Back in Civilisation 2 (or: Burning the Witch)

Last weekend we had our Danish midsummer celebrations. The 23rd of June is called Skt Hans, after Saint John, because John is called Johannes in Scandinavia, abbreviated to Hans; and because 'saint' is written as 'sankt' and abbreviates to 'skt', despite actually translating to 'helgen'. With me thus far?

So. We celebrate Skt Hans (ie. Saint John) with a midsummer party on the 23rd. Despite the fact that midsummer is really two days earlier and Saint John’s birthday is actually a day later. Obvious, isn’t it?

In order to show our true Scandinavian religiosity, we celebrate the saint by burning a witch on a bonfire. Afterwards we eat sausages.

This year I made the witch out of old clothes, sticks and egg cups and decorated her with some of my mum’s old (and very red) lipstick. She was a good two metres tall and looked suitably above-it-all in her lipstick and her suffering as the flames started licking her legs, while we all stood around the fire drinking red wine and enjoying the sight.

After the witch and the wine, we moved onto sausages, bread baked on the fire, and whisky. We finished the evening by roaring like an elk outside our guests’ caravan so they woke up again.

Good old Scandinavian traditions!

Back in civilisation

I’m home for a few months while waiting to be able to take over the lodge. It’s very rare to have this amount of free time in one’s life, so I intend to enjoy it to the full. I’m testing recipes for the restaurant, doing funny google searches and going for bike rides in the Swedish countryside.

Arriving in the UK at first felt a bit weird. One weekend we went to Reading and had to change trains at Paddington. Thankfully I more or less managed to stand back from it all, yet you can’t help being taken in by all the stress surrounding you and taking part in these ridiculous games that are played out in train stations.

When the platform was announced, a horde of people, mainly business people in their suits and ties and expressionless faces, rallied towards the platform from all directions. The image must have been quite spectacular from above, this vast herd of humans forming a fan-like shape. Everybody was walking, never running – that would be breaking the rules of the game – but walking faster and faster, simultaneously keeping an eye on their competitors out of both corners of their eyes so as to make sure they didn’t get in front.

The expressionless faces slowly started betraying signs of stress, vicousness, greed and desperation at the thought of their rightful seat on the train being snatched away from them. The closer they got to the platform, the more the desperation set in. Old grannies were pushed out of the way, toddlers overturned. And still on the surface, everything was done according to the rules of British politeness, of betraying to emotion, no real desire to get that seat. Everyone was still walking. Noone started shouting or visibly pushing when the old granny created a queue in front of the train door because it took her a while to lift up her suitcase. But there was impatient shifting from one foot to another, demonstrable shuffling of attache cases, imagining that horror scenario of having to stand in the aisle while a smug, spotty teenager got the last seat. Heaven forbid.

The whole show lasted only a few minutes, yet it seemed that the middle-aged guy in the suit in front of me had gained an extra couple of grey hairs since I overtook him on the platform and put an elbow in his ribs. It’s good to be back in civilisation, though.