The fated words spoken to me by the smallest (and cutest) girl I have the pleasure of knowing – Serena. Well, she used to be cuter, when she was smaller… now she’s all teenage and stuff. But back then, she was cute:

(It was fun to find the picture again… it’s one of my earliest film-camera photos)

Anyway, it’s a long story, but we ended up acting together in a little comedy skit. Me, my cousin (who’s 6′8″, 3 inches taller than me — about 200cms, for those metric goons out there), and a couple of little girls. The basic premise was that we were a freak show in a circus (’The impossibly tall men’, or something), and they would swan around our feet and look up at us, gawking and improvising: ‘You’re mighty tall’, Serena said to me (and she’s Scottish, so you just have to imagine how cute it sounded).

At 196cm, I am indeed mightily tall. The sad thing is, my cousin dwarfs me:

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(He’s going to kill me for posting this one, I think… it’s a long story… Actually, it’s not as long as he would’ve hoped, but I’ll still spare you the details) That was taken about 5 years ago, and he’s grown since then. Scary, huh? (The height, not the dress.) I think I was being Orlando Bloom in that photo, thus the odd facial hair. I have a nice picture of me with a rapier somewhere actually… I might post that some time.

What was I saying… ah, yes, I’m tall. We’re not sure to this day how I ended up quite this tall — apparently I have some tall cousins, but they are a fairly distant relation. Perhaps I’m just a sign of things to come: Darwinism, survival of the fittest, has been slightly circumvented by our standards of living, and our ability to work around disabilities. In the olden days, tall people probably couldn’t fit into caves, or perhaps they had their heads bitten off by rabid monkeys. A bit like short people probably couldn’t run fast enough, tall people probably weren’t desirable, back in the day.

Nowadays though, tall men have it good (a rather windy link, but worth a read, if you’re a single woman looking for a strapping young, tall gentleman…)! There’s tons of research showing that tall men are simply more desirable than shorter men. Shorter men also tend to be more jealous in general. I guess they just know that I’m packing an omnipotent .50cal, while they’re stuck with their inadequate 9mm.

I have to admit, I don’t think I’ve seen any more action than my shorter friends though. I seem to be more successful when it comes to situations where the odds are against me though. I can’t recall a time I’ve failed at the seduction… That might not be my height, though. I’ll withold final judgement until I find a nice short woman with child-bearing hips.

Being tall has its other advantages though. I mean, I was never without a football team at school. The fact that I couldn’t (and still can’t) run meant nothing, because I could cover the entire goal with my lanky limbs. I can also slam-dunk in basketball without really leaving the ground, just by standing on my toes.

The best bit is I can see down a girl’s top, without her realising, because I could easily be looking at her face. The marvel of angles…

I’m sure I’m not posing an original question here, but really… where does everyone go on Sunday?

Is it some kind of antiquated vestigial thing from our monotheistic days? Is Sunday still ‘the day of rest’? Does every blogger suddenly leave their computer to go and be with their families? Are those large Sunday lunches so vast that every blogger falls asleep afterward, not to awaken until Monday?

I might be slightly blinkered by the fact that I don’t have kids, or (m)any friends. I don’t go to church; Sunday isn’t a day of rest — it’s just another day for me. I wake up, climb out of bed, pour a massive mug of coffee, sit down at my computer and… where is everyone? It’s always so lonely out here in the blogosphere, with no one to keep me company.

Perhaps there’s some secret activity that everyone does, except for me. Can’t we we find something to do, or blog about on a Sunday?

So, tell me, where does everyone go on Sunday?

(I am fully expecting this post to go unnoticed and unreplied to, as it is Sunday after all… sweet irony!)

So I went to that memorial service today!

It was lovely to see old friends, and family; the sheer number of people that turned up was immense. Hundreds and hundreds. There were some lovely eulogies given, and not much crying to be heard. A few sniffles; but lots of big grins as those that attended were dragged back through memory lane to remember the deceased.

Tomorrow’s the funeral proper. I have to wear a skull cap (kippah, yarmulke). I’m a bit excited! I’m wondering if they hand them out at the door: ‘Please, take a skull cap. Smoked salmon’s on the left as you go in. Don’t forget to cry a bit, and mutter in Yiddish when it’s appropriate.’

I kid, I kid…

Anyway, I had to shave today, as a half-beard just ‘wouldn’t be acceptable in today’s day and age’ (gotta love my mother). I didn’t ask her when it would’ve been acceptable…”Back in my day’ would be the answer, I imagine.

Being the camera whore that I am, I requisitioned a new set of photos to comemorate my new beardless — but still stubbly — visage. As my friend Daniel put it: ‘You look about 10 years younger… about 24…’

Just a small variety of the poses I will assume when a camera is pointed at me.

Below is the ‘Oh my, is that really Jesus? He’s early!’ look.

Are we thinking: a) better with beard, b) stubble is good or c) remove the stubble? (Not that I’ll actually listen to your opinions, but my mum always told me it was good to at least pretend that I care)

Despite my tirade against showers in specific and personal hygiene in general, I have to admit that a lot of incredibly wise and incendiary thoughts come to me in the bathroom. Those thoughts that strike you, out of the blue, and completely change the course of your day — or entire life, in the case of some famous Greek philosophers!

Once, for example, I was reaching down to soap that bit of my legs that I don’t see all that often (at a guess, it was my calf  — when you’re tall like me, there are outlying parts of your body that you might only see every other year), when inspiration hit, like a beam of holy light lancing down upon my up-turned visage: I should design a site that allows people to freely stream the contents of their computer screen! Sadly, I was beaten to that one by a week or two when UStream launched (and they do it really well!)

But the point I was trying to make is: some of our greatest inspirations come to us while we’re just sitting/standing/laying there and being.

And thus I found myself this evening,  standing up from my gleaming white throne and looking down at the silvery knobs that controlled the fate of my stodgy deposit. In that brief moment, looking from knobs to deposit, and deposit to knobs, I reflected on the sheer quantity of the food I ate earlier today.

Opting for the larger, more powerful flush, I stumbled back to the living room and collapsed flatulently on to the sofa.

I had intended to rant today about monotheistic religion and its poor suitability and applicability to modern civilisation, but I thought it could wait until tomorrow, after the food has settled and the massive amount of insulin has left my system before I try to write sensibly on such a sensitive topic.

So, saving the topic of religion for tomorrow, I’ll simply leave you with the list of food that I ate today, in audio format (so that you can hear the pain that I’m still suffering in my voice).

I suffered, so that ye can enjoy! Just like Jesus. Oops, it slipped in…

(If you can’t see the player, you’ll have to view it on my blog!)

The winner of my inaugural competition, beating off all the competition with a big, spiked club is… (and I know this will seem like a fix)… Pink Jellybaby!

Pink. I like pink. Pink slippers. Pink cakes. Pink cats. Even better if it’s sparkly too. Pink laptop. Pink phone. Pink dressing gown. If there’s a choice of colour, I always pick pink. It’s just better that way. Passionate about pink, that’s me. I’d like a pink house but I don’t think The Boy would like that. Boy’s are anti pink. I don’t dress in pink though. That’s important. Not everything is good in pink. You have to know where the boundaries are.

I have to admit, I also love pink. I don’t know when I first started loving pink, but I think it probably had something to do with my mother’s pink scarves and pashminas that were always left hanging around the house. I would put them on, and make faces in the mirror… and put sunglasses on…

(Which is where the top right frame of my ‘homage to pink‘ comes from!)

As the winner, I will now read the majority of Pink’s blog and try to really get INSIDE HER HEAD. I will perform the the equivalent of an autopsy, but with her pink pulse still racing. When I think I’ve finally worked out what makes her tick I’ll embark on an epic photo shoot (and some digital manipulation) to bring her the finest avatar possible; an avatar that embodies her spirit and personality so perfectly that she’ll wonder if I’m wholly human… and not some kind of angel.

Anyway, I must rush off now, as it’s Mother’s Day here in England (and for a few other countries I think), and I must spoil my mother with a nice lunch. My dad’s excited because he going to get a free lunch… damn him. I hope it’s as beautiful there as it is here (but really, there’s nothing as beautiful as England bathed in golden, spring sunshine).

In the past couple of years, it has seemed that everything is about babies. Who is having babies, when they’re having babies, what they’re going to call their babies — and on, and on, and on. Some of the women around here have even been having ’synchronised babies’, so that they can share in the joys, woes and experiences of being a glowing mother-to-be. And of course, once they give birth, the two (possibly unfortunate?) children have the pleasure of being inexorably linked for the first few years of their life.

Let me tell you, those few formative years are important! People (often of the doctor variety) say that we don’t recall much from the first 3 years of our life, and that might be true, certainly. But it’s not all about memories and recall, it’s about something far more basic — and primal; it’s about nurture! It’s in our fledgling years that we begin to learn the difference between right and wrong; what’s safe, and what isn’t. It’s in those early years that we have have experiences that later change our entire outlook on life. Those fleeting months — those months that will go by ever so quickly — will see us discover our dreams, and harbour our first fears and anxieties.

I will write more about childhood in the future, as it’s an important topic for me, but just think about this one: we’re born without fear, and without prejudices. As children, the world is a shiny, untainted place. If only we were born with bigger legs and stronger hearts we’d be off exploring the universe without a second thought.

As you can tell, I think an awful lot rests on the early years of a child. It’s no surprise that I’m anxious about having children: I want to make sure I get it absolutely right! If I can’t get it right, I’d rather not do it at all. I can deal with self-inflicted damage, but damaging a little, baby person? I don’t think I could knowingly do that to a child.

So, because of the local baby boom, this has all been running around in my head. Then today, a family friend left her two babies with us; with my mother and sister. The girl, who is about a year old, was looked after by my sister the whole day. Truth be told, I think she enjoyed it a bit too much, and I think she’ll be wanting one of her own very soon. My mother, despite my aforementioned misgivings, insisted I spend some time with the baby boy.

‘No, no… don’t… I’ll drop him.’

‘Don’t be silly, Seb, he’s tiny, you’ll be fine!’

And so there I was, sitting at this very computer, when my mother unceremoniously plopped the child onto my knee. He grinned at me. I grinned back. A little knee bounce and another big, cheeky grin. I turned him to face my computer screen, and he grinned again, broader this time: this guy and I obviously had some common ground! We poked around my computer for a bit, showing him my blog (and the pretty photos of course), and then we played a game of ‘find his favourite kind of music’, where he proved that yet again has very good taste. Out of a line-up of Glen Campbell, Green Day and Elvis Costello, he chose Withita Lineman — what a baby!

And then, out of no frickin’ no where, just like that, my anxieties were gone. I’m not saying I clung onto the baby for the rest of the day — far from it, I was still petrified of dropping him, or teaching him some awful habit that he’d show his mother later on, like farting or picking his nose — but I did decide, there and then, that I’d probably make a great father. Maybe… just maybe I’d be good enough to nurture a child just right.

It was then, of course, that my mind turned to possible baby names. I already have a girl’s name chosen (if a possible wife happens to be reading this — sorry, you’re too late, and you get no say), but I’m still fairly open on the subject of the ideal name for my first son, and heir to my throne.

If you’ve read my ‘about‘ page, you’ve probably worked out that I aspire to rule the world. I’m well aware that conquering and ruling the world is probably not something I can do in one life time — I could certainly begin the process, but it would have to be a mantle of ownership passed down to my son: the one true heir and emperor; the heir that, unlike the meek, will actually inherit the world.

Now, an emperor of the world needs a good name. He needs a strong name. A name that instills both loyalty and admiration. A name so epic and awe-inspiring that legends and myths will manifest from the path he walks, the deeds he performs and the words he utters.

A name like Romulus, Zeus or Caesar.

Once I have a name, all I need is a wife that will bear the child. A child that will be born with legs strong enough to cross the Earth in just a few strides.

I’m afraid all you get this Sunday is some pretty photos. It’s currently my father’s birthday and it was my brother’s birthday yesterday; tomorrow it’s mine! Three days ago it was my aunt’s, and in three days it’s my great aunt’s. Did August have some kind of significance for my family…? Why were we all conceived in the last week of August?!

Wait, wasn’t August named after the greatest of the Roman Emperors, Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus? A coincidence…?

Anyway! Two photos — one of the low-in-the-sky full moon last night, and one from where we went picnicking this afternoon. I don’t ever recall seeing so many bluebells up on the heaths here, but perhaps I’ve just not caught them at the right time before. The hills were swathed in bluebells; festooned in purple blooms!

Tomorrow is my birthday. I might have some fun (cute?) photos for you.

I go now to eat more cake. To prepare myself for tomorrow — line my stomach, y’know? — whereupon I will continue to gorge myself with smoked salmon and chocolate and one of grandmother’s Special Creations… I might just have to blog about it, like last time.

Last week I requested that you ask me anything. Looking at my mail, I’d say we have a good range of topics for today. Please, if there’s something on your mind, a question, a problem, don’t hesitate to ask. Some questions have had their grammar altered a little, but otherwise they are untouched. If I use politically incorrect phrases it’s either a) trying to be funny or b) I don’t know I’m being politically incorrect (in which case, do correct me).

Dear Mr. Seb, I am 49 but have not started the menopause. Can I still get pregnant at my age?

A good, easy question to get started with! You are sorely lacking on detail — do you want to get pregnant, or are you asking if you can go on one last flight of reckless fancy, sleeping with all and sundry, knowing you’re safe from pregnancy if not from STDs? Your hormones are running rife, spurring your middle-age horn into overdrive one day, and complete disinterest of sex the next.

From a purely mechanical standpoint you can get pregnant until you’ve been a full 12 months without a period (and thus without ovulating). If your periods are simply irregular that’s not the same as menopause — that’s just the build-up, the peri/pre menopause — and you can certainly still get pregnant during that time (but it’s still very difficult).

For more information talk to your doctor, or visit one of many sites or newspaper stories on the topic.

I am a self-injurer. When life gets tough or I get stressed out, or even when I’m bored, I find sharp things to dig into my skin. This is generally viewed as a problem. But that is not the problem or situation for which I am seeking your advice. Generally speaking, when other people find out about this side of my life they begin to take precautions: watching what they say, qualifying statements so as not to upset me, and so on. One of my friends has asked me TWICE now if I am into S&M; I have never experienced it, so I couldn’t really say one way or the other.

Anyway, I was bored today and decided to do a bit of research. The Sadomasochism article on Wikipedia was rather helpful actually, and I got a fairly clear picture of what S&M really encompasses. I think I could totally get into that. It would definitely be the pain side of it all as well, not so much the humiliation. But pain, definitely. So being that I have a… condition, an illness that most people are terrified of, how would you suggest that I bring up this subject to a lover? Bear in mind that said lover would be rather concerned about my injurious tendencies already and may be averse to inflicting pain upon me. Please help, Dr. Seb.

Sincerely,
Confused in the Padded Room

Now this one’s trickier. My first reaction was: find a lover that’s also a self-harmer. That’s probably the simplest if not the most healthy solution — you’d probably end up cutting each other in more and more creative and intricate ways until you end up looking like Amy Acker from Dollhouse or one of Hannibal Lecter’s victims, but at least it’d be a consensual and you wouldn’t be hurting any ‘innocents’.

I think it depends on whether you like self-harming or whether you’ve identified it as a problem and want to stop. A loved one — a partner, a friend, a family member — can certainly help you regain a sense of self. They can acknowledge and empathise with your physical and mental pains, both of which can go a long way to rebuilding your sense of self-worth. Remember, pain tends to disassociate you from ‘yourself’, and continued self-harm will probably result in you ‘drifting away’ from reality — self-mutilation might seem like a temporary fix, a fleeting detachment, but it’s certainly not a permanent solution to problems you might be experiencing.

To be honest, I don’t know if you are trying to stop — it sounds like you’re not — or if you are just trying to tell your lover: This is who I am. Deal with it. In which case, I doubt a caring partner is going to be understanding of continued self-harming. If what you really crave is pain (most self-harmers aren’t in it just for the pain, though), S&M is indeed available. Bear in mind that any relationship that revolves around dispensing pain and being humiliated is going to be unlike any other relationships you’ve had.

There’s a world of difference between pain and humiliation though — they’re not inexorably linked — and if spanking and pinching and hair-pulling is enough for you, I’m sure you can find a boyfriend or girlfriend with a domineering streak to keep you satisfied!

For more information there’s a good article on understanding self-harm by the British mental health charity Mind. AskMen has a great article about spanking, which might help you satisfy your need for pain and arouse you at the same time! And if you’re really interested in BDSM and want to get started right now, ALT is the main ‘alternative’ online adult personals site.

The goldfish I have at work is a slob. I purchased him on a whim because I thought he would be entertaining, which he is. He loves David Bowie, and whenever Bowie comes on the radio the fish dances to him. However, the goldfish who shall remain anonymous (we’ll call him Rick [Astley? -S]) is a total slob! He swims around with a fire-hose turd hanging out of his ass most of the day, and now his shit is starting to stick to his fins. I wish the little bastard would just clean it off. I clean his bowl weekly, he has plants to rub it off with, but I think he just does it to irritate me. What should I do?

Sincerely,
Pissed in the Pacific Northwest [Come on, I said anonymous... -S]

In my experience, dealing with animals effectively always comes down to physical and visual stimuli. Some animals can be trained by sound, but I don’t think you can train a goldfish by whistling. Maybe one day we’ll understand fish as well as we understand dogs and you’ll be able to buy ultra-high frequency fish whistles; one day. Until then, I suggest one or two options:

• Hook up two wires from a nearby power socket, run them through some kind of switch (available from your local hardware store) and simply dangle the two ends into the tank. Next, print out a photo of a goldfish.Now, whenever your fish has neglected to ’shake his fin’, hold the picture up to the side of the tank and flip the switch. This is equivalent to Pavlov’s famed doggy/ringing bell experiment. It also has the added bonus that if you fail to condition the fish into looking after its hygiene, your cat (or your friend’s) has something to look forward to at dinner time.

• The other option is far more sinister; a whole lot more Godfather. For this one you need at least two goldfish, so go and buy another one before you start. Got it? Great. You need to force-feed the second fish a solid diet with lots of fibre, one that will encourage lots and lots of poo production. Then, when the shit starts squeezin’ out, turn the pump off — the water must be totally still for this to work. You’re aiming for a long turd: a turd long enough to tie into a noose. Optionally, to speed up the process, you might opt for holding the fish with one hand and squeezing it firmly with your fingers. When you’ve cultured a suitably stringy shite gently tie it into a loop, placing it carefully around its neck.

  
  This will act just like a goldfish voodoo doll. Chilling. If that doesn’t scare your disgusting beast  into wiping its ass on nearby plants, I don’t know what will.

If you have a question for next week’s edition of Ask Me Anything, go ahead and ask me. Remember, it’s completely anonymous! This is your chance to get something off your chest or find out the answer to something that’s always niggled at you! Or maybe you just want to tax me… meanies (you know who you are).

I would regale you with more tales of Florence but the fact is: I don’t think I could say anything new or interesting about it. It’s beautiful, it’s rustic and probably has more masterpieces per square kilometre than anywhere else in the world but it’s all been said before. Instead, I thought I’d tell you a fun story from just outside Florence, in the rolling hills of Tuscany, Italy.

It all starts, as most things do, with a vision. In this case, literally a vision from the highest point in central Florence.

I was out of breath having just climbed the huge, never-ending hill behind the ginormous Palazzo Pitti (really, it’s disgustingly huge and pretty ugly to boot). While still nursing a full-body lactic acid build-up I decided to climb onto a rather narrow, precarious-looking wall and try to take a photo. That’s probably why the photo isn’t all that great — I was busy focusing on not falling off, and trying to catch my breath.

I don’t know who lives in that rather charming villa, but at that moment I decided to try and find out. I’d been trudging around the very small, densely-packed streets of Florence for three days and the view made me realise: I’m right in the middle of Tuscany, one of the most beautiful regions in Europe! With that epiphany I wasted no time and fled down the hill back to my hotel where I dumped my camera and any other valuables. I kept just my phone and some cash, and a piece of paper with my home address on it — why? I had no idea where I was going nor what I was going to do once I got there, wherever there might turn out to be. I didn’t want to put a total dampener on my trip and get mugged, so leaving the camera behind made sense, along with my credit cards and forms of identification (identity theft is serious business…!)

That means you don’t get any of my photos for this particular story; you’ll just have to imagine the horrors I’m about to describe.

I took the first bus that was heading out of town. I think it went west, but that’s just a guess — to this day, I don’t know where I went.  Looking at a map now it could’ve been Scandiaci or Rinaldi or… who knows? The bus slowly motored its way beyond the city limits and wound its way through the hilly, serpentine roads beyond. I stayed on the bus for about 15 minutes until I was far enough away to be out of my comfort zone, but not so far that I couldn’t get a taxi back if shit hit the fan. I hopped out with a Grazie to the bus driver and looked around — a nondescript road lined by nondescript turquoise-grey trees (olives?) — perfect; Tuscany!

Following the avenue (original, non-American definition) into the dark, unlit town I started to wonder if this was actually a good idea. Why do ideas always start off sounding really great? Something about the thought of eating chocolate cake is better than the actual eating? Did I mention that it was October and the sun was setting quickly behind the seemingly-uninhabited settlement; it was a very pretty sight, but quite unnerving too. What now, Seb? I stood in the middle of the town and looked about hopelessly.

It looked something like this only, um, darker — amazing how hard it is to find images of Italian villages in the dark…

There was only one building with lights on, a little way out of town and up a hill. Well, I either go and check if anyone’s in, or head back to Florence… Yet again, after the climb, I was out of breath. Holidays are, ironically, the only time I actually get cardiac exercise (I need a girlfriend). I raised my hand to knock but at at the exact same moment the door swung inward, the bright light framing and silhouetting a short, almost-spherical figure.

“Buonasera” a voice said said and I repeated it back to the shadowy person in acknowledgement, smiling apologetically for my English accent. There’s an uncomfortable moment where I can’t see their eyes but I know they’re looking at me, sizing me up. The shadow eventually steps back to hold the door open, revealing a quizzical middle-aged Italian woman whose every sense is boring into me. She sighs.“Prego, prego.” Reluctantly I am waved in and she shuts the door. Then she deadlocks it.

I follow her further into the old farmhouse, running my hands along pocked oak beams, nibbled for centuries by woodworm. The walls are rendered and bumpy, whitewashed in the simple, continental fashion. Brickwork appears in places, no doubt replacing damage sustained by continued use for — perhaps –  500 years. We reach the kitchen and I’m greeted by a wall of smiles — wonky, missing-toothed smiles, but happy faces nonetheless! I smile back at all five of them, not really sure of what the standard greeting for such an occasion is:

Hi, I’m a tourist with more money than sense, but I fancied a taste of real Italian food, so here I am, invading your lovely 16th century farmhouse with my fast, hairy, British body that is a good foot taller than your door frames;

I was pushed off the bus by a nasty driver, and I’m hungry and I have no where to sleep and I’m scared of the dark… so… if you could kindly look after me…

Considering I know almost no Italian, I had to settle for Buonasera, mi chiamo Sebastiano!!! which seemed to do the trick. Before I know it, I’m being ushered to the head of the table while the youngest son grabs some more cutlery. Over my left shoulder unnamed hands pass me crusty bread while the eldest son grins and passes me the olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Plates are being placed before me faster than I can clear them: salamis and prosciutto, lemon-marinated olives and bruschetta, slices of tomato and buffalo mozzarella — that was just the appetiser!

All told I think we had a total of five courses and about ten different dishes, each one washed down with the finest of Chiantis. There was even some fava beans, but the Hannibal Lecter joke that I delivered fell on unappreciative ears. Dessert consisted of biscotti dunked in thick, syrupy dessert wine that tasted like a pound of sugar diluted in water. And then coffee, of course, with a port chaser. Finally, after nodding and smiling through various stories — no doubt the standard, embarrassing family tales that are always brought out at special occasions — I curled up in front of the dying embers of their living room fire and fell asleep.

Sadly there was no dog to lick my toes, or a farmer’s daughter  to deflower but beggars can not be choosers, right? I’d succeeded in experiencing the familial Italian way of life and in eating lots of proper Italian food.

Next, I’m going to try and tackle the story of the Venetian jail without getting myself into trouble. But I reserve the right to skip right onto Rome…!

My trip to the Faroe Islands was inspirational. It wasn’t a roller coaster of excitement. It wasn’t a sun-drenched getaway. I didn’t sleep a lot, nor did I feast on exotic fruits fed to me by sun-kissed maidens — in fact, all I ate was meat and potatoes. The Faroe Islands were educational. Eye-opening and and interesting.

The Faroe Islands are unique in that they’re the smallest Western nation in the world. 45,000 people spread out across an archipelago of 18 islands. They have three cities, the biggest of which has a population of 15,000 — the next, Klaksvik, has just 4,000.

Zoom in on that city. A village or small town by any other standard, Klaksvik is the capital of the Northern Isles and the hub of culture and commerce for 6 of the Faroes’ 18 islands. Once upon a time it would’ve been a village with a thriving marketplace, a civilisation whose only contact with the outside world was by boat. In fact its tunnel to the mainland was only finished in 2006!

But is it a backward, single-street village? Is Klaksvik a second-world shanty village reliant on good weather and safe waters for its survival? No. When the fog horns bellow do women run helter-skelter to the harbour hoping that food has finally arrived? No. Klaksvik and the Faroes themselves are actuallty one of the most developed nations in the world. In Klaksvik alone they have multiple deep-sea harbours and dry dock. A cinema and theatre. Two gymnasiums and a skate park! They even have a fully-featured hospital and – get this – a football stadium with more than enough seating for the entire town — city! I meant city! (Don’t call it a village. They really hate that. I did it a few times…)

They’re also planning an indoor football pitch for use during the dark and cold-rain winters that descend upon their city for two thirds of the year. An indoor sports arena for just 4,000 people; just 4,000 people utilise these awesome and ludicrous amenities. Four thousand happy little souls, living out their lives as humble fishermen and sheep farmers but with access to resources that would put most western nations to shame.

But how do they do it? How can economy on such a tiny scale work?

More importantly: why don’t all towns of similar size around the world have the same resources?

Now that I’ve painted an objective picture of Klaksvik, it’s necessary for me to tell you what it’s like to live there. What’s it like to live in a city where everyone literally knows everyone? What’s it like when the bank manager is both your uncle and the one signing your mortgage agreement? How about when the city’s star football player is also the same person that you regularly head into the Arctic Circle to trawl cod fish with? What’s it like to live in a place where it’s not unusual for teenagers to head out together for a 9-month stint as fishers in the Barents Sea off the coast of Russia?

But the weirdest thing about the small city of Klaksvik is this: nothing is locked. Car doors are left unlocked with their keys often on display. House doors are (usually) closed but never bolted. Boats and bikes are left running: nothing is chained down.

As a result, life in Klaksvik felt just as I expected: it’s like one big family. Because that’s what it is. We’re talking about a city that formed by the coalescence of nearby villages; from just 200 people a thousand years ago, there are now 4,000. You don’t need a piece of paper to work out just how closely related everyone is.

There was the possibility that I would be thought of as ‘the stranger’, the freak that would draw people to their windows. The other-world alien that would pull crowds of pointed fingers, furrowed glares and nervous giggles.

I thought I’d feel like an outcast, a tourist — or worse: a journalist — an outsider come to investigate and poke and ridicule their ancient form and customs.

Instead I was welcomed with open arms and hearts. And legs.

[Next part tomorrow... hopefully!]