THE TALK OF THE CUL-DE-SAC

I’m in Stockholmhaven. A TV has just told me: “In Sweden, whenever you top a dish with dill, it’s a party.”

Really, Sweden? Really? Who knew that herbs could be so exciting that they immediately draw the neighbours in from far and wide bearing bottles, gifts and their finest dancing shoes? Maybe that’s where I’m going wrong in my cold, quiet flat. Stick a little dill on my marmalade toast and I’ll be the talk of the cul-de-sac! Well, maybe if the cul-de-sac were in Sweden.

Sorry. I shouldn’t be sarcastic. It’s not very befitting. Lowest form of wit, they say - and I seem to make an art form of extracting the wit from it. Rock on, Sweden. Just let me know when the party starts.

I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I don’t want to go home; Stockholmhaven was closer, and warmer. Plus I need to measure a thing called ‘Kallax’ at some point to see whether it will fit at the end of my bed and still give me room to shuffle past and open the curtains.

I’m deciding whether to have a cup of tea. The TV is painting a picture of Sweden for me that I can’t believe all of Sweden is like. They can’t all be fishermen on windswept tug boats, or mums spooning through bowls of juicy red lingonberries, can they? Surely some of them go to work in cities and have office jobs in skyscrapers? Surely some live in cold, empty apartments and eat marmalade on toast at night in front of YouTube?

Anyway. I’m pretty sure I’ve had dill, and I don’t remember it. I don’t even remember the taste, let alone the party it was supposed to inspire! Does it have a strong flavour? Is it potent? The TV is showing a Swedish chef twisting it into a pan of boiling potatoes and it looks exactly like someone disposing themselves of an old Christmas Tree. It has a ‘distinctive aroma’ say the subtitles. 

I might go and get a tea then. There’d better not be dill in the teabags.