Prisoners of our Possessions

We have done well many of us. We were the generation born in the years after the World War II. Born in times in austerity, but growing up during the long and pleasant journey through the Long Peace. Probably the first generation with a whole lifetime of peace and growing welfare and prosperity.

 

Our parents didn't have much at first. They had a radio receiver, of course. Used to listening to dancing music and catch the BBC during the war. Then the other consumer goods followed over the years. The fridge, the washing machine, central heating, the television set and the motor car.

 

And for us, their children, the possibility for all of us to go to university, irrespective of our parents' income.

 

We had what we needed, but not yet what we wanted. We did better than our parents. Bigger homes, two cars, summer cottages, beautiful furniture, a plethora of electrical apparatuses for home and garden, art on the walls, cupboards filled with clothes and shoes. And for the children, PlayStation 1, 2, and 3. Mobile phones, smart phones and tablets. And, of course, a computer for every member of the family. And a complex burglar alarm system to protect it all.

 

Now our generation has grown old. The children have left home, and our homes have become much to big for us. It would be nice to move to a smaller place. Preferably in the city, where you do not need a car every day, not a big garden to keep, not a big house to clean, not two cars to maintain, not the plethora of electric gadgets and utensils, one or two of which is always malfunctioning or not functioning at all, and will have to be attended to.

 

But we won't leave or big house. What do we do with all our things? We spend too much time maintaining and keeping everything in working order. We are too old and tired to go through all the stuff. We can't bring ourselves to throw out all the beautiful and sometimes expensive stuff. We will stay. WE HAVE BECOME PRISONERS OF OUR POSSESSIONS!!!!

Will somebody please tell the Chinese!

20 - and still counting

Today we open another door in our Advent calendar. We started with the number 1 and now we are at number 20, unless we have cheated because we couldn't wait to see what 24 was keeping for us. I like the idea, counting up from 1 to 24, one day at a time, until we reach the great day.

I have two Advent calendars this year. One I bought from a charity organisation, and behind every door there are some wise words to boost our humanity. The other I got from my oldest daughter, and behind every door there is a very small piece of chocolate. Behind no. 24 there is (was) a bigger piece. I do like it. Counting up to Xmas, one day at a time. I think I still have some of the child in me.

My Uncle Jack has made his own Advent calendar. It has 56 doors. He started by opening no. 56 on the first of November. That's when it all starts he says. That's when his wife starting buying Christmas presents - and he drives her to town and wait for her while she is shopping. And it is cold and windy and either raining or snowing. And when they get back, it's all about decorating the house.

 

Under door no. 56 it said 'Only 56 days left'. Today he opened door no. 5. 'Only 5 days left', it said. 'Why 5 days?', I asked him, 'it's Christmas in 4 days'?

 

'I'm counting down', he explained. 'Counting down to the day when it's over and the world returns to normalcy after two months of insanity. Counting down to the day when people stop spending the time they do not have and the money the cannot afford to spend on silly objects for people that do not want them.

 

It may not seem much to you Pulo, two months of Christmas every year. But if you think of it. For every period of 6 years, you spend 1 year preparing for Christmas. If you live to be 90, you will have spent 10 years of your adult life in preparation of Christmas. Think about what you could have done of sensible things with that time'.

 

Well - I don't know.

Darkness Recycled

Some years ago I attended a talk by the Danish author Leif Davidsen. Before becoming an author he had worked as a journalist, and in this capacity he had spent some years as a foreign correspondent in Moscow. This was in the time of the Soviet Union and before anyone imagined that the communist regimes would collapse some day soon. He told some stories from that era. Here is one of them - as I recollect it:

During the Soviet era there was always a shortage of some goods in the shops. It was not always the same things that it would be difficult to get. Some days it could be toilet paper. Some weeks later tooth paste, shoes, coffee pots or whatever.

One time it was electric light bulbs that were impossible to come by. This had been the situation for quite some time and people were getting desperate to get hold of light bulbs.

One day Mr. Davidsen was wandering round Moscow. On his walk he passed a small square and saw people gathering around a man. The man had three cardboard-boxed filled with electric light bulbs! And he was selling them. Mr. Davidsen asked for ten light bulbs. They were quite expensive, but when there is a shortage that's normal. Nothing to do about that.

He paid, and just as he was about to leave he asked if he could be sure that the light bulbs worked.

"No Sir", the man said, "they do not work. They are old light bulbs that have been replaced".

Mr. Davidsen was perplexed. "Then, why do people want to buy them?", he wanted to know.

"Oh!", the man answered, "there's a great demand. Everybody wants to buy. You see, they take them to their work place, take out a working light bulb and put in the one they have bought from me. If they just took out a working light bulb without replacing it, the manager would discover it, and they would all be checked before being allowed to leave the work place. Now the manager just thinks, that the light bulb has stopped working."

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Isn't it amazing how people are able to outsmart the system when they need to?

Like Discovering America

All land has been discovered, all oceans have been sailed, and most mountains have been climbed. It is not easy now earning fame and fortune as a discoverer.

Some years ago a group of French mountaineers were looking for new challenges. They wanted to go where nobody had gone before. And they found a mountain in Greenland for which there were no records of it ever having been climbed. And they decided to be the first to get there.

The planning was meticulous. In the summer they went to Greenland to study the area around the mountain. They talked to the locals and consulted experts to get the right equipment for the particular conditions in Greenland. They had a helicopter fly over the mountain to take a huge number aerial photos.

In the winter, back in Paris, they built a model of the mountain based on the many aerial photos and available maps of the area (this was a few years before Google Earth). They studied all the material carefully and decided on the route to take to the top.

Next summer they were back in Greenland. They arrived by boat at a small settlement which was to be their base for the following weeks. They got all their equipment unpacked and ready and waited for the right weather conditions to make a go for the summit.

After a week of waiting they set out. Everything went well. The first night they set up camp right at the foot of the mountain. The next day they made it to the top. It was a hard climb, but they were all skilled and experienced mountaineers. They were exhilarated and jubilant and they toasted in real French champagne. Before leaving they planted the French flag on the mountain summit.

 

The way back down was easier as they had ski's with them and could use them some of the way down. They spent the night in their camp at the foot of the mountain and made it back to the settlement in the early afternoon. They had been where nobody had ventured before.

 

They were allowed to use the small wooden meeting house in the settlement for their celebration. There was food and wine, French cheese and speeches. Spirits were high. When they were at their highest there was a knock on the door. A young man came in. He was wearing sports shoes and an anorak, and was slightly out of breath as if he had been running hard.

 

"Sorry to interrupt you gentlemen, but you forgot this at the top", he said handing the French flag to one of the French mountaineers.

 

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Don't know if it is a true story or not. I kind of doubt it. Would anybody climb a mountain with a bottle of champagne in his rucksack? But anyway, it's a beautiful little story.

Danes Drinking Themselves Silly

We have become more and more aware of the ways and customs of people all over the world. Television and a generally increased level of education has opened our eyes to totally different cultures. But it wasn't always so. Once we regarded everything different from our own ways and customs with suspicion, wonder, amazement or amusement. It was almost beyond our comprehension, that people could live in a way so different from ours, have customs so different from ours - and it was probably beyond their comprehension that anyone could be as silly as us.

 

The Inuits in Greenland lived in small communities. They had maybe occasionally been in contact with whalers from other parts of the world, but they did not have a general knowledge of life there.

 

Then the Danes came to Greenland. Danish settlements were established in Greenland. The Greenlanders were introduced to Danish culture - Christ, coffee, and alcohol.

 

Once a new trading post was established on the west coast of Greenland. A small Danish community came into being (teacher/priest, tradesmen, government representative etc.). They wanted to get to know the Inuit community a bit better and invited four of their elders for a formal dinner.

 

They arrived and sat down at a magnificent dinner table. They had a great six course-meal with plenty of wine and formal speeches to go with it.

 

When the four men got back to the Inuit community, the other Inuits were, of course, very curious about what had happened at the dinner party.

 

"You won't believe it" one of the elders said, "they drink so much that before they start eating they have a card with their name put down by their plate, so that they won't forget it."

The Joy of Giving

My Uncle Jack is now an inventor. He is very skilled with electronics, learnt a lot about it when he served in the army. And he has now invented an App. The Christmas Present Tracker App he calls it. Actually he finished the first version of it 5 years ago, and the testing results are now so good that he is ready to sell the App to the highest bidder.

 

As far as I understand it works some way like this: you apply a tiny trickle of a semi-fluid invisible paste with an unique code to an object (i.e. the present you want to track), and afterwards it is impossible to see it with the naked eye, but you can track the object with your phone. And it is machine washable.

 

My Uncle Jack applied it to three presents he gave for Christmas five years ago. The results are interesting:

 

1. for his old Aunt Bessie he bought: a blue ceramic teapot with small white dots and the text "It's A Beautiful Day" applied to it in large handwriting. This was a very successful present. The very next day it moved from the living room into the kitchen as has stayed there ever since. Every time he visits he is served tea from that very teapot. Aunt Bessie spends a lot of time in the kitchen with the teapot. She is virtually blind, and do not often get out of the house.

 

2. for his younger brother John he bought: five pairs of men's boxer shorts. They have been to lot of places. Paris, London, New York  and Bradford-on-Avon to name but a few. One pair apparently was left in a motel room close to the motorway near Cardiff in Wales, although Jack is not sure it the tracking device got this right, as his brother has never been to Wales as far as Jack knows. The other 4 shorts are still moving around the world after 5 years, so now Uncle Jack knows what to get his brother for Christmas this year.

 

3. For his mother in law he bought: a beautiful King Kong clock. It's a model of the Empire State with King Kong perched on the top. More a work of art than a functional object. He got it from a charity shop for a good price. His mother in law was extremely thankful for the present. Two days later it was back in another charity shop. It was bought by a couple who later split up. It moved between their new separate homes for a few months before ending up in yet another charity shop. And charity shops seem to have become its destiny. 36 times it has left a charity shop, and 36 times it has come back to a charity shop over the past 5 years. 36 times!!! When I asked him if he wasn't sad that his mother in law had not kept the present, he told me to think of what this present had done for charity. "In just five years it has probably fetched more for charity than a gold watch would do in a lifetime," he said.

 

And now he is waiting for a buyer for his invention. "Aren't you excited?", I asked him, "you are going to be rich".

 

"I'm not doing it for the money", he said. "I want to give people back the joy of giving. It's called altruism."

Be sure to look out for the new App. I'm certain you will enjoy it.

Safe Transfer

Fred and his wife lived on a very small island. They were farmers, and apart from their farm there were only two other small farms on the island. When they needed provisions of any kind they had to go to the mainland in their little boat.

This was OK in the summer (unless there was a violent storm), but as the winter approached and the frost set in and the water started to freeze over the situation could become more problematic.

One year there was a prolonged period with so much ice that sailing across had become impossible, and at the same time the ice was not yet stable enough to carry a man and a sleigh.

Stocks were running low. No more coffee, hardly any oil left for the lamps and no beer to keep up spirits.

At last Fred decided that now the ice was probably safe. He sent his wife across with a sleigh to carry the goods on. He gave her a letter to give to the store manager on the other side.

 

She arrived safely at the other side, went up to the store not far from the beach, and gave the letter to Ben, the store manager.

The letter was a long list of all the items they needed. Fred's wife gave the letter to Ben, who opened it and started getting the provision ready. When he got to the end of the list there was a "PS":

"Dear Ben, could you please give me credit on this load. I'll send the money across as soon as I'm really sure the ice is safe".

Don't leave out a Zero

The phone rang.

 

A voice asked, "Am I speaking to Mr. Pulo Chritensi?"

 

"You are", I answered.

 

"I'm Mr. Spencer, calling from The Inland Revenue. We have now had the time to go through your accounts in both this country and abroad."

 

A shiver ran through my spine.

 

"It doesn't look good", he added. "your tax declaration is miles away from our findings."

 

"Well, I can explain", I said desperately. "I'm sure there must have been some sort of mistake somewhere".

 

"You will get a chance to explain later he said. I am sitting here with my good friend from the Middleburg State Penitentiary, Mr. Jones. We were wondering, whether you would prefer to have the sun in the morning or in the afternoon. That is why we call you. Of course it is not a definite choice, you can change cell every year - after the first three years."

 

That's when I had a notion, that something was not right. The Middleburg State Penitentiary closed down two years ago!

 

On the phone I heard someone laughing in the background. It was a prank. Two old colleagues were having me on. I felt relief, and a meeting at a bar downtown was quickly arranged.

 

But isn't it amazing how the mere mentioning of the tax authorities will call forth the most Kafkian feelings in you? You think you have everything right, but it is complicated, and can you be sure you have not left out a zero or entered something under a wrong heading? And they have all kind of information about you. You can't hide anything.

Friends not for Dinner

We are having guests for dinner tomorrow night. At seven sharp. A total of twelve. My wife has already been busy with preparations in the kitchen and I was sent to get some bottles of wine.

 

It is mostly friends of my wife who are coming. She has many more friends than I have. Or at least more of the sort of friends you can invite for dinner. My friends are not the type who needs an invitation. They drop in for coffee or a beer if they are in the neighbourhood and have the time. They are the type who fell their own trees themselves and speak their minds. An interesting and varied lot. A motley crew.

 

The guests invited are at an altogether different level. They are solving problems at national and international level. Or, to be more precise, they would be if those in power would just listen to them. They are preoccupied with global heating, and they save the animals of the world, while other people are out walking their dogs.

 

I had planned to invite my Uncle Jack. In fact I had already told him, he could come. When I told my wife, she got furious. "You know we can't have Jack come for the dinner. What will the Jenkinsons and the Smiths think. They are so liberal and broad-minded, and Jack is so conservative."

 

It is not that my wife don't like Jack. Everybody does. It is just a friendship she wouldn't put on Facebook or invite for dinner.

 

I told Jack. "Well" he said, "if I have to exchange shared prejudice with others over a glass of red wine, I prefer to do it with a beautiful girl and with a much better wine than the one you normally offer." I could tell that he felt a little bit hurt. But the thing with him is that he soon forgets about things like that.

 

He is coming over Monday to help me put up my new solar panels. I will buy him a bottle of very fine wine.

Stand With Care

I have a brother and a sister. At home, when we were teenagers, the arguments with our parents were always about the length of hair and skirts. Views were divergent and discussions heated.

My parents were quite religious and moved in circles where the virtues of the good ones and the vices of the bad ones were a constant topic of conversation. Long hair and short skirts were not good, and neither were the things that went with it, like rock music, drink and "all such things", as my mother would say, without ever specifying what was meant by "all such things" (although we had a pretty good idea).

I don't think they minded our "style" so much in itself. We were after all doing well in school, were polite to other people, got along well with friends and only on very rare occasions drank excessively. It was probably more the idea of what the others would think and say that motivated their opposition.

I was 19 when the first rock festival in the region took place. I was obsessed with rock music and "all such things" and desperately wanted to go. I pleaded with my parents for a long time, and finally got their reluctant acceptance.

It was a great festival. I went with friends and we spent three days in the rain and mud with rock music, beer and "all such things".

When I got home I had a much needed shower and put on clean clothes. I went into the living room. My mother was looking quite stern. On the table was the local newspaper. On the front page was a big photo from the festival. I took the paper and looked at the photo. It was a very small section of the very large audience, standing in the field gazing at the stage. Right in the middle you saw a young man with greasy long hair, a bottle of beer in the hand and the arm around a beautiful young girl in a mini-skirt. The young man was me!

All my mother said was, "why did you have to stand right there"?

I don't Stand for Re-election

We are often told by our politicians that the unpopular laws they pass in their national Parliaments are decided by Brussels.

 

But wait a minute. How is the EU-legislation passed? Well, essentially it is passed by the leaders of the governments at meetings in Brussels and Luxembourg.

 

In a time of crisis cuts and restraints are on the agenda. They agree on what they think they have to do as responsible leaders to get the economy back on track. The measures adopted are, of course, not always popular. And so, back in their home countries austerity measures become the work of EU, whereas the more popular measures are to be credited to the government. After all they are thinking in terms of votes. They want re-election. Fair enough, but then they can't complain that people are not supporting the European ideas.

 

My Uncle Jack says that it works in a similar way in his family. When the kids asks his wife for things she thinks they should have, her answer is "yes". When they ask for things she think they shouldn't have, her answer is "ask your Dad".

 

As a responsible father he tries, he says, to make the decisions he thinks are best for the kids and for the family as a whole. "But then again", he says "I don't have to stand for re-election as a father".

Strong Language and Stronger Language

It was in a diner at the roadside of a busy highway. A man was sitting quietly eating his lunch.

In the diner there also were three bikers of the tough type, Hell's Angels-patches and all. They were obviously looking for some "fun" and went up to the man having lunch in the diner.

One knocked over the man's cup of coffee. "Oops, bloody sorry about that he said", grinning. The man said nothing. One of the others stepped on his hat, that he had put down on the floor beside his chair. "Hell, hadn't seen that Bro" he said. "Awfully sorry". The third one stuffed out his cigarette in the dish the man was eating of. "Bleeding bloody hell, thought it was the fucking ashtray".

The man got up without saying a word and left the diner.

The three tough bikers went up to the counter. "What a moron! what a scaredy-cat!. The bloody fool didn't even try to stand up for himself. Didn't have the courage to speak up for himself. What an incompetent fool."

 

The man at the counter was looking out the window. "Yea!, and he can't even drive a truck", he said, "he just flattened three Harleys with his truck getting out from here."

The Bus Stop

He was visiting his grandmother on the maternal side. Didn't see her often. She was in a home now, in the big town, and his parents went to see her four or five times a year. It was a modern building with all the latest in equipment and apparatuses to help the care workers fulfil their tasks.

 

His grandmother had Alzheimer, and he wasn't sure, whether she recognised him or not. When he was a small child, her grandmother had looked after him a lot. Taught him songs and told him stories. He felt sad now. It was as if she was no longer the same Grandmother at all, but an altogether different person. There was no contact.

 

He started exploring the building. At the end of a corridor, much to his surprise, he found a bus stop. Not a real bus stop, of course, but the sign for at bus stop and a bench to sit on. He looked at it wondering what it was doing there.

 

A young nurse passed by and noticed his perplexed look.

 

Let  me explain you, young man, why we put it there. The old people here all have Alzheimer. They don't remember much anymore. But they are often restless and long for their old place and want to go home. They then tend to wander off looking for at bus stop or a train station, without actually knowing which place to go to or how to do it, and without knowing how to get back to this home.

 

Now they can go to this bus stop. They sit a while and wait for the bus, and then they forget why they are sitting there and go back to their room. It's much safer than if they go out into town.

 

He knew that his Grandmother was going to die soon. His mother had told him that someday soon she would not be there anymore. But if anybody would go to Heaven, it would be Granny, she had assured him.

 

So this was her last bus stop. He almost started crying. He hoped the bus would be late.

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NB! I actually heard about a home that has installed a fake bus stop.

NB! I just read a novel by Dimitri Verhulst. About an old man in a home. There is also a description of a fake bus stop. Very entertaining novel: De laatkomer. It is in Dutch, but I am sure it will be translated into English some day.

Does anyone know how the Playstation3 works?

Both Mrs. Chritensi and myself shed a tear yesterday.

Four kids all going away to universities - and in four different countries. The youngest one was the last to leave. It was sad to drop him and wave goodbye. Will he really be able to manage without us? Well, of course he will. We all had to go away from home at one time.

And think of all the fun, when they come home for holidays. Old friends and new friends visiting. And all the stories and knew knowledge they bring home from the different places. Life will be rich.

But the house is empty just now. I braved myself up to make a tour of their rooms. Their private domains where parents were not always welcome in later years. There are all the memories from their childhood and teenage years. Favourite Teddy Bears, school pictures and toy cars.

And in my boy's room there is the Playstation3. I never played with him at the Playstation3, as I thought he spent enough time at it without me. But now I'm tempted to have a go.

All I know is that you need some bottles of coke and some bags of chips. Is there some Parental Control that needs to be deactivated? Does anyone know how it works?

The Air is better in the City

Pete is no good with mechanics of any sort. Far from it. Not long ago he moved to a house outside the city. In real nice surroundings with fields and woods. And he bought himself a new fancy bicycle.

He noticed, however, that the back tyre was loosing air. He pumped it, although it took him some time to figure out how to do it as the valve was of a new type where you had to loosen part of the valve to get air into the inner tube. It kept loosing air, however, and he had to use the pump every day.

He decided that the tube must have been punctured and decided to have it repaired. There was a bicycle shop in the village, but he checked the price of a repair, and found that it was much more expensive than in the small repair shop in the city where he used to live.

 

He loaded the bicycle in the car and drove into the city. The guy in the repair shop checked the tyre and smiled. "You have to tighten the valve after pumping", he said, and showed him how to do it. "If not the tyre will loose air." He then pumped the tyre, and Pete drove the long way back to his new home in the countryside.

 

Me and my Uncle Jack visited him some days later, and he told us the story. Later the same day some other friends arrived to see the new house. Pete was showing us around, and the city friends were impressed with all the green stuff and the cows in the fields and the silence and all the rest. So much better than in the City.

 

Uncle Jack was listening. A smile came on his face. "But the air is better in the City", he said and told the story of Pete's bicycle and the trip to the repair shop.

Everyone was amused - except one.

Tentative Dosing of Sleeping Medicine

My grandfather, who was a well-respected man, had held several positions of confidence in the rural community where he had a small farm.

Once he served on the Tax Board. It was in a time when rules were more lax and records not strictly kept. He told me of a letter he once received from one of the big farmers in the community:

Dear Sir,

Lately I have not been sleeping well. I realise that it is due bad consciense. I might occasionally not have informed you of all my income. I would like to make up for my faults and I therefore enclose a cheque of 5000 kroner.

Yours Faithfully.

NB! If I still have problems sleeping, I will send another cheque.

Fear of Failing

I keep having this recurrent nightmare in slightly different versions, and have for years and years:

 

I am going to sit an exam. I get up early in the morning, plenty of time to get to the examination hall in time. I need some milk for my breakfast and go to the shop in the next street to get some. I start walking back to my house. I take a shortcut through an alleyway. I recognise the tall building near my home, but the street I get out into do not look familiar. I walk and walk. Some features of the cityscape seem familiar, others not at all.

 

I run into one of my fellow students. She holds a book. "Did you study this well?", she asks, "I've been told that all this questions will be from the Chapter 5 in it". I look at the book in panic. I remember buying it and putting it in the shelf, but then forgetting all about it and never reading it. She laughs deridingly, and I realise that it is my former boss from years ago.

 

I keep on walking the streets, now realising that I just have to turn the corner to be home, only to discover that in fact I have to walk round a whole block to get there. The railway barrier is down and I wait and wait.

 

I suddenly realise that there is a series of lectures I should have followed but never managed to attend, however much I tried. I always arrived late for some obscure reason, or went to the wrong lecture hall.

 

I go in a front door of a house and get out the back door, thinking that I am in my own street, only to discover that I am in a completely unknown street. I discover the Amsterdam Central Station in the far and the Eiffel Tower in the background.

 

Finally I make it to the examination hall. A little late. Everybody look up, then starts laughing. I have forgot to put on my trousers.

 

Then, fortunately, I am saved by my brutal awaking.

 

Cooking Every Day of the Week

Jack came round today. His wife had been ill and been in bed for a week, so I hadn't seen him for a while. They have two small kids, so his mother-in-law, who is well into her seventies, had been staying with them to help out.

 

I could see that he was a little bit upset and asked if everything was OK. He hesitated. "Mrs. Jones from down the road called today", he said. "She was telling me off for letting my old mother-in-law work so hard."

 

Here's his story. Believe it or not:

 

Jack was in the kitchen everyday, taking care of the family dinner and the snacks for the kids during the day. His mother-in-law was also mostly hanging out in the kitchen.

 

On the Monday, his mother-in-law had asked him to get some leeks from the greengrocer's. Afterwards she sat down at the table in the kitchen with her coffee and cigarettes and cleaned the leeks.

 

On the Tuesday he was sent for some cabbage. She cleaned it and boiled it together with the leeks.

 

Wednesday was carrots and potatoes.

 

Thursday was onions.

 

Friday Brussels sprouts - and then the soup was ready.

 

Friday evening Mrs. Jones came round to see how Jack's wife was doing. The three ladies sat in the kitchen talking. Jack overheard Mrs. Jones tell his mother-in-law how nice is was that she could come and help her daughter. She asked what she had been doing.

 

"Well, I have been cooking everyday", she said. Mrs. Jones apparently thought that Jack could have done the cooking some of the time and let him know so in no uncertain terms over the phone the next day.

 

"And the soup", I inquired "was it good at least". I was happy to see a smile appearing on Jack's face. "The small ones both stuck their tongues out, their faces were contorted with disgust and they let out a loud "Aurrrrgh!"", he said.

 

"Sometimes you just can't help loving these little brats", he added, his smile never leaving his face.

Lesson learnt

When I finished school, I thought I had learnt enough. I was too boring and now I wanted to live the real life.

 

I was 17 and got my self a job in a factory producing cardboard packaging. The cardboard was cut and folded and sometimes stitched together at various machines. Print was added. Afterwards it was bundled and loaded on pallets for delivery to the clients. It was in the 70's, and automatising was not at the level that it is today. The physical effort was quite hard for a boy just released from school.

 

I was working with a guy, Bob, who had already been at the factory for several years. He was in his 50s. He had worked on the farms, until tractors and other machinery made him and many others redundant.

 

We had job sheets for the various orders we had to process. One morning when we had finished with all the job sheets we had he said, "You come with me. We have to see the manager to see what we have to do next."

 

We went up into the big office with the big windows overlooking the entire factory floor. The Manager, Mr. Smith, told us to sit down and offered both of us a cigarette. He then fetched a bundle of job sheets and started explaining. "First you run this lot for the fridge manufacturer", he said. "That should take a couple of hours. And then Carl can start loading them onto the truck. Then you can do the lot for the wholesaler in Copenhagen and finish off with 100 boxes for the auction hall in the harbour."

 

He looked at Bob to see if he had made himself understood. The instructions were quite simple I found, but Bob looked a bit hesitant, and the Manager offered us both another cigarette, and while we leaned back in our chairs and smoked our cigarettes, he went over the instructions once more.

 

We went to see Carl, who was the fork-lift driver who would take the cardboard from the store to the machines on the floor, and when the job was finished he would load it onto one of the trucks.

 

Bob shoved him the new job sheets. "First we have to do the lot for the auction hall", Bob told him, "then you bring us the 100 by 100 for Copenhagen and then we do the lot for the fridge factory".

 

I protested vaguely. "We had to the ones for the fridge manufacturer first", I ventured.

 

"No", Bob said, "that should be the first delivery. You can only unload there until five in the afternoon, so it has to been at the back of the truck. Then Bill - Bill was the truck driver - can make it to Copenhagen. It's only a small lot for the wholesaler, and he will be able to make it to his sister for dinner. The auction hall he can do when he comes back. They will be there all night."

 

"But", I insisted", the Manager told us to do the lot for the fridge manufacturer first."

 

"Don't be daft", Bob retorted, "Mr. Smith is a not a fool. He has been to high school and everything. He would never say anything as stupid as that."

 

The goods very delivered on time and to everybody's satisfaction. And Bill had dinner at his sister's in Copenhagen.

 

The next time we had to see the manager for new assignment it all worked out in the same way.

 

And by that I learned the importance of having a staff that's dedicated to making things work in the most rational and efficient way.

 

I also learned the importance of good managers - because with time I came to realise that Mr. Smith was very well aware of how things worked.

 

I also learned that by playing stupid, you can sometimes earn yourself an extra cigarette and a few more minutes of rest.

And, most importantly, I learned that there are things more boring than schools, so after a year a started High School.

 

After all Those Years

If you are married, and if you have been married for a number of years, you know how marriage slowly reveals your and your spouse's small secrets.

Her strong aversion to seemingly small and innocent things (dirty socks on floor), her irrational joy over a compliment on her dress, her insistence on health over taste when it comes to food.

And she, of course, finds out, that you care more about sports on TV than about keeping a neat a tidy looking garden. At first it doesn't matter much, but with the years these small things grow. You may even be told to go home to your Mum to have your dirty socks washed!

The trick to a harmonious marriage is giving in and letting your wife have her way, or at least some of it.

For example, when we got married, I knew, that my wife preferred the side of the bed closest to the window. So did I, but - being a gentleman - I told her, that I preferred the side next to the door. And for some 20 years she has been sleeping on the side she likes the best, and I have been sleeping on the side I "prefer".

A couple of weeks ago, I was away for a few days. I came home in the morning, and I went into the bedroom to change my clothes. My wife was up, but the bed hadn't been made yet. I noticed that she had been sleeping on the side next to the door.

I couldn't help making a remark about it later in the day. "Ah, yes", she said, "I prefer that side, but since you told me, that you preferred it, I pretended to prefer the other side. That's what a good wife is like."

I didn't tell her the truth. It's too stupid - and its to late.

Title Roles

Kids are fun. And it's fun to watch them grow up and come to grips with world and the things in it. Also when sometimes they have to learn about the hard facts of life.

 

When my daughters were little girls, and could not yet read themselves, I read the fairy tale The Princess and the Pea for them one evening as I was putting them to bed. It is by Hans Christian Andersen, and they seemed to enjoy it very much.

 

The next day, when they had had their breakfast, they wanted to play together. "Let's play The Princess and the Pea", the older one said. "Ah yes! let's do that", her little sister replied, her eyes shining in blissful anticipation.

 

"I'll be the Princess" the older one said. The little one looked thoughtful for a moment. Then worried. And then she started crying: "I don't want to be the Pea".

 

 

I love you Mrs. Chritensi

My uncle Jack has a tattoo. It is on his upper arm, and it says "Mary". It is the name of his present wife, and also of his first wife, and of his second wife. He has been married several times. Always same sex marriages - i.e. always with a female. And always with a Mary.

He had it made when he was quite young and was dating his first wife, his first Mary. After they split up he was looking for a new partner. His tattoo, however, imposed some restrictions. No Laureen or Nathalie liked seeing another woman's name on the upper arm of their lovely darling.

 

So he had to look for a Mary. And he found one. And later he found yet another one.

 

It's not as bad as it looks, he has confided. There are plenty of Marys around. "Imagine if the name of my first girlfriend had been Phylicia. It would have been very difficult to find a replacement".

 

I like his tattoo. It looks cool - and I'd like to be cool too. But there is this problem with the name - should me and my wife ever part.

 

But I have the solution. The tattoo will say "I love Mrs. Chritensi". Then I could go for a Kathleen, a Lucie, a Linda, a Patricia or whatever. My choices will be unlimited.

The Love you get is Equal to ...

My wife doesn't care about precious metals and precious stones in jewellery. She is afraid that it would tempt thieves. Anyway, she says that when it comes to presents, what counts is not the actual present you get, but how much time has been spent shopping for it. And she is the expert.

So no more gold and gems for her. I go to the shop, where they make their own jewellery. Not the one in our town, but in a town an hour's drive from home.

Suits me fine - Diesel's cheaper than Diamonds.

And I agree with the philosophy behind. Why go for the best, why go for perfection? Being born as a twin, I learned right from the start that 50 % was an acceptable result. Who cares if it is genuine, as long as it looks genuine?

 

I was not at home when she had her last birthday. But I had gotten her some jewellery with semi-precious stones from the shop in the neighbouring town.

 

I had left it on the desk as a birthday surprise for her.

 

In the evening a had an sms from her: "Thank you for your lovely present, my semi-precious!".

 

A New Path

The local authorities have had a new section of bicycle path constructed along the river. It was opened to the public this spring. Last Sunday was a glorious summer's day with a blue sky, green grass, water flowing, birds singing etc., and as nothing much interesting happens on such a day, the local television had sent a team to report on life on the new path.

I was sitting at home watching television together with my uncle Jack.

The report was from the middle of the afternoon. There were lots of people on the path. Cyclists, dog-walkers, families with small children, skateboarders and all shapes and forms of small four-wheeled contraptions.

Coexistence between cyclists and other users of the path did not seem easy. The television showed examples of cyclist shouting at children crossing the path without looking out for passing cyclists; dog-walkers at one side of the path, the dog at the other side, and the two connected by a thin almost invisible leash across the path; family groups walking very slowly and taking up the whole width of the path. There were some near-accidents, and you could see that tempers were sometimes running high.

Then they zoomed in on a man approaching on his bike. First he had to stop because there was a dog-leash across the path. You could not hear what he said, but you could see that he stopped, smiled, talked to the owner, padded the dog and continued his ride. Then a family group blocked the road. He approached very slowly. The group slowly made way for him, and you could see that they all smiled and made gestures of greeting to each other.

He then reached the reporting team and was stopped for an interview.

Did he like the new path? He certainly did. Had been there almost every day since it opened a few months ago. Beautiful nature, nice surface for cycling etc.

"Aren't you annoyed by inconsiderate users of the path. Groups taking up the whole width of the path. Dog walkers not in control of their dogs?" the reporter asked.

"The path is for everybody", he answered. "I'm here almost every day. And normally there are only dedicated cyclists out training. The other users only come out on a day like this. You only have about ten of these days a year. Maybe two of them fall on a Sunday. And those people do not make it to the path until the middle of the afternoon. So there are plenty of opportunities to come here without being bothered by other users."

"We were watching you", the reporter went on, "you did not seem to get angry with the other users, even when they got in your way?"

"You know", he answered, "cycling is fun. You get fit, you get healthy, you get rid of your stress and you can afford to be nice to other people."

The reporter concluded by saying "so cycling is good for you, it is good for your health, it is good for your well-being, its is even good for the people around you, and it is good for the environment. There is every reason for you to get out here on your bike."

I looked at my uncle Jack. "Nonsense", he said. "It is not good for the environment. That man will live at least ten years longer that the rest of us. If we all lived ten years longer than we do now, it would be a disaster for the environment."

I don't know. I think I will get my bicycle out as soon as uncle Jack has left. After all, when it comes to choose between yourself and the environment there's only one choice.

Where did they go?

My youngest daughter was philosophising over life and death the other day.

"Is it true that good people go to Heaven when they die?" she asked me.

"It is", I answered.

"Is it true that bad people go to Hell when they die?" she asked me.

"It is", I answered.

"But Grandma says that she's old enough to know that there is something good and something bad in everyone", she said. "Where do they go?"

I didn't know what to answer. No one stays here forever, so they must have gone somewhere. Is there a place in between?

I told her that those who are mostly good go to Heaven, and those who are mostly bad go to Hell. She promised she would try her best to be mostly good.

So 49,5 per cent good, and you go to Hell. 50,5  per cent good, and you go to Heaven. What a difference one per cent makes.

My Dog had Mail today

Writing is one thing Man can do, but no other living beings can do. Writing is communication with someone who is not present. Someone who is at another place. Only Man can do that.

Or so I thought, until I read this very interesting book by John Bradshaw In Defence of Dogs. There is a brilliant chapter on the dog's sense of smell and how it is used. The scent-marks left by dogs contain a lot of information that can be picked up by other dogs. E.g. the identity of the dog, which can then maybe be matched with a dog, that your dog already knows. It may tell something about when the other dog was at that particular place etc. And there may be other information that we are not able to imagine because we do not perceive the world or communicate by means of odours.

We can only guess. Tonight, on my evening walk with my male Retriever, there were many such scent mark-messages left there by various dogs. One in particular aroused the interest of my Retriever. My guess is, that it was from a bitch telling other dogs passing by that she was ready for mating here and now.

"Pee-mail" is a catchy word for these kind of messages left along the roads and in the fields. Written in a secret language that only dogs can decipher.

Men care more about Nature than Women do

" I think that love of Nature depends on the individual person, and that it has nothing to do with sex, race or religion".

 

These word were spoken by my uncle Jack, and now he has been brandished as a sexist by the local liberals (or the cat lovers and tea drinkers as he refers to them - quite wrongly as some of them seems to love nothing at all).

 

You might not know my uncle Jack, although a lot of people do. He is not unintelligent, but he has never learned to be politically correct. He speaks his mind without thinking. And it is incredible what the human brain can come up with, if you are not careful. The broad-minded community of our small town calls him narrow-minded. (He, rather naively, claims that broad-minded people can't be broad-minded, if they call other people narrow-minded).

 

What happened was this: There was an article in the local newspaper. It was about women. One claim was, that women care more about Nature than men do.

 

That was what he reacted to. He wrote a letter to the editor, and that's where he wrote the fatal sentence already quoted above: "I think that love of Nature depends on the individual person, and that it has nothing to do with sex, race or religion".

 

And now he is being accused of accusing women of being racists and that therefore he is a sexist!

 

I confronted him about the commotion caused by his unfortunate comment. "Well" he said, "its nothing. Think about what would have happened, if I had written "Men care more about Nature than women do." 

 

Quite honestly, I do not dare think about it.
------------------------

PS. Many years ago (1975) a saw a Danish film "Ta' det som en mand, frue" (Take it like a Man, Madam!). It reversed the roles of men and women in an office environment. Quite revealing when you had women behave like men and men like women. And quite chocking to hear the kind of remarks usually uttered by men about women in the mouth of women, and about men. Much has happened since then. Maybe it will soon be time to make the version Take it like a Woman, Man! Sometimes I now do the "sex reversal test" to see how female comments on the male sex would sound if the gender was changed. You should try it. It seems that women can get away with saying things about men that men cannot say about women.

People don't Think - and when they do .....

Worried about making a fool of yourself?

Dressing to go out. Should I wear a tie? What if all the others don't? What will they think of me?

 

Was that I stupid remark the one a made about the football match last Saturday? Should my car have been another colour - is it like showing off too much?

 

Well, don't worry. At least not, if you are of a certain age.

 

Some time ago, listening to the radio, I heard an elderly man being asked how important it was to him, what other people thought of him.

 

"Less and less with age", he replied. "With age I have come to realise two things. a) People don't think, and b) when they do, they don't think of you."

A Birthday Forgotten

The young are not what they used to be, when I was young. They lack the stamina that my generation has. Take bicycling, for example. My son in law, who is generally very sporty, recently bought a race bicycle. He first had to learn to bicycle. As a small kid he was always brought to school by car, and as he grew older the bus was his means of transportation. The city where he lived was not considered safe for children to cycle in.

 

He started training on his new bicycle. Not very impressive, if you ask me.

 

One day we were having a family dinner. He was talking about his progress in the art of cycling. "Today I even overtook another cyclist", he said. "Come on" he had shouted as he passed, "you can go faster than that".

 

"What was the reaction?", I wanted to know.

 

There was no reaction, he told me.

 

Then I made a very funny remark: "Maybe she didn't hear you. Maybe she hadn't turned on her hearing aid."

 

I noticed that he wasn't laughing. Not only do the young lack stamina, they also lack humour. And that's not all. Their memories are not as good as ours. I never miss an opportunity to mention the date of my birthday, but this year he had forgotten it, so I got one present less than expected.

The Stationary Voyager

A man comes on the radio. ‘Good Morning’ he says, ‘and welcome to another glorious summer’s day’.

 

 

 I have just put the kids to bed and sat down to enjoy a glass of wine and listen to a bit of radio before going to bed.

 

 

According to the man on the radio traffic is still dense, but the morning rush is easing a bit. And it is going to be fabulous day with bright sunshine and temperatures well into the eighties. I don’t know how hot that is, I am used to the Celsius degrees, but it sounds nice. The start of a new day with all its promises and possibilities. A commercial advertises new car tyres (or should it be tires). Pay for three, get four.

 

 

An offer you can’t refuse – unless you would have to take your car half way round the world. I am sitting in Europe, and I am listening to a local Californian radio station on the Internet. It is early evening. Rain is predicted for the next four days. I had great plans for the day, but most of them have been repostponed till tomorrow.

 

 

Tonight I have listened radio stations in Greece, Italy, France and the US. A great way to keep your language skills going. And a great way for the stationary voyager to move round the world.

 

 

Good night – or good morning, as the case may be. A new day is about to begin – or end.

 

 

With a Knife in his Hand

Being a Scandinavian, I have often been asked questions about the Social Democrats. What are the differences between Socialists and Social Democrats? Of course, there are many differences and both movements have changed over time. I usually point out two differences.

 

Unlike the Socialists, the Social Democrats do not nationalise industries and in general do not/did not interfere with free enterprise (for example, minimum wages are not fixed by the government but by the collective bargaining of the labour market parties). Business was left to do what business is best at: making money. The government did what it was best at: taking as much of the money as possible and spending it (redistribution). This model seemed to work well in the creation of the modern Welfare State.

 

The other difference is of a more historical nature. Social Democrats were not revolutionaries. Change was to be brought about by democratic means. Power was to be won in elections. Social Democrats became part of the establishment and the ruling class. Corpulence was a mark of success. As humour had it back in time:

 

If you see a Social Democrat with a knife in his hand, you can be sure that in his other hand he has a fork.

Motherly Care and Motherly Concern

It was back in the early 60s. I was twelve years old. Looking forward very much to the next day. I was going on a school excursion to Copenhagen. We had to suffer two museums – I suppose in order to justify the expense of a special train for the whole school – but the reward would be an evening at the amusement park Tivoli Gardens. The rides were wild (according to the standards of that time), and my mother apparently was a bit worried.

 

“Be sure to wear clean underwear”, she said. “I have put some on your bed. You never know what can happen at a place like that. What if you have an accident and are taken to hospital. Imagine what a shame it would be, if your underpants were dirty.”

 

I admit that I wondered a bit about her priorities. The shame that would follow from wearing dirty underwear seemed to be rated as a greater disaster than a broken leg or a cracked skull.

 

“And be sure to put your undershirt on the right way”, she added. “Don’t get the front and the back mixed up. What if they have to operate on you and turn you the wrong side up?”.

I looked at her. I’m not sure whether there was a glint in her eyes or not.

 

 

Forgotten - and forgiven?

Some years ago my mother-in-law was visiting. She was living far away, so we only saw her a couple of times every year. She was then in her late 60’s but bright and intelligent and interested in everything going on in the world.

 

One wintry afternoon she went out into the garden through the kitchen door. Five minutes later she was knocking on the window pane of the patio door. I unlocked it to let her in. She was fuming with rage: “why do you lock me out in this terrible cold?”. I tried to explain that she had gone out through the kitchen door, which was still unlocked. She wasn’t convinced. We were not always on the best terms.

I forgot about the incident.

I didn’t see her for a long time. My wife worried about her. She was getting forgetful. Didn’t remember where she put things.

Then one day we went to see her. When she came down the stairs towards me, her arms wide open and a genuine, warm smile upon her face, saying: “I’m so happy to see you!”, I knew something was wrong.

When she then added: “What’s your name?”, I knew it was serious.

She was diagnosed with Alzheimer. I would prefer to have had an argument with her from time to time.

A stone on the road

It was back when austerity was reality in Denmark, not just a concept. I was just twelve years old then, and I was earning my first money delivering bread for the local baker - before school and after school.

One morning I was heading back to the bakery with more baskets that could safely be secured to the bakers bicycle. I had only one hand on the handlebar, the other busy holding on to the baskets on the front of the bike. I was riding downhill. There was a stone lying on the road, and I saw it too late.

The crash was unavoidable. I found myself lying in the middle of the road, while the heavy bakers bicycle had rocketed across the road to bang into a motor car parked on the other side. And not just any motor car. It was the fishmonger's brand new delivery van, appearing in the street for the first time just a few days ago. The name of his shop was marked in glossy letters on the side of it. Now it didn't look so fine anymore.

Some kind people in the street helped me get back on my feet and inquired with concern whether I was hurt. I wasn't. Meanwhile the fishmonger had come out from his shop. He wasn't pleased.

"You better go back to the baker and tell him what you have done", he said, his head all red with anger.

I did. I was trembling. Would he be very angry? It must be costly to have the car repaired. Would I not be paid my money? Would my parents have to pay for the repair of the car? Would I loose my job?

"Are you hurt?" the baker asked worriedly. Having ascertained that I wasn't, he laughed scornfully. "What a bloody idiot", he said. "What a bloody fool, parking just there in the trajectory of your bicycle. That serves him well."

The baker didn't like the fishmonger - not one bit.

His wife did - but that's another story.

 

You say potatoes, I say kartofler .....

A multilingual society. We all know the problems involved here. Not only can't you understand those of your co-citizens who speak a language different from yours, but - much worse - they can't understand you.

 

If you think that's bad, then try to imagine a multilingual marriage. Only the consequences can be much more devastating. One spouse with one mother tongue, the other with another mother tongue, communication taking place in a shared foreign language.

 

The marriage of Mrs. Christensi and me is one such marriage. Our language of (mis)communication is English.

 

I remember an exchange of words from the early days of our marriage:

 

"I'm the boss, OK?" I said.

 

"OK, you're the bus - and I'm the bus driver", she replied.

 

And since then it has been like that.

Roll Over Beethoven

My youngest daughter had to write an essay for school. "Why is it important that we know the great men and women of the past?" was the assignment.

She asked me what she should write. I thought of all the great men and women. The scientists, the writers, the philosophers, the composers and the poets. I tried to find a common denominator for all of them.

If there was one, it must be something like this: they all said "those before me were wrong, I can do better than them! I can take mankind a step forward!" That's what the essay should be about.

I imagine Beethoven discarding the music of Haydn. That ain't the way to do it. I'll show them what real music is like (only later to have Mr. Berry tell him to roll over). Copernicus, laughing of the old fools who thought that the sun was revolving around Earth - what were they thinking about? too much church and too little serious work. Einstein taking science a step ahead with his Theory of Relativity. Dylan Thomas finding a new way with words. They all discarded what went before them and took mankind a step ahead in their particular field.

My daughter didn't buy it. "I don't think that's what my teacher wants", she said.

She went to her Mum for help. They came up with something about standing on the toes or shoulders or heads or something of really big people, so as to be able to see farther ahead.

She got a very good mark for the essay!

tell Tschaikowsky the news

So far no young minds have been depraved

Sport stars have to behave well. They have to set an example for the young. Their bad behaviour may deprave the minds of their young fans. They have a responsibility.

One evening one of these stars, far away from home in a foreign town, has decided to stay overnight and booked into a hotel. He goes out for a meal. His is recognised by some fans and agrees to go with them to bar for a drink.

(NB! So far no young minds have been depraved).

They, of course, all want to tell him how much they admire his accomplishments, and they all want to buy him a drink.

(NB! So far no young minds have been depraved).

Actually he had not done to well in the competition that day. He had been training hard for the event. He is disappointed and feels a low.

(NB! So far no young minds have been depraved).

It’s comforting to hear the praise of the supporters. The next event is well into the future. He makes an exception to his normally very strict way of living, and accepts the drinks he’s offered.

(NB! So far no young minds have been depraved).

He has more drinks, that he should have had (we all do once in a while, don’t we?). It’s getting late. Only him and his supporters are left in the bar.

  (NB! So far no young minds have been depraved).

At last he gets in a taxi and goes back to the hotel. The drinks are hitting hard now, and his has difficulty finding the right button to press in the lift.

  (NB! So far no young minds have been depraved).

Another hotel guest helps him. And he recognises the young star. This is something, and the posts a note about it on Facebook for his friends to see.

  (NB! So far no young minds have been depraved).

Unfortunately, the other guest is a semi-public figure, and a journalist gets the story. The next day the story hits the headlines. And the star is admonished for setting a bad example for the youth.

Shoot the messenger!

(This little story is inspired by, but not based on, a real story).

Reality Shows

I met an old class mate the other day. In a cafe in the small town where we both grew up, and where we went to the same school, sat in the same class for several years.

We were never really close friends. He was a bit of a bragger. His dad’s fancy car, his uncle’s boxing career, his new electric guitar and his rich record collections with records brought home from the USA by his sister. In fact, to put it bluntly, he was a pain in the ass.

We talked about the old days, of the old friends, what happened to them, et cetera. He seemed quite sympathetic now. You know, people can change. I couldn’t help asking, if he remembered how he used to brag about himself.

“Yea! I remember”, he said. “It must have been quite terrible. I realised later how ridiculous I was. But I have changed.”

He was home visiting his old mother. His father had died a few years ago. He was now living in the big town. Had actually done quite well. A beautiful wife and four kids. They had just been to the Caribbean for three weeks. Chartered a boat and went around the islands. It had been difficult getting time off from work, as he was the only one in the company who had any real understanding of their new market in China.

I would have liked to have heard more about it, but he had to leave. His chauffeur was waiting with the Bentley round the corner. It was only after I had finished my coffee, that I noticed that his wallet was lying on the floor. It must have slipped out of his jacket. I picked it up. It was too late to get out in the street to try to follow him. I opened the wallet to find his address. It was there on his bus pass.

I thought he was already dead

Some people seem to fade away but then when they are truly gone, it’s like they didn’t fade away at all. It is Bob Dylan writing this in Chronicles: 1. He is writing about the passing away of the famous basketball player Pete Maravich (Pistol Pete) in 1988.

We, no doubt, all know the situation. One day the front page has the news of the death of one of the heroes of our younger days. “I thought he was already dead” we sometimes say to yourself.

There was a time when they were part of your life. Heroes you identified yourself by. Heroes who made the headlines. Heroes who you talked about with your friends. Heroes whose works or deeds were discussed in depth while the number of empty bottles around you grew rapidly.

And then they faded away. The sports stars, because they got too old to practise their sports at the highest level.  The artists because you can’t invent yourself over and over again. Because someone else came up with a new and interesting angle or style. Because celebrity keeps you away from real people and real life. Because… the times they are a-changin.

And then someday they are there, back on the front page again. They come alive again – for at short time - because they have died.

The media runs features on their lives. You browse your record collection (for the young: a primitive forerunner of iTunes, where the number of scratches tells you just how good the music is, and the number of beer stains on the sleeve, if it is party music or not). You look at your bookshelves. You takes down a book, hold it in your hand and look at it.

And then they are back with you. They didn’t fade away at all. They were always somewhere within you - and will always be

NB! Bob Dylan is not dead

The Same Shit

Somebody has to say it:

 

Hitler had millions of Jews killed in the holocaust. Hitler bombed cities and killed millions of civilians and brought misery to many more millions.

 

Merkel's Germany, being the main contributor to the EU budget, has poured millions into the projects for the benefit of Cyprus and other countries.

 

Hitler was a dictator, brutality suppressing any opposition.

 

Merkel is a democratically elected leader, and some day she'll will stand for election again. The decisions made with regard to Cyprus are not made by Merkel on her own, but are made in agreement with democratically elected leaders in Europe and the World.

 

Merkel = Hitler?

 

 

 

Students on the street - maybe the real crisis is in the educational system

Hitler was German. Merkel is German. Hitler was a Nazi. Merkel is a Nazi. This is the ugly face of prejudice and stupidity.

It hurts to have the suffering and misery of millions brought to the same level as the "plight" of account holders with more than 100 000 euro on their bank account.

NB! All the best luck to Cyprus. As a European taxpayer I do not mind chipping in to the saving of this beautiful country or other countries in difficulties. Let us by all means try to create a prosperous and peaceful Europe together.

And I do believe that the youths on the above picture are in no way representative of the Cypriot youths in general. There may be many opinions as to how Cyprus got into the present situation and to how the country should be helped to get out again. But let's keep a minimum level of human decency in the debate.