The Most Beautiful Girl in the School

When I was 11 I was Best Friends with the most beautiful girl in the school. Her name was Cathy Sidaway and everyone who laid eyes on her fell instantly in love.

No no, don't worry, she wasn't one of those. She was too geeky to be cool and too kind to be popular. But everyone fell instantly in love with her regardless, as soon as they laid eyes on her, including me. So of course I was delighted when Cathy decided that, due to our shared interest in books, art, and Greenpeace, it was only natural we should become Best Friends. And then she bought us silver lockets to prove it, and that was that.

Unfortunately, Cathy began to get more invites to go round the back of Room 21 than even the glamorous (and fully-developed) Carrie Lindell. This troubled me. If Cathy was busy at lunchtimes with some boy's tongue down her throat, what would become of me? And what about the History Club we had started together? And who would go and shove the boys in the corridor who called out "gingey-minge!" as I walked by? No no, this was no good at all, something had to be done.

Luckily for me, I didn't have to voice my concerns because it turned out that Cathy was as dead against the idea of Room 21 as I was. The last thing she wanted was to have some Llanrwst boy's tongue down her throat when we could be responsibly plastering Dogs Die In Hot Cars stickers all over our teachers' windscreens, or trying to round up 1st Years for our new Thursday lunchtime Embroidery Club venture. So, to my great relief, she decided that no no, boys were no good at all, and something had to be done.

Now, Cathy was not only beautiful, but cunning as well. And so she invested in a pair of lensless yet genuine-looking spectacles—despite her 20/20 vision—and wore them down at the end of her nose in order to put the boys off. We called them her "snog-off device" (cringe) and decided that if she ever did want to try snogging a boy, she could remove them in a sultry and provocative manner, like we had seen Julia Roberts do in some Hollywood movie that I forget the name of.

It didn't really work, of course, as everyone already knew she was the most beautiful girl in the school, and boys continued to swarm around her, despite the glasses, the kilt, and the two buns she put in her hair. But, by the time she got round to removing her spectacles in a sultry and provocative manner behind Room 21, I didn't mind so much, as I was round the back of the science lab learning how to smoke a joint without coughing up my stomach lining.

Fifteen years later we're still in touch nearly every day, and tonight the Most Beautiful Girl in the School lands in Iceland. It'll be just like the first days, only with added Cosmopolitans. I'll post pictures next week.

I ♥ Copenhagen

Copenhagen is ridick. Ladies paint their bicycles to match their shoes, the coins have holes through the middle of them, and everyone says "hi" when they mean "bye".

There were Icelanders everywhere. Everywhere! In fact, according to a survey I just made up in my head, there are more Icelanders in Copenhagen than there are in the whole of Iceland. I didn't speak to any of them—well, except Bjarni—but just acknowledged them with a knowing look. Kind of like Volkswagen Beetles, beeping as they pass each other on the road.

We watched the fire brigade put out an arson attack in Christiania, saw a man try to steal a bike in the Red Light district, had inevitable hotel-sheet holiday sex, and drank wine in the scorching continental sunshine.

I didn't want to leave, and cried a little on the flight home — much to the delight of the kind Danish lady sitting next to me, Kleenex at the ready.

Satsuma

When I decided to go and live on a remote island in the north Atlantic it never occurred to me that one day I might develop a fear of flying. Or that nobody was ever going to dig a tunnel between here and Wales. Oh well, I'm just going to have to get over it, because I'm flying to Copenhagen to meet Bjarni for the weekend, which I'm ridiculously excited about. We're going to have a "romantic mini-break", like they do in Hollywood movies, or those books with floaty illustrations of pink shoes on the cover that I wouldn't be caught dead reading (ahem).

So last night, after another torturous yoga class, I thought it'd be a good idea to apply fake tan for the occasion. Why oh why do I do this to myself? I'm a GINGER, for god's sake. Even if I could tan naturally it wouldn't suit me — we all know that the only ginger who looks good with a tan is Shannon from Home and Away, and look what happened to her*. The last time I attempted a fake tan was four years ago for my graduation. I thought it looked quite nice, actually, until I caught my friends and family pointing to a bowl of satsumas and sniggering behind my back. After that, I learnt to love my white-to-the-point-of-translucent skin and decided never to bother with all this nonsense again.

Until now, that is. God, it looks ridick. I'm all orange and streaky. Well, of course I'm orange and streaky, that's the whole point of fake tan, isn't it? I'm going to spend the next two days scrubbing myself with sandpaper. And trying to figure out what to do with my bush. I mean, usually I'd just take it off, but this time I'm worried I'll get a phone call from Greenpeace about all the wildlife I'd be destroying.

*Actually, I can't remember what happened to her, but I'm guessing she either died in a tragic surfing accident or had to move to Brisbane along with everybody else. Or was that Neighbours?

Yoga

I thought yoga was supposed to be relaxing? Yes, this is another tale of taking up a new activity and being rubbish at it. I've been detoxing for the past week, which basically means eating seeds and being really moody and anti-social. And taking every available class at the gym, including something called "yoga".

Well, to start with, I kept toppling over. Even when I was "doing the cobra", which is quite possibly the easiest yogic position of all — a bit like lying flat on the ground really. And then I farted while I was "doing the frog", which, if you've ever "done the frog", you will understand is not the most discreet position to do this in. It just seemed to come of nowhere! Actually, that's not true. It seemed to come directly out of my arse.

After we'd finished the toppling-over bit we moved onto "the relaxing bit". Mmm, I thought, this'll be nice, as the teacher softly encouraged us to "empty our minds". Of course, my mind immediately filled up with all kinds of shit. Whether any of my family will die before I get a chance to see them again; the way I offended a very good friend of mine the other day; the stupid fight I instigated with Bjarni before he left; my imaginary screenplay that refuses to write itself; the way I just let one rip in yoga class.

Luckily, "the relaxing bit" was over quite quickly, because the next thing I knew the lights were all really bright and the teacher was gently shaking my shoulder and saying "vake up, vake up, class is over, you can vake up now."

So, yoga. I toppled over a lot, farted, experienced mild paranoia, and then crashed out. I would've been better off going downtown on Saturday night and getting absolutely wasted, I reckon.

Bush

So far, the only good I can see in a long-distance relationship is letting my bush grow out into a jungle, safe in the knowledge that nobody is going to see it. Except, of course, for that pesky Björk, who has been known to follow me into the shower just to get a good look at me.

Who knows, maybe she'd never seen ginger muff before.

That bike was like a child to me

I hate not having a bike, it's like being disabled or something. I have to walk around everywhere on my feet. Hmm, okay, it's nothing like being disabled. But that bike was like a dog to me. Like a child to me. I mean, it came everywhere with me and I, uh, breast-fed it and stuff. Hmm, okay, it was nothing like a child to me. But I'm still going down to the cop shop to report it stolen, despite everyone's insistence that it won't do any good.

I have a picture of it on my desk that I'll take with me, just in case they want to help matters along by putting it up on their wall. I'll take it out of the silver frame first though. I don't want them to think I'm a nut-job or anything.

Long time no see

"Long time no see, bitch," telepaths my Body Combat teacher as I stomp into class this morning. "Where've you been?"

"McDonalds, by the looks of it," telepath a couple of sniggering girls at the back of the gym. I could have imagined it though. They don't look quick enough.

I'm not in the mood for this. My bike got robbed last night. I just realised it as Bjarni's parents turned up to take us to the airport this morning. There's this space by my back door where my bike used to be. Somebody just sneaked up to it in the middle of the night and hacked away with their bolt-cutters, cycled off, leaving the lock lying on the ground. This is Iceland! Unemployment is at 0.5%! Get a JOB! I don't even want to think about the space where Bjarni used to be.

So, no bike, no boyfriend, just an extra 7 kilos and two bad bitches telepathing at me behind my back. At least Logi is moving in with me today, I'm looking forward to that. So much so that I want to rush home and bake him a big pie with "Welcome" written on the top of it. Only I've never baked a pie in my life, and anyway, I've left all my marker pens at work.

Going soft

I've recently been accused of "going soft", following a particularly humourless blonk about a sleeping boyfriend. Well, you could be right. It's true that the other day I experienced my first pangs of "broodiness", when I clocked a rather handsome Icelandic man pushing a designer buggy down the street. He also happened to be wearing a pair of aviators – my absolute favourite eye-wear on a man ever, next to pirates' patches.

Broody pangs increased tenfold when the rather handsome man reached into said designer buggy and took out a tiny, tiny, tiny little baby with just the one hand (I mean, he only needed to use the one hand, not that the baby itself only had the one hand. That would be weird). He held it protectively to his chest whilst slowly removing the aviators — so he could get a better look at how much female attention he was attracting, I suppose. Beautiful father/child duo looked like they'd stepped out of one of those terrible black & white posters from the 80s, do you remember them? Other popular choices included slick red Ferarris, fluffy wide-eyed kittens, and shiny topless girls in denim cut-offs — all available at your high-street greeting card shop.

Regardless, the sight of this double-act must have evoked some kind of hormonal rection in me, as that night in Kaffibarinn I drunkenly slurred in Bjarni's ear, "I want your baby". Luckily for me, the slurring, combined with Kanye West's Gold Digger, meant that he must have heard it as "I want you, baby" as he agreed that he wanted me too, baby, and should we grab a box of condoms and catch an early night?

Phew. Of course, I don't actually want a baby at all. Pfft. What I want is three awards at Cannes, several cosmopolitans, and one of those terrible black & white posters from the 80s. I wonder if they still have them in production...

Dave Chappelle's Block Party

The lost-the-plot comedian Dave Chappelle hosts an old-school block party in Brooklyn, shortly before his breakdown, featuring a great line-up of artists including Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Kanye West, Common, and Dead Prez, among others.

It's one of those feel-good documentaries when you're supposed to leave the cinema overjoyed by life's sudden possibilities — hey! we could all just learn to love each other a little bit more and not be so caught up in gettin' that Lexus. I'm not entirely sure what a "Lexus" is exactly, being a British pedestrian in Iceland myself, but I presume it's some kind of shiny automobile favoured by gangsta rappers and the like.

Lauryn Hill's long overdue reappearance was very exciting, and she was as stunning as ever, despite crudely cutting off "Killing Me Softly" just before my favourite "whoa la la" bits to explain her mothering duties to the crowd. Yada yada, your kids come first, I don't care, you're on stage again, sing.

Erykah Badu's duet with Jill Scott came out of the blue and was absolutely, totally, ridiculously awesome. It was like, what was that? The kind of performance that makes you do a double take, grab the remote, rewind and watch it all over again, twenty times. Only you're in a cinema so you can't.

But the highlight of the film for me personally was Wyclef "Saviour of Modern Literature" Jean's moving speech to a bunch of teenagers demanding they read more books and lobby the government to provide more public libraries in tha 'hood. It wasn't shown on the documentary itself but I am sure that as soon as the party ended they all rushed down to City Hall to discuss the idea with their local political representative.

All in all I enjoyed this film. I thought some of the editing was off, and I didn't find Chappelle particularly funny, but it did make me feel kind of good about comin' from tha 'hood. Even though, as I've said before, I'm actually a British pedestrian in Iceland.

Irish Costume Party: Official Competition Results

Bjarni's Irish-themed leaving party was a massive success. At least 70% of the guests showed up wearing "something green" and there wasn't a Bono to be found all night. The host himself defied his own rules by turning up as "Dr McNinja", whoever that is, and the hostess flounced around taking the photographs and drinking cosmopolitans — which could be why they all came out blurry and drastically underlit.

Prizes were awarded as follows, although, as I had only had five weeks to prepare I didn't actually have anything ready and just ended up giving away whichever of Bjarni's possessions were in reach at the time.

5th Prize: Worst
The dusty old bottle of Grenadine from the back of the drinks cabinet was awarded to Ævar who had turned up as a member of the IRA, allegedly. He was supposed to drink it all in one go, but lost interest after somebody pointed out that there isn't actually any alcohol in Grenadine.

4th Prize: Most Original
A jar of whiskey that Kiddý had affectionately given Bjarni as a leaving present was awarded to Wies® and Jonas who came as "Ikea management" — in homage to the massive new furniture superstore that recently opened in Dublin. Apparently.

3rd Prize: Most Intelligent
A juicy pineapple was awarded to Jósi who declared that he had first decided to come wearing a potato around his neck, and then decided it would be more fitting to not wear a potato around his neck. Pure genius.

2nd Prize: Most Effort
The opportunity to take a bath in Bjarni's awesome new tub was jointly awarded to both Logi and Birkir, who spray-painted their hair and beards red with an old can of shoe-shine that somebody found in the corridor. Logi also brought along his recorder, for which he had printed out music notes from classicirishfolksongs.com earlier that evening. A little perplexing, then, as to why he insisted on playing "Three Blind Mice" on repeat for the entire night.

1st Prize: Most Convincing
Jói impressed everybody with his rather natural leprechaun act and was therefore awarded first prize — a double CD of The Cheiftan's Greatest Hits. While he was no doubt overjoyed by the honour, I did see him looking rather longingly at Ævar's bottle of Grenadine as the award ceremony drew to a close.

Other Highlights

Sam's rendition of The Irish Rover was utterly brilliant, although, as he said himself, Icelandic shoe-removing customs rendered the foot-stamping-no-nay-never bits to be less than satisfactory. Still, it was more fun than then piece I had intended to perform about a young woman who loses her husband to a storm and lies stretched on his grave for the rest of her life, which has me in tears every time I think about it, never mind when I decide to sing it at boyfriends' leaving parties. The sing-song continued later on with Mar's science fiction cover of the classic Sheryl Crow hit Every Day is a Winding Road, which I've had stuck in my head for five days in a row now.

More fun was to be had in the bedroom with Borgar and Sarah—no, not that kind of fun, dirty pups—as they tried to decide what playful objects they could sneak into Bjarni's luggage to serve him right for packing a week before his due departure date. I'm going to make sure I remove the two blocks of plastacine and the electric wires before he leaves the country.

And finally, much confusement was to be had when Bjarni's ex-wife Unnur and friend Urður turned up head-to-toe in black rubber and pink fishnet. They were just stopping off on their way to a Fetish Party (at first I thought they said "Fascist Party", which had me even more confused) and when faced with the option of dressing up as little green imps or heel-clad dominatrixes, I guess the latter was more appealing.

Apologies for the poor photography, and double apologies for trying to rescue them with an effect button in Photoshop, but hey, I don't get to be so outlandishly amateur at work.

Sunrise

I can't sleep. I'm sitting in the kitchen watching the sun come up behind Esja. God, I love Reykjavík. I never had much time for red skies before I moved here.

It's 6 in the morning, and Bjarni is having his leaving party this evening. He's asleep in the bedroom, snoring softly, one hand cupping his balls in case someone tries to take off with them in the night. He smells like whiskey and shampoo. I think I might be in love with him.

Ten things that make me feel important

01. Using the office paper shredder
02. Cycling with my hands in my pockets
03. Having an FAQ page on my blonk
04. Answering my phone abruptly with just my first name: "ANNIE"
05. Tasting the wine in restaurants
06. Talking about my imaginary screenplay
07. Measuring walls in shops
08. Chalking my 2-piece ash hand-spliced snooker cue
09. Shaking hands a little too firmly with people
10. Finding my name in the phonebook