I recently reached a pretty significant milestone. Not just having lived in Sweden for ten years. But because the time has come to become Swedish. Properly. Passport and everything. You may wonder why. Well the answer is simple.
I just don’t want to see her running the country. Simple as that. And the only way I can (help) make this happen is by voting. And to do that I must be Swedish.
So what will this mean? I know I’m losing touch with England and all things British, and I’ve started actually enjoying snaps and pickled herring. I even know the words to most snaps songs. But this is the final stride over the North Sea into the world of Scandihooligans.
I found my way to this website (The Local) and consequently my new blog because it is Guy Fawkes day today, a huge event on the British calendar. A perfect example of the small things that you miss when you move to a new country. I miss huge crowds of people standing around a big bonfire, frozen toes and fingers and burning faces, gleefully burning the effigy of a Frenchman. I miss hotdogs and toffee apples and the weeee, oooohhh, and aaahhh of the fireworks display.
Having recently bought a house out in the countryside, I am finally in the position to have my own bonfire. But while I was planning the event, doing things like trying to find fireworks in Sweden two months ahead of New Year’s Eve, I realised that I could never recreate the atmosphere of a good English bonfire night on the village green. So there doesn’t seem any point really, does there? Four of us standing around a little heap of leaves, each holding a sad little sparkler. Not quite the same, is it?