Can't eat unless fully dressed

I'm sick today, just a cold, but sitting in bed like a princess. A fully dressed princess in her bed. Not because I'm trying to keep warm, but because I want to eat my lunch. And I can't eat my lunch unless I'm fully dressed.

This is just the way it is, and the way it's always been. The thought of getting a drop of jam on my bare thigh, or worse, a flake of croissant on my nipple, makes me feel sick. Well, not sick exactly, but all gross and tingly, and I get that shudder down my spine and I have to kick my legs and arms about wildly for a bit until it goes away.

I've never been able to understand the market for chocolate flavoured sex products. Ew, get them away from me. And pass me my overcoat, please.

Saturday Night at Cannes

Being completely burnt out after my parents' visit I decided to stay in on Saturday night. I have no money, a cold, and possible liver damage. This could be because they "made me" stay up til 8am on Ursula's balcony drinking Jagermeister last week. So this weekend I think I need at least one hot bath and a night on the sofa, relaxing.

Trouble is, staying in relaxing is only any fun for the first ten minutes. After that, it just gets kind of irritating, doesn't it? Absolutely everybody else I know is at a party somewhere. Except Bjarni, busy killing ninjas in the countryside, and my Truculent Horse, busy writing her new blog up north.

I watch my New Gay Best Friend getting ready for a night on the town. "Don't leave me!" I panic, grabbing onto his ankles and getting dragged round the shiny wooden floor as he tries to escape the house. "I'm bored already!" He's not sympathetic. "Why not use the time to do some work on your screenplay?" he suggests, as he kicks his leg until I can't grip onto it any longer.

Hmm, of course, my award-winning screenplay that I'd worked so hard on during my stint in London and then promptly forgotten all about. I pick myself up from the ground and dust myself off. Well, not forgotten all about, exactly, but I certainly hadn't actually written anything down since returning to Iceland.

So thanks to my NGBF's brilliant suggestion, I happily spend the rest of the evening at my iBook, busily staring out of the window, swooshing up and down a red carpet at Cannes, dressed in something simple but elegant — Versace probably — Bjarni on one arm and 7 awards in the other, including Best Director and Best Screenplay Ever Written by Man or Woman in the History of Filmmaking Ever.

It wasn't such a bad Saturday night after all.

Velcro™ Break-up

Velcro™ Break-ups are when you split with your boyfriend, whine constantly to all your friends about it for two months, and then get back together as if nothing ever happened. My friend Ursula says doing this once is just fine; twice and everyone starts to lose interest; three times and it gets really boring.

But Bjarni and I are back together and I am totally, utterly over the moon about it.

Baby eater

I've never been a big fan of babies. Up until quite recently that is, when I nearly ate one by mistake.

I just never know what to say to them. Whenever a proud mother hands me one I rush through the list in my head of Useful Topics to Discuss During Awkward Introductions. None of these subjects—Iceland; The Weather; Myself etc—ever seem to really engage the child. And I outrightly refuse to do that grown-adult-makes-baby-noises thing. So I inevitably end up standing there silently, clutching onto it clumsily, waiting for it to be taken back off me again.

Earlier this year, however, I was at a photo shoot for an advert that just so happened to be about a baby. Sitting on set, waiting for it to all get going, the baby in question was plonked on my knee. Uh, I'm the art director, not the bloody nanny, I thought crossly as I sat there grumpily waiting for it to be taken back off me again.

But there was something about this baby, I don't know, it'd had its bath or something. It was just so warm and toasty; it smelt like melted butter and talcum powder: baby cake mix. It wrapped its tiny hand around my finger, like only babies can do. And all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I got this sudden urge to kiss its head. I looked around the studio. Is it okay to kiss another person's baby's head? I'm not really sure about the etiquette on this kind of thing. I took a chance and did it anyway. Touched my lips down on its fluffy hair, barely there at all, like duckling feathers. It made an appreciative gurgling noise, smiled up at me. I cuddled it a bit more. Oh, it was so gorgeous! God, I could just gobble it all up and wash it down with some Kókómjólk, it smelt so ... delicious. I looked around the studio again. Everybody was still busy. The stylists were with the models, the photographer was fiddling with the camera...

Uh, just kidding. Of course I didn't really eat that baby. But the important thing here is I wanted to. Me, Annie Rhiannon, the babyphobe. The one in my family voted Least Likely to Ever Reproduce. One minute I can't even bear to hold one and the next minute I want to eat one?

I must be getting soft in my old age.

Welsh Celebrities

One of the most important things I've learnt about my home country since living abroad is that nobody knows fuck all about us. While every other tiny nation has some great celebs out there flying the flag — Björk for Iceland, Sinead O’Bonkers for Ireland etc — famous Welsh people tend to be either not very famous at all or else everybody presumes they’re English.

Catherine Zeta Jones
Famous for marrying her great-grandfather’s best mate, Catherine Zeta-Beta-How’s-Your-Father Jones really is Welsh, despite her exotic European looks and ridiculous Hollywood accent. She has proved it too, by naming her children “Carys and Dylan” and by refusing to lose any more weight than is absolutely necessary.

Ryan Giggs
This is the one all the Icelanders know, being a nation of Manchester United supporters — as is every other part of the world except Manchester itself. Poor Ryan chose to play for his native Wales as a young teenager when he didn’t think he’d ever have a chance of playing for the England squad. I bet he’s kicking himself now. Or maybe not, considering their performance in the last World Cup.

Charlotte Church
God love Charlotte Church. The “Voice of an Angel” child star turned insatiable party girl. Famous for drinking beer and eating crisps, being the only British popstar who can actually sing, and threatening to thump the disgusting Cheryl Tweedy in the face. “Listen darlin’,” she warned her. “When you can sing Ave Maria, then you can come and have a go at me about music.” Bring it on.

Mary Quant
Inventor of the mini-skirt, still highly fashionable in her hometown of Swansea, whatever the weather.

Tom Jones & Shirley Bassey
I’m putting them in the same category as I know / care little about them except that they are both Welsh and famous.

Carol Vorderman
And finally ... sexy and intelligent Carol is one of the few celebrities from the rural North Wales, which means she speaks fluent Welsh. Hooray. A mathematical genius and entertainer of thousands of students across Britain, all sitting around in their pyjamas scratching their balls and watching Countdown when they should be, uh, still in bed.

George is getting suspicious

Right, I'm off back to The Fucking Countryside for a while, where there is never any internet connection / phone signal / designer cocktail bars etc.

I leave my male readers in the capable hands of the hilarious Niolk, who has plenty of advice for you. Pay good attention to what he's saying as I expect to see a vast improvement in all of you by the time I get back.

The East

Tomorrow morning I'm flying to the East of Iceland on a tiny little plane to meet my parents, who are arriving by boat from the Faroe Islands with their bum-bags.

I've always been very enamored by the East. It just sounds so romantic, doesn't it? "The East." I fall hopelessly in love with every man I ever meet who comes from that direction. Which is unfortunate, really, as most of them are in-bred farmers and / or lunatics.

One day, when my glittering career in advertising and filmmaking has come to a natural end, I intend to settle down with a fisherman from Djúpivogur with big hands and a weathered face. We will live in a white house with a red roof, and I will spend my days painting and writing funny little poems while he goes out and gathers the fish, or whatever it is he has to do. He will also do all the cooking and cleaning, as I will be busy cutting my ear off over my latest masterpiece. We will have two beautiful blonde boys together called Frosti and Gústi. Although they will have to take care of themselves, obviously, as I'll be so busy with my funny little poems.

One day the fisherman will get a bit fed up of all this and go out in his little fishing boat and never come back. I will tell myself that he has been killed by a terrible storm, which will inspire me to write a soft, whispery folk album all about my sorrow, and then go on to pen a hit dance single for Dannii Minogue.

God knows she needs one.

Roxy

Thanks to my mum and dad, I was blessed with a name that rhymes with "fanny". And, while I can of course see the comic side of this now, it caused me a considerable amount of grief in the playground as a small child. As if having red hair and a funny accent wasn't bad enough.

So (once I had stopped pretending to be a boy called Tom) I decided to change my name to "Roxy", after some slapper I had seen on an 80s sitcom somewhere. Roxy! Who would fuck with a girl with an X in her name? Nobody, that's who. But after a while I got bored of trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to get everyone else to join in with my plan, and after some careful pondering decided to go with "Maxi" instead. That didn't quite catch on either, which in hindsight I'm rather relieved about.

Later in life, in that cruel institution known as High School, everybody copped on that not only did my first name rhyme with a funny word for vagina, but, with a little imagination, my last name did too. By this time I had given up trying to be in any way cool whatsoever and came to terms with being known as "Fanny Twatkins" for nearly the whole of my teenage years.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, hey.

Mamma & Pabbi

My parents are arriving in Iceland on Thursday for a week's holiday, which is going to be great, although I already feel mildly embarrassed. What's up with that then? I thought all that embarrassment shit was supposed to have passed now that I'm No Longer a Teenager.

Well, it could be the fact that they've both invested in massive climbing-shop "bum-bags" for the trip, presumably so they can carry their first aid kits and ice-picks with them while they're walking around town. "Mum!" I squealed when I saw what she was planning on wearing in Reykjavík. "It's the capital city! We're not going to be on a glacier! You can't wear an anorak in the bars!" As for my father, he hasn't been to Iceland since he lived here for five minutes in 1973, so he's invested in a semi-pro digicam and plans on filming absolutely everything he sees, just like a very tall, very ginger Japanese tourist.

It's okay, they're equally as embarrassed of me as I am of them. They cruelly call me "Saffy" behind my back, after the prudish and rather tedious daughter in Absolutely Fabulous. Pfft. Just because I sometimes mention that they might like to cut down on the amount of partying they do now that they're Getting On A Bit. My mother can drink as much whiskey as she likes, however, being Irish, without anybody else but me worrying that she might be an alcoholic. "Oh lighten up, Saffy, will ya" they'll scoff at me, before pouring themselves yet another triple G&T and sparking up a joint.

Oh, I'm actually really looking forward to it.

American boyfriends

Yanks do romance better than anyone else in the world, even more so than the, uh, Romans.

This is because Americans have No Shame Whatsoever, so aren't afraid to drop the macho stuff and be completely cheesy every so often. I spent a blissful 9 months with my half-yank being showered in gifts, mini-breaks, champagne, ice cream with chocolate sauce and nuts etc on it, and dinners at expensive candlelit restaurants. I don't think I ever actually got the cuddly toy, but that's because he was sensitive enough to realise that I'd much prefer a bottle of Polish mead.

Yanks are also far more open to Talking About Feelings — unlike Icelanders who are crap at it outside of the Trúnó, and British people who outrightly refuse to do it at all. This means that if your American boyfriend thinks you look "hot" (yes, they really call it that) he'll actually tell you it before he tries to have sex with you. But if you really need a hug and a chat, then you can have that too — and not just for as long as it takes you to stop self-obsessing and start sucking, but genuinely just for as long as you need.

American guys also understand the concept of "dating". In fact, I think they might have invented it. A British date consists of going to the pub until midnight and then stumbling home for some crap sex. An Icelandic date consists of going out drinking until 6am and then stumbling home and falling asleep. But an American will take you out for dinner and a movie, getting comfortably tipsy on a nice bottle of Rioja, before going back to his place for great sex on crisp white sheets. I don't know why Yanks are Great In Bed, considering their apparent issues with the naked human body, but it's true.

I recommend that every girl samples an American boyfriend at least once before she dies.

Rightism

Left-handed people are so fucking annoying, aren't they?

Nearly my whole family are lefties — as are most of my friends — and every single one of them thinks they're something special, you know, walking around jotting things down with the wrong hand. My mate Raggi is not only left-handed, but red-haired as well. Put that on top of Being An Icelander and you have The Most Special Person in the World.

Is my left-envy obvious? I've always wanted to be one of them, admittedly. And I have tried. But I can't even change channels on the TV with my left hand, never mind smack the pony (uh, I mean, "write the alphabet").

So, I'm in the process of starting a secret gang for right-handers who've always possessed the alleged "creative" qualities of a lefty, whilst also able to write an entire shopping list without smudging the ink.

I'm still figuring out how the secret hand-shake is going to work.

Arranging your fridge like a shop

After an epic climb up the 900m Esja last night I think I'm going to skip Body Combat this evening. Considering I can barely make it across the studio today I don't think I'll be much good at killing baddies in the gym.

Instead, I'm going to do important things in preparation for Eavan's imminent arrival on Friday. Important things include "doing the dishes", "buying toilet paper", and "arranging my fridge like a shop". The latter is by far the least boring and involves buying multiples of single items and placing them in the fridge so that all the labels are facing the same way.

This has always made me feel really, really good about myself. It all started when I first moved to Iceland and had barely any money and No Friends Whatsoever. In my quest to Make Friends I spent all my cash in the pub and had very little left over for grocery shopping. In order to hide this I found it best to line up what little chilled produce I had at the front of the shelves, so that the stark emptiness at the back of the fridge was concealed. Over time I became rather fond of this shop-like atmosphere I had created and began buying three of each product to enhance the look: three pots of vanilla yoghurt; three small cartons of milk; three jars of rotting shark meat etc.

These days, obviously, I am wealthy and popular enough that I don't really have to do this anymore, but I'm certain it will give Eavan an enormous sense of familiarity and well-being on her arrival: choice; opulence; hope; variety. Arranging your fridge like a shop.

Twenty Four

I think I'm watching too much 24. Not only are all my sexual fantasies focused entirely on the fictitious Jack Bauer, but I'm just so edgy all the time.

I see terrorists crouching in my peripheral vision and I duck for cover when a cop car crawls out in front of me. Last night I woke up struggling and gasping for air thinking I had a brown sack tied over my head (it was actually my night-dress, I don't know how it ended up like that). This morning I screamed and dropped my Branflakes when the receptionist said hello to me in the kitchen. I keep panicking about how the fuck I'll be able to pass a lie-detector test before remembering that I don't actually have to take one at all.

Luckily I'm getting quite good at killing ninjas in my Body Combat class. Although I have to admit I'm a bit miffed that tonight I have to walk up Esja rather than cling to my sofa for the remaining four hours of the first season.

The Truculent Horse

I'm counting down the days until Eavan, the truculent horse, returns to Iceland for another summer.

You know that time in your early 20s when you've finished college and you feel like you've made all the friends you'll ever need ever again for the rest of your life?

And then one day, out of nowhere, this short girl with a mane and boots kind of trots past you muttering something about a road trip, and the next thing you know you're on the south coast laughing crying in the midnight sun wondering why nobody ever got you like this before now and why you've never ever felt this insouciant in your whole life before not even when you were a little kid and do we ever really have to go back to Reykjavík again can't we just stay here forever in the middle of nowhere falling in love tripping over each other breaking our ankles and making complete sense to each other?

Everybody should be at least a little bit in love with all their friends.

Adulthood

There are three things you must achieve in life before you can be classified as a proper grown-up:

1. Having an orgasm without faking it
If you're male, you may have achieved this at a considerably earlier age than most women. If so, skip to point number two. If you're female, I'm talking about with another person, not when you're by yourself.

2. Taking down your posters and putting up prints
What's the difference between a "poster" and a "print", anyway? Well, I'd say roughly about £9.99.

3. Buying your own place
I'm going to look at an apartment tonight, to buy. Which feels quite scary. But it's so cute; the top floor of a red wooden house. It seems quite cheap too, compared to other places. This, apparently, is because of its "crap location". But it's the location that appeals most to me, just off the main street, downtown. It also has two bedrooms for the price of one, so I can rent one out. See some pictures here.

Oh, and by the way, when I have achieved two of the items on this list, I will let you know.

Cheese slice*

*I mean "cheese slicer" with an R at the end, which is why this post makes no sense whatsoever.

I missed my flat-mate's 40th birthday on Saturday. How is that even possible? I just staggered back drunk from the pub and came home to a house full of empty beer cans and birthday cards. That's weird, I thought. Who's had their 40th birthday in my apartment? Oh, of course. David. Luckily, he was nowhere to be seen, so I went to bed adamant to wake up early the next morning and dash out to buy him something special.

Trouble is, there's not an awful lot you can buy in Reykjavík on a Sunday morning, bar ridiculously strong coffee and novelty gifts made out of lava. I scanned the apartment for something I could wrap up and stick a ribbon on. His beard trimmer — that classic man-gift. Or the half-empty bottle of malt that my guests left last week. Or maybe he'd like a go with bunny? (Only on loan, of course).

No, unfortunately I was going to have to get him something from the tourist shop, damnit. But as soon as I walked in through the door I saw the perfect present: a cheese slice with "Iceland" written on it in fancy script. David loves cheese slices. And he loves Iceland. You can't get cheese slices in the UK. Or rather, you can get them over there, but nobody knows what they're for. (It's that thing at the back of your kitchen drawer that you once used to fold an omelette with by mistake).

It worked. I was forgiven for being a day late. He says it's going to become a family heirloom.

Off the wagon

Waking up on a Sunday morning with a head full of red wine and a stomach full of Logi's Thai soup just isn't any fun when you've ran out of bog roll.

As predicted, I fell off the wagon on Saturday night. It was great fun up to a point, good food and company, but later I found myself in the queue for Kaffibarinn at 1am, head spinning from the wine, nipples cracking off from the cold. It's the only queue in Reykjavík that gets longer in front of you, rather than behind you. So we all piled over to the less cool Ölstofan instead, where everybody was amazed to see yet another queue. "A queue! There's never a queue outside Ölstofan!" exclaimed all the Icelanders, flabbergasted, like they are every time they see the queue outside Ölstofan.

I was relieved to finally get inside somewhere warm, but it's not the most inspiring bar downtown. Borgar summed it up quite nicely, I thought. "It's like pissing in your boots," he explained, authoritative as ever. "It's familiar and comforting for the first five minutes, then it just gets kind of tedious".

I left around 2am. If going home ridiculously early doesn't save me from hangover hell then I must be getting old.

Combat

When I'm kicking the shit out of the air in front of me in my Body Combat class I like to pretend that I'm actually laying into a character I've encountered who really, really pissed me off. An abusive ex-boyfriend, for example, or Sharon Watts from EastEnders.

Most of the other girls in the group wear these scary-looking black fingerless gloves. I don't see what good they do, seems the class is of the non-contact variety. Perhaps they just like having warm hands while they jump around. Regardless, I'm definitely getting a pair. They look fucking cool. I'll get mine from the Puma store. Partly because I think having pictures of dangerous cats on my sportswear will make me look harder, and partly because I've never quite been able to shake the little bit of chav in me.

Next week I'm also going to turn up with two stripes of war-paint on each cheek, and a Taxi Driver mohican to complete the look.

"There's a good reason why women don't blog"

So, the blogging community is up in arms over Mary Dejevsky's report in The Independent last week. I can't be bothered quoting the article properly, lazy little slut that I am, but it basically reasons that women "don't blog" because they're either too busy with their lady-duties or not arrogant enough to presume the world is interested in their opinion. And if they do blog, they're only interested in writing about gynecology.

Well, it has been pointed out to me that I blog way too much about masturbation. Somebody recently asked me, "don't you have anything to write about besides your pussy?"

Hence the immediate flurry of entries about filmmaking, literature, and, uh, my tits.

Kellogg's Variety Pack

Nail tyres
It's July and I'm still cycling round with nail tyres on my bike. I'm tempted to just leave them on now. There'll be ice again in a couple of months, surely?

Bunny
My rabbit keeps conking out. It's fine for the first two minutes, then it just goes dead for half an hour. No, it's NOT the batteries, I've checked, believe me. Two minutes of rabbit is not enough! Who can get there in two minutes?!

Working out
Favourite current work-out track: "Slide" by Missy Elliot. I don't give a shit if you can't stand me, cause I is what I is and what I am is like my mammy. And I don't mean to sound too petty but they used to call me fatty til I got with Puff Daddy. Classic Missy. In fact, all her tracks are brilliant to work out to. Yes, I have contemplated the irony of that.

Road trip
Went around Iceland last week with some friends from Wales. Highlights included Brian's face when he saw all the naked people in the hot spring; drinking Fisherman's Friend™ flavour vodka all night with a group of crazy horseback riders; and watching a sandstorm heave its way over a lava field in the north. I love the countryside. Even if it has ruined my beautiful suede Pumas.

Sunglasses at night
It's daylight all the time now, which I spend the whole year waiting for. If only because I look like slightly less of a twat wearing my massive bum-reducing sunglasses all night long.

Dinner party
I'm invited to dinner on Saturday. This "not drinking" business is ridick and virtually impossible. Think I will allow myself one bottle of wine just to break up the fortnight.

Ridick
Ridick is a word I invented myself, as an abbreviation of "ridiculous" (emphasis on the last syllable). Try dropping it into conversation without actually feeling ridick yourself. It's imposs.

DADDY I WANT A HORSE!
I haven't been in the best form lately, in fact I've been feeling quite low. Despite seemingly getting my own way all the time. Maybe I'm a spoilt brat. No, I can't be. Surely. My parents never allowed me the Kellogg's Variety Pack on account that it was too pricey and all the boring ones would be left at the back of the cupboard for years after its purchase.

On the wagon

I'm going dry for two weeks. Two whole weeks with no alcohol whatsoever. I know I always say this, but this time I mean it. I need to drink water, eat vegetables, and go for long bike rides in the miserable Icelandic drizzle.

I'm bored of looking like a 46 year-old scrotum.

Barinn vs 22

Am I the only person in the whole of Iceland who thinks the newly refurbished Barinn is actually an improvement on 22?

Excuse me for being totally uncool, but I always hated 22. Sitting downstairs made me feel like I should be ordering a coffee and a sandwich. Sitting upstairs made me feel like I should be tapping for a vein. And the music. Christ. Trying to dance to a mix of 80s synth and 90s grunge was bad enough. But being put through that working-as-a-waitress-in-a-cocktail-bar song three times in one night is enough to make me go back downstairs and order that sandwich.

Oh, I have fond memories of the place too, don't get me wrong. Getting off under the stairs with my best friend's ex by mistake is one. Letting my visitor get touched up in the toilets by a demanding Icelandic lesbian is another. And vomiting all over some tourist's feet just before trying to kiss him was also fun. But hey, it's time to let go and move on.

So yeah, Barinn, a great improvement. This week's challenge is to find out who the hot new exotic-looking guy behind the downstairs bar is. Go!