Man tager to fugler (i alle fall hvis man er to personer). Enkelte lader hagla og trasker til skogs; vi gikk på Farmers' Market og kjøpte dem. Grouse, som er en type rype man finner mye av i Skottland.

Hvis man har skutt den selv må man så foreta seg en del ubehageligheter i retning av ribbing, men våre var stort sett ferdigribbet, selv om Tor påpekte at det at de hadde bena på fortsatt fikk dem til å se ut som en slags Doctor Who-monstre.

Deretter vasker man kjøttet, finner fram en skikkelig skarp kniv for så å ta av flyvemuskelen (bryststykket) og legge det til side. Resten av fuglen renser man så, og deler opp kjøttet i ganske må biter (de skal lage saus).

Når du så har kuttet opp dette sausekjøttet, steker du det lett, har i finkuttet løk, eplebiter (som vi brukte istedet for gulrøtter fordi Tor er sær), litt pepper, timian og einebær. Du trenger ikke tenke så hardt på om kjøttet er helt finrensket, for du skal uansett sile av dette senere, og om du fortsat ønsker å ha kjøttbiter i sausen kan du håndplukke de fineste. Vi hadde fått beskjed om å koke alt dette i vann, men siden vi er dekadente og vi virkelig liker smaken av kjøtt kokt i vin, brukte vi en del vin i tillegg.

Mens ...

Jeg kom i skade for å lese Aftenposten i dag, og hva annet møter mine søvnige øyne enn enda et idiotisk FrP-utspill:

Dersom Frp vinner valget, vil folk kunne kjøpe vin i dagligvarebutikken hele uka.

Det høres veldig fint ut, gjør det ikke? Vel, det er det ikke. Det er tull og tøys og styggedom. Og jeg skal ikke enda en gang gå over de mer faglige grunnene til at dette er en dårlig idé, for det er nok av andre som kan skrive om det, og jeg tviler på at FrP-velgere bryr seg om fakta uansett.

Nei.

I dag snakker jeg for en gangs skyld som forbruker.
Jeg har nå bodd snart tre år i et land hvor man kan kjøpe vin i butikkene. Og jeg kjenner at jeg blir varm rundt hjertet hver gang jeg tenker på Vinmonopolet.

Har noen tenkt over hvor fantastisk det er med en så stor spesialbutikk i en by som Molde? Hvor mange andre steder kan man gå inn, velge blant et så stort utvalg i alle prisklasser og få kyndig rettledning hvis man trenger det?

Jeg skulle likt å se den stakkaren som gikk inn på Rema og sa "hei, jeg skal ha gjester og trenger en vin som passer til hvalkjøtt i sjokolade- og kantarellsaus, og en annen som går til forretten -- reker i lime og kiwi". Jeg vet i alle fall hva som ville skje hvis jeg gjorde det på Tesco. Har dere sett øl-utvalget i butikkene? Jeg er sikker ...

I was 14 the first time I saw Mozart's "The Magic Flute" played. I had listened to very little opera beforehand (and never seen any on stage), and it was rather an experience. It was part of the Opera Ball arranged by some people in Oslo (I recommend it), and was played in the old opera. Everyone was dressed in period costume, and the opera itself was followed by a proper ball and then the only disco I have ever enjoyed (it is strange how the experience of a disco is improved with a bit of crinoline and nice hats) before we had breakfast (still in costume) at the Grand Hotel. In short, this particular opera has had a very special place in my heart.

When I heard
a) that Tor had never been to an opera (which is not altogether surprising, as he has for years claimed to hate all plays where people burst into song -- with key exceptions (the ones he has seen))
b) that Cambridge's Shadwell Opera would be preforming an opera in the old Rosslyn Chapel
and finally
c) that this opera would be "The Magic flute"
there was of course nothing that would stop me going (and dragging Tor along, no matter what he said on the subject).

As it turns out, Tor was not at all opposed to the plan. Perhaps the fun of the Swan Lake had convinced him all this high culture can be well worth the money; perhaps he ...

Nå sitter vi på en av Edinburghs hippe kaffe-steder (Espresso Mondo, men selvsagt skrevet med små bokstaver, for store bokstaver er ikke hippe nok), og har akkurat forklart damen i baren hvordan man lager en cortado.

(Digresjon:
Tor: "We'd like a cortado each."
Damen: "A what?"
Tor: "A cortado."
Damen: "?"
Tor: "Equal amounts of espresso and warm milk."
Damen: "So you want a big cappuccino?"
Camilla: "No! No foam. Think of it as a latte with LOTS of coffee."
Damen: "So you want three shots of espresso?" (hun så litt redd ut på dette tidspunktet)
Camilla: "Yes."
Tor: "And equal amounts of milk.")

Når hun kommer med den skal vi be om et par scones til, og så skal vi feire behørlig at vi har gjort vår borgerplikt i år også.

Vi troppet opp bright and early (halv elleve) og forsøkte å åpne den låste døren inn til det norske konsulatet i Ruthland Square. Vi var for ivrige til å ta oss tid til å lese små skilt som sier at man skal ringe på dørklokken. Det kom imidlertid en dame som åpnet døren og spurte på engelsk hva vi ville. Tor, alltid beredt (gammel speider og denslags) sa "We are Norwegian Citizens and we would like to Vote", rak i ryggen og med klar røst. Damn slapp oss så inn og spurte på norsk om vi hadde tatt med pass. Det jobber altså nordmenn på det norske konsulatet her.

(Tilbake til kaffen et øyeblikk:
Vi fikk den akkurat ...

Some of you will remember the trouble we had with our flat the first year I lived in Edinburgh. If you don't, you can refresh your memory here and here (both in Norwegian, I am sorry to say; but there are rather eloquent pictures in the first one).

Allow me to recap a little. We rented the flat from Grant Management (GM). This we were later to regret. And I am never touching anything of theirs ever again. See, after a while it turned out that not only was the whole flat rather shoddily done up, my room turned out to be a mould colony (refer to pictures linked above). I am asthmatic and had a very strong reaction to this mould, and armed myself with a letter from my doctor which very clearly stated that it was dangerous for me (as I maintain it would have been for anyone) to live there. I assumed they would fix it. They did not.

We went through some excruciating months of having long debates with them in the hall, trying to explain that the flat was not fit for human habitation. The only thing they consented to do about it was to paint over the mould, which meant it came back every two weeks or so, leading to new rounds with the evil corporate people at their office. The victory declared in the second article linked above was therefore far from complete. We worked very hard to get released from our ...

At Tollcross there is an excellent little café or restaurant or watchamacallit. Bistro, according to the door. It is rather unobtrusive, announcing its presence in the corner of a building opening onto a square with important bank people and some less well dressed ones looking for a pub. The only other indication is a (granted, very yellow) sign on the side of the wall (as seen to the left). I felt very clever when I first found it. Nobody had pointed it out to me. It looked like someone had tried to hide it. And I was hungry. I was fairly sure I was in heaven. Since then I have tried, every now and again, to bring other people in on the secret. But the secret resists revelation. Not only do people seem to have less than full confidence in my ability to pick a good lunch place, whenever I suggest to someone we go there for dinner they invariably stop serving food just as we enter.
When, after a fruitless trip to the Consulate, we agreed that lunch should be had before going to the library for a tough bout of productivity, Tor laughed at me when I tried the ploy of suggesting that Tollcross was practically on the way and that this would be a good chance to sample the delights of this wondrous place. I know it sounds shocking, but Tor sometimes doesn't believe that all my ideas are good ones.

I batted my eyelashes, however ...

More frolicksome fun at the Free Fringe today.

I mentioned in an earlier article that Cool fun would seem to have potential (solely judged on the antics of one Jez Scharf. Based on this assumption, I dragged Ben (who normally has a real job, but who is currently on vacation and can therefore quite easily be persuaded to partake in entertainment of this sort) with me to an early morning (12.30 is rather ungodly when you are a student going to see standup) show in a pub in Canongate.

It has been my experience that pub-owners are friendly an nice (a stereotype I believe television also supports), but upon our arrival I came across a very scary pub-lady who seemed to resent the fact that her pub has become a Venue. I am not sure why. One would think she had been consulted on the matter. Maybe she had just realised that people are reluctant to put away massive amounts of alcohol in the early hours of the day (well, some ... there was a surprising number of people having beer for breakfast). Either way, I assume her resentment will only increase with time, so it would probably be better to catch this act early in the festival (I assume you have all already booked tickets and are now only frantically looking for somewhere to stay), as she may progress to full-blown axe-murdering before too long.

That last sentence did implicitly endorse the show, but let me make it official ...

The Fringe is still on (to be fair, it will be on till the 30th of August, so I could open an article with those words every day for three weeks or so... but I won't).

Today, Ben and I went to sample other oddities of the Free Fringe. There is a pub in Hanover Street called the Jekyll and Hyde. This is culturally significant because Robert Louis Stevenson was from Scotland, and so the Jekyll and Hyde makes more sense in Edinburgh than the identical Dr Jekyll does in Oslo. But I digress.

The first act we caught was an old favourite of mine: Rob Deb. I enjoyed his act immensely last year (although his views on Watchmen were rather untenable), and this year was unlikely to be any different.

I will say this, though. Rob Deb would appear to fluctuate quality-wise depending on his audience. The best option would seem to be to enlist various geeky friends, scatter them throughout the audience, and make sure they make the appropriate sounds at the right time. See, he tests his audience, and two geeks would appear to not be enough for a thoroughly geeky night. And so Ben and I were treated to something that was at best semi-geeky, and at worst not even half that. I fully intend to give him more opportunities later in the festival, though. Any geeky friends want to join? I am sure if we wait for Mary, we can get a proper ...

The Fringe, which is a fringe festival originally created around the Edinburgh International Festival (which is rather more posh/high brow/full of itself), but which has completely outgrown its older sibling, and is now (according to the all-encompassing knowledge of Wikipedia, anyway) the world's largest arts' festival, (and I realise this sentence had altogether too many sub-clauses) has begun!

I know this, in part because the Edinburgh Tattoo (which is part of the Edinburgh International Festival bit) means F-somethingorothers are flying over my flat, and various fireworks display explode in the same location. And, of course, I know this because the town is full. There is nowhere to run. Or walk. Mostly you will just be stuck behind some idiot who thinks sheep dolls or recreations of the Loch Ness monster with a tartan hat are much too fascinating to leave any brain power for moving out of the way for a student hunting for a bottle of milk in the corner shop.

It started on the 7th (the Fringe, not the invasion of idiot tourists). So why is it I don't write about it till today? The truth is, I have been hiding in my room, sticking fingers in my ear, turning the volume of iTunes up and pretending the world is a nice place without quite so many people. But today I finally ventured out of my flat and faced the world of stand-up comedy that is the Free Fringe.

I wrote an article about ...

Det later til at jeg på et eller annet tidspunkt i sommer har vært en idiot. Det er imidlertid ikke det denne artikkelen kommer til å handle om. Intensjonen er å peke på en absurditet i Lånekassens system.

Jeg husker meget klart at jeg åpnet brevet fra Lånekassen, signerte gjeldsbrevet og sendte det avgårde. Eller i alle fall at jeg puttet det i konvolutten. Jeg har visst ikke klart å sende det. Uvisst av hvilken grunn. Grunnen til at jeg er sikker på at jeg signerte det er at jeg helt tydelig kan huske hvor fornøyd jeg var med å ha vært i Molde akkurat da gjeldsbrevet kom, slik at jeg kunne være effektiv og få det av gårde. Tidligere år (jeg har studert i utlandet en stund nå...) har jeg måttet stresse og styre for å få mamma til å sende det til meg, noe som forlenger alt med en uke.

Vel. Brevet har altså aldri nådd Lånekassen (og jeg har ingen tvil om at det er fullt og helt min feil -- det er sånt jeg gjør), noe som fører til at Lånekassen (idet den egentlig skulle ha utbetalt lånet) sender meg en mail og en melding på mobilen for å fortelle meg at de har sendt meg nok et gjeldsbrev som jeg må signere. Akk o ve. Men greit nok. Jeg har vært dum.

Men.

Det slår meg at dette systemet med signatur på gjeldsbrev er tull. For mange år tilbake introduserte Lånekassen et system hvor man kunne ...