Princess Rhiannon gets the painters in

I'm not blonking for the next few days. Not unless it's about something really, really bad. I think I have PMT. I have something, anyway. I'm stomping around the place like a walking PJ Harvey album.

Fun Things to See and Do in Iceland Before You Die

I've decided that crossing rivers in a jeep is my new favourite hobby. It's much more exciting than snowmobiling on a glacier, walking behind waterfalls, spotting celebrity muff, or any of the other millions of Fun Things to See and Do in Iceland Before You Die.

I went on a trip to the highlands with some friends at the weekend, to visit the beautiful Ursula, who is living a life of isolation as a hut warden for a couple of weeks up in the wilderness. Due to the total lack of network coverage we had to spring a surprise on her and just hope she'd be in. Well, of course she was in. There isn't another hut for fifty million miles; just glaciers, black sand, and the odd troll lurking about between the rocks.

And she was surprised. Mostly that two computer geeks, a four year old, and me, Princess Rhiannon, had managed to get across Markafljót without being swept away downstream in the current. Well, we had a boot full of beer, wine, fresh fruit and veg, and whale steak, so getting swept away wasn't really an option. I admit I screamed like a girl when we sunk down into the deepest part, but that was just part of the fun, and anyway, Már says it helped cover up his own cries of terror. Unfortunately I don't have any pictures of this epic crossing, because I was in the jeep, of course, and Logi refused point blank to take me across first and then drive back through again just so I could "get a picture for my blonk".

Whale meat is delicious. Somebody once told me it tasted like "fishy beef", which never really sounded all that appetising to me. But it's not fishy at all — it's more like the most tender rump steak you've ever tried in your life. A wave of guilt did wash over me, as it were, when it was first suggested we eat a whale, but I just thought about all the poor chickens who spent their lives in horrible captivity in battery farms just to keep me in scrambled eggs. This cheered me up considerably and I didn't give the whale another thought for the rest of the evening. It was grilled outside on the barbecue, very lightly, while I skewered the vegetables inside the hut with Garpur, who taught me how to say "pirate ship" and "motorcycle man" in Icelandic.

The rest of the weekend was spent wandering around, taking moody pictures of each other in the desert; drinking wine and whiskey; and all falling asleep on top of each other in Ursula's tiny cabin. I woke up around 6 am, wondering why the whale still smelt so strong wafting in from the kitchen. Then I realised it was just night smells oozing out of my companions' bottoms, and I fell soundly back to sleep again for the rest of the morning.

Princess Rhiannon gets the bus

The only people who get the bus in this city are foreigners, alcoholics, and retarded people. Absolutely everybody else whizzes around the place in jeeps — it's just like living in LA, minus Kiefer Sutherland.

I found a flat on my bike this morning, after sneaking out of my secret lover's house a little late for work. A flat! That is a proper pain in the arse because I've only just gotten round to changing my winter nail tyres. (Well, I didn't actually change them myself, per se, I had to get a man to do it for me while I stood filing my nails and wondering what shoes to wear that evening).

I didn't have time to change this morning's flat by myself, of course, and Kiefer Sutherland was nowhere to be found. Normally I would have just walked to work, but I had a meeting to get to and I never noticed how slow walking is before. So boring. So I hopped on a bus with all the alcoholic people, and tried to avoid eye contact.

Karma must have bitten me in my snobby arse though, because by the time I realised I'd hopped on the wrong bus, I found myself down by the sea on the other bloody side of town. Luckily for me, however, I managed to make full eye contact with a rather helpful alcoholic person, who then taught me all about route maps and bus numbers and actually managed to get me to work on time.

Thank you, helpful alcoholic person. I hope somebody gives you a jeep for your birthday.

More about knickers

My post about the Icelandic jumper must have been a bitter disappointment to the person who wondered "why does he wear my knickers" on Google just now. Well, while I don't have an exact answer for you, I advise you not to panic: I'm sure he wouldn't do it if he wasn't enjoying it.

Speaking of which, my father doesn't hold out high hopes for his own blonk — despite posting a picture of himself in a little red mini-skirt this weekend. He's talking about turning it into a food blonk instead, complete with recipes. Sounds useful. When he figures out how to use his shift key I might take another look.

Wanted: Genuine Icelandic Grandmother

There's no point in wearing a traditional Icelandic jumper unless you can say, "What, this old thing? Oh, my genuine Icelandic grandmother knitted it for me years ago. Of course, I've had it since before they were in fashion."

Well I've spent the last three years trying to recruit random yet genuine Icelandic grandmothers to knit one for me, to no avail. The reply always came back the same: "Sorry, but I have a long list of genuine Icelandic granddaughters to knit one for first".

Hmmph. I at least wanted to be able to say, "What, this old thing? Oh, my co-worker's girlfriend's cousin's wife's genuine Icelandic grandmother knitted it for me years ago. Of course, I've had it since before they were in fashion." So, a bit desperately, I sneakily bought one from a shop, in disguise, when nobody was looking, with the full intention to lie about it to anyone who might ask.

Unfortunately, the one I chose didn't have any sleeves. In the shop mirror it looked kind of cute, more like a woolly t-shirt really. But by the time I got home I couldn't see the point of a woolly t-shirt. My arms were cold. And anyway, it looked crap on me. And then somebody pointed out that I'd bought one that hadn't been finished, by mistake.

This week I tried again and bought another one, with sleeves this time. Oh, it's so cute! I finally found one that makes me look like a proper Icelandic granddaughter, instead of a foreigner in a woolly t-shirt. Trouble is, I bought one that was a little bit too small; partly because I wanted it to be snug and sexy*, and partly because there was a 4000 kr. price difference. I wouldn't mind, it's just that the sleeves are a little bit short.

Does anybody have a genuine Icelandic grandmother who might knit some extra bits to go on the ends for me?

*Yes, woolly jumpers can be sexy, here is Rebekka to prove it.

Symmetry

I think I quite like my new lopsided haircut now. I don't like the two girls I turn into when symmetry is involved, anyhow. Click to enlarge.

Slán a chur le duine

Bjarni is moving to Dublin next month—to start his brilliant new job at Google—and is going to have an Oirish theme at his leaving party. Now, seems I lived in Galway for five minutes when I was a teenager and am the proud owner of a Genuine Irish Mammy™, I have declared myself the authority on all things Irish. So, if you need any tips for your costume, look no further.

Everybody in Ireland wears sunglasses all the time like Bono does
Who cares if it never stops raining? This is good news for the costume party, as sunglasses never fail to make you look cooler than you really are and, let's face it, that's the only reason we enjoy dressing up, so we can all wear ridiculous things that make us look more attractive.

Irish girls wear green dresses
Bad news for me as I hate green. I know I have an "olive green" blonk but that's only because my co-worker picked it out for me because I couldn't choose and anyway, she's a much better designer than I am and I trust her implicitly.

Irish priests are just like the ones on Father Ted
This isn't a joke, actually, this is just the truth. Which is why everybody mistook it for a comedy rather than the revealing and controversial documentary that it was.

Irish nuns are gagging for it
My parents had a nun friend called Gertrude when I was a little girl and they used to call her "Dirty Gertie from number 30" behind her back, which I always thought was pretty awesome as a child — because she really did live at number 30.

Irish people drink Guinness
I once dressed up as "a pint of Guinness" on St. Patrick's Day when I worked in a plastic paddy pub in London. My costume consisted of wearing all black clothes to go with my bleached white hair. Nobody really got it but I didn't care, I looked good, which is the main thing.

Leprechauns exist
And here is the evidence to prove it, in the form of my brother Fergus.

So, dates and stuff can be found over at Bjarnablogg. I was going to dress up as Eavan, but realised a horse costume wouldn't be particularly flattering and am therefore going as a cross between Bono and one of the annoying bints from The Corrs instead. See you there.

Exit Horse

I'm a little hungover today, after a few Wanks-on-the-Beach last night to commiserate Truculent Horse's departure from Iceland.

I'm so sad that she's gone. I mean, I know we were on opposite sides of the country and everything, but it was nice to know that if I had ever really needed to I could have easily jumped in a cab to Mosfellsbær, stood hitching a lift in the rain, eventually gotten a four hour ride with a lonely old man who wanted to marry me and take me back to Kopavogur, picked up a bus at Varmahlið, and then hiked through the gloomy Hólar fog for two hours before arriving at my soulmate's door. Yes, I really must learn to drive this winter.

In other news, I think I'm getting used to my lopsided Icelandic haircut. The girls at work tell me I look like a "pæja", whatever that is. Logi tells me it's a "pie maker's daughter". But he also once told me he had a pair of swimming goggles with windscreen-wipers on them, so I don't really know what to believe.

Telepathy isn't working

I've had many ridiculous hairstyles in my time, including mohicans, pink hair, purple hair, a Sinead O'Bonkers cut, and, for the majority of my adult life, a bleached white crop that was not only painful to instigate but meant I kept getting mistaken for a lesbian. And once for Delores O'Riordan from The Cranberries. But only once, mind.

It dawned on me some time ago, however, that the style that suits me best is my natural one. That is, the one like the Annie in the annoying children's musical. Which is why, when I was at the hairdressers last night, the following conversation took place:

Me (decisively):
"Now, I don't want anything out of the ordinary. Nothing that looks like a style, y'know? I just want my usual mop of unruly curls, only a bit shorter and a bit neater, like it was three months ago."

Stylist (running fingers through my hair):
"Okay, I see, nothing too stylish, just your usual mop of unruly curls, only a bit shorter and a bit neater, like it was three months ago."

Me (relieved):
"Right, great."

Stylist (decisively):
"So how about I cut one side really short, and leave the other side quite long, so it has an asymmetrical, stylish look to it?"

Me (in my own head):
"No! No, no, no. That sounds like the last thing I want. I absolutely forbid you to cut one side really short and leave the other side quite long, so it has an asymmetrical, stylish look to it."

Me (out loud):
"Okay then."

She said that if I'm still in tears over it next week she'll happily chop the other side off too, but that I should at least give it the weekend to see if I get used to it or not.

Body Combat

"You're looking particularly ridiculous today, Annie Rhiannon," my Body Combat teacher telepathed at me when I turned up for class last night.

"Oops," I telepathed straight back at her in my best Icelandic. "Is it the two stripes of war-paint smeared across each cheek? Or the ammunition belt strapped over my shoulder?"

Unfortunately, even my best Icelandic isn't all that good. Add telepathy to the equation and it must have come out as "can you give me directions to the nearest train station please" or something, because she just gave me a funny look and ignored me for the rest of the class.

Exciting Welsh news makes Icelandic headlines

The news of a Welsh road sign warning of BLADDER INFECTIONS AHEAD has made the front page of Iceland's national daily rag today.

I'm delighted; absolutely delighted. Most Icelanders look at me blankly when I tell them I'm from "Wales", so to have my homeland making headlines over here is Very Exciting Indeed.

It's kind of embarrassing though, to be outed as a country that can barely speak its own language. The BBC may well report that "cyclists were left confused" by the sign, but I think that plural is slight hyperbole. It was actually only one cyclist who even noticed the mistake at all.

Kitchen scissors

I don't see the point in having a trophy boyfriend if I can't polish him up a little every once in a while. Which is exactly what I said to Bjarni as I sat him in the tub this weekend, armed only with a pair of kitchen scissors and the experience I'd gained during my brief stint working at a Poodle Parlour as a teenager.

At first I wanted to give him a "Beckham", if only so I might resemble Posh Spice as a result. But being Posh's polar opposite—ginger, squashy, happy etc—I decided it wouldn't have that great an effect and went for this rather choppy masterpiece instead. Which I think looks bloody lovely, personally.

Luckily for Bjarni it was Reykjavík Gay Pride at the weekend so he didn't look out of place at all following the parade up the street. Although, rather disappointingly, nobody once rushed up to him gushing "oooh darling where did you get your hair cut it looks bloody lovely".

Nevermind. I think I did a brilliant job considering a) I'd drank half a bottle of Nasty Asti before I'd even started and b) I'd cut a dog's ear off during my brief stint working at the Poodle Parlour, by mistake.

Finding out your father wears women's underwear

I suppose there are many ways of finding out your father wears women's underwear. The most common way, I should think, is to walk in on him with his trousers down by mistake. The least common way, I should also think, is to have it announced to you at Sunday lunch with a table full of guests. Which is how I found out about it, of course.

There we were, my mother, my father, three friends from the village and me, enjoying roast beef with roast potatoes, roast parsnips, carrots, gravy, drinking our way through a couple of bottles of red, a lazy afternoon at Forest Lodge, when my mother turns to my father and asks, "Have you still got my knickers on, darling?"

Our guests and I stop talking and look at my father expectantly. Well, has he?

"Bloody hell, yes darling, I think I have," he says, as he takes a quick peek down the top of his trousers. "I'll just be a tick." And off he pops upstairs to the bedroom. To get back into his y-fronts, presumably.

This was three years ago. By now, of course, it's common knowledge across the village, much to the delight of all our friends in the local pub. Not that that bothers my father. If anything, he stands at the bar looking smug when someone questions him about it.

"Is it true you wear women's knickers?" someone might ask him.

"Yes," he'll reply. "Don't you?"

Push-up

The National Drinking Weekend is well and truly over. I'm going to have to spend the next few days eating vegetables on the rowing machine recovering.

When I first joined a gym, nervous and disorientated, the enthusiastic fitness instructor asked me, enthusiastically, "So, what are your reasons for joining a gym then?"

Um, what? Is that some kind of trick question? I want to look good naked of course. Her pen is poised over the form she's filling in. So I answer her question with a question, making my voice go up at the end. "I want to look good naked?" She smirks. I can't think of any other answer! What other possible reason could there be for joining a bloody gym? I'm not here for the sweaty gay guys. Christ.

Sometimes, after a particularly good workout, I like to stand stark naked at the full-length mirror, flexing my muscles and scrutinising my body, standing one-footed on the scales to see if it makes a difference. The other girls walk past me giving me funny looks as if to say, "What are you doing stark naked at the full-length mirror, flexing your muscles and scrutinising your body, standing one-footed on the scales as if it will make any difference?" But I ignore them. I don't have a full-length mirror at home. And anyway, I never realised that's what my bum looks like when I bend over like that, my head between my knees.

So yeah, the National Drinking Weekend is well and truly over. When the instructor makes us do "push-ups" this week, instead of lying there face down on the floor taking a little rest, I'm actually going to try the "push" bit. By next week I hope to have completed at least one "up".

Nobody tells me anything anymore

Pfft. Nobody tells me anything anymore. They're scared it's going to wind up in my blog. As if! This blog is strictly about me, that's the whole point of blogs isn't it? I'm not all that interested in you or your sex life, thanks. Although, not even my own boyfriend trusts me with information. "So, is my friend shagging your friend then?" I ask him, casually. I'm not all that interested, of course. He doesn't say anything. "I'm not saying anything," he says. Looks away. Humph! Apparently I "talk too much".

It's not true. I'm actually very discreet. I think the picture of me eavesdropping is giving a false impression. I'm going to take it down, swap it for something less convicting. A nice picture of me on the sofa, reading a book, minding my own business.

Topless Bathroom Party

It was with some trepidation that I accepted an invite to a Topless Bathroom Party in the early hours of Sunday morning. Here we go, I thought, I'm going to have to get my breasts out aren't I? Because despite the hour and the numerous ridiculous pink Breezers, I was feeling pretty sober. But the thought of sitting around admiring the other girls' lovely boobs was too much so I ended up tagging along anyway, and Truculent Horse came too.

The Topless Bathroom Party was a handful of girls, a boy, and a horse all sitting in Urður's bathroom at 5am knocking back apple schnapps and giggling. And while I was quite happy to accept the schnapps, I refused to join in with the topless bit. "I'm a prude!" I insisted, trying to look my hostess in the eye rather than the chest. "I'm British, I can't help it!"

But then I just ended up sitting there fully-clothed in the bathtub thinking, am I really going to be that girl who wouldn't go topless at the topless party? So, in what was admittedly a bit of a mad panic, I whipped my top up for a split-second before making a mad dash for it down the stairs, out the door, and up the road, my most loyal yet truculent horse cantering along behind me.

I love Icelandic parties. I will get better at them one day, I promise.

Spider

I might walk like a boy, talk like a boy, and uh, be really slack at wearing any underwear like a boy ... but believe me I can scream like a girl.

There is a massive spider running around in my bath-tub. Arched legs, boggly eyes, the lot. What has Iceland come to? The only reason I moved here was because of the lack of disturbing little creatures. First foreigners, now insects? Pfft. This country is spiralling out of control.

Iceland's major towns

One of the best things about travelling round Iceland in the summer is driving through complete wilderness, being amazed by all the empty space and incredible scenery around you. However, at some point on your trip you will probably pass through some of Iceland's major towns — which are more or less the size of your cornershop back home, only with slightly fewer people in them.

Reykjavík, City of Fear
Population 190,000
The world's northernmost capital. Quite possibly the best city in the whole world in terms of sheer fun. I call it the City of Fear in a purely ironic way; there's really nothing to be scared of. Although, if you spend any time in Iceland's near-empty countryside, it can seem a bit daunting on your return, like Rio maybe, or London.

Borgarnes, City of Near
Population 1800
The first town you hit on the way into the countryside. It is compulsory to stop here for a hot dog and a Coke. You can have Kókómjólk instead if you like, but only if you don't have the hot dog. If you have the hot dog, then you have to have Coke. That's just the way it is: learn not to argue.

Akureyri, City of Tears
Population 16,000
If you get to Akureyri, Iceland's beautiful second city in the north, you will inevitably end up in floods of tears. Like the hot dog and the Coke, this is just the way it is. Research shows that every road trip I've ever been on has resulted in at least one of my friends breaking down as we reached the town's border. Personally I cried because I'd had my heart ripped from my chest and jumped up and down on while I looked on helplessly. But anyway, I also like to refer to this town as "Akkó", much to the despair of my Icelandic friends — especially Lára, who comes from the City of Tears itself.

Egilsstaðir, City of Beer
Population 1600
Just one bit of advice: don't end up stuck here without any beer. You will kill yourself.

Höfn, City That Doesn't Rhyme With Anything
Population 1700
The trickiest town for tourists to pronounce. Try thinking of the "ö" as a "u" and the "fn" as a "p" and then say it really fast as if you don't have much breath left. Odd, I know, but as soon as you start sounding like you're trying to get a dog to jump through a hoop, you're winning.

Keflavík, City of Get Me Out of Here
Population rapidly decreasing
The only reason you should have for visitng Keflavík is the airport.

You're fired

It seems the best way to popularise a blog these days is to get Dooced. That is, get fired from your job for keeping an online journal. It's just happened to the lovely Petite Anglaise over in France, who is now receiving so many comments from her fans that the site is almost crashing in on itself.

Hmm. It makes me a little nervy, to be honest. While I am nowhere near as widely-read as Petite, and while I never blog about work—wouldn't want to lose anybody's interest, after all—my utterly non-anonymous blog is maybe a little too uninhibited about certain things that perhaps the clients, or my boss, might not entirely approve of.

It is for this reason alone that I intend to be as frank as possible over the coming months, so that I too, like Dooce, can stay at home happily waffling on about myself all day long, supported by numerous ads blinking away about yeast infection remedies and cheap international phone calls.

Worms

Damien Rice and David Gray are the same person, in case you hadn't noticed. Remember when you were a kid and you sliced that worm in half with a bit of broken glass, and it morphed itself into two brand new worms? Well, that's the clever marketing trick David Rice's record company used on him. Two worms, twice the profit.

Trouble is, they got a bit too cocky and sliced a third bit of worm off, resulting in what is now known as "James Blunt". In a desperate bid to win him some credibility they then asked Paul Weller if he'd duet with him at last year's Brit Awards.

"Thanks," replied Weller. "But I'd rather eat my own shit."