The · diary · of · a · very · foolish · Norwegian · woman, · LJ · edition

My friend is writing her degree in literature about fanfiction! I know a few people have done it before, but not here in Norway, so, yeah. I think it's awesome! Anywho, she needs a few preliminary polls answered, and I hope as many as possible will take the time to help her!

She's made a community (with anonymity guaranteed) here. I'm to give you her most heartfelt thanks in advance ^^

Did I die? Did I drop off the face of the earth? No. My life suddenly decided to go haywire, and I've just recovered from my too-little-time-induced brain melt-down. So I've hardly been online for what feels like weeks, only written a few little scraps of fic and other things in the margins of my lecture notes, and now I'm trying to get back on top of my own life.

But before people start wondering if I'm going to have a nervous breakdown: the things filling up my life until it overflows, are all highly enjoyable. There are just so many of them. And here's a short summary of the most important things that have been swamping me lately:

I've started exercising. It was about time, too, after twenty-one years of sitting on one's arse surrounded by books (which, I'm not ashamed to admit, were my dearest friends when I was younger). So now I've got dancercize (yes, Mr. Fry, they are exactly that) classes Monday nights, and ordinary exercises two days a week. The dancing is fun, but exhausting, and the other stuff? I don't have to like it. Just do it. And enjoy the gym's spa afterwards ^^

Being bereaved of one of my manwhores (he moved to Bergen for a year, haven't seen him since September) is much worse than I thought it would be. I miss him; I really do. But yesterday my other manwhore called him and put him on speakerphone, and even my father stopped to say hello, and for a few moments it felt like the family was nearly complete (except my sister; we should have called her too). These boys are really more like family to me than anything else, and I can't wait for Christmas when we'll all hang out and eat gingerbread cookies at my place.

My fruity friends and I have the best parties. The last one? 'Allo 'Allo theme party. It was a-mazing; it was epic. And we're going out on Friday, and we're spending New Year's together. Also, I'm going to LJ's (tee hee, his initials are like LiveJournal's) place on Sunday for our favourite pastime: classical music and old-fashioned cake. I can't wait. He is a sort of mentor to me; a sort of guide to music and open-mindedness.

I'm not going to make it to 50,000 words on NaNoWriMo. Better luck next year. But the important thing is, I got started, I tried, and I'm still coming up with things I want to include in that novel. I really hope I'll get it published some day, but it needs work first. Like all my work-in-progress, I suppose.

I'm going to The Gathering come Easter. Five days of non-stop nerding? Yes, please. I'm not a gamer and I'm not a programmer, so one could argue that I have no business there, but I think I'll like it there. People will get my jokes; people will (hopefully) not laugh at my online hobby (being fanfic). I will get five days of uninterrupted, shameless online fun. So there. Feel free to tag along, if you've ever wanted to go to a computer fest of absurd dimensions.

I aced my grammar assignments, by the by. Almost 90% score. I'm sorry if this comes off as bragging, but I just have to share my joy - I thought I was going to fail on the second one! I also have a good feeling about my phonetics assignment; it didn't look too bad when I was done.

Well... Well... That's enough for now, I think. I'm just happy I'm back online, and back in the mood to be a writer - talented or not :) So... How have you all been? Do tell!

My little brother's having a party, and I'm the resident house guard. And, like the responsible older sister that I am, I've put down the following rules:

- No raping
- No alcohol poisoning
- No impregnation of impressionable young girls

Other than that, they may knock themselves out all night for all I care. See, it's a matter of taking care of the most important things while not spoiling the fun. So I've parked myself here, in my room, and told my brother and his best friend to come straight down and find me if anyone passes out, throws up or starts crying. That should about cover it, eh?

And now to bed. I've got to be at work by nine tomorrow morning, and I've got a cold. Swell.

It's snowing! It's snowing! It's snowing like mad, and the ground is all covered in white, and with a little luck there'll be a good three inches everywhere when I wake up tomorrow! OMG YAY! :D I get all childish and Christmas-y and fangirly when it snows; I had to share my immense joy with you lot ^^

It was indicated by a few of my friends the other day that the reason for my being single (apart from my strange obsessions with the Internet and old music) is that I set the bar too high for any man to ever reach it. In short, I have impossibly high standards.

This could be true; I haven't really thought about it before, and I'm not that desperate to find a boyfriend, either (I'm only 21, for heaven's sake; there's still time!). But since I am a morbidly curious sort of person, I intend to investigate the matter in the following manner: I will describe my idea of the perfect man, and then try to discern which of his characteristics I can bear to live without. I shall dissect perfection until I reach the attainable.

Well, this is a list of my perfect man's character traits:
- he looks like T-Bag (from Prison Break, in case you didn't know)
- he's either Irish, from the deep South of the USA, Scottish or English
- he reads at least three books a month
- he loves classical music as much as I do and holds a particular passion for Tchaikovsky
- he's interested in politics, but not a fanatic
- he plays a musical instrument, preferably the tuba or the double bass
- he will watch Arnold films with me just to get a good laugh
- he rides a black Harley motorbike with shiny chrome details
- he likes animals and isn't averse to us having a rodent, rabbit or medium-sized dog
- he reads or at least appreciates fan fiction as a valid hobby
- he is generally intelligent
- he is more manly than I am
- he likes homosexuals and looks forward to having dinner with my gay friends
- he can carry out an intellectual discussion so well my father doesn't scare him
- he doesn't care if I make more money than him
- he's good (and adventurous) in bed
- he's not adverse to letting me do most of the interior decorating and baking in our home
- he loves food as much as I do
- he'll let me raise any potential children in a friendly, semi-Christian tradition
- he's faithful, non-violent, and not addicted to any damaging substances
- he'll help me teach our children to be bilingual before they even start school, so they can easily be perfect at English and then learn at least one more language over time

Okay, that's all I can come up with. This is the perfect man, and as we all know, perfect people don't exist. So now I will edit away the listed things I can live without, because the fewer requirements one has, the more men fit the description, right? Right. Here goes.

- he doesn't need to look like T-Bag; as soon as I like his intellect, I'll stop caring about his exterior. It happens every time and it's dashed handy for appreciating people as they are
- he doesn't need to be Irish, English, Scottish or American - as long as he speaks the language enough to appreciate my interest in it. There has to be good men hailing from other countries than those named; I can't hold it against a man that he happens to be Norwegian, Pakistani or Chinese. Or anything else.
- regarding books, music, politics and intellectual discussions: he doesn't need to come fully developed. I can teach him about those things, as long as he's got an iota of interest. Come to think of it, this also applies to bed skills. They can be taught.
- animals: I don't know; as much as I love animals, I suppose I can do without them. And honestly, how many men are going to care whether or not I keep a hamster in a cage? It won't be a problem.
- the motorbike and Arnold films: I can get my own motorbike, and I will. So does he need to ride one? No. Same goes for my lousy action flicks; I can watch them myself. The things one doesn't need a man for, eh?
- do I ever need to tell him that I write and read fan fiction? Nope. It can forever be my dirty little secret. And if he doesn't understand, will he dislike it? Nope. In fact, there's no reason whatsoever for my man to bother himself about us fangirls and our affairs.
- he must be intelligent. Really, I don't care if he's a dashing multi-millionaire who brings me fresh coffee in bed every morning; if he's an idiot then I'll have nothing to do with him. This requirement will remain standing.
- he must be a more manly man than I am; he must wear the proverbial pants; he must have bigger balls than I do. Otherwise, I'd feel like an angry dike all the time and I don't like feeling like something I'm not. So, he needs more testosterone than me.
- gay friends? Gay or not, they're my friends and he must tolerate them. But if he doesn't like homosexuals for no other reason than they're gay, then he's obviously not very intelligent, and so won't fit that essential demand, either. So I'm lumping these two together: intelligent enough NOT to be a homophobe (they're related, say I).
- I don't care if he makes more money than I do; I can just tell him he's the main breadwinner. No problem. He can have that measly satisfaction.

You know, I'm getting bored with my own demands already. I shall just jump ahead to the conclusion, I think. And that conclusion is, the only two characteristics that I really care about, are these:

- he is generally intelligent

- he is more manly than I am

And guess what the sad part is? I've never met a man who qualifies for both. Not one who's not gay or past fifty and married, at any rate. Does that say more about me than it does about the men in my area? Or the other way around? Futile to ask, I know, but still. It amuses me.

The situation in my native Norwegian schools frightens me. It did when I was young and attending said schools, too, but now it frightens me to a much greater extent, since I understand the system behind what happens there. Behind the unintended suppression of talent.

Worried Norwegian papers ran a story this spring about gifted children being ignored in kindergarten. Children who demonstrate skills unusual for their age, such as developed communication, an interest in math or art and so on, are rarely (if ever) encouraged or even noticed. A few private kindergartens have begun offering activities to stimulate the children's eight areas of intelligence, but for the most part, gifted children are treated no different – and offered no other stimuli – than ordinary children.

This carries over into our school system. There are, if not plenty, then an adequate number of resources offering assistance and support to less capable pupils, such as those who struggle with math or speaks a different language, but there are no opportunities for gifted children to explore and expand their skills. They will eventually get their reward in the form of better grades than their peers, but aside from that, no credit awaits those children who are blessed with talents that set them aside.

When one pupil continually answers all the teacher's questions, that pupil is labelled a “nerd” or “teacher's pet” by his or her peers. Jealousy, perhaps, or a lack of appreciation for knowledge, can make children both inventive and cruel. This can demotivate clever children from “showing off,” and it's how things have always been, despite the fact that we'd all like it to change. However, with the proper encouragement from a teacher, this clever pupil will likely ignore the jibes of his or her classmates and keep gathering knowledge. But this is where the problem lies in Norwegian schools: the teacher doesn't offer this kind of encouragement. In fact, clever students are often told to stop hogging all the answers, because this makes their classmates feel stupid.

Clever pupils are not allowed to work with different, more challenging material than other students. If you're very intelligent, you don't get moved ahead a year, as can happen in e.g. the US. When it's time for group work, the teachers pair gifted or clever children with slow or less motivated children to ensure that the latter don't fail utterly. A pupil full of curiosity, enthusiasm and skill at any subject, is allowed to sit in a classroom, bored out of their wits and with no use for theirs skills. Allowing their talent to run dry.

My brother, being particularly good at math, started fights in every other math class during his years at primary school because he had nothing to do. He finished his tasks in about five minutes and so had about forty minutes in which to get bored, throw paper clips at the girls and be rude to his teacher. While suffering from the same predicament, I learned the rune alphabet and drew childish cartoons on the back of my homework. A classmate of mine spent his time carving his initials into the desk, and my good friend B was reading Virginia Woolf (at the age of fourteen) while waiting for her class to catch up.

What happened to the talent? Why was my brother never offered more sophisticated mathematics to challenge him and hone his skill? Why did I have to ask the teacher for more challenging work (and having to argue quite a bit to get it), instead of being offered it? Why did nobody ever notice the literary genius of B, who understood Shakespeare while most girls only wanted to read Cosmo Magazine? And why, oh why, were we each distributed between groups of – let's be frank about this – nitwits, so that we could spend our time not developing our own minds, but helping dimwitted creatures with absolutely no enthusiasm for learning to understand the simplest of facts?

This is how children in Norwegian schools are treated, from kindergarten through upper secondary school. A child who is initially bright and talented is in danger of losing interest completely after thirteen years with virtually no encouragement from neither teacher nor school. Quite the opposite; they're told to sit down and pay attention, since their intelligence annoys the other children. Potential and talent are allowed to wither and die, when they should have been nourished and cultivated. Instead they are sacrificed on the altar of equality.

Of course I, too, like equality. I am thrilled that we have public schools offering everyone the same level of education, and I believe in giving everyone the same starting chance. But I also believe that talent and effort should be rewarded, not punished. And no matter how good they get at group work, gifted children are punished when they are not given a fair chance at reaching their full potential. They are burdened with the troubles (be it stupidity or disinterest) of their classmates when they should have been held up as shining examples of accomplishment. They should have been praised and allowed to grow, not held back by the weight of their peers' mediocrity.

This is what I despise: the insistence that we are all mediocre and have no right to claim otherwise. That children, gifted and potentially a great asset to society, are held back with demands that they fall in line and behave like everyone else. The only thing that matters is how well you play with other children, or how many parties you get invited to. While these things are socially important at a certain age, they should have absolutely no impact on how we allow our intellect to develop, and least of all on how schools and kindergartens treat the children who could be exceptional. According to Tove Hagenes, parent liaison in the “Lykkelige Barn” (Happy Children) association, gifted children who do not meet understanding and acceptance in school and kindergarten, risk becoming introvert and antisocial. And of course they do; both teachers and other children will tell them that they're nerds and freaks when they should have been admiring their intelligence and talent. Being subjected to such insults one's entire childhood is hardly productive.

The fact that these children are largely ignored, could lead one to believe that the Norwegian educational system does not value progress and potential and would rather these children were mediocre as well. But on international European tests, Norway scores so badly we're almost ashamed to admit it. Even our teachers were worried when the results of these tests were publicized; how had they failed so utterly in their jobs? Norwegian children are among the stupidest in Europe, the papers screamed. We're one of the richest countries in the world, boasting an elaborate public education system that is adapted to the individual pupil, and we can't even beat bankrupt, former Soviet countries at mathematics and spelling? It can't be borne! School reforms were instigated, the education of teachers was examined and found wanting, and our politicians demanded an improvement of the Norwegian pupil's mind. Norway got so worried over the stupidity of its own children that we spent heaps of money and countless hours on investigation and improvement of the systems already in effect; surely this must mean that we do care about the overall intelligence of our pupils.

Then why aren't those select few who could have given the average “rating” a boost, allowed to be exceptional?

I know that children will always mock those who read more than they play football; this is probably the normal way of things. The average child lives only for the moment and doesn't value knowledge that will be useful tomorrow. But isn't it high time the teachers, parents and pedagogues began encouraging talent and intelligence instead of ignoring (or worse, punishing) it?

Isn't it about time those of us who are actually literate before we reach second grade, are allowed to stop dragging the dead weight of our peers' mediocrity?

I am not what you would call a maternal sort of person. True, I find it highly enjoyable to run a household on my own, and you'll often find me making supper for my friends or ironing my brother's shirt if he doesn't have time to do it himself, and certain of my male friends seem to have chosen me to play the Wendy to their Peter Pan. I admit to having certain qualities that have traditionally been considered womanly or motherly, but I am not the motherly type. When I cook or clean or organize things, I do it for myself or my friends, not because I feel the need to act like a stereotype housewife. In fact, I don't have a motherly bone in my body.

I wasn't aware that this made me an evil person, but apparently, it does.

You see, I don't like children. I don't like them at all. You could go so far as to say that I quite despise them. Children, as far as I can tell, are illogical, filthy, incoherent, troublesome, selfish and stupid. It's not their fault, certainly – they simply don't develop any faster – but there it is: I don't like children. They scream and fight, they're quite unappetizing at table, they have no manners and they don't care whether or not I actually want to play with them, they simply demand that I do. They can't understand why they can't have ice cream before dinner, they can't produce a full sentence (and if they do it rarely has any meaning at all), and they have no interest in or respect for anything but themselves. All these things that are apparently typical of children, rather make me wish I was a hermit living three miles from the nearest road.

I strongly dislike children.

This hasn't to do with any particular child, of course. If you've got one, and you're absolutely enraged at what I just stated above, then don't get your knickers in a twist – I'm not talking about your child specifically. I just mean children in general. I've never met one I liked, or didn't have the urge to have removed from the room (with the exception of a few babies; when they're too young to scream demands and run around breaking things, then I don't mind them at all). I simply can't stand the snotty, drivelling, unintelligent little things, and I don't care it other people find their children the most beautiful things to walk this earth – to me, they're nothing but a pack of little monsters who had better grow up quickly so I won't have to listen to their tantrums one more time.

Why don't I like them? Well, if the above stated reasons aren't enough to put everyone off them, them take into consideration the fact that I simply can't communicate with them. As I said, they're quite incoherent – unable to form full sentences and with grammar that would put the lolcats to shame – and they have the attention span of a braindead squirrel. If they start a sentence, it's a fifty-fifty chance they won't remember how to finish it by the time they're halfway through. And when a fellow human being can't even carry out a conversation, how the devil are you supposed to talk to it? And don't give me that poppycock about me being just like them when I was their age, because I wasn't. We have it well documented in memory albums and family video tapes; by the time I was two, I could dashed well talk properly. And I realized that screaming and throwing things was not an ideal pastime.

And somehow, despite the fact that I'm blissfully childless biologically speaking, the little bastards always seem to become my problem. How? Well, when I'm at work, for example, and a four year-old throws up all over my fantasy shelf and the mother shrugs and says, “Poor thing, she must have eaten something that didn't agree with her” (yes, that happened. I had to mop it up). Or when I'm trying to have a coffee and salad with a friend, and we can't get around the dratted perambulators parked in the middle of the establishment's floor. Then the children in said perambulators start screaming until my temples throb, and the mothers decide to feed them – in the middle of the sodding café – to stop their screaming. Did I mention how disgusting children are when they're eating? Yes, I believe I did. Or, and this may be the best part, when I'm waiting patiently in line at a snack bar and a woman with a kid dragging behind her pushes in front of me in the line, declaring that it's incredibly rude to make her wait – her, with a kid and all! It may be the parents' fault that I'm exposed to the children, but they still make me want to scream.

How does one relate to a creature that can't even use sign language or body language to convey their meaning, and yet insists on talking at you for long stretches of time during which it conveys absolutely nothing of importance? How does one not get bored with a shrieking lump that does nothing but pick its nose and unintentionally break its toys? How, in short, is one supposed to feel anything but annoyance for these creatures when they're not even your own?

See, I told you I don't like children. Of course I don't mind if other people do; feel free to bring about a dozen of the things and raise them in a little cottage if you want. But I don't like them, and don't expect me to until I get my own (let's face it; genetics dictate that we all love our own children, no matter what, because this is how our species survive). You can adore children, and I can despise them, and we'll both be happy as long as I don't have to babysit your offspring, what?

No. Apparently, this isn't how it works. I just can't be left alone with my point of view in this matter; people insist on interfering. And why? Because apparently, anyone who doesn't like children is rated right up there along with rapists and people who kill kittens for fun. Every time I tell someone I don't like children – and telling them becomes inevitable when they squeal at me in delight that they're having one themselves or that they're bringing their baby brother or sister along for our lunch date – they stare at me, aghast. I don't like children? How can possibly I not? Do I also worship the devil and sacrifice fluffy bunny rabbits to the creatures of darkness, since I'm already into being evil?

And the abortion debates! Don't talk to me about abortions, unless you want to hear me say the following: if I got pregnant today, I wouldn't hesitate a second to get rid of the foetus. It's my body, my choice, and I don't want to ruin the best years of my life with an unwanted child. I'm not exaggerating and I'm not lying; I would take the little pill and have it over with before even contemplating the price of a stroller. And when I tell people this, they're – if possible – even more shocked. How can I be so selfish, they cry. How can I value my own comfort over the life I could potentially create? I don't like children and I'm pro-choice – are there any limits to my evil?

Oh, come on! To quote Stephen Fry: “Shut up! Shut so up and go so dreadfully and entirely away!”

I am not an evil person. I do not kill kittens; I take in animals who have been dumped by their owners. I do not worship the devil; I believe everyone should be allowed to believe in whatever they choose. I do not want to hurt children; I just want people to keep their offspring away from me. I have made the very knowing choice not to have children at present, so I don't see why other's preference of the opposite should be my sodding problem!

Also: why is this such a horrid defect in me just because I'm female? When I say I don't like kids, I'm just about burned at the proverbial stake. When boys or men declare they're none too fond of children, it's considered a natural part of their bachelorhood. Of course boys don't like children; they'd much rather drive fast cars and play football! Of course unmarried men get a little queasy at the thought of a woman already baggaged with children; the responsibility frightens them and besides, they'd much rather raise their own. Nobody expects a man to fawn over and dote on somebody else's child; a man can even get away with declining to date a woman just because she's eager to procreate. But me? I have to fiercely defend myself just to hold the belief that other people's children shouldn't be my problem. I wasn't planning on having a gender role debate here, but something's just too wrong when I have to adore children just because I'm a woman. As if the opposite is some sort of defect in my genetic make-up.

I know a lot of people will be outraged when reading this, just as they are when I mention any of this to them face to face, as it were. Well, they're just going to have to be angry with me, because facts remain: I do not like children. I absolutely cannot stand them, and I'm not in the least bit ashamed of this. And I do not, not in the very least bit, want to be burdened with offspring that I'm not even responsible for creating. So fire up the stake; if you feel you can no longer stand for my selfish, evil disposition, bung me onto the flames and watch me burn. At least then I won't have to witness another temper tantrum, right the shelves in my store again, or endure horrified stares when I refuse to give up my place in the line for someone with kids. Child enthusiasts, you poor sods, can sort that out among yourselves.

Can somebody tell me what, exactly, these health reforms will mean, and why people don't like them? I feel the need to update myself on international events :)

Tjostolv Moland and Joshua French. Remember their names, and if you can, spare them a thought, because they're about to be executed without proper trial and with no substantial evidence. What, did you think such things didn't happen in our modern, enlightened world? So did I.

On the 9th and 11th of May this year, Moland and French were arrested in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. They are Norwegian citizens, with army background, and have since 2007 been involved in various activities of a security-related nature, most notably SIG (Special Intervention Group, a paramilitary company of hired men). According to sources mentioned by Aftenposten (Norwegian newspaper), Moland and French have been involved in arranging “extreme events” for the rich – “Be James Bond in London” or “Play Jason Bourne in Algeria” or some such. Action adventures for ordinary people, one might call them. In other words, guns for hire; a higher (and more violent) grade of security guards. Apparently, their plan was to gauge the market for private security companies – like SIG – in Congo.

Moland and French were arrested because their hired driver, who had agreed to take them and their motorcycles from Congo to Uganda, was found shot and murdered. A witness, Moland and French's fellow passenger, was produced to testify that the Norwegian men had killed the driver and tried to kill the witness, too. The two Norwegians now stand accused of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, armed robbery, carrying illegal firearms and – if you'll credit it – conspiracy and espionage on behalf of the Kingdom of Norway. Actually, they don't stand accused anymore, because today they were convicted and found guilty on all points. The sentence? Five times the death penalty, plus they have to pay huge sums of money in recompense to the driver's widow and “associates.” The Kingdom of Norway, strangely enough, was also found guilty and charged to pay 360,000,000 NOK or $60,000,000 (yes, that reads 60 million dollars) in indemnity to the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Included in this sum was a certain amount of dollars per citizen of Congo, as recompense for the “injuries suffered” by each one of them.

But they were involved in espionage, right? They ruthlessly killed a man in cold blood for no reason whatsoever; they deserve it. Right?

No. Not right at all. The trial isn't right, the sentence isn't right, and if the Democratic Republic of Congo had even the faintest desire to live up to their name, they'd be ashamed of themselves. As it is, I am shocked, disgusted, and I hope it's not just me.

First charge: murder. Well, of course they would just have had to suck it up if it was obvious they had killed that man, but the problem is that it isn't obvious. There is no convincing evidence. Yes, the prosecutor had a picture of a smiling Moland wiping blood off a car, and they have a witness. But one question remains: what was their motive? Why would they ask to be taken deep into the Congolese wilderness and then kill their driver? There was no money to steal, they didn't know the driver. According to Moland and French, they were attacked by a guerilla troop and ran away, and when they returned to the car, they were relieved they were still alive, hence the smile. A shaky explanation, true, but so is the evidence that they're lying. The witness, for example, demands an unreasonably large sum of money – and for what, precisely? The evidence isn't enough to convince me of their guilt, especially when there is no motive. Even the prosecutor admitted he couldn't imagine what their motive could be.

Second charge: armed robbery. Pardon me if I sound arrogant, but robbery of what, precisely? There was no money to steal; their driver was a father of six and a poor man. I wouldn't know for sure, of course, but I imagine it takes more than a few Congolese franc to make murderers of trained soldiers connected to private security agencies. This sounds more than a little unlikely to me.

As for the charges that they were carrying illegal firearms, and that they were planning to set up a private security company in Congo, I have no objections. Guns registered in Uganda could well be illegal in Congo for all I know, but I don't doubt that Moland and French got theirs off the black market, either, if that's what the prosecutor thinks. And they were in the private security business; of course they were setting up another company in Congo. Such things are lucrative business in certain parts of Africa where the systems are corrupt and war makes life uncertain. The point is, even if they both carried illegal firearms and planned to start a new company, these are not grounds for the death penalty. You can't kill a man for not registering his gun, and you can't kill him for trying to start a company. Imprisonment, yes, but not death row.

And the most ridiculous charge I've ever heard: that Moland and French were spying for the Norwegian government. That the Kingdom of Norway sent two army men into the Democratic Republic of the Congo to obtain intelligence. I know this will also sound arrogant, but whatever for? Norway has been a peaceful country since the Nazi invasion ended in 1945, and we are one of the richest countries in the world. We haven't been at war of our own accord since the Napoleon wars, and even then only under Danish leadership. Why, oh why, would we spy on Congo? What could we possibly hope to gain from espionage in a war-harried country which annually receives a great deal of monetary support from us (more than 1 billion NOK over the past ten years, to be exact – approximately $167,669,000)?

The army denies it, of course, and our government officials have been in contact with the Congolese ditto to assure them that the Kingdom of Norway has nothing to do with this, and that we do not consider ourselves a party in this trial. The accused men have not been employed by the army for two years, and may I remind you that there is mandatory conscription in Norway? All Norwegian boys/men must serve in the army for one year, so to find someone with absolutely no connection to the army would be difficult, unless he's physically unsuitable for service. But still the Congolese government demands we pay them $60 million in reparations. Our foreign secretary, Jonas Gahr Støre, has expressly said that Norway won't pay because this sentence is false, and why should we? They want to execute two Norwegian citizens and expect us to pay them a staggering amount of money to do it?

Honestly.

The trial, as you can see, is bad enough. There is no hard evidence; certainly nothing good enough for the death sentence! The Norwegian men were denied a translator because the judge felt it disturbed the course of the trial. The people in the courtroom began applauding and calling for immediate carrying out of the execution when the sentence was read. Moland and French have been refused medical attention, their lawyer can hardly talk to them over a language barrier that seems insurmountable, and their mode of transport from the prison to the court room? They're marched through the open streets, feet away from enraged citizens who scream death threats at them.

And if the trial is bad, what of the sentence? The death penalty cannot be accepted as a form of punishment, regardless of where in the world it is carried out. To take someone's life is wrong by all moral standards; how is it acceptable if done by government officials? Furthermore, all prisoners must be entitled to humane treatment, if not luxury; to deny someone medical care before they've even been sentenced is atrocious. And to top it off, the Democratic Republic of the Congo apparently finds it acceptable to blackmail the Norwegian government. In yesterday's Dagbladet (another Norwegian newspaper), the judge in this trial was quoted as saying that he felt sure that the Norwegian government would pay, since the law said so, and that if we didn't comply, there would be “sanctions.” When asked to specify what these might be, he declined to do so.

And this country receives 100 million NOK every year, for no other reason than that the Norwegian people have money to share! They intend to execute two Norwegian citizens without substantial evidence and then expect the whole country to pay reparations – because they suspect we've been exercising espionage in Congo! Had this happened a hundred years ago, it would have been grounds for a war declaration!

I don't know these two men and for all I know, they could have killed that poor driver, father of six. But even if this was the case, they deserve a lengthy prison sentence and a stipulated sum of reparations and nothing more! And to demand anything at all from the Norwegian government – besides the hefty sums we're already giving them in development support – is just plain ridiculous, as they have absolutely no grounds for doing so.

We can't stand for it, and if our politicians have an ounce of brains they won't, either. You just can't go around killing people without evidence and demanding lots of money from random rich countries at will – even if you are the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

Tea. Tea is the universal solution to everything. Feeling under the weather? Have a cup of tea. Bad hangover? Have a cup of tea. Got the cold, influenza, broken limbs or pneumonia? Have a cup of tea. Got dumped by your boy/girlfriend? Have a cup of tea. Attacked by zombies and vampires? Have a sodding big cup of tea.

A big, steaming cup of tea. For added enjoyment, add a plate of biscuits and a good book. Perhaps top it off with a cuddly blanket.

Jane Austen once wrote of a group of young men and women to whom trouble could only mean two things: money or love. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, Marianne and Elinor Dashwood, Emma Woodhouse – they were of good fortune and breeding, or perhaps married into money, and such matters as world peace, pollution, starving children (or for that matter bipolar tendencies), never entered into their minds. They hardly ever brought up politics in conversation, a tan was looked upon as something degrading, and one still referred to women as the “fairer” or “gentler” sex. But despite all these dinosaur tendencies, Austen still described them with an all-important word and meant it: she called them accomplished.

Let us consider that word, accomplished. What does it mean? To accomplish something; to succeed in doing or bringing something to pass. That is the modern definition, but hardly what Austen meant when she said that Darcy's younger sister was very accomplished. She didn't mean that said sister was very good at getting things done; women in those days arguably didn't get much done in practical terms. In fact, she didn't mean that Darcy's sister was good at doing anything in particular; she meant that she was adequate at doing several things – things like sewing, singing and playing, dancing and keeping conversation. Perhaps Darcy's sister was even good at drawing and “covering screens” (though search me if I know what that means).

This is the Austenian meaning of the word accomplished: successful in society. Because the accomplished person, be it a he or she, has accumulated and refined several skills, he or she is an interesting and sociable individual in most social circles. Men were expected to hunt and read newspapers, perhaps even strive to join Parliament, while women ought to play at least one instrument and paint tolerably well. Furthermore, every educated citizen must know their German, French and Latin, and the most adventurous even a little Italian. In short, everyone must be a little proficient at everything.

This ideal is long since dead. We greatly admire persons who have one particular skill at which they are particularly apt, of course, and more so if this skill is amusing, such as acting, singing, making jokes or drawing cartoons. And we generally do not admire people who are, to be frank, shite at everything. But the Austenian ideal of accomplished persons, those who are passably good at everything if not exceptional, belongs to a long-gone past – one where ladies wore muslin and spent their days wandering in gardens, and gentlemen wore breeches which looked as if they were about to permanently damage said gentlemen's reproductive skills. Being accomplished has gone out of fashion.

The question is, how could it have? Why on earth did we decide to stop being interesting and start being dull? I realize that what made one accomplished in Austen's days won't necessarily earn you bonus points today (Latin, for one thing, is a rather extinct language, and does it mean to cover screens, anyway?), but I'm talking about the ideal; the thought that all educated people had a certain standard to measure up to – a standard that made them interesting. Because that was the point, wasn't it, that when you met someone, there would be no awkward silences, because you both knew enough about literature, politics and the weather to keep an easy flow of conversation going. When you were introduced into society some time in your early teens, you wouldn't stand there gaping like a fish when at a ball, because somebody would have taught you to dance well in advance of this event. And when you were perusing the selection of bachelors and unmarried girls to find a match, you would know straight away if they were utter idiots or not – because they were either accomplished, or they weren't.

I like this ideal. I really, really cherish the idea of being sure when I met someone that a certain level of refinement had taken place; a certain cultivation of this individual's mind. There would have been books they would have been bound to have read, public goings-on on which they simply had to have an opinion, and if I mentioned the word “stroll” they would actually have understood me. Because such is not the state of society today; any person you see on the street could either be a genius or a blithering idiot – and there's no way to shield oneself from the idiots.

I don't mean people who simply aren't good at math, or who don't have time to read more than a few books a year, or never go to the opera. I mean people who stare dumbly at me when I mention Jane Austen, or find it perfectly acceptable to let their children run screaming around my ankles when I'm trying to have a cup of coffee with a friend, or show up to fancy restaurants in paint-flecked jeans and white tennis socks. When I say idiots, I say people who are so uninterested in refining their own minds they even manage to convince themselves of their stupidity – when they weren't particularly stupid to begin with. People with no talent and no charm; people without manners; people incapable of carrying on a conversation with anyone they haven't known for ten years or more. In short, people who are not accomplished in even the widest sense of the word and show absolutely no interest in becoming so, either.

Let me just remind you that I do not think being accomplished today is exactly the same as being accomplished in Austen's day. Formal dances and balls have quite gone out of fashion if not existence, and so learning waltzes and gavottes and jigs and allemandes and all these different choreographies, if I may call them that, doesn't pay off very well. Nobody has a harp standing around at home, so girls can't necessarily learn to play it, and boys can't just go out shooting with their fathers at the age of thirteen. The world has increased vastly since it consisted of Europe, the colonies and not much more, and so politics today are naturally more complex than they were two hundred years ago. And very, very few people have enough money to only have to worry over love and thus spend all their time educating themselves. We can't be Elizabeth Bennet, as much as we'd like to be.

But if we can't learn two dozen different dances, we could learn at least one or two of the most applicable ones. If we can't read every book ever published, we can at least read the most important ones and a few newly published ones in between. If we can't go to the opera all the time, it wouldn't hurt to learn one's notes and keys, or at least listen to Classic FM for about ten minutes a week. Unless you're tone deaf, you could learn to play a simple little tune on the piano or the guitar, even though you don't have a harp on stand-by. If we can't know everything about the relationship between Burma and the USA, we can at least know who lost the Second World War. And if we know absolutely nothing about quantum physics, every one of us can – at the very least – comment on how awful it is that they're testing chemicals on animals. See what I'm getting at? It's absolutely possible to be accomplished, even by today's standards.

But why should we, the cynics will demand. Why should we bother to be accomplished? It requires time and effort, and it sounds boring! Nobody can be good at everything; we should all find our special talent and cultivate that. And I agree with that last bit; if you have a talent, you would be an idiot indeed not to unleash and encourage it. But as for the former bit, well, why should we?

Because unaccomplished people are boring, that's why. As I believe I mentioned earlier, if you've got no charm and no talent, and you're not even well-informed, then what have you got? A pretty face, which will last you halfway through your thirties? Lots of money which you'll spend foolishly? As an example, let me present to you the girl I am faced with almost daily: the Dunce. She's a fake blonde, with thick layers of concealer and mascara covering her features up as well as her freckles or acne. She chews gum incessantly; not because she likes the flavour, but because she needs something to occupy her mouth so as not to say something stupid or go about gaping like a goldfish out of its bowl. She's got a boyfriend and several friends just like herself, and when they're together they talk about the latest hit song that played on the radio, who drank the most beer at their last party, or who shagged whom at the selfsame party. If you ask her a question, you'll find her staring at you, the cogs working slowly behind her eyes – and she begins her reply with, “Like, it's like, if you...”

Laugh if you want, but this is no mere parody of human life. This is the modern female ideal; the girl of 2009. And their male compatriots are no better; their conversational skills are as faltering as their shaving ditto and if asked if they intend to vote, they utter a guffaw and say that politics isn't “their fucking problem”. I really do agree with my parents; today's youth is a new low. Not one of them accomplished; not one of them interested in anything outside their little bubble. If you were to strike up a conversation with one of them, you would find them, in a word: dim-witted. I hate to be harsh on my own generation, but there it is: the ideal of accomplished persons have died out, leaving us masses of what wouldn't even have passed for illiterate peasants in Austen's day.

Of course I don't go about discussing religion and politics with everyone I meet. When I spend time with my friends, nobody cares if you're wearing overly large pyjamas or a dress; burping is allowed and we swear a lot. We talk about sex quite openly and probably disgrace our families something awful; we play childish video games and I've only been to the opera once in the last two years. But the point is, if someone came up to me and asked me what I thought about the conflict in the Middle East, I could have answered them. If somebody wanted to know which Arthur Conan Doyle novel I enjoyed the most, I would have replied that I haven't had time to read them all yet, but that I liked The Hound of the Baskervilles very much. And if I had to sit next to a total stranger in an airplane to Germany for two hours, I could have conversed lightly with that stranger – in English or very halting German – out of pure politeness. If a party goes horribly wrong, at least I can entertain the guests with a Tom Lehrer song with piano accompaniment, and though my voice is far from great, the lyrics make most people laugh. And though I'm far from accomplished yet, at least I recognize the idea and understand the point of striving for it.

Yes, I bloody would have turned back the time if I could have, if only to take my peers on an excursion to olden days and let them see what the word accomplished really means. I openly admit to longing for the days when nobody let you get away with it if you slumped while you walked, didn't speak at least two languages, had no understanding of art and literature and wouldn't even try to play the pianoforte; all because people were bloody interesting back then. But I realize I'm a dinosaur in this respect as well as in many others; except from in certain blogging and fiction communities, the joy of refining and improving one's mind is long since dead. Nowadays, it's enough to earn a living and reproduce to be considered accomplished. I'm telling you, Jane Austen would have scoffed at us if she knew.

Reader, writer or just plain fangirl: I need your assistance. If you link other fanficers here, or just discuss the matter with them, I'd be extremely grateful. I need as much input as I can get, for purely selfish reasons ^^

I am planning my next tattoo; that is, an extension of my Froggy-tattoo. That frog you see in my icon? I have it tattooed on my ankle, and now I'm going to expand it. What I want, is for the frog to be the "firmament" of the tattoo, and then for it to sort of "grow" up along my calf in a plant-like way. The plant-like part will consist of one item per fandom; that item representing said fandom.

What I need your help with, is this: which items should represent the fandoms? I want to make sure that when someone sees it, they immediately recognize their fandom. Some fandoms are obvious to me (like Jeeves&Wooster = bowler hat), but are they as obvious to others? So, please tell me what item (or image) perfectly represents to you each of the fandoms listed below.

Jeeves&Wooster
Harry Potter
Prison Break
Reaper
Die Hard 4.0
House M.D

Only my main fandoms are represented so far, but I might take it into my head to include Pirates of the Caribbean and Scrubs too - maybe. For now, the fandoms listed above: what items, or images, represents them best? I'd be eternally grateful for input; I might even respond with increased fic productivity *nudge nudge, wink wink*

I am going to start a new literary genre: I call it pornographic comedy. Like smut literature, only well written and funny. Anyone think there's a market for it? Imagine a mix of Wodehouse, Jude Deveraux, Emily Maguire and Sophie Kinsella - set in any time, universe or sexual orientation the author fancies.

I don't care if it sucks; I'm still gonna write it. I have two novels planned already. I think this world needs more porn with jokes in it!

Greetings, 16 year-old girl of a particularly silly disposish! Here are some pieces of good advice, sent from your 21 year-old self.

For a start: don't ever get angry with the Manwhores. It will just put a three-month delay on a friendship that's going to become so rock solid you'd keel over and die without it. Never mind what you think is wounded pride; they're worth cutting a little slack.

And then there's the matter of fanfiction. You should never have started out with that stupid pen name anyway; why didn't you stick to froggy? Just you wait; in a few years, you'll get Froggy tattooed on your ankle. Not that this is of any importance, you understand. It's just a constant source of annoyance because confusion arises occasionally.

And for the love of God, stay away from that man! No, wait, don't stay away from him. Well... never mind. You know as well as I do this is unavoidable. We'll just have to ride it out, but we'll be a better person for it.

But most importantly: hang in there, girl. I know things will get particularly sucky over the next year or two, and your life this far hasn't exactly been a ball, either. But just you wait; in just a few more years, you'll be so ready to burst with happiness you couldn't imagine it. The discovery of Tchaikovsky is just around the corner, you know, and you're about to enroll in the IB regime, as your classmates will call it. You'll find new friends, rediscover old ones, and watch your best friends grow and make you proud to know them. You'll find your place as a natural leader of some packs, as a follower in others. It's all good; after ten years of being at the bottom of the pecking order, you'll soon feel so damn free and strong and independent that you can face even the most demeaning experience with your head held high. There's time to plot your revenge for those suckers later; right now, you need to focus on your friends, your life and your studies. Revenge is still a few years off as I write this, but it's coming. In the most satisfying way.

Now for goodness' sake, find yourself an improving book. I know the fantasy genre is the perfect escape from reality, but isn't eighteen a little late to start reading the classics? You won't believe me when I tell you this, but in five years you'll personally own over 300 books, and they're not even half fantasy. So get started on your mind's education, young 'un!

There's a red moon on the horizon; an old sign of blood being spilt and death approaching - at the very least a bad omen. Not that I care; I'm baking and I'm not superstitious in the least. And what a cake I'm baking! I've tweaked the recipe for a thing called Devil's Chocolate Cake and my version of it is now officially called Oh, Jerry (dedicated, of course, to Amber - ask if you don't get the reference). It's unnecessarily delicious, if you don't mind me saying so. There's just too many good things in it for it not to be delicious.

Like scotch whiskey and dark chocolate of the best sort, and peach jam in the glazing. Topping? Icing? Whatever. It's delicious. In fact, I think I'm going to be selfish and keep the recipe to myself, unlike my excellent cookie recipe, which I will happily share. That's not my own, you see. But I feel rather possessive of things that are my own; a good recipe is like a good invention - it should be patented. So I probably won't share my Oh, Jerry recipe.

But I'll share the cake! Tomorrow, when my parents come home from vacation, I'll be a good girl and share. I love sharing food I've made; it makes one feel accomplished when people like what one makes. Also, I'm going hunting for bilberries tomorrow, and perhaps Oh, Jerry would taste just as good with a sprinkling of bilberries? One can but try.

Oh, and stupid customers? I strongly dislike them. When working in a bookshop, you think you'll be safe from the most idiotic of them, but apparently not. Some of them are so ridiculously annoying that I want to throw them out.

A profession, as a matter of fact. My grandfather was a teacher, my father is a teacher and now I am studying to be a teacher (all of us in upper secondary school, too; five years of university to qualify). The funny thing is, my grandfather taught history, Norwegian, English and religion - and I have "inherited" two of his subjects; I am studying to teach English and history. Awesomecakes! But I have no intentions of influencing my potential kids enough to make them become teachers as well; like me, they get to choose their own professions.

Oh, and taste! My grandmother on my mother's side, my mother and I all love ice cream with caramelized sugar chunks (krokan - how the devil does one translate?). Nobody else that I know of, can stand it. Plus we all like homey, cozy interior decor. I swear it's hereditary!

Writer's Block: What was your first word?

Well, I haven't a clue, and my parents can't remember, either. But I do know this: by the time I was two, I could form coherent sentences and had a rather well-developed vocabulary. At the age of four, I had the grammar down. Is it any wonder, I ask you, that I turned out the way I did? XD What did my parents do to me, I wonder, to make me a freakshow like that? A cute freakshow, true, but still. Not normal. I merely wonder because I intend to do it to my own kids, when I get some, because all children should learn their language properly! :P

My cousin and I were just at a local café, just sort of dropping by after work, because an Irish band was playing (band = two blokes with guitar, banjo and pennywhistle) and we like Irish music. While there, we noticed three guys at the bar who were also Irish; this became apparent when we heard them enthusiastically sing along to "The Fields of Athenry" as the only other patrons save yours truly.

I was delighted. I really love anything and everything Irish, so I enticed them over to our table by way of beer. They thought Norwegian people were really nice and joined us. One of them was too drunk to sit up, the second merely too drunk to speak very coherently, and the third was a regular Don Juan, doing his level best to charm my cousin and me into the rafters. He even kissed my hand when they left.

Squee! Just... squee! There was Irish music, people dancing and singing, and then suddenly there were dangerously charming Irish lads who made me laugh and told me where they were going nightclubbing tomorrow, in case I might like to join them. I might have to go around smiling like an idiot for days now.

I remember hearing something a while ago about LJ being inaccessible from public computers in certain areas of the USA. Something about it being considered socialist and anti-American. Is this true? Are there actually places in the US where you can't log on to LiveJournal? Does anyone have any reliable sources on this, or has anyone experienced it first-hand?

If you know anything about this, or know others who do, please comment! I need to know this, for many reasons, there among commentary essay reasons :)

I went to the movies today. Twice. First, there's the midday matinee at noon, which is much cheaper than the ordinary tickets and even that price includes a coffee. And I was alone in the cinema; I mean, in the whole showing room, there was only me. What a wonderful way of watching a movie ^^

And the movie I saw? Star Trek. I've never watched the show, so it was a novel experience for me, finally finding out which one's Spock. The thing actually made me cry during the first five minutes (you'll know why if you've seen it), which is a thing not many movies manage to do. And I liked it; I hadn't expected to, but I really liked it. But then I realized I have Spock's hairdo, so now I'm really anxious to get to the hairdresser. Because as smexworthy as the bloke playing Spock is with that particular hairdo, I do not like myself in it. But the movie was a lovely thing; I might have to start getting involved in fandom now.

And, of course, I went later to see Duplicity. But that was boring in comparison.