Ikea's The Same

We were heading south to Kent, but at the the junction entering the M25 (the motorway that surrounds London) we headed north. Because of how the roads connect it was actually the quickest way to meet up with my Dad (and his wife Sue and my brother Sam) at the Ikea on the far side of London. It made "sense" (in a way) to drive around the north side of London to go to Kent via Ikea. It was a long drive anyway, but a minor accident caused traffic chaos, adding 40 minutes or so to our journey.

Dad faced similar Sunday traffic woes and by the time we were all at Ikea, we had only about 30 minutes to rush through. We were astounded how it was essentially identical to the Ikea in Calgary. Inside the giant box store with no windows and lots of lovely show rooms, there was little to distinguish the two stores on opposite sides of the world, except that the London Ikea was possibly busier than its Canadian equivalent, if that is possible...

Our house is furnished, but we were still interested in some fairly specific items to make things more comforatble. A computer table for our internet-less computer. We needed some drawer units for holding clothes. We need a couple of chairs to supplement the few that came with the house. It was such a rush through Ikea that we felt compelled to make no decisions at all. We were tempted by the super cheap items in the last few thousand square feet of "market" section, but the queues were too much. Despite driving hours out of our way, we had nothing except for a strange longing for cheap press-board furniture. Why is Ikea so much like Macdonalds' fries? The quality is essential rubbish, but you want them. You long for them. And occassionally, you just need them.

We were on our way to Kent to celebrate my aunt and uncle's 40th wedding anniversary. It was sensational. Not only was Dad, Sue and Sam there, but Emily (my sister) and her boy Armando were there too. My uncle Ron is in the (book) design business in London and he knows how to do things 'right'. The reception was an afternoon tea at a stunning manor house in the hills of Kent. There was a traditional jazz band that played fantastically in the corner. It was just the right volume to be perfectly enjoyable but allowed everyone to chat. The food was lovely. We had a chance to catch up with cousins and June and Ron themselves and got to sit and chat with family as well. Anna was decked out in a cute little pink number and was pleased with all the attention that was showered on her. June and Ron even arranged a magician for the kids and had generous gifts for all the children. It was a wonderful afternoon and we were all a little sad when we had to go. Below is Anna and Grandad:
I spent the rest of the week researching the cost of various different furniture options for us. With no internet, I went old-school and got catalogues from all sorts of companies. I peered through them whenever we had a free moment. For those who remember Consumer's Distributing in Canada, they have an identical set up here called Argos. It's a bit hit and miss with Argos on the quality front and most of our supplied furniture is Ikea anyway so we were leaning heavily towards the Ikea option. Using the catalogue--curse Orange--we established that the nearest Ikea was about 60 miles away in North London. Astonishingly, it was open to midnight. This little discovery was made at about 8pm on a Monday night. By 8:15 we were packing up to drive into London. No crazy traffic was my thought. Driving in London is still a bit intimidating, so the idea of fewer cars made it more appealing.

Sure enough, traffic was light as we ventured into London. There is something called the North Circular, which was the original 'ring road'. The only thing about the North Circular (and, indeed the South Circular) is that isn't always the most identifiably major road. There are loads of traffic lights and roundabouts. It is often one lane with residential homes on either side. There are little shops and pubs. It veers to avoid parks. There are pedustrial (or 'zebra') crossings. It is not unlike Elbow Drive in Calgary. Only there are some 15 million potential drivers rather than a few hundred thousand as Calgary might offer. Still, we drove nearly straight there, arriving at about 9:30. It turns out that a surprsing number of those 15 million odd London area residents had chosen a cold, November, Monday night to go to Ikea. The mamoth cark park was full. After finding a spot and trudging in, we braved crowds that I would associate with a Saturday morning. However, armed with our now slightly dog-eared catalogue and a resounding sense of purpose, we went directly to what we were after. Snap decisions were made. Efficiency ruled the day... or evening. By 11pm, we had picked up our flat, heavy carboard boxes full of press-board (or is it Ikea-drug?) furniture.

The addiction had been satiated as we fled London back to our sleepy little town... which was indeed asleep when we got home at half twelve. A weight had been lifted. We had braved London and Ikea and came out with things that would make us more comfortable without compromising our pseudo-trendiness. Anna slept and quietly went to bed while we unpacked the boxes into our front room.

As it turned out, the boxes sat for a few days in the front room before we were able to deal with them. It's one thing to see them in the show-room, but quite another thing to bring yourself to put them together with a tiny little hex-key that hurts your fingers with every screw that tighten past a moderate resistance. Additionally, one box didn't even have instructions! We phoned Ikea. The lady explained to me that it wasn't a problem as the instructions were online. I told her about Orange and she posted me a copy of the instructions for our Kläppenburg (or whatever) drawer unit. Royal Mail had them to me the next day. Then we realised that in our flurry of purchasing we had actually forgotten to pick up one of the drawer units from the high metal shelves of the pick-up area. The frustration nearly brought me to my knees but what can you do? What WE will do, is do without. And that is actually working out okay. ₤50 saved. That's a family flight to Munich! And if I can write this much about a trip to Ikea, imagine the blog potential!

We leave you with a gratuitous blueberry shot:

Long Time, No Blog

Well, it wasn't by choice. Sadly, the internet provider I chose had problems sending us our 'connection pack'. My first inclination is to rant about Orange's internet service but I will say nothing other than it took Orange (a mobile phone company which offers broadband as well) 4 weeks to get us online.

Things have been very busy as our routine here becomes more clear. I have started work (though only for two days a week until the new year) at Oxford Brookes and the team I work with seem excellent. Ange continues to very much enjoy her work as well. Anna likes her nursery and the other children and seems to be settling in.

There are all sorts of things that need doing, which have occupied much of our free time, as we get established in the new house. The other day Anna and I were on a mission to get a TV license. It's a strange concept to North Americans, to be sure. Thankfully, it isn't based on my ability to actually make sense of and use the TV with the various remotes that are required. The house has a satalite from the previous owner and Britain has a free satalite service appropriately called Freeview(mind you, you pay for a TV license). While there are loads of cool upgrades you can pay for: films, cartoon channels, reality channels and the North American Sports Channel (NASP) which was 'discussed' and despite it showing more than 300 NHL games and nearly every playoff game "we" was decided against it. We might re-discuss when the playoffs roll around.

Anyway, we require this TV license and, after asking a number of Brits, it seems that the Post Office is where one buys a TV license. What one can do at the Post Office is nothing short of amazing. The Post Office is a one-stop interaction point with the national (or federal, if you like) government. In addition to every form you'd ever want and a payment place for all sorts of things, the Post Office offers (this is weird...) bank accounts, credit cards, insurance (house, auto, and life) and a number of other things you would simply never expect from Canada Post.

The downside of the Post Office offering every imagineable service is that there is almost always a lengthy queue. Anna and I braved the queue one afternoon shortly after getting a TV from Dad. Still, the North American in me wanted to reject the all-encompassing role of the Post Office in society, so I meekly approached the post office attendant: "I know this is a post office but people assure me that in addition to needing a license to watch TV, I can get it here at the post office.... ???" The attendent was so nice but regretfully informed me that the Post Office was no longer in the business of selling TV licenses. Perhaps some Senior Post Office person decided it wasn't closely related enough to core business, whereas selling insurance and running bank accounts was...

Regardless, the lady who was helping me was indeed helpful and friendly and directed Anna and I to a nearby petrol (gas) station. Hmmm. The petrol station was a good hike in the drizzle, but we marched over anyway. After waiting in another queue of people waiting to pay for their petrol, we approached the man behind the counter and asked for a TV license. He stared at me kind of blankly. "I was told by the people at the Post Office that this is where you now get television licenses." It turns out the big barrier at this point was going to be the English language. It wasn't really spoken by anyone working at the BP petrol station.

"Need receipt," was all I got from him.

"Right. Well I don't have a receipt at this point as I haven't bought anything." I offered back.

"Need receipt."

"I don't have one..." I was quickly realising that this was going nowhere.

"Need receipt."

As I gave up, slightly annoyed and slightly perplexed. The gentleman behind the counter seemed relieved that he could go back to petrol and junk food transactions. I stood in amongst the crisps and chocolate bars wondering what to do. Finally, I asked someone in line about TV licenses. She was as confused as I was by the receipt thing, but was quick to re-assert that I needed a license to watch TV as the fine for watching without one was significant. She just bought her license online. I thanked her as I silently cursed Orange under my breath and started wandering back home as the darkness of early evening settled and the drizzle continued.

The whole episode took me nearly an hour and half. We watched TV without a license that night and thankfully noone got hurt. Ange bought the license online at work the next day in a matter of minutes. I cursed Orange again.

World Wide Web Woes

I've just sat down at a large faux-birch IKEA style desk at the Caversham public library. There are three old computers that chug along and I sit somewhat dumbfounded in front of one of them. They keyboard seems to have an issue with the letter 'n': it doesn't like to type it without a good hard smack of the letter. It is all strangely reminicent of our travels across Europe in 1999 when Ange and I would seek out some public internet access to quickly set about composing a group email. In the background, despite it being a library, there is a very loud conversation between an old lady who has lost her keys and the nice gentleman who works here. He's helping her go through her purse as she's a bit hard of sight as well as being hard of hearing.

Why does Ben find himself at the public library to write this blog entry? Well, the move from the arctic flat went very smoothly. Moves are made easy by having hardly any stuff. We are now into our terraced house and it is warm and well furnished with fewer dangers for a growing toddler than the last place. And, while the move went off with hardly a hitch, connecting to the world wide web has not gone nearly as well. Just about everyone over here offers broadband internet. From the grocery store Tesco to the mobile phone companies to the more traditioanl telephone companies and digital tv providers. After limited research, I have opted for the broadband plan offered by our mobile phone provider, Orange. Orange offers a great rate but can't sort you out with connectivity for 10 working days. So, I find myself at the library listening to the conversation with the deaf lady and the library attendant (they've found a set of keys... but they're the wrong one. Very strangely, they're the keys to her scooter?!?) and madly trying to pound out an entry on this keyboard before my time runs out.

We will have internet access from home on December 2. Or maybe later. But probably not sooner. That's what the lady at Orange said. So, the blog will hit full swing again in early December and I will also respond to everyone's email at that time.

In the meantime, I'll leave you with an Anna update... she is now moving with alarming speed. She can stand, even unsupported, though only briefly. And, we may have found another favourite food. Blueberries. We can only afford frozen blueberries here (because fresh ones are about £3 for 100g), which presents an interesting mess dilemma. Anna loves them, but as they become unfrozen, blueberry juice gets everywhere. So, she essentiall stains her lips and mouth and hands with every meals we serve them, leaving her looking like she is slightly hypothermic. Of course, with our new heated house, we know this isn't the case. Certainly, it would have been cause for alarm at the last flat, but we're out of the woods for "freezing in your own house" concerns. So, look out for an interactive blog in December: bananas vs. blueberries. Start the hype, this could be big.

Anna also starts daycare next thursday... which corresponds with me starting work. I'm not sure how I feel about it at the moment. The last few months have been a gift. We'll update 'feelings' later. I surely can't add to the chaos at the library right now by getting emotional.

Epilogue: The old lady has found her keys, thanks to the library attendant, who heard them jingle in her coat. Her 'scooter' isn't a motorcycle, though there were shared looks of concern amongst a few of us when we thought it might be: it is an electric 4-wheel sitting thing with a basket on the front. Phew.

Future early December blogs to look forward to: TV Licenses: Can Ben Fail? and IKEA's in London? How Hard Can That Be To FInd?

Tourist in Oxford

Sunday morning we woke up early and started gathering things for our day out in Oxford. Ange had been in touch with a former colleague from the University of Southampton and had arranged to meet in Oxford after decided that it was mostly a central meeting place for us (she lives further away in Birmingham). Five miles donw the road, I realised that I had forgotten the camera (leaving only the phone camera) which was most unfortunate because Oxford is lovely...

I took a different route to Oxford than I had when we went up for my interview at Oxford Brookes. While scenic, it was considerably slower. Then when we got to Oxford, I made the critical error of following the route in Oxford chosen for me by Google Maps. Cripes. I ended up in the "Buses Only" section of road all through the centre. I managed to get off, only to head in the wrong direction. Ange patiently tried to navigate us through the center of Oxford with our less-than-suitable map. The map is of the UK generally; however, for cities, it throws and olive branch by giving you a 2" by 2" mini detailed map of the city center.

With only the occassional road actually named on our map, we were in a bit of trouble. Further, unlike North America, the posting of street names in the UK are a bit hit and miss. In fact, often they're just missed. So we started out driving tour of Oxford center. At one point we thought we had it worked out, only to be foiled by a road closure... and then another road closure... and another.... it seems they were having some sort of run in town which seemed to arbitratily close roads in all directions. Or, at least, the directions we wanted to go. But, we prevailed and finally found the car park we were advised to park in.

Alison and her husband and two young children met up with us on the high street. It was a great day of exploring a stunning little city. Alison's husband had gone to uni in Oxford and showed us all over. We visited his college and ate our picnic lunch on the steps of the library. We also visited the Oxford Natural History Museum, which was an excellent choice with three young children in our company as it was voted the most family friendly museum in Britain. So much to see and touch. Importantly, to touch. Anna was well pleased with the cheetah and we returned to him many times to both pat and to laugh at. To Anna, he was a very funny cheetah. The funniest she's met, in fact.

There was also a french market in town (like the one that visited Henley) that was advertising itself as a Chrismtas market but was, in fact, just a regular French market with nothing Christmassy about it. Still, it was excellent and we had French goodies.

In the end, it was a great day! It was a little short, which is to be expected when it involves cheetahs and non-Christmas French Christmas markets which make everything far too exciting for a nap. Mind you, even dad needed a nap! And the company was great. I'm sad that they live so far away!

Tomorrow, we move into our new house! Hooray! This, of course, is presuming that Countrywide Letting Agency doesn't come up with some surprise thing that we needed to do but haven't, despite us asking if there was anything we needed to do. I am sure it will provide some sort of story that isn't entirely interesting but that I will recount in great detail regardless.

By A Hair

It was cold when I wandered into the kitchen at 7:15 this morning. Not as cold as a couple of mornings over the past weeks, where we had the frost overnight but still a cold that would clearly challenge our fridge.

Yesterday mum arrived from Canada. Anna and I picked her up from Heathrow and braved traffic on the M4 until cutting cross-country and through Henley towards Caversham(-on-Thames). We stopped for a quick walk about the town, showing off the lovely old buildings as if they somehow belonged to us. We had delicious, but over-priced mochachino at the Café Nero and a nice chat with mum about settling in England and what the family was up to in Vancouver.

When we got back to our flat in Caversham, mum was only slightly taken aback by its sparsity and frigid temperatures. She opted to have a nap on our bed rather than the pitiful little futon we had managed to borrow for her visit. While mum had a nap, so should have Anna. But it wasn't on. So, Anna joined me in a quick jaunt down to the high street to pick up a thermometer. I had tried to pick up a thermometer at the Tesco and the Waitrose, the local pound store (akin to a dollar store at home) and a hardware store in Henley. The supermarkets both showed me a thermometer to read ones' temperature with while the pound store had somehow managed to sell out of them. I guess others are having similar questions about their houses with the onset of autumn. The store in Henley had them, but they were horrible little things that they were charging 5 quid for. I simply couldn't justify $12 on a thermometer. Luckily, the 'everything' store on the corner (where we buy birdseed) had them for a couple of quid. It's even made in Britain. But it is a cheap thermometer, so I can't guarantee the accurateness of the readings it gave: but I am assuming it was consistent, so the relative temperature of the fridge and the kitchen should be soundly measured.

Getting back to the plot: I walk into the kitchen and it is cold enough to see your breath, but I don't believe it was the coldest it has been. Still, our little experiment wasn't about the coldest the kitchen ever got, merely that we would measure the temperature on the morning of Friday, November 10, 2006. So, the temperature in our kitchen? 8 degrees Celsius (or, if you prefer, about 46/47 Fahrenheit).

Our fridge? Well, in this instance, the seemingly obvious answer was the correct one. But, just how close was our fridge in managing to be the colder of the two?According to our cheap-o thermometer from the everthing store, it was 7.5 degrees Celsius (about 45/46 Fahrenheit).

Well done to Shivani and Jacqui! Jaq, you've won yourself a British chocolate bar on the draw. What can we get for you? Shiv, you may bask in the satisfaction of getting it right (though in the hearts of everyone who was thinking, "Gaww, it has got to be the fridge that is colder, no matter what Ben thinks!", I am betting you were not thinking the difference would be half a degree)... and, Shiv, when you visit us: I'm sure we'll have chocolate on hand! ;-)

As a side note, after cooking a meal using the gas stove and cookers, the temperature shot up to nearly 13 degrees Celsius. Though still a little cold, persepctive (let me assure you) is everything and it felt quite nice...

Interactive Blog #2

When I last wrote that the fridge had become redundant, I admit to trying to be funny. Only, I fear I may have been closer to the truth than either Angela or I care to admit.

There are some strong indications that our kitchen is abnormally cold by the standards set in the Western world in 2006. First, we bought bananas last week and have left them on the counter to ripen. Only, they haven't ripened. I think the refrigeration unit that is our kitchen has slowed the ripening to a near stand-still. The upside is that I went to Waitrose and got a reduced price on a couple of bananas that were already ripe and needed getting rid of.

The second indicator is that Ange's plant never needs watering and seems to be in a state of non-activity. By contrast, the same type of plant she took into her office needs watering daily. Over a week and not a drop needed for the one in our kitchen. It's like being in the fridge at the florist. Maybe we should buy some cut flowers for the rest of our stay here?

Wearing shoes in our kitchen is simply a must. Not to do so borders on painful after a short time. And, in the morning, walking into the kitchen almost takes your breath away as if you've jumped into a cold swimming pool... the breath you do manage to let out is clearly visible.

So, what's interactive about this silly complaining? Well, we're going to do an experiment. It can generally be characterised as such:

Is our kitchen colder than the inside of our fridge?

I can honestly say that I think this will be incredibly close. We may have to go to fractions of a degree to declare a winner. Here's the plan: on Friday morning, we will have left a thermometer out all night, and we will measure the temperature as we come in (before we boil the kettle or run the toaster). After recording the temperature, we will put the same thermometer in the fridge for 30 minutes or more before measuring the temperature of the fridge. We will declare the coldest (the fridge or the room in which the fridge sits) on Friday before Canadians are done work.

So, you just have to post on this blog which you think will be colder. Of those who get it right, we'll draw for the chocolate! Now, I've got to get my toque before preparing dinner...

GCH

First off, it isn't astonishingly cold here. The Reading area appears to be marginally colder than Southampton, which was on the coast. We have had two mornings of frost here, whereas in Southampton there was hardly ever a frost, even in the middle of winter. Despite not having the sea to slightly moderate the temperature it is, as they say, a damp cold. For a Canadian example, the temperature is nearly identical this week to Vancouver, only with much less rain.

The thing is, furnaces are kicking in all over the lower mainland as autumn sets in. Us? Well, we don't have a furnace. It's funny, they advertise gas central heating (GCH) as a feature on rental properties here. It is becoming abundtantly clear why one might think that a feature rather than a "nice-to-have". I must first qualify that we have been very lucky to have been let the place we're in: it is inexpensive, shockingly convenient for both Ange and I, it has been entirely flexible and it is very clean. It is however an old building and the flat we're in seems to have been squeezed in at some point, as it was needed. Rather than central heating, it has four wall-mounted electric heaters. One in the lounge (common room), one in our bedroom and another in one of the other two bedrooms. Haphazardly, there is also one in the hallway. So, for those who are paying keen attention, you'll notice I haven't mentioned two critical rooms: the kitchen and the bathroom.

To round out the picture, I will explain that when most of these older home in Britain were built, "singled glazed" windows were installed. In other words, a single piece of glass. And if one might think that a lone piece of glass doesn't act as insulation, in addition to being right, they'd also have to appreciate that most of these old wooden window frame don't actually meet and seal, so windows are essentially always open in some capacity. So, put together a night of frost, a house full of open windows and nothing of substance to heat the house with the open windows and you have the picture more or less... Not surprisingly, rental accomodation also advertises "UPVC double glazed windows" as a feature.

With our windows and feeble electirc heaters, only two rooms are currently moderately unlike being outdoors. Regardless, it is cold in our accomodation. I don't honestly think I'd be lying to say that the fridge has become reduntant in our kitchen. But, we're only 10 days from double glazed windows and gas central heating, using radiators. Glorious radiators.

Yesterday, Anna and I trecked down to Ashford, Kent. I have an aunt and uncle there and my cousin, with her husband and three children are also there. Anna had a wonderful day playing with Max (6), Freddy (3), and Mimi (6 months) and all of their toys. It was great. Dad even dropped by on his way back to Norfolk from a job on the south coast. Anna was also given a super-cute toque and mitts by Aunt June and Uncle Ron, so she's all ready to go into the kitchen, bathroom and third bedroom of our flat. Mimi, Freddy and Anna pose for a photo:

And the Winner is...

Anna got up this morning with her usual chipperness. Ange took her down and started her on her breakfast while dad really worked hard to drag himself out of bed. Not surprising to any parents out there, but it still amazes me slightly that my new life of liesure involves getting up earlier than I have ever had to for any job that I've had (except for the odd coffee shop gig back in the day)... To the right, Anna early this morning in her hoodie, as it was shockingly cold in our flat.

A quick inventory of food revealed that we were in need of avocado for the favourite food selection lunch. Dad alo needed a coffee. It was brisk outside, but sunny. Like Calgary, only not quite that brisk. We stopped to get a coffee at the new coffee shop in town, which has supplanted all others for a blend of affordability and quality. We then visited the Waitrose to get avocado, picked up a nice little bottle of Italian red wine that is ridicluously cheap as this month's specialty and then walked over to the butcher. With a tiny fridge and no freezer, I find we end up buying food almost daily. The butcher is particularly friendly and when I explained that I wanted some steak for fajitas, he pulled out a couple of little steaks that he figured would be difficult to sell because of their odd size and gave them me them at cost. Then (and this makes a special trip worthwhile) he offered to cut the steak into strips for me. He noted that his knife was probably sharper than anything I had... if he only knew. And he could have seen very clearly, because I happened to have our Swiss Army knife on me to cut fruit in an emergency hunger situation.

When we got back to the flat, Anna was giving all the signs for a nap. So, we made our first of three attempts at a nap this morning. She's learned to roll over and get herself up adn crawl/stand about the crib, so naps are beginning to be more and more a time to play in the crib rather than actually sleep. However, as the one truly warm room in the house, I suppose I shouldn't complain. Anyway, after lying down, sitting up, and flopping around the crib for 40 minutes, Anna was ready for her pick-the-favourite-food lunch. As promised, the food was layed out on her high chair tray as equally as I could, as can be seen. I have to confess, I had secretly chosen avocado to win this little eating lottery with a suspicion that the cheerio might just slip in based on the level of comfort she has dealing with cheerios (a fairly regular snack fo her).

By now it was all business. Anna was hungry and she had 5 of her favourites about to be placed in front of her. There would be no humming and ahhing. She would go right for one without question. But which would it be?

We see Anna just prior to selection carefully considering her options (cheerio fans, don't worry, the tray was no yet on her high chair and after taking the photo, the cheerio was moved back into position)...

And the winning food? The food of choice? The preference when all the options are presented? Banana. Second was the gouda cheese which she certainly hadn't finished chewing before the avocado was stuffed in too. Kiwi was fourth, leaving our most popular choice in dead last. Anna Fitch: making healthy choices at 10 months old.

Robyn and Matt, you've won and all-expense paid trip for a chocolate bar of your choice to Calgary, Alberta! You'll have to email me your address as I don't actually have it?!? So we leave you with the moment of truth:

Quaint

So, the local exploring has gone quite well. Anna and I have been quite taken with Goring. Goring is a small Berkshire (pronounced Bark-sher) village just 10 miles west on the Thames. The old town is a stunning little collection of mostly 17th and 18th century brick buildings. The high steet winds down a small hill to the Thames, where a series of locks and weir dams change the elevation of the river. Anna and I stumbled on it getting lost on the way to another Thames-side town called Purley and decided to stop for a coffee and some cheerios.

We did a walk along the high street and over the bridge into the town on the far side, called Streatly. There is a pleasant pub on the river which we considered and then returned to Goring. Coming across the bridge, you could see the top of an old Norman church. We cut down an alley of old brick buildings that had little plaques with names like "Old Cottage" and "The Mill" on them. I remember it being cobled, though I am certain it wasn't. It just had a cobbled feel to it. We came out into a small green cemetry shaded by a massive tree. Behind was the Norman church with the door open. As we approached, an elderly gentleman came out and we quickly picked up conversation. Ray explained the significance of many of the houses we could see, what their history had been, etc. He told us which was the best and oldest pub and why the church had this "stucko" over about half of it, while th other half was lovley stone (apparently it was done at that end of the 1800s when the parish had little money but the church was in dreadful need of repairs). I asked after one little cottage that stood near the church. There was visible wood that was clearly very old amongst the brick as support, the roof sagged slightly and it was a charming little house. Ray mentioned that it even had earthen floors up until the 1990s when a "pop star" had bought it and modernized much of it. We talked for a good while about the cottage while Anna watched the birds from her stroller. He kept refering to this "pop star" who, it turned out, was a very good neighbour of the church and who had done this and that to the grounds... I eventually asked who it was, expecting some local British celebrity. Ray explained, "I don't know if you would have heard of him in America, but his name is 'George Michael'." I explained that I had heard of him and took the included photo with my camera phone. For what it's worth, he seldom visits this home much anymore... I can't imagine why. It is lovely.



This past Sunday, I took Ange to Goring and showed her the river, the pubs, the church and George's house. But before we went to Goring, we went to the village of Hambleden. It is the strangest little village. Very cute. Every building is flint and brick, all surrounding a large Norman church.
Apparently it was built largely at the same time and, at one point, nearly the whole town was owned by the W.H. Smith family (they're a large retail bookstore in the UK). Being largely unaltered, it has a magical feel to it. As if confirming its quaintness, it is often used as a period movie-set in all sorts of movies and dramas. The day we were there, they had an art sale in the local village hall. We were very lucky to catch the art sale, as it only happens every 2 years. Well, "lucky" mainly in timing. The art was very local and I'm not certain that the area is known for a thriving arts community. Lots of basic water colours of the village... many of which I was oddly suspicious that I might be able to do myself. The prices were nevertheless the prices of original art so we didn't pick up any originals on this day. We did, however, enjoy a beer in the beer garden of the local pub. It was unreal. There was a large lawned garden behind the low brick and flint pub building. There were probably two dozen picnic tables and dogs, kids and toddlers roamed freely about the area. They even had a special baby changing bathroom at the pub. Families were definitely welcome.

Finally, a gratuitous shot of an early morning book read. It followed, probably, another disappointing viewing of Flames highlights. If you can call them highlights this year. What's going on?

Only a day left to post your bet on Anna's favourite food, as chosen by her!

Interactive Blog Update (Rules)

As I am clearly rubbish at thinking these things through and I didn't specify in the post below: I have left room for multiple winners. Yep, chocolate can go to more than one person. Anyone who chose based on "what was left" may re-choose by posting again below. :)

I'm learning!

We're off to a couple of country villages today. Goring and Hambleden are on the itinerary. And, maybe a coffee in Henley. Henley Hockey Club drew yesterday. That means three draws in a row after the first week I was here with a win. One of the boys commented, "So, we're still undefeated under the Mountie." I think I prefer "coach." Or, "Ben." That applies to various Alberta U18/U19 team nicknames for their coach too!

Interactive Blog Time

We have our first prize opportunity on the Zucchini or Courgette blog. The prize is British chocolate (of your choice… and if you don’t know, I can choose for you) posted directly to your door, regardless of where you live in the world.

On Wednesday, November 1, 2006 Anna will be given one small piece of each of the following at her lunchtime meal:

• a small piece of Tesco’s finest gouda cheese slice


• a small piece of organic banana (purchased likely from Waitrose)


• a cheerio (sadly a Nestle product over here, rather than a General Mills… are they in cahoots?)


• a small piece of organic avocado (likely to be purchased from Waitrose)


• a small piece of organic kiwi fruit (likely a Tesco purchase)

All you have to do is choose which she will eat first, in whole or in part. Everything, except for the cheerio, will be approximately the same size (the cheerio will be cheerio-sized). She genuinely likes everything that is listed above, so we’re discovering what her favourite food is (this week). All you need to do to enter is post a comment with your full name (first and last (or last initial) please) and the food Anna will choose to eat first.

Anna is going to love this game as she will get all of her favourite foods in one meal!

Scheming For Literacy

Anna and I met our key-worker yesterday. Every child under the age of 5 in Britain is assigned one. They’re qualified nurses, and many are also midwives, who are the first point of contact for any and all health related questions. Anna and I had gone in to weigh Anna. She is on the cusp of needing a larger car seat. The 9 kg cusp. It turns out she is 8.54 kg, meaning that she is slightly too small for the next car seat and right at the 50th percentile.

She was given her “red book,” which I was most happy to receive. A few times fellow parents have asked about her red book relating to weight or height or whatever (it contains her immunization record, and a record of her check-ups, etc) and when I explain that I have no idea what they’re talking about, I get frowns and looks of “you’re not much of parent, are you?” Well, now I am armed with Anna’s red book and despite it being completely empty, I feel a better parent for it.

At eight months, all children are given a little package that encourages reading. It has details on joining the library, some book order forms that get you books inexpensively, and a couple of books too. The books are a bit odd. Not exactly Each Peach Pear Plum or Moo, Baa, La La La but new books nonetheless. For Anna, this means new pages to turn (which is so exciting right now that she seldom has the patience to actually let you read what is on the page) and new book spines to chew on.

I was clearly slightly baffled when they handed me our bag of reading goodies. The Nurse explained that it was a, “a government scheme to encourage literacy.” I’m not teasing the scheme, because I think it is great. And Brits reading this will think it odd that I find the word scheme funny because it is perfectly normal to use the word here in that context. But North Americans: a “scheme” to get kids reading? Don’t mind us, we’re just going to quietly trick your kid into reading. The nurse also wants to make a home visit. I’ve arranged for that to happen after we get into our house. I can only imagine our file, and what schemes might suddenly apply to us if they saw our current state of affairs. Mind you, we might get more free stuff.

All in all, it is great. The nurses were fantastic and genuinely helpful. I feel better for having had Anna weighed.

Wet in the East End

Ange and I were talking the other day about how, since we'd not been to London, it hadn't entirely felt like we had arrived in England. Every trip to Egnland we've ever taken has involved some epic cross-London train marathon or day trip to take in the sights and sounds. Either way, we've been here for six weeks and still haven't been into London.

Emily and Armando just recently arrived back from their multi-month trip to South East Asia and Emily and I have been texting about getting together. A plan was hatched: Ange, Anna and I would take the 9am train into London, catch the tube over to the place they're staying at and we'd go for lunch and do something 'touristy'.


So, by 8:30 the three of us piled out of the house, Anna in the Baby Bjorn, and a little backpack of food and nappies for the day. The walk over to the train station takes about 20 minutes, but by the time we'd stood in the queue for our tickets, we missed the 9am fast train into Paddinton Station (by about a minute). No problem, trains leave for London every 15 minutes on a Sudnay, so we purchased some train-station-priced coffee and found our platform. We got on the train and sat ourselves down, only vaguely realising that we had got ourselves on the Sunday calling-at-all-stations train. The fast train takes about 25 minutes. The one we got on took 50. It was unfortunate and ill-advised with Anna in need of a nap.

There is something special about arriving in a London train station. You feel like you have arrived somewhere special, be it Waterloo or Liverpool Street, Victoria or Paddington. We got caught up in the crowd and Anna was especially intrigued by 4 little girls skipping hand-in-hand singing London Bridge has Fallen Down in full chorus. I had no idea there were so many verses. We kept pace with them as much for ourselves to learn the new verses as for Anna's clear facination. Sadly our little entertainers took us the wrong direction and we ended up on the opposite side of the station from where we needed to be. We checked the signs and plodded back to literally where we had got off to take the Hammersmith & City line direectly to Emily. Only, the Hammersmith & City line was closed all weekend for "essential repair work." We then trecked back to where the singing girls had taken us in the first place to get on another line, which involved a transfer. Suddenly our 10am meeting time was closer to 11:30.

Emily and Armando took it in stride when we met up with them at Dave and Dan's appartment in the East End. It was very good to see everyone, as we've known Dave for years and Dan we met last time we were here. Dave, in fact, took on Ange in a still often referenced "Dance Off" one nice at a club in London a few years back. Emily is looking really good. Despite being well pregnant now, she is hardly showing. We quickly fed Anna and charged off to the Flower Market. Only, as we were leaving, we realised the it had started to rain. anna was now in her new little London-sized buggy (stroller) which we had no rain cover for. We manipulated a small umbrella into the frame of the push chair, which covered all of here except for her feet.

We then seemed to get lost on the way to the market, which was a shame because we were all quite cold and wet when we got there... and what a very cool market. Every imagineable kind of flower and wild assortment of potted plants stuffed into a little east end lane. All sorts of voices yelled out from hundreds of stalls. As far as I can tell, you could get just about any permeatation or comination for "only a fiver". Some of them even claimed to the masses that, "I'm crazy to do it, but I'm givin' free [3] bunches for a fiva!" I'm not sure he was crazy. After all, there were guys either side of him and 2 meters across from him doing exactly the same thing with much the same flowers and plants. Behind the overstuffed stalls were funky little shops selling everything from designer clothes to georgeous baked goods and coffee. Lunch being ages away, we had a coffee and a savoury treat that still makes my mouth water. What was astounding was that as the rain lashed down, this place was packed. Our mini buggy only just fit, but with an umbrella sitting on top, it was a genuine hazard in amongst the people. No one seemed to notice how wet it was.

Still, we didn't last too long. We poked our head in a couple of stores. One to get a blanket for Anna, who had very wet feet by now. Unfotunately, designer blankets cost 40 quid and we couldn't justify it. We walked over to the high street and bought her a cheap little outfit she will never wear again, but it was dry. AND, it came in a plastic bag that we put around Anna's legs and clipped in so she couldn't eat it. Dry and warm, Anna was still without nap and it was pushing 3pm. She couldn't handle the restaurant and Ange and I had to dive out and head back to the flat without eveyrone so Anna could get a brief nap. The crowd filtered back to the flat by 4:30 and by 6:00 Ange and I were looking at the time to head home.

Of course, the trip back involved all sorts of tube problems and it was nearly 10pm when we got back to our flat in Caversham. Somehow, we had managed to spend 60 quid going to and from London and eating whilst there. But we hadn't actually done anythiing. It was extraordinary. It was, however, great to be back in London. We are now officially here in our minds. Also, we know a little bit more about taking Anna out on the trains in England in her new "I'm mobile" age. We also know that we must revisit the flower market in the summer.

The first photo is of Anna showing off her new outfit that Dave got for her. The second is entirely gratuitous: Anna and I watching the NHL highlights from the night before very, very early in the morning... after Anna decided 5:20 was a good time to wake up. Also notice the comfotable computer table set-up we have going. We have since replaced the trunk with a large box that her high chair came in, since it puts the screen more out of reach. In turn, we're now trying to stop Anna from eating the computer-table-box, as she's taken a liking to chewing on cardboard.

Finding Work in the UK

I have now tried looking for work twice in England. Moreover, in both instances, "try" would be a very liberal interpretation of the word. Nevertheless, in both instances I have unsuccessfully turned down a good job that I was keenly interested in doing.

It seems I have inadvertently adopted the "no thanks" method of getting work in the UK as a matter of course. I'm not sure this sort of approach is for those who are in desperate need of work today, but it has so far served me well.

In 1999, Ange and I had just decided to explore different countries for a time and I wandered into Southampton to meet up with my friend Erika. We were at the pub and she was telling me about her job working at an internet company. She also mentioned that they were looking for people. I'm not entirely sure why, but I asked Erika to mention me to the owners. I clearly didn't want a job. I was right in the midst of 11 month treck around Europe. I had just ditched the motorcycle and was about to activate my Eurorail pass and head south with my mate Pete Charles Turner. Pete was in the last few days of a marathon work schedule designed to maximise cash before hitting the road. I was looking for something to do. So, why not interview for a job I didn't want?

So I walked in with the confident swagger of someone who was leaving for Paris in a couple of days. We chatted. They likde me. I liked them. Maybe it was my cavalier attidude? Maybe it was the fact I had the audacity to show up in hiking boots, cargos and a ripped shirt (It was only a very small rip, and, indeed, it was chosen not for its rip but rather because it had collar and it was clean: a combination no other shirt in my pack could offer). Regardless, they phoned my friend the next day to have me phone them back (I had no phone, or fixed address for that matter). I gave John a call and he offered me the job. Now I had a problem. How do I explain that I wasn't really serious and that I had just wasted an hour of their time? I sputtered. I waffled. I explained that I liked the idea of the job, but the timing was bad. I had, for example, no phone or address. For that matter I didn't have a clean collared shirt without a rip in it. I was clearly in no situation to begin work anytime soon. I also had plans to go to Paris, Madrid, Rome, Athens, Istanbul, Berlin and Prague. So, I turned it down. But, as I turned it down, I mentioned that I'd be rolling back through Sotuhampton in January if there was work then... it was like an olive branch. I was saying, "I like you enough that I do want to work for you, but not so much that I want to work for you now." Understandably, they thought it probably not so likely that they would have something to suit my schedule.

I walked away content. We were friends and I was doing what I wanted to do. The only thing is that 5 weeks later I am sitting on the beach in Greece waiting for a turn on the hostel computer. It comes free, I brush the sand off my feet and sit down to send out mass email update (they were cool then). Happily, there is an email from Erika. I open it and let out a gasp. Erika writes: "I was just speaking with John and he said to me that you're starting with 24-seven [the company] in January. Is that true?" Erika had provided John's email and I emailed him asking what he was thinking. He was thinking that I start the first working day in January. How very convenient, I thought, as I slipped on my sandals, picked up a beer for Ange and I and wandered back out onto the beach to tell Ange that I had just been hired in Southampton right about the time we would be running out of money.

The above is, of course, one of those stories you have when you're 23 and frittering around Europe. Yet, it somehow bears a striking similarity to what has just happened to me here in England again. Only this time, I am serious. There's Anna now! We do real jobs and take things moderately seriously. Let me explain:

In this very blog, I told you about me turning down the job at Oxford Brookes University. I had applied for the job from Canada. It was one of only a couple (yes, it was actually 2) of jobs I bothered to apply for in advance. You know, the stress of leaving and what. My dad had to send the forms back for me as I was unable to actually fill them out in time to respond myself. I was then mildly surprised to get an interview, being that it was surely the only application from Canada, using some obscure British address with a "care of" in the title.

The interview fell on the perfect day, since Ange had not yet started her job and could mind Anna. This little convenience should not be underestimated since we know noone here and I would have otherwise had to take her to the interview! Ange and I discussed me working at length. It was clear. I didn't want to work until the new year. If I did get the job, it was too soon and Anna deserved to have someone home with her. So, I knew that before I went in, I would have to turn it down if I got it. Well, the old cavalier attitude probably made an appearance again. In fairness to me, I was dressed appropriately this time around. I even borrowed an iron and quickly ironed my shirt, tie and suit on the kitchen table the night before.

The phone call came just hours later. The job was mine. Only, I knew I couldn't reasonably take it with a January start date. I deflected. I waffled. I sputtered. The timing was bad. I mentioned January... which went over poorly. I explained that child care was difficult to sort out in a new country (which it is!) and that we couldn't possibly get something before January (which, it turns out, is entirely true as well for the places we'd actually send Anna). I found myself saying it again: "I like you enough that I do want to work for you, but not so much that I want to work for you now."

My adventure on this horizon was hanging out with Anna. And heck, we might still end up in Paris or Madrid or Berlin, though probably not Istanbul if it likely to be the same hostel as Ange and I stayed in. Besides, we were still of no fixed address, I couldn't even remember my mobile number if someone asked me, and my suits and work clothes were still madly jammed into my trunk and would take days to iron on the kitchen table. It was not to be. We amicably parted, me thowing out the olive branch that if they had something in the new year I would be interested in chatting again.

A week later, I am preparing dinner with a glass of wine in hand and the phone rings. It was Oxford Brookes. The second-choice person hadn't accepted because her work had counter-offered or something. I was being re-offered the job. I have to be honest, I didn't know what to say. "A January start?" Yep. It appears so. As before, it appears to have fallen together very nicely indeed. To be fair, I will go in a few times before Christmas so that I can hit the ground running in January, but otherwise, it is exactly what I was after and I'm very excited about the job itself!

One of my friends here calls me "jammy." In this instance, and the one where I got the job in Southampton, I accept it. There is clearly an element of jamminess. I also don't think that even in the current UK job market that the "no thanks" method of accpeting jobs is always your best course of action. However, what I can say is that I am not going to anymore interviews here where there is no likelihood of me starting the job on offer within three months of the interview.

Routine

It's been a bit difficult to settle into a routine. Our current state of camping in a flat has something to do with it. Having the company of visitors has also injected excitement that defies routine. However, Anna and I have managed to meet a few of the locals and have been trying out coffee shops around the high street. The coffee shops vary greatly in quality and atmosphere, but not hugely in price.

The Caversham Café is the odd duck of the choices on offer. It has a lovely patio area that sits in the courtyard just off the street. There's lots of bustle and often many people sitting out, especially when the sun is out. But, despite its promise, it places third in the Ben & Anna morning coffee charts. It's grimy, which could be overlooked, except that the coffee also isn't very good. Despite having a full espresso machine sitting there, you order a latté and they press a button on a coffee machine that you'd expect to find in the seldom-used eating area of an insurance company based out of a 1960s low rise office building. There's a slightly sour taste to the coffee, hinting that maybe the machine needed a good clean from weeks or months of milk foam build up. In the courtyard, the Parisian style metal tables and chairs sit askew beneath a chesnut tree which sounds quite lovely. But it is actually marginally dangerous at this time of years with huge great chesnuts, with their charp husks, plummeting to the ground all around you.

There's a bakery across the street which serves coffee. The baked goods are super. The baguettes are amazing. The coffee, though also out of a machine, is in a different league. Probably more like the coffee one might expect for those in the employ of Encana. However, inside is a bit institutional. The seating is more like a Dairy Queen than a café. There are two little tables outside that sit annoyingly close to the road. Pedustrians waiting for a break in traffic essentially stand with you while you drink your coffee. In fact, we met Ian the other day in this manner. Ian lives in Caversham and is bound to a wheelchair. A very odd bloke, but genuinely nice. "Cheeky chops," he calls Anna. This must come from some television show in Britain in the 1970s or something because it seems to be what a certain generation of people call babies here. Digression aside, the bakery is best for take-away coffee and a cake.

Kaldi & Co. is where it is at. Comfy leather chairs, good coffee prepared at a proper machine. A little patio area out back that is entirely pleasant. Claire owns it. Actually, I suspect, her mum and dad own it and she runs it. It's 30p more expensive for the same thing. That might just be the cost of sitting down for a cup of genuinely good coffee in a nice environment and it is certainly worth it for unsoured milk. The other upside is that there are always lots of buggies (strollers), babies, mums, grandmums, the occassional dad (besides me), or child minders.

So, with Kaldi & Co. as our coffee stop, Anna gets to chew on a coffee coaster and get very excited about other people remotely her size while I get the morning started with some caffeine. We then walk down to the strangest little store that sells the oddest assortment of things I have ever seen. The store is tiny and seems to have a bit of a hardware store theme to it. Mind you, it also has an excellent selection of batteries and gardening items. I believe it also sells newspapers. The walls are so completely packed, that you're compelled to just ask the shop owner if they have what you're after since it would be an absurd game of "Where's Waldo" to try and find it yourself. The items then spill onto the sidewalk (pavement, they call it over here) on these little shelves that would normally be used by fruit and veg vendors. It's a Haskayne School of Business branding nightmare. Nevertheless, they sell the most outrageously large bags of wild bird seed for only a pound! You get about a kilogram of bird seed.

So, Anna and I pick up a bag and head to the park along the Thames. It is, after all, been newly marketed by us as Caversham-on-Thames. We walk right past the geese and the swans. There are so many swans. And they have to be the most arrogant bird I've ever witnessed. We saw a cyclest nearly ride his bike into the river as he came up on bunch of swans who simply refused to alter their course to avoid him. I also fear they might take a nip at Anna. So we continue on to a little bend in the path where a small group of pigeons live with their friends the ducks. I prefer the ducks, but Anna speaks pigeon and gets quite excited by their exuberance over wild bird seed. It's as symbiotic a relationship as one could hope for. Also, if you time it right, the bird man comes. He the nicest old gentleman who comes everyday to feed the pigeons. They see him sit down and fly right over to him, landing all over his shoulders and lap. He pulls out his peanuts (which, incidently, he gets from the same store that we get our wild bird seed from, and where you could get a hammer and a new cover for your mobile phone while you were at it) and he slowly feeds the pigeons as they hang about all over him. Anna is bewildered by it all. I can't say that I'm not slightly too.

The photos are from a couple of day trips in country which we've used to break up the routine a little. The first is of Anna confirming that yes, in fact, it is raining quite hard. The next is of her contemplating how miserable it must have been for the Royalists who held out inside Donnington castle for 20 months with Cromwell's nasty army sitting outside. The last is of Anna in awe of St. Albans Cathedral. Yes, I explained, they were 2000 year old Roman bricks that made up much of the masonary.

Aluminium Baking Trays

Brita and Andrew left for us some baking trays when they left England. Very kindly, Dave and Tiff had them sitting at their house until we met up today at Dave's parents in Woking. In the very large paper bag was the perfect baking tray for cooking a bird. Now we have two. I had originally intended to buy an alumninum one for the Thanksgiving dinner. Jacqui, Anna and I had wandered the aisles of Tesco for many minutes before approaching a member of staff about the whereabouts of a full-size aluminum baking tray. We were sent in many different directions which resulted in nothing resembling what we were after... well, not exactly what we were after. We could buy one with a full chicken, mashed potato, carrots and broccoli dinner in it with a sealed top. We could also buy one with BBQ brickets and a flimsy grill. However, we couldn't find the tray on its own. Jacqui had been refering to them as 'aluminum,' so after three unsuccefful requests for help, I waded into the conversation to offer the translation to 'aluminium.' "Ah," said the lady, quite indignantly. "Naw we don't have them here in England that I've seen. It's a bit wasteful, innit?" As I stood there a bit perplexed that I could go buy a disposable BBQ in exactly the same thing that I was after, yet was being chastised for being a wasteful North American, the irony stung ever so slightly. But, I decided she was actually right. So I bought a permanent one. And now we have two.

Swiss Thanksgiving

Is the word adventure or hassle? I've not decided for our current state of affairs. Either way, knowing a nice, well-outfitted house is only 4 weeks away makes the current quarters liveable. The problem lies in the fact that we haven't much of anything, while having everything we 'need'.

So, for example:
We have mugs. 8 of them, in fact. Meaning we have fulfilled the need of something to drink out of. It also means that we have tea, juice, wine, beer, and water out of the same mug. However, I do feel as though we 'need' glasses. But there is no point in buying glasses since we'll have them with the house we're renting in 4 weeks.

There is a laundrette down the road. So, for our need to wash clothes, we can pile them into a backpack and trundle down during opening hours (10am-7pm) to wash our clothes. However, I do feel as though we 'need' a washing machine. But there is no point in buying or pushing to get a washing machine since we'll have one with the house we're renting in 4 weeks.

We have a Swiss army knife. We have, therefore, a mostly sharp item to cut food with. It is however the only sharp knife we have, meaning all things that need cutting are cut witht he same knife. It also opens our wine (it has a corkscrew).. or, any bottles which aren't twist off (I know, classy). Still, I can't help but feel the 'need' for one or many sharp knives for cooking. But, as you may be realising, there is no point in buying a nice knife since we'll have one with the house we're renting in 4 weeks.

So there we sat on a sunny but windy afternoon at a coffee shop in Henley, drinking out of their mugs. Jacqui was with Ange, Anna and I. (She's been with us for a week sleeping on a borrowed futon, because it isn't worth getting a proper futon when we'll have an extra bed in the house we're renting in 4 weeks.) Collectively, we decide that despite Ange not having the Monday off, Jacqui and I will make Thanksgiving dinner.

The British food selection has improved greatly since we were last here. Either that, or we're not shopping at the wrost grocery store in England anymore. Regardless, we found a pumpkin for pumkin pie, got sweet potatoes, regular potatoes, broccoli, parsnips and chicken. Turkeys are more difficult to come by and the chicken was bought from the butcher really inexpensively. They were grain fed by farmer John Something-or-other in Yorkshire. It's crazy I know that. Anyway, it was a fabulous dinner, thanks largely to Jacqui. I met a British guy who married a Canadian girl from Smithers and we invited them along to join us. It was great.

Of course, when it came time to set the dinner out, we had no table. So it was a lap thanksgiving. Also, 'carving' the chicken is a whole new art with a one inch Swiss army knife blade. It was more tearing and ripping and prying than carving. But it tasted great. John did a fabulous job brining up the chickens and Jacqui did a lovely job cooking the pumpkin pie. It was a lovely dinner!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Stealing A Game

A busy weekend passes and we seem to have found a groove of sorts. It helped significantly that there was a authentic French market visiting Henley. Apparently it comes every 5 months and I'm already thinking that's too infrequently. They had lovely French pastries, French bread and an incredible assortment of cheeses, French candies and them ost amazing produce which I can only assume was also French. The guy selling it was clearly French and, as mentioned, it was amazing. But really, to be fair, who's to distinguish between a French tomato and and English one? Anyway, we visited twice and have had pain au chocolat for breakfast, some lovely brie on baguette for snacks and... well, nothing particularly French for dinner, though we followed dinner up with a macaroon Louis XIV would have been pleased to eat.

Also this weekend, Henley Hockey Club kicked off its new era with me coaching. The team was promoted this year to the next division up and we were facing a team called Trojans who missed out on being promoted from this current division by only a single point last year. So, we were not expected to win. But we did. I fine 2-1 win, having come back from a goal down. Whilst I had almost nothing to do with the outcome, I can confidently claim being 1-0 as coach. Trojans are based in Southampton, meaning the whole family trucked down. Ange, Anna and Jacqui (a friend visiting right now) fared less well with the crowds on Southampton High Street than we did with Trojans Hockey Club. They were exasperated and defeated when I met them and we made a speedy escape from the masses.

I am realizing that I am caught in this horrible middle ground of language that I use. It was apparent to so many for so long back in Calgary, but I find it is fast becoming the result here too. After the game I spoke with the guys about doing a quick chalk talk before the next training to go over some system things. The look I got before the ridicule began was identical to the look the ladies back in Alberta gave me on so many occassions when some element of English slang slipped in. Partly comforting on some level, partly disconcerning that it is becoming increasingly apparent I will never be cool. I should have bought the Passat.

On our way back from Southampton, we stopped off for a very cool evening with Lee and Anna and their lovely daughters Lucy and Mia. Anna was in heaven with two older girls to play with. The photos are both from our evening in a quaint Wiltshire village...

It's only anectodal at this point, but I'm becoming convinced that Pampers nappies (diapers) are superior to Huggies. In fact, no-name may well be superior to Huggies. Or, looking at it yet another way, Huggies are rubbish. Which might go some way to explaining the fantastic deal we got on them. Unscientific research indicates that rabbit ears make Huggies better.

I Don't Know

After much discussion between Ange and I, we have selected a place to live. The process itself wasn't entirely straight forward. Unlike Canada, there are an unimagineable number of rental agencies here. The high street in Caversham is akin to 17th Ave in Calgary. However, imagine that instead of every second shop being a coffee shop of some sort, here it is a "letting agency" (or rental agency). Given how infrequently people look for places to live, it isn't entirely clear to me how they all manage to stay in business. There are no less than 10 different ones on our high street. That said, as we've been in the business of finding a place to live, it has been entirely convenient.

We've chosen a terraced, 2 bedroom house just off the high street. The finishings inside are really very nice. The place comes completely furnished, as the family moving out is going to Australia for a few years. It is a 5 minute walk to the school for Angela and is towards Reading, meaning toward the train station for when I start working.

The letting agency we're going through is Countrywide Residential Lettings. I fear they may make this blog again. I'm speaking with the agent yesterday to accept the place and I'm dithering on whether to sign a 6 month or year long lease. They charge 50 quid to renew at 6 months even though it requires nothing of them (less bewilderment at how they stay in businsess)... anyway, we establish that Ange is working at the moment and will be the primary 'credit' check, and she comments: "All you house husbands these days. I don't know..."

"I don't know..."

Hmmmmm. I don't know either. I don't know what you mean by that. And really, I should have asked what she meant.

Now, of course, all my British friends are rolling their eyes and wondering if I'm going to soon be barred from speaking to Countrywide. Last time we lived here, I was eventually banned from speaking with our letting agency, LD Property Management (many, many stories for another time). I can't imagine for one moment that anyone could be as incompetent, rude and awful as LD, so we should be okay. Also, it must be said that a transformation seems to have overtaken the customer service industry in Britain. All teasing aside, the service has been truly fantastic here... from mobile phones, to cars, to insurance companies, to letting agencies (single comment aside), to the bank, to the grocery stores. Or maybe this time around we're not so dirt poor that noone wants to have anything to do with us?

So, we should be moving by mid November into a pleasant little terraced house that has a shower and a washing machine. Do I care about anything else right now? Not really. The current situation of a bath and walking to the laundrette is gathering unpleasantness in my heart...

A Life of Leisure?

So, I've gone and turned down a job already. A management position at Oxford Brookes Univeristty looked good on paper (and would have been very cool), but it conflicted with Anna's time with her dad. Or, perhaps, Dad's time with Anna. Regardless, negotiating for a later start was not on and I need to have a real go at this staying-at-home-with-Anna thing. It isn't as easy as one might think and you might as well be as good at bringing up a decent kid as rolling out a website, right? It might be ideal if one were better at bringing up a kid, I suppose.

Rationalizing things aside, Anna and I are keeping busy. We've joined the local library, we coffee daily, we've explored central Reading and we're even making progress on the potty. Jacqui Ferguson has arrived from Spain and will be spending a week or so with us before returning to Canada. Heather Arvidson is coming through next week for a day on here way to... well, somewhere other than here. Mum is talking of joining us for a week or so in November. Clearly, anything other than being available for friends and family isn't going to work for us this fall!

The strangest thing! Anna has taken to speakng pidgeon. Whenever she gets excited about seeing a dog or a bird, she does these crazy breathing noises. It sounds so much like pidgeon noises that Ange mistook the pidgeons outside the kitchen for Anna having woken up. In the included photo, she wasn't speaking pidgeon. People will note, however, why I had previously given up on using the term 'pants' for trousers...

220 to 115

Blogs. Hmmm. Okay... here we go.

We are finally on line! Thank goodness. It has been an incredible hassle to get my Canadian computer all hooked up to the British information superhighway. We North Americans use 115 volts, while the Brits use 220. In order not to fry our computer, we needed a transformer to get the British wall plug from the near lethal to the merely shocking.

The transformers we were looking at were endlessly problematic: they didn't have enough wattage or ampage or whateverage. They were expensive. Critically, they were also not in stock. If my dad is helpful at one thing, it is surely his ability to come up with solutions: he had an old (read: very old) tranformer from some ship that he "picked up along the way." It's big, heavy and has a bright blue, plastic cover. Strangely, it also has a rope attached to it. However, it is industrial strength and, after checking with his amp meter, it works like a... well, like a transformer that works. The only hiccup was that it had a European plug which, of course, didn't fit with my Canadian power bar. No problem though... just strip the Canadian power bar cable and put on a European socket... which, for some reason, he also had lying around. Another check on the meter and our Canadian power bar has a steady 115 coming through. It also doesn't flinch when we have our screen, computer, hard drive and other assorted Canadian electrics running at once. Amazing. Of course, it looks ridiculous, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

We are now in Caversham. It is, by all accounts, a very average English town. Even the locals are quick to point out it averageness. "It's pleasant, but it isn't Oxford..." would be a typical comment. As a commuting district to London and noticably nicer than Reading, which is on the south of the Thames, Caverhamis very expensive. Like Calgary expensive. Still, for under 1000 (pounds)/month, we should be able to find a nice little terraced house. We've seen some lovely terraced houses. With nice fittings, clean and with all the ammenities of north America... in 900 sq/ft. Of course, we're used to 900 sq/ft, so have little to worry about. Also, Ange has taken to calling it Caversham-on-Thames just like the swish towns like Henley-on-Thames or Purley-on-Thames. Perhaps if we can just get it to catch on, Caversham will somehow age, gather some character and have a bunch of markets and organic coffee shops move in...

We have considered living 5 miles down the road in the afformentioned Henley-on-Thams. It is everything one might expect an English town on the Thames to be... and for the privilege, you pay. Convenience and price will certainly have us end up in Caversham. Plus, just near us in Caversham, there's a family pub only minutes from the places we've looked at. There is something very strange about a "family" pub that tickles one's North American sensibilities ever so slightly. As with anything, what a "family pub" might be can range from a rusty swing set just adjacent to the car park to a Macdonald's style play area with cheap food and mascot to go with your pint of Tetleys. Our Caversham one is somewhere in between. Still, a play area for your children within eyesight of the bar is something Calgary City Council is surely not going to endorse anytime soon, so we'd best make use of it whilst here.