Black Snow and Kafka

Prague was not showing its best side when I arrived today. Recent snowfalls have partially melted and been churned up into dirty black mountains of ice. It's raining too. Still, managed to make a quick detour to the Franz Kafka museum at lunch on the other side of the Charles' Bridge. Not sure what I was expecting, but it was a pretty dire affair. What could have been a weird trip into a very disturbed mind turned out to be nothing more than a collection of framed house bills and shopping lists penned by the man himself. How thrilling! The most disturbing thing turned out to be Kafka's taste in women, which is best described as equestrian: of his four loves three of them looked like horses and the fourth one a mule. Maybe writing's not all it's cracked up to be after all.

Back at the ranch Sammy has fallen ill, having spent most of Sunday night throwing up. However he'd recovered sufficiently by Monday afternoon to has his first attack at piano lessons, which I'm pleased to say he loved. Now I have an excuse to get that piano I've been after and start building a mini studio in the basement. Saw a set of drums in the local paper too. Hmmm.

Igloos

Spurned on by the neighbour's attempts at an igloo, Sammy and I have spent the weekend in the garden building one of our own. A simple task but one which brought both of us a great deal of satisfaction. When I get back from Prague I'm hoping to get a few candles down inside there and have us a little late night picnic.

Fancy a Good Night In?

If so you could do a lot worse than to rent Deconstructing Harry by Woody Allen.

Last night must have counted as about the third time I've seen this film, but that did little to detract from the joy of watching it again. This is in part becuase Allen manages to cram as many ideas into this one film as most directors manage in a lifetime. Around the fairly simple plot of a writer returning to his old university to receive an honorary award, we are treated to a series of flashbacks and stories within stories, each of which build on each other and multiply Allen's comic possibilities. It's also Allen's dirtiest, filthiest and most sexually upfront film so far (is Allen playing himself and how he thinks the world sees him after his real life shenanigans?). Someone once said about Allen that he uses shrinks to help him find excuses to get away with his appalling behaviour, and there's certainly an element of that in this film (at one point Allen's character compares himself to Hitler, or at least as the fourth worst man in the world if you count in Goebbels and Goering). But in between all the usual trademark sequences of self-doubt and nihilism are some of the best comic moments I've ever seen on film. Period. The scene where Kirstie Alley (Allen's former wife) confronts him with the fact that he has been sleeping with her patients is pure class. Add to that the conversation Allen has with the devil ("blind girls are so grateful") and the idea that an actor (not the camera) can be out of focus, and you've got 90 mins of quality entertainment. Great quotes abound, but perhaps one of my favourites is the retort Allen throws at his Brother-in-law when he accuses him of thinking he's a paranoid Jew, "I think you're the opposite of a paranoid. I think you go around with the insane delusion that people like you." Perfect! 10 PP.

The Week That Was That Wasn't

Hmmm. I seemed to have failed to post anything over the last few days. So much for the resolution to write something every day. So here's the week in a nutshell. Tiring. Tried to make a Guinness and Lamb stew which was only half successful. Made a fire. Worked hard on the Business Plan for the Teddy Venture. Lost the plot when I failed to book my train trip to Italy. Thought about what to do for my 40th birthday - maybe hire a castle in Scotland with the Landmark Trust? Or maybe that house with the skittles alley down by London? Either way need to save. Which reminds me, the money came in. Now temporarily rich. Will no doubt squander some of this in Italy on Chianti and Supertuscans and the remainder on Riesling in Germany on the drive home. Invest my pension in liver damage. Maybe I can call in on the Colonel and Angel in Berlin? Will he be home? Preparing for the trip to Prague next week - from there on in, it's back to the constant travelling malarkey for most of February. And I HATE flying in winter and all the crummy de-icing and delay and Heathrow (now virtually unusable) nonsense. Plus BA will be striking and I'lll be stranded somewhere in Germany or Austria (again). Enough moaning. Someone bring me a big gin!

A Wee Dram of North British

Edinburgh.

A cold, dark, damp autumnal Edinburgh. So what could be better to blow away those icy chills than a nice drop (or five) of Scotland's finest?

There must have been about twenty of us in the room. We were placed around small tables seating three or four people. In front of us were five different (and as yet unknown) whiskies of various colour, each in a proper whisky glass (not a big tumbler but a small flute) and with their own cover in place to prevent their aromas from taking flight. By the time our host had finished his welcome speech we were, to say the least, eager and ready to rumble.

First things first. Our man made it clear that this was going to be a form of blind tasting, in that he would only tell us about the whisky we were tasting after we'd had a taste and a chance to say what we felt about it ourselves. As it turned out, this was an extremely wise and eye-opening form of proceedings. The logic behind it was clear: the more he told us upfront about where each whisky came from, how it was made, any flavours we might expect to find, cask age and - worryingly - how much it costs, the more our experience would be clouded by our preconceptions. Fair enough. The second thing was that all of the whiskies we were about to try were sourced from the same Independent Bottler, namely Cadenhead. But no worries - this did nothing to limit the range of whiskies that were on offer - far from it. In fact we were going to taste a few whiskies of which it was now almost impossible to get hold of at any price. Needless to say, his little preamble (coupled with the lashing rain outside) had whetted our appetite substantially.

The Whiskies

First up was what turned out to be a Putachieside Blended 12yo, which came in at 40% proof. Light amber in colour, with a pungent, malty nose, it made a very smooth entry and left a lovely, warm and creamy aftertaste that was nice and long, and got better with each sip. At 23 quid, this is a snip and I gave it an easy on nose 7.5/10. Before this tasting I thought that blended whiskies were a no-no, but this is not the case. Just as in wine, blending is a fine art and requires a professional "nose" to do the job. Even a single malt, in order to achieve the house style, must be blended from different casks. And (shock horror) many distillers will also add in a small quantity of caramel to achieve a house colour too - although you wont find this information on the label, at least in the UK (Swede's, as ever, as more precise!).

Next up was a whisky made exclusively from barley, a 56.3% 12yo Speyside from the Dailuaine-Glenlivet Distillery. This had a much darker amber colour, with a hot, pungent nose which reminded me a little of paint thinners. We were encouraged at this point to add a little water to calm this one down a touch. Again, this was news to me. I had assumed that you should add a little drop of water to any whisky so that you could release the aromas. Not so. You should always try a whisky neat first and then see if it needs water or not. All whisky is watered down when its bottled, but adding more water should be at your discretion. This one did pick up a bit with water, but not enough for my taste. The thinners smell gave way to a propane taste, and this one certainly wasn't my cup of cha. I gave it a disappointing 6/10, though others around me seemed enthused. At 38 quid its not for the feint of heart either!

The third whisky on the bill was a 19yo bottle from the North British Distillery. At 59.9% this needed a little water too, but for me this was definitely the hit of the evening. It had a dark amber colour with an almost fruity, wine-like nose (really!) with a big hint of vanilla (apparently due to the fact it has been matured in old Bourbon barrels). The entry on the palate was warm and well-rounded, and hit all the right spots, and, frankly, I could have drunk it happily for the rest of the night, but I only had a thimble full to work on in the glass. I've lost the note about the cost, but I think it was in the 40 quid bracket. A lot for a bottle, but still value for money given the taste. I gave it an 8.5/10. (The North British Distillery also get a prize for the most lacklustre internet site in the world - but good for them, it probably means they're getting on with their real job).

Next up was the evening's rarest example, a 51.2% proof, 42yo bottle of Speyside Chairman's Stock (don't you love that!) from Glenn Grant-Glenlivet. Our man told us that the only other business that works to the same time frame as a whisky manufacturer is the nuclear industry. He also told us that the many of these older whiskies tend to be barrels found in the corner of warehouses that have been misplaced or forgotten about. This bottle was one of only a handful still in existence, and its price tag reflected the fact. At a whopping 170 quid a bottle, its not an everyday sipping whisky! But was it worth it? The colour was a the darkest of all five whiskies, almost burnt amber, with an overpowering nose of paraffin and burnt toffee. It had an extremely hot entry, but later this mellowed to an incredibly long and lingering warmth on the palate which just never seemed to fade. But all in all it was better as a "winter warmer" than a premium whisky for me. It would have been interesting to see what my score might have been if our man had told us about this one before we'd tasted it though (with all those preconceptions in place!). As it was, I gave this a good but hardly ecstatic 7/10.

Last (and in my book least), was a bottle of 56.3% Islay from the Caol Ila Distillery. Can a whisky be more extreme and divisive than this? The colour was almost transparent, with a petrol nose and similar taste. Not for me then, but just as I was putting down my lowest score of the night - a measly 4/10 - my neighbour suddenly went into ecstasies about it, which just goes to prove there's nowt so queer as folk. I remained unphased. Frankly, if you want to taste petrol, I suggest you take a can down to your local pump and fill it there, as it'll be a lot cheaper than the 41 quid asking price for this little number.

As well as a shop on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, Cadenhead also have a shop in Covent Garden, which I suspect is well worth a visit if you're in town. Bottoms up!

Next Week: A mammoth (and rather drunken) tasting at the German Embassy in Stockholm of the wines from Mosel-Saar-Ruwer, 2005 vintage.

One to Watch in 07

Will "The Cold War Kids" be one of the biggest new names in 2007? Or will they merely land on the "100 Hundred Worst Band Names in Rock History" list? Only you can decide.

Woo-Hoo!

What better way is there to pass the time of day than a bit of sledging? Great fun! Also, has our talk of a maybe going for a third child peeked the interest of our friends? Will there now be a competition to see who can deliver first, so to speak? I also scored a goal at football this morning with my head - which given my level of in-the-air-clumsiness is almost unheard of. Things must be looking up all round!

Winter is Here!

At last, after several rather feeble half-hearted attempts, the Swedish winter has arrived in earnest. Tonight saw a good few inches fall in the space of an hour or so. It's also the kind of snow that's perfect for snowballs. The gray, drab Stockholm of the last few weeks (lets face it, months!) has been instantly replaced by a picture-prefect wonderland. Fabulous!

On another front, we've booked a house in Tuscany with a pool for the holidays, which should be ace. The only problem now is how do I convince the family to take the car-train from Hamburg to Tuscany so that I can fill the car to bursting point with lovely Tuscan wine-booty?

Old Man Goes into a Pub...

Heard a good joke tonight when we had some friends round for dinner. An old man goes into a pub and orders three pints of bitter. He then goes off to a table and proceeds to take a sip from each beer in turn. When he finally returns the empty glasses the barman says, "I hope you don't mind me asking, but why did you take three pints of beer just now?". The man says, "Well, I've got a brother in the US and a brother in Australia, and once a month we agreed to have a drink together". "That's nice", says the barman. A month later the same guy comes back, but this time he only orders two drinks. When he returns the empty glasses the barman says, "I hope you don't mind me asking, but has something terrible happened?". The old man replies, "Oh no, my doctor said I should stop drinking is all".

Things Me and My Wife Argue About

#1 - Kid's Activities

Currently Sammy is down for Swimming, Football, Piano Lessons, Gym and Tennis. Alice is doing Swimming, Gym and Choir Practice (don't ask). All of which means, as parents, we have precisely no nights left over for ourselves, and that we have stopped being parents and have instead become parent-slaves. Bodil was fighting to cross back over the line into parent territory by dropping something, while I was (madly) fighting to remain a slave. In the end, the arrangement is that Bodil will get every Thursday night to herself, while in exchange I'm signing up for an intensive French course on Saturday mornings. The kids meanwhile get to do the lot. Watch out for next month's installments which will no doubt be entitled "The Chronicle of a Breakdown".

At the Bank

It's that time of life. The wife and I have been to see an "investment consultant" at the bank, where we learned about the different ""bags" we should be putting aside to be opened at various points in our life-cycle. It was an eye-opening discussion, mainly because a) I discovered that the bag I have marked "pension" is currently empty, and b) the bag I have called "cashable savings" is actually full of other people's money. Good job that bonus money is coming in is all I can say. I'm reminded of Oscar Wilde. When shown the bill for his expected funeral costs he said, "It seems I will die beyond my means too".

Wanted: One Change of Perspective, Any Price Paid

Alice had a couple of friends over from nursery tonight, which was fun. It's great to see how five year-olds can simply re-invent and adapt the landscape around them into whatever they want within the blink of an eye. By turns the upstairs landing became a fortress, a hospital, a nursery and a dance floor.

When I look at the upstairs landing, I see a wooden floor that needs polishing.

This may explain why, as a kid, I was so fascinated by the idea of X-Ray Spex. Judging by my depressingly literal viewpoint, it looks like I still need a pair...

Guten Tag (Reklamation)

Continuing my German theme: if you like a good synth riff, guitars and (*cough*) cute Germans, then you'll like this. Nice vid too. Band's name is Wir sind Helden, if you're interested.

The Green Green Grass of Home, Eller?

Lucy Kellaway in the FT said that ambition is, "nothing but a displacement activity for unhappy people". With my application for even more responsibility in the post to London, a half-finished novel on my hard disk and a (potentially ridiculous) Business Plan in my back pocket, I am still pondering the truth of this statement. What (I ask myself) do I really want from life? Is Mozza right?

Fame, Fame, fatal Fame

It can play hideous tricks on the brain

But still I'd rather be Famous

Than righteous or holy, any day

Any day, any day

But is ambition and fame really worth it? When Jarvis Cocker finally got what he'd been after for so long (the money, the fame, the women), what did he do? He made the monster This is Hardcore - one of the most roundly depressing (though admittedly sublime) moments of music (and the death knell of Brit Pop). And the title of Bob Geldof's autobiography after the global success that was Live Aid? Is That It? And Moz himself is hardly top of the pops when it comes to feeling happy with one's lot in life either.

So do I really want what I want, or do I just like to pretend I want what I want? And if I got what I want, would I still want it? On which side of the fence is the grass greener? Answers on a postcard please to the usual address.

Oh Golly What Lolly!

A windfall is about to land on the Taylor household (and I'm not talking about my dead tree either). News came in today of a the possibility of cashing in part of my pension due to the fact that from 1st Jan 2007 I will start having to pay tax (no, really!). If true, this will be a serious amount of lolly. The question is: do I spend it now on some frivolous and completely unnecessary stuff (better car, better wine, a big party or even, dare I say, a boat?), or do I play my boring-but-cautious hand and pocket it in some savings account in case of a rainy day? Decisions decisions... (This email comes with grovelling apologies to my London friend Nelson who is by all accounts flat broke and surviving the rest of the month on his last 8 quid in the world!)

Also worked on the Business Plan for http://www.wheresmyteddy.com/ - which is getting kind of exciting. Will it work? Will myself and Billy Whiz be the next biggest thing on planet t'intanet next to Google? Check back at Christmas to find out.

P.S. Don't do evil!

Sammy is Eight

We held Sammy's birthday party for his friends (all fourteen of them!) at a "soft play world" in an industrial estate. The basic business concept is that you pay a small fortune to let the kids go berserk for an hour or two, jumping around in the equivalent of giant padded cell. The theory is that they can throw themselves into walls or jump off inflatable climbing frames without causing themselves any harm. This is all very well, but clearly the guy who designed this had envisaged only one kid running around at a time - when there are hundreds of them the "safe play" concept quickly falls apart at the seams. While the kids' heads may bounce happily off posts and floors wrapped in rubber - this is most definitely not the case when their heads bounce off each other. How we survived two hours without any broken bones is a miracle on par with the turning of water into wine. In the end we got away with only one loose tooth, one scraped nose and one attempted strangulation (the dramatic denouement of a fight over an inflatable banana). As if this wasn't bad enough the volume level inside these places is like standing next to a runway at Heathrow watching planes take off. Even Motörhead were never this loud.

End of the Line

You know how it is sometimes. The day arrives and leaves without you really having time to get off and have a decent look around. Today was like that. I was still asleep in my seat when my train pulled into the station (like, hello! - it's Saturday, that's the weekend outside the window!), and I didn't fully wake up until it was too late and we were already shunting out from the platform. When I tried the door it was already locked. The kindly conductor informs me that the next stop is Sunday. Doh!

You Cannot Be Serious!!!

Friday I worked too hard at the office, and after a long week I was feeling totally knackered. So back home for a curry and a well-deserved bottle of plonk. As Christmas has left us pretty skint, it was nothing out of the ordinary, but then it you do have to do the ordinary, you might as well get the best ordinary you can. In my book, anything by Gérard Bertrand fits this bill. His Classic Corbières (6.5/10), a spicy blend of Syrah and Mourvèrde, always hits the spot (and comes in at a decent price to boot). Just look for his tell-tale Gaelic cross at the top of the bottle. Someone should tell him about that website though as it's total cuckoo.

Bodil had been on at me to rent Match Point by Woody Allen for some time, despite my protestations that it wasn't very good (I'd caught it myself on a lonesome night in London). Still, today I caved in and got it out for a second viewing (it does have the delectable Miss Johansson in after all). As much as I am a confirmed fan of Woody Allen, it's hard to know where to begin in describing just how wrong this film is. The characters are wholly unbelievable, the things they say unreal, the way they look ridiculous, and the jobs they have cannot exist anywhere except in a parallel dimension. Not only that, but the shots of London itself are so trite you suspect that Allen must have got a substantial back-hander from Visit Britain to plug Ye Olde Englande. In one scene there is not only one but two Mini Coopers driving by in the background - one of which has a union jack painted on the roof. The only thing missing was a man in a bowler hat. The final death blow to this film is that the story doesn't even begin until about the last twenty minutes of the film, when you realise that you are about to drift into some familiar Allen-cum-Dostoevsky territory, in other words the morally confused world of the unpunished murderer. The acting (if you can call it that) is so flat and wooden throughout you have to wonder if they have all just wandered in en-mass from the stage of a dubious Harold Pinter play and forgotten to change styles. Dreadful (3/10 - and that's being generous). Not even Scarlett can save this turkey. Match Point? You CANNOT be serious!

Château de Pibarnon

Holiday on the Côte d’Azur? In the Sun? You've got to be joking!

I have to admit that, when the idea of going to Provence for a holiday was first put forward by the wife last summer, I was somewhat disappointed. If we're going to France I thought, why can't it be Bordeaux, or Bourgogne, or the Rhône, or even somewhere in the up-and-coming Languedoc-Roussillon region - anywhere but the Côte d’Azur. As a newly enamoured wine-buff I was looking for some serious red-wine action to sink my teeth into. But Provence? What's there? Nothing but dodgy Rosés - or so I thought. However the God of Serendipity must have heard my calls, because just as I was trying to convince the family to abandon a guaranteed week in the September sun on the coast (see above) in favour of a week's traipsing around the damp vineyards further north, a miracle happened. The latest issue of Decanter popped into my letterbox with – wait for it - nothing less than a full-length travel feature on or proposed destination, complete with maps and recommended tours. I was saved. So Provence – and more specifically the tiny AOC of Bandol – it was.

The Delights of Bandol

As it turned out the holiday home in Le Lavandou was perfect. OK, Le Lavandou itself, nestled on the coast half-way between Saint-Tropez and Toulon, isn't much to write home about, but then again the ridiculously picturesque village of Bormes-les-Mimosas is only a stone's throw away, and the tiny port of Bandol (my ultimate destination) was only an hour's drive along a coastal road. As I said, perfect. So abandoning family and friends to spend another day on the beach playing racquetball and netting jellyfish, I set off in my cheap hire car with a selection of CDs and a credit card burning a hole in my pocket for the coastal road.

The AOC of Bandol stretches (if that’s the right word for such a small appellation) out from behind the port of Bandol and rises up the steeply inclining hills towards the village of La Cadière d’Azur, which is the appellation's real focal point. From here, none of the major vineyards are more than a short drive in any direction - in other words small enough to explore in a day trip.


Even in September the temperatures in Bandol are hot (see above), so the main grape varietals grown here reflect this and tend to be thick-skinned, such as Mourvèrde, Grenache and Cinsaut – all of which are used further north in Châteauneuf-du-Pape wines. The climate, though warm, is cooled by the proximity of the Mediterranean Sea during the night and sheltered by the mountains to the north during the day. It's not only the grapes who like it here - its also perfect driving country. After a fantastic lunch at the Michelin-stared Hostellerie Bérard (complete with panoramic hilltop views of the landscape to be explored), I decide to set off towards my chosen destination: Château de Pibarnon, by all accounts Bandol’s finest vineyard.

Château de Pibarnon

The road to Pibarnon is long and winding, and at the end becomes little more than a steep dusty climb up a pot-holed dirt track. But the challenge is worth it. The Château itself is beautifully situated, breath-taking in fact. It’s the kind of place you dream about living in yourself. As this is my first adventure of its kind, I’m a little nervous about going in and trying out the wines. Will they expose me for the rank amateur that I am? And what about that whole language issue? Will our “conversation” about the wines be comprised of nothing more than a few winks and nods?

In the end, I needn’t have worried. The chap who came to the door couldn’t have been more gracious, nor his English more perfect. In fact when I started to press him on a few points about the wine I was tasting, he smiled and went back behind a curtain to fetch some other vintages. The wines were spectacular, some of the best I’ve tasted in fact – at least so far. It didn’t take much convincing to buy a case on my way out the door. Smart move, I thought. But as ever I was wrong. It turned out to be a real struggle to get all twelve bottles packed up in the kids’ hand luggage for the plane trip home. When I was finally able to unpack them in my cellar, I checked Systembolaget’s (Sweden’s appalling state-controlled monopoly on booze) website out of mild curiosity. Did they have any Pibarnon? The result of my search? They not only had the same bottles, of the same vintage, they were also the same price. Bugger!

The Wines

First, the reds: while the 2002 had opened up into a wonderfully complex nose, the 2004 was still "closed” and needing a little more time in the bottle - both however tasted great. Sadly there was no Rosé left to be had, but the white from 2005 was almost as equally as impressive as the reds. As per the rules of the Bandol appellation, none of the grapes are machine harvested and they need to spend at least 18 months maturing in cask. I gave everything I tasted a uniform 8/10. At home the red from 2002 opened up even more after some time in the glass, suggesting that either it needs some serious decanting next time or would enjoy even more time down in my cellar. Make no mistake - these wines are as good as some of their more exorbitantly priced cousins in Bordeaux. With heavyweight advocates such as Jancis Robinson and Tom Stevenson pushing them, I’m in no bad company either. Buy them!

Next Week: Is the taste of a 50 YO, 170 quid bottle of whisky really worth the investment?

The Bone Song

Fans of Hot Chip will feel equally at home in the weird world of Fujiya and Miyagi from Brighton. Nice tapes too! Altogether now - "the thigh bone connected to the leg bone, leg bone connected to the knee bone, etcetera". Has the bone song ever sounded this funky!

Curling Parents

In Sweden they have a phrase for parents such as myself and Bodil - "Curlingföräldrar" (Curling parents). In Curling the "sweepers" are the those ridiculous track suited people with brooms, running around in front of the stone (or "rock" as its known in the biz) in order to smooth things over if needs be. Substitute rocks for kids and you get the general idea. Today's example of frantic polishing revolved around Sammy's disappointment at having to wait until his birthday on Sunday to open his PS2 console, which he had spotted clumsily hidden in my wardrobe a few days ago. So when Bodil returned from Singapore with a PS2 game, it was more than he could bare. It must have taken us all of ten minutes to give in to the pressure and let him open everything early. (OK, let's be honest here - I was kind of looking forward to seeing what it was like myself). So we stuck on Lego Star Wars and had us some wholesome family fun, blasting little Lego Stormtroopers with a laser canon (and yes, Princess Leia is still sexy, even as Lego). However I have to admit that it's a little disconcerting watching your eight year old enjoying blowing people up. Worse still that he has to explain to you - patiently - how to work the controls. Who's curling who here, and where will it all end? Check back in ten year's time to find out...

On another front, snow has finally arrived in Stockholm, Bodil is home, and it's almost Friday. Triffic!

Geburt einer Nation (alt. "GET ME A LITE BEER!")

Storm over. Tree still here. Bodil on her way home (thank the Lord).

I just came across this old Laibach video again today, sent to me from a friend in Berlin. You can't beat a bit of Krautrock from time to time, especially when it’s mixed with an old Queen song, the lyrics "Get me a Lite Beer" shouted at maximum volume, and a visual twist of German Expressionism. Watch out for the reindeer too. Classic.

Tree Trouble

The neighbours have repeatedly warned me that the tree in our garden is mostly dead and that it will fall down any moment, possibly on their house. My response? To nod my head in an understanding fashion and then forget about it, as typically in the short space of time it takes me to walk back to my house the thought of ringing a lumberjack (they can't be called that) has been replaced with the thought of, say, making myself a cup of tea. The result of this casual indifference to the fate of those around me? There is currently a storm force nine gale raging outside my window and said tree is wobbling precariously back and forth in the direction of the neighbour's house. Not only that but it suddenly seems ten times its normal height and there is a peculiar, Tim Burtonish weirdness about it (remember Sleepy Hollow?). Will I be able to sleep tonight? Not a chance.

The Daily Grind

A tough day without Bodil. For starters I get almost hopping mad that I can't find Sammy's ice-skates at the morning's critical moment, i.e. the point when I'm on my way out the door and I think everything is sorted. As Bodil knows only too well, this is normally the point when I have my first crisis of the day and I ring her to ask, "where is the..., why can't I find..." etc, but the fact that she is asleep in a hotel bed in Singapore puts a stop to that (how does she put up with me?). Finally I find them exactly where they should be, and I set off on my daily run to drop off the kids at the school / nursery / friends / doctors / grandparents / dentist / gym (delete as appropriate).

At lunchtime I applied for a new job at a higher grade. The plan is that, if I get it, I would commute between Vienna and Stockholm, and hence conveniently side-step the issue of having to uproot our pleasant little family life for other climes (China anyone?). It remains to be seen however if I can convince anyone in management (including myself) that this is a good idea. To round things off for the day our ever friendly Italian-Swedish neighbour's kids are down with gastric flu. God help us if we get that again. The puking scene in the Witches of Eastwick had nothing on the Taylor family when we had that last November. No wine for days either, but somehow uncorking a bottle on your own seems a bit sad, so I opted for a Nils Oscar Kalasöl (Party Beer) instead (8/10). Is this the best beer in the world? It can't be far off.

Me, Stressed?

Dropped Bodil off today for her business trip to Singapore, which means I'm alone with the kids until Thursday. Will I survive? So far so good, but I'm only half a day in and already I'm feeling a bit battered. As it's the first time me and the kids have been alone for a while, I decided to make a day of it and we headed off to a museum. Once we found the playroom, I convinced the kids to have a go at Mindball. I first saw this game being demonstrated by its originators a few years ago when I visited the Interactive Insitute in Stockholm - which has to be my number one place I would want to work. The basic concept of the game is that you strap two people into a brain-wave detector, which is then coupled to magnets which move a ball up and down a line on a table. The most relaxed of the two players is able to move the ball into the opponents goal, and win. The result? Sammy won both games against me, but lost against Alice. So it's official, I am the most stressed member of the family. Tomorrow Bodil will be at Raffles trying the original Singapore Sling, while I will be in the basement wrestling with the week's laundry. Make mine a Pink Gin love!

TSOOL

Another day down the tubes of home refurbishment. At what point did the idea of DIY come into fashion, and why did we fall for it? Whatever happened to the idea of getting someone in who knows what they're doing? I've already got a job - and it's an office job at that. So at what point did I buy the idea that owning a few power tools makes you a carpenter? At school I failed to do even a basic Mortise and Tenon joint with a hammer and chisel. Now I've got a power saw. Spot the difference. Older? Check. Wiser? No. Still crap at woodwork? Yep!


Two good things did happen today however, both of them music related. First, while slapping up the tile glue Bodil put on The Soundtrack of Our Lives album, Behind The Music (see left). I'd forgotten what a superb album this is. It floats somewhere between the Stones, Beatles and general acid-induced psychedelia, flipping easily between strange, lighter-than-air weirdness and straight-up tub-thumping rock'n'roll. If you haven't got it, I strongly recommend you buy it. The second experience was a near epiphany whilst listening to Tom Wait's latest effort Orphans. Just when I was thinking that this would be the album where I'd say - "Right Tom, I'm afraid that's it, our relationship is so over" - up popped the spoken word track Nirvana. A small whimsy about a boy who gets off a bus and then gets on it again. Not much of a story you might say, and it isn´t. But the magic he conjures in those two minutes drew me up short, and, just for a second, I was no longer in the car driving home from the tool store - instead I was right there with the kid on the Greyhound Bus, pulling out of the middle of nowhere in the big hills with the snow falling down and the tyres ploughing through the slush. Beautiful! Tom, we're back on! Apologies for the moment of doubt.

It's all downhill from here

Today was a holiday in Sweden, but not so you'd notice in the Taylor household, as we've been full on since breakfast re-tiling and decorating the kitchen. I have to say that, at 38 (am I really that old now?), I'm beginning to feel the strain. Mainly in the knee department. Maybe it's because I spent most of day creeping in and out of small cupboards and kneeling on a hardwood floor, or maybe its because I started the first day of 2007 doing a 5 km jog on unforgiving concrete pavements in the damp, dark streets of Lidingö, or maybe it s the simple fact that I'm getting older. Whatever. The fact is that when we took a break in the park with the kids, what would have normally been an easy leap over a small fence gave me pause for thought, and I found myself having to momentarily psych myself up to do it. Not only that but my foot clipped the edge on the way over. The fence must have been all of half a metre high too. Maybe that small moment of hesitation is the the start of the end - the fatal point that marks the shift from whatever state I'm in now (declining youth?) into crumbly middle age. Like the Wonderstuff once said as they left the stage after an early slot at Glastonbury: "Thanks a lot - it's all downhill from here".

At least Alice made us laugh at lunchtime. When Sammy didn't respond to her first request for him to come down to eat she said, "Nu kommer mamma slå ihjäl dig - längter du efter det eller?" (which roughly translated means, "If you don't come now mum's going to kill you - are you longing for that or what?"). Such a sweet cherub!

In the evening we at least managed to uncork a bottle of Alain Brumont's (see right) Gros Manseng-Sauvignon, VDP Des Cotes de Gascogne 2005 (6/10), which, for a table wine, is pretty damn good. (Question: Do I envy that contented look on Alain's face, and the fact that he's making a fortune from fermenting grape juice? Absolutely!) I'll be looking for some of his more exclusive wines later this year if I can find them. Before bed we rounded off the day with Almodóvar's film Live Flesh. Although I remember seeing the film originally at the cinema, I still think the plot twist in the middle is superbly handled. As ever with Almoldóvar's films his characters are overblown, bombastic and totally melodramatic. And it's based on a Ruth Rendell novella (?!). Great stuff.

On Champagne

"I drink it when I'm happy and when I'm sad. Sometimes I drink it when I'm alone. When I have company I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it when I'm not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise I never touch it - unless I'm thirsty" - Lily Bollinger

Interrupted Cartography

I discover that my new favourite pastime is snorkelling.
Like some Marco Polo of a brave new world, I chart my territory,
Make this bay mine with a daily reconnaissance
Of its sea-bed.

But, just like old maps,
Monsters are yet to be found in its corners.

Day three.
With my son’s play fishing net and the goggles
That turn everything into a giant, Technicolor cinema,
I pick at what looks like a small snake resting on the sand beneath me,
A trophy to take back to shore.

And then his tentacle appears from under the sand,
Followed by his huge, almost human head.
But the rest!
Eight-legged inhuman jelly!
For a second, the octopus jams my fear off scale.

I panic, flounder, an unheroic dash to the shore.
I scream, "get out of the water, now"
As I overtake my bemused family.

Safely ashore, we stand there, all of us, on the jetty,
staring into that sudden darkness,
Like strangers happening over a car wreck,
shivering at the movement of shadows.

My return to this new world takes time, courage.
Two days, three days pass,
But it’s never quite the same.
The children, like me, hug the shore when they swim,
Prefer another beach.

I guess that what’s not known, at the map’s edge,
In the periphery of our vision,
Is where we conjure our demons.
And once they find us, they stay.

[Sevid, Croatia, July 2004]

Pea Soup

Apparently, the reason I ate pancakes with pea and ham soup at lunch today is down to a moment of historical panic. Faced with a glut of peas in the fifteenth century, a Swedish King commanded that everyone should eat pea soup on Thursdays. They (and I) still do. Sweden is a strange place to live sometimes.

What more? Well, potentially something exciting. As I slurped over my soup, I discussed my latest business idea with my now partner in crime, Billy Whizz. Teddy Bears. Globe trotting Teddy Bears no less. Billy got excited by the idea. Actually, excited is the wrong word, but he agreed to help out. So, either we are about to embark on a colossal waste of time, or this is the first chapter in a book entitled "How I Became a Millionaire". We'll see. Watch this space, and, er, http://www.wheresmyteddy.com/ too!