Swedemount

Finding myself at Oslo airport with an additional hour to kill due to inclement weather conditions in the UK, I yet again had to temper the frustration caused by travel arrangements gone awry. This time missing the train I'd booked from Birmingham International as my flight was re-scheduled to land 15 mins before the train set off. Even if I somehow possessed the pace of Usain Bolt and the stamina of Mo Farah I would've struggled to get there in time. In the end the flight landed after the train had set off so no Bolt-like antics required. At least I escaped the incessantly inquisitive customs folk, maybe it's dawned on them that a person waving a Swedish passport doesn't have to be blond, blue eyed and aryan looking. On this occasion it simply sufficed to temporarily remove my specs. "I find people look really different without their glasses". No shit, Sherlock

Missing the train was in itself not a massive issue, there are two trains every hour, however the sheer familiarity of the situation prompted me to philosophically ponder - is bad luck inflicted upon, or in fact instigated by, us? Nietzsche, Kant, Descartes, what says thee??

For me travel woes are such commonplace that I can't really blame bad luck. Who turns up at the wrong airport in Istanbul? Me! Who gets a lift to Oslo Rygge airport on the wrong day? Me! Who books non-refundable train tickets from the wrong station? Who drops 80 quid on the floor in an internet cafe in Madrid? Who misses the last train back from Manchester and gets a 60 quid taxi back? Moi, moi, moi. So when a private jet carrying a liver for a transplant fatally crashes at Birmingham airport, prompting our flight to Bangkok to be cancelled, or when there's a couple of hours queue to the airport de-icer with unsurprising consequences for onward connections, or when some Icelandic volcano decides to spew up untold ash and I get stuck for days in Barcelona, I've kind of already internalised that it's not just bad luck.

Today was slightly different though, I firmly point the finger to the United Kingdom for being the world's worst winter weather preparer. It's gonna happen every year, stop acting surprised when it does. Granted, my view is skewed, having grown up in a country where snow is a way of life, but surely the complete stand still is a bit pathetic. And costly, I could've arrived back home a full hour earlier and £21.99 better off. Time is money and money is money. Doubly screwed.

I've been home to my mum and dad's for Christmas, just as I have done 35 out of 36 Christmases. Sweden is an excellent place to be in at Christmas, and any other time of year for that matter but I'm sure I'll come back to that in future blogs. My parents live in the country so the darkness, stillness and relative silence adds to the Christmas atmosphere. I was most disappointed at the lack of snow this year though, no cross country skiing opportunities whatsoever. The arctic temperature and crisp winter sun would've been ideal for gliding through the woods on a pair of glass fibre skis. Take out the snow and the conditions are less ideal for any other Christmas-excess combating exercise. My trainers travelled in vain

Regardless I managed to buy some exercise related paraphernalia in the sales. 70% off everything always gets my attention. As does a brand called Swedemount *chuckles*. How can one resist??

From Swedemount's plentiful offerings I picked out a pair of running tights which came to 120 SEK, down from 400. That's approximately £9.80. I also grabbed a pack of sports socks from Caterpillar, unbeknown to me as a sports brand but at 30 SEK or £2.50 who am I to argue. Cheap gear that will hopefully help me along to completing a full marathon in 2015, or 16. 17 would do as well. Swedemount will conquer. 

My sister gave me a royal blue running top for Christmas as well so the good folk of Owlerton/Hillsborough/Wincobank will be treated to a distinctly untypical looking Swede hankering round in patriotic colours and tights (eeek!!) adorned with a Sweden flag. A sight to behold no doubt

The shoes of life

"I did not have three thousand pairs of shoes, I had one thousand and sixty" the infamous Imelda Marcos once quipped. When you're the wife of a dictator you probably see it as god's given right to amass the most stupendous shoe collection. After all, who's gonna be stupid enough to disagree with you??

Unsurprisingly I don't share many values with Mrs Marcos. Oppression, corruption, nepotism, totalitarianism. No thanks. She was right on one point though - you can never have too many shoes. Fact. It's impossible. In fact I can't think of any reasonable argument against buying more footwear. Money? Grab yoursen a bargain. Space? Clear out some rubbish you don't actually need but are just keeping because it might come in handy one day. It won't. Already got shoes that don't get worn? There's obviously a reason for that. Give them to charity and buy some that you really like. Don't need any more pairs? Stop wearing the same pairs til they're completely worn out, you could sport a different pair every day of the month. You can never have too many.

Alas these two pairs were delivered yesterday. Asos Premier is a revelation. Thanks @emmamaillard for the shout! 

They were in the sale, of course, and in addition I got 20% off so both pairs came to £14. Bargain grabbed. It turned out be an even bigger bargain as Asos somehow managed to send two identical parcels for the price of one. Very much doubt they're gonna demand the surplus items back which is just typical. If only I'd got that 400 quid Paul Smith coat instead, could've made a fortune on eBay. Honesty is the way forward though, they'll be going back whether Asos wants them or not. 

Always one for (or at least aiming for) practising what I preach, buying shoes is one of my favourite pastimes. Shoe shoes, boots, trainers, sneakers, plimsolls, flip flops, you name it. It's akin to a foot fetish, minus the sexual arousal, and life all the more better for it. I conducted a brief spot of blog research the other day and counted how many pairs I've got: 48 and counting. Hardly any of them bought at full price. Frivolously thrifty. I did a big clear out when I moved house in April but it would appear that I've added a few since then. No such thing as too many. Good footwear as a human right, maybe Imelda was on to something there.

Although one shouldn't trivialise serious matters such as basic human rights, particularly when those rights are violated across the globe on a daily basis, historically and presently. Shame on you Imelda. There's a desperately sad irony that mere days after Malala Yousafzai received her well deserved Nobel peace prize for campaigning for equal rights to education, the Taliban massacre a Pakistani school. On a more positive note, one of the last bastions of inequality, the Church of England, finally has its first female bishop. Holler. Next up: the Vatican. How awesome would it be to have a female pope? Sadly I'm more likely to get to one thousand and sixty shoes, or even three thousand

Oh my Gok

Tomorrow I'm going bridal shopping with Liron, a friend from work. The bride to be is very clear about what kind of dress she doesn't want but she's rightly wary of the over zealous wedding dress peddler. I'm therefore tasked with casting a critical eye on proceedings. Call me Gok.

Incidentally that's exactly what literally hundreds of people, most often complete strangers, have done for a tediously long time. Various derivations of “Fuck me, it's Gok” have been ringing in my ears wherever I've turned ever since 'How to Look Good Naked' hit our screens in 2006. At times it's felt like the the scene from 'Being John Malkovich' when John Malkovich goes inside John Malkovich's head and the only word spoken is “Malkovich”. Except I don't exist just inside my own head. Gok is all around. I dearly hope Gok himself have to contend with people coming up to him asking “Do you know who you look like?”. Going abroad on holiday hasn't been a reprieve either. Damn you globalisation.

The first person to gleefully make me aware of Gok's presence and our perceived likeness was my then house mate Vieira (not Patrick), with whom I share a proud history of getting absolutely wankered. In fact on any given night we were the most likely candidates to end up in a right state, Vieira the worst and me not far behind. He once mopped my face after I'd passed out with the same mop I'd used earlier to clean up his vomit. On another occasion after a night out on the tiles we shared a bottle of Absinthe that I'd procured from my part time job in an off-licence, as you do, and suffice to say it quickly went downhill from there. A tumble from the top to the bottom of the stairs, a chair put through a door and a barricade involving all my furniture all occurred but not necessarily in that order.

Vieira is particularly handy at the astute observation, his most common reference to me is “Swedish is some boy” which is probably fairly apt, so it comes as no surprise that it was him who heralded the start of my Gok years.

It's a definite mark of Gok's ubiquity that the Gok remarks have known no boundary, spanning all ages, genders, ethnicities, socio-demographics and so on, though thankfully I'm yet to have an older lady come up and ask me to make her look good naked. Encounters ranging from the banal to the surreal have ensued: posing for photographs, having drinks bought for me, people phoning friends and family to say they've met someone who looks like Gok (it sounds even more ridiculous written down), you name it. One time a woman followed me and a friend round Debenhams and when I went off to the fitting room she approached my friend and asked him if he was Gok's manager. “Errm...”

I find the whole thing rather inexplicable. I fully appreciate that most people won't have carefully studied our features to determine key likenesses (rather disturbing thought) but even on face value I don't quite see what the fuss is all about. Our ethnic origins are in the same vicinity, though Hong Kong and South Korea are many miles apart, and we both wear glasses. That's about it for me, and considering most oriental people wear specs that's a fairly tenuous link. To use a famous Twain-ism: the reports of our similarities have been greatly exaggerated.

Having said all that, we do share a keen interest in the high street, though I suspect he rarely forages in the bargain bin end in which I operate. I shall be channelling my inner Gok in this little number from River Island:

In the sale, of course, and at £10 it was just too good to resist, despite the upcoming, financially challenging festive season . I'm thinking black tuxedo jacket, or blue blazer and polka dot bow tie, or blue blazer and royal blue polka dot tie, or the fabled waistcoat. The polka dot provides endless opportunities. I shall thoroughly enjoy getting smashed whilst dressed to the hilt in polka dots. Despite Gok's assertions, it's totally all about looking good fully clothed. 

Deo Adjuvante Labor Proficit

I love Sheffield. I've lived here since 1998. In August this year Sheffield overtook Säffle, Sweden as the place I've lived in the longest, and long may it continue.

The initial decision to move to Sheffield wasn't particularly deliberate. I had University offers from Sheffield Hallam, Lancaster and Edge Hill, Ormskirk so Sheffield really was the only option. No offence to the people of Lancaster and Ormskirk but come on, what was I thinking applying there??? 16 years on I've still not bothered to set foot in either place which speaks volumes. Regardless of circumstance, moving to Sheffield is easily the best decision I've ever made, followed by buying a copy of R.E.M.'s Out Of Time as a spotty 13 year old, resisting the temptation to migrate to London post-University and resigning from my job at Sheffield Contraception & Sexual Health Service without another job lined up.

There are a whole raft of reasons why Sheffield is a great city. Despite its industrial heritage, 61% of Sheffield's area is green space and apparently there are more than 2 million trees in the city, which gives Sheffield the highest ratio of trees to people of any city in Europe (thanks Wikipedia). We love trees. The Peak District is on our doorstep, living in the city centre doesn't cost a bomb, there are tons of cool stuff going on - @PeddlerMKT, @SharrowReels, @FestivalMind, @SensoriaFest to name a few, and there's a comforting sense of familarity, boosted by the fact that it's really easy to bump in to people you know. We love people bumping.

To illustrate the point, I've made a list of the 10 things I love the most about Sheffield. You can't go wrong with a list.

1. Sheffield people - It's not an understatement to say that Sheffielders are a friendly bunch. This was summarised to perfection by an older gentleman we got chatting to on a work's night out to Owlerton greyhound racing (chicken and chips in a basket!). Spotting the non-caucasian in the group, he proceeded to highlight that we're all cut from the same cloth by announcing "You're like me thee"

2. The Sheffield accent - There really is no better accent in my opinion. "Aye up duck", "Nah then", "Geeor", "Is tha mashin?", the list goes on

3. Sheffield Rules - Football as we know it was born in Sheffield. Nuff said

4. The Crucible - The home of snooker since 1977. Rumours of a future venue change for the World Championships better be just that, a mere rumour. After all, Ronnie loves it and he's god

5. Kelham Island - I've been fortunate enough to live within touching distance of Sheffield's real ale mile for the past 5 or so years. Award winning pubs galore, a mecca for beer tickers, attitude-free drinking and vegan pub grub. Can't go wrong

6. The Showroom - Support your local independent cinema people! If nothing else the popcorn's cheaper than at the mainstream multiplexes

7. Pulp - Different Class is definitely different class. A defining highlight of the Britpop era, it's one of my favourite albums of all time. I'm giving it a welcome spin as I type

8. Hendo's - Far superior to its more famous equivalent from Worcester. Better tasting, made in Sheffield, vegan (I'm not actually vegan by the way)

9. Cheap pints - It's not my pub of choice by a long stretch but the Brown Bear in the city centre pulls the cheapest pints going, outside of the dwindling world of working men's clubs. You can get a round in for less than a fiver, and by round I mean 3 pints. Up yours Wetherspoon's

10. Sheffield steel - In case you somehow weren't aware, stainless steel was invented in Sheffield by Harry Brearley in 1912. The world has been owing a debt of gratitude ever since

The Steel City moniker has ironically been steadily corroding since the 1980s. We all know who to blame. The steel industry has been drastically reduced but thankfully not completely eradicated. Sheffield made steel products are still synonymous with high quality so when I decided to buy a new chef's knife, Sheffield was again the only option.

I bought the knife from a Sheffield shopping institution: Atkinson's department store. Despite their best efforts to modernise, e.g. swanky new entrance, it undoubtedly feels as though time has stood still in the world of Atkinson's. You almost expect Mrs Slocombe to pop up behind the counter. Nevertheless they're still going strong and their cookware department is particularly useful. At £24.99 the chef's knife from Taylor's was a fiver cheaper than in the Sheffield Scene shop so smiles all round. Befitting as well, to buy a slice of Sheffield tradition and heritage from a shop that pre-dates stainless steel. And I am definitely unanimous in that!

Dust yourself off and try again

There's a Swedish proverb - "Skam den som ger sig" - that particularly resonates with me. The English equivalent would be William Edward Hickson's "If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again", brought to aural life for the modern masses to great effect by the late Aaliyah.

It's this dogged stubbornness that, as a short, chubby bespectacled child, made me carry on playing football for my local club, despite being bereft of any discernible natural aptitude and spending several years as a super-less sub. Fast forward to teenage years and aided by a growth spurt and contact lenses, I developed into a distinctly non-spectacular but altogether solid full back who was on the fringes of the first team, albeit in the amateur Swedish lower leagues.

It has also proved rather handy in my decidedly topsy-turvy professional life. For a variety of reasons that include necessity, boredom, greed, ambition, frustration and despair, I've probably applied for more than 50 jobs since leaving uni 13 years ago. Whilst I've had my fair share of Sugar-esque You're hireds I've more often than not been knocked back, largely thanks to my own special brand of interview 'skills'. They once manifested themselves in me answering a question with a mere "Pass" as though I was on Mastermind or something. Unlike Magnus Magnusson, the panel actually let me come back to the question in hand, having clearly seen straight through my diversion tactic. The bonus thinking time made no difference at all, I still had no useful reply. Dust yourself off and sheepishly head for the exit sign.

Said determination can also be found in my quest for splashing the cash. Exhibit A: a dark grey waistcoat in chest size 42, newly arrived by Asos next day delivery.

Disgruntled with my previous, midriff hugging waistcoat purchase (see the previous blog post) and the decision to throw the return slip in the bin before trying it on for size, I succumbed to the lure of 20% off everything and bought another one. A steal it was as well, costing £9 minus the discount. Cinderella will go to the bastard ball in a bleeding waistcoat. Sadly this one allows for an expanding waistline but is a tad too spacious around the chest area so unless my moobs expand rapidly over the coming weeks, I'll have to alter it if I have any intention of wearing it. Dust yourself off and throw a strop.

The second item in the Asos bag is more functional by nature: a card holder in grey and flourescent yellow canvas for £2.40. Having spent years barebacking my bank card on nights out (most of my cards start looking somewhat dishevelled after a few months), I figured I'd start wearing protection.

All I need now is an actual card to put in it. I did my usual routine of losing a debit card the other week. It could be in The Lescar, outside The Lescar, in a taxi from The Lescar or somewhere altogether different. On average I lose a couple of cards per year, usually when I'm not sober. Come to think of it, I also lose my keys on a fairly regular basis and I have been known for randomly losing significant chunks of money out of my pocket. My thumb and index finger might as well be permanently etched on my forehead.

There's probably an argument that one really should learn from past mistakes as a responsible 30 something, but then again I reckon I'll take solace in Aaliyah's wise words: "age ain't nothing but a number".

Ooh Err Cantona

Any day that features multiple parcel deliveries is a good day in my book. The thrill! The joy! The excitement! Furthermore when the parcels come emblazoned with the corporate logos of Asos and Amazon, well it's the veritable epitome of a legal high. A committed customer of both for a number of years, I am most definitely part of the bargain hunting collective whose dedication to the cause is eroding the high street as we know it. Luckily for my ethical conscience I voted for Feministiskt Initiativ (Feminist Initiative) in the Swedish general election the other month. And j'adore free range eggs.

Item number 1 was always going to be the less interesting one: a grey waistcoat in mini houndstooth from Asos' own brand for a mere £12 in the sale.

You can't go wrong with the Asos sale, it's bargain mecca. Better still, it's seemingly neverending. They're good for more or less every type of clothing and accessory going, although their own brand can be a bit hit and miss, particularly shoes and jeans. I tend to buy something from Asos every month and I can't remember the last time I paid full price for anything. Frugal and proud.

The waistcoat was purchased to go with a royal blue polka dot tie for a pre-Christmas shindig in a slightly futile attempt to boost my hipster credentials. Futile on the basis that my beard growing ability is akin to that of a 5 year old's. I'm like Liu Xiang at London 2012, falling at the first hurdle. To make matters worse, the damn thing is too small. I even went up a size to 40" chest but to no avail. Hipster dream well and truly quashed. I shall file this one under 'don't even go there til you're a stone lighter'. It'll be in great company.

Item number 2 is way, way, way more exciting. You and the Night is a French (of course) art house flick about a young couple and their transvestite maid who invite a select group of people for an orgy, described in a review as 'a chamber piece of sex, surreality and the absurd'. Mary Whitehouse approved it most definitely ain't.

I came across the trailer whilst having a Camden Hells Lager in the Arthouse Crouch End cinema bar (http://www.arthousecrouchend.co.uk) and literally stopped mid-sentence to check it out. It stars no other than kung-fu fighting, seagull loving Manc United legend 'King Eric' Cantona as The Stud and judging by the trailer he prepared for the role by taking performance enlarging substances. Whilst I'm in no way a fan, up the Gunners!, the prospect of watching the uber alpha male ex-professional footballer crawling round a cage on all fours and (shock, shock, horror) kiss another man is just too good to miss. £11 well spent.

I've got a date to watch it this coming weekend with my friend Aimee, who's a fellow art house aficionado. I cannae wait, it ticks ALL the boxes

I'm a blogger, I'm a smogger, I'm a midnight togger

Roundabout this time 3 years ago, my ex and I was featured in a BBC2 documentary exploring different couples' approach to managing finances and the impact money had on the relationship. I was profiled as a care-free shopaholic with a penchant for t-shirts and free range eggs. As a minor claim to fame, I was subsequently described as 'a disaster, who buys t-shirts by the truckload' by the resident TV reviewer at The Guardian. Although there's probably an element of truth in that particular description, I prefer to view it less as chaotic disruption and more measured frivolity.

The basic premise for this blog is to chronicle my spending, a kind of visual representation of my bank statement. I intend to write a blog post every time I spend money on non-essential material things for myself over the next year or so and see if over time it causes me to re-examine my approach to parting with money.

The idea for the blog came from a hungover (me) conversation with my dear friend @JeanetteLeech on her sofa in Harringay. J is a writer by profession, check out her acid folk opus "Seasons They Change", and holds the written word in high esteem. She also undertook a 52 week blog project with her friend Jude the other year so she's got previous. Initially I figured I'd start the blog in January as a way of ushering in the new year but then as it so happens today is that most revered day of the month: payday. It all begins today therefore.

I've just returned home to Sheffield after spending 5 days in London. I work for Breast Cancer Care, the UK wide charity supporting people affected by breast cancer, and was down at our head office for a 2 day course and a project meeting, interspersed with leisure time. I can heartily recommend a visit to Institute of Sexology at Wellcome Collection which opened last week. Amongst the items on display are a rather impractical vibrator and a scary looking anti-masturbation device. The main focus however is on the pioneers of sex research such as Kinsey and Von Krafft-Ebing, the latter's 19th century work "Psychopathia Sexualis" introduced me to a whole range of sexual deviancies I frankly had no clue existed. 'Mania, or theft of, women's handkerchiefs' anyone?

I of course found some time to do a spot of non-Christmas shopping, and happened across the below garment in Zara's new Oxford Street flagship store

I'm by no means a Zaraholic, and at £19.99 it's possibly the most money I've ever spent on a single t-shirt, but it took me all of 5 seconds to grab it and run for the tills. As it turns out it was actually a rather crucial purchase as later that day I managed to wreck a shirt by attempting to iron it using the carpet in my hotel room as ironing board (yes, I really am that stupid). So if I'd not bought the t-shirt I would've had to walk round London at night with a bit of Travelodge stuck on me and that would've been a real disaster.