Driving

I hadn’t realised that my driving style was genetically determined, but I realised how much viability this theory had two years ago when I got to a town in the time the Swedish guy told me it would take (this was 3/4hr faster than Graham thought).  I think that driving style has evolved to bounce off elks, before Volvo was invented (and will now be revived now that they have been compromised by foreign buy-outs). Ironically, just before the crash I was driving within the guidelines (rules, whatever).  Such is life. 

There is one thing that I have absorbed from the UK and that’s braking distances.  Marvellous things, but if you thought people don’t keep to them in the UK, they don’t exist at all here.  So when a great big, galumping lorry is parked up your backside at 100km/hr, they are not being aggressive, really!   I say 100km, the speed limit is viewed as being a guideline, as are the road markings, indicators and other bits and pieces someone insists on. 

Of course, I shouldn’t make generalisations.  The rest of the country consists of little old ladies or chaps, and now, me.  We drive at 30km below the speed limit and towards the middle of the road.  We also hold the steering wheel at the correct position very, very hard, but, unlike the UK, we don’t hunch over the wheel, we sit very upright and posturally correct.  After all, there is no need to relax standards, is there!

There is something that makes you realise that you are in an alien place and that is the behaviour of the drivers in the towns.  The first time, we were on the kerb looking to cross the road (main, mark you) and the cars stopped.  We looked up the street and down the street, for little green flashing men, for prone zebras, for some other sort of road sign or flashing light from the sky, but nothing, absolutely nothing. We looked at the driver, he looked at us, we looked at the driver, he looked at us.  After about half an hour of this, we crossed the road and he continued on his way.  In the interest of scientific enquiry, we tried crossing the next road.  The same thing happened with slightly less bemusement, this time with a Merc!!!!  Gosh.....  So I have been forced to take a more Graham approach to things (when he had a white van, he used to let people out.  It’s well worth doing for the look on their face alone!). 

Swedish drivers don’t get so het up about things.  I haven’t heard one horn honked since we’ve been here, which is no mean feat, given the number of times I've forgotten I don't need to drive London-stylee and dive out into a 2cm gap.

Lower your blood pressure and drive in Sweden!

Things to do that don’t get done in Perivale.

1.       Get the wood in. From the Wood Shed – I’m still waiting to see something traumatic in the woodshed, but maybe I’m too old, or maybe too influenced by Stella Gibbons.  Disappointingly, all that is in the woodshed is wood and a few plant pots left by my parents, which are slightly traumatising in their own little way as there is a perfectly good potting shed just around the corner.

      The wood comes from Edgar, who is a lovely chap of few words.  He has reached the pinnacle of Swedish Manhood and owns his own sawmill.

2.       Light the fire and keep it going.  A log or two has to be put on every 40 min or so.  If not the fire will go out and we will have to use the eco air con. And it makes a noise. Whilst being eco, it uses electricity, the pollution of which you have to pay evil corporations for, unlike the wood, which is not as expensive, but more local (and Edgar gets the money - much better) and smells nicer. 

I also have an ash pail! An ash pail!! – they had those in the 1950s and we aren’t even in New Zealand/Tasmania. I have to say that it’s so much easier to use the ash pail on the veranda than to go to the ash pile every morning in your dressing gown when it’s -19C – long live ash pails :-) (lovely yellow from IKEA, I think it was originally intended as brewing equipment, oh well.)

3.       Change the cat litter.  This isn’t strictly so different, BUT,  here, so far, the cat comes in from the outside to go to the loo inside....???  Once, when I was very depressed, (probably brought on by the lack of relentless pressure and having to find my own direction, always a test of character) Graham told me I had to stay alive because I could change the cat litter. The fact that it was the first thing he thought of was, erhh, interesting  and shows interesting stuff about the male brain...

4.       Sweep.  It’s very nice having lots of trees around, but they drop things; constantly, incessantly and relentlessly.  As do the clouds. If the snow is swept up before trodden down, you don’t get those slippy ice bits on the steps, and not slipping is almost always good (cross-reference skiing).  There is also the perfect housewife thing.  Swedish women manage to have families, jobs and keep their houses immaculate. How, how, how????  My one contribution to decent and upright womanhood is sweeping the steps and the wooden floors as often as is feasible to my poor pathetic excuse for humanity.

5.       Take the recycling to the dump: this has to happen once a week at least, or the kitchen gets overrun by plastic and tetrapak and we get replaced by the life forms growing in the aforementioned.  We only pay council tax if we use council services, so my Mother (whose house this is) doesn’t pay for rubbish collection.  Fortunately, almost everything is recyclable.  We have a bucket for “other” and that hasn’t been full enough to empty in the six months we’ve been here and, I sorry to say, has mainly British rubbish in.

6.       Stop and stare: “what is this life, if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare”.

A Swedish Car Crash

Note to self, which will also work as a Word of Warning – never think that you can do what a Volvo can do if you’re not driving one.  Such as, for example, overtaking a lorry going up a hill when it was begun to snow and the road hasn’t been salted for a while.  Sliding headlong into an on-coming lorry is not a particularly good life move, though I am quite proud that I did manage the skid so I didn’t go into the lorry on our side.  When in Sweden, managing skids is very, very important.  Being only half Swedish, I only did half a skid, but I’ll work on it!

With typical Swedish practicality, there were people on the scene immediately, including a tow truck crew.  Lovely chap called Patrick, who called the emergency services.  All of whom turned up with amazing promptness, given that we had completely blocked the road – whoops... and remove the roof and doors, talk soothingly etc, etc. Think on how long it takes for roads to reopen in the UK after an accident. Here, within 1 hour of the accident, you would never have known that anything had happened on that spot. We had often remarked on it and it certainly makes it easier passing the spot later.

I think that the Swedish health system requires a whole blog of its very own, but it works far, far better than ours, and all the “buts” aren’t actually that applicable, so nah! The sign above my head as I was wheeled, shivering, and somewhat confused, cheered me up and the UK hospitals should follow suit – Katastrophvård.  Mind you, maybe most people would instead be rather upset, which wouldn’t be particularly helpful, such a missed opportunity.

The tow-truck man, phoned me up a few days later to find out how I was and to tell me where he’d taken the car – bless him!  Ooooh, going to see the car was fun.  Various people had been in and out, picking up crow-bars, tax discs, rucksacks. You know, the normal sort of stuff you keep in a car, but I thought that I’d better empty the car myself, especially as the insurance company had asked.  The man in charge of the yard was terribly impressed that I had been in the car and pointed out various items of interest just in case I missed them, like the radio being pushed out by the engine, how the door wouldn’t close etc and then gave me the first aid box, which was untouched.  I’m sure he was just being helpful.

Graham and I, being reliant on the Swedish system, are now home and attempting to find another car.  Emma and Simon, being reliant on the British system, are still in hospital trying to get home. And yes, they had all the right insurances.