Om "morgonstund har guld i mun" - vad har då lunchtid?

Kunde icke somna inatt så jag satt uppe och surfade i köket. Tänkte inte så mycket på det, det blev mörkt så jag tände kökslampan och sedan blev det ljust igen så då släckte jag kökslampan. Vid sisådär femsnåret började jag känna att nu kan jag nog somna och vad händer när man gör så? Pjo man missar nästan hela nationaldagen =(

Nåja, vad är väl en bal på slottet?

Grävde lite i mina gömmor på hårddisken inatt och hittade nedanstående lilla ljuvel, lite småcharmig sådär - tyvärr är den ju på engelska dårå. Från början var det svenska men jag översatte alla mina (inte så jädrans många) berättelser för att lägga upp dem på nätet. Sedan dog datorn och tog de svenska orginalen med sig i graven. Att översätta alltihop en gång till är bara lite för mycket jobb :)

A short story

Why he keeps making tea I do not understand. He can't drink it, but I have to buy new tea all the time because he keeps using it all up!

It's not like I'm made of money.

I don't know were he came from or what he wants, one morning when I woke up there was a pot of freshly brewed tea on the table and a presence in the house. At first I was quite intimidated, even scared, but I soon calmed down. He seems to be a friendly soul, most of the time hes just muffling about, making pots of tea and the rest of the time he pretty much stays out of my way.

After watching movies like poltergeist my whole life I thought that having a ghost in my house would be more of an inconvenience. I would have thought there'd be more aggression and stuff flying about, cats suddenly appearing and such things. But at the moment things have mellowed down, I'm getting used to his presence and don't think much about it anymore. Of course that could change later on.

At least there is always a fresh pot of tea in the house, and the chap does make very good tea.

I just wish his biscuits were as nice; he almost set the place on fire one night. I think he decided to make scones. Why on earth a ghost would want to make scones at three o'clock in the morning is beyond my capacity for understanding.

He must have panicked when the fire started and was running about making a mess when I woke up. It wasn't a big fire - yet, so I managed to put it out with the dishrag. After that I thought he disappeared but about two weeks later the tea started to show up again. It was almost a relief; I had been quite worried about the old chap.

There are of course disadvantages too, for some reason he does not approve of one of my carpets, so he keeps throwing it out on the street, now I happen to be very fond of this particular carpet, it has a lovely picture of two puppies on it, and I think I should have the right to choose what to put on the floors in my own house!

So he throws it out and I retrieve it, sometimes he is quite persistent and I feel like a golden retriever at the end of the day. But all things considered he's alright, maybe one day I'll find out just how he got here, and why.

•· One of THOSE days.

To wash dirty dishes is boring, sticky, icky and well - boring.

So I don't.

So the dirty dishes form an interesting landscape in my kitchen. Things grow and prosper, not very pleasant.

One day I was thinking about all the dirty dishes in my kitchen and how nice it would be if they could just disappear. Then I wrote this story...

What I am about to tell you is something that happened to me a while ago, it was one of THOSE days - everybody has them. Things are just a bit off, not quite right, nothing works and nothing makes sense.

It began as a normal day, a bit windy but nothing worth getting upset about. I returned to my dear - somewhat disorganised - home about nineisch in the evening. My honourable father had been kind and driven me home in his automobile.

A Citroën to be precise.

Baby blue.

When I opened my door and stepped into my apartment I could sense something was not quite up to its normal standard.

There was a strange smell.

Sounds came from behind my kitchen door.


A decision forms.

A prompt investigation takes place.

I step into my kitchen. I look around.

How odd!

There is no kitchen.

I try again. Maybe I have stepped into somebody else's apartment by accident.

My name is on the door.

My neighbours name is on the neighbour's door. I go back to the apartment.

Kitchen insists on not being in its place.

How annoying!

I'm not a person to get overly exited over trivial matters, and I try to remain calm under all circumstances. But this is a bit much even for me!

I decide to go to bed and sleep on it.

Brush my teeth, wash my face, put on my pyjamas with the little bunnies slaughtering small children and crawl into bed.

Next morning...

Kitchen is still persistently not there.


This is getting on my nerves - where, I ask you, am I supposed to have breakfast. Where is my coffee?

Now I do realise that anyone reading this who's got a bit of intelligence and who is not yet asleep wonders what has happened to the kitchen? Normally a kitchen does not suddenly decide to go visit its aunt for the weekend.

I can only agree - it is a very good question.

I have no answer.

My kitchen was quite simply gone. In its place there was now a small room with nothing in it except a door standing in the middle of the room.

Not a regular, normal door but a wooden door with a strikingly blue colour. A bit larger than the average standard, approved and tested Swedish door.

Well, not much left to do about it.

I open the door.

I close the door.

The situation demands careful thought and thorough planning.

I call in sick, and then I go downtown to have some breakfast - coffee, yoghurt an apple and a piece of bread. After my meal it's time for some shopping. I purchase what I think will come in handy.

One (1) tent

Hikingboots - 1 pair

Food enough to last two weeks

The biggest, sharpest knife I could find (approx 2 inches long)

One (1) baseball bat

Warm clothes

One (1) sleeping bag

I return to the apartment.

Change to warm, sturdy clothes, put on my new hiking boots, pack the backpack, take a deep breath.

Open the blue door in what used to be my kitchen.

I step into the forest.

I hear a sound.

Turn around.

The door is no longer there.

That is a bit uncomfortable I must admit.

By now I'm beginning to feel a bit annoyed at the situation, it is after all quite ridiculous, who would want to steal my kitchen? And how did they do it?

And where is my coffee?

I march into the woods; I march out on the other side. Good. It was not a pleasant place. In front of me there is now a meadow - not much of an improvement, the grass is dead and crunches under my feet when I walk over it. In the centre of the meadow there is a tent. It is a striped tent - actually the same pattern I have on my other pyjamas, the tent is just slightly larger and with a different shape than the garment mentioned.

I walk up to the tent and step inside.

There is my kitchen.

What is it doing here?

I walk through the kitchen and into my hallway.

Hey! How very peculiar.

I turn around and the meadow is gone. No tent either, with or without stripes.

Ah - well...that is life, sometimes it's just weird.

Maybe I should do some dishes.

I wash up a couple of glasses and go to bed.

The next morning things are back to normal.



The couch has apparently been replaced by a somewhat upset hippopotamus.

A new day - a new challenge.

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