Spanish Omelette

The train will soon be arriving at Brentwood Railway Station on this sunny Saturday afternoon in August and with it will arrive my weekend guest, The Finn Named Axel (see post A Finn Named Axel). My car is parked just around the corner from the platform where I am waiting for Axel to arrive. Indeed, I am complying with the decision I made the previous weekend when we met in Leamington Spa (see post My language Versus Yours); that unless Axel did something truly awful, I would consider inviting him to my home for the weekend. But the problem is that he is on his way to meet with me despite behaving awfully. How Axel has managed to retain this invitation in spite of less than exemplary behavior is something that puzzles even me.

The past weekend in Leamington Spa has been challenging to say the least. Axel is like no-one I have ever met and strange is still the best adjective I would use to describe him. For a start, at bedtime instead of gallantly offering me his bed as a chivalrous gentleman should, he happily dozes off leaving me to maneuver my unweildly sleeping bag into the postage-stamp floor space in his tiny shoe-box hotel room. ‘What an utter oaf! Are all Finnish men this thoughtless?', I think to myself. This is after he pulls a knife on me. You indeed hear correct, a knife. Mama being a typical Spanish Mama has packed me off to Leamington Spa with, what else but a Spanish omelette, so that Axel and I can enjoy a picnic lunch without the bother of shopping for its contents. Mama also sensibly sends me off with all required accessories for said lunch and in the back of my car alongside the omelette I also have plates, forks, cups, napkins and even drinks. However, as we unpack our lunch sat on our blanket on the river bank alongside the other picnickers, I soon realize that Mama has forgotten the most important of all the utensils for serving the omelette; a knife for cutting it. What are we going to do now? I ask myself. How on the earth are we going to manage without a knife?

Observing my dilemma, Axel instantly comes to the rescue. ‘Here, take this’, he says and calmly pulls out from, I don’t-know-where, the most enormous knife with a blade I would say is roughly twenty-five centimeters in length. I am in shock. Where on the earth did that come from? Axel is impervious to the fact that he has committed an offence by carrying a concealed weapon. On the contrary, he is dead smug that he can now chop us both a tidy slice of omelette. 'It’s a hunting knife', he proudly tells me. Hunting for what? Does Axel not realize that in Leamington Spa there is no need to hunt for neither lunch nor dinner? If Spanish mothers are not around to supply ready-to-eat picnics, then we have something called a supermarket to fill that gap. Beginning to feel ill at ease, I glance around at my surroundings; the river bank is crammed with jolly groups happily munching away and all oblivious to this crazy knife-wielding Finn in their proximity. I myself have never been happier to live on this overpopulated island called England. This is my first thought. For all I know, I could be eating with a madman, there is no knowing what he is capable of and I tell myself to stay calm and behave as if having lunch with a possible maniac is something I do on a regular basis. This is my second thought, and as I uncomfortably eat my omelette which by now tastes like sawdust (Axel has seen to that), the third thought makes its appearance; the Norwegian boyfriend was right.

The Norwegian boyfriend in question is called Anders and we date briefly during our mutual time as students at Surrey University just last year. I am Mathematics and Anders is Mechanical Engineering, so I guess that on paper we are a good match. But that is just paper. We also live in the same Student Halls of Residence called Battersea Court so Anders often collects my mail along with his and brings it over. One morning I am handed a letter and curiously asked, 'Why is someone writing to you from Finland?' I patiently explain the story of meeting a Finn called Axel on a ferry crossing a few years ago and our resulting correspondence. Assuming a tone of measured concern, Anders looks at me and shakes his head, ’Be very careful. Finns have a reputation for carrying knives and heavy drinking, so whatever you do, do not get on the wrong side of one', he solemnly advises me. I look at him and burst into laughter. What does he know about Finland all the way from Norway? He is clearly jealous, so I do not dignify this silly comment with a response. 

After a while I am no longer dating gorgeous Norwegian boyfriend. I have been replaced with Jonathan from Metallurgy. Why did I not see that coming? How could I have been so innocent? It's the Bromance of the century and I am powerless to impede its stealthy advance. Anders and Jonathan soon become inseparable and after a while everyone on campus knows they are an item. The new couple look genuinely happy together, while I am left inconsolable; my only comfort is the knowledge that I have been passed over in favor of a man and not another woman. That would have been even worse. But Anders is long-gone history, and as I sit on the banks of the river awkwardly eating my sawdust-tasting Spanish omelette with knife-wielding Axel all I can think of is, ‘drat Norwegian boyfriends and their uncanny knowledge of all things Finnish’. How on the earth am I going to get through this ordeal? A big part of me wishes that I had never met Axel in the first place. He is exhaustingly unpredictable, you never quite know what outrageous thing he is going to do next. As if from nowhere, a wave of nostalgia suddenly washes over me and with it materializes ex Norwegian boyfriend, Anders. In spite of differing backgrounds our meal times together were relaxed and predictable affairs, and on a day such as today I miss him.

   

To be continued ......

Next post: 24.06. 2018:  Toronto

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