Scenes from Home


“How dare they! How dare they! They have no idea what it’s like to have kids holed up in an apartment! How old are these men? What makes them think they can do this to us?”

“Babe. You’re in denial.”

“I am not in denial! This is nuts! Such overkill I never saw in my life! What about mothers? What about our jobs? Who is going to do our jobs, and what will happen to the country if we suddenly just stop working? They think oh those women, what work do they do anyway. It’s what they are for, to care for their kids anytime, all the time, always there, no problem, just shove this on them. We are going to be in here for six and a half weeks. Six and a half weeks!”

“This thing is dangerous. Seen what’s going on in Italy? We are a small country. We don’t have the capacity for that.”

“How many cases have you guys got? How many?”


“We just got to hunker down for two weeks, dear. The borders are closing now and this thing will peak in two weeks. You will call me, I will call you. Then it will get easier.”

“That does make sense. That does make me feel a bit better actually. Thanks.”


“The sun is in my eyes! I want my cap!”

“Darling, you can’t put a cap on a bicycle helmet. I brought you sunglasses! Look, love.”

“They are too big! They fall off! It’s too bright!”

“They are just fine, love. Look, I’ll put them under here. No way they can fall off now.”

“They make me dizzy! I can’t see! Why didn’t you bring me a cap!”

“We aren’t going back for a cap now, so please quit whining. Isn’t it nice to be outside?”

“Not nice! Useless! These stupid glasses make so dizzy! They are useless! You are useless, do you hear me! Mama!”

“Okay take them off then, love, and let’s carry on. And that hurt my feelings.”

“Haha! Good! You hurt my feelings with this stupid brightness!”


“X just tested positive for coronavirus.”

“How is he?”

“He’s okay. So far so good.”



“Do you know what this thing can do to our family if you keep going around? Do you think I will make it if I catch it? And what about you? We can’t die! They need me! They need… me.”

“I’m so careful. And there’s nearly no-one there anymore. The doors are all open so we don’t have to touch them at all. I clean my hands all the time.”

“I’m going to put my mattress on the floor!”


“Mama, is there coronavirus in Finland?”

“Yes, darling.”

“Are Mummu and Vaari going to catch it?”

“No love, I don’t think so. They only go out to go to the woods and run after birds with cameras, don’t they? They just sit at home or go bird watching. You can’t catch it if you don’t see anyone.”

Lessons Not Learned in 2019

In 2019 I figured out I need to grow up a little bit – become stronger as my own person.

Such a wonderful opportunity for growth! Which I am fighting like my 3-month-old kitten fights his rattly mouse: in vain. The mouse keeps on rattling. I keep on trying to lean on another person. Who is putting on their suit jacket.

I need to find a strong core within and feel calm at all times. Calm and confident that I can do this, regardless of if it’s just me or not! Work, kids, kittens, home, plans, tickets, sheets, friends, hobbies and health – Just Do It! Just get doin’! Do, do, do!

And I do…

But no-one said I have to like it!

Some Things Are Stronger Than Us

I can update so rarely. This draft is from August!

Children growing up in loving families take for granted that everything is going to be alright. They may be terrified of small things like barking dogs or sudden noises, or being called a baby by peers.

But when it comes to the big scaries, for them it is happily clear that their parents can stop any old tidal wave heading their way. And often, metaphorically, we can. We sure would happily die trying!

But some things are stronger than us.

Sea currents, say.

Or disappointments not addressed for weeks, months, years. The pain of changing and feeling unseen as the person you’ve proudly become.

It’s the hottest month in Cyprus. I float happily face down in shifting water. My ears and my mind are both filled with currents.

The tingling of a million pebbles forever looking for their place in the order of things.

I can make out dim outlines of little fishes quickly swimming past. My body is pulled and pushed by impatient waves. The archaic appetite of this mass wants to suck in me, my family.

My most beloved friends. Every body on this beach, this coast, warm and sweaty and fragile. And at the end, so shockingly alone.

Some things are stronger than us.

But which things? Music for floating in warm sea water during the hottest month of the year

Sports Day ’95

It’s 1995. We are laying in a heap across a small airing cupboard and an elegant entrance hall. All we can do is pant and laugh and curse.

She is my best friend, someone who calls and then we talk hanging upside down from the bed, forever.

We are bang in the middle of the road from childhood to adulthood and can’t breathe! Because school sports day has just ended.

Their home is airy and bright. It seems even larger from floor level. It is also decidedly tidier than ours, which can also be distinguished upside down; and it’s all white inside! The only thing that doesn’t fit the sophisticated image is now us: a sweaty and foul-mouthed heap of two teenage girls on the doormat. I love her and I wipe my eyes.

It’s 1997. She is brave and she is confident, and so she is leaving for a whole school year. Now we are seventeen and things are moving so fast; I write her very long letters, dozens of pages I think, but she isn’t here. Others are, and we get ciders and sit on the hill in the afternoon while boats are swaying gently down in the harbour. I try, but cannot imagine her life over there.

It’s 2001. Everyone has left except for her, she missed a year. I have crashed into early adulthood like a drunk cyclist into a wall (just a metaphor for my part): it hurts everywhere!

My work friends party on Mondays. I have darker heartaches and well-deserved hangovers and suddenly I am feeling old, of all things! So I head out again.

It’s 2019. I sit at a restaurant by the bay, stunned. I listen and I do see her, so familiar, and behind her the water is shifting gently and calmly as ever.

This girl turned expatriate remembers whom I remember, days I remember – remembers me like even I don’t.

She brought this charming piece of evidence with her

Darnest life! We walk our bikes slowly homewards in the dark and it’s summer and the town sounds just the same.

We say see you soon and I hug her tight.

Let Me Play

He reads my little text dedicated to his goddaughter’s firstborn and a happy little light blinks on my phone.

‘You are so talented’ he writes proudly. I can’t reply. It turns into one of those messages that ends a conversation rather than starting one, without either person meaning for it to.

Talented, he wrote. It feels good and then again doesn’t. He is full of love and full of appreciation but I don’t know whether I can receive this. Because every day I see and think things that I want to put to words, black on white, but I can’t. There are images all around the city I am dying to describe; brittle, icy-thin bits of beauty to snap up, lovingly keep, tenderly type up. Every night.

When I was young there was so much time for play. I decisively avoided school work, even during school hours, to splash around in frivolous and impractical play. Now my children play and my fate is to chase after them with school work they neglect to be able to do what they love. And it’s alright, mostly, but then sometimes it’s hard not to scream, LET ME THINK ABOUT THIS, slow down for God’s sake! If I can’t write, who am I, and what am I doing here? Pathos alert!

I haven’t had my hair cut in ages and I DON’T CARE. I don’t care how I look or how I don’t look or whether I fit in or whatever.

I have last been to the stables last June. Because if I broke my wrist, then what? With a sprained ankle or worse, what use would I be to anyone? But well, I don’t really care. I’m afraid of horses again now anyway.

But just.


Let me play!

(Let me write)

For Laura

Babies seem to come with a spell that is able to stop time. Everything that is anything in a 38-year-old visitor’s life melts away instantly when meeting someone three weeks of age.


Young babies and young parents seem to live in a timeless bubble of their own. Weekdays or weekends don’t matter, night and day come at the same time and continents easily and effortlessly switch places around them. For a new family, only this moment exists, this moment and what it’s made of.

The parents live only for the baby – and the baby lives because of Mum and Dad. She lives their joy and their tiredness, their heartbeats and the smell of their hair. She lives their warm voices and stroking hands. She feels sudden, frightening bursts of hunger and a content happiness at being cuddled and fed and loved like no-one ever was. Warm baths briefly remind her of something – but she’s with us now, she’s here!

This is her life today, tomorrow it will be a little larger. Tomorrow and every day, until one day she’s 38 and visits someone else’s wonderful baby bubble for an hour or two. To sit and talk and admire, on a spring-time work trip to a beautiful capital somewhere maybe.















The Decade of the Selfie

This was originally a picture of a 38-year-old. Through some easy digital play it became a fictional picture of a fictional 14-year-old. Someone, whoever, who never was.

She never was. I was never her. She’s a hologram of obsessions, fixations, shallower than shallow expectations.

She’s a response to hundreds of daily media attacks on my body image, confidence and self worth. She’s a pill against anxiety and social comparison blues. She’s fake. She’s a lie. But she’s who I am supposed to want to be:

Sweet and fresh! Young, mute and smiling: agreeable! No thinking or talking please people because posing is obviously more important. Posing for you, and for my story.

Posing from close up, close like a lover.

In real life I would never allow strangers this close. But in the digital world, in the decade of the selfie, welcome! Welcome anyone. Welcome too close to someone who never was, to think of her what you will, to scroll on and on, the endless untrue selfies that fill your feed and mine.

xoxo, no

Yesterday’s News

So much happens after nightfall that we never know of.

Every night, new babies cry, and new parents, they cry too.

Every night, horses lie down in their stalls and stand up again to ward off wolves, wolves that never come. Clouds move, winds pick up, rain pours over cities and fields and stretches of ocean.

Tonight, like every night, on a factory loading bay somewhere bleary-eyed immigrants hunch with cold fingers in their pockets, waiting for trucks. A mismatched couple screech insults at each other further down the long block. At last, they get into a car and it’s quiet again.

In a bakery nearby, bread is being made. It’s soft and hot and smells of morning. Tonight like every night, newspapers are being printed and children being made. Tomorrow’s essentials!

At dawn, shattered beer bottles lie on suburban streets. Birds peck at chips dumped on a curb. Forgotten laundry hangs outside a cosy country home, smelling of flowers. An elderly man in the kitchen tries to load the coffee maker without waking his wife. In a bend near his house, a car has shrunk to half its lenght against a tree.

Still, half of human kind lie and dream. Babies and family parties, shooters and killers, long forgotten friends. Deaths and births and reunions. Fears and embarrassments for a fleeting moment nearly come true.

When morning comes, for most people things find their places again. The sky is up and the ground is down, a pleasing frame for a young day. All that just happened – or didn’t really – will soon be just yesterday’s news.

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