Last year The Local's <b>Paul Rapacioli</b> wrote a series of articles entitled Stockholm Syndrome, chronicling his experiences settling in in Sweden. Now, following an invitation from podcast site <a href="http://www.mepodium.se/">mePodium</a>, the column has been resurrected in audio form.
I am not a violent man. Indeed, blessed with an easygoing nature and, when that fails, a blistering burst of pace over thirty metres, I've managed to stay well clear of trouble throughout my life.
It's easy living abroad these days. With a scorching internet connection, a mobile phone and a dextrous thumb, staying in touch with friends and family around the world is as easy as popping next door for a cup of tea with your friendly neighbour.
Sweden is ruled by a bunch of uneducated, irresponsible, often incomprehensible individuals who simply won't - or can't - do what the rest of us want them to do.
It seemed as though it was just going to be me and Rositza, my teacher, at our Swedish class this week. I'm all for a bit of individual tuition but Rositza seems to take it rather personally when people don't show.
Herding together a bunch of foreigners and encouraging them to speak Swedish is, in principle, a Good Idea. Having such diverse backgrounds, values and reasons for being in Sweden, you would expect the conversation to gush as we share our experiences of our new country.
'Stockholm Syndrome' - when a hostage sympathises with, or even falls in love with, his or her captor - perfectly sums up our correspondent's attitude towards the Swedish capital.
For years I have tried to convince Mrs Syndrome that, as a writer, when I'm gazing out of the window, I'm working. It doesn't satisfy her and if she doesn't hear fingers bashing away at a keyboard she will ask what I'm doing.
Cross-cultural weddings are always good value and last weekend's was no exception. A boisterous bunch of Britishers had Ryanaired over to support their friend, brother and son, who would be returning home with the prize catch of a Swedish wife.
Ninety-five. That's old. And I had been warned that ninety-five year old Greta, who I was on my way to visit at her retirement home, didn't speak any English.
Lately, I've noticed, I've become a lot scruffier. I shave less regularly than I used to. I've more or less stopped buying clothes. And at least twice a week I leave home without doing my flies up.
One of the things I like about living in my patch of Stockholm is that there are famous people everywhere. But what I like even more is that I don't recognise any of them.
I was surprised when Richard asked if he could buy me a drink after the class a few weeks ago. For some reason he has always avoided the other English people.
Last Saturday I was sitting outside a café in my quarter of Södermalm pondering how romantic it feels to live in a 'quarter' of a city rather than simply an area. I had positioned myself so that my field of vision consisted only of charming old buildings, cobbles, gently reddening leaves and blue sky.
As I write, I am waiting on the phone, on hold to an electricity company. A very gentle and not unattractive voice has just informed me that I am number 73 in the queue and that my call will be answered shortly.
