Every night, at exactly 21.10 hrs, in the upstairs corridor of our barracks building, there is a count. All the soldiers present in the barracks must attend this, and the officers compare the physical count against the records to make sure that no one has gone AWOL. Now, because I am serving my first month or so with an outgoing batch of officer trainees (who finish next week, incidentally), things have been pretty relaxed. Normally (and I remember this from my basic training days ten years ago as well) there are a trillion rules and regulations governing the counting process, as with everything in the army. Everyone has to unmake their bunks and re-make them in a certain way before the count. When the "two minutes to count" is announced everyone has to fall silent, and sit on the little stools at the ends of their bunks, back and arms straight, fists on knees, eyes front. When the count is announced, the door of the dormitory must be left open at an angle of exactly 90 degrees to the wall. Lights in each dormitory are extinguished. Soldiers from each dormitory must file out in a certain order in perfect silence. No running, only fast walking. No longer than 60 seconds may pass from the shouting of the order to a perfect formation upstairs. And so on. You get the picture. Rules.
But like I said, things have been relaxed. Bunks are left as they were. Doors are left (gasp!) fully open, at a monstrous 180 degrees to the wall. People talk, lights are on. It's a veritable chaos. But somehow the formation is always perfect upstairs, the count is performed quickly and people can get on with their evenings and I can get a good spot in the TV room for the football match.

Last night, however, the drill sergeant was a little pissed off. There had been a huge music festival celebrating midsummer in the seaside town of Rauma over the weekend, which many of the soldiers, including the drill sergeant, had attended. Things had been going swimmingly until 02.30 hrs, with everyone happily drunk as is Finnish custom, especially at midsummer, when the police, the dreaded five-oh, the pigs, the filth, the po-pos, the "I smell bacon" brigade, the pandas, the black-and-whites, the long arm of the law, the fuzz, Rauma's finest, the Old Bill, the peelers, the thin blue line, the heat arrived on the scene. The drill sergeant was singled out among his group of friends, and taken aside for questioning. It turns out that someone had anonymously called the dreaded coppers, the crushers, the flatfoots, the plodders, the blue meanies and implicated the drill sergeant in some kind of drug distribution ring at the festival site. Fortunately for him, they believed his side of the story, and nothing more came of the situation. Unfortunately for us, the drill sergeant was convinced that it was someone from our barracks who was responsible. So when no one owned up to the stunt (surprise, surprise) he enacted his petty revenge on all of us. Instead of just doing the count as we have been, in a chilled and groovy manner, he decided that we'd be doing it all by the book. And, inevitably, each time we made formation in the upstairs corridor, something was amiss. And we'd have to file back downstairs, into our dormitories, and do it all over again. Seven times we did this, until the drill sergeant was satisfied that we were suitably pissed off and suitably penitent for our cruel and evil prank. Happy days, happy days...

But on a positive note, look at what day it is - 31. That's one month down, just two to go!

I learned today that the Finnish army uses rental cars. Not big trucks or tanks or armored personnel carriers. But little cars. Normal cars (well, at least by European standards). Cars like the VW Golf and the Ford Escort and the nippy new Peugeot 206. Why? That I have yet to ascertain, but when I do, I’ll be sure to let you all know. Maybe it’s budget cuts. Or it could be that this is the only way the Finnish army can afford to drive the latest models of any car – after all, all the other cars I have seen around this place are ageing, slow, cumbersome and, above all, green. Everything is green, even the JCB tractor that just lumbered across my field of vision, and the one token motorboat that they like to take for an occasional spin on the lake. Now, while I can appreciate the need for a good camouflage colour, especially among the forests of Finland, I think that painting a boat green is a little excessive. I can understand the pressure on the paint job guy, needing to keep with the whole camouflage color scheme going on, but maybe a little bit of initiative would have helped in this situation. Blue! Go with blue on the boat, if you want a camouflage colour! Or, if camouflage is not the end goal, but the army is merely seeking an inconspicuous look out there amongst all the other pleasure boaters, then go with white. But no. The paint job guy caved in, did not use his own initiative, and ended up painting the boat green. So now, when the Russians are out there, scanning our waterways for those brave Finnish motorboatin’ brothers in arms, all they need to do is to pick out the only green boat floating on the blue water, among all the other white boats. Way to stick out.

But back to the car rental business. I would really have liked to be present at the Avis office when the uniformed Senior Officer of Car Rentals for the Finnish Army steps in:

"Good morning sir, how can I help you? Oh yes, a car? Certainly we have cars. What kind of car would you like? Just the VW Golf? Perhaps I could interest you in an upgrade to the Ford Mondeo? It’s a little roomier, and you’d have the added security of child-proof locks in the back? Child-proof locks the exact opposite of what you need? Hmm, yes, I can see how your troops might need the freedom to open their own doors in the case of an enemy ambush, yes, perhaps you’re right. OK, the VW Golf it is then, what colour would you like, sir? Green? I’m afraid we don’t rent cars in green. Why? Well, you see, the resale value of them is much lower. What colours do we have? Mainly metallic grey. Yes, just metallic grey on the Golf, I’m afraid. What’s that you say? That metallic grey does not blend in well with the Finnish forests? Well, I am sorry sir, but I can’t help you there. And I am sorry to hear that you would stick out like a sore thumb as you advance across the swamps of Eastern Finland in a metallic grey VW Golf. If I may be so bold, sir, but I feel that you would perhaps be rather conspicuous crossing a swamp into Russia in a VW Golf, regardless of the colour. Yes sir… no sir… my apologies, sir. So, a metallic grey VW Golf it is, sir. Now, what kind of insurance would you like? The bare minimum? Let’s see if we can make that work for you, sir … if you could just go through this checklist and tick the appropriate boxes … well, sir, I am not sure that the bare minimum will suffice. You see, here, under "Will you be driving in a war zone" you ticked "Yes", and I am afraid that this is going to raise the premiums. What’s that? Yes, sir, I understand that the Russians couldn’t hit a barn door with a howitzer from 50 yards, but I‘m afraid my hands are tied. Now let’s see… will it be just the one driver, or will you need insurance for additional drivers? It would be safer with additional drivers? Yes, I can see that if one driver gets killed, you’d need to have additional insured drivers. You’re right, sir, there’s nothing worse than being caught in the middle of a war zone, having lost your driver to a sniper, with no one else in the car insured to drive the vehicle. No sir, I can’t say that I have been in that situation, but I can empathize with the sentiment. We were once stranded in the South of France, my husband laid out by a nasty stomach bug after he ate some seafood in a little bistro by the beach that I told him he shouldn’t eat but would he listen, no, of course not, but anyway, I wasn’t insured and he couldn’t drive because he was so sick, so we had to stay an extra night in the expensive B&B in Bluffery-sur-mer. And we missed our flight and… anyway, I‘m blabbering on here. I‘m sorry sir, you were saying? Yes, so how many drivers would you like to insure? A platoon? How many in a platoon, sir, forgive my ignorance? Oh, that many? Hmm, OK, well, yes, OK, that will raise the premiums a little more, I‘m afraid. OK, so, I take it you will be needing unlimited mileage? Oh, only if things go as planned, is it sir? Otherwise you'll be returning the car sooner than expected? That's fine, sir, we have no early return penalties, unlike some of our cheaper, budget competitors. How far is it to Moscow, you say? OK, that should be fine. Can I offer you the option of returning the car with an empty tank, sir? We will lock the price of petrol at the time of signing, and with world oil prices on the up, you could save a good deal of money on this contract. Oh, so if all goes well, you’ll just take over the Russian oil fields, giving you as much free petrol as you like? Well, I suppose that is one solution, sir. OK, sir, I think we are all done. If you could just initial here… here… and here… and sign here… and here. Alrighty, all set then, sir! Good luck with the campaign!"

Another day, another special mission. Not mission impossible, no, but a very special mission nonetheless. My base commander, Senior Lieutenant Beach (more like Beached Whale - he has a rather impressive perfectly rounded belly), once again took me into his confidence after my earlier success last week with the tuna fish sandwiches, and approached me with what can only be described as a "cheeky" grin:

"Mountain, I have another special mission for you."

I think I may have raised one eyebrow at this, but otherwise I remained impassive. I am quickly learning that there is no point in being surprised by anything in the military.

"Sir, yes sir. Always pleased to be of service to my country, sir." (I may not have said that last bit, but I wish I had)

"Mountain, you are aware that the World Cup is on, are you not."

I am not sure whether he genuinely thinks I have been hibernating in a cave for the past month, but I keep my sarcasm in check. I fear that sarcasm and the military do not mix well.

"Sir, I had heard mention of such an occasion.Would sir like me to travel to Germany, infiltrate the Swedish team and sabotage their efforts from within? In short, sir, I am asking whether you would like me to act as a mole?"

"No no, Mountain, that will not be necessary. I am seeking to utilise your stealth, expertise and skills a little closer to home."

"Sir, very good, sir. I am yours to command."

"Excellent, Mountain. So, I am going to need you to travel the length and breadth of the base in search of something very specific."

Now he really did pique my curiosity. Have we ourselves been infiltrated by the Russians or, God forbid, the Swedes? Are there spies in our midst? Is this the Finnish Los Alamos National Lab scandal? Am I the only man on this base with the international exposure and spy-hunting know-how for the job?

"Yes, Mountain", he continued, as if confirming all the thoughts floating through my mind, "and here is a map to help you accomplish the task."

He handed me a hand-drawn map of all the various barracks buildings on the base, of which there are five. Inside each barracks building he had marked two spots. Despite knowing full-well what happened to the cat, my curiosity was now at maximum.

"What do these signify?" I asked him, forgetting protocol for the moment, only adding "Sir" as an afterthought.

"These, Mountain, are the locations of all the vending machines on the base."

Vending machines, eh? My imagination was running wild. Were they huge bombs, something like in the ill-fated film 'Die Hard With a Vengeance'? Was I going to be called on to diffuse these bombs? But surely someone who actually knows that its the red wire you need to cut would be better for the job?

"Mountain, I want you to make your way to each of these vending machines, go through the crates of empties, identify the half-litre Coke bottles, take off their caps and bring them to me."

"You what?" I thought to myself, though the words may inadvertently have slipped from my mouth.

"Yes, Mountain, my two sons are football crazy, and Coke is running a special World Cup promotion at the moment. If you send in 10 half-litre Coke bottle caps, you get a free T-shirt. If you send in 20 half-litre Coke bottle caps, you get two free T-shirts. I myself already have two caps, so I just need you to find me 18 more."

I must have stood there a little dumbfounded.

"Mountain, that is all."

It was quite a rude awakening this morning. After leaving Dave's place in London at 2.30pm GMT, I travelled half an hour by tube (I'd forgotten how sweaty and unpleasant the tube is in the summer), 45 minutes on the Stansted Express, just under three hours by plane, and then drove for around an hour and a half, arriving at the base around quarter past midnight local time last night. Having totally messed up my sleeping rhythm over the weekend, I was of course unable to fall asleep for hours without the aid of copious amounts of beer, wine and a tent pitched in a field in Devon. By which stage it was 6am, and time to get up again.

I was a very very grumpy person today, let me tell you that.

But I managed a couple of cheeky naps after breakfast amd lunch, hit the gym for a couple of hours, and am now watching the Germany - Ecuador game (it's half time, Germany are up 2 - 0). So all is well in the world. I need to make sure I can stay awake for the England - Sweden game, which is on at 10pm Finnish forest time.

So a very non-event of a day today, which suited me just fine. I am going back to the football now, so until tomorrow. But before I leave, a big hello to all the staggers from the weekend - it was lovely to see you all again, and I will see you all in a couple of weeks at the wedding!

Here is a small selection of Tom's stag weekend pics. The full selection, in all its pixellated glory, is on my Yahoo Photos site. They're all uncompressed there, so opening them may take a while...

A typical Andy pose, complete with one of the Tom masks that we all wore at various stages of the weekend.

And, of course, a typical Dave pose.

Richie managing to look very cool while simultaneously protecting himself from the sun. Good job there.

Heike, our only female stagger, enjoying the sunshine.

Tom yodeling in his PVC-hosen.

Me, in Tom's hat.

And here's our whole crew, sans Heike, at the top of the little hill that we climbed on Sunday morning.

It's quite a nice feeling to know that this weekend, spent reveling in the UK, counts towards my 95 days... I decided to try to upload some of those pictures from earlier, now that I am off the army computers.

This, I think, is a leaf. It was a beautiful day at the summerhouse when Doug was there, the light was perfect, so I got a little arty.


This is not a corn field, though you may think so. It is in fact reeds in the water. Yet another nature arty shot. Forgive me my little indulgences.

And there's the big man himself. He is attempting the ascent of "Hannunkivi" (Hannu's, i.e. my father's, Rock), this huge boulder that just sits on our land. It is a relic of the ice age, when the moving glaciers plunked it there.

There's that motorboatin' son of a bitch! As you can see, he did indeed motorboat. And he enjoyed, oh boy did he enjoy it.

And there I am, in uniform, in front of Hannunkivi. Look how happy I am to be serving my country. Note the elegant tilt of the beret to the right - that is how it's meant to be worn, not like the damn Frenchies, who wear it all flat. And carrying a baguette. They don't let you take your gun with you over the weekends, but if they did, I would be brandishing that in a gung-ho fashion.

I know, I know, it's probably not a great idea, but I have a tendency to rebel against authority. But I don't have the balls to do it properly - you know, bitch-slap an officer, take a crap on the CO's jeep, that kind of thing. But that does not mean that my kind of rebelling is not equally valid, and that it doesn't send the same message of "fight the power". You see, I like to think of myself as a thinking man, and therefore my rebelliousness must by its very nature manifest itself as an intellectual ideology, a cerebral circuitbreaker, a high-brow hatchet job. How do I achieve this? Let me give you a little list of my top 5 ways of sticking it to the big military man:

5) At number 5, we have the always-popular "don't shave" strategy. Now I know what you're thinking - "Niko can't grow a beard anyway". But fret not - I have not shaved for 3 WHOLE DAYS! Now if that is not rebellion, I don't know what is. And intellectual rebellion at that - it's so... organic, such a natural way to sabotage the military industrial complex, don't you think?

4) Just edging ahead of "don't shave" there's "spill meat soup on your crotch, don't get a fresh pair of pants, and let it stink." Granted, this has a very limited effect on battalion morale, but it adversely affects at least one soldier in the Finnish armed forces - me.

3) At number 3, can you guess what it is yet? It's "wear your trouser legs ABOVE the boot". This is a real blow to the troops, and could single-leggedly (if you'll excuse the pun) leg (oh, just try to stop me with the bad punning) victory to the Russkis. In fact, so serious a display of disobedience is this, that I have been stopped by the military police, trusted guardians of soldierly looks and behaviour, not once but TWICE for wearing the trouser legs too low. You know what I did? That's right, I first rolled up the trouser leg to be in line with the top of the boot, yes, OK, I did do that, but as soon as I was out of his line of sight I PULLED THE TROUSER LEG RIGHT BACK DOWN AGAIN! I know, you can't quite believe it, can you? How brave, you're saying to yourselves right now. Thanks, I appreciate it, I really do. But I believe that if any of you were faced with a similar situation, you would also find the courage to stand up and be counted.

2) It gets even better at number 2. How? It's the old "take not one pancake at lunch on Thursdays, but take TWO pancakes!" You see, we're only allowed one, but I take two, and that, of course, saps the energy of the poor sucker who does not get ANY pancakes. And what if that sucker is an officer, eh? Pretty serious, right? And that's why it makes it to number 2, ahead of the trouser legs.

1) And the winner? The most serious way of undermining this fascist military machine that I unwittingly find myself a part of? As if the above four weren't enough, right? I know, hence "The Rebel" - use the above four to bring the beast to its knees, and then this final one to deal the killer blow - the intellectual equivalent of bitch-slapping an officer. Drum roll please... it's the "don't wear a hat OUTSIDE but do wear it INSIDE!" See, we're supposed to wear hats outside, and not inside, and I'm flipping this whole convention on its head (see, I told you you wouldn't stop my bad punning), and when I wear my hat INSIDE but not OUTSIDE, it weakens the very core of what Finland, the armed forces, and the struggle for freedom from Russia and the Swedes stands for. Don't ask me how - if you have to ask, you will never get it.

And there you have it. It's long weekend time now. Tom Rowson's stag do somewhere in Cornwall. I have my shorts and flip-flops ready to go (ooh, if only I could muster the courage to wear flip-flops around the barracks...). I doubt I will be back online before Tuesday, but I am hoping for some lively banter and debate in the comments section. And don't be rebelling by not posting any comments either now, will ya?

I fear I may have been demoted.

I began a couple of weeks ago, as you may well recall, dear reader, with a certain sense of pride, excitement, even elation at the army recognising that I am no ordinary soldier. No, this Finn has skills, indeed, a whole set of skills, a skill set, if you will, and the army would do well to tap into these skills. So it started with (not a kiss, regardless of what Hot Chocolate might suggest) those laminated blue signs with the cryptic "4000" and "4001" on them.

[Oh, incidentally, I figured out what these laminated signs were. Quite by chance I saw some of the army Land Rovers driving around, vehicles strictly reserved for the higher-level officers (lieutenants and above), with the signs stuck to the front. There is a big war exercise going on (over 4,000 troops taking part) somewhere in the forests nearby, and my understanding is that the numbers denote the "sides" in this war. In other words, the numbers give the officers access to their troops, and allow guards at checkpoints to identify who to let through and who not. Anyway, side note, not very interesting. Hence square brackets around it all. I should have put a note at the beginning saying: "Read only if interested in knowing what laminated blue signs were". Now it's a bit late for that. Apologies for that.]

So, onward and upward. It started with the signs. Now, in this past week, I have cleaned out a fridge and been the delivery boy of breakfast, lunch and dinner to the troops camped out in the forest (these guys really are camped out in the middle of nowhere), spilling meat soup (a slightly grandiose term for potatoes, carrots and bits of gristle in luke-warm water) all over my uniform. I tried to clean the stuff off, but rather unsuccesfully - my crotch, the site of the worst spillage, now emanates a certain meat-soupy odour. It's especially annoying when I sit down, when my nose is at its closest to my groin.

And then today, to cap this week's ignominious treatment off, I was summoned to Senior Lieutenant Beach, the commanding officer of my company:

"Mountain (that's me, by the way, Vuori means Mountain), do you know what an 'agent mission' is?"

Partly because he had a slightly cheeky grin on his face, partly because he'd woken me up from my mid-morning nap (the breakfast runs into the forest mean that I have to get up at 05:30) and partly because the inane tasks and menial chores thrown my way in the past couple of weeks have deflated all possible excitement for any new assignment given to me, I answered in the negative, with no preconceived notions of what was to come.

"Mountain, an 'agent mission' means that you are going to go to the mess hall to pick up some food for me.'

See, no reason for excitement.

"Yes, Mountain, you will pick up two tuna fish baguettes and a one-and-a-half litre bottle of mineral water. Sparkling. You got that, Mountain?"

I answered in the affirmative.

"That is all, Mountain."

And so I wandered on over to the mess hall, still dozy from the rude awakening, and picked up two tuna fish baguettes and a one-and-a-half litre bottle of mineral water.

And indeed, that was all.

Do you have any idea what they made me do today? Now that we are out in the so-called "forest" there isn't really any office clerky work for me (no container containing an office out there, innit), so they have to think of something else for me to do. I think they're a little worried about making me do real soldiering stuff, like carry a gun, so they are really scraping the bottom of the barrel with chores for me. Today, the officers decided that I would be best utilised if I cleaned out their fridge in the officers' container (they naturally have their own container. With the infamous fridge. But no internet). Yes, a fridge. It was a fridge that had not been used in rather a long time. This much was clear as soon as I opened the door. The aroma that greeted me upon pulling the door towards me was enough to knock me back onto my ass. I'm not even lying, the smell was so pungent I had to fight the gag reflex. I was wholly unprepared for this biologial warfare to be unleashed upon me - after all, I have not yet been trained in this sort of thing. Annyhoo, to cut what could obviously turn into a very long story with no real point short, I had to clean a very dirty fridge. And I don't like cleaning, we all know that. Cleaning my own stuff, or spaces where I might at some stage spend some time, that's not so bad. After all, if I clean them well, and they stay clean (not always a guarantee at 1032 Mariposa Avenue, as we all also know), I benefit. But cleaning a space that I will never be allowed to use, such as an officers' fridge, that was painful, painful stuff.

OK, and now to happier things, the World Cup. France-Switzerland is on in a brief moment, and I believe that our football-mad commanding officer is going to arrange for a TV to be brought to the camp site so we can watch the Brazil-Croatia game later on. Happy days, happy days. Time for some more tea. Ta ra and toodle pip.

Man, it's HOT in Finland! The hot weather that hit Western Europe this last week has made it's way to Finland, and I must confess, it is now too hot. Ordinarily I would not complain, especially not in Finland. But, because the bare minimum we are allowed to wear here is the heavy pair of boots, thick tear-proof fatigue pants and a t-shirt (oh, and a silly little fatigue cap, to disguise the blond Finnish heads amidst the pine and birch forests), I am now saying enough is enough. The t-shirt is merciful. But the boots and the fatigues? Combined with the tight underwear I told you about? (I did change the old ones for a larger size, but they still don't breathe as well as they ought to...) And this week, of course, the dreaded... drum roll please... forest!

I know I bitched about the forest. But I must now swallow my words. By "forest", we are talking about a clearance some 2.5 km away from the barracks, a clearance that houses a variety of containers. The containers (ironically enough) contain a variety of things. Beds, for starters. Some contain showers. Others flushing toilets. One (and this is of course my favourite) an Internet cafe! I mean, this is my kind of camping... So, instead of swatting mosquitoes in the thick Finnish forests, we have a large, sun-drenched clearing. Instead of uncomfortable and impractical tents, we have bunk beds. Instead of latrine pits we have flushing and hygienic toilets. I worry about the readiness of our brave, brave troops when faced with the battle-hardened Russians...

But yes, back to bitching. What would a post be without a little bitching, eh? It's HOT! The problem with the containers containing the bunk beds is that they are tiny in size, with no air conditioning (I mean, seriously, if they're going to have an Internet cafe container, surely they could have gone the extra little bit and splashed out on air conditioning, right?), and consequently outrageously HOT. It's like a little sauna in there. And while under normal circumstances I can't get enough of the Finnish sauna, I am now deeply disliking the sweaty balls, the pit stains that would make even Jo-Jo proud and the rivulets of perspiration making their way down my legs. Apparently the weather is supposed to be like this for the rest of the week, so I have some more sweating to do yet.

Well, that's that for now. Please do keep the comment-banter alive and well - I thoroughly enjoy it. Incidentally, talking about comments, I am still waiting for one of those comment-spam things to hit me. You haven't made it as an online personality until someone writes: "Hey, nice blog you have here. Keep up the good work! By the way, did you know what else keeps up good work? Viagra. Cum and buy it at www.viagra.com. I wonder if this site actually exists... let me check... how disappointing... it's the official site.

oddammit, they're sending me into the forest next week! Apparently everyone has to go, no exceptions. Bugger. I was really hoping to avoid the whole forest thing with the office clerk gig. Oh well, I guess it will at least give me something else to bitch about next week, when I get back to a computer.

Until then, I will have to enjoy the opening weekend of the World Cup and the finals of the French Open at the summerhouse, just relaxing, saunaing and swimming. And eating rye bread.

Picture the scene. The Fishboy is lined up with the other fresh recruits. The drill sergeant, the owner of his ass for the next few months is walking down the line, shouting insults at the sorry lot of losers that he has to put up with, singling out one gimpy gimp in particular, a gimpy loser in the shape of that Irish aquatic vegetarian investment banker:

"Only three things come from Ireland: steers, queers and investment bankers. I don't see no horns on you, boy, and you sure as hell don't play golf good enough to be a banker, so that kind of narrows it down. Are you a queer, Private Fishboy?"

"No sir, you are!"

And that would be it. How could the drill sergeant possibly counter that? What a comeback.

Thank you, thank you very much. I'll be here all week. In fact, I'll be here for another 85 days.

I'm getting worried here. I am not even halfway through the second week, and already I am running out of things to write about! The army is, as I suspected, rather boring, and there are only so many times I can bitch about some inane task I am assigned (incidentally, today's is typing up a booklet from 2005 from some joint military exercise with Latvia and Lithuania, those two giants of European power politics ). Now don't get me wrong. I will bitch, whether or not you are interested in hearing about my travails. My blog-writing session is quite an enjoyable and therapeutic time for me, when I get to unload all the grievances I am harbouring off my chest. But I fear that I may soon (or already?) become rather repetitive...

Oh, as for the pictures, I am incapable of getting them online. I can upload images from the internet, but not from my computer. So you will have to make do with just words. But believe me when I tell you that I really do look like a gimp in my uniform, and that Doug really was enjoying the motorboatin' - his expression is something to behold...

One thing that I could bitch a little more about was my first guard duty at the barracks. Unfortunately (or was there some devious planning on somebody's part, I ask myself?) I ended up with the midnight till 3am slot last night, which is not the most enjoyable of stretches. I'd just gotten to sleep when I was rudely awakened, and plopped at an uncomfortable chair in a barracks building where everybody was asleep and there was nothing to do. Reading anything other than the guard's manual is strictly forbidden while on duty, but after 12 minutes (which seemed like an hour) I decided that enough was enough, and plugged in my laptop. I built up quite a little empire in Civilization IV, and definitely felt that my week and a bit of military training had been quite beneficial to my strategic acuity. Annyhoo, at 3am I was wide awake, and was of course incapable of getting back to sleep until, you guessed it, just before 6am, when I was once again rudely awakened. So I am tired as a very tired thing today.

That is all. Therapy session over. I can't wait to see what excitement and surprises tomorrow brings...

Time flies when you're having fun, eh? Well, not quite "flies", but it's not nearly as bad as I thought this experience might have been - one week down, thirteen to go. Where do all those precious moments vanish, I wonder to myself?

Sadly, I didn't get off from the base until Saturday at midday due to the unfortunate event of all the rest of my barracks returning from a forest exercise on Friday night. Because they had to clean and store all their crap, nobody was allowed to leave until Saturday. So I literally sat on my ass from 6am to 1.15pm on Saturday, with NOTHING to do, whatsoever. Such are the ways of the army - no logic to any of it that I can fathom.

Take today for example. The reason I am writing this post a little earlier than usual is because I am escaping the most inane, pointless and generally ludicrous exercise I have ever encountered in my life. Ever. Allow me to elaborate., and tell you of an ingenious new version of the "dig one hole to fill another" scenario.
There aren't very many people on the base today, as most people decided to take some extra time off this weekend, so there is not much going on. But naturally the army can't have idle soldiers - idle time means you are thinking for yourself, and militarily that is a bad thing to have going on. So our orders for the day are to move a bunch of excess furniture from one attic to another (we have two attics). The attics are exactly the same shape and size, with no order to either one, so the exercise is pointless. To make it worse, there is no direct access from one attic to the other (that would be too easy, of course), so we have to carry the beds, cupboards, doors, stools, etc down two flights of stairs from the first attic, about 100 yards along a corridor, up two further flights of stairs, and only then can we store them in the other attic. Ironically, it would have been considerably easier to move the very small amount of stuff in the second attic to the first one, but again, that would have been too easy, and would not have kept us occupied and busy for the entire day. As I was putting out my back for good on the fifth trip down the stairs with a bunk bed in tow, cursing all the way, my partner-in-carrying noted, with a complete lack of emotion, that this was the third time since he's been here that furniture has been moved between the two attics! He told me that I'd be laughing at the new batch of fresh fish, arriving here in a month, when I watch them struggle with the same ridiculous orders. I actually believe that the army keeps random bits of old furniture and equipment up in the two attics just so that they can keep soldiers occupied during down time. There is a perfect range of stuff there - some heavy, some light, some regularly shaped, some irregularly shaped, some awkward, some simple to move - I would not be surprised if the army has some kind of table of figures, showing the carrying times and numbers of people needed to move each item from one attic to the other, and bespoke furniture-carrying programs can then be tailor-made depending on how many hours of idle time the army wants to fill, and for how many people .
So anyway, I decided to play the "I'm an important office clerk" card (almost as strong as the race card in the US) and went to collect the mail, about three hours ago, and somehow ended up here in the cafe. And I won't return until I know it's safe, just before dinner.

But yes, the weekend. With all this time here on my hands, I may as well post some pictures of my weekend with Doug, the Sweaty Yeti. As he arrived from Stockholm on the ferry, so did the Finnish summer weather, and we had a thoroughly enjoyable weekend partaking in all things Finnish. Beer, sauna, a little Koskenkorva vodka, lots of rye bread, pea soup (resulting in uncontrollable farting from both of us), some rock climbing and, to top it all off, a wee bit of motorboating.

It is very disconcerting having people watch over your shoulder, waiting for the computer.

Anyway.

Just to clarify a common misconception: the army is not prison. And even if it was prison, I don't use soap. I use shower gel. And I have cunningly velcroed it to the palm of my right hand.

There are, as far as I can tell, 2 kinds of soldier in the Finnish army:

1) Short and stumpy
2) Tall and skinny

Both kinds are characterised by serious acne, so much so, that Clearasil is really missing a massive market opportunity in not targeting the Finnish military. I don't remember being as bad as this when I was 18, but maybe that is my selective memory kicking into play there. Regardless, I cannot imagine either type of moon-cratered, pale-faced, stubbly-haired soldier-boy inspiring great dread and fear in the enemies of Finland, were they to come within range of our brave boys. Pity, that would be my first instinct.

I had to do my first marching today. A little mini-Napoleon (he was a type 1) decided that he was going to use his position as "day supervisor" (a largely ceremonial title, where someone is responsible for sitting on their ass for 12 hours straight and ensuring that people in the barracks make it to breakfast, lunch and dinner on time) to full effect, and marched us in formation to the mess hall. He thoroughly enjoyed that, occasionally barking an order at me to "fall in line", "keep pace" or some similar inanity.

I also fulfilled my first 'special assignment' for a lieutenant today. I got a little excited, when he asked me: "Do you know how to use a computer well, soldier?" Well, there I was, thinking, "Finally, someone who appreciates a man with education and skills!" straightening the cap on my head and perking up a little. I perkily answer, "Yes, lieutenant, sir, I do know how to use a computer!" "Good, soldier, you will be fulfilling a special assignment for me." "Good, good, so far so good", I think to myself. "You, soldier, will need 20 pieces of blue paper. On 10 of these pieces of blue paper... are you listening, soldier?" "Yes, lieutenant, sir, I am listening, sir!" "Good. On 10 of these pieces of blue paper you will write the number '4000', in large, clear letters. Is that clear?" "Yes, lieutenant, sir, that is clear", I say, a little confused as to when the 'special' aspect of this assignment will kick in. "Good, soldier. Then, you will laminate these 10 pieces of blue paper. Do you know what 'to laminate' is?", he asks me. "Yes, lieutenant, sir, yes I do know what 'to laminate' is", I respond. "Good, soldier. On the other 10 pieces of blue paper you will write the number '4001' in large, clear letters. Then you will laminate these 10 pieces of blue paper as well. Is that clear?" "Yes, lieutenant, sir, yes that is clear, sir", I answer. still waiting for something 'special' to manifest itself, something requiring my years of education, my insight into Excel pivot tables, my invaluable work experience at a multi-national organisation, my international perspective on IT- and accounting systems or my interpersonal, team-building finesse. "Good, soldier. When you are finished, you will leave the 20 pieces of laminated blue paper, 10 with the number '4000' on them, 10 with the number '4001' on them, in my mailbox. That is all." And with that, he was gone. I threw a half-hearted, poorly executed, slightly confused salute his way, and was left standing in the copy room holding 20 pieces of blue paper (he actually counted them out - the Finnish army must be on a tight budget) and a marker pen. A 'special' assignment for the 'special' Olympics.