Olaf’s Boot Packing Secret Revealed!

The Parallel Four Book One Part Six

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Fit, Healthy & Happy Podcast
Welcome to the Fit, Healthy and Happy Podcast hosted by Josh and Kyle from Colossus...

Listen on: Apple Podcasts   Spotify

Fit, Healthy & Happy Podcast
Welcome to the Fit, Healthy and Happy Podcast hosted by Josh and Kyle from Colossus...

Listen on: Apple Podcasts   Spotify

Chapters

• 15:03 [Ad] Fit, Healthy & Happy Podcast
• 15:03 [Ad] Fit, Healthy & Happy Podcast
• 16:40 (Cont.) Olaf’s Boot Packing Secret Revealed!
• 16:40 (Cont.) Olaf’s Boot Packing Secret Revealed!

Transcript

The Parallel Four Book One Part Six

Chapter Six..

Olaf met us just after we’d reclaimed our suitcases and got our passports stamped by a border official who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Possibly ice fishing. Possibly napping in a sauna. Either way, he gave me the sort of glance that said, You again?, despite the fact we’d never met. I gave him my best polite, innocent, definitely-not-a-flight-risk smile. Stamped. Approved. In.

Then came Olaf’s boot-packing masterclass.

With military precision, he launched into a high-stakes game of Volvo Tetris. Bags, cases, snacks, thermos flasks, boots, and at least one rogue hat were jammed into the boot with an efficiency that should honestly earn him a Nobel Prize. Then he began wedgin’ us in—like we were groceries on a discount day at IKEA. I ended up sandwiched between two duffel bags and what I think was a packet of emergency sausages.

The drive to the mountains took about as long as the flight from Luton—only with fewer peanuts and more chances to bruise your kneecaps on a rogue thermos. But at least I could see out the window this time, unlike on the plane, where most of my view was either clouds pretending to be interesting or my own face lookin’ startled at 30,000 feet.

As we climbed higher, the light started to dim, the temperature dropped like a bad report card, and Olaf—cool as ever—pulled over to the side of the road. Without a word, he slipped on gloves, grabbed snow chains from the boot, and started fittin’ them to the tyres, whistlin’ the whole time like it was just another Tuesday. The rest of us sat inside, foggin’ up the windows and wonderin’ if we were headed to a winter lodge or possibly the Scandinavian hideout of a Bond villain.

The bunk room felt smaller somehow — maybe because my heart had decided to beat twice as fast as normal. The chimney running up the corner wall was warm to the touch, the only steady thing in the room as I paced from my bed to the window for the fifth time in as many minutes. Outside, the snow was catching the late-afternoon light, throwing back a glow so bright it looked almost alive.

Marlin was sat on her bed, pretending to check her nails but glancing at the door every few seconds. “You’re going to wear out the floorboards if you keep that up,” she said.

“They’re nearly here,” I told her — as if she didn’t know. “Olaf said they landed just before dinner, and it’s long way from the airport.”

She smirked. “Which is why you’ve been pacing since breakfast?”

I tried to glare at her, but my grin gave me away. “It’s the day before our birthday, Marlin. They’ve flown all this way — Stephen and Johan — just to be here with us. I can’t just sit still.”

Marlin flopped back on her bed with a happy sigh. “Feels like forever since last time… and now, in a few minutes, they’ll walk through that door, smelling of cold air and travel, and acting like they’ve never been away.”

That made me laugh — because I could picture it exactly. Stephen’s lopsided grin, Johan’s quiet way of scanning the room before he relaxed. The sound of their boots on the porch.

Marlin rolled onto her side. “What’s the first thing you’re going to say to him?”

I shook my head, feeling my cheeks warm. “I don’t know. Probably just ‘hi’… but in my head it’ll be everything I’ve wanted to say since they left.”

Then — faint, but clear — the crunch of tyres on snow reached us through the frosted window. We both froze. Looked at each other. Smiled.

“They’re here,” Marlin whispered.

And in that moment, the whole lodge felt brighter, like it was holding its breath for the door to open.

By the time we arrived, it was pitch black and cold enough to make a polar bear rethink its life choices. And Olaf’s idea of a “cabin”? Yeah, right. This was no cosy hut in the woods. This was a log palace. A full-blown ski lodge with ideas above its station. Massive wooden beams, balconies, twinkly lights, and enough firewood stacked nearby to fuel a Viking invasion.

I peeled meself off the seat and stepped out into the snow, instantly regrettin’ every decision that had led me here. The cold hit me like a slap from a frozen flannel—straight to the soul. My nose tried to retreat back into my face. A snow shovel leaned casually against a shed stacked to the rafters with logs. Clearly, someone meant business.

The path to the front door had been cleared, sort of. Enough to walk it. Just. But it felt like a frosted trampoline, all soft and squeaky underfoot. I skated my way across it like Bambi on his first day at ice school—arms flailin’, knees wobblin’, and dignity hangin’ by a thread. Some miracle stopped me goin’ headfirst into a snowdrift, but only just.

Welcome to Sweden.

The front door swung open and there stood Greta—beamin’ like she’d just won the lottery and remembered it was her birthday too. Before I could even get a “hay” out, there was a thunder from the stairs and suddenly Vinka and Marlin came bounding down like a pair of Labradors fresh off the lead. Next thing I knew, Johan and I were wrapped in a double Scandinavian hug that knocked the travel fatigue right out of us.

I wasn’t quite ready for such an enthusiastic welcome. I’d been expectin’ a polite handshake and maybe a “how do you do,” but nope—this was pure, joyful, hug-powered chaos. And I wasn’t complainin’. It was warm, it was brilliant, and even though me teeth were still chattering in English, I was speakin’ Swedish again. Proper Swedish. The good kind. Like ridin’ a bike, if the bike was made of vowels and everyone smiled a lot.

The lodge—blimey—it was the kind of place you’d expect a Viking cabin for a cosy winter break. From the outside, it had a proper moss-covered grass roof and big chunky logs like it had been built by trolls with good taste. Inside, the main lounge was dominated by this enormous stone fireplace—huge—like a dragon’s mouth just waitin’ for a roast dinner to land in it. You could’ve parked a small car in there, or hosted one of them romantic fondue dates inside the hearth if you didn’t mind a bit of singein’.

A whole cosy constellation of armchairs surrounded it—squishy, saggy things that practically swallowed you whole—plus a few creaky settees and coffee tables that looked like they’d survived a small axe fight. The rug in the middle had definitely seen more foot traffic than the Stockholm metro. Possibly more snow boots, too.

Four chunky doors opened off the lounge like spokes on a wheel, each leadin’ to a bedroom for the grown-ups, while a wooden staircase creaked its way up to the kids’ floor. Four more bedrooms up there—ours. It was all timber beams, sloped ceilings, and just enough floor space for suitcases, slippers, and snow-soaked socks.

And yes—this bein’ civilised Sweden—there were toilets on both floors. Because no one, not even brave adventurers like us, wants to do a midnight trek down icy stairs in their PJs with frozen feet and a full bladder.

This wasn’t just a cabin. It was a fortress of cosiness. A proper winter hideout.

And we were in.

Just off the lounge was a sort of outer-outer hallway—a no-man’s-land of snowy boots, ski poles, gloves stuffed into hats, and jackets so thick they could probably stand up and march off on their own if you gave them a whistle. It was the sort of space where the air smelled permanently of wet wool, damp snow, and quiet determination.

This led into a slightly more civilised inner hallway, where people parked their slippers and swapped out crunchy waterproof trousers for indoor cosiness. It was like an airlock between civilisation and frostbite—wardrobe customs, if you will. Once through, you were officially part of lodge society: clean socks, warm cocoa, no snowballs indoors, thank you very much.

Out the back stood the legendary sauna house. Technically a shed. Spiritually, a temple. It had benches down either side, a wood-burning stove at the far end, and that familiar minglin’ scent of eucalyptus, steam, and slightly soggy towels that had been drying since 1960. It was a place where you could roast yourself like a cinnamon bun, then fling open the door, yell something heroic in Swedish, and roll about in the snow like a meatball seekin’ redemption. Apparently, this was healthy. I had my doubts.

The kitchen—now that was a masterpiece. It doubled as the dining hall, and quite possibly tripled as the central hub of family negotiations, snack diplomacy, and emergency sock distribution. A second wood burner sat puffin’ away contentedly in the corner, clearly tryin’ to out-comfort the main fireplace like two old blokes arguin’ over who made the best cup of tea.

Two massive wooden tables stretched nearly the whole length of the room—solid, scarred, and built like they’d once hosted Viking feasts and survived toddler tantrums without flinchin’. Turns out, they used to be sheep-shearing benches, which added a certain rustic touch—and made you feel just that bit closer to your dinner, if you thought about it too much.

Cushioned benches lined either side—mismatched, well-loved, and designed for long sits with warm drinks, loud laughs, card games, and deeply competitive storytelling about who’d fallen over most dramatically on the slopes.

This was the true heart of the lodge.

And if mischief was gonna happen anywhere—it’d be here.

Two toilets, one bathroom, and one shower room were all tucked in under the stairs like shy cousins at a family reunion—polite, functional, and tryin’ not to make a fuss. Down near one of the side doors was what I quickly dubbed the soggy zone—a small, drippy chamber of wet coats, limp gloves, and that unmistakable smell of eau de damp wool. It was like a coat rack had caught a cold.

Along one wall was a long rack proudly displayin’ skis like hunting trophies—pointy, colourful, and mildly terrifying. Beneath them, matching boots stood in a perfect line like they were about to be inspected by a very stern winter general. That side entrance saw all the action. The grand front door? Looked impressive, sure, but mostly served as a highly decorative reminder that cold lived out there, and we lived in here. A lovely idea in theory. In practice, it was best left closed.

Just along from the bathroom, the hallway offered up a line of pegs for indoor coats and a pile of slippers that looked like they’d been donated by a travelling cast of gnomes and giants. I rummaged through until I found a pair that sort of fit (give or take a toe). Either way, I was immensely grateful. The reddish-brown flagstone tiles underfoot had the warmth of a polar bear’s handshake. Firm. Friendly. Absolutely freezing.

The walls were clad in golden pine—shiny and cheerful like a wood-panelled smile. It gave the illusion of warmth, like a wooden hug that didn’t quite reach your toes. Or ankles. Or anything south of your kneecaps, really.

Still, slippers on, arms thawing, and socks steaming ever so slightly, I was officially settled in.

Operation: Survive Sweden, Day One—so far, a success.

Upstairs, I stumbled upon another bathroom—more ice cave than lavatory, where you could see your breath and where the tiny window above the loo was doin’ its best impression of a snow globe. Frost flowers creepin’ in at the edges. Pretty to look at. Terrifyin’ to sit under. I made a mental note: only to be used in emergencies or moments of extreme bravery. Like, if the downstairs loos were suddenly overrun by reindeer.

The bedrooms were straight out of a cowboy film—minus the gun racks and harmonicas. Two big dormitory-style rooms, each with a single bed and three towering double bunks. Sleepin’ quarters for an entire battalion of snowball warriors. Every bunk came with a sturdy ladder and the faint smell of pine and teenage socks.

Each dorm had a double room tucked on the side—fancier, adultier, and probably with pillows that matched. One was for Marlin’s parents, Silvi and Lars, who arrived with the serene confidence of people who packed smart jumpers and had a system for everything.

As for us—Johan, me, and a couple of his cousins—we drew the short straws and got the bunks. Not that I was complainin’. The rising warmth from the chimney flues made the top bunks feel like fresh-baked cinnamon buns—minus the icing, plus a lot more elbows in the night.

Stephen had his case open on the bed, clothes spilling out in that careful-but-rushed way that told me he’d packed with half his mind somewhere else. Probably here.

“You didn’t need to bring half of England with you,” I said, leaning against the doorframe with my arms folded.

Without looking up, he grinned. “These aren’t just clothes — these are survival essentials.” He held up a thick jumper. “This one’s for walking with you in the snow. This one—” he pulled out a scarf “—for sitting by the fire after walking with you in the snow.”

I reached past him and picked up a rugby shirt. “And this?”

“That’s… for looking heroic while carrying logs in from outside.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “You’ve thought of everything.”

Then he looked up — really looked at me — and his voice softened. “I’ve mostly thought about getting here… and seeing you again.”

That caught me off guard. I felt my smile turn warmer, my voice a little shy. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about you too.”

For a moment, we just stood there, saying nothing. But I felt it — that same spark from the summer, the one I’d pretended not to notice back then. It was still there, flickering quietly between us, only now it felt stronger. Warmer. Like holding a cup of hot chocolate on a snowy morning and not wanting to let go.

I nudged him, breaking the moment before it got too obvious. “Come on — if you don’t finish unpacking, you’ll have to wear that rugby shirt to dinner.”

He grinned. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it?”

“Depends,” I said over my shoulder as I walked out. “On whether you’re carrying the logs at the time.”

Dinner. It floated up the stairs like some kind of culinary alarm clock—rich, savoury, slightly herby, and absolutely impossible to ignore. Moments later came Greta’s voice, callin’ us down with the cheery but unmistakable tone of a general summoning her troops to battle. If battle involved gravy and laughter.

Downstairs, the table was a full-on banquet. Long wooden planks groanin’ under the weight of food. Stews, breads, cheeses, pickled things, smoked things, and mysterious glistening dishes that looked like they came from fairy tale forests.

Olaf sat proudly at one end of the table, lookin’ like the patriarch of a proper Nordic saga—wise, calm, and entirely capable of choppin’ wood with one hand while stirrin’ soup with the other. Greta presided over the opposite end, smilin’ with enough warmth to melt the icicles off the roof.

Down the table flanks sat the roll call of relatives: Ingrid and Harry, Johan and me, Stefan the lodge-owning uncle with his no-nonsense wife Torva, their son Sven (who looked like he wrestled moose for fun), Anna and Erik and their three lively kids, Vinka, Ronnie, Petra, and of course Marlin, seated next to her parents, Silvi and Lars.

I ended up somewhere in the middle of the table sat opposite Johan with Marlin next to him while I sat next to Vinka—the diplomatic sweet spot between grown-up supervision and the glorious realm of youthful mischief. Far enough from parental earshot, close enough to pass the bread.

The chatter was lively, the plates were already bein’ filled, and the whole room glowed from the firelight and good cheer.

I didn’t know exactly what was on the menu—but I knew this much: I was gonna eat like a king.

I clocked it straight away—both Vinka and Marlin had brought their birthday cards with them, proudly displayed on a shelf like part of a decorative exhibit. All neatly lined up, glittery, bilingual, and suspiciously well-arranged by Greta, who clearly had an eye for birthday symmetry.

It struck me as a bit… odd. What were the odds of four kids—me, Johan, Vinka, and Marlin—sharing the exact same birthday and all sittin’ at the same table? Either someone was playin’ a very long game of cosmic bingo… or this was the result of some kind of secret antenatal alliance between mothers.

I made a mental note to ask what an antenatal class actually was, once it was a socially acceptable topic at school. So far, it hadn’t cropped up in the curriculum. Not even in sex education, which mostly involved gigglin’, awkward coughing, and vague diagrams that looked more like balloon animals than anything biological.

The next day birthday feast itself? A masterpiece. Greta and her daughters had gone all out. There were roasts, pickled things, creamy things, crunchy things—basically everything except pizza, and weirdly, no one missed it. The whole table groaned with deliciousness, and I was genuinely at risk of tipping backwards from leaning too far over the dishes.

But the cake—oh, the cake.

An enormous, round, icing-covered showstopper. Divided cleanly into four decorated quarters—one for each birthday kid. Each section had its own little flair. Vinka’s was pastel and delicate, Marlin’s looked like it could win a baking contest, Johan’s had a flag, and mine had something that might’ve been a rugby ball, or possibly a potato. No complaints.

Each section had eight candles, and we all leaned in to blow them out together like a birthday barbershop quartet. We nearly got the timing right, except I jumped the gun slightly and Johan accidentally blew out two of mine. Classic.

But wait—Greta wasn’t done.

She sliced the cake into four neat quarters, re-lit all the candles, and insisted we blow them out again individually. This time we got full applause. By the end of it, the room smelled like a wax museum had caught fire. Half the frosting had a smoky glaze, but the smiles (and vaguely flammable aftertaste) were absolutely worth it.

Best. Birthday. Ever.

Not long after dinner, the grown-ups vanished into the lounge with their wine glasses, no doubt preparing for an evening of serious sitting and sophisticated nodding. You know the type—long silences interrupted by the occasional “Mmm” or “Indeed” while someone pokes at the fire like it owes them money.

Meanwhile, us kids migrated upstairs and collapsed into the girls’ room like it was the green room before a royal scandal. Cushions flew, socks were swapped, and a bag of suspiciously crinkly sweets did the rounds while we launched into full gossip mode. Vinka and Marlin were leading the charge with tales from their new school, and we were deep into a story involving a substitute teacher, a hamster, and a missing lunchbox when—

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Heavy adult footsteps on the stairs.

Like a crack team of schoolboy ninjas, Johan, Sven, Ronnie and I executed a flawless retreat. Out the door, down the corridor, into our bunks. Bam. I struck my most angelic pose—hands folded, blanket pulled to chin, eyes wide and blinking like I’d just been awoken by the concept of wrongdoing.

The looming adult shadow paused in the doorway.

“Everything all right in here?”

“Who, us?” we chorused, in the exact same tone as guilty choirboys denying a fire drill prank.

Technically, we hadn’t done anything wrong. Yet.

Later that evening, Olaf and Uncle Stefan sorted Johan and me out with ski gear that looked like it had walked straight out of a 1960 travel brochure. The boots were solid leather, polished to a shine and so stiff they could’ve doubled as marching gear. They clicked into place with a sort of metal toe clamp that looked more suited to factory machinery than fun.

The trousers were thick wool, itchy as anything, in a greenish-grey shade that might’ve once been fashionable or possibly military surplus—hard to tell in the dim light. My top layer was a padded anorak that crinkled when I moved and smelt faintly of mothballs and firewood. Practical? Absolutely. Stylish? Not unless I was heading to a geography teacher convention.

A knitted bobble hat—complete with ear flaps and a pom-pom the size of a satsuma—was pulled down over my ears, and thick mittens were issued, the sort that would’ve been right at home on a mountaineer or someone shelling peas in a blizzard. By the time they’d finished wrapping me up, I looked less like a daring young skier and more like a mobile laundry bundle with boots.

Still, I was buzzing. I was warm. I was in Sweden. And I was very nearly dressed to survive it.

The next morning hit us like a frozen fish to the face. A cheek-pinching, nose-freezing minus ten degrees. The kind of cold that makes your eyelashes feel like pipe cleaners and your breath come out in cartoon clouds.

Wrapped in pyjamas and woolly socks, I shuffled to the frosted window, mug of cocoa in hand, and peeled back the curtain. What I saw made me nearly drop my drink.

There, across the snow-covered garden, stood the sauna hut—innocent enough in daylight. But emerging from it, like a parade from a very strange dream, were a group of very naked adults. Johan’s aunts and uncles, no less, frolicking—yes, actually frolicking—in the snow, giggling and yelping like penguins on holiday at a nudist retreat.

My British sense of modesty suffered a full cardiac event.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Still naked. Still frolicking. I briefly considered whether I was still dreaming, but the icy window pane against my forehead said otherwise.

Just then, Ronnie appeared beside me, utterly unfazed. “It’s a sauna thing,” he said with a shrug. “You get naked, steam yourself silly, then roll in the snow.”

“Right,” I said slowly, nodding like someone who’s just been told to eat spaghetti with a fork taped to his forehead. “Totally normal.”

Inside, I was spiralling. Was I going to be expected to do that? Was there a manual? A leaflet? A warning label? “Caution: May cause shock to uptight English boys.”

Ronnie wandered off, humming. I stared back at the snowy scene, where Olaf had now joined the others, towel in one hand, a snowball in the other, looking as jolly as Father Christmas on laundry day.

I took a long sip of cocoa, pressed the curtain back into place, and made a mental note: When in Sweden… keep your dressing gown handy.

Right then, picture this: it’s the mid-60s, snow’s piled up like it’s been tipped outta a giant icing sugar jar over the Alps, and the sky’s as blue as your nan’s best Sunday hat. Sun’s givin’ it large, glintin’ off the snow like Liberace’s cufflinks, and it’s a balmy minus ten degrees—perfect for freezin’ the nostrils right off yer face, innit?

Now me mate Stefan, proper Swedish geezer with the charm of a young Björn Borg and the patience of a saint, pulls me aside for me very first go at Nordic skiing. We’d done the waxin’ on the skis the night before like right pros—we’re talkin’ Olympic levels of faffin’—mainly involved me gluin’ me sleeve to a workbench and tryin’ not to wax me own eyebrows off.

Anyroad, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I strapped on what felt like two planks nicked off a garden gate and waddled out like Bambi on his first frolic. I tells ya, them skis was longer than a queue for the loos at a Beatles concert.

But blow me down if I didn’t take to it—well, not like a fish to water, more like a duck... a clumsy one... wearin’ ironing boards. But still, I was movin’! Stefan had me shufflin’ forward like a bloke late for last orders, sidesteppin’ like I was dodgin’ a punch-up outside the Dog and Duck, and givin’ the ol’ snowplough a bash—pointin’ me skis together like a grumpy pigeon with bunions.

Fell over a few times, mind—snow found its way into all sorts of unexpected places, if you catch me drift. But I was ‘avin a right laugh. Felt like a proper skier, I did… till this battalion of ankle-biters—no more than three apples high—comes zoomin’ past me like a downhill stampede. One of ‘em even waves, cheeky little thing, with one hand! While skiin’! I mean, come on… I’m out ‘ere lookin’ like a wind-up penguin, and she’s givin’ it the royal wave like she’s Princess Ingrid of Stockholm.

Classic, that. Bloody magic day.

Tryin’ me best not to take it personal—though I’ll admit, me pride took a bit of a wallop—I listened as Stefan had a right ol’ chuckle. Turns out, these Swedish kiddies, they’re basically born with skis on. I mean, forget learnin’ to write their own names—these lot are doin’ parallel turns before they’re outta nappies! And get this: some of ‘em even ski to school. Ski. To. School. I could barely believe it meself. Back in the East End, we were lucky to get a lift in a pram with a wonky wheel, let alone Nordic gear and frosty footpaths.

Anyway, Stefan—top bloke that he is—gave me a hearty thump on the shoulder (nearly knocked me fillings out) and told me I’d done a bang-up job, proper followed instructions and all. Next time, he says, we’d be joinin’ the big group. And don’t worry, he’d be right there beside me, ready to yank me out of a snowdrift if I went arse over tit again.

We spent the rest of the day glidin’ along them ski tracks that stretched out from the lodge like a plate o’ frosty spaghetti—proper scenic, it was, like a Christmas card come to life. And by the afternoon, I’d gone from a wobbly Bambi impersonator to borderline Nordic ninja, if I do say so meself. Still looked like I was chasin’ me own feet sometimes, but I was movin’!

Then came the real test: skiin’ with the local legends—Johan’s cousins, no less. Vinka, Ronnie, Petra, Sven, and Marlin. The Swedish Ski Squad, I dubbed ‘em. Each one smoother than a jazz record on a Sunday morning. I swear, they were born on a slope. Vinka even did this cheeky little hop-turn thing that made me want to sit down and have a word with gravity.

Me? I was just buzzin’ that skis weren’t only for James Bond car chases and posh holidays in the Alps. Meanwhile, my Swedish was comin’ along a treat. I’d mastered the essentials:

“Akta dig!” (Watch out!)

and

“Hjälp! Jag har ramlat igen!” (Help! I’ve fallen over again!)

Which, let’s be honest, was shouted more times than I care to admit. Still, I was blendin’ in, wasn’t I? One snow-plastered tumble at a time.

After lurchin’ back to the lodge with all the grace of a winded elk wearin’ roller skates, we bundled ourselves into the sauna like a tin of overcooked frankfurters—limbs everywhere, steam risin’ faster than gossip at a bingo hall.

I’d been warned. Vinka’s papa had this glint in his eye when he said, “Sauna, then snow.” I thought he meant a polite step outside for fresh air. Turns out, he meant snow.

The sauna itself was… something else. The moment I sat down, the heat hit me like I’d just stepped into a bread oven. The air shimmered, the wood creaked, and the only sound was the gentle hiss of water hitting the stones. Vinka sat opposite me, looking perfectly at home, while I was quietly wondering if my eyebrows were about to singe off.

At first, I tried to play it cool — breathe slow, look relaxed. But the longer I sat there, the more I could feel every pore in my body shouting for mercy. My skin prickled, sweat poured like I’d just run a marathon in full kit, and my heartbeat was suddenly very interested in my ears.

Then came the call: “Time for snow!” Everyone leapt up like it was the most natural thing in the world. Me? I followed, because pride is a powerful thing.

The cold hit like a brick wall. One moment, I was melting; the next, I was on my back in the snow, rolling like some madman at a village fête. The shock punched the air out of me — I must’ve made a noise halfway between a gasp and a strangled laugh. The snow bit into my skin, sharp and clean, the heat from the sauna steaming off me in little ghostly wisps.

And here’s the weird bit… after a few seconds, it felt incredible. Every nerve was awake, my lungs were full of the cleanest air I’d ever tasted, and I couldn’t stop grinning.

As we headed back inside for round two, I thought: Right. I get it now. These Swedes aren’t mad… they just know something the rest of us don’t.

I’d seen that look before — the one Stephen gets when he’s trying very hard to look calm while secretly wondering if he’s made a terrible mistake. He’d worn it the first time he tried pickled herring, the first time he put on skis… and now, sitting in our sauna, trying not to fidget as the heat wrapped around him like a heavy blanket.

Papa tossed another ladle of water over the stones, and the steam rose in a thick cloud. Stephen blinked, his cheeks turning the colour of lingonberries, but he didn’t say a word. Stubborn as ever.

When Papa called, “Snow time!” Stephen was on his feet, following us out without hesitation — though I caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes as the cold hit his face.

And then he did it. Straight down into the snow, rolling like he’d been doing it all his life. I laughed so hard my breath clouded in the air. His yelp was half shock, half delight, and the steam rising off him made him look like some mythic creature stumbling out of a winter fairytale.

He caught my eye as he scrambled to his feet, his grin wide and boyish, and for a moment I forgot about the snow, the cold, everything. That was my Stephen — throwing himself into something completely new, just to be part of my world.

As we headed back to the sauna, I fell in step beside him. “Inte illa för en engelsman,” I teased.

He gave me a mock bow, water dripping from his hair. “High praise, coming from a Swede.”

I only smiled, because I was already thinking about how much better the next round would be… and how much I liked seeing him here, in my place, looking like he belonged.

Dinner that night? Absolute heaven. Could’ve served me cardboard and I’d’ve said it was gourmet, what with every inch of me tinglin’ or slowly defrostin’. We were a right pair—two toasty, knackered, but properly chuffed eight-year-olds, tucked up like pigs in blankets.

Next day, same magic—skiin’, sauna, and stuffin’ our faces like it was a sport. I was startin’ to get the hang of this winter wonderland lark. Swishin’ through the woods with Johan’s big ol’ family felt like bein’ part of a snowy secret society—password: “Watch out for low branches.”

I even managed to stay upright for most of it, thank you very much. Only hiccup was a slightly overenthusiastic turn that ended with me wrapped round a bush like a badly folded deckchair. Still, minor detail.

By day three, something had shifted. The skis didn’t feel like planks strapped to my feet anymore — they felt… almost natural. Not that I was about to challenge Vinka to a race, but I could keep pace now without looking like I was wrestling an ironing board down the slope.

We spent most of the day side by side, weaving through the trees, the cold air sharp in our lungs. Vinka still slipped in the odd Swedish phrase, correcting me when I mangled the vowels, laughing when I deliberately got one wrong just to hear her say it again.

Somewhere between the steady rhythm of our skis and the warmth in her smile, I realised I’d stopped thinking about the mechanics of it all. I was just skiing — with her — and that was enough to make the whole world feel lighter.

Stephen had found his stride. I could see it in the way he moved — no more stiff shoulders, no more overthinking every turn. He was skiing, properly skiing, and enjoying it.

We didn’t talk as much today, and I liked that. There was something perfect about gliding side by side, the only sounds the whisper of snow under our skis and the occasional creak of the trees in the cold. Every so often, I’d glance over and catch him watching the landscape like he was memorising it.

I think that’s when I realised — he wasn’t just visiting anymore. He was part of this place now, part of these days. And knowing we still had more of them ahead made me wish time would slow down, just a little.

And then—blimey—reindeer! Real ones! Massive things, like horses playin’ dress-up for a school nativity. Big furry coats, antlers like areals—probably getin’ BBC World Service through ‘em. One of ‘em gave me a look like I owed it money. Magical, it was.

Honestly, if you’d told little Cockney me I’d be out here doin’ reindeer-spotting in Sweden, I’d’ve said you’d been at the sherry. But there I was—livin’ it large, ski poles in hand, snow up me trousers, and a grin on me face you couldn’t shift with a shovel.

As the days whizzed by—much like me on skis now, would ya believe it—me technique got sharper, thanks to Vinka, the routes got longer, and the thrills got thrillier. What used to be terrifying little dips and mini slopes were now just speed bumps to glide over like a pro. I was officially part of the skiin’ tribe, noddin’ at fellow gliders like I knew what I was doin’. Bit of a “Hay Hay” here, a confident ski-pole flick there—pure Nordic swagger, mate.

And Stefan? Well, everyone on the mountain seemed to know ‘im, and he knew ‘em right back. I swear, the bloke was like the unofficial mayor of the entire snowy region. Ronnie let it slip, real casual like, that Stefan actually runs a ski school from the lodge in winter and takes folks huntin’ in the summer. Course he does! Wouldn’t have blinked if someone told me he also tamed bears on Tuesdays and toured as lead singer in a Swedish rock band called Fjällstorm. The man was basically the Abba of the Alps.

Then came Christmas Eve—and let me tell ya, in Sweden, that ain’t just a day, it’s a thing. They call it Julafton, and it’s the big cheese, the main event, the whole Christmas pud rolled into one. Decorations everywhere, candles lit like we were summonin’ Thor himself, and the smell of cinnamon hangin’ in the air like a warm woolly hug.

And who shows up? Only ruddy Santa Claus himself! Big beard, belly like he’d just eaten a bakery, and a twinkle in his eye that said, “Yes, I do know what you got up to behind the woodshed last Tuesday.” Shame Olaf missed it—apparently out choppin’ wood “just at that moment.” Very convenient, Olaf. Very convenient indeed.

Meanwhile, the grown-ups were already neckin’ snaps and glögg before the clocks struck noon, celebratin’ like it was a Eurovision afterparty hosted by Björn and Benny. We played all sorts of mad games—some of ‘em made up on the spot, probably under the influence of pickled herring and strong liquor.

And the food—blimey. Table was groanin’ under dishes I couldn’t pronounce, let alone identify. There was something that looked like fish but tasted like a tangy dream, somethin’ else wrapped in cabbage that kicked like a mule, and little meatballs that’d make your nan cry with joy. Didn’t know what half of it was, but I scoffed the lot like I was in a fjord-themed eating contest.

Best Julafton ever, no contest.

Then came the bit we’d all been waitin’ for—the grand gift exchange. The room went quieter than a church on a Monday, eyes twinklin’, paper rustlin’, kids wrigglin’ like they had tinsel in their pants. And blow me down, there it was—a proper present with my name on it! Little ol’ me! I thought maybe they’d made a mistake, or it was for another kid named after a cockney chimney sweep.

But no—Johan had one too, exactly the same shape, like twin Christmas crackers. We were told to open ‘em together, and we went at it like synchronised swimmers in festive pyjamas, rippin’ and tearin’ with military precision. And what did we find inside? Walkie-bloomin’-talkies! The real deal—none of that tin-can-and-string malarkey. These were proper gadgets. James Bond would’ve blushed.

We looked at each other, jaws on the floor, then legged it around the cabin shoutin’ top-secret gibberish into our shiny new radios like we were leadin’ some covert operation:

“This is Snowball One to Gingerbread Base, do you copy?”

“Loud and clear, over!”

“I said OVER! Stop talkin’!”

“You’re not supposed to shout into it, numpty!”

It was total chaos—beautiful, joyous chaos—until Erik, ever the diplomat, suggested we maybe, just maybe, stop burnin’ through the batteries like we were powered by Christmas spirit alone.

So, with great ceremony, we packed ‘em back into their boxes like they were crown jewels or the last packet of biscuits in the cupboard. And as we lay there later, bellies full, heads fuzzy from excitement, we whispered across our beds, already dreamin’ of garden-to-garden comms back home—covert ops, code names, and a world of mischief at our fingertips.

Best. Present. Ever.

Just when we thought the excitement had peaked—walkie-talkies in hand, bellies full of meatballs, and cheeks redder than a reindeer’s nose—Vinka and Marlin came saunterin’ over with that look girls get when they’re up to something. You know the one—mischievous glint in the eye, half a grin, like they’d just nicked the last gingerbread and got away with it.

They stood in front of us, arms behind their backs, gigglin’ in Swedish—which is both adorable and mildly terrifyin’—and Vinka said,

“Okay pojkar… close your eyes.”

That’s “boys” to you and me.

Now, I ain’t normally one to close my eyes when someone’s gigglin’ and holdin’ mystery items—especially not after Johan’s cousin Sven tried to surprise me with a pickled herring earlier—but I trusted ‘em.

We heard a rustle. A shuffle. A quiet “shhh!” from Marlin. Then—

“Okay, öppna!”

We opened our eyes—and there they were, holdin’ out two hand-knitted woollen hats. Not just any hats, mind. These were proper Swedish masterpieces: thick, warm, full of colour, with patterns that looked like somethin’ from a Viking jumper catalogue. Mine was red had little blue snowflakes and a tiny embroidered ‘S’ on the rim. Johan’s was red and green, with a stripe that made him look like a very stylish Christmas elf.

They’d made them. With their own hands. Vinka shrugged, casual as you like,

“Mormor showed us how. We started back in October.”

I didn’t know what to say. Me mouth did that thing where it flaps about lookin’ for words, but none came out. Johan looked equally gobsmacked, which is rare for him.

“Blimey,” I finally muttered. “You made this? For me?”

Vinka beamed.

“Of course. You’re one of us now.”

I swear, if me heart could’ve burst with warmth, it would’ve melted every snowflake in a ten-mile radius. I slipped the hat on—snug as a bug—and struck a pose.

“How do I look?” I asked.

Vinka grinned.

“Like a real Swede. A little bit crooked… but very cosy.”

We wore those hats the rest of the day, even inside, even in the sauna. Couldn’t take mine off. Still haven’t, if I’m honest. That little blue snowflake followed me all the way home.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

I’d been working on Stephen’s hat for weeks, ever since mormor said winter would be here before we knew it. I wanted it to be ready for his first Swedish winter — he’d only ever seen our summer, and I didn’t want him to freeze. The red wool was warm and bright, and I added little blue snowflakes because they reminded me of the ones that stick to your mittens if you hold them up in the sunlight. The S on the rim was my idea — so no one could forget whose it was.

When I told him to close his eyes, my stomach went all fluttery, like the moment just before your sled tips over a bump. We hadn’t seen each other since the summer, and now here he was, standing in our lodge again.

He opened his eyes and just looked at it for a moment. I thought maybe he was trying to work out what it was. But then he smiled — that big summer smile I remembered — and said, “You made this? For me?” I tried to shrug like it was no big deal, even though I could feel my face going warm.

He put it straight on, even indoors, and it slipped down over one ear. It made him look a little silly, but I didn’t care. I think he knew I was watching, because he kept fiddling with the edge and glancing my way when he thought I wouldn’t notice.

Of course I noticed. I just pretended not to.

Christmas mornin’, right? Snow crisp underfoot, air so cold it could pickle your eyebrows, and there we were—joinin’ what felt like the entire population of Sweden, glidin’ to church on skis like it was the most natural thing in the world. And when I say glidin’, I mean them—me, I was more like a semi-controlled snowplough with a prayer.

It was like bein’ swept up in a Nordic conga line—if the conga involved woolly mittens, thermals, and the constant threat of takin’ out a pensioner with your left foot. I clung on to me dignity like it was strapped to me forehead, tryin’ not to wipe out any elderly churchgoers or zig-zagging toddlers with better balance than I’ll ever have.

Skiin’ to church? Not exactly on me Christmas wishlist, I’ll admit. But when in Sweden, eh? I just kept smilin’ politely and noddin’ like I totally understood why we were all worshippin’ in motion. The locals made it look like ballet. I looked like a leggy goat tryin’ to learn salsa on a frozen trampoline.

Then we reached the church—a quaint wooden beauty with steeple, snow-dusted roof, and an inside that smelled like pine trees and mystery. The service, though… well, let’s just say it reminded me of a school assembly that’d got a bit carried away. Candles. Everywhere. Big ones, little ones, ones that looked like they might explode if you sneezed near ‘em. Someone was swingin’ a metal lantern full of incense like they were tryin’ to contact passing satellites. Honestly, I half expected Batman to show up.

I had no clue what was goin’ on, but I figured if I sat very still, wore me best “thoughtful yet mildly frostbitten” face, and nodded at vaguely appropriate intervals, I’d survive.

Vinka sat beside me on the hard wooden pew, her mittened hand resting lightly on mine. The church was aglow with candles, their flickering light dancing off the gilded altar and the faces of the congregation. As the choir began a soft, solemn hymn in Swedish, I leaned closer, baffled but intrigued. Vinka whispered in my ear, her breath warm against my cheek, “This bit is about the shepherds hearing the angels. Soon the priest will light the big candle—that’s for Jesus being born.” I nodded, pretending to understand more than I did, but truthfully, I was more focused on her voice than the sermon.

Then came the carols—and thank the festive heavens, they were all in Swedish. No screechin’ descants. No one pokin’ your ear out with a recorder. Just gentle harmonies that sounded like winter wrapped in a blanket. Honestly, if that ain’t a Christmas miracle, I don’t know what is.

So there I was, sittin’ in a flickerin’ forest of candles, surrounded by strangers singin’ sweetly in a language I barely understood, wearin’ a woolly hat stitched with love—and feelin’ like the luckiest wobbly-legged foal in the world.

Afterwards, back in the snug warmth of the lodge—boots off, toes defrostin’, noses still redder than Rudolph after a sherry—we kids were twitchin’ with leftover ski-energy, fidgetin’ like squirrels on espresso. The adults, bless ‘em, mistook our wrigglin’ and whispered giggles for some sort of post-church serenity. Divine reverence, they called it. Divine! I nearly snorted glögg through me nose.

And as a reward for our supposed “angelic” behaviour, out came the good stuff—several glorious tins of chocolates, placed on the coffee tables like glitterin’ offerings to the mighty sugar gods. The air practically crackled with anticipation. The moment someone muttered, “Go on then, tuck in,” we launched ourselves like a pack of well-mannered piranhas at a floating buffet.

What happened next was organised chaos. The toffees vanished like they’d never existed. The strawberry creams went quicker than gossip at a Swedish bake sale. Wrappers covered the floor like shiny confetti. It was beautiful. For a moment, it truly felt like heaven had descended upon us—in the form of a half-demolished tin of Quality Street and suspiciously sticky fingers.

But, as with all grand feasts and sugar-induced joyrides, the magic started slippin’ away.

All too soon, our little snowy fairytale began drawin’ to a close. The 29th rolled around, and suddenly it was time to face the music—and the suitcase. We began the epic task of packin’ up: stuffin’ mittens into boots, foldin’ jumpers that now smelled faintly of fireplace and cinnamon, and tryin’ to zip up bags full of gifts, sweets, and enough thermal socks to outfit a marching band.

The farewell ritual? Oh, it was a saga. I half expected someone to pull out a guestbook and start singin’ Auld Lang Syne. There were handshakes, hair ruffles, bear hugs that could crush ribs, back slaps strong enough to restart a heart, and tearful goodbyes that made it feel like the finale of a long-lost soap opera: The Nordics of Our Lives.

Honestly, it was like tryin’ to leave a Swedish weddin’ where every second cousin, great aunt, and suspiciously friendly neighbour wanted “just one last cuddle.” I’m still not convinced a few of ‘em weren’t random villagers who’d caught wind of leftover cake.

But as we trudged down the snowy drive, bags in tow, and looked back one last time at that flickerin’ lodge on the hill, I knew I’d never forget it. The skis, the snow, the songs, the silliness... and that strawberry cream I never got.

When it came time to say goodbye to Vinka, I tried to keep it light. Gave her me best grin, promised I’d write—y’know, proper pen and paper, stamps and all, none of that modern nonsense. But before I could finish me heartfelt farewell, she burst into tears. Just like that—full waterworks. I froze on the spot, proper panic settin’ in.

Had I messed up me Swedish again? Said “reindeer” instead of “thank you”? Was me hat on backwards? Did I smell like fishballs?

I stood there, flappin’ like a startled pigeon, until Harry leaned in with his usual quiet wisdom, gave me a wink and said,

“That’s a good sign, lad.”

A good sign? At my school, if you made a girl cry, you got marched to the headmistress, made to stand in the corner wearin’ a sign round your neck that said “Emotional Menace.” But here I was, apparently doin’ somethin’ right.

Feeling about as confident as a penguin in a tutu on roller skates, I gave Vinka another hug—gentle, like she might shatter if I held her too tight. Tears were still rolling silently down her cheeks, and to my horror, I realised my own eyes were just as wet. I blinked furiously, hoping she wouldn’t notice, but it was pointless—we were both a mess. I mumbled something halfway between “Take care” and “Please don’t cry—I’m absolutely terrible at this,” then leaned in and gave her a soft, shaky kiss on the cheek. “I’ll write,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat.

Then I drifted over toward the car, blinking up at the sky and pretending it was just really bright for some reason. Behind me, the grown-ups were already deep into their traditional end-of-holiday sport: Luggage Tetris. Watching them try to cram twelve oddly shaped bags, two sledges, a cheese wheel, and one suspiciously wriggly sack into the back of a Volvo was like witnessing chess played with elbows and passive-aggressive grunts. It was something to look at, at least—anything to stop me turning around and crying all over again.

Eventually, it was time. I climbed in, clutchin’ me walkie-talkie like a sacred relic, and looked out the frosted rear window. There they were—Vinka, Marlin, Johan’s cousins, the whole snowy crew—wavin’ like mad. And before I knew it, one of my hands was wavin’ back, all instinct and mushy heart.

The other hand? It, uh… it wiped somethin’ from me eye. Must’ve been snow. Yeah. Definitely snow. Or maybe just a little sprinkle of Swedish magic takin’ the long way home with me.

I didn’t mean to cry. I’d told myself I wouldn’t — not in front of him. But then he stood there, smiling that smile I’d been waiting all summer to see again, promising to write, and all at once it hit me: he was leaving. The space beside me would be empty again, just like after he left in the summer.

I tried to hold it in, but my eyes stung and the tears just… came. The harder I tried to stop them, the more they fell. I saw him freeze, looking all worried, like he thought he’d said something wrong. That almost made me laugh — and cry harder — because of course he hadn’t.

When he hugged me, careful and gentle, I wanted to stay there forever. I could feel him shaking just a little, and when I looked up, I thought maybe his eyes were shiny too, though he kept blinking like he didn’t want me to see.

Then he kissed my cheek — quick and soft — and whispered that he’d write. I knew he meant it, and that made the ache in my chest worse and better at the same time.

I stood there on the porch after he left, watching the snow start to fall, and thought about how long winter would feel without him here… and how I’d count the days until the postman brought a letter with his name on it.

The flight home to Luton—glamorous Luton—was every bit as thrilling as the one goin’ out, except now I fancied meself a proper seasoned jet-setter. Honestly, I strutted through that airport like I had me own BBC travel special: “Stephen’s Scandinavian Escapades.” Checked the departure board with authority, found the gate without lookin’ lost, and flicked me passport open to the correct page like I’d rehearsed it—which I absolutely had, in me bedroom mirror, more times than I care to admit.

Security? Pfft. I’d perfected me “I’m definitely not a criminal” face to such a degree that they barely gave me a nod. Smooth as anything. James Bond had nothin’ on me—except the gadgets, the tux, and, y’know, the licence to kill. But otherwise? Uncanny.

Now, according to our boarding passes, we were meant to sit in the same spots as before. But Harry and Ingrid clearly decided life was for livin’ and swapped seats.

Johan, bless him, was perfectly content with the middle seat again. Either he’s the most selfless lad alive, or he secretly enjoys the thrilling chaos of havin’ both armrests stolen simultaneously.

Me? I got the window seat. Result! I settled in like royalty, pressin’ me face to the glass and pretendin’ I could already see the Thames, even though we were still on the runway.

Harry took the aisle with all the energy of a man on a mission to protect it from rogue trolley wheels and stray elbows. He sat like a sentry at a medieval gatehouse. Ingrid, on the other hand, wasted no time makin’ friends. She struck up a lively conversation with the two ladies behind us, which, to my untrained ear, sounded like a mix of German, Swedish, and interpretive theatre.

I couldn’t understand a word, but there was noddin’, gaspin’, and laughter so loud the bloke three rows up took his headphones off. According to Johan, most of his Swedish relatives also speak German, which explained a lot—namely why Ingrid looked like she’d just discovered her long-lost sisters on a budget airline somewhere over Denmark.

And there we were, 30,000 feet above Europe: one big, chatty, chaotic, chocolate-fuelled international family, on our way back to rainy England… and I couldn’t wait to tell everyone about the Christmas where I skied to church, hugged a reindeer (sort of), and accidentally became Swedish royalty with a woolly hat and a walkie-talkie.

Not bad for a lad from the East End.

Not long into the flight, the stewardesses appeared with that magical trolley of airborne delights—the sort that makes you feel like royalty, even if your knees are jammed under your chin and the bloke next to you smells faintly of pickled eggs. Johan and I shared a tray of something that vaguely resembled sandwiches—suspiciously shaped, questionably textured, but technically edible. The highlight? A bar of chocolate each. Not fancy chocolate, mind, but when you’re 30,000 feet up and running low on sleep, it’s basically gold.

Harry, ever the minimalist (or possibly traumatised from previous airline cuisine), just nodded stoically and accepted a cup of coffee like a man making peace with his fate.

Up front, I watched with fascination as three miniature bottles of wine were ceremoniously handed to Ingrid and her newly adopted best friends. And that, my friend, was when the show began.

As the flight wore on and the wine flowed freer than Sven’s sled down a black run, their voices grew louder, the gesturing more flamboyant, and before long—they were singing. Not recognisable Christmas carols, mind you. No, this was more like… ancient folklore meets Eurovision warm-up. Something between a Viking chant and a lost ABBA demo. The cabin filled with a sort of wobbly harmony that had the passengers nearby issuing a polite but firm “shhh!” in several languages.

Johan, usually cool as a snowdrift, turned a shade of crimson that matched his jumper. And for once, I wasn’t the only one dyin’ from second-hand embarrassment. Grown-ups, honestly. Give ‘em a few sips of wine and a captive audience, and suddenly it’s the semi-finals of Swedish Talent Show.

Eventually, blessedly, we landed at Luton—good ol’ Luton, where dreams go to wear beige and queue. I’d imagined Dad would be waitin’ there at Arrivals, arms open, maybe holdin’ a sign that said “Welcome Home, International Hero” with a flask of hot Ribena and a pork pie.

But no. Instead, we were greeted by a baffled taxi driver holdin’ a cardboard sign like we were low-budget soap stars no one recognised: “STEPHEN & CO.”

The drive back to Hitchin was uneventful. Dull skies, grey roads, the kind of post-holiday comedown soundtrack you can’t hear but definitely feel in your bones.

Still, I was buzzin’ to see the family—burstin’ with stories, chocolate-fuelled memories, and at least three new phrases in Swedish.

I flung open the front door, ready to be hailed as a returning explorer… and walked straight into World War III: Sister Edition.

My two little sisters were mid-wrestling match, arms flailin’, hair flyin’, one shoutin’ about borrowed tights and the other screamin’ about sabotage. Mum was in the middle, tryin’ to separate them with all the stern authority of a disinterested umpire who’d rather be watchin’ Coronation Street.

No sign of Tim—off gallivantin’ with his mates as usual—and Dad? Missing in action. Probably holed up somewhere on a top-secret mission codenamed “Avoid the Bedtime Meltdown.”

And just like that, I was home. Welcome back, lad.

Every time I so much as opened me mouth, me sisters pounced like pigtail-wearin’ parrots on a sugar high—launchin’ into perfect parodies of whatever I’d just said. Every word echoed back at me in high-pitched mockery, like I was stuck in a very small theatre production titled “Stephen: The Musical (Now With 200% More Squealing).” They thought it was comedy gold—right up there with custard pies and whoopee cushions. To me? It was like bein’ trapped in an echo chamber run by gremlins with an overactive sense of irony.

Honestly, within ten minutes of walkin’ through the front door, I was already longin’ for the quiet, civilised haven of the Swedish lodge. A place where people actually took turns speakin’, didn’t interrupt with barnyard impressions, and never once felt the urge to mimic your every syllable like a malfunctionin’ voice recorder with pigtails.

This wasn’t a homecoming—it was a dramatic plummet from glory. One minute, international traveller. The next? Human punchline in a domestic sitcom.

I dragged me suitcase upstairs like a war-weary explorer returnin’ from the front, mentally preparin’ meself for the sweet sanctuary of my room. Just me, me souvenirs, and maybe a bit of peace.

But no.

I opened the door and was greeted by a scene that looked like a yeti had hosted a toddler rave. Total devastation. My world map—me pride and joy—had been vandalised. Red crayon scrawled across it like a deranged toddler-cartographer had gone rogue with no sense of geography or spelling. ‘Afirca’? Really? That’s not even a typo, that’s an insult to vowels.

Me cupboards had been raided, drawers upturned, socks scattered like festive bunting, and the remains of what might once have been a Lego spacecraft now lay in bits, restin’ in pieces next to a half-eaten biscuit.

And on Tim’s side of the chest of drawers—calm, unbothered, untouched—sat a hand-scrawled note that read:

“Leave alone or else.”

Ah. Comfortin’. Unless me brother had suddenly developed a flair for third-person villainy, it looked like I’d been the latest victim in a miniature reign of terror orchestrated by me darling little sisters—The Twins of Chaos.

So there I stood, surrounded by the wreckage of my once orderly kingdom, clutchin’ a suitcase full of memories, and thinkin’… next year, I’m stayin in Sweden. Forever.