The undignified death and burial of the humble moth

Those poor moths. They live their short lives in the shadows of their glamorous cousin the butterfly. They live, eat and mate. Then they see the light - the ceiling light that is - are lured by ther pearly glow, only to meet their crisp end in the warm light radiating down. They rest in peace for a few months, cradled by the ceiling light cover, before we humans decide a bit of spring cleaning is needed. We rip away the light covers, are appaled by the insect and small animal detritus which has accumulated, and unceremoniously dump their lifeless remains down the toilet. And we flush. But of course they just tumble and turn in the waters refusing to make the final journey down the pipes. Then along comes boy, raises the toilet seat and proceeds to urinate. Weeing ono those poor little moth bodies. Pummeled down to the depths of the toilet waters by the stream of hot urine, they finaly assent to their final descent.
Oh the undignified death and burial of the humble moth.

A touch of rain...

Put on a raincoat! Maybe some rain pants too. Wellingtons wouldn't go astray. Find that super strength umbrella too. You'll need it!
Well OK, I wasn't quite so well prepared, but I did at least have a raincoat and a small collapsable umbrella. But then again, in Australia we don't have this thing known as rain.

So by the time I'd walked into the city on my way to work, my legs and feet were already well on their way to saturation. And then I made a big mistake. I did that which one just does not do, at least not in a rainy flooding town. Yes my friends, I did, I walked along close to the roadside. And as can be expected got completely soaked down my left hand side by a passing car. And then I realised I had left my wallet at home. So i turned around. And promptly got soaked down my right hand side by another passing car.

Yes, well I've now got it - Bergen is a rainy place, and you get wet no matter how much goretex you have between yourself and the elements! I just haven't quite got the handle on how to deal with it on a day to day basis. And another thing I haven't quite got yet, is how to dress with any sort of style in this chilly snowy/rainy weather! There go the Norwegians, beautiful and stylish; their blond hair flowing out from under their beanies, the cheeks flushed, radient yet comfortable in their jackets, luxurious scarves draped around their necks, elegant gloves adorning their hands, skipping along the icy paths on their way to work and school. And here comes the Australian, clomping along in his boots that look more at home in the mountains, his jeans, wet and muddy around the bottom, his two size too big red raincoat hanging off his shoulders (and looking much like a skirt if I draw in the stretchy elastic thing around the waiste), his home made crocheted beanie with it's practical ear flaps poking out from under his raincoat hood (which for some stupid reason was designed to come only halfway over my head!), slipping and sliding, his arms windmilling to keep his balance on the icy paths. The Norwegians watch on in slight disbelief - is he a street performer putting on some comedy act in a funny costume? Ohh ok, he's Australian, that's alright. They're a little bit strange from down their.

Fish, guns, pintails, mini-mals... What am I talking about, I can hear you thinking. Well, I have decided I am destined to ride the barrel, hang ten, and become a pro surfer. All based on two days of surfing on a sprained ankle in 2 degree water on the west coast of Norway. And these, my friends, are just the beginning of the bewildering range of surfboard flavours. From your smallest, lightest fibreglass dainty, to your mammoth 9 foot malibu for easy crusing.

So I off on the trail of a sweet surfboard to kick of my surfing career. The problem is, I'm rather stingy and really don't want to pay much for a board at all! But of course I still won't settle for anything but the best. A rather tricky dilema I'm in.

So hopefully in a short while this blog will be filled with thrilling recounts of my surfing adventures alongside my trusty Norwegian viking on his equally cheap but top quality board.

See you on the water!

The Journey Home

There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home! I'm clicking my heels together many more than the prescribed bare minimum three clicks, but it's still not working! If only it was that simple. Instead, I started my journey a good 19 hours ago. You see, I didn't put faith in the ability of Heathrow to effectively shuttle passengers through customs and so on, so I gave myself a good 3 hours leeway at the airport. This plan backfired somewhat, and after a hearty meal at an Irish Airport pub, I still had a good 2 hours to while away before boarding. Now as I'm sure you'd agree, airports aren't the most conducive to time-whiling-away. Partly due to the ear-piercing squeal which is the Heathrow public announcement sound effect. Partly due to the brain function impeding, odourless gas which they release into the air in airports. Now this makes any attempts at concentration longer than the time taken to open my book to the current page impossible. So I have become quite adept at opening and closing my book to page 147.

Well, after whittling away the hours, I decided it was soon enough before boarding to take a swig of my cough medicine to ensure a cough free flight to Hong Kong (free from coughing myself that is - you'd be hard pressed to board a flight full of Hong Kongers without having at least a handful of old chinese ladies attempting to cough up their spleen onto your shoulder). Reading the bottle label I was not really all that surprised to see that it may cause drowsiness, as just about everything from baby food to suncream may cause drowsiness these days. So sitting down in my emergency exit seat, provided with ample leg space, I was ready to knuckle down to a good few hours and maybe a film or two, before restless, broken sleep would perhaps overtake me. So you can imagine my surprise, when alerted by a cool patch of drool spreading over my left shoulder, I awoke to find the plane air born and climbing up through the clouds. What is in this medicine! Incredible. I didn't even recall taxiing out, or taking off. Well I proceeded to make the fateful decision to accept a bit of dinner, despite the fact I wasn't too hungry (you see I suffer from hungrophobia - terrified I will become hungry without easy access to food), certain I would regain this drug induced slumber immediately afterwards. A tip to air travellers in hindsight - once you accomplish the feat of falling asleep - DO NOT SURRENDER IT FOR ANYTHING! Not for conversation, not for money, and definitely not for lukewarm doggy plane food!

Sheep, rain and guinness

It's a lovely land, this little island tucked away in Europe. There's
lovely sheep here. Some lovely cows too. And you don't ever need to
worry about going thirsty, because they have a decent supply of rain as
well. And if you get sick of that watery taste, there's no problems in
finding something a bit thicker, a bit darker, a bit blacker. Just turn around,
head into the pub behind you and order a pint of the black stuff -Guinness. And yes, it does taste better in Ireland.

Now you see I've been a bad Croft. I've been a rebel Croft. I have thrown caution to the wind, and blatantly disregarded the unspoken Croft law. I have been on a tour. A touristy tour. Now this is a crime punishable
only by some very bad punishment. But you know what - it was actually
not too bad. A decent bit of fun really. I don't think I would
otherwise have had the experience of cooking authentic tortilla patatas - Spanish omelet
with a fellow Australian and two Spanish girls, in a hostel called "The
Randy Leprechaun" in a sleepy country town secreted into the wild west
coast of Ireland.

Well that's all I can squeeze from my brain frizzled from a long bus ride back to Dublin for now. Sleep tight my lovelies.