Sisotowbell Lane

A Suitably English Excursion, Pt.3: Shrewsbury Revisited

2011-11-15T15:57:00.001+02:00

There's quite a gap between posts again, but I've been delighfully busy during the past weeks - studying Italian, singing in a choir, and doing other stimulating things to keep my mind off the coming darkness. Yet, since a while back I promised a selection of photos from my excursion to Shrewsbury way back in September, here they finally are.

I first visited Shrewsbury way back in 2004, while I was interrailing with another anglophile friend of mine. We both fell in love with the well-preserved charms of the town. Compared to some other historic English cities, Shrewsbury isn't too touristy, either (I'm looking at you, Bath).

Although the town centre is lovely, too, my favourite spot is the park (called The Quarry)...

...and within the park, a particular spot called the Dingle:

The last time I went there, it was May and the rhododendrons were in bloom. Now, in September, the place was even more impressive.

Looking at all these colous in the middle of November gloom makes my soul bleed. But in the nicest possible way. :)

A Suitably English Excursion, Part 2

2011-10-09T16:03:00.002+03:00

I'm not a great fan of big cities; small places tend to have more character - and are also better for day-trips. England in particular is full of little gems that most tourists tend to overlook. Nantwich, for example.

The town certainly isn't the most happening place in the world - when I went there, it was a market day, and the high street was full of old ladies. This, however, only added to the olde-worlde charm of the place. The town musem, on the other hand, was full of noisy schoolchildren, who were apparently there to learn about the traditions of cheese-making.

I found my way to the canal completely by accident, and spent a couple of hours following random footpaths back to the town centre. The weather was magnificent, and I really envied the people who floated by on their canal boats, smiling and waving as they went.

The locals were friendly as well, if a bit curious.

The following day I took a train to Knutsford - another charming old Cheshire town. Nowadays it's perhaps best known as Elizabeth Gaskell's Cranford (although Wikipedia tells me that the recent series was actually filmed in Wiltshire). Being more of a Brontë fangirl myself, my reason for going there was the town's main point of interest, Tatton Park.

Altough I'd done some research beforehand, I really wasn't prepared for the sheer size of the place. The park itself is HUGE: it took me almost an hour to make my way to the mansion.

Within the park, there were several big gardens, all of which were very impressive. Above the Italian garden behind the big house.

The Japanese garden, however, was my favourite.

I've seen quite a few historic houses in my time, but Tatton Park still managed to impress me. Also, five hours wasn't nearly enough to see everything; I would have liked to see the old Tudor hall, and to spend more time just walking around the park in the company of the deer and the sheep. Knutsford itself was a pleasant-looking place, and certainly worth more than a quick walk-through.

Still to come: A Suitably English Excursion, Pt. 3: The Wonders of Shrewsbury.

A Suitably English Excursion, pt. 1: Chester

2011-09-29T16:31:00.000+03:00

Another year, another trip to England. My seventh, if my calculations are correct. You might think that there isn't much left to see in the Ol' Green and Pleasant after so many visits - but it seems that the more you see of the place, the more there is to see. Take Chester, for example.

If a friend of mine hadn't invited me there, I'd probably never had even thought about going to Chester. Which would have been a shame, since the place is absolutely charming. The city has been compared to York - after all, both places boast a long history and a city wall (see Chester's impressive wall above).

As York happens to be my favourite English city, I won't make any unfruitful comparisons here, especially as Chester is lovely in its own right - just quite a bit smaller. But let's just say that their wall still actually encircles the city centre. Almost, at least.

But there's a lot more to see in Chester: for instance, a cathedral (above, lurking behind the tree).

A historic town centre, complete with a clock dedicated to that most not-amused of monarchs, Victoria.

Some street art, found in the most unexpected places.

This was the part I loved the most, however: the waterways. Here the canal on a bright, cold morning.

The River Dee on a muggier morning...

... and at sunset.

Coming soon: A Suitably English Excursion, pt. 2: Nantwich and Knutsford.

Saving the world, one second-hand skirt at a time...

2011-09-05T16:35:00.000+03:00

I'm very fond of second-hand shops. In fact, nowadays I do most of my shopping at fleamarkets and charity shops - for several reasons. Price is of course one. Yet, the unpredictability of these places also really pleases me. Of course, if you're looking for something particular, then a round of the fleamarkets begins to resemble regular shopping - which isn't much fun in my experience. However, if you can keep your mind and eyes open, most of the time you can spot some treasures.

There are a few second-hand lovelies in the picture above - some of which are my mother's old possessions (her Afghan mat and old living room table). The yellow mirror I found last Saturday - I've been looking for one of those for some time now. This one cost 10 €. The flowery thing in the mirror is another secondhand find - a vintage lamp I bought a few years back.

As you can see, I'm very pleased with my other two finds: a beautiful blue blouse (2 €), and a purple Vila skirt (4€). I seem to have a particular knack for finding secondhand Vila skirts in exactly my size. This might become a problem, as I'm already running out of cupboard space.

On an altogether unrelated note, I began my Italian studies today. It's been a while since I've sat in a classroom and actually repeated phrases after the teacher. I loved every minute of it! I just hope my newfound motivation will carry me through October and November as well.

But next week, I'm going to England for a few days. Will probably gush about it later.

Oi!, or, A Horrible Interlude

2011-08-23T16:24:00.000+03:00

So the summer holidays are over, and I'm back at the drawing board, trying to finish the last draft of my PhD. Yet, I've got my eye on next summer already - mainly because next year's SHS costume party has a rococo theme, and that requires quite a bit of research.

Luckily, there's always the Horrible Histories team to turn to:

This is how I would have liked to learn history at school. Fortunately, it's never too late to brush up on important historical events - or, for example, the kings and queens of England:

Although the HH people are a bit selective when it comes to exploding historical myths (the death of Nelson, for example), sometimes they do a very charming job of it, indeed:

Alma Mater

2011-06-07T17:21:00.000+03:00

I've been studying at the University of Jyväskylä for almost ten years now, but until today I hadn't taken a single picture of our campus. I've meant to, many times, particularly in the autumn, but somehow my camera has always remained at home. Today, I finally decided to remedy this scandalous state of affairs, and spent a lovely hour walking in the oldest part of the Seminaarinmäki campus, dodging nervous entrance exam-goers.

The building above is Parviaisen talo, in which our Contemporary Culture department was housed for a brief time - until it turned out that mould had taken over the house (despite, or because of, the recent renovations).

Most of us arts & culture people are now crammed into Juomatehdas - an old lemonade factory, which still retains its solid but bubbly atmosphere of old.

A knit-graffiti attack! I've seen similiar artwork inside Juomatehdas, but these ones are quite new.

Seminarium is one of the oldest buildings on campus (completed in 1883). In the 19th century, it used to be one of the most visible buildings in the city, looming on its high hill. Nowadays it lurks amid some tall pines, and is quite easy to miss.

Oppio and the Gardener's House are also among the older generation of buildings.

The Main Building (here pictured from the back, which I've always thought to be more interesting than the front) was designed by Alvar Aalto. While tourists marvel at its bold modernity, we students have to put up with its unpractical quirks (echoing, red brick-clad walls, uncomfortable furniture, and unpredictable dimensions. The ladies' toilet on the ground floor is well worth a visit for this reason.)

Although I don't appreciate Mr Aalto's architecture (or his wonky vases) as much as I perhaps should, I have to admit that on a sunny summer's day even the main building looks fresh and appealing. Also the grassy roof of the library is an excellent place for sunbathing.

Alive and Flapping

2011-05-14T15:29:00.000+03:00

As I predicted, it's been rather quiet here for a couple of months. With the third SHS party only a few weeks away, it's time to get back in the blogging business - and what better way to do it than by looking at some lovely ladies from the 1920s.

Louise Brooks (above, click to enlarge) is by far one of my favourites flappers; there is something very elegant and at the same time something very outrageous about her.

I don't know all that much about Evelyn Brent, but I like her hat, and her haughty expression. Wikipedia tells me that Brent was at one time married to Harry Fox, who gave his name to foxtrot. Live and learn.

Norma Talmadge was a superstar of the silent film era. I love her dress and the pearls.

I don't know who this girl is, but there is something captivating about the simple elegance of the photograph. Makes me wish I had shorter hair so that I could try to duplicate that do.

Mary Eaton was a popular dancer and actress, who appeared alongside the Marx Brothers in The Cocoanuts...

...as did the Brox Sisters.

Fanny Brice was a comedienne, and later an inspiration for Funny Girl.

Karla Gutchrlein was one half of the Sisters G - and incredibly cool.

Josephine Baker didn't believe in wearing very much, but she also lived a fascinating life. Bring on the banana miniskirt!

And finally, a reminder that although not all 20s women were young and glamorous, they sure knew how to have a good time. If I didn't already have suitably jazzy shoes for our speakeasy party, I'd be seriously considering a pair of boots big enough to slip a bottle of whisky in.

(Source: All pictures are from Wikimedia Commons)

Hiatus, and a Hat

2011-03-06T15:00:00.000+02:00

It's been rather quiet here recently, and probably will be rather quiet for some time yet - at least until I've ploughed through the pile of work I'm under right now, and had a proper holiday.

But until then, you can admire my new spring hat, which I trimmed yesterday and am rather proud of. The hat itself cost 2 euros, and was much uglier with a wide, turn-up rim. So I took my scissors, some ribbon I've had in my cupboard for about ten years now, and a few bits and bobs I've been saving for a project like this - and voilá: a 20's style cloche hat.

I know Bessie Smith preferred much more outrageous headwear (notably the one which looks like a lampshade), but as she's my favourite 20's blues singer, I'll let her accompany my new hat.

Sunfaraa!

2011-01-31T16:01:00.000+02:00

As I mentioned in my last post, my second trip to Kokkola was done with a specific goal in mind: in addition to finishing the literature course I'd started in December, I was on a mission to locate an English rowboat.

And not just any old rowboat: the one the good people of Kokkola captured from the Royal Navy in 1854 (in a battle known as the Skirmish of Halkokari), and haven't given back to the Brits despite several kind requests. It's very easy to miss in its little anonymous, snow-surrounded cottage at the edge of the English Park - and it's not all that impressive as far as trophies of war go. But there it is.

The city was lovely this time around as well, despite the skull-cracking ice and the persistent rain. This gave me a good opportunity to visit several museums and art galleries, - including one situated in Pedagogio, the oldest non-religious building in Finland (in the top picture) - and to see an impressive collection of minerals and stuffed animals (not my cup of tea, really - but hey, it was free and extremely educational).

I also noticed that I'm turning into a stereotypical academic tourist - one who likes to look at obscure paintings and visit one old house after another, all the while trying to think of something clever to say to the curator on the way out. Then, once I'm home, I can deftly deconstruct my experiences with a hint of postmodern cynicism.

Which might be the only use I'll ever have for my degree in Contemporary Culture.

The wonders of the west coast

2010-12-09T18:33:00.001+02:00

It's been a busy past few weeks. In addition to trying to finish my PhD, I've also been teaching a couple of courses - one of them some 400 kms from where I live. It was great fun, though, to get an opportunity to take a train to a completely unknown city, stay the night at a fine hotel, talk about literature to bunch of motivated students, and spend the rest of the time walking around the old part of the city with my mouth hanging slightly open. I hadn't quite realised the Neristan in Kokkola was quite as amazing as that.

Unfortunately, my camera froze on me (again), so I got very few pictures that are actually in focus. Perhaps better this way - otherwise I would have snapped photos of each and every house and perhaps embarrassed myself in the process.

Looking forward to going back in January. Then I'm planning to finally lay eyes on the famous gunboat which was captured from the British during the Crimean war, and which the brits have been very eager to get back ever since. SHS is already planning a re-enactment of the impressive battle in which such a prize landed in Finnish hands.

Getting rather silly

2010-11-15T15:38:00.001+02:00

Today the sun manages to stay over the horizon for seven hours and a bit. Despite the snow, days are desperately grey, and everything kind of blurs. It's hard to keep track of deadlines, or even remember if I've managed to do anything worthwhile lately.

In addition to teaching and trying to finish my PhD there isn't all that much going on at the moment - but at least I've had some interesting dreams lately (even compared to my usual standard). Last night, for instance, listening to the constant drip-drop of water outside my window, I finally managed to fall asleep and grew convinced that there was only one person who could explain the meaning and the source of the noise: Samuel Pepys.

I believe this history lark is really beginning to mess with my head. In the nicest possible way. Just like this song.

That is all.

Pretty dreary

2010-11-01T16:20:00.000+02:00

Today seems to be one of those days when everything is sort of sticky and slow right from the beginning. One of those days when you know that no matter hard you try - and in truth you don't try very hard - everything's going to conspire against you having a productive day.

The weather is grey and uninspiring. The computer is slow. Just when you get in the right mood for some work (writing a thesis in my case), someone calls you, and BAM, the thread of your thoughts is tangled again. In the supermarket everyone moves just as slowly and aimlessly as you do, not looking anyone in the eye, blocking the aisles with their slow trolleys. You pick the slowest queue in the whole darn shop - possibly in the whole universe - and wish you had the presence of mind to open the bag of sweets you're buying, before you've paid for it.

On most days, if things start piling upon me like this, I just get pointlessly angry. Today, as befits a slow and sticky day, I've just been drifting around in a half-awake haze, hoping that the aforementioned bag of sweets might brighten things up a bit.

And it has. The best part of the day is already hopelessly wasted, but at least now I'm fully awake. The other thing which contributed to my newfound alertness was this startling piece of poetry:

Right on.

Treasure

2010-10-14T16:21:00.000+03:00

As is my habit, I spent last weekend in Helsinki, watching films and catching up with friends I see far too seldom. What made this year's gathering a bit different, however, was that the person responsible for it all was getting married on that same weekend. Thus there were only two films (but what films!), and considerably more voluntary work involved - which suited me just fine, as over the years I've been getting quite good at handling ridiculous amounts of food, fetching and carrying, and just generally trying to guarantee a pleasant time for all.

During my career as a party organiser/cook/fetchercarrier/Ms Fixit, I've come to the conclusion that the trite sentiment of "giving is better than receiving" works pretty well in practice, too. Even better than giving things, however, is giving time: helping out with things that require more than one pair of hands and more than five minutes of your day - doing instead of buying, being there when someone really needs you, and not just in a mental sense. Even for such a non-sociable person as myself, building up a party from scratch can be great fun if you're working with like-minded people and know that in the end, you'll be enjoying the fruits of your labours with those very same people.

Don't get me wrong: giving and receiving things is also very nice, too. Especially when that thing happens to be handmade Belgian pralines, delivered straight to my door. That's what, dear reader, I got for my trouble this time.

The moral of the story: help thy friends, and thou shalt receive chocolate.

The fruits of 22 labours

2010-09-15T19:34:00.001+03:00

It's been some time since I've written any kind of a book report here. Let me amend that lapse now. I know that's what you're all have been clamouring for at the backs of your minds, without really even knowing it.

I won't go through all the historical books I read last summer - for after checking my reading diary I noticed that there is quite a number of them, most dealing with the Austen/Napoleon period, most appropriately. The memory of most of those, however, has now been blocked by Wolf Hall - which I'm reading now, and which is every bit as fantastic as they say it is. The (perhaps only) problem with a book of that stature is that it tends to overshadow everything else I'm reading at the time, diluting the pleasure of other books by reminding just how good prose can get.

Fortunately Wolf Hall is facing some fierce competition; one of the books I read about a month ago refuses to be blotted out by another. I'm talking about Stella Tillyard's Aristocrats, a real-life story of four Lennox sisters whose lives spanned the latter part of the 18th century. The book has been made into a TV series, and that's how I first became aware of the lives of these quite amazing women some years ago. The splendour of the setting is one thing (after all, Caroline, Emily, Louisa and Sarah Lennox were aristocrats born and bred, and wed into well-connected and wealthy families), but what strikes me most is the sheer tenacity of the Lennox women and their strong mutual affection and loyalty, which must have carried them through some hard times.

I mean, if you've given birth to 22 children (like Emily did), you'll be mighty glad of some family support.

Tudor times were also an era when family connections paid off; this at least was emphasised in Philippa Gregory's The Other Boleyn Girl. I really liked the novel, especially Gregory's effortless depiction of Renaissance England and the court of Henry VIII, as well as her frank descriptions of the ribaldries that went on there. Placing Mary Boleyn in the centre of the story (instead of her more illustrious sister) is a good choice, as it gives the plot an element of suspense (after all, we all know what happened to Anne Boleyn). Yet I was somewhat disappointed in the rather straightforward solution of making Anne the scheming shrew and Mary the motherly lady-in-waiting who is all heart and loving tenderness. The Career Woman vs. the Mother debate in a nutshell = one gets her head chopped off, another gets to settle down with a good man of her choice.

Another book which gave me some ambivalent feelings is Mrs Caliban and Other Stories by Rachel Ingalls, which I just finished. I liked the slightly twisted starting points of the stories (including people being kidnapped by grannies in Switzerland, cheating their wives with a lifelike doll, or getting caught in a rain of frogs), but their solutions were depressingly rather similar. Most of the men (boyfriends, husbands, bosses) were portrayed as heartless bastards who only use women for their own gratification and start slapping them around when they show some character. That may work well to illustrate an important point in one novel, but after seven or eight of the same, the reader (or at least I) begins to feel the need of some more life-affirming stuff.

Perhaps that's why I've been listening to a lot of Monty Python lately.

Rose in a Rowan Tree

2010-08-30T18:45:00.003+03:00

This is the time of year when lots of new - and sometimes unexpected things - start happening. The nights get longer, the days are rainier - but may still yield some surprises, like that somewhat tired rose amid the rowanberries.

I tend to feel less restless at this time of year, more focused; more inward-looking perhaps, but also with one eye on the changes in the trees and the colours of the hills I can see from my kitchen window. This is a good time for taking stock - harvesting, I guess - and making plans for the winter. Which will be long, as I recall.

Therefore melancholia is also allowed at this time of year, and this I like. It's alright to sit down for a while, to light a candle and to listen to soul-cleansing stuff like this:

Seuraa blogiani Bloglovinin avulla

"poems are as vague as air and as necessary"

2010-08-12T15:57:00.000+03:00

I've been working on an article (on 70s rock press, since you asked), which has exhausted my brainpower quite effectively; so instead of me trying to be clever, here's a lovely and rather uplifting video by a Canadian poet called Tanya Davis.

Via Broadsheet. And soon all over the internets, I suppose.

This is just to say...

2010-07-28T14:56:00.000+03:00

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

(William Carlos Williams)

...and that the Austen/Napoleon party went brilliantly.

... that it's still sweltering hot, and I'm still enjoying it.

... and also that I have a new groovy tablecloth.

That is all.

Another party, another pie

2010-07-10T16:41:00.000+03:00

A week from now, another SHS party will (hopefully) be in full swing. So far, the preparations have gone without a hitch: our dresses are coming along nicely (thanks to Juska's unflagging effort), most people who've promised to come are probably going to turn up, and most importantly, the menu is looking good. At least for the most part.

The one thing that has been causing me some brief moments of anxiety is the vegetarian option. As far as I know, all of our guests are meat-eaters, but it's always best to be prepared; also, an extra dish never goes amiss especially as the party's going to be an all-night one.

Following the tradition established last year, we (Otter and I) decided that some kind of vegetable pie will do this job nicely. The Renaissance version was delicious; in fact, I'm so fond of the cheese-and-onion tart that I make it on a regular basis. Thus I was confident that the Regency era would yield something equally tasty. But I was wrong. Most of the pies I've come across are either very simple (and thus not very festive) carrot-leek-parsnip-cabbage affairs - or else they have bacon in them. The time of Jane Austen doesn't appear to be very vegetarian-friendly. Another explanation for the dearth of suitable recipes is that there are tons of websites dedicated to Middle Ages/Renaissace cooking, and a lot fewer specialising in the short and apparently rather uninteresting era between the French Revolution and the Victorians.

Luckily, with a lot of googling, I finally came across a recipe that's both authentic and pork-free. Actually, the version I made is a combination of two different tarts, which have the same basic idea: cheese, eggs, spices + something green. I chose a mixture of nettles and herbs, which works quite well, but I'm not yet completely satisfied with the result. At least straight from the oven the taste is rather bitter (despite the sugar), and now I'm trying to figure out how to sweeten it. Adding raisins would be an option, but as there are currants and sultanas in the desserts, I think there is a possibility of dried grape overload. Perhaps a different type of cheese would solve the problem.

Well, I'm going north for the next few days, which both gives me the opportunity to get away from this mind-paralysing heat, and also to pick my mother's brain regarding the pie dilemma. I'm sure she'll have some constructive ideas.

In addition to puzzling out the party menu, today I've also tried to figure out how to do my hair. The basic idea has been quite clear to me for several months, and I've tried different approahces, but finally I've hit on the perfect solution. The curly Greek do has the advantage that although it takes almost an hour to get the pin curls done (and a whole night to let them to their job), the bun itself is ridiculously simple to construct, and with the right amount of hair spray (which I'm sure Miss Austen would have heartily approved of) stays in place for hours and hours.

The picture makes the do look duller than it is IRL (I'm rubbish at taking pictures of myself, and my camera certainly doesn't make the job any easier), but at least I've managed to hold a suitably haughty stance. Which will come in useful when I'm dressed in my purple coronation gown. No Lizzie Bennet bonnets for me - when I do costume drama, I go straight for the royalty. ;)

We are the Draught Beer Preservation Society

2010-06-13T13:59:00.001+03:00

People often wonder why I'm so drawn to England. Many times, huddled under a heap of blankets, drinking endless cups of tea in a futile effort to keep warm, I've wondered that myself. Surely there are countries that are more sunny, exotic, and affordable? Of course there are. But there's something about the eclectic charm of the Old Green and Pleasant that keeps me coming back again and again.

Here are some of the reasons, in no particular order, as prompted by my latest trip:

* History. For someone hailing from a relatively young country, the sheer amount of old things - both weird and wonderful - is mindboggling.

* Pubs. The Finnish drinking culture is as sordid as our climate. The Brits, on the other hand, have turned their climate to their benefit, and come up with communal living rooms which tend to be warmer and comfier than their actual living rooms. And of course the beers are varied and tasty and cheap (from the Finnish perspective, at least).

* Fudge. Although the English sweet culture isn't as vibrant as the Finnish one, there are some things we haven't quite got the hang of yet. One is the gentle art of fudge-making. The best hand-made fudge I've ever had I came across in Arundel, but the one made by the monks of Buckfast Abbey was very delicious as well.

* Creativity. And the encouragement thereof. There's a lot of street art in Britain that would never survive in our northern climes - partly because it wouldn't be permitted in the first place, and partly because it would be destroyed by spraycan-happy teens as soon as it was created. The amazing murals of Stokes Croft in Bristol is only one example of this (for some great examples of what we saw, go here).

* English Breakfast, in moderation. This isn't suitable for vegetarians, obviously, nor a good option for those with high cholesterol, but for a financially challenged backpacker who's bent on walking 10 km a day the bacon-eggs-sausage-and-tomato option is a brilliant one. And, if it's complemented by fresh fruit, Greek yoghurt and muesli, along with some toast and tasty homemade jam (as it was in one of the B&Bs we stayed at), your bowels needn't complain, either.

The title of this post comes from this song by the Kinks. I first heard it when I was 17 or thereabouts, and already in the throes of anglophilia. Needless to say, the song only helped to reinforce my image of the England that Never Was.

Heroines of their own lives

2010-05-23T15:29:00.000+03:00

As I've mentioned in some posts before, my usual method of finding something new to read is to wander around in a library and randomly pick up volumes that look interesting; so you could say that I rely on the judging-a-book-by-its-cover method. Of course this doesn't just mean choosing books which have eye-catching covers (although this also happens frequently); it can be the title, or the blurb, or the name of the writer (familiar or not) which attracts me enough to take the whole book home with me.

This method rarely fails, and I've discovered many of my favourite writers this way. The last gem which attracted my eye did so by its gorgeous green cover, which contrasted intriguingly with its title, The Yellow House. On closer inspection the work (written by an Irish-American called Patricia Falvey) turned out to be a story of a woman growing up in the trouble-ridden Northern Ireland around the turn of the 20th century. What hooked me about this book was, along with its glistening language, the sheer personal charm of its protagonist, Eileen O'Neill. Rarely have I come across such a self-assured, dynamic, and yet sensitive leading character, who remains thoroughly credible all through the text.

About the only scruple I had with The Yellow House was its somewhat predictably hurried happy ending. Yet the force of the narrative was such that I didn't find it very hard to accept this solution, and my sympathy for Eileen was so strong that I sincerely wished her well. Which is again quite rare in my reading experience.

And which is something I couldn't grant to the leading lady of another book I've just finished. This time it was the orange Penguin back which attracted my eye, along with the matter-of-fact title, Lady's Maid, by Margaret Forster. The name of the writer rang a bell, and as the book announced it told the story of the household of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I couldn't put it back on the shelf with a good conscience.

Now, I'm a sucker for most things to do with Victorian England, and especially with its writers. I expected this book to open a new, edifying window into the lives of Elizabeth and Robert Browning, as well as providing some good page-turning narrative from the point of view of their maid, Wilson. I profess myself disappointed, however: all of the characters of the tome (over 500 pages of it) - including the protagonist - turned out to be rather flat, and move about in their period setting like so many paper dolls. Although the semi-fictional setting provides lots of interesting events, none of these really touch the reader - as they don't seem to touch the wooden Wilson or to give any real insight into her character. There are no real climaxes in the narrative; even the death of Elizabeth is rather an anti-climax, as it only releases her maid to a life of empty resignation.

Basically, the problem for me is that there are no likeable characters in the novel, or indeed any characters which arouse any strong emotions at all. Wilson, despite her efforts, never really learns to understand her own feelings, and thus also leaves the reader high and dry. Her mistress is a selfish invalid, and her husband only flits in the periphery of the story, in turns sympathetic or cold towards his wife's servant/friend. Wilson doesn't have real friends, and the numerous men she tries to love all turn out to be either complete bastards or just very very dull people.

Doing some post-reading research, I discovered that Wilson was also a real person, and that her life went on for decades after the end of the narrative of Lady's Maid. Forster, in her afterword, also acknowleges this, and flashes the possibility of a sequel. In my view, with some well-judged condensation, all of this material could have been included in Maid as it would have at least provided a more satisfactory ending.

All in all, when it comes to the Brownings, I much prefer this version of their story.

Talking of women and fiction, in case you're wondering, the woman in the above picture is my paternal grandmother, Amanda, who died in 1963. As I never stood the remotest chance of meeting her, over the years I've created many versions of her story. The facts I possess are scanty, which gives me even more liberty to imagine what her personality, wishes, accomplishments were like - and whether we would have got along.

Perhaps it's for the best not to know - but that never stops the imagination.

Anyway, here's some very lovely music:

Riding nowhere

2010-05-16T13:37:00.001+03:00

Isn't it just like spring to turn things around in the space of a few days? Last week's pictures are full of dripping, naked trees - today's it's scorching hot and looks like summer already.

Quite unexpectedly, too, I had a car all to myself yesterday, and was able to make the most of a lovely spring day by getting out of the city. I went to see M, and we spent the afternoon trekking in the woods (mostly here) and driving around Korpilahti, trying to get lost in the little country roads (and totally failing, which didn't really bother us in the end as it made getting home so much easier).

Now it's all work and relatively little play until the 1st of June - and then it's all England.

And did those teeth in ancient times...

2010-05-09T14:53:00.000+03:00

The weather's been most uninspiring for the past week or so, and I can't say that spring in general agrees with me. All that light and slush and birdsong just makes me restless - which doesn't bode well for the PhD. Motivation seems to have jumped out of the window, and at the moment sitting still and writing a few coherent sentences now and again is all I can manage - just barely.

A part of me is already frolicking in the old Green and Pleasant (where Otter, T, and Otter's brother - another T - and myself are headed next month). The pessimist in me tries to put a damper on things by suggesting that perhaps we haven't yet seen the end of Icelandic smoke and ash - and many volcanoes can erupt in the next three weeks. Yet the thought of all those full English breakfasts, pints of bitter, lovely Devon countryside, and perhaps even the moderately lovely city of Bath (which didn't impress me on my first visit - but I'm willing to give it another go) keeps me going, despite the cold weather and academic underachievement.

Talking about achievement - here's something that has been making its rounds in the feminist blogosphere over the weekend, and made my day yesterday. Behold the power of the Brontë sisters:

I wish I'd had a Brontësaurus when I was growing up, instead of a Barbie. Then again, Barbies could do some kick-ass stuff as well, even though they didn't come with those amazing moustaches.

Confessions of a Rosewater Eater

2010-04-24T14:29:00.000+03:00

Rosewater is not a staple spice in traditional (or even in the contemporary, more cross-culinary) Finnish cooking; therefore it took me a long while to realise it had such a wide range of uses. In this country, liquids that smell of rose are usually reserved for cosmetic purposes, which is a shame.

As I happen to have a bottle of rosewater in my fridge, I've been looking for new foods to put it in. Yesterday I came across a mention of medieval rosewater wafers, which were enjoyed at most festive occasions. Because of the wonders of the internet, I was able to find a recipe (here) and with some alterations, came up with the beauties pictured above. The main difference was that I didn't use a wafer iron, but a frying pan - just like when making contemporary pancakes.

My love affair with rose water officially began about a year ago, when Otter and I got the wonderful idea of trying out milk jelly according to an authentic Tudor recipe (as documented here). Although the gentle aroma of the slippery cubes didn't appeal to everyone, at least they were unlike anything we'd ever tasted before. Thus they were served as "second dessert" at our Renaissance party, along with lovely fruit and some anachronistic coffee, and if not universally adored, at least got sampled by all of our brave guests.

(The photo above courtesy of this guy who unfortunately isn't a fan of the white wobbly stuff.)

The preparations for next summer's period frock party have already begun, and one manifestation thereof can be seen above. Those are Rout Drop Cakes, the recipe for which I found in The Jane Austen Cookbook (by Maggie Black and Deirdre le Faye). Otter and I tried them out over the Easter holidays - and they were delicious, simply melting in the mouth. There's plenty of rosewater in them, but also some brandy, orange juice, currants and lots of sugar.

It says in the book that these little cakes "are pleasant with a glass of wine or a cup of coffee." Having tried them with both, I can assure that they are indeed.

British Comedy Season, Pt. 3: Smack the Pony

2010-04-21T19:23:00.001+03:00

It's been some time since I've tackled comedy on this blog, but last night I watched some Smack the Pony, and was inspired.

There are still very few all (or most-) women comedy shows around, especially on primetime TV. The reason it took me a while to get acquainted with Smack the Pony was its woefully late airing time. Which it a shame, for STP was the wittiest, most absurd, and definitely the most feminist comedy on Finnish telly at the time.

What I love about the show is its ingenious way of taking everyday situations and turning them into something that could almost happen: having a pregnancy test turn orange instead of blue; taking revenge on your annoying flatmate by mixing washing-up liquid into her yogurt - or, meeting a lexically challenged postgirl:

I think everyone who's ever had to write English can sympathise with her despair over silent Gs, and the irrationality of spelling F with PH.

Another great thing about Smack the Pony are the recurring features, like these deliciously random dating agency videos:

I mean, EGG! who would have a BIG EGG! problem dating her?

All great comedies also have music in them, and STP doesn't let you down in this sense, either. At the end of each episode there is usually a music video parodying some current musical trend, ranging from peppy girl groups to trance. My current favourite, however, is this:

I nearly fall off my chair laughing every time Doon Mackihan comes in with that wonderfully earnest rap voice of hers. Woof-de-woof, indeed.

Amused, I'm sure

2010-03-23T19:05:00.000+02:00

Recently I've spent a considerable amount of time combing through the intertubes in search of Regency (or Austenian, or empire - whichever you prefer) inspiration. Mainly the pictures and articles I've come across have been quite ordinary - dealing with spencers and pelisses and different hairstyles and chicken Napoleon - but there have been some eye-openers as well.

Now, most of us associate the era of Jane Austen with genteel manners, dainty ladies and dashing gentlemen. Lots of these about, naturally, as well - but the Regency era, as well as the one preceeding it, could be a pretty boisterous place to be. Unlike the furtive Victorians, these people could and did flaunt their stuff in the broad daylight - and also laugh about it. I've previously mentioned my love of James Gillray's satirical pictures: now I've discovered that he wasn't the only one making delicious caricatures at the turn of the 19th century. I should have known better, really.

Most of the pictures here come from this meticulously assembled website. Click if you want to see a larger version.

First, a look at the wonderful fashions of the day:

This one's called "Les Invisibles en Tête-à-Tête". It just struck me that a fashion like that could be really useful today - you could use your mobile inside one of those hats, while on a bus for instance, without disturbing anyone. I bet a really enterprising lady could assemble a whole office into a hat like that.

The next one illustrates the fact that heterosexuality wasn't the only option for well-bred ladies even in the old days:

Notice the two men lurking together in the bushes as well. And, finally, proof that even then, ladies were dying to find the answer to the ages-old question:

I bet he wasn't.

Nil significat, nisi oscillat

2010-03-05T15:32:00.001+02:00

I'm heading South for the weekend, to partake of some jazz and good company. Now that the sun is out, there's an air of spring about it, too.

I've been asked to sing a few numbers at the party; I don't usually do jazz, so it's been a bit of a challenge to find suitable songs, but it's been a lot of fun practicing as well. I'll never be able to do a piano solo like Nina Simone - but then again, no one can.

Art, For Art's Sake!

2010-02-28T19:02:00.000+02:00

This year's hibernation is finally coming to an end, at least when it comes to sampling bits and pieces of art and culture. Yesterday was really hyper-active in that department, and it looks like next week will be quite busy as well. Which suits me just fine.

Yesterday Juzka and I set out to find how much popular culture one can find and consume within an evening; as it turns out, quite a lot. First, we went to the cinema to check out the latest Disney flick. I've never been an ardent fan of that particular genre, but as far as predictable and visually pleasing fairy-tales go, The Princess and the Frog was fairly enjoyable. I especially liked the music (composed by none other than Randy Newman). I'm actually listening to the soundtrack right now (bless you, Spotify!) - and I can say that the original versions are even more jazzy than the Finnish ones (although they weren't un-groovy either).

After the film, we had some lovely soup and pasta and wine at Soppabaari (one of my favourite restaurants), and then headed for the theatre to see The Crucible.

I can't pretend that I was aware of the work before (although as a former English major I probably should have been) - and the only thing I knew about the play before seeing it was that it dealt with the Salem witchcraft trials. So at least you can say that I wasn't exactly expecting a comedy. And comedic it certainly wasn't; instead, there were shrieking women, selfish judges, witchcraft (real and imagined), deception, false accusations and death aplenty. Lovely.

Basically I liked the play; most of the characters were well cast, and the actors embraced the chaotic atmoshphere of 17th century Salem convincingly. The only major thing that hindered my enjoyment were the ridiculous and illogical costumes. Some characters were dressed in more or less accurate period clothes, others looked like they'd been imported from Victorian England - and the rest had apparently thrown on any black-and-white garments they'd happened upon (black and white being the thematic colours).

The greatest sartorial faux-pas, however, was the ridiculous waist-length black wig worn by the Deputy Governor, with strange curly bits on top, which made him look like a cross between a Goth and a badly permed granny. But perhaps that was the whole idea.

Finally Juzka and I ended up in a pub, listening to a mediocre U2 cover band. We did manage to make some serious plans for empire dresses, though, which was good.

Oh, and here's a thing I just have to share with you. This song never fails to tickle my anachronistic fancy:

Gone Ahead

2010-02-14T13:55:00.002+02:00

My brain's bedazzled by the sudden arrival of the sun - so I can't really think of anything witty to say. Let the pictures speak for themselves.

Tori Amos can also speak for herself, too - and how:

Here's hoping that that rest of the winter will be as gorgeous as this - and that summer will be here soon, because I've already got some groovy things planned for both June and July.

Business as Usual

2010-02-06T12:29:00.002+02:00

It's been quiet here at Sisotowbell Lane lately - mainly because it's been loud and busy elsewhere in my life. After a couple of weeks or so of noise, dust and other kinds of bother, I finally got my new kitchen (which is very nice indeed). I didn't get much time to enjoy all those new cupboards and contraptions, however, because I (the dutiful daughter that I am) was called to S-city to nurse my mum who'd just undergone a hip replacement operation.

Despite all this outward excitement, after Xmas I felt that something important was missing from my life. One could even speak of a sense of stagnation. Fortunately, I soon discovered the source of this emptiness - and the perfect cure for this. I realised that I was suffering from period costume deficiency, which is almost as serious as not getting enough vitamin D during the darkest months of the year.

Drastic measures had to be taken. I immediately immersed myself in the mental preparations of next summer's Jane Austen/Napoleon party . As first aid, I headed for YouTube, and landed on an unknown (at least to me) treasure. Emma has always been one of my favourite Austen novels, but so far I hadn't found a TV or film adaptation which matched my reading of it. All the versions I had seen portray Emma Woodhouse as a comic, annoyingly twinkly kind of character - totally disregarding the fact that the message of the novel is actually a serious one, one that shows the danger of living in a fantasy world, and not being able to see the real world (and its people) as it is.

The version which finally captures this theme is the 1996 TV adaptation with Kate Beckinsale and Mark Strong as Emma and Mr Knightley respectively. I don't know why I haven't been on the lookout for this version, because it has been written by Andrew Davies (he of Pride&Prejudice fame). I like the chemistry between the leading couple, although I think Knightley might have been toned down a bit - all that shouting and raving is somewhat disconcerting. (Mark Strong's performance is otherwise excellent. And he's very nice man to look at, indeed. :)) What raises this version above others, however, are the impeccable performances of the "minor" characters, especially Bernard Hepton's hopelessly hypochondriac Mr Woodhouse and Samantha Morton's gullible but loyal Harriet Smith.

After getting my thoughts thus on the right track, I was in the correct mood to begin thinking about really important things, namely what to wear. In this I have been greatly assisted by Otter and Juska, with whom I spent a delightful afternoon of drooling over muslins and spencers (mainly here) and making actual plans for dresses Juska is going to make for us. Needless to say, they're going to be fabulous. :)

Now I'm feeling much more like myself again; my life has a clear direction once more, and I can already start looking forward to next summer. Which, amid all this snow, is rather optimistic, I know.

(The picture above, in case you're wondering, is by James Gillray, one of the keenest observers of society during the Georgian period. From time to time he also observed fashion.)

That was the year that was

2010-01-08T14:47:00.000+02:00

The first post of the year traditionally looks back on the moods and goings-on of the previous year. Since most of the major events from the past twelve months are documented below, I see no great need to make a detailed harking-back now. Suffice it to say that 2009 treated me fairly well; there were some frustrating bits (mostly to do with academia), but some very rewarding ones as well (mostly to do with the SHS, or with larking about with my friends in general. Teaching was also great fun).

Since thinking in decades is so easy, the beginning of a new one should mark the beginning of a new era as well. In my case this may be so, as the last major cycle for me began in 2000. However, it's hard to judge from such scanty evidence - it may as well be that the next big change comes in 2100, or in 3000.

The year has started with proper wintry weather (see above), which I much prefer to the slushy and grey alternative we've been shown in the past years. Temperatures hovering around -20 C are manageable; once they plummet below -30, life becomes somewhat harder. Although I'm not a great fan of snow, I like the way it makes all landscapes, branches, houses - everything in fact - look softer and plumper.

I'm still tying up the last threads of my teaching career, and after that would be the ideal time to start working on the PhD. We'll see what happens. At least I have a good reason for delaying for a couple of weeks yet, as my landlord's decided to do some repairs in my flat, which means lots of dust and noise, and strange men coming and going at all hours.

Which would be a change, at least.

British Comedy Season, Pt. 2: Blackadder

2009-12-14T13:22:00.000+02:00

Brits make wonderful costume drama, and as we all know, they also make cracking comedy. Now, when it comes to combining the two, rarely has there been a better effort than Blackadder, which ran for four series between 1983 and 1989.

The consensus seems to be that the first season, which is set in the Middle Ages, is the weakest of the four, as the concept is still a bit underdeveloped and Edmund Blackadder (Rowan Atkinson) tries to wear too many hats, character-wise (so, instead of just being scheming and rude, as in the later series, he's also ambitious, cowardly, self-important, and god knows what else). However, I never found this to be a problem: a complex character can be just as funny as a flat one, or even more so. It's perhaps the Mr Bean-like antics he could have done without.

What I love about the first series is the mixing of Shakespearean dialogue with unpredictably silly scenes. Most of the brilliancy is down to the casting. Peter Cook is wonderful as the unjustly murdered Richard III (A horse! A hooor-se... my kindom for a hoooor-se.... Ah! Horsie!), and Miriam Margolyes makes a tremendous appearance as the overamorous Spanish infanta. Yet the character who (at least for me) makes the entire series is the wonderfully energetic Richard IV, played with great gusto by Brian Blessed and his beard ("Blood! Death! War! Rumpy-Pumpy!") . Here, too, we get Baldrick (later merely Blackadder's downtrodden sidekick) showing his true potential as a skilfull political schemer. (What I've never cared for is the casual violence which in the later series features in most of the Blackadder-Baldrick interaction.)

I haven't yet seen all the episodes of the third and fourth series, but from what I've seen, Blackadder Goes Forth is the superior, as it so poignantly combines the tragedy and downright silliness of war. Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie are both in their element - Fry as a bumbling general (BAAA!) , and Laurie as a Bertie Wooster-type clueless aristocrat.

However, my favourite series is the second, set in Elizabethan England, and brimming with excellent writing, great acting and absurd characters. Fistly, there's Blackadder's cross-dressing fiancé Bob, who is later stolen by none other than Rik Mayall (Woof!); there's Bernard the Nursie, who still considers Queen Elizabeth to be a little girl - and finally there's Queenie herself, who may as well be a little girl in court dress, sceptre and the power to cut off peoples' heads. My favourite scene in the whole of Blackadder (which used to be on youtube, but like most BA clips, was quickly taken down) features Queenie laying down the law after a night of drunken revelry:

"I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a concrete elephant. First I'm going to have a little drinkie - and then I'm going to execute the whole bally lot of you!"

As I said, unlike most Monty Python material (which is virtually in the public domain nowadays), Blackadder clips don't remain on youtube for long. Luckily, a special episode of the series survives in its entirety - and appropriately enough, it's a sort of reversal of Dickens's Christmas Carol. Enjoy!

Merry messy Xmas to you all!

Hear, hear!

2009-12-05T20:31:00.000+02:00

This woman is awesome:

That is all.

Pink

2009-12-02T18:44:00.000+02:00

Today was one of those rare December days when both the sun and the moon made their appearance - and not just any kind of moon, but a luminous full disk which, coupled with the cold weather, turned the sky (and the landscape) a pale, powdery pink.

More of this, please. This I like much better than the pouring slop we've been subjected to in the past couple of weeks. Instead of wanting to go back to bed at 9am, I'm almost motivated to work again.

Even the downstairs dog looks happier.

Blue

2009-11-27T11:22:00.000+02:00

It can't get much darker than this: six hours of daylight, most of which is blotted out by leaden clouds. Not a snowflake in sight. Jingle-bloody-bells to you, too.

Tomorrow sees the end of my teaching career - so far, at least. It's been a lot of work, but a lot of fun, too. Here's hoping something as motivating turns up next year as well.

On a wholly unrelated note, on Juska's recommedation I've been listening to Tori Amos's latest album - a Christmas album would you believe - and liking it a lot. In fact, Midwinter Graces is brilliant. If you don't believe me, listen for yourself:

Hausfrau-in-Residence

2009-11-15T14:27:00.002+02:00

Now and then I'm seized by an urge to do housewifely things (such as cleaning the windows or mending a sock): a dangerous occurrence altogether, which usually passes as quickly as it arrived. Yesterday another such bout came upon me, and I decided to make full use of it. Firstly, I baked a delicious cake (as seen above); then I hauled my Afghan rug out for a good airing (in which task I was assisted by my landlord's dog, who wanted to give the rug a good shake); and if all this housewifery hadn't been enough, I spent an hour or so wrapping the first Xmas present I'd bought (the results of this endeavour, I guess, cannot be aired in public before the recipient has actually seen them first).

A few years back I picked up an intriguing book at a local fleamarket. It's called Joka naisen niksikirja from 1952. As far as I know, these housewives' manuals have been published since time immemorial, and the Niksikirja something of a institution in Finland (don't know whether any of these editions are still in print). The copy I've got came with extra household tips (cut out from magazines and glued to the covers and empty pages by the previous owner) - and even a letter (remember those?) written in the spring of 1971 by someone called Sylvi. To my disappointment, it doesn't deal with scandal or even the tiniest bit of gossip, but mainly details the various health problems of its writer and her husband.

What fascinates me about this book is (in addition to its dated beauty tips) its emphasis on recycling. Nothing is wasted, be it old socks or leather gloves (the first, among other things, can be used to line a jacket, the latter to make a handy (heh) neckwarmer for winter). Sour milk is still good for cookies, and dried apple peels make refreshing tea.

Nowadays it's harder to make new things from old things. What to do with a burned-up hard drive? How to give a memory stick a new life? Pantyhose, of course, are an inexhaustible source of recycling fun, but surely other clothing items could be recycled as well? I try to mend whatever clothes I can (with my limited skill), but it's just so much easier to throw the old garment away, and buy a new one.

To get you, random reader, into the right spirit of good housekeeping and rejoiceful recycling, here are some miscellaneous vintage tips, gleaned from the treasure trove that is Niksikirja.

A cup of strong, good coffee makes mutton juicy, and shortens the cooking-time considerably. I might try this next time I'm cooking mutton.
Velvet can be washed in potato water (1 kg shredded potatoes, 5 litres water). I'm not sure I'd try this, but sounds intriguing. I wonder who came up with this idea?
Wet shoes should never be dried with their soles against the floor, but on their sides. Also, filling the shoes with hay or oats dries them quickly. Sounds like a great idea, but where can I get some oats every time I need to dry a shoe?
A glass of honey-and-water is wondrously invigorating! Oh, I agree.
If you have trouble falling asleep, try eating something. Lingonberries, for example, are very effective against insomnia. What?
If you don't have time to wash your hair, you can brush some rye flour into your scalp. Yes, but how do I get it out of my scalp?
Walking a sheep on a leash is difficult, but if you rinse its eyes with water, it follows you willingly even for a long distance. Now where can I get a sheep to try this out on?! And what else would you rinse someone's eyes with but water...?

Before the Snows Came

2009-11-09T19:15:00.000+02:00

I can feel myself slowing down with the darkness: everything feels just a little bit duller, and all chores take just a bit of more time to get done - or even to get started.

At least I managed to take some new pictures before the snow fell and changed everything into a slippery slush. Lately most of my photos seem to be of the same place - the nice bit of forest nearby, with its nice bit of pond. Water is such a great element, as it keeps changing so radically with the season (and the weather), providing always something new to look at.

So that's what I've been doing lately. Gazing into ponds.

And also listening to some Bach.

Baroque rocks.

Thought for the Day

2009-10-26T13:16:00.000+02:00

Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
and how the wind doth ramm,
Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm,

Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

"Song" by Ezra Pound. Modelled after this little ditty.

Anyway, I'm off to the North for a few days.

...let me in-a your window-who-ho-ho

2009-10-21T19:56:00.001+03:00

Over at The Pursuit of Harpyness people are discussing their favourite 19th century novelists (such as the Brontës and Jane Austen) - and especially their favourite male characters in these books. Most deny that they have ever spent breathless hours reading about (or even better, making up) the exploits of Heathcliff and Mr. Rochester. Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, is much more warmly regarded; many feminists would be ready to set their cap at good old Fitzwilliam - and rightly so, for he's the only one of the three who hasn't got dark secrets cluttering up his past (or indeed his attic at Pemberley).

I have to make a confession: for me, the Brontë heros (especially Heathcliff, but also Mr. Rochester) were the stuff of teenage fantasy; Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, has always left me cold. However, having developed a somewhat maturer look on life and relationships, I can now wholeheartedly agree with the commentators of PoH: Messrs. H and R are complete gits.

Deep and dark and broodingly sexy as they might be, their world revolves around their own needs and desires - and anything (be it a mentally unstable wife or a completely innocent bystander) that gets in the way of these must be removed, usually by force. They have unhealthy obsessions, and unnaturally strong passions, which are taken out on other people (again). And yet, they attract perfectly sensible, self-possesssed women who seem to think they can bring out the best in these men. Whatever that may be.

Maybe it was the corsets. Anything that restricts your circulation can't be beneficial to your mental processes, either.

It's impossible to say what kind of protagonists Emily Brontë would have chosen for her next novel, but her big sister didn't show much improvement in her taste in men - Villette for one has another bullying despot as its male lead, and another forgiving lady willing to prop up his ego. I don't know if anyone has ever has the hots for M. Paul - at least Mr. Rochester has the good manners not to patronise Jane Eyre so blatantly (and as a reward only gets blinded and has his arm chopped off, whereas M. Paul - at least according to my reading - doesn't survive the old Brontë treatment).

Anne Brontë was perhaps the most sensible of the three - at least when it comes to the representation of men in her work. Hark! A Vagrant illustrates this beautifully: Dude Watchin' with the Brontës, ladies and gentlemen.

As to Jane Austen men, I can't say that I've been much moved by any of them (unless we're talking about the film versions. If so, Colonel Brandon is my man). Perhaps it's got something to do with the stiff manners and the stilted sentences of the period, or the slightly stock-like nature of Austen's heroes (the protagonists have to get married in the end, after all); thus, while reading Sense and Sensibility, Emma, or Northanger Abbey, my attention mainly remains with the thoughts and feelings of the female characters.

Persuasion is the exception here: Captain Wentworth is a very intriguing character (with his Past and all), and a worthy equal of the poised Anne Elliot; he's made his mistakes in the past, and is not willing to be swayed by anyone's opinions (at least when it comes to choosing a wife). He's a bit gruff, but at least I get the feeling that he can also laugh at himself (a trait Mr Sourpuss Darcy certainly doesn't possess). And he's got a big ship.

Although P&P is undoubtledly the most sparkling of Austen's novels, Persuasion has got a quiet dignity that I like, and also some brilliant insights into human nature. The final conversation between Anne Elliot and Captain Harville is a gem:

"Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything."

"But how shall we prove anything?"

"We never shall. - - It is a difference of opinion which does not admit proof. We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own circle - -."

And in case you've no idea what the title of this post refers to, I can only say that you've missed one of the finest pieces of popular music ever written:

British Comedy Season, Pt. 1: Monty Python

2009-10-17T18:31:00.000+03:00

I did promise a couple of weeks ago to start a series of posts about my favourite British comedy shows, and in case anyone is wondering whether I've forgotten this promise, I can now confidently answer: no, I haven't.

Although I'd watched loads of British comedy before I was aware of Monty Python - and although there were many brilliant TV comedies before The Flying Circus came along (chronologically speaking), I think no other show has had quite the same influence (on me, or on British comedy) over the years. Also, as it's now the 40th anniversary of the first broadcast of the series, so I think Pythons are a very good place to start.

For me, the first encounter with the Python phenomena didn't come through the TV series, but through the films. When I was around 17, YLE broadcast The Holy Grail and The Life of Brian, and especially the first of those hit me over the head with the proverbial rubber chicken. To this day, it's one of the few films I know by heart, and quote at unsuspecting people (the only other films are A Hard Day's Night and Help!. I suppose I was a bit of a Beatles geek as a teenager).

There are so many brilliant bits in The Holy Grail that it's hard to pick only one. However, the Knights Who Say 'Ni' sequence is one of the highlights of the film, as it includes not only the bewildered King Arthur and his long-suffering entourage, the wonderfully silly Knights, and Roger the Shrubber - but also Brave Sir Robin and his minstrels (who get eaten towards the end of the film. There are just so many random elements around that it's amazing they hang so well together.

After wearing out the VHS tape on which I'd preserved both of the aforementioned films, I finally got to the real thing - the Flying Circus TV series, which of course blew me away (and gave me loads of whole new quoting material). I generally like the more 'literary' stuff (like the sketch in which John Cleese and Graham Chapman - dressed as suburban housewives - get into an argument about existentialism, and sail to France in order to ask Jean-Paul Sartre which one of them is right); the 'Dead Parrot' sketch, for instance, is a bit too shouty and violent to my taste. However, one of my absolute favourites is the 'Cheese Shop' sketch, which works along similar lines, but is much more clever and verbally acrobatic (it also features some lovely dancing).

After watching this, I always get a craving for Venezuelan beaver cheese, for some reason.

As there's so much good stuff to choose from, it's nigh impossible to name my absolute favourite Flying Circus sketch. This court scene one, however, encapsulates many things that I adore about Monty Python. It's got Eric Idle giving a mock-Olivier address to the court, John Cleese hopping about in wig and gown, Graham Chapman both as a voluable lady and a keen-eyed police inspector, and Michael Palin as Cardinal Richelieu (complete with pink robes and a personal microphone). Yet my favourite bit comes at the very end.

A guy in a suit of armour, wielding a rubber chicken. That would come in handy at my Doctoral defence ceremony, as a kind of rhetorical device - in case my carefully prepared argumentation fails to impress the audience and my opponent.

(In case any of my friends are reading: this is what I'd like for Christmas. One suit of armour, one rubber chicken, and someone willing to act as a rhetorical device in the near future. Please.)

Lady in Black Eats off Swedish Plates

2009-10-15T15:54:00.000+03:00

Here's what I accomplished today. After a couple of hours of babysitting M's daugther (with M safely in the same room, having her hair dyed) I took a turn in the local charity shop. My intention was to find something suitable to wear at my colleague's post- doctoral defense dinner: something rather more formal than the stuff currently lurking in my closet.

Now I'm the proud owner of a lovely black velvet dress - the first black dress I've ever owned. As can be gleaned from the photos, it's not entirely black (which made it less threatening for me), and judging by the label, it's none of your usual [your favourite Swedish clothing chain] stuff. It cost me 6 euros.

Not bad, eh? Coupled with my 20s necklace it'll look right classy (and in a Viking-themed restaurant completely out of place, probably).

I also found a lovely stack of Rörstrand - my favourite Swedish vintage platemakers - plates. They cost an euro apiece, and don't clash too badly with my Finnish tablecloth, at least not yet. :)

Since Tuesday I've been floating in a kind of haze - glad that my thesis was so well received, and also so well criticised (after all, that's what this middle work between Master's and PhD is for), and at the same time uncertain of what to do next. My supervisor can probably help me with that, so until our next meeting I'll be killing time between lectures.

Which suits me just fine.

Here's what Kate Bush has to say about it:

Context, Cows and the Capital

2009-10-12T16:19:00.000+03:00

I spent the weekend in Helsinki, celebrating Fidia's birthday in the usual manner (but with fewer films this time) and also doing some work on our webpage with Otter and T. Thus in three days I indulged in catching up with a dozen of friends, eating in a rather fancy restaurant, making and helping to destroy a truly sinful chocolate cake, watching some great films, and - as always with Otter and T, planning a glorious future for SHS.

On Sunday I got treated to a side of Helsinki I rarely encounter - and one I enjoy greatly. As the pictures above show, there is more to our capital than concrete and traffic jams and grumpy people; indeed, it also seems to include cows and fields and friendly dog-owners. If I saw that side of the city more often, I might even get to tentatively like the darn place.

Today's been a cloudy day - both internally and weather-wise. I like the bleakness of October when it coincides so wonderfully with my mental state - which is similarly worn-out but at the same time serene and strangely expectant.

What I'm expecting, of course, is a satisfactory ending to my nearly year-long travail with my Licentiate, which should take place tomorrow. And even more than that I'm looking forward to the big chocolate cake I've been promised. :)

Contributing to my bitter-sweet mood has been Aimee Mann, whose soundscapes are perfect for this season. I love her matter-of-fact delivery and inventive lyrics, especially as they are set to devastatingly gorgeous music. Like so:

Sounds of Silence

2009-10-06T15:22:00.000+03:00

I was going to start a series of posts on my favourite British comedy series (it being the 40th anniversary of Monty Python’s Flying Circus), but in the light of recent events I’ll postpone that for a while, and dedicate this one to Veikko Huovinen, one of my favourite writers – and now sadly departed from our midst.

If you’re Finnish, you’re probably aware that Huovinen shuffled off this mortal coil last Sunday. He was 82, but the news was still quite unexpected: he was never one for selling his life to the tabloids, and therefore no news of his illness reached the media. He has been branded something of a recluse, and this may be true; I spent my first 18 years living in the same town as he, and only saw him once during that time (and twice after that).

My first encounter with Huovinen’s work came through the TV versions of his books and short stories. Lentsu was probably the first of these (the scene in which the feverish lorry driver crashes into the wall of his own house will always stay with me). When I was around ten, I found Veitikka in my grandfather’s bookshelf and read it – and remained puzzled throughout as I couldn’t quite decide whether I was dealing with a genuine biography of Hitler, or something completely different. Later, of course, I realised that “something completely different” doesn’t cover the sheer subversive brilliance of the book.

In school we were force-fed some "contemporary" Finnish lit – Havukka-ahon ajattelija and Koirankynnen leikkaaja among them. I enjoyed both, and began to make my slow way through the bulk of Huovinen’s repertoire – which, I was to discover, is amazingly wide. He’s mainly known for his gently philosophical descriptions of the weird folk of Kainuu (in itself an inexhaustible well of material), but although that stuff is excellent, too, there’s much more to him than Konsta Pylkkänen and his ilk. Not only did Huovinen write pseudo-biographical books about dictators (Hitler, Stalin and Peter the Great), he tackled dystopian themes in Lemmikkieläin, flu pandemics in Lentsu – and life, the universe and everything in his short stories.

My favourite collection of short stories (from any writer, come to think of it), is probably Lyhyet erikoiset (on which I blogged a couple of months ago) – although Matikanopettaja is a close runner-up (with its title story about a teacher – not of maths, but of fish). Over the weekend I amused Otter and T. by reading aloud from Lyhyet erikoiset and marvelling at the inventiveness of Huovinen’s style. Who else would compare the taste of Hungarian pickles to “a mullah’s song from the roof of a minaret”?

Well, no one will. One of the greats has passed on.

2009-09-30T15:54:00.002+03:00

This week's been a good one - and it seems that it'll continue along similar lines. So far I've filled in a few forms and done general administrative things to do with my teaching, and managed to be quite efficient and cheerful about them, which is very uncharacteristic of me. On top of that, yesterday I wrote a five-page essay for a forthcoming seminar. In 1½ hours. Even more uncharacteristic of me, for I usually need a whole week for that sort of thing - a couple of days for complaining, a day for organising my thoughts, and a couple of days for the actual writing. And preferably an extra day for editing.

I wonder what's wrong with me.

Tomorrow I'll be attending a Unifem reading group (always a pleasure, albeit a rare one), and most of Friday will be spent at that aforementioned seminar (which should also be fun. I'm such a humanist geek...).

However, the real fun doesn't begin until Friday evening, when Otter and T get into town. SHS silliness, ahoy!

Later That Same Wednesday...

2009-09-23T19:05:00.003+03:00

Well I'll be damned. After having complained for ages about the non-existent progress of my Licentiate, it seems I'm soon being robbed of this particular joy. This morning I got a call from our professor, who had finally got things moving at the department, and arranged the defence for 13th of October.

And he said there'd be cake.

This is of course great news, and also means that I'll have to stop all this complaining, and actually get some work done towards the PhD in the near future. But I'm in no particular hurry to get my silly hat and sword just yet. In the meanwhile, I'll concentrate on teaching (I'm planning of smuggling some Beatles into the first literature lecture) - and all those lovely extracurricular things.

Speaking of which, lately I've been watching loads of classic Brit comedy on Youtube (seriously - what did people DO before Youtube?) - and for some reason I always end up watching Blackadder, or something by Fry and Laurie (with or without Rowan Atkinson). I'm planning of doing a separate post on either (or both) of these in the future, but here's a little something I discovered the other day browsing around. This clip features Emma Thompson and Stephen Fry doing what they do best (i.e. saying absurd things in impossible upper-class accents):

Ebsolutely fentestic!

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Brits do know how to make first-class costume drama. And comedy. And comic costume drama. And Emma Thompson and Stephen Fry are gorgeous.

Perhaps I should include this in my lecture as well...?

A Promenade in the Park, or Pretentious Perambulations

2009-09-20T19:25:00.000+03:00

As I stated in the previous post, autumn's a great season - and it also tends to bring out the Artist in most of us. At least it does in me. On top of that, I find I'm more energetic and more organised at this time of year (although by November most of these fine qualities have disappeared, only to emerge again sometime in late August) - and so it's easier to start new projects and do general artsy stuff.

The pictures above belong to the latter category. As the weather was gorgeous today, I decided to make a trek to the local park. I actually discovered this little gem only a couple of months ago - and even then completely by accident. It's quite far from where I live, but I think I'll be going there quite often from now on - at least when the cafe is open.

So I got to indulge in artsiness among the old wooden houses, the wonky trees and fluttering leaves. The only drawback is my camera, which refuses to take clear, focused pictures in cloudy weather (or what it regards as cloudy weather). I'm trying to work with this handicap - at least it yields some interesting results, as can be seen in the middle picture. In general, however, I appreciate gadgets that do what I want them to do, and not just when it's sunny.

Next week, I'm finally getting back to teaching (oddly enough, I'm really looking forward to it...;) ) and I've been doing loads of back-up reading and planning lectures for some time now. This means that the PhD is definitely on the back burner - and will be until somebody tells me who my current supervisor is, and what's going on with my long-due Licentiate. But I've decided not to fret, and intead concentrate on the more motivating stuff.

Like updating my poor, neglected blog. :)

By the way, if you haven't yet noticed: the comments are (finally) on. Couldn't figure how to get them to work until yesterday evening, when it all came to me like a man on a flaming pie.

Here's one I made earlier

2009-09-19T14:52:00.005+03:00

Autumn's great. Nights are dark, days are bright and colourful - or rainy and drab, which gives you the perfect excuse to stay in and bake. The raspberry pie above is a favourite of mine (I normally use lingonberries or blueberries) as its very quick and easy to make, and absolutely delicious.

This is also the perfect time for listening melancholy music (although I have to admit that I indluge in it regularly, regardless of season). I'm about to clean my mp3-player - chuck out most of the happy, summery songs (Lovin' Spoonful, The Best of Bollywood, Steely Dan etc.) and replace them with stuff like this:

Literary reflections

2009-09-04T14:59:00.005+03:00

Since the last post, seems like nothing much has been happening here. After such a delicious and hectic summer, going back to the routine takes some getting used to. And lots and lots of caffeine.

Then again, I've managed to do quite a bit of reading (for my PdD) and have been trying to work all this new-found information into the tapestry of the thesis. So far so good, but I'd really appreciate some outside feedback as well - which hasn't been forthcoming in the past year.

On the other hand, I've also had time to read some brilliant fiction. Mostly re-reads, but some new gems as well. A couple of weeks ago I gobbled up Veikko Huovinen's Lyhyet erikoiset in about a day, cackling all the way through. There's something about Huovinen's wry style that completely disarms me - though of course the things he chooses to write about are quite unusual as well. Or at least I haven't yet come across another short story that discusses the relative merits of tinned foods from around the world.

Another book that completely bowled me over was Eeva Kilpi's Naisen päiväkirja. I first read it a few years back, and I remember being impressed by it: reading it a second time I was almost overwhelmed with its frankness, fragility and sheer scope. Kilpi tackles loneliness, ageing, sex (or the lack thereof), her relationship to her children, to God, and to the universe in general, all with soul-baring intensity. Amazing stuff.

On a more melancholy note, I was sad to hear of the death of Ellie Greenwich - and it was also saddening to note how swiftly her death was glossed over in the media (I don't think that YLE, for one, even mentioned it). It's really hard to pick a favourite from her impressive repertoire ('The Leader of the Pack', 'I Can Hear Music', 'Do Wah Diddy Diddy'... ) but then again, it's not that hard at all:

Work in progress

2009-08-05T12:43:00.003+03:00

My summer holiday is now officially over. So, from today on I should be getting on with my PhD, begging for money, and preparing lectures.

But I just can't be arsed.

Partly this is due to the inevitable back-to-work disorientation, which most of us are familiar with, but mostly I'm just pissed off with our department, which doesn't seem to get anywhere with my Licentiate thesis. As it appears that nobody's interested in reading my text, I can't really be bothered to write any more of that stuff. But we'll see what happens when things get moving again after the holidays.

Instead of doing research, then, I've been doing other, no less important things - like updating my blog and shopping for groceries. But the thing that takes up most of my time now is this little project.

Sumer is icumen in

2009-07-02T10:12:00.006+03:00

So, that was that. The Renaissance Party is now behind us, and as far as I can tell, it was a roaring success. Everything was perfect: the weather, the food, the location. All preparations went smoothly; the guests looked dashing in their period costume and even seemed to enjoy wearing all that velvet and lace despite the sweltering heat.

Now that the party's over, I've been feeling extraordinarily lazy. This isn't such a good thing, as Juska's wedding is just around the corner, and I'll be involved in all kinds of preparations for the big day.

On Monday, I'll be heading North with Otter, T, and Nansen. I've been promised all kinds of cultural activities (Kuhmo Chamber Music Festival, for instance), mutton cooked in a pit, and some SHS silliness.

But before that, I think I'll go and take a nap.

...since from myself another self I turned

2009-06-25T18:28:00.002+03:00

Second Hand Roses

2009-06-12T16:10:00.006+03:00

I'm not one of those people who shops for recreation. As a rule, I don't like crowded places, and I'm not that keen on spending money, either. Flea markets, however, are something different; I like their complete randomness and the element of unexpectedness. Indeed, one should never go to a second-hand shop looking for something particular, for at least in my experience, real 'finds' are things you never expected to find.

After a busy week, I'm winding down for the weekend, listening to the sublime Madeleine Peyroux:

Summer Sounds

2009-06-03T16:16:00.004+03:00

I've been meaning to write a post about my favourite summer albums and songs, and isn't it just my luck that when I've finally got the time and inclination to do so, the weather turns foul... But that's no excuse, especially in this country, as good music is good music, regardless of the meteorological circumstances.

Ok, let's start with one of my all-time favourite albums, Gillian Welch's Soul Journey. As a rule, I know very little about bluegrass, and Welch is probably the only artist in my record collection who can be classified under that genre. I'm not sure about this album's summeriness, either, but since I first heard it in early summer (must have been around 2002...), the associations with sunshine and t-shirts have stayed with me. But there is a dusty, drowsy feeling to the songs, which makes Soul Journey a perfect soundtrack for late summer especially, with trees drooping in the sun, a winding dirt track rippling in the heat, and a gentle sound of banjos in the afternoon air.

Although in my case Joni Mitchell has been pretty much a 24/7 occupation for the past few years, some of her music has summery associations for me as well. The Hissing of Summer Lawns is an obvious choice, although it isn't among her best-known work. It also differs from Mitchell's previous albums in both its soundscape and its more socially-aware lyrical content. The title track, which slithers along like the snake depicted on the album cover, is a good example of this.

Very L.A. chic circa '75.

Speaking of which, the next summer album is also in the Californian jazz-rock vein, with some Latin influences thrown in for that irresistible groove. Can't Buy A Thrill by Steely Dan was one of those records I took to immediately, and I rediscovered it a couple of weeks ago.

Then the obligatory Motown feelgood track. In my case it's 'Dancing in the Street' by Martha and the Vandellas. Amazing singing, amazing energy. Not so sure about the lyrics, though... "Every guy, grab a girl / everywhere around the world". Buh.

However, when it comes to feelgood let-the-summer-begin songs, I need to say only three words:

The Gentle Art of Renaissance Cooking

2009-05-29T13:10:00.005+03:00

For some reason, in the last few days preparations for the Renaissance party have motivated me much more than academic accomplishments. So here's what I did today instead of grading home exams or finishing an essay: I baked a Renaissance-style cheese and onion pie. In case you're interested, you can find the recipe here (be warned: that is not a Weight Watchers page you're entering).

I was expecting the tart to be tasty (after all, what's not to like: fatty cheese, onions, sultanas, parsley, sugar and spices), but still the result surprised me positively. It's not too sweet, although the added sugar and sultanas make your brain do funny things, not knowing whether this is a sweet or savoury dish. Also next time I'll double the amount of ginger.

But yep, this one's definitely on the party menu.

Another example of my skewered priorities is that when I couldn't sleep last night, I got up to trim my French hood (now there's a double entendre if I ever produced one). Never in my life have I considered sitting up until 11 pm sowing beads on a piece of headwear. Strange days indeed.

The SHS is also spreading its sinister influence, one person at a time.; at least I've already managed to involve some totally innocent people in this Renaissance lark. Last week I persuaded my mum to help me with the making of two bumrolls (ours are blue, by the way). Mum's a good sport, and she complied with surprisingly little resistance (I think she was curious to know what exactly I had in mind). However, in order to make a decent bumroll, you need quite a lot of stuffing. Having exhausted our supply of old pantyhose and other miscellaneous hosiery, we turned to my mum's best friend for help. Thankfully, she's one of those people who never throws anything away, and soon furnished us with about fifty pairs of old pantyhose. (Seriously, people! Let this be a warning to you all...). But now Otter and I can cut a nearly authentic figure in our Renaissance frocks, although I don't think even Queen Elizabeth has as cool bumrolls as we do. At least hers weren't stuffed with support stockings...

Small Budget Charity

2009-05-27T15:22:00.003+03:00

Now here's an amusing thing you can do if you've got time on your hands and zero motivation to do any real work. Check out this website. (I found it through her.)

While I don't think that the English language is getting impoverished, or that all these newfangled words are ruining its ages-old beauty, it's nevertheless a nice idea to hang onto some of the older words and expressions - especially if they're useful or poignant or just downright silly.

Here are five words I picked, and have pledged to use as much as I can. I tried to choose words that are genuinely useful (there are lots of words that are very specific, and thus not all that practical for everyday activities like blogging).

Blateration. "blabber, chatter". As in "I couldn't get a word in the edgewise for all the blateration at the meeting."

Foppotee. "a simple-minded person". This is my favourite - mainly because it's meaning is so self-evident. "He's a great foppotee, but I like him nevertheless."

Incabinate. "to enclose or imprison in a cabin." A word of great usefulness in the Finnish summer. "They're planning to incabinate me for two months."

Welmish. "of a pale or sickly colour." While obviously handy when referring to people, somehow I think this word applies very well to animals as well - especially dogs. "The new puppy was cute, but of a strange, welmish colour."

Yelve. "a dung fork." This word has a deliciously Ye Olde Worlde ring to it - and I can't believe that fantasy writers haven't rallied to its defense. "Gandalf was greatly annoyed when the Balrog prodded him in the backside with his yelve."

New arrivals

2009-05-12T16:16:00.006+03:00

This is "Eino". He was born on Sunday - just in time to make a great Mothers' Day gift for M - and I got to meet him when he was only a few hours old.

I'm not of the 'Miracle of Birth' school (meaning that I'm not overawed by the arrival of new life), but I'm a keen supporter of the 'Baby Animals Are Darn Cute' club. I would also be terrified to be left in charge of a newborn human (or indeed any human under 5); yet, I had no scruples watching over little Eino and bottlefeeding him until he learned how and where to get the milk himself (he finally mastered this at around 1 am).

"I should peddle butterflies / There's a shortage in the city... "

2009-05-05T15:43:00.004+03:00

As my academic career seems to be going nowhere (quite literally) at the moment, I've got to provide some movement by some other means. So I went to Helsinki for May Day, mainly to see Fidia and to take care of some SHS business.

I finally got to meet my dress. It looks even better than I thought it would (when I was feeling overly optimistic); the green velvet (or the approximation thereof) is exactly the right shade, and the blue-and-gold brocade (ditto) looks really sumptuous. The only problem with the dress was the sleeves: being historically accurate, they weren't sown to the bodice, but came as separate attachments - but with only two holes on the shoulder and a length of ribbon to attach them with. As I had expected a less efficiently air-conditioned model, I spent the best part of Saturday afternoon attaching the sleeves to the bodice. I was positively surprised with the result (as I'm not a very adept needlewoman, and attaching things to other things has always been especially problematic for me), and now all I need is a bumroll (my mum has promised to make me one).

Anyway. Other Stereotypical History Society business included teaching Renaissance dancing to six other members of our society. The dances I'd chosen (bransle and pavan) were surprisingly simple, and my apt pupils picked them up very quickly - and even claimed to enjoy hopping about randomly in full view of other people. Although I have to say that folk who spend most of their time staring into a computer screen have some difficulty reaching even one tenth of the gracefulness of their Renaissance counterparts (who, I've been informed, spent their days practicing various sports, and yes, dancing).

I'm glad my friends showed genuine enthusiasm towards the dancing, because otherwise I've been feeling as if I've been left holding up the pole (with Otter and T holding up another), while the others are just glad to sit back in the carriage and enjoy the ride. Of course, others probably haven't got as much spare time on their hands as I do, and can't spend hours pondering the finer points of French hoods; yet, it's always a bit saddening when you realise other people aren't as enthusiastic about things you have a passion for.

Luckily, there's still plenty of time to get people interested in the Renaissance party, and make them realise they need to find something appropriate to wear as well.

Although the beginning of last week was more crappy than most, I'm feeling more optimistic and upbeat now - and, of course, still looking forward to the party. The song below pretty well sums up my present state of mind. (It's 'Aching to Pupate' by Regina Spektor. I wish I'd written that song).

The charms of Castelmola

2009-04-28T14:36:00.005+03:00

Summer has finally arrived in Central Finland, and I don't feel so bad anymore about leaving Sicily behind. I get a twinge of wanderlust when I look through my photos, but as I've spent the last two days in a car (most of the time getting nowhere), and I'm planning to celebrate May 1st in Helsinki, I'm quite content to sit still for a while (and pretend to get some work done).

The pictures above are of the village of Castelmola, which lies almost directly above Taormina. The place itself is worth seeing - it has a ruined castle, some picturesque little streets, and some picturesque ruined little houses.

However, the main attraction of the village is its famed almond wine, and we were told that this was the place to buy it from. Not knowing what to expect, we (I was travelling with my mother, remember) were rather taken aback by the unashamedly phallic decor of the place when we decided to stop there for lunch. Service was rather slow, but when our pizzas finally arrived, they were excellent - AND we got a complementary glass of almond wine at the end of the meal. Needless to say, we also bought two bottles of the stuff.

The route to Castelmola from Taormina is quite short, but demanding enough even for a seasoned walker like me. Needless to say, the views on the way are breathtaking, and thus well worth the exhausting climb. Thus, when at the end of the second week, mum and I found we had still one day of unscheduled time on our hands, we decided to make a second trip up the mountain. This was partly because during our first visit the weather was grey, and I couldn't get decent pictures of the place. Mainly, though, we went back for some more of that excellent wine.

Turns out the bartender at Turrisi remembered us, offered us another free helping of wine, and provided us with couple of more bottles. This time around the weather was glorious (making the uphill trek quite a sweaty one), and on top of it all, we got some extra entertainment watching people put up decorations for the forthcoming St. George's day (he being the patron saint of not only the English, but the people of Castelmola as well).

Prior to this trip, I was advised not to wear any jewellery while in Sicily. I mostly stuck to this principle but I can't say it made any difference; no one tried to steal anything, whether I was wearing a necklace or not - nor did my mother's purse get picked (she, after all, wore a ring and a gold bracelet all the time). So I won't pass on this piece of advice. One tip I'd like to give is this: when in Sicily, always carry change and small amounts of cash with you. Never rely on your credit card (as it might not work), or the fact that shopkeepers have enough change. I found that not even supermarkets have enough small change in their tills, and often I got either too few or too many coins.

Also: always, always take your suntan lotion with you, no matter how rainy the day looks.

Our duomo is bigger than your duomo

2009-04-22T12:03:00.005+03:00

Since I finally got the Licentiate thesis off my hands, and the lecture almost planned, I might as well share some of my impressions of Sicily with you. As I said earlier, I enjoyed the island very much, and would like to go back some day to see more of it, as we only travelled up and down the east coast.

Taormina, the city where we stayed, is exquisite. It has a stunning location, numerous groovy little side streets, a lovely big park (originally owned by an Englishwoman called Lady Trevelyan), a bustling piazza, and lots and lots of shops (most of which were way beyond my budget). Because of this, it's been a popular tourist attraction for years and years (Goethe was also very impressed by Taormina, but I guess that he didn't go there for the shopping, either).

The weather was somewhat unpredictable, and perhaps because of that (or because of the economic situation) there weren't that many tourists around. We non-Sicilians did stand out very easily, though; while we sauntered along Corso Umberto in our t-shirts and linen trousers, the locals still sported their winter coats and black leather boots (women) or woollen slipovers (men). I wonder if we Scandinavians are the only people in Europe who dress according to the weather (and not according to the calendar, or some other arbitrary reason).

I was positively surprised by the public transport on the island. It was easy to get from Taormina to the nearby cities - by bus and by train - and as far as I could tell, both forms of transport operated more or less on time, and most delightfully of all, were very affordable. The train to Syracyse was crowded (it was Easter Sunday), and the bus from Catania to Taormina took two hours to traverse the 40-odd kilometre journey (but there were faster buses as well, and we did get to see many lovely seaside towns on the way).

Of those two larger cities we visited, Syracuse definitely won my approval. The weather was unfortunately foul (rain and a strong wind from the sea), but despite that, the place was one of the most impressive cities I've seen; the Piazza Duomo alone would have made the trip worthwhile. We also got a good (but rather unexpected) Easter lunch in one of the small restaurants near the Duomo; around noon we were getting rather peckish and started looking for a suitable place (not a very easy task since most restaurants open late in the afternoon). After a frustrating search, we happened upon an open door, out of which peered a small granny. I asked her whether the restaurant was open, but she couldn't understand English, and I couldn't understand her Italian. Fortunately the owner of the place spoke some English, and we established that lunch would be served at one o'clock. Coming back at the appointed hour, we were ushered to a small table, and soon food and wine began appearing in front of us - without either of us ordering anything or even consulting a menu.

Turns out Easter lunch was the only thing they were serving that day. Which was just as well: we sat there for about three hours, consumed five courses (counting the traditional Sicilian Easter cake), and got a hearty handshake (and an invitation to come back for Xmas lunch) from the owner as we finally staggered out of the door. All this for 35 euros each.

Catania, on the other hand was bit of a disappointment. First of all, the city is (quite inevitably) shabbier than Syracuse (Mt. Etna is after all in their backyard), and it has an overall feel of seediness not apparent in the more 'touristy' places. There are lots of shops there, but most of them were again too expensive for the student budget, and the open-air market on the other hand contained little more than trinkets and scary, shouty peddlers.

However, there were good bits, too. Piazza Duomo (again) was a spectacle in itself (so was the Duomo - the largest church I've ever seen, and I've seen a few). The public park (named after the city's famous son, Bellini), was partly under construction, but the parts we saw were very pleasant indeed (so was the pizza we ate there). For me, the best bit was the Civic Museum, a 13th century Norman castle that houses Greek and Roman art which you get to see for free.

There's so much to tell that I guess I'll have to write a separate post about the smaller villages we visited (especially Castelmola, which was so fascinating we trekked up there twice. More about its charms later).

Taormina dreaming...

2009-04-21T19:24:00.003+03:00

The long-awaited trip to Sicily was a success; so much so that it's been really hard getting used to the routine of writing and planning lectures, and to the sunny but mercilessly chilly Finnish weather. I'll probably be posting more of my impressions on the island later on, so suffice it to say that during the last two weeks I enjoyed the Mediterranean spring, local cuisine, and general non-academic activities to the full, and also managed to get a decent suntan.

However, my supervisor finally mailed his comments on my Licenciate thesis, and today I did some last-minute readjustments before sending it to our professor. About time, too. Soon I'll have to start thinking about the structure and actual contents of my PhD thesis, but at the moment I'm more concerned about getting my act together before Friday, when I've got to teach the penultimate grammar lecture (adjectives and adverbials, yay). After that, I can start worrying about finding appropriate Renaissance dances, and the best way of teaching them to myself and the rest of the Stereotypical History Society over the 1st of May weekend.

Things fall apart...or, everything comes back to Jane Austen

2009-03-31T15:44:00.005+03:00

Why is it that when electric appliances decide to expire, they have to do it all at once? This morning I found out my battery charger had stopped working. Then, on my way to S-Market, the headphones of my mp3-player started acting funny. These are minor things, and easily (and quite cheaply) repleacable, but I'm waiting for the inevitable third casualty - I'm guessing it'll be either my computer or my freezer (just my luck it'd stop working while I'm on holiday).

Nothing much has been happening here. I've spent most of today reading Sicily-related web pages and blogs, trying to find out what to see, eat and drink while I'm there. I've also been listening to some more of Dowland's lute songs - and to my surprise discovered that 'Weep You No More, Sad Fountains' was originally written by him. Although I knew it was an old song, I had always associated with the famous pianoforte scene (below) from Sense and Sensibility.

For me, this is the definitive version of the song (with the melody composed by Patrick Doyle). I play it on the piano quite often, and each time I perform it, I imagine Alan Rickman walking through the door and stopping to listen, mesmerised.

If only...

Castle 1 - Academia 0

2009-03-29T14:25:00.009+03:00

I just got back from a conference trip to Turku - my first ’official’ performance outside my own alma mater. As I got up at 4.30 on Thursday morning, caught an early train to Turku and then had to find my way first to the B&B and then to the university - in a city relatively unknown to me - by the time I had presented my own paper I was completely knackered. Which was just as well, as there was very little in the symposium to get my academic teeth into.

What annoys me about these gatherings is the sheer amount of bullshit that goes on between (and sometimes during) the sessions. Maybe it’s just my Finnish nature that doesn’t agree with empty small-talk, but I feel extremely out of place when people start complementing each other on their ‘interesting’ work - while at the same time they probably don’t even remember (or care) what it is that these people do. Of course it’s always nice to meet colleagues etc., but otherwise there's very little substance to these conferences, at least when compared to the amount of money and time that goes into organising them.

During the weekend I also got a quick tour into the unbelievably narrow-minded world of some of these academics (some of them well-known in their respective fields). Musicologists for one seem to be terribly concerned about keeping their own field carefully fenced, so that those people who don’t do ‘real’ musicology (ethnomusicologists, for example) can’t get in to steal their precious resources. An interesting paradox in itself, as the purpose of the conference was to celebrate the multi-disciplinary nature of music studies. Ha.

On a brighter note, I skipped the last day of the symposium altogether in order to get a closer look at the Turku Castle (which I’d previously seen only from the outside). So while the others were busy patting each other academically on the back, I rambled the halls and corridors of the castle - and boy, did I get my money’s worth! Actually, there’s so much to see that three hours wasn’t nearly enough; I especially would've liked to ask more questions from the guides (who seemed to be very knowledgeable of the stories of their respective rooms - and also eager to share that knowledge).

Also the city itself had a surprisingly welcoming atmosphere; I say ‘surprisingly’, because I’ve always thought all people West of Jyväskylä tend to be glum and more reserved compared to us easygoing Easterners. However, all the people I met were friendly and talkative - but then again, we all tend to be like that in the first sunny days of spring.

Talking of that: this time next week I’ll be sitting in a piazza somewhere in Sicily, soaking up the Mediterranean sun. Should be good.

Looking forward to

2009-03-19T15:23:00.004+02:00

Phrasal verbs are weird. They go against my Finno-Ugaric language sense as they make up new meanings in unexpected and totally illogical combinations. 'Taking someone in' sounds perfectly innocent, helpful even, which of course it isn't. Quite the contrary. Yet, some of these verbs are extremely descriptive, like the one above (although, as A Student's Grammar of the English Language reminds me, it's not strictly speaking a phrasal, but a phrasal-prepositional verb. Thank you, Messrs Greenbaum & Quirk.).

Above is also my beautiful new necklace (purchased here) - and my groovy new tablecloth, courtesy of M. They both remind me of the coming summer, as does the sun that is now flooding my kitchen with insanely brilliant light. There are lots of things I'm looking forward to: a trip to Taormina, the long-expected party, Juska's wedding...

The snow's melting already.

Mielenmaisema

2009-03-17T15:27:00.005+02:00

There's something particularly Finnish about the scenery above, and something that well summarises my current mood. A narrow slice of dirt track bordered by tall trees, meandering deeper into the forest until it meets a lake or another road or a dead-end. Roads like this have always fascinated me; I love their randomness and their prosaic mystery - you never know where you’ll end up when you start following one of them.

That particular road is in Korpilahti; I spent the weekend there at M and J’s house, looking after their animals (two horses and a dog). Or, more precisely, the dog looked after me - she kept following me everywhere and watching my every move. I think she might report to M later.

I really should have got some work done as well, but lately I’ve been feeling acutely unmotivated. Partly this is because my supervisor has (apparently) been ignoring my Licentiate and therefore I don’t quite know how to proceed with my research. So instead I’ve spent the past month travelling around the country and thinking about Renaissance food and frocks.

Which reminds me - the necklaces Otter and I ordered finally arrived. And they are gorgeous. I also got myself a French hood; god knows if it’ll match the dress and the jewellery, but as I’ve set my mind on having one, I really can’t complain. And I suppose I can use it as a sun visor if nothing else goes.

Frock fetishes and wobbly milk cubes

2009-03-09T15:01:00.009+02:00

This Renaissance party thing is starting to get out of hand. I spent a weekend in Hämeenlinna with Otter and T, and in addition to visiting the local theatre to look at available dresses and tunics (for those who aren’t willing to spent their month’s salary on period clothes), cooking some ‘authentic’ renaissance milk jelly, planning a web page for our very own Stereotypical History Society and just generally planning stuff to do with the party, Otter and I also spent ridiculous amounts of money on ‘authentic’ Renaissance dresses and jewellery.

At least you can’t blame us for feeding the economic depression.

I don’t know what it is about period dress that fascinates so many women, myself included. It may be the fact that in this day and age, dressing up in fabulously ‘feminine’ but completely impractical clothes is not an option for many of us; a heavy full-length skirt and a tight corset may look fabulous on you, but imagine going through your day unable to go to the toilet. Occasions like our little Renaissance party give us a taste of what it was like to wear ridiculous clothes - and then go back to wearing jeans and T-shirts for the rest of the year.

Another reason I can think of off the top of my head for this frock fetish is that I don’t expect to get married - and thus am not entitled to a day of meringue fabulousness, surrounded by fussing friends and members of my family. Thus I have to make up my own fun - which in fact should be even more fun than a wedding, since as a member of the Stereotypical History Society, I can indulge in my period dress fetish every year; furthermore I don’t get riddled with a husband and five toasters.

In case you’re interested, the 16^th century milk jelly cubes turned out pretty well. Their taste can be best described as ‘interesting’ - but that’s only inevitable since these wobbly cubes are made up of boiled milk, sugar, gelatine and rosewater. They taste faintly of milk and rose, and then sort of disappear in your mouth. And, because they are such a strange and unexpected dessert, Otter and I decided they’d make a perfect snack accompanied by fruit and wine.

I’m pretty excited about my dress, by the way; however, because I ordered it via the Intertubes, there are many things that can go wrong with it. Therefore I’m not saying anything more about it at this point. After the Renaissance party there’ll be pictures.

In addition to the dresses, food, websites and general planning, I’ve also promised to contribute to the cultural content of the party. So far, I’ve listened to some Renaissance music (I particularly like John Dowland’s lute songs), looked at some Renaissance dancing on Youtube, and read a depressing book about Renaissance women (apparently they were nowhere near as versatile as Renaissance men - most likely because Renaissance men didn’t want any competition). I’ve also dug out my tarot cards and am trying to relearn the basics so that when I’m in a merry mood after a few goblets of wine, I can tell people their approximate fortunes.

Still, there’s a lot of stuff that needs organising. We don’t know how many people are going to turn up, what the venue is really like - and most importantly, how we’re going to get there. Luckily we’ve started our planning in time; many things can change between now and late June.

Get thee to eBay!

2009-01-30T15:38:00.005+02:00

One of next summer's highlights will undoubtedly be a Renaissance party hosted by our very own Stereotypical History Society. While the society itself is quite a new development, Otter and I have fantasised about making a spectacle of ourselves in period costumes for some time now (probably ever since we've been watching British costume drama.)

Now that we've actually managed to book a venue (and a very nice venue it is, too, and apparently ridiculously exclusive as well) and confirm a date, all of us in the Society can concentrate on the really important stuff - like what to eat, and most importantly, what to wear.

The only dilemma is, of course, how to get clothes that are at the same time extremely authentic-looking and inexpensive. Personally, I'd go for the Tudor look with the exaggerated hourglass figure and bulky sleeves (see young Elizabeth above) - and I especially want a headpiece like that (it's called a French hood. Anne Boleyn liked them, too.). Wouldn't mind some of that bling, either.

Fortunately, there's still plenty of time to track down prospective (and cheap) dressmakers and eBay sellers and speculate endlessly on the correct lacing of a corset.

The Best of 2008...vol. 2

2009-01-09T15:28:00.007+02:00

While winter has never been my favourite season, at least it can't be blamed for being a boring one. A week ago I traipsed in the woods, taking pictures of snowy trees and then trying to warm up the camera in my mitten, as it was nearly -20 C. Today, the ground is nearly black again and rain is pouring down. They say it's going to get cold again at the end of the week.

Nothing like this would have happened in my childhood. We had proper cold, snowy winters then, and equally long, warm, sunny summers.

Naturally dogs were bigger back then, too.

Anyroad, continuing the cultural round-up of 2008, here comes a list of the best music I heard last year. This is not to say new music released last year, for, as anyone who knows me knows, I'm mostly interested in old music; however, during the recent years I've begun to expand my taste to cover contemporary artists as well. This also shows in the forthcoming list.

As mentioned earlier, lately I've become less and less dependent on music magazines when it comes to finding interesting artists and albums, and perhaps have also begun to trust my own ears more. Although I wouldn't have believed it five years ago, it's now the Internet that gives me the most useful tips - and especially net radios (such as last.fm) which have familiarised me with loads of (relatively) new stuff - and all of these albums listed below.

Kehitys kehittyy.

1. Martha Wainwright: Martha Wainwright.
After rotating this album in my mp3 player for 6 months I still can't get over the sheer brilliance of "Bloody Motherfucking Asshole". Lots of other good songs, too, but it's probably the overall sound of Wainwright's that makes the album stand out in my mind.

I wish I knew what "Dis, quand reviendras-tu?" is all about.

2. Regina Spektor: Begin to Hope
I head "Samson" almost two years ago, and the song haunted me so much I finally had to buy it, along with the rest of this awesome album. Despite Spektor's Russian-American background, there's something profoundly European about her music, especially on tracks like "Aprés Moi" and "20 Years of Snow". Although it was the brittleness of "Samson" that first attracted me to her music, I find myself particularly enjoying the upbeat tunes, especially "Better".

3. Aimee Mann: Bachelor No. 2
It's got both "Save Me" and "Just Like Anyone" on it. Nothing more need to be said.

4. Anna Ternheim: Separation Road
I haven't been paying much attention to the Swedish music scene - for some reason I've presumed that after ABBA, nothing interesting's been going on over there. And how wrong I was. It seems that there are loads of good singer-songwriters there, and Ternheim is the first to really grab my attention. There is such heartbreaking desolation to her music and lyrics that if it wasn't for her crystal-clear voice, it would be too much to bear. The exquisite "No Subtle Men" is still my favourite, and "Such a Lonely Soul" is quickly becoming another.

5. Steeleye Span: The Lark in the Morning.
This is cheating a bit: The Lark is actually a collection of three albums. If push comes to shove, Fairport Convention is my favourite Brit folk-rock group (no one can beat Sandy Denny), but there's something very serious about the band that makes it a bit hard on the ear sometimes. Steeleye, on the other hand, can get remarkably silly, and that is in my view one of their greatest strengths. Of course there's the formidable skill of the group's various members, and the repertoire which ranges from the aforementioned silly ("Four Nights Drunk") to the near-sublime ("When I Was on Horseback", "The Dark-Eyed Sailor").that also endears them to me. Although Maddy Prior's voice doesn't hold a candle to Denny's, it's also a less easily imitated instrument, and as such, quite peerless.

Here's "Lovely on the Water". The arrangement (especially the guitar solo) sounds curiously Finnish to me - as if the band's been listening to 60s rautalanka music before the recording of this track.

Bonus:

Maddy Prior & the Carnival Band: Carols at Christmas
Christmas music - just like the season itself - normally annoys me. Hearing schmaltzy versions of the same old tunes tends to put me off my gingerbread. This record, however, is something completely different. Firstly, because for a Finnish person like myself, most of these tunes are at best vaguely familiar. Secondly because of the insanely talented musicians (including Ms. Prior), and thirdly because of their their odd instruments (Breughel bagpipes, anyone?) and the amazingly diverse arrangements they're capable of (I can't think of anyone whose heart wouldn't melt at the sound of medieval jazz). The opening track alone (the a cappella rendition of "This Is The Truth / Sing Sing All Earth") is enough to start Xmas for me.

Looking back, or, The Best of 2008

2009-01-08T15:43:00.006+02:00

Last year was a good one in many respects. It was a productive mixture of work and play, of solitude and socialising in perfect balance. Yet, this post isn't going to log all the highs and lows of 2008 - I thought I'd rather write about the books that made an impression on me last year.

So, in chronological order, the best literary bits of 2008.

1. Eeva Kilpi: Häätanhu.
I'd always thought of Kilpi first and foremost as a poet, not a novelist - until I got my hands on this book. Although it's probably aimed at a slightly older audience, I couldn't help but be mesmerised by Kilpi's magnificent language and her loving portrayal of the Finnish summer through the senses of a middle-aged woman. On the surface nothing much happens - in an isolated cottage there's even no one to talk to, apart from the dog - but underneath the semi-autobiographical narrator goes through her past with all its joys and disappointments, preparing herself for a new life in another country.

2. Bobbie Ann Mason: Feather Crowns.
Quintuplets were a rare occurrence in the 19th century. In her fictitious tale Mason also turns them into a media event powerful enough to stop trains. She has managed to weave into one narrative the tragic story of a Midwestern couple whose household gets turned upside down by the simultaneous arrival of five babies (and a horde of curious novelty-seekers) ,the effects of industrialisation on the American way of life, as well as the psychological journey of one woman through doubt and fear to serene self-knowledge.

3. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: Purple Hibiscus.
I very rarely follow book reviews because I find most of my books through trial and error, walking around in a library, browsing through the shelves, picking up interesting-sounding works and scanning them (and of course sometimes the cover is enough to convince me). This method gives me enormous satisfaction, and many times rewards me with true gems. Purple Hibiscus is one of those. Again, on the surface, it looks like a story a hundred times told: the struggles of a teenage girl to escape her oppressive home through self-discovery and first love. Yet, all the characters and the world they live in are depicted in such a lifelike way that one cannot help but be moved (and shocked).

4. Anne Enright: The Wig My Father Wore.
What is it with the Irish soil that it produces writers with such twisted views of the world? At first, Enright reminded me of Flann O'Brien, but the more I read of The Wig, the more impressed I became of her own, eccentric sense of language. To recount the plot would be missing the point; what sticks with me is the sheer brilliance of her acrobatic narration.

5. Iris Murdoch: The Philosopher's Pupil.

Murdoch has caused me some confusion in the past. The first book of hers I read was The Unicorn - a meandering work which almost put me off her for good. Fortunately, I became interested in Murdoch's life (through her husband's biographies), and experimentally picked up The Sea, The Sea which I enjoyed a lot. The Philosopher's Pupil is, in my view, a stronger work still, exploring the dark moralistic underbelly of a fictitious spa town, throwing in all kinds of weird and fascinating sub-plots (including the tortuous story of a half-Irish countertenor). As always, however, it's the language that kept me hooked.

You've all heard this before, I'm sure

2008-12-05T15:51:00.007+02:00

November was a busy month, apparently. I have something to show for it, too: the first draft of my Licenciate thesis is now finished and I'm already working on the final version. I'm not entirely happy with it (is anyone ever?) but at least I'm a lot closer to a PhD than I was half a year ago.

I did get to meet M's new dog - I've done so several times now - and a really lively doggie she is, too. Courtesy of M, I also got to journey back in time, when a couple of weeks ago we moved her horses to a place with no running water. This meant that the only way to water the horses was to walk to the spring in the middle of a forest and then struggle back with two brimming buckets. And then go back for more water. Coincidentally, the first time we did this, we were in the middle of the most vicious snowstorm in the history of Central Finland. Gave me a new sense of appreciation towards all my foremothers who have done the same thing, day in, day out - and without the help of Airam torches.

Despite all the busyness, I've had time to listen to some new music (at least compared to the music I normally listen to). As I don't have the inclination to follow the music papers (like I did some ten years ago), all information about new and exciting songwriters and bands reaches me with a considerale lag. That is, unless my better informed friends recommend something to me.

Juska, who is a more active person than me in many ways, and keeps abreast with the music biz, has been raving about Amanda Palmer for some time. I was slow to catch up, but eventually, I had to agree with her. Palmer makes great music.

This story also made me pay more attention to Palmer (and especially her videos, which are fantastic). Long story short: Roadrunner records won't promote Palmer because her belly is too fat. See the offending video (which is also behind the link) and judge for yourselves; as for me, her belly was probably the last thing I would have paid attention to in the visually rewarding video.

Here's another vid of Palmer's, dedicated to no other than Sarah Palin. Includes scenes of rape and coat-hanger abortion set to jaunty music. Brilliant, and extremely disturbing.

Another artist I should have heard about long ago is Anna Ternheim, a Swedish singer-songwriter of the old school (at least compared to Palmer). The songs I've heard tell of heartbreak, isolation, and solitude, and are delivered in a pure, charmingly accented voice - a perfect soundtrack to the pre-Xmas weirdness.

'No Subtle Men' is my current favourite.

A week of academic activity, and then I'm going north for a few weeks of frantic piano-playing, chocolate-eating and gingerbread-making. Should be good.

Getting arty

2008-10-31T16:21:00.006+02:00

Been doing a lot of writing lately (mainly my licenciate). So here's an arty picture to make up for my silence in the blogging department. The thing in the middle with three white splotches is Ruttu, a teddy bear that followed me home from Yorkshire.

Next week will be a more socially active one. I was promised

1) that I'd get to meet M's new dog
2) that I'd see the wondrous new colour scheme in M's house (lots of yellow, she said)
3) that there will be a new feminist reading group
4) that there will be lots of wine
5) and some coloured paper, glitter, glue and other miscellaneous fun at Otter's place in H.

Looking forward to it.

Wheee!

2008-10-14T19:23:00.006+03:00

Last weekend I was in Helsinki, where we celebrated Fidia's birthday in the already traditional way: by watching loads of films (some classics like Kind Hearts and Coronets, and some not-so-classic ones like Hair), eating lots of cake and just generally socialising.

As usual, I had my guitar with me and treated my friends to some Joni Mitchell and other similarly cheerful stuff. It's great fun to play to an appreciative audience, but I hadn't realised just how appreciative they are. Just before I was about to launch into my set, they presented me with a brand new guitar case! It's one of the best presents I've ever got, especially as it comes from so many people, many of whom have been forced to hear my yodelling for years now. And my old case was falling apart at the hinges and was in dire need of replacing.

So thanks, guys! :)

It's a bit hard to get organised after a trip like that. In the next couple of weeks I should wrap up my licenciate, prepare and teach a four-hour session of literacy skills and fill in a few application forms. Should be great fun. But somehow things seem to be going pretty well at the moment, and I'm feeling uncharacteristically confident. Autumn, for some reason, agrees with me.

(In case you're wondering, the dog in the picture above is Olga, my cousing's Bernese mountain dog. A great character. )

My new best friend

2008-10-05T16:00:00.004+03:00

What with my birthday coming up (well... soon enough), this year I asked my mum to buy me something practical, something I've wanted for a long time. And she did. Now I've got my own private sun.

It's one of those wake-up lamps that works like an alarm clock, only with an increasing amount of light. Apparently this fools your brain into thinking that the sun is rising and you wake up refreshed and happy even when it's pitch-dark outside. The darn thing even has different noises you can choose from; this morning I woke up to the most aggressive-sounding blackbird I've ever heard.

It does feel a bit creepy having a lamp that has a mind of its own, quietly (or not so quietly) glimmering into life next to you. Of course I was so excited about the thing that this morning I opened my eyes almost at the exact moment the lamp switched on (half an hour before the actual alarm time). Yet I think that it will be most useful in December.

And if the birdsong won't do it, there's always an insistent gong-sound, the expectancy of which will probably keep me awake all night.

A nose by any other name would smell

2008-09-22T17:46:00.003+03:00

Went to an overly optimistic seminar today - there were people there trying to teach us poor PhD students how to turn our theses into commodities, i.e. how to make them sound more interesting to the general public, how to sell articles to newspapers and get rich and famous overnight. We'll see what happens. If I won't get famous by Xmas, I'll sue the History Department.

An interesting little incident occurred towards the end of the lecture. A youngish man put on his coat and collected his stuff: a dead giveaway that he was going to get out before the session was through. He excused himself to the lecturer by saying that he was leaving because of "family logistics".

Sounds important, doesn't it? It's not just picking kids up from the kindergarten; that's what mothers do. He made it sound like he was planning some sort of intricate process of moving people from place A to place B with the greatest efficiency. Which is exactly what mothers do. They just never make it sound so important.

I don't mean to denigrate his choice of words (or indeed the fact that he was picking up his kid(s)). In fact, I kind of admire what he was doing. I seriously think we women too, need to come up with such ponderous-sounding appellations for our daily tasks. If nothing else, it might just promote the idea that none of the domestic duties (cooking, cleaning, shopping, childcare etc.) is our biological destiny.

I'll leave you with this brilliant clip:

(via feministing)

Mushka, mushka!

2008-09-21T11:33:00.004+03:00

What with the colourful season still continuing lovely and non-rainy, it wouldn't be fitting to fill this entry with academic angst. Suffice it to say that writing a good PhD isn't enough to guarantee a career at the uni; during the next couple of years I should find ome time to study and teach, to go abroad for a few months to do some serious networking among my foreign colleagues, to publish in all kinds of journals and appear in all sorts of conferences - and to learn coding. And, of course, to write an excellent and groundbreaking doctoral thesis.

I promise to do all this if someone pays me.

Anyhoo, it's not all that bad. Yesterday evening Juska and I went out to see this band called Ralli-Olga - two young women and an accordion who have an unashamedly girly attitude (and by girly I don't mean the pink-and-blonde-and-squeaky kind) to making music. And a great matter-of-fact sense of comedy. And a kazoo. Amid all this cynicism and postmodern cleverness it's nice to hear songs about dead hamsters and Russian women farmers for a change.

Turned out nice again

2008-09-09T19:01:00.007+03:00

After a week or so of glorious autumn weather, even I am finding it hard to constantly complain about things. So before the darkness and general grumpiness set in, I thought I'd better do a post about things I've been enjoying lately.

To start off, some music: Nellie McKay is an amazing artist who does Broadway-style songs with a twist (most of the times a political one), and liberally mixes all kinds of musical influecces ranging from jazz to rap. It's nice to hear some fresh protest songs in this cynical, passivist time.

Along with Joni Mitchell, I've been listening to a lot of English folk lately - June Tabor and Norma Waterson in particular. Great voices. Oh, and Martha Wainwright's 'Bloody Motherfucking Asshole' has been going around something silly in my mp3 player.

Thanks to my friend Fidia, I rediscovered Smack the Pony, which in my view is the most brilliant tv comedy series since Monty Python.

I never knew a bull could look so melancholy...

Finally, I must confess (and this shouldn't come as a surprise to those who know me) that I'm in awe of the British skill for making costume drama. I don't know which appeals to me most: the great actors (whose greatest quality is that they can get through a page-long sentence from Jane Austen without appearing at all constipated - and not the fact that they look great in corsets - although many of them do), the amazing locations, or the respect and sense of humour with which the 'classics' are treated. These people actually look like they've lived in that set, in those clothes, in that society.

The 1995 adaptations of Pride and Prejudice (the BBC series) and Sense and Sensibility (with Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman) are my favourites, but there's a marvellous one of Persuasion also from the same year. Amanda Root plays the sad-eyed Anne Elliot to perfection, but I particularly like Sophie Thompson's portrayal of her constantly ailing sister Mary.

I can also fully symphatise with Anne's dislike of Bath.

It never rains but...

2008-09-05T18:49:00.010+03:00

This week's been abnormally full of stuff. In addition to wrestling with my licenciate, I've already managed to move a hundred bales of hay from place A to place B, make an ex tempore trip to Ostrobothnia (for the second time in three months), get a job AND a dentist' s appointment. On top of that, all the books, cds and clothes I'd ordered during the past month decided to arrive on the same day.

I'm not complaining, since I also got my new wellies yesterday. They are light blue and have flowers on them. They make me very happy, as it's pissing down as I write, and I don't expect the weather to improve for the next five months or so.

Read an interesting piece of research on the BBC website this morning. Apparently, the music you like correlates closely with your personality. Well, take that tedious feather and knock me down. Anyway. According to this research, people who listen to classical music share personality traits with those who dig heavy metal; both of these groups are introverted and creative. If you like pop, then it's worse luck to you - you're not all that creative or at ease (whatever that means).

I'm a bit confused. I like classical, which proves I'm creative and don't like people all that much. Then again, I also love jazz, and jazz lovers are supposed to be outgoing. Fair enough. That means I don't have to be introverted all the time. But if I add rock into this equasion, does it then cancel out the good self-esteem and work ethic the two other genres give me (as rock fans are, according to these Scottish researchers, not-so-hardworking and prone to low self-esteem)?

The researcher person from Heriot-Watt University did have a valid point about the tribal qualities of music - that people digging the same kind of music tend to be similiar to some extent, no matter what their colour, creed or nationality. However, I don't quite believe that these similarities can be reduced to generalised personality traits.

Well, I don't know. What does this tell about my personality, then?

Two stories that made my day

2008-09-01T12:23:00.006+03:00

I'm fond of dogs, and not all that fond of children. So both of these stories brightened up my day considerably.

First, a link via Kaleidoglide about child-free zones in India. Hope this catches on in this country as well.

Then, a really awwww-inspiring story courtesy of The Cellar , proving that animal welfare isn't just for hippies and batty old ladies: a group of New York bikers who call themselves Rescue Ink have started investigating cases of animal abuse.

Very cute, and very very scary at the same time...

What did the women's lib ever do for you?

2008-08-29T16:00:00.008+03:00

As a 1930s wife, I am
Very Poor (Failure)

Take the test!

Yep, it would have been a bleak life for me as a 30s housewife. Dunno which counted against me more, the habit of cooking in my PJs or the fact that I don't "praise marriage before young women contemplating it".

This reminded me of an article I read some time ago (tried to google it but as it was an online newspaper thing, naturally it's gone now... :P) about three British women who aspired to be 'perfect' housewives, living in homes decorated in the 30s, 40s and 50s style, respectively. Presumably they begin their day by dressing in their lovely vintage clothes, doing their hair and face, then proceed to make a nourishing vintage breakfast for their manly husbands in their immaculately clean vintage kitchens (the 50s kitchen looked particularly enticing).

I can't remember if they mentioned what they do all day when their husbands are at work (besides bake pies and lounge in their painstakingly constructed fantasy worlds). My guess is that they hang around at ebay trying to find more lovely vintagey stuff).

Naturally, they all thought that life was much better, lighter, purer and less scary in the first part of the 20th century when men were men and women didn't have to worry about careers or having opinions of their own.

Such an easy life, I know, and I'll have to admit that there is something slightly appealing in the idea - until you realise that these are 21th century women who've had the choice to live like that, and who have husbands who have enough money to finance this silliness. The forties may sound like a charming place to be, with impressive-looking cars and jaunty hats, but imagine yourself running to a air-raid sheter in the middle of the night, dragging along half a dozen bewildered kids, and then tell me about how women in the past were so much better off.

Anyway, I'm off to the opera.

A crapulous summer altogether

2008-08-28T18:50:00.003+03:00

The picture above proves that we had at least one sunny day this summer...or that we had a summer at all.

When the weather's continuously grey and depressive, there isn't much else to do but drink tea and read. I started Evelyn Waugh's Scoop some time ago because I had heard that it's a funny book - maybe even his funniest. Being a fan of Waugh's, I eventually picked it up - and have been making quite a slow read of it. Knowing his style, I wasn't expecting a silly laugh-out-loud romp ala Wodehouse, more that kind of book you can quietly smirk into.

I'm now halfway through and I've only smirked once or twice. It may be the weather, or perhaps my smirking muscles are suffering from paralysis - or it may just be the fact that I cannot in any way relate to the book. Basically it's a story of a gormless English squire who is sent to the heart of Africa to cover a local civil war for a newspaper called The Beast. My biggest problem with the narrative is that it isn't particularly subtle when it comes to depictions of the natives (or any other Others for that matter).

Anyhoo, the reason I brought up the book was actually an etymological discovery it helped me to make. What sparked this sidestep toward the OED was the phrase "a heap of crapulous black servants". Having only a faint notion of what might be going on, I looked up 'crapulous' . Turns out that like the Finnish word krapula (a colloquial term for hangover), it originates from the Greek word kraipale, 'drunken headache'. In Latin, the word is crapula, from which comes the English term for inebriation, crapulent, and its adjective form crapulous.

And yes, I am very easily amused.

Here goes...

2008-08-27T17:06:00.004+03:00

Starting a blog is a bit similar to writing to a new penpal (remember those?): it's important not to sound too eager and tell everything about yourself at once. Yet, you'll have to tell all the interesting bits or else they'll never write back.

This blog, like most blogs, will probably include pointless ramblings about my daily life, the books I read and the music I enjoy, but occasionally I might be inspired to write some more pointed entries. These will most likely include ramblings about popular culture, women's rights, the price of milk, and postmodernism.

We have a rocking chair
Each of us rocks his share
Eating muffin buns and berries
By the steamy kitchen window
Sometimes we do
Our tongues turn blue.

- Joni Mitchell: Sisotowbell Lane