Just to let you new folk know who is writing this. Here is a selfie. It’s not the crazed woman standing outside the Royal Palace in Sweden trying to impress the guards with her charming smile.
I am a Swedish Tomte. I am not a Danish or Norwegian Nisse nor a Finnish Tonttu although I do have distant cousins living there. We don’t talk much.
I spent many, many, many, years in Northern Sweden helping out on farms. Well sometimes helping. All I ask for in return is a small gift around Christmas. It’s not much – a small bowl of porridge will do. The last farmer took off on holidays to Canada so I may have tied a few cows tails together while they were away. They were not happy. So I left. I packed my stuff and started walking. By spring I had arrived at Hogakusten. That’s when I met her. She was from Canada. I heard on my travels that Canada is like Sweden but better. I am not yet convinced of this.
She said I wouldn’t have to work. I could enjoy my retirement on a rural property. Trees, fresh air and no animals. Wrong. First there are black and white critters that spray some kind of noxious vile liquid when you get too close. Okay so maybe I shouldn’t have tried to repeat the cow trick. I did not appreciate the tomato juice bath that night. My beard was pink for a month.
Then there’s the black beast that lives with us. I did not sign up for being chased around the house and property by an insane terrier with huge teeth designed to kill vermin – which I am not. Try to convince a crazed schnauzer of that. She keeps telling me not to run or move quickly. So I stand there while the beast slobbers all over my boots. I’ve had these boots for over 200 years. This is not my idea of a spit polish.
I can hear her upstairs practicing her Swedish. She’s butchering the language. I’d rather go outside and take my chances with the wildlife.
Till next week. Hej då.