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

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.

Hiatus, and a Hat

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. 

Treasure

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.

This is just to say...

  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.

Heroines of their own lives

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: 

Nil significat, nisi oscillat

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!

 

 

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:

Hausfrau-in-Residence

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...?
  

Lady in Black Eats off Swedish Plates

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:
 

Sounds of Silence

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.

...since from myself another self I turned

Second Hand Roses

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

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

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...

The charms of Castelmola

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.

Looking forward to

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.

The Best of 2008...vol. 2

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.

My new best friend

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.