Thursday morning, November 2, 2023. I start my column for the next day. Something about Ukraine, that poor Ukraine that is almost blown out of global attention by the war between Israel and Hamas.
Someone has to stand up for that heavily beleaguered country, even if the Kremlin’s Backpage is not considered the most influential press mosquito in the Free West. “Ukraine, that poor Ukraine,” I write, “that is almost completely out of existence…”
A bit of a pathetic start, I’m afraid, it should be looser, more laconic, not so heavy-handed. “Oh, Ukraine,” I resume, and I’m still thinking about a catchy sequel when my wife bursts into my office. “Have you read it yet?” she calls, and she stops NRC at the ready that morning. I see a newspaper headline that escaped me at breakfast: “Storm coming: work from home advice and a cut in train traffic.”
„So what”, I say with demonstrative indifference. “I already work from home. It will work out quite well if I am left alone for a while.”
“Peace?” says my wife. “There will be wind gusts of ninety kilometers per hour this afternoon, up to a hundred kilometers in the coastal areas. The NS warns that trains may be canceled due to fallen trees.” “At the NS they already panic when there are autumn leaves on the rails,” I smile. “How about the trees near our balcony?” she points in the direction of the downstairs neighbors’ garden. “If they blow over, you have to keep quietly tapping away at your piece.”
My wife is very sensitive to storms. She immediately thinks in disaster scenarios. Every breath of wind can count on her vigilance. Windows close, doors are locked, the cat is given a curfew, I have to keep my mouth shut unless I want to howl with the wind. She stands by the window of my office and inspects the balcony more closely. Now come the chairs, I know.
“Those chairs will have to go inside,” she says, pointing to the four rather shaky, once stainless steel cases that are still shivering innocently in the beginning gusts of rain. “They will blow up against the windows if we don’t do anything. Code orange, what do you want?
I realize that in her eyes I have a bad reputation for panic resistance. It has to do with a fire alarm, years ago in a hotel in Oslo, when I waited too long among fleeing hotel guests because I wanted to look for my socks. That had nothing to do with admirable calm, I later heard from an expert, it had just been my form of panic. Little is granted to a person.
Yet I now have to oppose the evacuation of those chairs to the indoors. “They are already soaking wet,” I say sternly, “they will ruin your entire parquet floor.”
That has always been a strong argument. If I want to shake her, I can’t leave that floor. But it is rarely enough. That is why I add: “We cannot store those chairs anywhere else, you are not allowed to place them elsewhere in the building.” She nods reluctantly. “I really have to get on with my work now,” I say quickly, because such an opportunity will not come again.
“What are you writing about?” she asks.