I should really be in bed, but the urge to sleep escapes me and my mind is still in overdrive. As always, life chez Clover is never dull. What with the occasional fancy dress party, farewell dinner, kompendium av gammaldags svensk litteratur och the odd near death experience how could it be?

On Monday I got my wake-up call. Cycling home from uni in my beloved darkness, I got knocked off my bike by the car shaped monster. Vilken tur! What luck, for one can only call it that, that I walked away with but a bruise and a healthy dose of shock. The bike is rather more banana shaped. The bil is unharmed. Me and the driver are counting our stars for it could have been so so so much worse.  I have since formed a theory about why I continued to speak in Swedish during the aftermath of the event. It was the only way I could delay the shock. As I lack expressions for fear and shock in Swedish, and I have begun to think in Swedish when I speak it, I therefore lack the capability to feel fear and shock while in svensk mode. As soon as the lady drove off  there was no distraction and I reverted to engelska, followed shortly by hyperventilating and bawling my eyes out!

As it was, I had no money in my mobile phone and had to complete the 15 minute walk home before I could call anyone. Tobias was the first to answer and had the joyous task of calming me down a little. Constance was next and promptly left home to arrive on my doorstep within a half hour. Burak succeeded in making me laugh and by the time Mahgol was in touch I had control of my breathing and a pizza in the oven. People, I can’t thank you enough. I loved life before, but now it seems a little more precious!

Tuesday drove by in a grey dream. I sat through a literature lecture without a spark, borrowed a cigarette after coffee and walked home. The bike still lay on the grass where I left it, the basket astray and the wheels bowed like a blood cells. Tungsten, tvungen tunga tungan , haha, heavy stone, forced heavy tongue, oh dear. I need to go to bed. Sleep evades me until I succumb to exhaustion. It falls like blackness. My brother is unhappy, he has spent his money, his bicycle had been stolen. My grandfather has cancer, he was in surgery. My sister under stress from the mother next door. Dad stops drinking and ups his nicotine intake while mum attempts to find her feet again at work. Thankfully there are no dreams.

Today I screwed up with times. Satt och pluggade hemma hos mig. Prepositioner. I under över, bland inom genom längs. Utan att. Dismantled the bike and wheeled it home. Bought crickets for the frog and OD’d on goodis. Nico called and bjod mig på en öl. A distraction, a drink, is what I need. Easy Swedish company with bad taste bajs humor and cheap beer. Sweet respite and I call it homework. Missed the bus. Walked to town in my ‘överklass’ boots, overcoat and green velvet. It is cold, crisp, clear. Feels good to breath.

Burak called. There are no lectures tomorrow. I shall go to school anyway. I like the people.

At some point during the summer I watched ‘The Hours’, a film in which I saw so much of so many lives all of which could have been my own. Meryl Streep’s character, Clarissa, explains in a reverie of youthful memory a moment which she believed was “where happiness begins”, not realising that it was in fact, happiness itself.  A sweet simple truth, and one better to learn now that waiting another quarter decade.  The penny dropped and I landed like a cat on a thick velvet cushion. Claws withdrawn, padded feet protect me  while offering a gentle reminder of the cold. I am re-growing my whiskers, sensory perception defined. Licking the remnants of rich sauce, like an echo of recent conversation, from my empty plate.  There is a moment to savour. It is today.

There is not time for it all, so we can not continue to worry whether this was the right decision. Enjoy the best of this situation. Throught the course of this month I will loose proximity with two people who have had a profound influence on me this summer - whether they realise it or not. Their actions were thoughtless, or rather, in no way intended to influence. Merely people being the people they are. Inta and Sam, thank you for your short friendships - and for the introduction of others! There is a crowd out there and it scares me. Their faces judge and scorn, unified voices repeat sentiments of distrust. The crowd is made up of you and me and you and me and you and me. Each of us is alone. Each of us has a crowd, and it continues to terrify until we are ready to let it become a friend.

Drawing lines is becoming second nature. Each line has graduated pencil shades between. The shadow of information. The line can change. There is not more than one of me, just different levels. There is no need to hide. It is better to disclose a little, bit by bit, build up the shadow into a form, some pictures always remain unfinished. That is ok. We do not have to complete every task we take upon ourselves. Not all of them are necessary. Many of them serve little more purpose than practice. Precious few are the route to a masterwork. Lets not try to allow hope and expectation cloud the genuine result. There is always the eraser, start again. But clean paper is better. That we we save the mistakes.

The penny dropped and I landed like a cat.

I’m beginning to remember what homework feels like. Otherwise my adult experience of education couldn’t be more different to that of my teenage years. Well, I tell a lie. On both occasions I have been involved in the production of posters to promote cultural events. However, last time I was whiling away lunch hours in the art department making advertisements for other people’s bands, glad not to suffer the painfully awkward company of my classmates. This time I have to pull myself away from my new-found comrades and make time to advertise my own happenings. The Scribbling Society is my baby, no doubt. It eats time while handing me both worry and excitement!

Back to school though, and what a wonder. I had always hated the dict quoting that ’school is the best time of your life’. School, in my previous experience had been little short of a waking walking hell. There are no words for the discomfort of an outsider, a weirdo, in a clique ridden, sports driven, local highschool. In all truth I have unending pitty for those who claimed that their teens were their peak of enjoyment… to look back with such fondness implies that their lives have become nothing more than, well, d.i.y., telephone bills and laundry days. Of course, life includes these things, but is it really necessary to revolve around them? And did they REALLY know what they wanted? Or have any inkling about how to get it when essentially their brain had turned to a pupate mush in the process of reconnection? I can’t pass comment, because I currently find myself in a situation where I can say that being at school is honestly the best time of my life. Of course, what constitutes as ‘best’ varies from day to day and lest we forget, I was on the edge of a nervous breakdown but a few short months ago. I can safely say however that this year of Sweden and schooling (summer’s emotional diversion included) has been the most productive and satisfying I have yet to mark up. Still learning vital life skills on the brink of my quarter century. God forbid my teens were the best years of my life!

So, people and homework and Scribbling have somehow snuck most of my now  precious hours into their pockets and out of my day - meaning that I am currently sitting in front of the computer with tired eyes, a frazzled brain and an hour to spare for the first time in a while. I’m still flirting with the end of last weeks Great British cold, and Friday’s finger affliction is leading me to wonder when exactly I started having such a striking reaction to my own blood! I examined and redressed the wound this evening. I’m glad to say it’s really not as bad as first suspected. There is chicken soup in the fridge, scones for tea and thirty two pages of “Fanny Hill” to go.  Oh, to unwind!

My singular sadness is that I have no remaining stamina to paint.

I miss the sensation of liquid colour.

My ‘city break’ thanks to cheap flights by ryanair  proved to be an uplifting weekend (although the mystery of the disappearing baggage allowance has yet to be resolved… maybe the Hardy Boys have a clue?) I am convinced that ’short flight’ should be a regular synonym for ‘I think I am going to catch a cold.’ and I have no wish to badmouth a city I lived in for so long, so shall but say “boy am I glad I don’t live in Chester any more!” Now all this may seem rather contradictory to my initial statement, but it is in fact, quite the opposite.  Firstly, was a genuine pleasure to catch up with a few old friends. With such people it feels like time stands still. Despite 12 months of separation it was easy to slide back into conversation. Friday’s cottage cheese and chocolate binge with Kate was followed by a Saturday night of considerably heavy drinking (pre-wedding practice) with the glorious Poles. Incredibly hangover free jag umgick hos 46 för en stund och åt smoked salmon and scrambled eggs accompanied by a hazelnut cappuccino. I had underestimated the number of customers who would remember my face and want to chat! Veggie curry with Kate and Mike and then off to Sarah’s house to be mauled by a kitten and a sausage dog. We spent a number of easy hours blabbering away in the conservatory.

Yes siree, it is fine to be among friends.

Secondly however, ye olde Chester kände INGENTING like home. Perhaps I approached the place with the wrong attitude. Of course I did. A place can only be as pleasant as you attempt to make it… that said… I’m glad I was  just visiting! The ‘ghettos’ of Västerås put Foregate Street to shame. Litter, broken glass, glittering capitalist bling and the masses of lumpy, grumpy people! I dare say I sound like terrible snob, but I truly understand why mum and dad get so stressed out when they travel ‘down south’ these days. There is no space to move, let along string together some kind of positive thought. Town is saturated with crumbling temples to consumerism and the stench of fast food.  There is nothing that could have made me more thankful for my current situation. I arrived home full of snot and tired as hell, but home is a haven and I love it.

The grass is greener on my side of the fence.

Back to school today, and what a treat it seemed to sit in a two hour grammar lecture! Then fika with a Russian, an Iranian and a Swede. We discussed the future of the Scribbling Society, the joy of people and quite a lot in between. Trundled through town in a red velvet skirt and my beloved woolen coat. The sun set through a veil of red leaves as I rode the bus home. Scarlet berries garnish the rowan trees, and there is a new batch of home made kanel bullar in my freezer. 30 pages of grammar exercises and I am beat. Tomorrow is another day, bröstbakalse med Constance, studying på MDH och my favourite lekture - svensk film.

Here’s to all yet to come. Skål!

There’s something about this time of year. I think it is that “oh shit it’s almost winter and what have I actually done with myself in the past 200 hundred days” reaction. The heat of summer has dissapated and stress is for us to create and handle rather than a result of over warm days and over short nights. There is opportunity, new friends, homework and every kind of weather this sky is capable of bestowing upon us. The past two weeks have felt like a lifetime, but they can’t have been, as yesterday I had my ‘first year in Sweden anniversary’. A spectacular couple of weeks. An unbelievable year.

Today we did a presentation på hypotetiska fallet i skola. If this hadn’t happened then that wouldn’t have happened and then we wouldnät have done this. The Turkish pussycat claims I am the most complicated girl in Västerås. I beg to differ, perhaps my life isn’t so ordinary, but the more I listen the more wonderful the lives of those arround me confirm themselves to be. We all have a story, it’s just up to us to make something out of it. We spend such a lot of the time living in fear of what other people will make of it all. Sometimes we miss the blessing before our eyes because of it. We all fall foul of envy and sorrow from time to time.

Jag saknar Tobias, and I am going to miss Sam. But I am glad that they have both been a part of this eventful year. Without intention they have held my metaphorical hand and walked me through a huge and terrifying forest. Friends are so underappreciated. Man bör säga mer ofta hur glad man är att ha sina vänner. We all like confirmation. I am surrounded by a heady perfume of people. There is thick fragrant honeysuckle, coffee with too much milk,  musky tones of rampant masculinity, forrest, blueberries and alcohol. Port wine and baby dribble. There is morning frost, pizza and laundry, aswell as a bed that has been slept in for too long. If I could I would give you all a colour, a smell, a sensation, a cookie. Now that word has changed. I can store it in my computer and give it a taste.