On Streptococcus

To whom it may concern,

Normally I'd start a letter with "Dear...", but in this case there cannot be any reason to be so generous. There is, after all, nothing "dear" about streptococcal pharyngitis, strep throat, and just like that we have arrived at the core of the matter: the absolute repulsiveness of the Streptococcus,  and how they themselves refuse to acknowledge this fact and improve (or better still - just leave already!).

At the moment,  the latter is their biggest flaw in my humble opinion.  That they simply won't leave. Gah.

I get that I'm a great host, and I recognize the compliment disguised in this. The streps think I provide a friendly growth-promoting environment, and they show their gratitude by staying, and thriving. Gee, you guys! You really shouldn't have! No, really...

Because being the host of (uninvited) guests that overstay their welcome (not that they ever were welcome...) is no walk in the park. In fact, I haven't been able to walk much at all outside, even though the weather has been lovely. All thanks to those nasty coccus (oh, come on, someone had to say it, and since I'm the only one "speaking" here it better be me).

The streppies have been nothing but trouble. In addition to blocking outdoors (and indoors, I might add) recreational activities, they have now stopped me from going to work. You see, holding a lecture (or five, as it was supposed to be) about World War One is slightly difficult when your throat is swollen to the point that speaking at all (or eating. Or drinking. Or for that matter breathing) is difficult.

Add to that the fevers. I nearly never have one (probably partly due to the fact that my body on average holds a temperature around 36 c, a full degree below normal body temperature for human beings), so when I actually get a fever my brain more or less stop functioning. Once I achieve 37 c, normal for most people, I am already burning. Kick it up to 39, which I did this weekend,  and you'd be lucky to get coherent sentences out of me. My boyfriend tried, when picking me up from the pile I'd collapsed in on the floor: "Is there anything I can do for you?" My answer: "Doctor. Medicine. Radish" (or something very close).

Thus, the strepsons and I do not function very well together.  See, this isn't their first visit. Oh, no. They were here just a week and a half ago too. Back then I was convinced I had an ear infection because the swelling was affecting the nerves going up there, but a visit to my doctor revealed the true culprit. She gave me antibiotics, and after a few days I was more or less restored to my old self ("less", because my motivation to do anything but lie on the couch all day watching "Game of Thrones" was still out sick...).

No wonder, then, that I was annoyed when after I had returned to work (once I got the motivation on board) my throat started aching again, in an all too familiar way. It was as though the coc-streps (you thought it, not me) had launched a new and fierce plan to disrupt my peace (or rather stress, actually, since the idea of lecturing about World War One in no way seem peaceful to me).

I can only hope that a new batch of antibiotics will do the trick and send the strepomens packing. And to help, here is my plea to them (thus explaining the "whom" from the introduction of this post): just leave already!!!

On millions

On this day a million years ago, your ancestor, Homo Antecessor, woke up, scratched his leg, and thought a coherent thought as one of the first humanoid species to do so. It might not have been a very impressive or complicated thought; perhaps he was wondering where to go for a dump or whether to eat fruit or leftover raw meat for breakfast. But it was a thought. And just like that, he became a front-runner of what human beings have been doing for a million or so years: thinking. Occasionally thinking too much.

"It was a million years ago," we might say, describing a distant past - be it our youth, our last relationship, or last Thursday. Sometimes things happen so fast - or such amounts of it happens at once - that even short spans of time give the impression of containing decades, centuries, millennia. It was a million years ago, yet it happen yesterday.

Probably we think too much. Thoughts both of the impressive and complicated variety, and of more mundane matters. "My throat hurts," I think. "My heart doesn't, but probably should." One thought is very simple; the other is very complicated. It happened a million years ago, but really - it's only been a few days.

My throat really hurts. I have the flu. I don't often get that; in fact - this might be the first real flu I've ever had. I've had the common cold about a million times - last time was a million years ago way back in January. But the flu? With the muscular ache and fever and all? I can't say I've been diagnosed with that, ever. I haven't been diagnosed this time either, but the symptoms seem coherent. If it isn't the flu, though, it might just be sore muscles from too much dancing this weekend, combined, again, with a common cold. It's entirely possible. I danced, a million years ago, with people I hadn't seen in a million years. I felt like a million dollars.

Sometimes life happens like a million and one - all you can do is to close your eyes and hope you don't fall off.  It's running at the speed of light, and you're lucky to catch a breath of air once in a million blue moons. "Do I miss you yet?" she asks. Yes. No. It's only been a million years. "Do I miss you, then?" she asks again. It hasn't even been a day. She shouldn't miss anyone. She doesn't. She does. My throat hurts. I want soup.

In a million years nothing happens. Then everything takes place in one short week, and you're left wondering what the next million will bring. Probably nothing. Other than a million thoughts.

On scrambled eggs (not really)

I’m fighting a(nother!) cold and I’ve got a lot of my mind (including a troublesome drabble I am trying to write for the June 2010 Burrow feature which we are launching tomorrow – you should check it out [tomorrow, on June 1st that is] on www.the-burrow.org,) so this will be a short post. It’s unavoidable to mention one of the other things on my mind since the Burrow also launches another event tomorrow – it’s the GO! date for the BuNoWriMo. If you haven’t joined yet, you should check it out (the logo in the top right corner of this page will take you directly there). We are currently at 90 members – that means 90 people who will help YOU write a novel in June (if you let us) – and there is room for plenty more!


What I really wanted to post today, though, is something that has to do with my Saturday post. I won’t give you a full review of the Eurovision show (because, let’s face it, the artistic highlights were few), but there is one thing from the show I wanted to share.

The pause act in this year’s Eurovision Song Contest was surprisingly good, it was different than it usually is (actually, it was different than anything I’ve ever seen). Watching this live made me remember what people can do when they get together and work towards a mutual goal, and this is also an example of a happening that would not have been possible without the help of modern technology. The music starts about 50 seconds in, and I highly recommend watching at least a couple of minutes to get an idea what is really going on here (actually, just watch the whole thing. It’s really cool!).




One final comment on Eurovision and I swear I won’t mention it again for a year… Did you know that if you google “men in silver hotpants” in Australia my blog comes up as one of the top hits? I know this because a considerable of the hits I had over the weekend came from Aussies looking for the good stuff in really short shorts…

On ash*

We’re covered in ash. Isolated by it.


Norwegians had forgotten how it felt to be an outpost. Now we remember.

No more Tanzanian roses for Oslo. No more Norwegian salmon for Japan.

Are we at the risk of losing coffee, sugar, bananas, rice –things we have come to consider as crucial in our daily lives? Not to mention the decreased demand for oil that equals decreased prices and a giant income loss for oil-producing Norway.

We stood tall through the financial crisis. Will the ash be what pulls us down?

It is worth asking (ashing?) what a flight-free weekend in Europe meant in environmental terms. Perhaps we should take this opportunity to think of alternative means of transportation? Businesses and government agencies have been forced to host video conferences instead of flying in negotiators. If this is a possibility today, why can’t it also be something to consider when the ash disappears? Perhaps this was nature’s way of telling us to find new solutions? It will be interesting to see whether the pollution from the volcano was less than the pollution it prevented because of grounded planes.

In the end, though, the immediate feeling is inconvenience. There is nothing we can do. Turning off a volcano is harder than you’d think.

It is tempting to say with the Britons: “Damn you Iceland, we said cash, not ash!”



*The English word “ash” sounds suspiciously similar to the Norwegian “æsj”. Which can mean anything from “eugh” or “yuck” to “damn” or “shoot!”. At the moment I am not so concerned with the ash, but more with my own personal æsj. I have a cold which is keeping me from doing anything sensible. To top that, I am at home with two computers – one which cannot connect to the Internet, the other which refuses to connect with its own keyboard. I challenge you to figure out how I was able to post this…

On finding ten good things about having a fever

1. Your head is hot, so your hair dries faster

2. Fever delusions can be entertaining

3. You’re one symptom closer to having the dreaded swine flu. Who hasn’t always wanted to be part of a world-wide movement?

4. It makes you sound a lot more sick, meaning you get a lot more sympathy

5. You’re hot, so you don’t need a lot of clothes

6. It’s obligatory to listen to the song “Fever” (after a few turns, though, this falls into the “bad” catefory)

7. You can make as many typos as you want, and everyone will just write it off as “fever-speak”

8. Fever means your body is fighting, right? Go kick some virus b-hind, now, fever!

9. Having a fever when your regular body temperature is below 36 degrees, doesn’t necessarily put you over the magical 37 line. So you’re cool (well, no, “cool” is what you normally are. But you’re not “hot” either. You’re “warm”. Or “normal”. Or whatever).

10. Since you’re very sick with your horrible fever no one will mind that you skip the final point of a ten-point list.