Woohoo! Off on our impromptu little Sweden weekend this evening and I can’t wait, it’s going to be so much fun. We’ll arrive in hillbilly country tomorrow lunchtime after crashing with my little sister in Gothenburg when we arrive late this evening. Just ahead of the moose hunting week, we’ll once again be staying at Falla, the little place right there by the foot of the mountain that I consider to be heaven on earth.
Moose meat is of course insanely good – kind of somewhere between beef and venison, but so, so lean, no fat whatsoever. My mouth is watering just typing that. Given that moose hunting week (or the Holy Week, as my dad calls it) is a couple of weeks away, supplies may be at a lower ebb though. And it also means that there are bigger numbers of them right about now. It’s also autumn, which means apples and pears will be falling to the ground and the result of that is that you are much more likely to find the king of the forest in your garden, munching on fallen fruit. Falla’s garden has – let’s see…. – I think five or six apple trees.
The fallen fruit ferments, so those overgrown horses with horns end up drunk. I kid you not. They do, and whereas they’ll only attack and kick the shit out of you if you get between Mama Moose and Baby Moose, they become a little more unpredictable. They scare the shit out of me, they’re just so huge. I may go on an apple clearing spree every morning and evening so they steer clear.
In the summer, B and I went moose spotting almost every evening, drove around the little roads snaking around the deep forests in Stopafors. B ended up seeing a total of four – one calf, then a gang of three another evening. And then of course we visited Skansen when we were in Stockholm a couple of weeks ago (a big open air museum, massive park with lots of buildings, little farms, and Nordic animals), where we saw wolves, bears and two very lazy moose that just lay there. B tried to imitate my dad’s moose call (they make a stupid little squeaky sound that doesn’t at all match their majestic appearance) and that is one clip I’ll save for a rainy day to stick on YouTube if he pisses me off.
So, all set! Taking Monkey to school in 45 minutes, then back home to write my heart out for a couple of hours, then pack. I finally got my arse in gear and now have hair that actually resembles hair, rather than some type of road kill. My lovely Susie Q came over to tame my wild tresses. We met at the salon in Kensington where she used to work, the Swedish connection kicked in and we became friends. Since then, I’ve not allowed anybody else to touch my hair. She’s a genius. Or rather, she knows what to do with typical Scandinavian hair like mine. Fine, fragile hair but lots and lots of it. I asked her to chop off a couple of inches because it had just got too long, almost to my waist, so now I’m back to just “long” and this morning it’s still looking pretty sleek thanks to Susie Q’s blow drying skills.
It’s perfect – she comes over, I pour the wine and we end up having a laugh, plus I get fabulous hair at a snippet of what she charges at the salon. Seeing Susie Q without the friend discount would set you back £300 if you had a cut and a bit of colour. She’s that good. Not a celebrity hair dresser for no reason. Well, if you consider Cat Deeley a celebrity, that is, which may or may not be the case. Still, Cat Deeley does have beautiful hair and I love my Susie Q.
Because my hair gets really blond in summer, she put in some darker low lights as I fancied autumn sandy rather than beachy. So there I am, rinsing it out. Could hear Susie Q and B chatting away, which wasn’t surprising as they get on really well and he’s always joining in. I get back to the kitchen ready for my cut, and there they are – and my boyfriend has no bloomin’ hair, remember – B in the chair and he’s also taken a big mirror in there, clad in Susie Q’s gown, with her carefully grooming his non-existing hair with a fine comb and what appears to be a razor blade.
Both turn to me and look ever so sheepish. Funny as hell, so another picture I’ll keep for a rainy day and stick on Facebook if B crosses me. He even went as far as pointing at me for emphasis when he, still looking ever so gay in the gown (I know he means business when he starts gesturing), ordering me in his most oh-oh voice that THAT picture isn’t going on Facebook.
We’ll see about that.