Good old cry

Good Old Cry

Sometimes my mind wanders back to uncomfortable moments in my life and I get a lump in my throat. If I'm not at home I quickly try to find somewhere where I can cry it out: the office loo or the car usually. What? I'd rather chew glass than to run into someone I knew with a totally depressed look on my face: Things rub off on people and whomever it were I might meet, I don't want to spoil their day! So I just cry alone and then I feel relieved.

For the sake of fun because it's so unfair, let's use a few clichés: When something's wrong, our continental neighbours scream, sing, dance, make love, or talk until early in the morning with a bottle of wine. Old-school Brits, like my father, keep a stiff upper lip, feel hideous - or talk until early in the morning with a bottle of single malt, then feel even more hideous. Younger Brits - not the ones you see on reality shows - sip Dry Martinis at Claridge's, re-landscape gardens to save the bees, or accidentally bat a cricket ball at someone annoying. Americans spill it out on their bored therapists and we, in Norway, how do we get the occasional angst out?

I wonder sometimes when I see 'regular' people frantically racing their own shadows on their rulleskis, bikes and legs, there's got to be a tiny little something eating them up. Therese, Marit, Petter: I'm not talking about you!

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