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Today’s Harry Potter’s 36th birthday.


For those who would also like to get a cake from Hagrid but havn’t recived one yet. Here is the recipe so you can make it by yourself.

The recipe is pretty easy to make (you only need one bowl)  and tastes really good. I tried the recipe one week ago and it worked out perfectly well. The cake tastes sweet and soft, but not to sweet so that you get sick after eating one piece.


Chocolate Cake
2 cups sugar
1 3/4 cups flour
3/4 cup cocoa powder
1 1/2 tsp baking soda
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1 1/2 tsp salt
2 eggs
1 cup milk
1/2 cup vegetable oil
2 tsp vanilla extract
1 cup boiling water

Chocolate Frosting
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) butter, room temp
1 1/2 cups cocoa powder
5 1/3 cups powdered sugar
2/3 cup milk
1 tsp vanilla extract

Vanilla Frosting

6 tbsp (3/4 stick) butter, room temp
4-5 1/2 cups powdered sugar
1/3 cup milk
1 tsp vanilla extract
red food coloring
green food coloring

Cake: Preheat oven to 350°F. Mix sugar, flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Stir in eggs one at a time. Add the milk, vegetable oil, and vanilla extract and mix. Now add the boiling water and mix. Spray two round 9″ diameter baking pans with nonstick spray. Pour your batter into the two pans, splitting it equally between them. Place pans in oven and bake 30-35 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean.

Remove cakes from oven and let cool in pans for 10 minutes. Then, carefully transfer the cakes to a cooling rack to finish cooling. When the cakes are totally cool and you’re ready to decorate them, take a knife and slice them in half like a hamburger bun so you end up with four circular cake layers.

Chocolate Frosting: Mix the cocoa powder and powdered sugar together. In another bowl, cream butter until fluffy. Mix in 1/3 of the cocoa/sugar mixture. Add about 1/3 of the milk. Repeat this until all the cocoa powder, sugar, and milk are added. Mix in the vanilla extract. The frosting should be spreadable at this point. If not, add in more milk or powdered sugar as needed.

Vanilla Frosting: Cream the butter until fluffy. Mix in 1/2 of the powdered sugar. Add 1/2 of the milk. Repeat with other 1/2 of sugar and milk. Add in the vanilla extract. The frosting should be spreadable at this point. If not, add in more milk or powdered sugar as needed. Now scoop out a portion of the frosting to a separate bowl (enough for the frosting letters).

Add a few drops of red food coloring to the remainder of the frosting and mix to get pink frosting. In the other bowl, add green food coloring to get green frosting. Keep bowl covered until ready to use.

1. Cover your work surface with a sheet of plastic wrap. Cut out a circle from a piece of cardboard and cover it with foil. Place it on your plastic wrap, followed by your first layer of cake.

2. Dollop some frosting on the cake and then smooth it out.

3. Place another cake later on the first, dollop frosting, and smooth.

4. Repeat process with third layer of cake.

5. Place final cake layer on top. Press down on top of cake to make sure firmly sandwiched. Wipe off the crumbs dotting your plastic wrap.

6. Take your pink vanilla frosting and start your crumb coat by thinly coating the top of the cake.

7. Continue the crumb coat on the sides of the cake, making sure to get it fully covered. Don’t worry if it looks ugly at this point. You can carefully move the cake onto a plate if desired.

8. Clean off your knife and apply a second layer of pink frosting.

9. Put your green frosting it in a piping bag (or plastic bag) and cut a hole at the tip. Pipe on “Happee Birthdae Harry” and you’re done!

all credit to: dimondsfordessert


If you want a step by step Video turtorial there’s a good one from “let’s eat fiction” on YouTube. You can find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4jK1_gcGViE


This cake makes the time more fun while you are still waiting for your Hogwarts letter to arrive.


Summer bucket list 2016




I hope you all enjoy your summer hoidays. It’s a bit late to post this summer bucket list but we did not have any time since I was on holiday till now.

Have you already made your summer bucket list? If not then it’s time to do it now. For those who don’t know what a summer bucket list is: It’s a list of things you want to do this summer. It can be really anything on that list from sleeping till noon to visiting China.

I think another good thing about making those lists at the beginning of the summer is that you can plan what you want to do and in the end you see how much of your plans were realized. If you keep them you can look at them and see what you did each summer. I looked back on my old bucket lists and saw that I never managed to do as many things as I wanted, but that does not mean that these summers werde not great. Sometimes it’s also good to just be spontanious. If you have no idea what to write on your list you can sneek a peek on mine. There are lots of great and classic things to do during summer on it. For example: Go camping, go fishing, learn to surf, learn to play guitar, write a poem, make s’mores, have a BBQ (what’s a summer without it?); and of course go to the beach and swim! You can also make movie Marathons, watch old VHS, look at old photos, make a journal, craft something, plant a tree and do Recycling DIY crafts. I’ll take at least one photo every day. If you want to make your list look even nicer draw something on it or glue shells on it, whatever you feel like.


Have a great SUMMER!

♡ The heart of Europe ♡


❤ Holiday in the heart of Europe ❤

50° 50′ N and 4° 00′ E



My first impression of Belgium:“ It’s a mixture of the countries that it’s surrounded by. It reminds you of the United Kingdom with its red brick houses. Of France- the countryside and the beaches. Of course they share their language with France and the Netherlands, so that does it part to. The windmills make you feel as if you were in the Netherlands. This small nation has everything I love.”

Indeed Belgium has a lot in common with those three countries, but there are also typical Belgium things that make it so beautiful. One of my favourites are Belgium Waffles with Nutella. There are that many things to do, see and eat while on holiday there. It’s impossible to see everything in one holiday but here is a list that sums up all the most important things.

Things to do in Belgium at your first visit:

  • Eat Belgium Waffles
  • Visit Brussels
  • Take a walk at the beach, for example in Oostende
  • Strove through the Streets of Antwerp
  • See Manneken Pis
  • Buy Belgium Chocolate and eat it
  • Go to a market on Saturday morning
  • Do a boat rip in Brugges
  • Have a picnic in the beautiful countryside
  • Try Belgium fries
  • Drink one of the more than 800 different kinds of beer
  • Have Moules-frites at the seaside
  • Visit the bookshop De Slegte in Mechelen
  • Be in the Atomium
  • Have fun whatever you do !


If you manage to do all those things you’ve see quite a lot of Belgium. I’ll definitely go there again soon there are so many things to see.

Packing List: Belgium

imageHere is a packing list for Belgium from April to October. These months are perfect to visit Belgium, it might rain sometimes but I love rain and if you have an umbrella or a waterproof jacket it doesn’t matter. I myself prefer to travel in May, June and September, because I don’t like crowded places and tourists that much. And it’s cheaper off-season.

All you need:


It can be really warm in Belgium from May till Sepmtember, but it will rain in betweet for sure. So make sure you can adjust tot he weather conditions by bringing warm and cold cloths. That’s a list for a 5 day trip if you saty longer or shorter than adjust the number of underwear and socks ( if you stay one month and you only brig five pair of socks because I sais so then don’t blame me )

  •  5 pair of socks
  • 5 pair of  underwear ( If you have a small suitcase or just a backpack you can also bring less and wash them there in a sinck or a laundry shop)
  • 1-2 trousers so you can change if one gets dirty
  • 1-2 shorts
  • 4 tops
  • 1 Sweater
  • 1-2 dresses- it’s really nice to wear a dress if it’s warm
  • 1 waterproof jacket-it rains in between quit often
  • 1 Scarf might be usefull if it gets cold outside at night
  • 1 pyjama


Some people can live with one pair of shoes which is probably the best thing but if you are a typical girl then you’ll need more. Up to three pair is okay-more is pathetic. So best thing if you have one pair of shoes that goes with everything -dress and trouser. And if it is waterproof as well then you needn’t worr anymore.

  • 1 pair of shoes you can walk around with, there will be lot’s of wakling included in visiting Belgium, because cites like Bruges are best to be visited on foot
  • 1 pair of sandals if you go to the beach they’ll be usefull in summer
  • 1 pair of fold-up ballet flats are the tiny extra in a women’s suitcase ethat can save lifes 😉


Belgium is a country that offers nearly every sanitary products you can by at home, so in case you forget something don’t wory.

  • Brush and hair ties
  • Toothbrush and toothpaste
  • Shampoo, shower gel
  • Razor
  • Lip Balm
  • Lotion
  • Deodorant
  • Maybe perfume and make up-but in my opinion you don’t need makeup on holiday-just be the way you are. “A smile is the prettiest thing you can wear” and on top of that it’s faster put on than mascara and eye shadow 😉


    • Camera (plus second battery and SD card and chager)
    • Smartphone + charger
    • European plug adapter
    • Kindle or book
    • Map if you have one at home
    • Umbrella
    • Pens to write postcards
    • Wanderlust


FLY AWAY: Belgium


This week I’m going to Belgium, in Western Europe. It’s my very first time in Belgium-I love visiting new countries. I’ll visit a friend there so I’ve a native personal guide (that’s the best about traveling spending time with locals and get to know the culture and the little things only natives know).

Belgium is a small country, but in the EU it’s very important. As some of you might not know it’s one of Europe’s 12 monarchies and King Philippe of Belgium is the current monarch. It became independent in 1830. In Belgium exist three official languages Dutch, French and German ( I’ll make a post about how to say the most important things in those languages after my trip, when I know which words and phrases are need) Here are some facts I know about Belgium and you might need to know before you travel there:

  • The name of Belgium is the Kingdom of Belgium.
  • Tintin, The Smurfs and Lucky Luke are all three famous Belgian Comics
  • Belgian chocolate is nearly as good as Swiss chocolate (we’ll see about that soon)
  • Belgium produces over 220,000 tonnes of chocolate each year.
  • The most translated books in the world, after the Bible, are those about Inspector Maigret by Georges Simenon from Liège (Liège is a city in Belgium).
  • The world’s largest chocolate selling point is Brussels
  • In 1846, Belgian instrument maker Adolphe Sax invented the saxophone.
  • Belgians are the inventors of fries ( I know it’s a shock for you guys to hear it was not Ronald McDonald)
  • Belgium hosts the world’s largest sand sculpture festival.
  • Belgians make more than 800 kinds of beer
  • If you don’t vote on election day you have to pay a fine
  • Belgium is world-famous for waffles (I can’t wait to try them. I’ll tell you the recipe in another post)


So that’s what I know about this nation and I really look forward to visit it. There will be post about this trip, tips and other things here on this blog soon. For now I look forward to waffles fries and chocolate- that’s what people come fort o Belgium.






Today is Tell a Story Day 

It is celebrated in the United States, Scotland and the United Kingdom.The purpose of this day is to celebrate the art of telling oral stories. It does not matter if you know them by heart or if you read them from a book or if you make up a story or if you grab a picture and tell a story about it just tell it to anyone.

You can organise your tell a story day event with family and friends. You can make up your magical world. Fairitales, Pirate stories, all tme clasics, friendship stories or family legends- it does not matter which story you tell.

Here is our Tell a story day story for you. It’s by one of my favourite authors Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)


An Unwritten Novel

by Virginia Woolf

SUCH an expression of unhappiness was enough by itself to make one’s eyes slide above the paper’s edge to the poor woman’s face—insignificant without that look, almost a symbol of human destiny with it. Life’s what you see in people’s eyes; life’s what they learn, and, having learnt it, never, though they seek to hide it, cease to be aware of—what? That life’s like that, it seems. Five faces opposite—five mature faces—and the knowledge in each face. Strange, though, how people want to conceal it! Marks of reticence are on all those faces: lips shut, eyes shaded, each one of the five doing something to hide or stultify his knowledge. One smokes; another reads; a third checks entries in a pocket book; a fourth stares at the map of the line framed opposite; and the fifth—the terrible thing about the fifth is that she does nothing at all. She looks at life. Ah, but my poor, unfortunate woman, do play the game—do, for all our sakes, conceal it! 1
As if she heard me, she looked up, shifted slightly in her seat and sighed. She seemed to apologise and at the same time to say to me, “If only you knew!” Then she looked at life again. “But I do know,” I answered silently, glancing at the Times for manners’ sake. “I know the whole business. ‘Peace between Germany and the Allied Powers was yesterday officially ushered in at Paris—Signor Nitti, the Italian Prime Minister—a passenger train at Doncaster was in collision with a goods train…’ We all know—the Times knows—but we pretend we don’t.” My eyes had once more crept over the paper’s rim She shuddered, twitched her arm queerly to the middle of her back and shook her head. Again I dipped into my great reservoir of life. “Take what you like,” I continued, “births, deaths, marriages, Court Circular, the habits of birds, Leonardo da Vinci, the Sandhills murder, high wages and the cost of living—oh, take what you like,” I repeated, “it’s all in the Times!” Again with infinite weariness she moved her head from side to side until, like a top exhausted with spinning, it settled on her neck. 2
The Times was no protection against such sorrow as hers. But other human beings forbade intercourse. The best thing to do against life was to fold the paper so that it made a perfect square, crisp, thick, impervious even to life. This done, I glanced up quickly, armed with a shield of my own. She pierced through my shield; she gazed into my eyes as if searching any sediment of courage at the depths of them and damping it to clay. Her twitch alone denied all hope, discounted all illusion. 3
So we rattled through Surrey and across the border into Sussex. But with my eyes upon life I did not see that the other travellers had left, one by one, till, save for the man who read, we were alone together. Here was Three Bridges station. We drew slowly down the platform and stopped. Was he going to leave us? I prayed both ways—I prayed last that he might stay. At that instant he roused himself, crumpled his paper contemptuously, like a thing done with, burst open the door, and left us alone. 4
The unhappy woman, leaning a little forward, palely and colourlessly addressed me—talked of stations and holidays, of brothers at Eastbourne, and the time of year, which was, I forget now, early or late. But at last looking from the window and seeing, I knew, only life, she breathed, “Staying away—that’s the drawback of it——” Ah, now we approached the catastrophe, “My sister-in-law”—the bitterness of her tone was like lemon on cold steel, and speaking, not to me, but to herself, she muttered, “nonsense, she would say—that’s what they all say,” and while she spoke she fidgeted as though the skin on her back were as a plucked fowl’s in a poulterer’s shop-window. 5
“Oh, that cow!” she broke off nervously, as though the great wooden cow in the meadow had shocked her and saved her from some indiscretion. Then she shuddered, and then she made the awkward angular movement that I had seen before, as if, after the spasm, some spot between the shoulders burnt or itched. Then again she looked the most unhappy woman in the world, and I once more reproached her, though not with the same conviction, for if there were a reason, and if I knew the reason, the stigma was removed from life. 6
“Sisters-in-law,” I said— 7
Her lips pursed as if to spit venom at the word; pursed they remained. All she did was to take her glove and rub hard at a spot on the window-pane. She rubbed as if she would rub something out for ever—some stain, some indelible contamination. Indeed, the spot remained for all her rubbing, and back she sank with the shudder and the clutch of the arm I had come to expect. Something impelled me to take my glove and rub my window. There, too, was a little speck on the glass. For all my rubbing it remained. And then the spasm went through me I crooked my arm and plucked at the middle of my back. My skin, too, felt like the damp chicken’s skin in the poulterer’s shop-window; one spot between the shoulders itched and irritated, felt clammy, felt raw. Could I reach it? Surreptitiously I tried. She saw me. A smile of infinite irony, infinite sorrow, flitted and faded from her face. But she had communicated, shared her secret, passed her poison she would speak no more. Leaning back in my corner, shielding my eyes from her eyes, seeing only the slopes and hollows, greys and purples, of the winter’s landscape, I read her message, deciphered her secret, reading it beneath her gaze. 8
Hilda’s the sister-in-law. Hilda? Hilda? Hilda Marsh—Hilda the blooming, the full bosomed, the matronly. Hilda stands at the door as the cab draws up, holding a coin. “Poor Minnie, more of a grasshopper than ever—old cloak she had last year. Well, well, with too children these days one can’t do more. No, Minnie, I’ve got it; here you are, cabby—none of your ways with me. Come in, Minnie. Oh, I could carry you, let alone your basket!” So they go into the dining-room. “Aunt Minnie, children.” 9
Slowly the knives and forks sink from the upright. Down they get (Bob and Barbara), hold out hands stiffly; back again to their chairs, staring between the resumed mouthfuls. [But this we’ll skip; ornaments, curtains, trefoil china plate, yellow oblongs of cheese, white squares of biscuit—skip—oh, but wait! Half-way through luncheon one of those shivers; Bob stares at her, spoon in mouth. “Get on with your pudding, Bob;” but Hilda disapproves. “Why should she twitch?” Skip, skip, till we reach the landing on the upper floor; stairs brass-bound; linoleum worn; oh, yes! little bedroom looking out over the roofs of Eastbourne—zigzagging roofs like the spines of caterpillars, this way, that way, striped red and yellow, with blue-black slating]. Now, Minnie, the door’s shut; Hilda heavily descends to the basement; you unstrap the straps of your basket, lay on the bed a meagre nightgown, stand side by side furred felt slippers. The looking-glass—no, you avoid the looking-glass. Some methodical disposition of hat-pins. Perhaps the shell box has something in it? You shake it; it’s the pearl stud there was last year—that’s all. And then the sniff, the sigh, the sitting by the window. Three o’clock on a December afternoon; the rain drizzling; one light low in the skylight of a drapery emporium; another high in a servant’s bedroom—this one goes out. That gives her nothing to look at. A moment’s blankness—then, what are you thinking? (Let me peep across at her opposite; she’s asleep or pretending it; so what would she think about sitting at the window at three o’clock in the afternoon? Health, money, bills, her God?) Yes, sitting on the very edge of the chair looking over the roofs of Eastbourne, Minnie Marsh prays to Gods. That’s all very well; and she may rub the pane too, as though to see God better; but what God does she see? Who’s the God of Minnie Marsh, the God of the back streets of Eastbourne, the God of three o’clock in the afternoon? I, too, see roofs, I see sky; but, oh, dear—this seeing of Gods! More like President Kruger than Prince Albert—that’s the best I can do for him; and I see him on a chair, in a black frock-coat, not so very high up either; I can manage a cloud or two for him to sit on; and then his hand trailing in the cloud holds a rod, a truncheon is it?—black, thick, thorned—a brutal old bully—Minnie’s God! Did he send the itch and the patch and the twitch? Is that why she prays? What she rubs on the window is the stain of sin. Oh, she committed some crime! 10
I have my choice of crimes. The woods flit and fly—in summer there are bluebells; in the opening there, when Spring comes, primroses. A parting, was it, twenty years ago? Vows broken? Not Minnie’s!… She was faithful. How she nursed her mother! All her savings on the tombstone—wreaths under glass—daffodils in jars. But I’m off the track. A crime…. They would say she kept her sorrow, suppressed her secret—her sex, they’d say—the scientific people. But what flummery to saddle her with sex! No—more like this. Passing down the streets of Croydon twenty years ago, the violet loops of ribbon in the draper’s window spangled in the electric light catch her eye. She lingers—past six. Still by running she can reach home. She pushes through the glass swing door. It’s sale-time. Shallow trays brim with ribbons. She pauses, pulls this, fingers that with the raised roses on it—no need to choose, no need to buy, and each tray with its surprises. “We don’t shut till seven,” and then it is seven. She runs, she rushes, home she reaches, but too late. Neighbours—the doctor— baby brother—the kettle—scalded—hospital—dead—or only the shock of it, the blame? Ah, but the detail matters nothing! It’s what she carries with her; the spot, the crime, the thing to expiate, always there between her shoulders. “Yes,” she seems to nod to me, “it’s the thing I did.” 11
Whether you did, or what you did, I don’t mind; it’s not the thing I want. The draper’s window looped with violet—that’ll do; a little cheap perhaps, a little commonplace—since one has a choice of crimes, but then so many (let me peep across again—still sleeping, or pretending sleep! white, worn, the mouth closed—a touch of obstinacy, more than one would think—no hint of sex)—so many crimes aren’t your crime; your crime was cheap; only the retribution solemn; for now the church door opens, the hard wooden pew receives her; on the brown tiles she kneels; every day, winter, summer, dusk, dawn (here she’s at it) prays. All her sins fall, fall, for ever fall. The spot receives them. It’s raised, it’s red, it’s burning. Next she twitches. Small boys point. “Bob at lunch to-day”—But elderly women are the worst. 12
Indeed now you can’t sit praying any longer. Kruger’s sunk beneath the clouds—washed over as with a painter’s brush of liquid grey, to which he adds a tinge of black—even the tip of the truncheon gone now. That’s what always happens! Just as you’ve seen him, felt him, someone interrupts. It’s Hilda now. 13
How you hate her! She’ll even lock the bathroom door overnight, too, though it’s only cold water you want, and sometimes when the night’s been bad it seems as if washing helped. And John at breakfast—the children—meals are worst, and sometimes there are friends—ferns don’t altogether hide ’em—they guess, too; so out you go along the front, where the waves are grey, and the papers blow, and the glass shelters green and draughty, and the chairs cost tuppence—too much—for there must be preachers along the sands. Ah, that’s a nigger—that’s a funny man—that’s a man with parakeets—poor little creatures! Is there no one here who thinks of God?—just up there, over the pier, with his rod—but no—there’s nothing but grey in the sky or if it’s blue the white clouds hide him, and the music—it’s military music—and what they are fishing for? Do they catch them? How the children stare! Well, then home a back way—“Home a back way!” The words have meaning; might have been spoken by the old man with whiskers—no, no, he didn’t really speak; but everything has meaning—placards leaning against doorways—names above shop-windows—red fruit in baskets—women’s heads in the hairdresser’s—all say “Minnie Marsh!” But here’s a jerk. “Eggs are cheaper!” That’s what always happens! I was heading her over the waterfall, straight for madness, when, like a flock of dream sheep, she turns t’other way and runs between my fingers. Eggs are cheaper. Tethered to the shores of the world, none of the crimes, sorrows, rhapsodies, or insanities for poor Minnie Marsh; never late for luncheon; never caught in a storm without a mackintosh; never utterly unconscious of the cheapness of eggs. So she reaches home—scrapes her boots. 14
Have I read you right? But the human face—the human face at the top of the fullest sheet of print holds more, withholds more. Now, eyes open, she looks out; and in the human eye—how d’you define it?—there’s a break—-a division—so that when you’ve grasped the stem the butterfly’s off—the moth that hangs in the evening over the yellow flower—move, raise your hand, off, high, away. I won’t raise my hand. Hang still, then, quiver, life, soul, spirit, whatever you are of Minnie Marsh—I, too, on my flower—the hawk over the down—alone, or what were the worth of life? To rise; hang still in the evening, in the midday; hang still over the down. The flicker of a hand—off, up! then poised again. Alone, unseen; seeing all so still down there, all so lovely. None seeing, none caring. The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages. Air above, air below. And the moon and immortality…. Oh, but I drop to the turf! Are you down too, you in the corner, what’s your name—woman—Minnie Marsh; some such name as that? There she is, tight to her blossom; opening her hand-bag, from which she takes a hollow shell—an egg—who was saying that eggs were cheaper? You or I? Oh, it was you who said it on the way home, you remember, when the old gentleman, suddenly opening his umbrella—or sneezing was it? Anyhow, Kruger went, and you came “home a back way,” and scraped your boots. Yes. And now you lay across your knees a pocket-handkerchief into which drop little angular fragments of eggshell—fragments of a map—a puzzle. I wish I could piece them together! If you would only sit still. She’s moved her knees—the map’s in bits again. Down the slopes of the Andes the white blocks of marble go bounding and hurtling, crushing to death a whole troop of Spanish muleteers, with their convoy—Drake’s booty, gold and silver. But to return—— 15
To what, to where? She opened the door, and, putting her umbrella in the stand—that goes without saying; so, too, the whiff of beef from the basement; dot, dot, dot. But what I cannot thus eliminate, what I must, head down, eyes shut, with the courage of a battalion and the blindness of a bull, charge and disperse are, indubitably, the figures behind the ferns, commercial travellers. There I’ve hidden them all this time in the hope that somehow they’d disappear, or better still emerge, as indeed they must, if the story’s to go on gathering richness and rotundity, destiny and tragedy, as stories should, rolling along with it two, if not three, commercial travellers and a whole grove of aspidistra. “The fronds of the aspidistra only partly concealed the commercial traveller—” Rhododendrons would conceal him utterly, and into the bargain give me my fling of red and white, for which I starve and strive; but rhododendrons in Eastbourne—in December—on the Marshes’ table—no, no, I dare not; it’s all a matter of crusts and cruets, frills and ferns. Perhaps there’ll be a moment later by the sea. Moreover, I feel, pleasantly pricking through the green fretwork and over the glacis of cut glass, a desire to peer and peep at the man opposite—one’s as much as I can manage. James Moggridge is it, whom the Marshes call Jimmy? [Minnie, you must promise not to twitch till I’ve got this straight]. James Moggridge travels in—shall we say buttons?—but the time’s not come for bringing them in—the big and the little on the long cards, some peacock-eyed, others dull gold; cairngorms some, and others coral sprays—but I say the time’s not come. He travels, and on Thursdays, his Eastbourne day, takes his meals with the Marshes. His red face, his little steady eyes—by no means. altogether commonplace—his enormous appetite (that’s safe; he won’t look at Minnie till the bread’s swamped the gravy dry), napkin tucked diamond-wise—but this is primitive, and, whatever it may do the reader, don’t take me in. Let’s dodge to the Moggridge household, set that in motion. Well, the family boots are mended on Sundays by James himself. He reads Truth. But his passion? Roses—and his wife a retired hospital nurse—interesting—for God’s sake let me have one woman with a name I like! But no; she’s of the unborn children of the mind, illicit, none the less loved, like my rhododendrons. How many die in every novel that’s written—the best, the dearest, while Moggridge lives. It’s life’s fault. Here’s Minnie eating her egg at the moment opposite and at t’other end of the line—are we past Lewes?—there must be Jimmy—or what’s her twitch for? 16
There must be Moggridge—life’s fault. Life imposes her laws; life blocks the way; life’s behind the fern; life’s the tyrant; oh, but not the bully! No, for I assure you I come willingly; I come wooed by Heaven knows what compulsion across ferns and cruets, table splashed and bottles smeared. I come irresistibly to lodge myself somewhere on the firm flesh, in the robust spine, wherever I can penetrate or find foothold on the person, in the soul, of Moggridge the man. The enormous stability of the fabric; the spine tough as whalebone, straight as oaktree; the ribs radiating branches; the flesh taut tarpaulin; the red hollows; the suck and regurgitation of the heart; while from above meat falls in brown cubes and beer gushes to be churned to blood again—and so we reach the eyes. Behind the aspidistra they see something: black, white, dismal; now the plate again; behind the aspidistra they see elderly woman; “Marsh’s sister, Hilda’s more my sort;” the tablecloth now. “Marsh would know what’s wrong with Morrises…” talk that over; cheese has come; the plate again; turn it round—the enormous fingers; now the woman opposite. “Marsh’s sister—not a bit like Marsh; wretched, elderly female…. You should feed your hens…. God’s truth, what’s set her twitching? Not what I said? Dear, dear, dear! these elderly women. Dear, dear!” 17
[Yes, Minnie; I know you’ve twitched, but one moment—James Moggridge]. 18
“Dear, dear, dear!” How beautiful the sound is! like the knock of a mallet on seasoned timber, like the throb of the heart of an ancient whaler when the seas press thick and the green is clouded. “Dear, dear!” what a passing bell for the souls of the fretful to soothe them and solace them, lap them in linen, saying, “So long. Good luck to you!” and then, “What’s your pleasure?” for though Moggridge would pluck his rose for her, that’s done, that’s over. Now what’s the next thing? “Madam, you’ll miss your train,” for they don’t linger. 19
That’s the man’s way; that’s the sound that reverberates; that’s St. Paul’s and the motor-omnibuses. But we’re brushing the crumbs off. Oh, Moggridge, you won’t stay? You must be off? Are you driving through Eastbourne this afternoon in one of those little carriages? Are you man who’s walled up in green cardboard boxes, and sometimes has the blinds down, and sometimes sits so solemn staring like a sphinx, and always there’s a look of the sepulchral, something of the undertaker, the coffin, and the dusk about horse and driver? Do tell me—but the doors slammed. We shall never meet again. Moggridge, farewell! 20
Yes, yes, I’m coming. Right up to the top of the house. One moment I’ll linger. How the mud goes round in the mind—what a swirl these monsters leave, the waters rocking, the weeds waving and green here, black there, striking to the sand, till by degrees the atoms reassemble, the deposit sifts itself, and again through the eyes one sees clear and still, and there comes to the lips some prayer for the departed, some obsequy for the souls of those one nods to, the people one never meets again. 21
James Moggridge is dead now, gone for ever. Well, Minnie—“I can face it no longer.” If she said that—(Let me look at her. She is brushing the eggshell into deep declivities). She said it certainly, leaning against the wall of the bedroom, and plucking at the little balls which edge the claret-coloured curtain. But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking?—the entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world—a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors. “I can bear it no longer,” her spirit says. “That man at lunch—Hilda—the children.” Oh, heavens, her sob! It’s the spirit wailing its destiny, the spirit driven hither, thither, lodging on the diminishing carpets—meagre footholds—shrunken shreds of all the vanishing universe—love, life, faith, husband, children, I know not what splendours and pageantries glimpsed in girlhood. “Not for me—not for me.” 22
But then—the muffins, the bald elderly dog? Bead mats I should fancy and the consolation of underlinen. If Minnie Marsh were run over and taken to hospital, nurses and doctors themselves would exclaim…. There’s the vista and the vision—there’s the distance—the blue blot at the end of the avenue, while, after all, the tea is rich, the muffin hot, and the dog—“Benny, to your basket, sir, and see what mother’s brought you!” So, taking the glove with the worn thumb, defying once more the encroaching demon of what’s called going in holes, you renew the fortifications, threading the grey wool, running it in and out. 23
Running it in and out, across and over, spinning a web through which God himself—hush, don’t think of God! How firm the stitches are! You must be proud of your darning. Let nothing disturb her. Let the light fall gently, and the clouds show an inner vest of the first green leaf. Let the sparrow perch on the twig and shake the raindrop hanging to the twig’s elbow…. Why look up? Was it a sound, a thought? Oh, heavens! Back again to the thing you did, the plate glass with the violet loops? But Hilda will come. Ignominies, humiliations, oh! Close the breach. 24
Having mended her glove, Minnie Marsh lays it in the drawer. She shuts the drawer with decision. I catch sight of her face in the glass. Lips are pursed. Chin held high. Next she laces her shoes. Then she touches her throat. What’s your brooch? Mistletoe or merry-thought? And what is happening? Unless I’m much mistaken, the pulse’s quickened, the moment’s coming, the threads are racing, Niagara’s ahead. Here’s the crisis! Heaven be with you! Down she goes. Courage, courage! Face it, be it! For God’s sake don’t wait on the mat now! There’s the door! I’m on your side. Speak! Confront her, confound her soul! 25
“Oh, I beg your pardon! Yes, this is Eastbourne. I’ll reach it down for you. Let me try the handle.” [But, Minnie, though we keep up pretences, I’ve read you right—I’m with you now]. 26
“That’s all your luggage?” 27
“Much obliged, I’m sure.” 28
(But why do you look about you? Hilda don’t come to the station, nor John; and Moggridge is driving at the far side of Eastbourne). 29
“I’ll wait by my bag, ma’am, that’s safest. He said he’d meet me…. Oh, there he is! That’s my son.” 30
So they walk off together. 31
Well, but I’m confounded…. Surely, Minnie, you know better! A strange young man…. Stop! I’ll tell him—Minnie!—Miss Marsh!—I don’t know though. There’s something queer in her cloak as it blows. Oh, but it’s untrue, it’s indecent…. Look how he bends as they reach the gateway. She finds her ticket. What’s the joke? Off they go, down the road, side by side…. Well, my world’s done for! What do I stand on? What do I know? That’s not Minnie. There never was Moggridge. Who am I? Life’s bare as bone. 32
And yet the last look of them—he stepping from the kerb and she following him round the edge of the big building brims me with wonder—floods me anew. Mysterious figures! Mother and son. Who are you? Why do you walk down the street? Where to-night will you sleep, and then, to-morrow? Oh, how it whirls and surges—floats me afresh! I start after them. People drive this way and that. The white light splutters and pours. Plate-glass windows. Carnations; chrysanthemums. Ivy in dark gardens. Milk carts at the door. Wherever I go, mysterious figures, I see you, turning the corner, mothers and sons; you, you, you. I hasten, I follow. This, I fancy, must be the sea. Grey is the landscape; dim as ashes; the water murmurs and moves. If I fall on my knees, if I go through the ritual, the ancient antics, it’s you, unknown figures, you I adore; if I open my arms, it’s you I embrace, you I draw to me—adorable world!

Just a quick poem

I always wanted to try creating a poem, but never really did. So here it is, my first one.

Feedback is very appreciated, both good and bad one, but please note that insults don’t count as feedback, even though youtube might tell you otherwhise.


The overwhelming sensation, so pure,

leaving ones mind blank.

Creating both the biggest fear and the most comfort,

tried to be explained, yet so unreasonable.

On good days leaving the heart warm,

on bad days shivering ones body.

Yet to overcome the pain,

creating the intensest of all joy.

Even in face of destruction,

grasping for that small glimmer of hope.


All of this yet none of this all are feelings of love.


CHERNOBYL disaster – 30 YEARS ago


There are commemorations held in the Ukraine today to remark the 30th anniversary of the biggest nuclear disaster in history. Today, 26th April 2016, is exactly 30 years after the accident. There are commemorations held all over the world, NGO’s have special actions to remind the people of the danger that goes along with nuclear powerplants.

For those who don’t know exactly what happend on that day:

26th April 1986. This day would change the world forever. It started off like a normal Saturday. There is an atomic powerplant situated in the USSR, today this part is called Ukraine. It’s early in the morning hours when an experiment failed. An explosion in Unit 4. The fire that started there could not be controlled for more than  a week. The radiation that was released was 200 times grater than released by both atomic bombs together. The people tried to get control over the accident, but they couldn’t. Prijat, a city next to Chernobyl, was not evacuated the next morning, there was no alarm. The inhabitants lived their normal life, kids went to school, parents to work. Nobody knew what happened, they only watched  the multicoloured flames, from the atomic power station 3 kilometers away, with great interest. The unnatural high amout of radiation could be detected in Sweden and even in Swizerland. The evacuation of Prijat was too late. The USSR admited that there might have been a cathastrophe, but that they can control it. Humans were used as liquidators  to clean up the mess and built the sarcophagus. There were 700.000 men who worked as liquidators- the media in the USSR celebrated them as heoros.  They were exposed to dangerous levels of radiation. At least 40.000 of those men  died and further 70.000 were disabled.

The impact of this nuclear disaster can still be seen today. The area around Chernobyl is still a forbidden area. An area of 200.000 square kilometers is highly contaminated. The rates of cancer has increased, especially the children from chernobyl have to suffer from genetic illnesses.

Chernobyl and the Environment

99% of the land of Belarus as been contaminated in 1986.

2.000 towns and villages were evacuated, and more than 400.000 people have been relocated from their homes since 1986. Decades later, another 70.000 are still waiting to evacuate.

The exclusion zone, known as “Death Valley” or “The Zone of Alienation” remains the worlds most contaminated land.

Some of the contaminants infecting the soil and air, such as plutonium, have a half-life of 24.400 years.

The contamination of the land remains the biggest health threat, as caesium 137 finds its way into the human body via the food chain . Yuri Bandashevsky, Prof. MD. PhD in Nuclear Medicine Specialist at the Ivankova Hospital in the Ukraine, states that there should be no caesium in the human body nor should there be a question of temporary or acceptable levels.

“Any dose is an overdose of caesium 137, there should be no question of acceptable levels in the body”, Professor Yuri Bandashevsky.

© 2016 Chernobyl Children International

This disaster in Chernobyl has shown the people who had believed that nuclear power plants are no danger at all and that an accident like that is impossible, that they were wrong and that there’s an imense danger to go with this kind of energy source.

Nothing has changed since that disaster. We imagestill use nuclear power stations. We still live in danger that a new Chernobyl can happen everyday. We still ignore this fact. We cannot get rid of the waste which is produced by an atomic power station. We know that some (most) of these power stations are old and need to be renovated, but we don’t do anything about it. We even built new atomic power stations since then. We don’t rise up and say anything about all these  things. Each and everyone of us does not do anything!

It’s time for a change. “NO” TO NUCLEAR POWER STATIONS! We need to live with green energy. If you don’t start making a change nobody ever will. So it’s not that hard to do something for the environment. There are lots of petitions against nuclear power stations and you can join an organisation to protect the environment.  There are lot’s of NGO’s waiting for you. I myself am part of the greenpeace voluteer team and it’s great to do somethig for our planet (There will be another blog entry about why and how you should join an NGO).  It’s really important that YOU make a differnce and start the change.

Futher reading on this subject:




Petitons to sign:



GET TO KNOW the author: Elizabeth Goudge


In our series “Get to know” we’ll present you some famous Authors you should defenitely know. Today is the birthday of this woman, Elizabeth Goudge. She was a fantastic auther and she even  had an influence on Harry Potter. (Thats true, J.K Rowling said that that was one of her early influences)

Elizabeth de Beauchamp Goudge


Born: 24 April 1900 Wells, England

Died: 1 April 1984
Nationality: British
Genres: Childrensliterature and romances
  • The Little White Horse
  •  The Torminster Saga
  • Linnets and Valerians
  • Green Dolphin Street
  • The Rosemary Tree
  • Island Magic
  • White Wings
  • Smoky-House
  •  The Well of the Star
  • The Little White Horse
  • Make-Believe
  • The Valley of Song
  • The Joy of the Snow: An Autobiography

Quote:”Faith given back to us after a night of doubt is a stronger thing, and far more valuable to us than faith that has never been tested.”





23rd of April-Today is Shakespeares day of death


IMG_0173 IMG_0172

Exactly 400 years ago one of the best authors ever died. Shakespeare. His style of writing may not be that easy to read nowadays but to see his plays performed on stage, especially at Shakespeares Globe, is amazing and still intressting even 400 years later. Today is a good day to read one of his plays again or for the first time. My favourite are Hamlet, A Midsummernightsdream and of course Romeo and Juliet (everyboday knows Romeo and Juliet from their literature classes, we compared it to the “Westsidestory” one of my favourite musicals-I think I’m going to watch it today). You could also learn the most famous quote by heart:

“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;

(thats how far I know it 😉 )

So enjoy the day and read Shakespeare!