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Mini biog: My real name is Ine, I was born in Norway in the 60s, my mum is Danish and I am British. No, dad is Norwegian. I was married to Kevin (a wonderful British man from Aberdeen) until December 2010, after living apart for 2 1/2 years.

I got engaged to Thomas (a wonderful Austrian man) on the 17 January 2011.

I work as webmaster/editor for Eurozine, a European network of cultural journals.

I am chronically depressed with shining bright moments every day — I still smell the roses and admire the view except on really, really dark days which are generally kept at bay with anti-depressants. Good stuff, that.

Here is a brief explanatory note to some of the expressions I use on the blog.

First of all, the name. MidgetViking. Kevin used to refer to me as the midget viking when talking to friends. As in “hang on a second, I’ll just ask the midget viking what she thinks”. I thought it was funny and that it would make a good and memorable web address. When my original domain was stolen by DROA — Domain Registry of America — I set up a whole new web-page under www.midgetviking.co.uk. But I’ve decided to let that domain expire now as I’m not happy with the services provided by UK2 and it has proven impossible to transfer it. I’m planning to go European instead and start up again with www.midgetviking.eu. I guess this is where one is supposed to say ‘watch this space’ or something but I would suggest you find something else to do as there is no knowing how long it will take me to get around to it.

Hah! got to tell you this. At the beginning of 2007 I took over a job for Kevin as deputy stage manager at the English Theatre for one of their productions. His back had suddenly seized up and he could barely move. The cast heard the company manager talk about Kevin as the cripple and me as the midget, so by the time I turned up as Kevin’s replacement you can imagine what they were thinking. The best part? One of the cast members surprised comment — “but, you’re NOT a midget!”

NED — this stands for Non Existent Deity. I am an atheist, and have been one for as long as I can remember. The story behind that is complicated, and yet so simple. The simple part is; I just couldn’t make myself believe in any form of god, be it the former Nordic, Greek or Roman gods, or our present upholders of superstition Allah/God. The stories of the former were great fun but then came the bible and the qur’an. I find both extraordinarily dull. Give me the former lot any day. They seem like a far more interesting bunch to go clubbing with. That aside, I recommend Small Gods by Terry Pratchett. Seriously. Go for it! But don’t blame me if you get the hiccups from laughing.

Of course, in Norway you are more or less born into the Norwegian Lutheran State Church, and part of your taxes go toward funding it. No choice. I, too, was born into this by virtue of “that’s just the way it is”. But I had a friend whose dad spent an admirable amount of time telling me about the many good reasons for leaving and, less discreetly, leaving photocopies of official leaving-forms in my path to help my escape. At 15, when the church for some religious/historical reason deems its children old enough to make the decision for themselves, I used one of these forms to officially leave the depressingly pious Norwegian Lutheran State Church. For the first time in my entire life I was contacted by my local minister who in a deeply saddened voice wanted to know why? I asked him what I looked like. We agreed to part ways.

My Lord and My Master — this refers to Kevin. In a lesser way it is also a literary reference to Katherine and Petruchio in Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew. I am, of course, the real master, the one with the balls, the one wearing the pants, the one with the rod, the one… you know, all those references to the softest and most vulnerable part of the male anatomy. Apparently, it is a compliment to women when they are attributed with these terms. I don’t get that. Penis envy? Freud — what had you been smoking?? I mean — look at the thing!

Mischa. Mischa is my dog. He was Livia and Alex’ dog, but he is now mine. He was born on 4 August 2000 and became mine in August 2008. But I feel as if he’s been mine his entire life and love him more than is probably good for me. And him. And spoil him absolutely rotten. L&A had to give him away when they realised giving both of their dogs to L’s mum, Karin, was a little too much for her, and as he and I had bonded so instantly the year before they asked me if I would have him. WOULD I EVER?! He’s the perfect dog! And a true gentleman. If a little spoiled…

“Terminal kak” — no, as far as I know, this disease does not exist. The doctor who diagnosed Kevin in the dream took great care to spell it to me, all three letters, but I assure you it is a figment of my dream-imagination.

irony/sarcasm/one-liners — Kevin is the master of the latter, and I am in no way trained well enough in the art to keep up. Though I have had sixteen years practice through our relationship I am still a mere novice. One has to start at an early age, engage a Russian trainer with a fur hat and Never Ever Stop Practising. Kevin practised on me every day, he also regularly pissed off our more thin-skinned friends. I have learned not to take myself too seriously but sometimes the use of the former two in my perhaps not always so gentle piss-take of Kevin here in the blog is simply my way of getting back at him and preserving my brittle sanity. It’s also my way of showing just how much I (still) love him.

Moby Dick — our large, white(ish) sofa bed. It was given to a Romanian girl when I moved to my present abode. Mischa has been grieving ever since. (Jan. 2011 — he has now succeeded in worming his way onto my ‘new’ sofa which was my grandmother’s sofa. It is, however, carefully covered in a large throw.)

Cleo — my ancient MG BGT (1971) bought on eBay on 9 April 2004. (Don’t do this at home!)

Thomas. My twin soul — for better and worse — best friend and life saver. Also known as Schlucki, Tom and ‘that guy who knows everything and can fix anything’.

Louise — my friend, next door neighbour and landlady. In that order. We met in August 2008 under stressful circumstances. She also acts as Mischa’s second mum and we have both used him as a sponge to soak up our tears. I’m amazed Mischa is as well-balanced as he is.