Thoughtful Musings

Now if ye are all ready..

2010-05-28T11:18:00.016+01:00

So how are ye all doing?

"Ye" is quite a nice word to hear in actual day to day speech. And I'm hearing it because I'm currently sitting in Kilkee, on the west coast of Ireland. My two buddies from NZ (T

im and Rik) are here doing our advanced diving course.

Right now, Kilkee is dead quiet, and it's a brilliant time to be here. We flew in, grabbed a rental car (which turned out to be a blessing), and drove from Shannon to Kilkee. Since then, we have been diving in 7-8 degree C water at depths of around 27 metres (at which point it is pretty hard to see the surface anymore), drank several brews of local ale, had a euro given to us by a complete stranger at the local store when we came up short for something, told our lame jokes to our instructor Peter, eaten more eggs and sausages than I normally eat in a year, and sat around playing video games on our phones (in each others' company, of course).

Peter, our instructor, is brilliant. Diving here is a whole different story than the relative "newb" waters of Egypt - visibility is much worse, the water is about 15 degrees colder, and there's certainly no traipsing into the water from the beach like we did in Dahab. Somehow Peter manages to be serious but give us the confidence to carry on. Two nights ago, I would say we had our first "real serious" dive, which was part of our peak buoyancy course. It involved diving down through a little canyon at quite a lot of depth and navigating through some tight rock formations - pretty damn fun but man, down at that depth you really start wondering what you're doing down there. It's probably much colder than the surface, too.

Peter is an energetic guy somewhere in his early 30s, and manages to mix light heartedness with a healthy dose of seriousness. Which is pretty good when you have us 3 jokers taking the piss out of each other in the class room. I think that the mentality out here in this small town is really refreshing - everyone is extremely friendly and happy to help (ref. to the 1 euro from a stranger at the store), pretty amazing when you compare it to either Stockholm or London.

The coast manages to remind me a lot of the coast in Iceland, sheer cliffs, volcanic rock with sharp, jagged patterns, and plenty of avian flora. For me it felt a bit nostalgic walking around at a lighthouse point that we drove to yesterday, I really could have been in Iceland.

On the first day, Rik had mentioned that he would like a frisbee to play with on the beach (probably, Tim and I would throw it and Rik would run after it like the dog in a mans body he really is..). So next day when we turn up we see this:

Which is pretty darn nice of them :).

I'm just gonna let the rest of the post speak with picures, so here we go:

Rik eating "Tea Cakes" which are kind of like marshmallow puffs, but taste a bit funny.

No idea what these clowns were doing, but it looked kind of cool!

Relaxing in a pub in the middle of nowhere (Loophead), Lighthouse Bar.

Farmhouse ruins everywhere make for some scenic tourism.

Who brought this hobbit along anyway??

Out at loophead lighthouse.

Damn tall hobbits running amok.. When told "hey, you're not allowed in there bro", the response was "I'm not IN there, I'm just standing on the fence!".

The two hawkes bay challenged playing lemmings.

This part in particular reminded me of Iceland.

The lemmings again..

Some flowery stuff..

Anyway, better go do some more study now, the weather isn't so great today so we are relegated to class work. If we are lucky we'll get another couple of dives in before we leave, and then I'm off to Istanbul :S.

Iceland, planes, and friends

2009-02-01T21:45:00.001Z

Sleep is good. I love sleep. I love sleep almost as much as I love not missing planes.

There was one thing I was craving last night, and that was sleep. I flew to Iceland on Wednesday for work, and had two fairly long and busy days – busy with customers during the day and then catching up on emails and working on a few documents in the evenings (along with the mandatory few beers with my colleague).

I must be getting old, because a couple of beers along with slightly late nights have left me feeling slightly zombie like during the days. I admit it though, I usually start reading when I know I should be sleeping, so there's only one person to blame, and I don't think I can blame them pesky kids because I don't have any.

It's always nice to go to Iceland, and this time was no exception. Although it's still winter, I was greeted by a beautiful sunny day with white puffy snow everywhere – not even diminishing over the next three days into the usual grimy, sandy, half-melted ice-snow that I am used to. Nope, the weather stayed that way for the entire time I was in Iceland. I really needed to see the sun and blue skies.

Even better yet was the chance to meet so many of my friends. Life is hard in Stockholm right now for me, there's a severe drought of familiar friends + cafes. Work is fine, and keeps my mind busy enough, but like most people I know, having some friends around is always a blessing.

I got to meet and spend plenty of time with lots of my favourite people , so despite being tired a lot of the time I was quite happy J. Cheers all you fullas!

Right now I'm sitting on the plane back to Stockholm after a small mishap at the airport in Oslo. I almost missed my connecting flight – completely unbeknownst to me we were late from Reykjavik.

I see an International "this way" sign, and a Domestic "this way" sign. I see a lot of people going the domestic way.

"Is travelling between Norway and Sweden considered international or domestic?" I think naively, they all sound the same to me..

So I walk into the International security pass (seems stupid to have to do that again for a connecting flight), and 3 people with absolutely nothing to do look at me like I have something on my face.

"Err.. I need to get to Stockholm?" I say, at the same time as I glance at the board and see that the gate is closing for a Stockholm flight (not sure if it was mine at that point).

"Sure, put your stuff on the conveyer belt. You better hurry I think they are about to leave".

"Crap! What do I do!?"

"You had better run.." – replied one of them, with, I might add of all things, a smirk

What's a man to do? RUN! As I started running, I heard one of them call out after me:

"Run Forest, Run!"

Thanks a bloody lot you mean bastard! Anyway. I managed to get to my gate, which was already shut, but the lovely lady was waiting for me. She said that she had been waiting for me for… quite some time now, Mr. Ander… Smith. I was by far the last one on the plane, and as I walked on I could see everybody looking at me. You kept us waiting you a-hole, they were saying with their "hitting me with laser beams, frickin laser beams" eyes.

So I slunk to my seat, hurriedly put everything away, gave a few apologetic looks to the ones that were still shooting me with their 'friggin laser beam eyes, and sat down with a few gallons of adrenaline pumping through my veins. At about that time I realised I should check that I had all of my stuff, and thank 'friggin somebody, it was still all with me.

Home alone tonight, yippee. And yet another week of travel coming. Yippee. /sarcasm.

This post has been brought to you by the words "'friggin", "yippee", "Forest Gump", and "bastard".

fat women are not allowed to drink alcohol in Sweden

2009-01-17T13:47:00.006Z

So, I was out at a restaurant the other night with Kat. I was drinking a beer, and I noticed a piece of highly provocative instruction.

We are, after all, in the land of rules and regulations, be they social or law. I thought I should bring this shocking news to the world:

Yes, that's right. A symbol obviously proclaiming that fat women should not drink beer.

;-).

EDIT: BAH, the karma police just got me. I thought I was going to go and get some beer for tonight but it appears that the afore-mentioned rules and regulations have thwarted me yet again (can't buy alcohol on Saturdays after 3 or some such bollocks). GRRR.

The ultimate public transport

2009-01-07T17:27:00.005Z

I finally did it. I went out there, and I bought myself a brand spanking new bicycle. It's blue, although I wasn't too sure about the colour, it seems alright.

It has 5 gears, a push back peddle brake, wheel guards/flaps, a carry tray, and a front brake :P.

There's nothing too special about it, except that it's the first bike I have bought since.. well, ever! I always had bikes given to me as they were modus operandi ruralis where I grew up (read: my parents couldn't be assed driving me around all the time), and were integral to getting to school.

I've used it a grand total of three times now, once to cycle home from where I bought it, whereupon a snow storm decided to start JUST after I bought it. I had a huge mission getting home, being a complete retard doesn't help at the best of times, but this time was even worse as I got lost and even went in circles several times. Just like in the movies, I actually wound up right back at the place I started at. I blame the snow. An hour and a half later I managed to make it home, with my frozen ice cube feet stuck to the peddles.

So anyway, here's a map (may or may not be exaggerated), showing my path home (click to see the comments):

Taking it to work today was cool. No people to dodge, just cars. It's also much faster albeit colder than the bus/train, and felt like good exercise.

Oh, and you have to have one of these to deal with the pesky pedestrians!

:)

don't forget your keys

2009-01-04T22:52:00.003Z

Funny how the simple things can make you feel like somebody downtrowed you in front of a large crowd, all focused on you.

The Honey Badger (HB) - currently in Karlstad. In the Honey Badger's possession: 1 security key for the Honey Badger Den (HBD).

The Dumb Ass (DA) - currently in a hotel room in Stockholm. Not in the DA's possesssion: 1 security key for the HBD.

Approximate cost for being a DA: 1 night in a hotel room, 1.5 wasted hours freezing said DA's ass off calling locksmiths (the security lock would need to be drilled out and replaced for a cost of approx 450 euros), 1 healthy dose of embarassment and stress wondering if the security key will make it via courier to Stockholm tomorrow so that the DA can get into the HBD.

The words "OMG" were physically emitted several times upon realising that the security key was not on the DA's keyring.

DA.

Airport escapades

2008-11-25T11:51:00.001Z

What is it about security checkpoints at airports that leaves you feeling violated? Sure, some of them are polite and try to make you feel comfortable, but others leave you feeling as though you have been dragged into a side room and… ahem... interrogated.

I have spent the last couple of days in Denmark, first in Aalborg and now in Copenhagen. Staying in airport hotels is pretty miserable, but nice to be near for the flight in the oh so early morning. I had a flex ticket so I thought, oh goody – let’s try out the SAS Fast Security Check, only available to people with flex tickets or SAS gold cards. The SAS gold card concept makes me wonder what other fanciful things one might receive.

In any event, I thought, “Yes, a little bit of special treatment would be great right now”. So I roll on up to the special SAS security check and what do I find? Nothing less than a line that is around the same size as a regular security check. Typical I think. Oh well, maybe it is a little bit shorter and a bit faster, think I, rather naively.

I scan the lines ahead of me, as the line branches into two. One line is full of black coats, scarves, and laptop bags, business men heading to Stockholm. They look efficient. The other line is full of women, reasonably business-like looking, all wearing coats and carrying multiple bags. I figure that they probably all have laptops too. It wasn’t really a sexist choice for me to stand with the men, after all, they look as though they are in as big a rush as I am and are positively throwing their laptops out of their bags onto the conveyer belt. At the same time, the chap in front of me chose the other line. I kept comparing my progress with him, thinking “we shall see my friend… we shall see…”.

Of course, once I had been barked at several times by the security guard (in Danish no doubt) that I needed to show my boarding pass (again??), and having had responded dumbly by throwing my phone from my pocket into a basket, being barked at again, responding “Sorry?”, and then being barked at in English to show my card, I promptly forgot about comparing myself competitively with the other chap.

I had the impression that his temper was rising as I persistently did not understand his orders. What would have been the next step? Rubber glove, Danish pastries served with Danish Christmas beer, or some bizarre mixture of the two? I daren’t think more.

Finally he was placated when I produced my card, which had of course been buried in my jacket. I have learnt after doing this many times now that it’s simply best to dump everything in your jacket pockets, much faster. I tempted fate and decided to display my displeasure with his barking by twisting my mouth slightly and grumpily passing him my card. I showed him with my rebellious behaviour, I thought contentedly.

In any event I survived the fast check in. I think next time I will take the plebeian path.

Swedish Meatballs

2008-09-18T15:34:00.001Z

This time around it wasn’t so bad. After shifting countries and cities a few times, you start to get used to it. The sudden jump into a new culture can be said to be somewhat akin to rolling (inebriated) around in an Icelandic lake during spring - shocking, daring, refreshing, and on occasion, somewhat unpleasant (and yes, I have done that).

At least with the lake there’s always the hot shower to look forward to afterwards. Sometimes you wonder what form the hot shower is going to take in your life :).

But, it is definitely enlightening to move around. Although difficult and sometimes downright frustrating - “What do you mean you don’t like marmite? Are you mad?” – it is ultimately rewarding.

It took me two years to get over the culture shock I experienced in Iceland. Right as I started to feel comfy and as though I was a part of the crew (and started get a healthy hang of the language), I decided to move to Sweden with Kat. Now Sweden, to most of us kiwis, is regarded as the land of “hot blond chicks and the Swedish chef”. And on the very back of that reputation, I’m surprised there isn’t an invasion of kiwis here. They might be disappointed on arrival, I still haven’t seen the chef.

So here I am again, finding myself slightly bewildered and confused, trying to figure out how to wrap my tongue around the strange sounds they have in their language, trying not to get myself into trouble by disliking some of their foods (they get terribly offended if you refuse to eat something that they deem to be traditional).

Swedes love rules. They love rules so much that they made a rule that says you have to follow the rules. Don’t get caught crossing the road if you are in sight of a pedestrian crossing, or you might receive a few glares, or even worse, a sniff. At least the Icelanders were good that way, they don’t care about rules at all, an easy fit for kiwis. A typical example might be if a sign says ‘food this way’. Even if there is a kiosk sitting next to the sign, brimming with the most delicious food you can imagine, you can’t buy any of it. You have to follow the sign, can’t you read?

That brings me to the Gs and the Js. Swedes often have problems differentiating between the two letters in English, especially when spelling words for you, or when pronouncing them. This is because, without rhyme or reason, they can pronounce them both the same way in Swedish, or differently. Depending on either the mood of the speaker or where he is from in Sweden, or if he has decided to make life difficult for you. One day somebody tried to help me spell Gävle (pronounced Yavly). He started out with a perfect sounding “G”, and I proceeded to write down a “J”, because as I mentioned just before, they often get them mixed up. But it turns out it really is a potluck. This time he had it right, and upon seeing me write a “J”, he informed me “no, it’s a ‘G’, don’t you know what a ‘G’ is?”.

Typical!

Sometimes these kinds of misunderstandings turn out to be hilarious. I told an Eddie Murphy joke to my friend, the punch line being “so the bear wiped his ass with the rabbit”. Eddie Murphy made some comments in that particular stand-up about people screwing up his jokes. I mentioned this to my friend and mentioned that I was probably screwing it up. He then decided he would earnestly retell the joke without screwing it up, but despite his best intentions, the punch line changed to be: “so the bear wiped the rabbit with his ass”.

Swedes are blunt. Very blunt. English and Swedish grew up on opposite sides of the tracks, we developed words like please, thank you, and so on. Although they have these words they don’t seem to like using them all that much. In particular, I don’t really think they have a word exactly like “please”, so you can often hear what sound like orders from your girlfriend or friends, e.g. “can you please pass me the knife” becomes “pass me the knife”. I have it on good authority that they think the pleasantries of English are superfluous and make us sound like we are waffling on and wasting time. This is one thing I refuse to budge on though, I can’t stand the lack of pleases and thank yous. I guess I am a bit more of a stick in the mud than I thought ;). In their defence, they don’t consider it rude at all to speak your mind, and maybe that is something that we English speakers could do a bit more of. Since being here (and in Iceland) I have noticed that non-native English speakers don’t mess around in anyway when corresponding with each other in English. They just say exactly what they mean or want, totally (or usually) devoid of any pleasantries, and get on with it. This can be a bit of a hard pill to swallow on occasion, and its not a rare occurrence for one of us English speaking fellows to take some offence. But I think I’m going to cover that some more later.

For now, I am going to run off to find some Swedish meatballs!

The importance of looking after yourself

2008-06-30T12:01:00.003+01:00

It's just starting to dawn on me that it's important to put myself first when it matters. There is a quote out there that goes along the lines of "we are all our own harshest critic". This small piece of wisdom is something that I should pin in everyplace I can fit a sticky note - because I am pretty sure I spend a sizable chunk of my day berating myself.

A lot of it is about self-respect. This simple little amalgam of a word has a lot going for it, and a lot of things that are involved with it.

If I decide I want to do something that is for myself (and really want to do it) and if it doesn't directly affect anybody else - then I should do it. If I like something then I should freely express it. If I really don't want to do something then I should not do it. It is not healthy to let oneself be diverted. To let it happen often, or on a regular basis, erodes at one's own sense of self and one's sense of control.

Of course there are times when you should compromise - we all need to do this, people cannot always agree. But there is an element of respect in allowing other people their choices. Sometimes your decisions or actions will make others unhappy, but there is no point in curtailing if it will be you that is unhappy at the end.

I have decided that I am going to enforce the choices that I make, and carry them through. I am tired of being disappointed in myself for not doing it.

There's one person that we all have no choice about living with - ourselves - so we need to make sure that that we keep a happy crew.

Missing Iceland

2008-05-02T18:43:00.003Z

I told my workmates today that I am leaving in August.

Not the most emotional way to begin a blog, but today it feels like I am mourning something. The problem is, that telling my workmates that I am leaving means that it's real, that I am leaving. And it's dawning on me that I am leaving this place. Just as six months ago it dawned on me that I really love living here, and that I love the people (imperfections included).

Life has been good here in Iceland, the air always smells fresh and if you want to get away from people it's easy. And if you want to talk to people they are there, too. They don't say straight out that they are going to miss you. But you can tell they do, just in the way they joke about it. Icelanders don't usually say things straight out when this happens. They might blink, and then tell you that it doesn't matter because they wanted your desk anyway. But the way they smile slightly when they say it lets you know what they really mean. And I'm going to miss them so much.. the hardest found friends are always the best ones. Nobody invites you out for at least 3 months (if you are lucky, otherwise try 6), and then after you've proven that you're going to be around and they have decided they like you, suddenly there is no shortage of things to do. People invite you to their parties, invite you for coffee, movies, you bump into at least 3 or more people you know when walking around down town - even just the guy that served you dinner at a restaurant last week is happy to have a chat for a minute or two.

To the casual observer, Icelanders are cold and unfriendly. I say that they are just reserved, and that they open up once you get to know them. Sticking in there is the hard part, but once you get to know them it's the best feeling in the world.

It feels difficult to leave now, but is it always that way? When you finally know for sure that you are leaving someplace that you like, do you start to wax nostalgic immediately? I'm trying to think positively about the move to Stockholm, and I am excited, but at the same time all I can feel is sad. I feel like I'm leaving something important behind. If you asked me what that is exactly I don't think I could tell you. It's just a feeling that this place is special.

I know that Iceland isn't going anywhere anytime soon, and that I can come back in the future. I guess I just need to keep that in mind.

I wondered today if I am being a bit melodramatic with myself about this. But then I figured it's fair to be happy and sad about two things at the same time. So I'm reserving the right to feel sad about leaving.. but with the caveat that I make the most of moving to Stockholm. There are definitely positives to it (else I might not be going :-) ), picking up another language not the least of them.

Við sjáum til.

Flattened horses

2007-10-18T18:45:00.000Z

This one comes a bit late. I have a back log of blog entries.. not feeling too guilty about it right now, but the thought does cross my mind now and then that 'oh I should really blog about this!'.

However, the number of times I am sure the giant computer in the sky has heard that (oops.. did I just imply God was a computer? Silly me!) is probably astronomical. Get it? Computers, astronomy? Nah.. neither did I :). Anyway... so I think most people are running around thinking 'oh I should really blog about that', and I'm no different. There is the sobering thought we are all just getting fat and lazy. There are quite a few people out there that manage to be quite diligent at keeping their blogs up to date.. but let me tell you something, MOST OF THEM ARE BORING! Yup.. perhaps my first (or second) controversial statement here. But the truth is, I can't stand reading some people's blogs, regardless of whether or not they are my friends. I feel slightly guilty saying that, and I most certainly won't divulge who the culprits are - but boy oh boy do they need to grow some imagination.

Then again, look at the drivel you find on my blog.

So, I suppose I should talk about flattened horses now or something, since I made that the title 'n all..

Katrin and I went to a friend's summer house (thanks Helgi ;) ) for a saturday night. In Iceland this entails a BBQ, beer, and sitting around in a hot tub. Every summer house in Iceland has them pretty much. There were some interesting rugs lying about...

Helgi said the above one was called.. hmm, well since I can't really remember, we'll just call him Bob.

And this one was Dolly ;). Apparently both of them had been so popular with the family that they were allowed to continue on as a foot rug and a wall hanging! Go Bob and Dolly, we will cherish you forever as we wipe our feet on the way to the toilet.

No more stolen cat

2007-10-08T16:16:00.000Z

I just noticed that I had mentioned I lived with a stolen cat from the neighbourhood we live in. Well, that's a lie now.. because we had to give her back. Still, it looks funny in the profile so I'm gonna leave it there. Turns out that the cat belonged to a house a few doors up the street, and that the owner was looking after a kitten for a week or two - the cat got jealous, packed its things and moved out, right into our apartment.

I have to say it was one of the most persistent cats I've ever dealt with. Normally I take great joy from teasing cats, but I'm not sure I would want to mess with this one. To start with she's a black cat, and I don't want to cross her. She was quite precocious - after being thrown out of the house several times she seemed to instinctively know where all the windows were, and after giving me an extremely peculiar look each time (as only cats can do, and that quite plainly screamed 'don't mess with me'), she returned immediately. After throwing her out several times in a row we finally had to close all the windows..

We did let her in quite often though, she had a good temperament and was very social. But after we found out she had run away from home we decided to keep her shut out all the time in case she got too comfortable. The look she gave me when I threw her out for the last time was somewhere between the 'puss in boots' stare and the 'I'm going to claw you mofo!' range. I haven't seen her around the neighbourhood since, but I keep reassuring the other resident Kat that the other cat is fine and probably somewhere dining on better food than we do.

So, we have gone from this:

To just this one :)..

"waahhh!!! where did my cat go :("...

Anti social

2007-09-24T12:09:00.000Z

Ugh - what is it exactly that makes me feel on occasion as though I am the most anti social person I know.

I have got a big ball of 'leave me alone' going on in my stomach today. I think I'm tired of the routine, I want to be excited and to be doing, seeing, or hearing things that make me say 'wow.. I'm glad I decided to do this'.

Routine. It's a nice thing, but not an exciting thing. Perhaps I have the same complaint as billions of other people that need to turn up to work every day, every week, every year.

The summer time is over here, and I spent all of it in Iceland. It was a good summer, and spent with my loved one, but one of my goals for coming up to this part of the world in the first place was to be able to get out and about, to go and see new places and meet new people, to have fun. With winter obviously approaching, and with the wind starting to bite my cheeks and stiffen my fingers every morning, I'm feeling more trapped and with little prospect of being able to get away.

I don't mean to be rude when I'm anti social, but perhaps I come across that way - very quiet, not joking around (when expected.. should 'joking around' be something other people expect you to go along with anyway?), enclosing my ears in some mercifully 'privatising' headphones and delving into some reading.

I know myself when I'm like this. I just want to be walking free in some new city or countryside, feeling uncertain and being happy about it - not knowing which store I might pop into or which person I will talk to next, or where I'm going to have lunch.

I don't want my entire life to be like this - some extreme of freedom, nor an extreme of routine. I want a healthy mix.

Is it just that I haven't had a holiday in so long? I really hope so..

Marmite Deficits

2007-09-10T18:13:00.000Z

Okay here we go.. this time I swear I'm gonna do it. Nothing's going to stop me, my will is strong, my mandate pure, and my body and mind are ready, willing and able. Yes. That's right, I'm actually going to try to keep a blog, and update at least often enough that the site doesn't get to delete me, along with all the other poor fellas that once had aspirations of blogging glory and then thought it was more enjoyable to watch Neighbours instead.

Okay, so I never thought it was more enjoyable to watch Neighbours (maybe when Kylie Minogue was still starring and Love Train was popular). Maybe.. ok probably, Love Train came later. Or before. Oh stop it - don't nitpick!

I'm sitting here right now cross legged on my bed with a plate holding a delicious serving of New Zealand Marmite on Toast. It is actually good enough that 'Marmite' and 'Toast' deserve to be spelt with a big M and a big T. At this particular point in time however, I might just be inclined to think its better than it really is. Marmite starvation can tend to do that to a man - in fact, I have self-diagnosed myself as having acute Marmite Deficit, something that can happen to any kiwi who has strayed for too long from New Zealand.

One might ask: "but why and how did you get Marmite Deficit?". This question is best answered with a short and under-done story, kind of like:

Inadequate story teller: "Well, because I decided to live as far away from New Zealand as any sane marmite lover can get".
Inadequate story listener: "But where!? Tell us Marmite man!".
Inadequate story teller: "Well, because now I live in Iceland".
The End.

So.. yeah, that's about it really, I live in Iceland, and far be it from being all scandinavian and open minded and all that jazz as I thought it might have been. Ohhh noo. You couldn't find an imported Marmite jar here unless you decided to burgle your Mum's old friend that lives in the next town. And that's pretty much impossible since a) they know who you are and b) most kiwis abroad guard their Marmite in a rather zealous, but arrestingingly adorable, manner.

Trying to induce some manners in the savages doesn't seem to work very well either. I once had the hope that if only I could convince them that Marmite was Good (like all that is holy, including cows), then they might start importing it and I would never have to worry about bribing friends to send me some ever again. But now I have learnt my lesson... the last brave Icelander that decided to try it promptly screwed up his face and, wretching and grasping his throat, made a direct bee line for the bathroom, where a good quantity of perfectly good Marmite (a few grams) was unceremoniously delivered to the stinky depths of Davey Jones' toilet locker.

So, it seems there is not much hope for me. I will have to continue to lie, cheat, and steal to obtain my Marmite fixes. During those periods when I fail to use any of the aforementioned methods in any vaguely successful manner, I will resort to staring at my custom made Marmite poster on the ceiling above my head, my left eye twitching spasmodically.

There're even several Marmite groups on Facebook, doncha know.. I applaud the valiant souls who created them. Hopefully as I add more Icelandic friends on facebook I can goad them somehow into joining the groups and thereby trick them through some form of internet hypnosis to help me find Marmite.

Enough writing, I'm off for a second helping!

The above text as well as this line may or may not contain entirely fictional elements.