Walkiesjar

I'll tell you about my Friday night shall I? I called over to Jo's and spent three solid hours attempting to push the right bits in the right place, frustratingly changing positions, sweating, swearing and bending over. Bouts of anger, when even strenuous shoving couldn't get it right and the elation when a bit slipped into the correct hole. Yes, 1500 piece Jigsaws can be tough puzzles to crack.

Jo and I were supposed to go to a Tantric Sex lesson on Wednesday. We had met for lunch the previous Sunday in a fucking Vegan cafe and found a leaflet for it. Jo was taunting me with it, then changed her mind and said she'd go. The course was for singles as well as couples, so it was fine for us to go and it seemed like something to do on a Wednesday night rather than watching the new episodes of 90210 and Britain's Next Top Model. The leaflet said there would be no physical contact or nudity, which as Lauren pointed out, was just yoga. I told Jo was going to run into the room where the course was being held and shout 'Which one is mine?' It was about this time Jo was having second thoughts about going with me and made me promise I wasn't allowed to embarrass her. The course was run by Magdelena and 'Seraphim'. What kind of name is that? This one reason fucking hippies and new-agers annoy the shit out of me. I can't even begin to imagine coming up with such a presumptuous name for myself; 'What's the most conceited name I can think of, ooh, I know, I'm name myself after some angels. That will make people think I'm really heavenly and beautiful.' I bet his real name is Clive.

Tantric Sex without the Nudity and Physical Contact

Anyway, in the event the place the course was being held at was way out of town and we had no way of getting there, so we didn't go and I never got to meet 'Seraphim' or Clive or whatever he calls himself this week. I was slightly relieved that we didn't go, after already having dined at a Vegan restaurant, a visit to a yoga workshop would have been the beginnings of the slippery slope into hippydom for me. And nobody wants that. We have no car and it would have been a three day trek just to reach the course centre. Since 99% of Icelanders have cars everything is spread out all over the Reykjavik peninsular. An example of this is there are no shops in the centre of town that are of any use the the layman. There's shops selling ridiculously expensive fleeces and hats to dumb tourists (66 Degree North and Cintimani) that were made for nothing in Chinese sweatshops. There are shops selling more affordable tourist tat, like statues of trolls wearing 'Viking' helmets and t-shirts with humorous logos on such as 'Cod War Survivor'. There are endless clothes shops selling the latest in Icelandic fashion, i.e. Black. But nothing useful like a telephone shop or an electrical store. Anything useful is at out of town complexes or the shopping maul that is Kringlan, where Angelos and I had to go to set up the internet in the house.

Typical Icelander goes to the shops

Poor old Duncan attracts a certain amount of interest from certain 'parties', like for instance that strange Greenlander in the English Pub just before Christ's Mass. The strangest though has to be the weird guy who comes and looks over the fence at the site and chats to Bjarki. This guy has been keeping an eye on our work for while now. He seems to know an awful lot about us. He told Bjarki that he doesn't go anywhere without his gun, when Bjarki challenged him on this and asked to see the weapon in question the guy told him he'd left it home that particular day. The last time he was at the site, again, involved in a conversation with Bjarki, he let it slip that Duncan was not actually English at all but was a Serbian. Not only that, he was a Serbian War Criminal, on the run from international justice. I guess working as an archaeologist on a high profile government funded excavation in the centre of a small capital city where people notice new residents pretty easily is the best place to hide out if you are wanted for war crimes in your own country. The guy knew it because he had been compiling a dossier on Duncan that is as thick as your arm.

Duncan


A Serbian War Criminal. Spot the Difference.