You’re the same age as I,
So I want to cry,
“It’s not fair!”,
Though I’m aware,
It doesn’t work that way
Despite what people say,
About fate or destiny,
What will be will just be,
No fair or unfair, no reason no rhyme,
Only what is, what unfolds through time,
And though we have an affect through our push and our shove,
The real truth we reflect,
Is how much of our world we can cover in love,
In every nuance and shade – with each moment passed,
Ever aware each breath could be our last.

Sitting at Tre Vänner, the pub on Svandammsvägen, out the other Midsommarkransen T-bana exit, and 2 minutes from my apartment. Only been here a couple of times before, lastly with the couple I rent from, after I got the keys from them in March 2014. I had no food, or alcohol at home, so decided to come sit, eat, drink, and write. Awful fucking place.
The place is busy, but not packed, and I put my coat at a table for 4 in the corner, trying to find a place out of the way. As I stand being ignored at the bar, a group of 4 comes in. There are other tables available, but the waitress, still waiting for me to amass the required times of being ignored before I get served, decides they must have the table I was going to sit at. Maybe there’s an actual reason, but like many a State secret, it is withheld from me. Possibly for my own protection – like the paper seal on the hotel toilet seat.
Nonetheless, I quickly assess the situation, volunteer that it is indeed my jacket (which must of confused her, since heretofore she thought I was invisible) and offered to move to the bar. The response? A thank you, a how kind of you, a hint of explanation? Nope.
“Vi tar det.” (We’ll take that.)

I find a perfect little spot at the bar, in the corner, my back against the wall, isolated. Where I can write, and observe, and not have to interact with this group of pub staff and regulars I have kindly come to quickly regard as cretins.
The place is nothing like my regular local, the favoured Southside, where I’m made to feel good about myself, against my will and better judgement. Where I relax, and chat, and socialize, and have grown to be spoiled with kind and efficient service by a group of staff who make you feel it’s their absolute pleasure to serve you, and who seem to look forward to seeing you again.
But by and large, the Southside is a shitty place to write. It’s like trying to write at a gathering of family or friends. But this miserable little hole, that seems to begrudge its customer’s existence, and whose customers respond in kind. Where nobody gives a shit what your name is – it’s perfect for writing. I’ll definitely be back.

I threw caution to the wind recently and purchased a Fitbit, partly at the urging of a gorgeous friend, and partly because after gaining 7kg since my heartattack almost 6 months ago I needed something to help stem, or rather turn, the tide. I was a little hesitant, because hey , it’s sort of pricey, and secondly, I’m about as far from a technonerd as you can get. I love it. I absofuckinglutely love it. It’s not so much that it’s technologically superb, measuring steps, pulse, and a multitude of other things, as well as linking to an app that provides personal stats that make me feel like I’m a world class athlete. (who hasn’t wanted THAT kind of pampering!) It lets me compete against friends! What better motivation is there then competing against friends? Okay that may make me sound horrible, but if it gets me off my fat ass (fat stomach more correctly, my ass remains pretty damned fine), it’s all good. I have turned into a walking madman! Today, while surging through the crowds in downtown Stockholm, walking to a friends for dinner after work, I seriously hit the zone. I had already taken a long walk at lunch and hit my 10,000 step daily minimum. So these steps were all gravy. I walked right through the heart of Stockholm, from Globen via Slussen, through Gamla Stan, and up to the top of Drottninggatan, where my friends Steve and Som live. I walked at top speed, weaving in and out of packs of tourists, reading the path ahead of me, slowing as little as possible. Whenever I was forced to slow down by zombies, in my head I became Dustin Hoffman’s character in Midnight Cowboy, “I’m walking here! I’m fucking walking here!” My legs and feet, after first struggling, finally replied “Fuck yeah!” and rose grandly and elegantly to the occasion. This is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, me and my Fitbit, and my ass is going to be seriously in shape. Well, not my ass, as we’ve established it’s primo, but the rest of me is going to catch up!

Pristine pairs of shoes,
Hanging from wires and trees,
Couplets of separate meaning,
Swinging in the breeze,
One thinks of people struggling,
With life’s necessities,
And ponders over affluence,
First world luxuries.

View through Starbucks window in Stockholm

Used to be a vegetarian,
That’s what I was before,
Although the things I ate were less,
I managed to eat more,
Now decades on I’ve changed,
Reverted to an omnivore,
I’m trying to learn to eat less,
Though the food choices are more,
More of less, or less of more,
The thing that strikes me now,
It matters somewhat what you eat,
But matters much more how!