Aslaug's Axe Shed

Welcome to 2010, everyone.

I hope every one of you had a great Yuletide and a happy New Year, and I hope that the next decade will be better for everyone than the one we just left behind … regardless of whether that decade was good to you or not.

Personally, I’ve had a magnificent holiday season. I’ve visited my very dear friend Erica and her family in Bradford, England, and I returned a couple of days ago, invigorated and much refreshed.

Now all I need is to break the writer’s block that seems to be dogging me for the third straight month. I thought I had it beaten but … it just doesn’t seem to want to go away. Ah well, I’ll beat it yet.

Anyway, I should share some of my experiences from England with you all.

I left my home on the 20th of December, in order to go visit my parents and my brother before continuing on to England. I stayed overnight at my parents place in Nyborg, and had a splendid evening there. It was great seeing them both again, and I even managed to do something good for my mother. Allow me to explain:

A young man who, until a few years ago, lived next to my parents, was visiting them. He was a pleasant fellow and I much enjoyed meeting him. He was polite and witty and both my parents liked him, and as the afternoon proceeded, I understood why. He really was a very friendly kind of person. However, after dinner, we got to talking about family affairs. His family affairs more precisely. He told us that his sister had a severe and increasing substance-abuse problem (she smokes hash), and that he was concerned because she had now moved in with a dealer. I was naturally saddened on his behalf … until I learned that his sister smoked because HE had introduced her to it, and that he still believed he was right in doing so. He fully believed that weed was harmless and that he was a better person because he smoked it every day. A better person, a better driver, a better worker … better at everything.

That shocked me very deeply. I have seen the effects hash can have on people and no one … regardless of whether they are my friends or not, regardless of any “evidence” they think they may have and regardless of their own personal feelings on the issue … will EVER convince me that it is “harmless”.

I’ve seen people destroyed by hash. Not just led astray, but destroyed. I have seen people lose all their friends and their grip on reality in a hash-psychosis they can’t break out of. I’ve seen people lose the ability to distinguish lie from truth, and I’ve seen … with my own two eyes … how people who afterwards would swear they had been perfectly unimpaired had made absolute idiots of themselves in a hash-induced stupor.

I’ve heard all the arguments in favor of this drug. All of them. Many, many times. I’ve had many friends who smoked this. Neighbours, close friends, classmates … and because of that, I am not so foolish as to fall for those arguments anymore. So don’t bother.

But back to the story. This young man was sitting there, telling us to our faces that he was basically proud of having turned his sister into a hash-addict. My father was shaking his head in disbelief. My mother’s face had gone blank. And I was -angry-!

No, I was pissed off!

When he then said that he needed to smoke weed in order to drive, because it was the only thing that made him a good, relaxed driver, I looked him straight in the face and told him, flat out, that if I ever learned he had smoked weed and then driven a car within 48 hours afterwards, I would go straight to the telephone and call the cops and tell them where to find him, what he had done and the license-plate on his car.

The fact that he suffers from epilepsy just made it even worse. Smoking weed is proven to lead to seizures!

He looked utterly, utterly shocked when I said that. My mother took the cue wand looked at him and said, flat out “I like you. You know I like you and that I think you’re a very nice guy. But I must tell you, right now, that your addiction disgusts me.”

That seemed to totally knock him for a loop. He tried to retort by saying, and I quote: “But for goodness sake, it’s harmless! The only one affected by it is me, and it helps me!”

I looked right back at him again and narrowed my eyes and made sure I had his attention, and then I blasted him. I told him, and again I quote: “That’s absolute bullshit! You think it only affects you? That only proves you’re both stupid and naive. Addiction, regardless of whether we’re talking alcohol or drugs, are destructive. Not just to yourself … that’s your life and if you want to destroy yourself, I’m not going to stop you, but I WILL point out to you that you are affecting EVERYONE around you with your filthy habbit. Addicts affect everyone they know … everyone they come into contact with … everything around them. Either you know this and ignore it, which makes you a deliberately bad person, or you don’t want to acknowledge it which makes you downright -foolish- and proves your lack of intelligence! Wreck yourself if you must, but SPARE me the nonsense that you’re not affecting anyone but yourself!”

He was on the verge of tears by that time. My father was nodding. My mother had a blank expression on her face. Later that evening, after my father had taken the young man to a friend where he was to stay overnight, I went to bed and slept soundly. The next morning, my mother came over to me and thanked me. I didn’t understand what for at first, but then she explained.

My grandfather … my mother’s dad … was an alcoholic. Until he was 25, he was a teetotaller, but in the end, he drank himself to death. My mother grew up in a home where -everything- sprang from that alcoholism. It was a deeply traumatic thing, and it still affects her in many ways, to this day … and she’s now 56 years old.

So she thanked me … for taking a clear stance. For telling that young man, in no uncertain terms, what an abject, complete and utter idiot he was. For telling him how much I despised what he did … not to himself, but to others.

That was the important thing. That it was something he did to others.

“You see,” she said, “All my life, I’ve wondered what it was that made my father’s alcoholism such a traumatic thing for me. And because of what you said … that “you affect everyone around you with your substance abuse” … I finally realized what it was. It’s a form of control. It was a way for him to control everyone around him. Everything centered on that alcohol-abuse. Our entire lives circled around it. Everything we did had to take that factor into consideration. And no one told him off for it. No one basically told him “Go drink yourself to death if you want … but you’re not dragging me with you!” and that is exactly what you told him yesterday evening. That you wouldn’t let his abuse affect you. And when he was putting on his coat … he looked at me and asked me to please put him in contact with someone who could help him get out of his addiction.”

She had needed someone to stand up to an addict and not do the pity-thing. She had needed someone to simply say “I will not let you ruin MY life as well as your own” … to fully understand that that was what it was all about.

And frankly, I was glad I could do that for her, even though I hadn’t known it at the time. Because it’s been such a cross for her to bear all these years, and if I can help make it easier for her in any way, I will.

Anyway, the next day I went to Copenhagen where I stayed overnight at my brother’s apartment. The more I see of him, the more I miss him. He’s a fantastic person … far brighter than I’ll ever be, witty, friendly and good at what he does. We shared a glass of good whiskey that night and chatted away until finally I conked out on an inflatable mattress in his front hall. The next morning, we got up very early and he took me to the airport and helped get me through check-in. I was there very early … Christmas-traffic and all that … and yet I breezed right through everything and found myself waiting an hour and a half at the gate. It wasn’t too bad … I’d been smart enough to buy a crossword-puzzle magazine so I had something to do with my time at least.

The flight over was easy. I hate heights but I love flying. I guess the heights are just too abstract for my mind to really deal with. But once I arrived in Manchester, I was welcomed by Erica and her ten-year-old son, Jack, who was holding a colourful sign saying “Welcome Aunty Joan”. It was great to see them both there, and soon we were on our way to Bradford, via Leeds. The train was chilly but the company was fantastic, and before we knew it, we were back in Bradford.

History geek mode engaged: Bradford is a unique city. By English standards, it isn’t large. By American standards, it’s rather small … and with 293.000 people living in it, it would still be the second largest city in Denmark. So naturally, I was pressing my nose flat against the window of the bus, looking at the yellow brick housing that I quickly learned was a very distinct feature of the city. It was once absolute ground zero for the massive cloth industry of England, with mills scattered all over the city, but that industry has fallen by the wayside and most of the mills are demolished nowadays, or in disrepair. Some still stand, all converted to other uses, except Lister’s Mill … with a chimney taller than the Eifel Tower … which is on Unesco’s list of world heritage sites.

But for anyone with an ounce of imagination, Bradford was like looking into the past. One could easily imagine the smoke coming from tens of thousands of chimneys from small homes all over the city, at the time of the industrial revolution when the city was one of the most important in Northern England … if not in the entire country.

Anyway, we got to Buttershaw … the residential district where Erica and her family have their home, and I got to meet Arty at long last. Arty is Erica’s husband, and some of you might remember I mentioned him in the prelude to a Transitions I chapter years ago, when he and Erica were fighting a desperate battle against the authorities who were threatening to take away their children. Fortunately, that grotesque injustice was not only averted … but reversed. Today, Erica and Arty are used by social services in Bradford as a prime example of how parents with children with special needs can cope with the workload and give their children a great and stimulating home.

And trust me, that is FULLY deserved. The huuuuuuge grin on the face of Her Majesty, the Empress of the Known Universe (also known as Rachel, Erica and Arty’s six-year-old daughter), was enough to melt the polar ice-caps.

Of course, it bears mentioning that I am officially Her Majesty’s Grand Vizier, tasked with carrying out her Most Imperious & Glorious will.

And provide tickles.

And make her Waybuloo teddies fly … (if you don’t know what this means, don’t ask …)

And sundry other duties, naturally. Grand Vizier’s are busy people, but I’ve done so well in performing my duties, that I’ve been excempted from growing the otherwise obligatory pointy beard which is normally associated with the position. We’re still looking for a turban for me, but at the moment we’re stranded on not having a suitably large gem to attach to the front.

Ahem … anyway … moving hastily onwards. In the evening, Erica’s long-time friend Sarah arrived with her bloke and son. I’ve heard a lot about Sarah from Erica, and I was thrilled to finally meet her. She did not fail to live up to expectations and I am convinced I’ve made myself a friend for life, right there. That woman was an absolute delight, I have to admit. Great sense of humour too and extremely welcoming. I’d get to meet her several more times before going home, thankfully.

The next couple of days were spent preparing for Christmas. Fortunately, I had brought amost two hundred pounds with me, but over a hundred of those were spent on Christmas-presents, primarily but not exclusively for the kids. Never have I spent money that well, I tell ya. The happy smiles on everyone’s faces is the best damned present I could ever have gotten for myself.

Although to be honest, Erica and Arty spoiled me absolutely rotten on Christmas day. Not only had they gotten me a proper potato-masher (you may think this weird, but since Danes tend to puree their mashed potatoes, and since you can’t find a proper potato-masher in Denmark for that reason, it was something I SORELY needed), they also got me a DVD of an old BBC-cartoon called “The Snowman”. It’s a regular Christmas-time fixture on Danish TV, but since I can’t receive television, and since it never fails to make me sniffle … I greatly appreciated it. And I was surprised Erica had remembered … but that’s how she is. Furthermore, I got some PROPER Yorkshire tea (or “brew” as I’ve come to know it as) and the most amazing tea-pot. I absolutely love the thing. On the side is an image of two women … one pouring tea into a cup held aloft by the other, who in turn is slumped across a table. Above the sleepy figure is written “Instant human … just add tea”. That teapot was MADE with me in mind, I swear!

And then, of course, came the Lush-products. Erica is a big fan of an English chain of skin-care product-stores called “Lush”. Forget the Body Shop, people … THIS is the real deal. Everything is hand-made, and in case you don’t like the quality of the product, each and every single container of cream or bar of soap has a sticker attached to it with the name of the person who made it so you know who to get a hold of if you want to complain … or praise. They make the most fantastic stuff, and I got looooads of that to bring home.

But the best present wasn’t one I got. It was one I helped give.

Jack, being ten years old, probably won’t believe in Santa Claus/Father Christmas that much longer. But he still does … very strongly, too. So on Christmas Eve, as he went to bed, he dutifully placed a tray by the tree, on which he placed a home made mince pie (nomnomNOMNOMNOM!!!!!) and a glass of sherry for Santa, and a carrot for Rudolph. He then wrote the nicest letter and placed it next to the whole thing. In the letter, he mentioned one thing he reeeeeally wished for and thank the gods, Erica had bought it for him a few days earlier … so it was quickly re-wrapped for our cunning plan! Next, Erica cut out a boot-shape in paper and placed it on the floor and spread flour around it so it looked like snowy footprints, and the present was placed on the tray. The sherry and mince pie mysteriously vanished … and the carrot-top was left, bitten off. And guess what? Next morning, there was a letter from Santa to Jack, along with a present. Amazingly, I hadn’t woken up despite sleeping on the couch RIGHT next to where all this took place.

Isn’t that amazing?

Never mind that Santa’s handwriting and mine are remarkably alike. I’m certain that’s simply coincidence.

But to see the look on that little boy’s face when he realized that Santa had left him a present, and the very thing he’d asked for in fact … it was worth the whole trip in and off itself, I swear.

Christmas day continued with an English Christmas dinner. My first ever, and I ate so much I nearly split at the seams. Good gracious that was delicious, but let me warn everyone, if I EVER see anyone boiling parsnips in the future, I’ll punch’em! Now that I’ve seen how fantastic they are once oven-fried in a bit of goose-fat … *drools uncontrollably and excuses herself while she goes to find a napkin*

Ahem … okay, back again. How embarrassing. Alright, anyway, later that day, another one of Erica’s friends came by. I had been told of Andrew before, and I had looked forward to meeting him too. Andrew is a schoolteacher with fifteen years of experience in that field and he hasn’t gone mad yet. A remarkable feat in its own right, I think. He’s also gay, not that it really matters, and a positive ray of sunshine. I met him a couple of times, and I honestly don’t think I saw him NOT smile at any time. A true gentleman, his first act was to take my hand and kiss the back of it, and frankly, he had me so dumbstruck from that simple act that I must have looked like an absolute idiot. I think in all honesty I can say that EVERYONE deserves to know an Andrew. He is just that kind of person who makes people feel good by simply being around. Smiling, a great conversationalist, very intelligent and modest to a point where it ALMOST became embarrassing, he was just a delight to spend time with.

So … Christmas day well done, we collapsed in bed and slept like rocks all night. The next day we took a day off from gorging ourselves and simply relaxed. But then, of course, came the 27th.

The day of reckoning for me. The day of the Danish Christmas Dinner … *queue ominous music here, please*.

Erica helped me in the kitchen, for which I am deeply grateful or I might not have made it in time. But when Sarah and her family arrived, and when Andrew showed up, making us a full nine people around the table, I had a roast duck done, as well as two pork roasts, duck sauce, red cabbage (I’m never buying this stuff again … I’ll make it myself! It’s much better that way), caramelized and white potatoes and Danish rice pudding for afters.

Once again, we ate until we nearly split. And everyone loved it.

Everyone!

It was a huge, huge success. People enjoyed the food and had seconds all around. Everyone asked for recipes, and naturally, I was greatly relieved. The duck was so tender it practically fell from the bones, for one thing. And the sauce was taaasty! Everything was good, in fact.

After the meal, I had prepared marzipan goodies and my father had baked a fifteen layer christmas cake which is one of his most amazing dishes. Fifteen layers … all paper thin, interspersed with lemon and raspberry jam to make it both a little zesty and a bit sweet. It is one of the absolute culinary highlights of my year, and I was so touched that he had baked an extra one for me to bring, since it literally takes most of a day to make. It’s eaten in very thin slices, so half a small cake was enough for everyone around the table.

Said Sarah: “I want the recipe … and a day off!”

‘Nuff said, really.

The following day, we went into Bradford. I got to see the historic city center, including INARGUABLY the world’s most amazing bookstore. It’s in the building that used to house the wool-exchange, and frankly, you’d think you were standing in a castle’s great hall when you’re in there. It’s so beautiful it nearly brought tears to my eyes, and I ended up asking for permission to take some pictures … which I got. We also walked past the amazingly beautiful, historic city hall and I took pictures of that, and we strolled around just looking in general. We had lunch at Erica and Arty’s favorite restaurant and I have never seen plates stacked that heigh with food in a restaurant before. I had to leave some on my plate …

Dear gods, the amount of food I’ve ingested on this holiday. It boggles the mind, it really does. Anyway, on we went to the most important museum in Bradford … where the history of television, mass media and photography are covered in great detail. It was a very nice museum indeed and one I’d love to see again in the future. We didn’t get to see it all before we had to go though, to catch a bus back home. But it was a great day and I enjoyed it very, very much. I’d love to see Bradford in spring or summer sometime, too.

The next day we stayed at home, simply relaxing, but the day after that, Erica and I set out alone, leaving Arty and the kids to have a day for themselves.

Erica and I, however, headed to York.

And that story I will have to tell you either tomorrow or soon thereafter