Danish Pastries

I got a couple of calls in work last winter from a bloke involved in the Viking Warship project. I thought the man was deranged and the whole thing a windup. Somebody unbalanced had to be involved but it was not a windup. A full-scale reconstruction of a Viking warship (the Sea Stallion of Glendalough, to give it its proper title) landed in the courtyard. And with it came the Viking crew. And with all the fuss men popped up with mobile phones flapping around looking important and efficient and marketing types all fur coats and no knickers.
I do have to point out that I have proof that, on the other hand, modern day Vikings do wear them (knickers, that is).
I was standing in a strategic position with Catwoman and YoungArtist observing the festivities doing a grumpy-old-men-from-the-Muppet-Show impression. The square was filling up nicely with people when suddenly out of the corner of my bad eye I saw naked flesh! Naked fit Danish male flesh! We had appreciated the self same man, with his clothes on, wielding an axe giving wood carving demonstrations earlier in the day. Before modesty and manners made me tear my gaze away, I pointed him out to my surveillance partners who felt compelled to check I wasn’t seeing things. They saw and coyly but reluctantly looked away. If laughing is good for your health, we are assured of a flu free winter.

So it was that a wet week end passed, and a wet Tuesday followed a wet Monday. The day didn’t look up to much. The promised delayed Irish summer wasn’t coming and I couldn’t account for the absence of money in my purse. Then I spotted the two wood working Danes packing up their wears and giving their ship the last goodbye cuddles. I thought I’d be nice and offer the use of the staff kitchen. They came in. The sight of two 6ft+ fit young Vikings made a welcome change from the usual middle-aged pot bellied Celts frequenting the place. The local barbarians had left a sink-full of dirty crockery and nothing clean in sight. I felt compelled to supply my emergency mugs from the depths of my food locker. My main problem at this point was communication: all I could dribble out (keeping my teeth firmly clenched to avoid my tongue falling out and tripping me up) was something like ‘here you go, this one is clean the other needs a rinse’. I could not look them in the eye after seeing something only the partner or the washing machine should. But I felt very girly, teenagery, almost in good form (for a Tuesday). I even handed out biscuits and club milks from the communal stash. The Celts in attendance were puzzled by my erratic behaviour. I couldn’t blame them.

Pinzimonio