a hopeless night like this, angels sang

A candle, a sadness, dredging the internet for a little comfort in the midnight hours. I am not what you want me to be, I am me.

Through the winter night outside, Christmas is drawing near. Peace on earth and good will to men - and my cynical, stony heart sighs a prayer. Because what else can it do?

I will fall asleep at last in a warm bed where dreams sing of happier times. I will not let go. And tomorrow, just maybe, a tiny shred of joy will surprise me when I realise that God himself felt this way once, for my sake.

"Courage is not always loud. Sometimes, courage is the tiny voice that whispers at the end of the day, 'I will try again tomorrow'". (unknown)

if only I was travelling right now

The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land.

Gilbert Chesterton (1874-1936)

little shop of harmony

I've never worked in a real shop before. Now I do. A bright, friendly shop selling brand new books and music, with a dark but cosy basement packed with second-hand clothes and trinkets. And an all-pervading atmosphere of friendly welcome, a "come in and we will change your life".

Moreover, I discovered that the Santa Claus who used to wander around Heartburn Hotel is a regular customer, buying the odd little trinkets he always left lying around the hotel. So now, folks, you know where your Christmas presents come from. At least the odd ones.

the country that always has bad weather on its birthday

As I prepare to go out in the darkness alone, cold rain in my face and wet slush under my boots, it amazes me sometimes that my people actually fought for this country.

But if I happened to meet someone who told me he is going to take it away from me, I would hammer him viciously with an icicle and stuff his mouth with the mushy grey snow.

Happy 90th birthday, Finland! Land of my birth, and probably my death, and object of my love-hate.

heaven's little coffee shop

Expensive lip gloss, an Irish newspaper especially imported for me, the friend who knows me best and causes me most grief.

A week spent discussing whether we go to heaven when we die, and what to do when (if) we get there. And then we discovered that heaven has branched out to earth, to a little café at the corner of Stortorget, Stockholm, where candles burn on ancient wooden tables among sweet-smelling hyacinths and peace embraces you as you order the chocolate cake with whipped cream.

Wandering around Stockholm, Venice of the North, where it seems nothing can ever go wrong.

Sleeping on the bottom of a ship, on the bottom of the sea, rocked gently by underwater waves. Until a Swedish teenager puked outside the cabin door. Then I was glad I was going home.