foul-gate

A quick note on the Government's woeful management of the 'Fol-gate' scandal, or, more specifically, their decision to 'defer' the addition of folate to bread:

Boo.

The best medical advice is to be ignored and the introduction of folate is to be delayed....again. Forget the benefits it will bring, forget the fact the science supports its introduction, and rely instead on the hysteria created by a lobby group and the fallout of a minister's rather poor media management to influence your decision.

John Key. Born leader? Yeah, right.

france - cote

So determined are the French to stand out that they've redesigned the traditional QWERTY keyboard. I feel like my father, struggling to find the right key and taking forever to produce bugger all... Karma?

Arrived in Nice to warm weather weather and frosty bus drivers. The Côte d'Azur wasn't much to behold, just endless stretches of beach with large Germans vacuum packed into togs waddling around, trying (sometimes in vain) to miss the fishing lines dotted about the shore. I had underestimated the affect 'modern' development would have on France's otherwise beautiful south. Such a pity to lose history for the sake of modernity.

Where we're staying now more than makes up for it though. I'm off for a siesta under the Platanus. Pictures to come...

over the edge

Today it rained. And rained. Long enough to make someone already close to the edge tip over it. Not me though. It was all the excuse I needed to stay inside watching American television shows on Swedish cable television. Besides which, I have such a sunny disposition that it would take more than 3 feet of rain to depress me.

The one bright spot in this otherwise dull day has been watching a truckie clean up an enormous mess on the street far below my bedroom window. Across the road from our apartment is a classy joint aptly called Västertorps Krog. It's a bar that specialises in serving the kind of people who douse themselves in jean before leaving the house. Anyway, most mornings it receives more stock to replenish that sold (and promptly regurgitated onto the pavement) the night before. This morning, in his eagerness to get home, the truckie delivering the cases packed with bottles lowered his hoist too quickly. Hundreds (no really, hundreds) of bottles connected with terra firma and did what glass bottles do when they connect to Mother Earth too quickly: pirouette gently before coming to a rest and then promptly shattering.

Everywhere. In the gutter. On the pavement. Across the road.

Poor bugger's been at it for a while now. Brushing the glass off the road and cursing his bad luck. I would help but, ahhhhh, there's something else I need to do just over there.

quickie

This always happens when I visit Sweden. People nag me and I start blogging again. Then, once I've retreated back to Enzed, I stop. I have nothing interesting to add to the blogosphere. I'm not even sure I want to be associated with it. Let's face it, most of what's written is unintelligible and, frankly, I couldn't care less what someone from Shitkicker, Missouri thinks of world affairs.

I've forgotten how the weather in Scandinavia refuses to make up its mind around this time of year. Just yesterday we had a fine and crisp day. It was so good I felt compelled to mount the bike dad's leant me to go out and explore far reaches of western Stockholm. Today's a different story. I'm imprisoned inside where it's dry and significantly warmer. I don't hold the Swedish people accountable for their weather, but, faaaaaark....

In typical fashion, I'm using Stockholm as a bit of a springboard. Next week we head to a friend's place near Avignon, France. He owns a small 'villa' near Sorgues. Apparently he made his fortune selling medical supplies to the developing world. The Lord's work, in other words. By all accounts he's a very nice and down to earth bloke. The fact he drives a Bentley doesn't mean anything.

I had to book tickets on the TGV (or, train à grande vitesse), the French version of supersonic transport by rail. Like everything in France the exercise was made almost impossible by, in this case, electronic bureaucracy and nonsensicalisms. Yes - I was so irritated by the drawn out pointlessness of it all I have invented a new word:

nonsensicalism noun 1. a process aimed at disempowering and frustrating foreigners not familiar with local processes and customs.

According to the website (and a subsequent 'confirmation' e-mail) I need to collect the tickets from either the railway station, an automatic kiosk, a small midget wearing something official on the platform, or on the train itself - although selecting options 2, 3 or 4 could carry a surcharge and option 1, while preferred, cannot be guaranteed. After all, the station could be closed and the employees on strike.

There's three of us making this pilgrimage to Europe's southern Mecca. Standard class tickets = €130. Upper deck views = subject to availability. Complexity of the system = priceless. I haven't set foot on French soil and already I'm bleeding from my ears. Don't worry: I'll take plenty of photos.

After France we'll journey (briefly) to Amsterdam to catch up with family. I will not smoke anything illegal. What a coy admission, all it was missing is the ¤wink, wink¤. If only I could work the little smiley faces you find scattered about websites on the internet. Trust me, I'd put a big, yellow, fark-off face winking wildly. Wink, wink.

Hopefully there's more to come. Hopefully I won't be swallowed by French bureaucracy. Hopefully there is actually a train from Nice to Avignon. Who knows and, for as long as I'm on holiday and work's a million miles away, who cares?

shhh

The emails will do nothing. I have been sworn to silence on account of affiliation. Appreciate the sentiments, though.