I'm sitting at Patrick's computer, looking out the window at the trees and fields in the sunshine. There's a little red tractor parked by a stone wall (what Scottish people would call a dry-stone dyke) and a wooden swing waving gently in the breeze. It's all very picturesque. On second thoughts, perhaps I should be outside.
I'm inside because I have a bit of a sore throat/cold thing going on. Yesterday I slobbed all day and just played on the laptop in bed. That was cosy.
Last week I was at Roskilde Music Festival in Denmark. That was brilliant, if a little muddy. 70,000 people all camping in one slightly wet place? Actually, there were some serious seas of mud.
However, I did get to see Morrissey and the Pixies live. Ooh mama. The Pixies were good, but it felt like they were a bit hmmm, professional. Morrissey, on the other hand, was rocking. He is a seriously excellent live performer. Apparently he said afterwards that it was his best festival job in Europe ever.
We lined up to get right up the front of the concert. Nine people died at Roskilde a couple of years ago, so now they're extremely careful about crowd safety and only let limited numbers of people in the front pits. Of course, this just transfers the serious pushing and shoving to the queue outside, where some people were lining up for two and a half hours. The whole thing just boggled my little New Zealand mind.
Seriously, does anyone remember ever queuing for anything in New Zealand? - Let alone the sort of strategic queuing that ends up with a lot of bored people forming the sort of crush that leaves you wondering if all your bones are intact. . . .
Anyway, once we were inside it was all very spacious with kindly people handing out glasses of water on demand (they should definitely do that at more concerts). Great atmosphere, as we were surrounded by all the die-hard fans, singing along and dancing. There was even a bit of shirt-stripping action by Morrissey. I should point out now that he's in very good shape for a man of his years, and *not* fat, regardless of what detractors might say. He played a great range of old and new tunes, and even managed a bit of wit in between. Cor blimey.
We also saw Fatboy Slim, Iggy Pop and the Stooges, Kings of Leon, Scratch Perverts, the Matthew Herbert Big Band, Joss Stone, and loads more . . . We did leave on Sunday before the Wu-Tan Clan, as the mud just got all a bit much. It was niiiice to get home and into a hot shower.
Not that they didn't have hot showers at the festival, you just had to line up (queuing again! See, I'm getting good at it by now), pay for the privilege, and then shower with fifteen other smelly festival-goers. Hmm. It's been a long time since I've had to share my shower with anyone else. I was making some interesting deductions about Scandinavian women, body hair, fake tanning, and general grooming.
In other news today, I am now an official Swedish resident, with a personnumber and all. This is all very exciting and speedy. I got the decision and fancy bits in my passport on the same day I applied and the ID number two days later. Go the Swedish government. Oiled cogs, is what I say.
Apparently if I want to open a bank account now, all I have to do is roll up and give them my ID no, et voila, a bank account.
None of this messing about having to have a gas bill or council tax book lah di dah. I love Britain, but goodness it was difficult to do anything with the bureacracy. It took me seven separate attempts to get a bank account there, and I was reduced to tears before the end of the process.
I guess I shouldn't speak too soon. It's a long road before I'm an even slightly functioning member of Swedish society.