I'm nooot here!

I'm on holiday! - You should be too!

Italy here I come!

Tomorrow morning I'll be leaving!
Have a great time, I will too - and get outside and lick some sun, ya?




This picture

became this after a bit of photoshopzzz! amg! gjgjgjg!!




Time to go! It's 1337 o'clock.

Who flushed all the meringue?

What exactly do you mean pink?

Last day of school!

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye.
- Miss Piggy

Today was the very last day of this school-semester which means it is now officially holiday!

What spectacular news! As planned, my stepdad, mum, younger brother and myself are going to Italy for roughly three weeks(!) what unexpected matters are - is that my older sister just ordered a ticket and is coming to stay too! I honestly believe that to be beyond excellent, and hope for some funky weeks to come. Yarrr.

It shall be awesome.
That picture is of my older brother, he is Stinky, and that person behind him is .. well.. me!
Taken some time ago :D


it happened again!

Ohnoes! Again I have found myself hopelessly sunburnt after wading out of the house topless. I don't know why it keeps happening, and I certainly don't know why I keep doing it. It is most likely caused by some sub-dimensional need to self-destruct. Or perhaps an odd attraction to the colour pink, you never know, might be both, might be neither. Perhaps I am an unconcious link in a human-testing unit doing research on levels of lobster-colours and redness of the human skin! Right now that seems likely.
Whatever happens next I'll try to use sunscreen next time, and then I will try not to be such a twat. First things first, but not necessarily in that order.

Planet of the tapes

And Geoffrey thought there had been something really odd about the travel agency.


Maid in Buttermilk II

Part I

The plump little Lord's voice filled the garden as he read steadily to Sir Clarcy of Pea:

Dear Lord Ainsley of Buttermilk
I am writing due to your solitary ad concering an open position
for a maid in Doffle Daffodil Weekly the 1st of June.
If this position is already taken, I regret to have been wasting
your time and wish to apologize profoundly for this.
If, though, incidently, the spare room for a maid is still not
taken, or any vacant position in your household is in fact,
unattended - I wish to show my most ecstatic enthusiasm.
I am a mother of two little girls and live in east ToffeeMuffin,
very close to your respected residence. My family have been
servants for the past six generations, serving everyone as far
up as her Majesty the Queen™ herself. I have been the maid
of Colonel Biscuit- may he rest in peace, cleaning and cooking
for him and his pleasant wife, God bless her, for the past
thirteen years, until they both passed away a few months ago.
My husband left me as a widow shortly before the birth of my
second child, and as a result of this I have to find a way to
provide me and my family of the necessities. I am extremely
realiable, thorough, quiet and skilled in my trade, there is
absolutely nothing within a home I will find impossible or
difficult to do, I have been trained by the very best.
Hope to hear from you as soon as possible.
I will be available to start with immediate action after your
Oki Iola Isles
PS. I make the most deliciously naughty Imam Bayildi's.

As the Lord finished his read, he just sat with the letter in his hands, looking oddly around in his generous garden. The birds were still making peeping sounds from within the lilac, hopping delightfully from one branch to the other. His eye caught the old fountain, now being raped by a giant, heavy and quite grand rhododendron, covering not just the fountain, but also major parts of the scrummy lawn. Sir Jarvis Diggory Clarcy of Pea was snoring pleasantly in the chair beside him, now and then his nostrils pulsating with a high-pitched whistle. The Lord of Buttermilk sighed, smiling blissfully in the June silence, thanking whatever of higher beings that had blessed him with this letter.

He immediatly proceeded to holler for Giles, inappropriately ignoring Sir Jarvis's unpleasant awakening, even his dissatisfied hiccup as a result of his jump in between two snores. Sir Jarvis gave the Lord a disgruntled stare as he in his surprise had landed belly up on the lawn, his garden chair and pillows spread around him. The Lord of Buttermilk was way to expectant to take notice of this, and rather asked the butler loudly if he could bring an encyclopedia, some paper, a pen, his hat, some stamps and some more tea for Sir Jarvis. A moment of distorted silence followed, Sir Jarvis got on his feet and with his hands he straightened the creases on his tweed suit, he put the chair back on its four wobbly feet and fluffed the pillows back into it before sitting down in it again. When Sir Jarvis was done moving about, the two of them merely sat there in mellow muteness, listening to the racket of things being moved about in the kitchen before Giles appearing in the backdoor.

Giles was balancing a teapot, a plate of raspberry tarts, a grey hat, a case with filt pens, a sheet with faded stamps, a few pieces of paper and a stack of envelopes on top of a very heavy encyclopedia. Determined, but careful he made his way past the sprouts in the kitchen garden, following the randomly paved cobblestone path across the unkept lawn to the sunny fleck on which the Lord and the Sir were sitting in a quiet anticipating state of apathy. Sir Jarvis helped the butler unload the pile of things on to the table and the Lord of Buttermilk immediately seized the encyclopedia, turning pages like mad. Giles emptied their cold tea on the bushes beside them, refilling the china with some freshly made tea, little threads of smoke dancing in the sunlight. Sir Jarvis helped himself to some raspberry tart while reading the letter that the Lord had shoved in to his hands.

After refitting the minuscule garden table by taking out all the dirty dishes and placing out the pens and paper, fluffing the lord's pillows patiently with one hand, Giles asked to be excused. "Hold on just a second Giles" Lord of Buttermilk replied, his nose still furiously caught in the encyclopedia. -"It is nearly teatime milord, would you like me to make you some 'omelett' before supper? I bought some very pleasant 'skinke'... er.. ham for the occasio.." he was interrupted mid-sentence by a an exctited -"Aha!" coming from his master. "Imam Bayildi -" Lord of Buttermilk said interested "A Turkish dish of stuffed aubergines, with the name translating roughly as 'the imam fainted'. I see, interesting. We like aubergines, don't we?" he said, for the first time getting the two others involved -"I suppose, sir, but what about the 'skinke'?" Giles retorted, apparently not really replying to the question. Sir Jarvis had just had time to nod confusingly at both the others as Lord Buttermilk waved Giles into the kitchen with an inpatient -"Yes, yes, make some of your 'omelett'".

With consummate enthusiasm the Lord started writing a reply, once in a while licking his lips and squinting into the sunlight, murmuring to himself. Sir Jarvis sat meaninglessly in his crooked chair, looking at the insects spur around as little specks of gold in the low sun, the shtick little birds still singing idiosyncratic.

Characteristic and indie - but still monkey

This April the British band Arctic Monkeys released their long sought second album "Favourite Worst Nightmare", after extreme success with their first album released in 2006, "Whatever People Say I am, That's What I'm Not".
Known to be one of the more realistic original indie-rock-brit-pop-punk bands of the century, with a broader appeal than say, Klaxons, Dirty Pretty Things or Jet - The monkeys had over-dimensioned expectations to their sequel.

When finally the bubble burst and initiated weeks of intensive, repetitive listening; I found it to be, not surprisingly, most excellent. This monkey-album has both energy, soul and beat.
The alluring mix of indie-rock with a touch of sharp brit lyrics and good musical competence has resulted in a well tuned, noisy, sucking and thumping little jewel. It seems they have worked incredibly hard on optimalizing and polishing their own 'sound', and accomplished it, magnificently. This isn't as much of a breakthrough as their genius first album - but merely an enjoyable (especially lyrically) soft fudge to fill in the gaps of the first one.

At first I thought the total time of barely 40 minutes and 10 seconds were skinny and empty tunes, one blurred in to the other, forming one endlessly long and rhythmless song. Alas I was veeery wrong about this, little pearls of excellence, as "Old Yellow Bricks", "Flourescent Adolescent", "D is for Dangerous" and "505" were the first one to receive outstanding admiration from my side. And soon my untrained-ear-of-punk gathered as much as to seperate each and every song - giving them the praise they most certainly have deserved.

This one, you've got to have. Listen closely to the lyrics, they're fab--


Si ja!

"Say yes!" is a signature campaign to allow gay and lesbian people to marry in Norway. I have signed myself, because I certainly think it is the right thing to do.

They have good support from different famous people in Norway, and a high profiled media coverage, I encourage everyone to sign, even if you don't have an opinion. The important thing is that you put a stop to it, and you don't have to be bothered anymore!

If you are not convinced, here is the Norwegian author and comedian Knut Nærum's 7 reasons why to sign:

1. The gays want it
2. And the lesbians
3. There should be one word for everyone who has a boy/girlfriend of the same sex
3. That was not a reason.
3. But this is a reason: Marriage and kids is so nice that most should get to enjoy it.
4. There is no reason to treat people differently. Gays and lesbians are just like everyone else, except the sex. And they have better taste in music, At least the gay.
5. If disco shall remain as a cultural expression, it is necessary that gay people are allowed to adopt.
6. If there's a general (the same for everyone) law for marriage, they will stop whining.
7. It would annoy Bishop Kvarme something awful.

Every Norwegian do your thing! If you're still not convinced; read some of this. Happy hunting!


The light reflects off carefully braided pearl butterflies. Slender and skilled little hands have repetatively been assembling the pearls into insects. What which is the the use of these colourful butterflies is difficult to say, they are just for decoration, I suppose.

If you start to question our lifestyle like that, it dawns that all these needs come with a price. Not a price set by necessity, by effort, or by time, the time it took to ship, sell, not to mention to create it. 29,- for what? Their eyesight? Their childhood?

The price is set by our thirst and hunger.

Surely we know about the poverty, we know about AIDS, we know about the pain, the war, the suffering, the hopelessness. We know we must recycle to take care of mama-earth, send money to charity, donate to the church. We know to sacrifice, to sacrifice to a limit which is strictly set by an unlimited greed. Boundless.

The small price we must pay, not for the deaths, but for the spilled little lives, for the decorations. The pearls. The minuscule, the petty, the insignificant little price tag says "guilt". Your guilt, her guilt, his guilt. guilt guilt guilt. We, you, them, her, he, all of us.

scented candles

I think the nice weather is what which has kept me from updating this deserted little pit of a web-log, and usually I am hardly very fond of bloggers posting about not-posting. Which is, the way I see it, somewhat hypocracy.

Anyway, outside it is really too hot, it's 30+ Celsius, for you who might have trouble making sense out of that little number - it is a way to measure temperature, and it means it is quite hot. I wish not to hear from anyone who claim this to be cold, or not-hot, or something equally silly. This is fryingly, boilingly, blazingly, fumingly, steamingly, scorcingly and awfully hot, it is like opening the windows and letting in a heavy, damp wave of concentrated clinging heat. In many ways it is hardly very appealing, and Norwegian standard it is also very unusual.

At work it is very silent, everyone is outside enjoying the spectacular weather instead of buying new cutlery, or admiring dusty teapots - like they should. I have unpacked boxes and priced lots of scented candles in all this silence, some of them smell like fruits and flowers, like lavender, roses, melon, olives, rosemary, chive - or even coconut & lime. While some, which is what fascinates me, has some kind of an artificial smell, and are named things like 'morning dew', 'royal garden', 'ocean breeze' or 'mouldy armpits'.

Needless to say, after inhaling all these God-forsaken creations, I must have developed a strong case of head cancer. If I haven't - well, that is most unlikely.
I have been taking rough notes, and even written some things that I wanted to publish to the blog, and I will.

Maid in Buttermilk

I suppose this all belongs over at Fiction Chickens, but nobody reads that - so it feels unsatisfying in a way, you know, to leave it over there, alone.
Where it is now it is a whole lot more safe, a whole lot more loved and appreciated, you will all scroll past it looking for pix of my beautiful sister! That is something, at least that is better than nothing.

In a little dip between the fields lay a brick house. It was surrounded by blooming roses, purple and white lilac and some little scarlet begonias, all this foliage, the fuzzed, uncut lawn and the house were confined by a low stone fence. A warm June sun embraced this ripe summer afternoon and covered the landscape like golden drapes. The brick house was what by size I assume you’d call a small villa, or a minuscule mansion, because it was quite a pleasurable rust red size to it. You could tell from outside that most of the wobbly old windows had white lace curtains on the inside, and traditional, clean shutters neatly bolted on to the exteriority. All in all it was a very delicious countryside home, all heartily and delicately luscious.

The toffee-sweet village of Buttermilk was not far away from this brick mansion, a rickety road was paved from the brick house and all the way there - and even further, as far as Thistleshire.

The lord living in the brick house was a jolly, excited man, round as a peach and most of the time quite well-dressed. He was the lord of buttermilk and also a slightly messy person. Now and then he would let things lie around, just carefully thrown about, in the office wading knee-deep in papers, in the kitchen to his hip in gravy and potato-peel. The greenhouse was filled to the very brim with gardening tools, and he couldn't ever remember whether he'd ever seen the floor in there.

Despite being a... er.. untidy person, the Lord was extremely punctual, and though he was the one and only lord of Buttermilk - he had a hard time replacing his rapidly emigrating maids. They came and went faster than his watch, and trying to make them stay was not short of being as hopeless as to endeavour to drink light.

This June, Lord Buttermilk had two visitors in his brick house. They were Sir Jarvis Diggory Clarcy of Pea and his son, Edward Clarcy. The two of them resided in two of the several guestrooms, partly away from the Lord's outrageous mess. The Lord had in fact, attempted, though poorly, at cleaning the house, but the moment he started tidying he had to make a further mess to put the things in the right place again.

To help them keep away from the unflattering chaos of the house, in the lack of a maid, the Lord had hired a part-Norwegian butler named Geir. The name apparently, had proven to be way too difficult - so the Lord had decided to rename him Giles. Mr. Giles was a tall, silent man, he looked good in a suit and made little fuss about himself- therefore he was perfectly suited to be a butler. He would pour the gentlemen tea in the garden, fluff the pillows on their rickety garden chairs, and he made a quite nice omelette too.

The need for a maid, obviously apparent in all the mayhem of the mansion - became even more obvious as Sir Jarvis Diggory Clarcy of Pea announced his wife was coming to visit by late August. It had been so hot in the city, and she quite enjoyed the silence and comfort of the countryside, especially in August.

As Sir Clarcy of Pea had made this known, Lord of Buttermilk went double-cream pale, and stared silently into his cup of tea. His short legs couldn't reach the grass from the decaying chair he was balancing on, and once again he tried to resist the urge of dangling his polished shoes. -"I do suppose that means I have to do something about the raging hodgepodge inside the house!" Lord of Buttermilk said, he didn't sound thrilled at the idea. Edward Clarcy was currently visiting the town of Thistleshire because of business, so the only one sitting near the Lord of Buttermilk was Sir Clarcy of Pea himself. All he did was to chuckle, and he grinned at the Lord of Buttermilk; -"Clearing the turmoil will do you nothing but well anyway, Ainsley". And he leant back in his stick chair, closing his eyes.

-“There’s a letter for you, sir” Giles said, and he placed a silver tray with an envelope on it on the garden table. He then removed the plate with biscuit crumbles, and poured both the gentlemen a new helping of tea. “Oh, that reminds me, sir…” he said, trying to get the Lord of Buttermilk to open his closed eyes. “…I am quite sure I saw a bit of the surface on the kitchen table, but I am still working on it. Oh, and I found this… ‘globus’” he said, and held up an earth globe “… in the fridge, do you have any preferences of where I should ‘stappe’ it?” The Lord finally opened his eyes, the sunlight forced him to squint at the butler, and he held up a hand to shade his face. -“Erhm, you could put it, hmm, how about the library?” he suggested dimly, and was still suffering from black spots in his vision. The butler merely just nodded at his response and then disappeared.

The little, round Lord proceeded to open the letter, and he looked over at Sir Clarcy of Pea. “Should I read it out loud, so you can hear it too, Jarvis?” Lord of Buttermilk asked, Sir Clarcy of Pea nodded gratefully from his garden chair. Around them in the blossoming garden, the birds were singing confusingly in the lilac. Lord Buttermilk cleansed his throat and started to read from the stiff yellowish paper.
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