previous list suits me. I didn't even want to drink the cocktails, such was my misery. Oh dear that does sound oh so pathetic. A free holiday and such was my attitude. I hope my behaviour wasn't too ungrateful, especially as I insisted on cutting my time there short by a week. I simply couldn't have faced two weeks of the place, when all I wanted was my own warm bed, my protector from the winds and the rain. (Yes there was actual precipitation).

Some like it hot...

Linked, but quite worthy of being in its own category, is snow. I just adore snow. Cannot get enough of it. I may have mentioned I grew up in a warm climate, somewhere along the line. Shocking, I know. So I imagine my lack of experience with cold and precipitation has had some influence here. In fact I didn't see snow until I was fourteen. It was on a rather gormless school trip to the nation's capital - a city built by bureaucrats for bureaucrats, it is a civil servant's wet dream (do excuse the vulgarity). To encourage the students to engage with the historical and political bent of the tour, we were also treated to a spot of skiing, which is of course where the introduction to snow came in.

I could perhaps describe our meeting as something along the lines of falling in love. It was certainly an immediate infatuation, one which lingers to this day. There is something about snow's ability to transform a landscape entirely, to silence, to cleanse, to purify. It was also the source of a great deal of fun. A hopeless skier, I am nonetheless enthusiastic and devour the slopes rather like the cheese boards and mulled wine I enjoy afterwards. Perhaps not the mulled wine when I was fourteen, I think it was most likely a very strong hot chocolate.

The mere sight of snow will reduce me to a level of giddiness, silliness and frivolity not known since nursery. It is like seeing a long lost friend, and much like all good friends, one can pick things up exactly where they were left off. I was blessed to experience some of the snowiest English Winters known for years, for which I'm too grateful. Of course, I pretended to tire of the disruption it would always cause. But secretly I was always very amused and rather pleased. The Christmas I spent in Sweden was something else, in terms of the volume of snow, the level of cold and a remarkable ability for a long-suffering population to soldier on. A myth Mr Fry once debunked, was the nonsense that the Swedes suicide abnormally more than anybody else. If you cross the Baltic to Lithuania, well then yes, it is unusually high, but I rather hope my good friend the snow is not a contributing factor.

So there you are; the cold and the snow are two things I like. Good.

Happy New Year!

Over two weeks ago, waiting for my airport transportation, I felt rather a lot of uncertainty. Will I love it, hate it, be bored, be understood, be overwhelmed, find congruence? I was at least certain I'd find time for the odd blog, after all, isn't that why I was taking my laptop? Quite evidently, I failed, spectacularly so. I now have less than forty-eight hours in this country, and I am filled with melancholy. I want to stay! I had not predicted I would feel quite so strongly as this. If anything, I was worried I would be far too bored of the whole thing, especially after almost three weeks with the same person. And now, here I am desperately trying to learn a new language, with a view to applying here to study.

One thing I am so hopeless at avoiding is comparing oneself to one's peers. In the last hour, I just discovered an old-boy has established his own charity to help the refugee camps in Eastern Africa, and will also use his research for an honours programme next year. Some have already finished their degrees and many were probably budding entrepreneurs mid-way through. E.G. that chap who imports champagne to sell online, why did I not think of something like that?  Oft-times I wonder if I will ever amount to much, too much sitting and not enough thinking to make even that viable.

Passion is a wonderful thing, and some people are very lucky to possess it. I can be passionate, but then I weary of it. I traipse about aimlessly, hoping for something to pop-up and seem applicable, but naturally this shouldn't involve too much work. I shy from work. I want and crave the extraordinary, the unusual, yet I will not work for it. How do I drag myself out of the inert swampland I seem content to mellow in? Even today, one of my last days and one I should really make the most of, I overslept. Who does that? I may have been a little tired from the New Year's celebrations, but I don't think that required missing all 4.5 hours of daylight Umeå offers mid-Winter. I could at least have been practising my Swedish! Jag kommer från Australien men jag bor i London...

Perhaps it is just my traditional New Year's pessimism, resurfacing. I have always been very hard on myself, but similar to Edina from Absolutely Fabulous, "I like results." The problem is, as her daughter Saffron counters: "Life is in the details." Regardless, repetition doesn't help it sink in any better. How does one balance between living in the present and for the future? I expect it would be a good 18 months 'til I were ready to start at university here. Time at least to learn the language sufficiently -  or so one would suppose. Many people I have met here compliment me on the incredibly basic Swedish I have learned. This in itself is very heartening, especially as the Swedes are usually quite reticent about compliments. In English we throw them about meaninglessly, they are dispensable, of incredibly low value and clog up one's wallet like the copper coins of the realm. Perhaps I have made more effort than many other visitors do, but then, as my friends here are all native, I am often left out of parts of the conversation. Of course I do not begrudge them that, if anything it makes my pursuit of fluency even more important to me.

Growing up in a hot country, I dreamt of living somewhere cold, where the white Christmas fantasy was reality and everything fits, like a postcard. Or indeed a Christmas card. Many people laugh at the irony of somebody coming from such a desirable climate wanting to leave for colder climes, when of course it is the reverse journey they want to make. I expect it's all a case of "grass is always greener". I do know that I am happier in this hemisphere. So I shall stop moaning, and simply look forward to achieving it, I'm sure that will be another prolonged adventure. To anybody who has ever known the quagmire of uncertainty, I wish you a very Happy and Prosperous new year, and new decade.

XX

Somewhere In My Memory

December. The darkest (or lightest) month of the year. I am in the shadows, whilst my family basks in the sunshine. It's certainly how I feel at present. How is it possible to entertain two entirely contradictory ideas in one's head at the same time? It is, as the song says, "the most wonderful time of the year"...

The diminishing warmth in the atmosphere is replaced by one in the hearts of people of all ages. Togetherness, giving and sharing and of course over-eating, are hallmarks of Christmas. I have my health and I am not (yet) starving. But equally I feel very saddened, perhaps ungratefully so. It will be my third Christmas without my family and I feel suddenly very alone. It is all entirely my own doing and choice, and of course I could go back. Yet I cannot bring myself to, an inescapable internal conflict I have developed. Hurrah.

My last two Christmases, in France and England, have been spent with surrogate families, both of whom have made it clear I am welcome back this year. Both times were wonderful and I will cherish the memories. Perfect examples of the generosity of this season's spirit. However this year brings something new and exciting again - Sweden! As I wrote last month, another friend got there first by inviting me to Umea for Jul. Naturally I cannot wait, it will be my first white Christmas, but also the first time I will be celebrating on Christmas Eve, which is the custom in Sweden, and certainly with my friend's family. Which reminds me: must brush up on my non-existent Swedish...

So there is all that excitement, plus the joy of the season already overloading my increasingly feeble mind. Then something else looms up at me, and that is the absence I feel. It makes me sad to think that once I again I will not see my family for Christmas. In two years I have seen my Mother once, Father twice and my younger brothers not at all. It was my choice to leave, and that is after all what children are meant to do eventually, no? Perhaps I simply wasn't mature enough then. Or I am overly sentimental? Watching the Home Alone films isn't helping! At least he gets to see his Mummy again for Christmas.

Selflessly, I want a white Christmas, and all my family to join me. I hope Father Christmas is listening! I think I have been quite good this year.

On another note, just back from Istanbul. Sunny and warmer (ish), it was wonderful. Certainly as I was there for Eid, it was my first real exposure to a non-Christian holiday. It was marvellously exotic, but I have no plans to convert. Least of all because of the early morning call to prayer. Church at 11 is much more civilised. But I certainly recommend staying at the Kybele Hotel in Sultanahmet, part of the old city. A lovely boutique hotel with countless lamps decorating the ceilings and walls. Literally thousands of them. Equally good was their food. I'd also recommend the Galata Tower for it's magnificent views, though less so for the restaurant. Another gem, if you're game, is to reach the Western Districts of the city. They house the old Jewish quarter and some beautiful Orthodox churches. Few tourists make it. The other brilliant thing about the city is that, despite its vastness, most things are completely walk-able. The tram is good, but merely speeds up a relatively short walk.

Do try: A Hamam if you are comfortable in your own skin, and a Turkish barber if you are prone to beards and feel adventurous.
Don't try: Any food from a street vendor.

Hopefully I will come up with something equally comprehensive on Umeå.

Time Goes By - So Slowly

My most-loved song of all time is (somewhat embarrassingly) Hung Up, by Madonna. The searing desperation, the entrancing movement, retro glamour and the undeniable call to the dance floor from the icy Queen of Pop somehow, four years on, still gives me the cutis anserina it gave me when I first heard it in 2005.

The line that most hooks me is "Time goes by so slowly". Time is such a curious concept. The first half of my life was probably too primitive to contemplate it, beyond the fact that bedtime was at 8.30pm and whether I could push this any later. Then secondary school, and with it, thought processes suddenly much more sophisticated. The first time I actually thought about it was when, in Religious Education, our Chaplain asked "What is Time?". Naturally, when things are so black and white, my hand shot up and I announced that Sir could read it on the clock above the whiteboard, and see how slowly it was passing. Obviously I said the latter part in my head, but this suddenly became a debate.

St Augustine, in Book 11 of his Confessions, asks, "What then is Time? If no one asks me, I know: if I wish to explain it to one that asketh, I know not."

What IS Time? How does it work, where does it come from? Overloaded, my brain kept me quiet the rest of that lesson. I think everyone has noticed and commented at one stage or another that the weeks have gone so quickly, the working day is passing at a pace to rival a snail. Christmas is nearly here again, when once Christmases seemed so very far away. When danger is afoot, time stands still. Or so I am told!

In modern society, Time is essential to functionality and as such is coordinated on an international scale. Leap years, leap seconds can only make sense when the rest of the world agrees with you and participates. Though our Gregorian calendar is a corrected version of the Julian, it still has not become entirely universal. Globalisation and the internet have all but removed the barriers of time differences, but humans on the whole remain diurnal. Time is argued by scholars of Science, Philosophy and Religion, and many within have vastly differing opinions. In Economics, "Time is Money" is an ethos populated in the City and Wall Street.

"Time is nature's way of keeping everything from happening at once" Albert Einstein OR John Archibald Wheeler OR Woody Allen.

I am aware I have thrown a whole lot of disjointed and barely connected thoughts on Time together, but possibly because this is where my head is at. And also I am short on time (Ha Ha). Which leads me to the thought on Time in a personal sense. We are all aware we have a limited amount of time in the day, and limited lifespans as humans. Many seem to be challenging mortality, but I doubt it will come to fruition in my lifetime. But it does scarily make one value how one spends one's day, and to question life in general.

Perhaps this is the onset of an early life crisis? Or perhaps to merely aspire to make better choices, enjoy and LIVE.

Total mentions of the word "Time" in this post: Twenty.

No-One Expects A Spanish Inquisition

One of my guilty film pleasures would definitely be the Rom-Com genre, Brit-Rom-Coms in particular. I am sure I can in part thank my Father for this, the man who counts Notting Hill and Love Actually amongst his favourites. Our tastes diverge once the Westerns are reached, which is fine. In fact, I should probably be grateful as I usually used the television void for reading.

One of my favourites would have to be Sliding Doors. I think it is often overlooked as a film... Unsure in itself where it fits into the genre. For me it has everything: London, Gwyneth, Calvin Klein, a thought-provoking premise and an ending left for us to draw our own (hopefully happy) conclusions.

It is the premise that most fascinates me. The what-ifs of life can be all-consuming. The idea that the chance missing of a train/tube/bus/ plane/meeting/whatever could have such an impact upon one's life. The infinite copies of me who enjoyed better (or worse) fortunes than me throughout all the daily minutiae. I think it resonates particularly for Londoners. We all hurry, ignoring our fellow commuters (unless you're a potentially deranged Scot) rushing from A-B-C-A or worse.

Last night I had some very pleasant cheese and mulled wine at The Providores on Marylebone High Street, enjoying people-watching beneath the rather naff Christmas lights. We watched with bemused horror at rather hairy incidents of road rage (definitely not pursuing a career in taxi-cabs now), middle-aged, middle-class ladies falling off the kerb completely trolleyed and blatant attempts to ignore the polite queuing system.

Returning to Islington late in the evening led me to Bond Street station, where an infuriatingly inaccurate timetable board left me waiting amongst the vomiting (and probably worse) late-night passengers for far longer than tolerable. Finally, on the way to my connecting station, I knew I would be cutting it fine for the last Victoria Line tube.

Jumping out and navigating the jostling crowds, filthy looks from enormous, security-guard sized men, squeezing between people and the carriages and then a mad-dash though a labyrinth of tunnels amongst dozens of like-minded others. Breaking into a sprint up the stairs to the platform, there it was! The last train. And a seat too, so civilized. Of course I had to get through the closing doors first. Naturally it is not a wise idea, and is very bad for the trains apparently. Well-practised though, I sneaked through, only for the train to pull away from all the people who didn't quite make it.

It is quite iconic. The doors closing, and that very wicked sense of schadenfreude. Well possibly that is just me, but it certainly gave me something to ponder on the journey home (very unattractive passengers). What if I had missed it, how would I have got home, at what time would I have finally made it, would any good come of it, or something bad? The same for the journey I actually made, would I discover something awful, be mugged, lose my keys... Infinite possibilities for mayhem!

Thankfully, I returned safe and sound and even had a brief chat with my youngest brother. But one never really knows what will or will not be, which is - for me at least - a huge part of the joy. And the infinite possibilities this city possesses. Good AND Bad, but always exciting.

Capturing Claudia and other stories...

After another fabulous post from Mrs Trefusis - http://mrstrefusis.blogspot.com/2009/11/life-imitates-art-claudia-schiffer.html - I had to take advantage of the final day of the exhibition at Colnaghi in Mayfair. Sorry, did I mention the subject was Claudia Schiffer? Dragging a rather tired ex-colleague along, promising something fabulous and unstrenuous, along we went. Thank goodness, I loved it. But why did I love it?

I am not sure whether I love it because it is Claudia Schiffer, or because it is something very close to those in the fashionable circle, because I think I should, because I am just pretending, or, because I just genuinely liked some of the art for its own sake. Naturally the former and latter form my exterior, but I wonder whether, armour pierced, it merely is a question of snobbery? Thankfully in this case I can unreservedly say I did really like some of the pieces, and not necessarily because of the muse. Amazing though she is. The Jason Brooks pieces are certainly a testament to bravery. The above link not only offers a glimpse at some of these works (unfortunately no longer on display), but also a glimpse at their subject matter in human form, posing alongside.

Artistically sated, my friend and I did one of those rather pleasant walks with no sense of purpose or direction. Criss-crossing the streets and narrowly avoiding speeding taxis, an encyclopaedia of subjects were discussed, stories started, half-swapped, forgotten and re-started again many syllables later. It is wonderful how in the midst of the grey morass of people, cars and city, a little bubble is formed inside of which is a wholly unconnected world. I think there is more magic to the world than we give it credit. Spells and potions pale beside the human mind. Naturally, our subconscious (is it pluralised?) knew when we would hunger, and it deposited us outside one of my favourite spots at exactly the right moment. (Sorry, cunning plan? Nonsense.)

I like good food. That is to say, I like food done well. It need not be anything remotely fancy or expensive, (think sausages, proper Butcher's ones are delicious and will hardly break the bank) just of reasonable quality and well cooked. Mrs Marengo's does not serve sausages, not even the vegetarian kind. They DO do very good vegetarian burgers, as I have previously mentioned. And omelettes. Haven't bothered with a great deal else, because you see... It is all about the white chocolate and pistachio cheesecake. As a child I turned my nose up at cheesecake. Quite literally, so my mothers tells me, and at a great many other foods as well. I found it too, well, cheesy. NO longer. This is quite literally a heaven on earth. Do try it. I ought to try other things, but I just cannot bring myself to. And I justify that by asking myself: "Well why must I?" Why indeed.

I believe I mentioned my friend was quite tired. So I did what all good friends do - went back to her house and had a late supper. And Prosecco. And even a little Champagne. Poor thing she must have been so tired of me. She is a very good actress though, because I barely noticed it if indeed, she was. To top that off perfectly, we sat down to Audrey Hepburn. Initially aiming for one of the classics, Roman Holiday or Sabrina, we decided on a forgotten member of the collection. One neither of us had seen, Paris When It Sizzles. What an interesting, funny, surreal treat it turned out to be. And with my old friend Tony Curtis playing a rather funny supporting role, I think it could become one of my favourites. She does look emaciated in this film though. But in an endearingly delicate and pretty way. But it is just SO funny, and the film within a film within a film that we, today, are no longer strangers to, must have made quite an impact. I think a perfect Absinthe film. Or possibly vodka. But some spirit accompaniment is highly recommended!

I would love to replace all (or at least several of) the talentless, lecherous nobodies who seem intent on bombarding us daily with their dull, self-important rubbish with another Audrey. It is, after all, nearly Christmas!

God Jul!

Or how one says Happy Christmas in Sweden.

I know it is 6 weeks early, but I am spending Christmas with my friend in Umeå, north Sweden. She has just posted a picture (albeit of miserable quality) of the snow, now beginning to settle. Having grown up in a Mediterranean climate, snow is something psychological. A childhood of hot Christmases... the clash between the carols, the decorations and the story of the birth of the Lord himself, with the reality of opening presents in 40 degree heat. I am convinced it is somehow damaging. My younger brother has never even seen the stuff in the flesh - nothing wrong with that, of course, but I do rather feel he is left out.

And of course snow has many downfalls. London in February after two days of snow is a good example. But that night of the first of February 2009, there was some wizardry about. Something very enchanting about this great city being silenced by a white down. A childlike instinct led me outside to Fitzroy Square, and what a sight. Cries of joy, snowballs, armies of snowmen, friends and complete strangers together being playful and having fun. I hadn't been so touched for some time. Naturally I joined in the revelry and made some fabulous friends. One of whom had the most adorable lisp. Was the lisp the highlight or the snow? Who knows.


At any rate, I eagerly anticipate the ice skating, skiing and snow mobiling of a Swedish Christmas. Hejdå!