Thursday, December 13, 2007
Is Britain more expensive?
Of course it is. However, next time I am being lectured on how Canada is cheaper, I shall simply tell this story. That really sucks.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
A tad political
Okay, I promise this won't become a political blog. But a couple of things have come out of Canada in the past few weeks that have been particularly upsetting. I think more generally, the Canadian image has also taken a beating these past few weeks in Europe (at least).
First, the RCMP are caught using a taser on a confused and distressed imigrant who seems to be clearly no threat to the four (!) armed officers who confront him. I was horrified to learn the RCMP had lied about what happened and, to most observers, seemed to be covering it up until the video surfaced. That has played out very badly in Europe, especially in Poland. The actions of those four officers have not only cost a life, but have damaged Canada's image. From a personal, human level, I can't see how the officers involved haven't been charged.
The Picton thing has also got a lot of airplay over here. One crazed individual is, of course, how it is reported. But as I follow Canadian newspapers online, it is stiking how long the RCMP took to react to the possibility that dozens of women from the same community going missing might be linked.
Finally, the Canadian government in Bali over climate change: we're being obstructive over climate change (here's a Globe and Mail article)? There's lots to say about this, but I will sum it up: I think that this tact is short sighted.
Okay. Enough controversy (did you know that they pronounce that word differently over here? Emphasis is on the conTROVersy... really!). I just had to get it off my chest.
First, the RCMP are caught using a taser on a confused and distressed imigrant who seems to be clearly no threat to the four (!) armed officers who confront him. I was horrified to learn the RCMP had lied about what happened and, to most observers, seemed to be covering it up until the video surfaced. That has played out very badly in Europe, especially in Poland. The actions of those four officers have not only cost a life, but have damaged Canada's image. From a personal, human level, I can't see how the officers involved haven't been charged.
The Picton thing has also got a lot of airplay over here. One crazed individual is, of course, how it is reported. But as I follow Canadian newspapers online, it is stiking how long the RCMP took to react to the possibility that dozens of women from the same community going missing might be linked.
Finally, the Canadian government in Bali over climate change: we're being obstructive over climate change (here's a Globe and Mail article)? There's lots to say about this, but I will sum it up: I think that this tact is short sighted.
Okay. Enough controversy (did you know that they pronounce that word differently over here? Emphasis is on the conTROVersy... really!). I just had to get it off my chest.
Monday, December 10, 2007
English Conifers
We have set up our tree and it really is excellent. Our house smells lovely. The tree is very pretty and really makes our little terrace feel like home during the holiday season.
Buying a tree in England was a good little piece of cultural nuance. For the most part, it was the same as Canada. Only more expensive. But then, when you're dealing in coniferous trees, do you really expect an overcrowded little island with few (if any) naturally occurring coniferous forests left to be able to offer trees at a similar price to an under-populated half continent with nothing but coniferous forests?
We met up with Emma and Stig. Emma is a colleague of mine from the university. Were it not for the fact she lives 20 miles the other side of Oxford from us (or 50 miles from us), I reckon we'd probably hang out some. We were trying to pick a place and, being entirely North American, I suggested somewhere with a coffee shop. Emma was baffled. As if the thought of going for a coffee on a Sunday afternoon had never occurred to her. Certainly not in her village. I then suggested a small town (called Woodstock) we'd been to for a work meeting some months earlier. Oh yes, she thought, they would have a coffee shop. I digress only to point out the irony that the Canadian who had been through this town once had noticed the coffee shops. Emma had grown up in the town.
We had our coffee and drove off to the tree/garden centre. There was a mist settled in the valleys of the rolling hills of the Cotswolds and the rain poured down as we arrived at the old house that had been converted into a one-stop garden centre... which, for the month of December, was a Christmas centre. There were lots of trees, but not overwhelmingly many. There were really big ones, but mostly in the 5 to 8 foot range. There were a couple that were basically shrubs. Little balls of conifer that didn't remotely resemble a tree. They were just evergreen bushes. Very odd.
The first step for us foreigners was to pick between the two basic types of trees. Ange liked one type and me the other. Sadly, I liked the more expensive one and Ange gives me a hard time about picking trees year on year. She was picking this year. So, we chose the type she liked and I went to pick it up.
"Ouch!" I said aloud as went to pick it up. The damn thing had bit me. I went in more cautiously, aware that the British version of an evergreen had clearly learned to defend itself from years of competition with the local population. By the time I got it in the car, by arms were covered in a rash of little pricks from the needles. Putting the tree up in the house only made the rash worse. Our tree is the perfect shape and lovely to look at but do not touch it! It is essentially 8 feet of stinging nettle.
Once up and covered in lights, Anna was nearly beside herself with excitement. The decorations were purchased from the local department store and completely lack any sort of soul. However, where the decorations lack soul, Anna's style of decorating has added character! You see, everything at shin height is in clumps. If Anna found a good branch--one worthy of a decoration--she would place as many decorations as possible on the same branch. You don't mess with a good thing! We also had Hilary and Nick (our friends from Ange's school) come by. They added loads of life to the tree decorating and Anna loves them. We had the Carpenters Christmas playing away in the background.
Anna's decorating style (on the dangerous nettle tree):
So, despite a dangerous stinging tree, cheap, plastic tree decorations, and lame 70s Christmas music, it was a wonderful--and very festive--night. Now... off to try and get going on Christmas cards...
Buying a tree in England was a good little piece of cultural nuance. For the most part, it was the same as Canada. Only more expensive. But then, when you're dealing in coniferous trees, do you really expect an overcrowded little island with few (if any) naturally occurring coniferous forests left to be able to offer trees at a similar price to an under-populated half continent with nothing but coniferous forests?
We met up with Emma and Stig. Emma is a colleague of mine from the university. Were it not for the fact she lives 20 miles the other side of Oxford from us (or 50 miles from us), I reckon we'd probably hang out some. We were trying to pick a place and, being entirely North American, I suggested somewhere with a coffee shop. Emma was baffled. As if the thought of going for a coffee on a Sunday afternoon had never occurred to her. Certainly not in her village. I then suggested a small town (called Woodstock) we'd been to for a work meeting some months earlier. Oh yes, she thought, they would have a coffee shop. I digress only to point out the irony that the Canadian who had been through this town once had noticed the coffee shops. Emma had grown up in the town.
We had our coffee and drove off to the tree/garden centre. There was a mist settled in the valleys of the rolling hills of the Cotswolds and the rain poured down as we arrived at the old house that had been converted into a one-stop garden centre... which, for the month of December, was a Christmas centre. There were lots of trees, but not overwhelmingly many. There were really big ones, but mostly in the 5 to 8 foot range. There were a couple that were basically shrubs. Little balls of conifer that didn't remotely resemble a tree. They were just evergreen bushes. Very odd.
The first step for us foreigners was to pick between the two basic types of trees. Ange liked one type and me the other. Sadly, I liked the more expensive one and Ange gives me a hard time about picking trees year on year. She was picking this year. So, we chose the type she liked and I went to pick it up.
"Ouch!" I said aloud as went to pick it up. The damn thing had bit me. I went in more cautiously, aware that the British version of an evergreen had clearly learned to defend itself from years of competition with the local population. By the time I got it in the car, by arms were covered in a rash of little pricks from the needles. Putting the tree up in the house only made the rash worse. Our tree is the perfect shape and lovely to look at but do not touch it! It is essentially 8 feet of stinging nettle.
Once up and covered in lights, Anna was nearly beside herself with excitement. The decorations were purchased from the local department store and completely lack any sort of soul. However, where the decorations lack soul, Anna's style of decorating has added character! You see, everything at shin height is in clumps. If Anna found a good branch--one worthy of a decoration--she would place as many decorations as possible on the same branch. You don't mess with a good thing! We also had Hilary and Nick (our friends from Ange's school) come by. They added loads of life to the tree decorating and Anna loves them. We had the Carpenters Christmas playing away in the background.
Anna's decorating style (on the dangerous nettle tree):
So, despite a dangerous stinging tree, cheap, plastic tree decorations, and lame 70s Christmas music, it was a wonderful--and very festive--night. Now... off to try and get going on Christmas cards...
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Big Rocks
Happily, one of the most easily accessible sites-of-interest near to us is a wee circle of rocks, known to many as Stonehenge. It is about an hour's drive from our place, through some lovely countryside. Owned and operated by our friends at English Heritage, our passes get us in for free. It should be no surprise, therefore, that we've visited it a few times since arriving here a little over a year ago.
Ange's "aunt" Grazyna from Calgary was visiting this past weekend. Grazyna emigrated from Poland to Canada many, many years ago and married a Brit. But in all her travels to Europe, she had never stepped outside of Heathrow. With only a couple of days, we needed to maximise sight-seeing. So, with Stonehenge so close and--arguably--a wonder of the world, we went off to see the 5000 year old rock arrangement. Does that make it a "rockery?" I'm sure Monty Python would have an opinion.
To Anna, they're merely rocks. Big rocks, in fairness, but still rocks. Anna was more interested in running up and down the paths. So, Anna ran her socks off while Grazyna and Ange took in the audio tour. It is truly fantastic. But, on some level, Stonehenge is somewhat unremarkable to the casual observer. For instance, at first glance, the rocks aren't really that big in the scale of 20th century architecture. This, of course, is not appreciating that stone-age people somehow managed to move these rocks from south Wales... about 250 miles. Some of the rocks are over 4 tonnes. Then there is the stunning alignment of the rocks and how it coincides with the seasons. It's crazy. However, the site itself sits between a Y in the road. While the main road draws off to the southwest, another small road pulls northwest. These two roads meet just a couple of hundred meters from Stonehenge. So, you can see all of Stonehenge from the road. There's only a chain-link fence keeping you out, meaning that anyone can grab a quick photo and, from a bit of distance, walk around two thirds of it.
You're paying for the audio tour, to get a little closer, and to have access to the gift shop. Or, for us loyal English Heritage supporters, you're giving money to the upkeep of heritage sites around the country (since sites like Stonehenge subsidize the hundreds of free sites that aren't nearly as popular).
Yet, as Anna and I walked into the site, I was distressed to hear a North American couple lamenting the money they had spent to see it. There was a gentleman in is late 50s/early 60s, dressed in North Face jacket suitable for an Everest expedition. The jacket was proudly hitched up on one side to display his Blackberry, which was attached to his trousers with a giant plastic clip. He walked with his wife/partner, who had also come from North America prepared for the English winter in uber-expensive, arctic expedition trecking gear. He had noticed a mural on the wall of the access tunnel to Stonehenge and commented to his wife, "Ahhhhhhh! That is what it is meant to look like!" She responded, "Yeah, that was disappointing. I don't know what the big deal is. Half of it is missing."
I smiled. So did Anna. But for different reasons. They had smiled at Anna and she is friendly. Clearly nice people. But I was at pains not to ask: "What were you expecting?"
You can clearly see everything there is to offer from other side of the fence (that neither tries nor succeeds in blocking anyone's view of the site)! You can see it as you drive up, you see it as you walk by. What could possibly change by paying $12, apart from getting an audio tour (which, by the way, is excellent!)?!? Of course, the other question that lingers is the expectation of the completeness of a monument that is over 5000 years old. I should have warned them off of Greece. And Turkey. And Rome (the Italians have let all sorts of things, like the Collesium, deteriorate!). And most castles in Europe. And, of course--should they ever visit Alberta--Head Smashed in Buffalo Jump.
Anna enjoying the path in front of Stonehenge (which, by the way, I would argue is more enjoyable than Head Smashed in Buffalo Jump on a number of levels):
Grazyna and Ange enjoying the audio experience in front of the henge (which, doesn't really get a whole lot bigger or more exciting than this picture):
Ange's "aunt" Grazyna from Calgary was visiting this past weekend. Grazyna emigrated from Poland to Canada many, many years ago and married a Brit. But in all her travels to Europe, she had never stepped outside of Heathrow. With only a couple of days, we needed to maximise sight-seeing. So, with Stonehenge so close and--arguably--a wonder of the world, we went off to see the 5000 year old rock arrangement. Does that make it a "rockery?" I'm sure Monty Python would have an opinion.
To Anna, they're merely rocks. Big rocks, in fairness, but still rocks. Anna was more interested in running up and down the paths. So, Anna ran her socks off while Grazyna and Ange took in the audio tour. It is truly fantastic. But, on some level, Stonehenge is somewhat unremarkable to the casual observer. For instance, at first glance, the rocks aren't really that big in the scale of 20th century architecture. This, of course, is not appreciating that stone-age people somehow managed to move these rocks from south Wales... about 250 miles. Some of the rocks are over 4 tonnes. Then there is the stunning alignment of the rocks and how it coincides with the seasons. It's crazy. However, the site itself sits between a Y in the road. While the main road draws off to the southwest, another small road pulls northwest. These two roads meet just a couple of hundred meters from Stonehenge. So, you can see all of Stonehenge from the road. There's only a chain-link fence keeping you out, meaning that anyone can grab a quick photo and, from a bit of distance, walk around two thirds of it.
You're paying for the audio tour, to get a little closer, and to have access to the gift shop. Or, for us loyal English Heritage supporters, you're giving money to the upkeep of heritage sites around the country (since sites like Stonehenge subsidize the hundreds of free sites that aren't nearly as popular).
Yet, as Anna and I walked into the site, I was distressed to hear a North American couple lamenting the money they had spent to see it. There was a gentleman in is late 50s/early 60s, dressed in North Face jacket suitable for an Everest expedition. The jacket was proudly hitched up on one side to display his Blackberry, which was attached to his trousers with a giant plastic clip. He walked with his wife/partner, who had also come from North America prepared for the English winter in uber-expensive, arctic expedition trecking gear. He had noticed a mural on the wall of the access tunnel to Stonehenge and commented to his wife, "Ahhhhhhh! That is what it is meant to look like!" She responded, "Yeah, that was disappointing. I don't know what the big deal is. Half of it is missing."
I smiled. So did Anna. But for different reasons. They had smiled at Anna and she is friendly. Clearly nice people. But I was at pains not to ask: "What were you expecting?"
You can clearly see everything there is to offer from other side of the fence (that neither tries nor succeeds in blocking anyone's view of the site)! You can see it as you drive up, you see it as you walk by. What could possibly change by paying $12, apart from getting an audio tour (which, by the way, is excellent!)?!? Of course, the other question that lingers is the expectation of the completeness of a monument that is over 5000 years old. I should have warned them off of Greece. And Turkey. And Rome (the Italians have let all sorts of things, like the Collesium, deteriorate!). And most castles in Europe. And, of course--should they ever visit Alberta--Head Smashed in Buffalo Jump.
Anna enjoying the path in front of Stonehenge (which, by the way, I would argue is more enjoyable than Head Smashed in Buffalo Jump on a number of levels):
Grazyna and Ange enjoying the audio experience in front of the henge (which, doesn't really get a whole lot bigger or more exciting than this picture):
Friday, November 23, 2007
DVLA Update
For those of you that are holding your breath, wondering daily about wheter or not I am legally entitled to drive in the UK, there is good news.
I got my UK licence. And, I passed the test that allows me to drive a standard transmission vehicle. In fact, I passed the test first time. Angela was my instructor and is owed much respect in equal parts for 1)having taught me well; and, 2)being willing to teach such an arrogant punk.
Without going into the details, some interesting conversation from the test experience:
"So..." asks the tester [exagerated pause for reflection after having been driving for 5 minutes or so] "...you've driven a standard before." Was it a question or a statement? Did he think he had caught one of the stand-in applicants who have been doing tests on behalf of others (apparently hundreds of people have got their licence through these people pretending to be the new driver)....
"Yes." I replied calmly, almost proudly.
"So, why are you taking this test?"
"Because I can't prove with official documentation that I did my original test on a manual transmission vehicle."
"Ah, you're from Canada."
There's a government policy hard at work.
I got my UK licence. And, I passed the test that allows me to drive a standard transmission vehicle. In fact, I passed the test first time. Angela was my instructor and is owed much respect in equal parts for 1)having taught me well; and, 2)being willing to teach such an arrogant punk.
Without going into the details, some interesting conversation from the test experience:
"So..." asks the tester [exagerated pause for reflection after having been driving for 5 minutes or so] "...you've driven a standard before." Was it a question or a statement? Did he think he had caught one of the stand-in applicants who have been doing tests on behalf of others (apparently hundreds of people have got their licence through these people pretending to be the new driver)....
"Yes." I replied calmly, almost proudly.
"So, why are you taking this test?"
"Because I can't prove with official documentation that I did my original test on a manual transmission vehicle."
"Ah, you're from Canada."
There's a government policy hard at work.
Lisa Squared
Somehow another month has slipped by without a blog update. Rubbish. I wish I could blame it on Facebook, but it too has disappeared from my daily radar of things to accomplish. Life just doesn't get any less busy.
But being busy has been a real joy. On Pauline's last day in England, we went to France. We had plans to go see Vimy Ridge, the Canadian war memorial near Arras. However, as the ferry shuffled across the English Channel and France came into view, I pulled out the map. A map always puts Europe in perspective. I suppose it puts anywhere in perspective, since that's exactly what they're designed to do. But somehow, it is especially true with Europe. As I plotted our route from Calais (the port where we were to arrive from Dover), it struck me just how close we were to Belgium. It only took a further moment to realise just how small Belgium actually is. Sure, it's bigger than Luxemburg or Monaco, but it only two thirds the size of our biggest national park, Wood Buffalo National Park.
It was a revelation to see that one of Europe's true gems, Brugge, was no further from us than Arras. So, on Pauline's final day in England, we skipped France and went to Belgium. Brugge rocks. Anna loved Brugge (especially the little fun fair in one of the squares). Pauline loved Brugge (especially the chocolate). And Ange and I love Brugge.
After spending the day in the medieval old town, we jumped back in the car to get back to Calais to pick up Lisa Brake. Lisa is a star. Despite being six months pregnant, she decided to fit one last sans-baby adventure in and came to Europe. Flying into Paris, she took the train to Calais to meet us. We rendezvous-ed without too much trouble and caught the ferry back to England. A long day, but thoroughly enjoyable.
One thing about Lisa is that she hates to miss out on anything. Our old roommate, Jason, and I quickly learned this about Lisa when we shared a house back in Hull, Quebec many years ago. It is worth asking Lisa to re-tell the story about Anu 'forcing' her to party one work night in Ottawa. Of course, there is also wildly popular story of Lisa participating in leaving messages on the "federal government Action on Smoking" voicemail, which was recently re-told in this blog (click here to re-live it!). So, when Lisa heard about Lisa Quattrochi (often known as simply 'Q') coming to visit us on the way back from Nepal, it was the impetus needed to spur her to booking the ticket. They overlapped their visits so they could check out England together and so Anna would only have to declare, "Lisa" to get half the room to respond.
Lisa Q arrived the next day from Nepal and suddenly we had two Lisas in the house. Not only that, but they were both a huge hit with Anna. Sowing little preference between the Lisas, Anna would call out "Lisa!" Invariably, the wrong one would respond to her, to which Anna would explain, "No. The other one." We laughed many times at this.
Lisa and Lisa didn't get as much sight-seeing in as I had hoped they might. Q was jet-lagged and feeling poorly from some nasty bug she picked up on the flight or in Delhi airport. She rebounded quickly, though, and they were able to come into Oxford with me one day. On the final day, I had hockey and had to be in Henley. Ange, Anna and the Lisas stuck close to Reading, coming into Henley themselves in the afternoon. It was all very nice, but I remained somewhat disappointed that their visit hadn't been more exciting.
Then, out of the blue, we had the most English of English nights ever. And, I mean ever. It was November 3 and there were advertisements for Guy Fawkes night celebrations. We went to check them out. Sure enough, thousands of people had gathered. We actually drove away to consider our options. In stopping to discuss, we picked up a movie and some dinner from a take-away. We decided to go for it.
So, our fish and chips in hand, we went back to the bonfire party. It was great. Held at the rugby club, it was all very, very British. And, there we were with out fish and chips. The fireworks display was really impressive. However, it clearly was not the only one going on. So, all across the sky--in every direction--fireworks were going off. Anna was mesmerized. I was mesmerised. It was really good.
After the display, we headed back to our little terrace where--to cap off an evening of bure Britania--we watched... Monty Python's Search for the Holy Grail. Jolly good indeed.
Lisas and Anna:
But being busy has been a real joy. On Pauline's last day in England, we went to France. We had plans to go see Vimy Ridge, the Canadian war memorial near Arras. However, as the ferry shuffled across the English Channel and France came into view, I pulled out the map. A map always puts Europe in perspective. I suppose it puts anywhere in perspective, since that's exactly what they're designed to do. But somehow, it is especially true with Europe. As I plotted our route from Calais (the port where we were to arrive from Dover), it struck me just how close we were to Belgium. It only took a further moment to realise just how small Belgium actually is. Sure, it's bigger than Luxemburg or Monaco, but it only two thirds the size of our biggest national park, Wood Buffalo National Park.
It was a revelation to see that one of Europe's true gems, Brugge, was no further from us than Arras. So, on Pauline's final day in England, we skipped France and went to Belgium. Brugge rocks. Anna loved Brugge (especially the little fun fair in one of the squares). Pauline loved Brugge (especially the chocolate). And Ange and I love Brugge.After spending the day in the medieval old town, we jumped back in the car to get back to Calais to pick up Lisa Brake. Lisa is a star. Despite being six months pregnant, she decided to fit one last sans-baby adventure in and came to Europe. Flying into Paris, she took the train to Calais to meet us. We rendezvous-ed without too much trouble and caught the ferry back to England. A long day, but thoroughly enjoyable.
One thing about Lisa is that she hates to miss out on anything. Our old roommate, Jason, and I quickly learned this about Lisa when we shared a house back in Hull, Quebec many years ago. It is worth asking Lisa to re-tell the story about Anu 'forcing' her to party one work night in Ottawa. Of course, there is also wildly popular story of Lisa participating in leaving messages on the "federal government Action on Smoking" voicemail, which was recently re-told in this blog (click here to re-live it!). So, when Lisa heard about Lisa Quattrochi (often known as simply 'Q') coming to visit us on the way back from Nepal, it was the impetus needed to spur her to booking the ticket. They overlapped their visits so they could check out England together and so Anna would only have to declare, "Lisa" to get half the room to respond.
Lisa Q arrived the next day from Nepal and suddenly we had two Lisas in the house. Not only that, but they were both a huge hit with Anna. Sowing little preference between the Lisas, Anna would call out "Lisa!" Invariably, the wrong one would respond to her, to which Anna would explain, "No. The other one." We laughed many times at this.
Lisa and Lisa didn't get as much sight-seeing in as I had hoped they might. Q was jet-lagged and feeling poorly from some nasty bug she picked up on the flight or in Delhi airport. She rebounded quickly, though, and they were able to come into Oxford with me one day. On the final day, I had hockey and had to be in Henley. Ange, Anna and the Lisas stuck close to Reading, coming into Henley themselves in the afternoon. It was all very nice, but I remained somewhat disappointed that their visit hadn't been more exciting.
Then, out of the blue, we had the most English of English nights ever. And, I mean ever. It was November 3 and there were advertisements for Guy Fawkes night celebrations. We went to check them out. Sure enough, thousands of people had gathered. We actually drove away to consider our options. In stopping to discuss, we picked up a movie and some dinner from a take-away. We decided to go for it.
So, our fish and chips in hand, we went back to the bonfire party. It was great. Held at the rugby club, it was all very, very British. And, there we were with out fish and chips. The fireworks display was really impressive. However, it clearly was not the only one going on. So, all across the sky--in every direction--fireworks were going off. Anna was mesmerized. I was mesmerised. It was really good.
After the display, we headed back to our little terrace where--to cap off an evening of bure Britania--we watched... Monty Python's Search for the Holy Grail. Jolly good indeed.
Lisas and Anna:
Friday, October 26, 2007
New Photos!
Okay, I've been bad. New photos are finally posted. Click here. Scroll to the bottom.
Anna is seriously addicted to sparkly barrettes. We were told they are called 'hair grips' here. Apparently we misheard and they are actually 'hair clips.' So, as a family, we've got it wrong. Quality foreigners.
And, of course, no ordinary, flowered hair clip will do. Only the sparkly ones. But they're called, "barky hair grips." Tonight, at bed time, the only thing that would settle for sleep was "barky hair grips... BARKY hair grips... BARKY HAIR GRIPS, PLEASE!"
"Okay, Okay!" I thought. "I'll get your barky hair grips, and then we'll sing songs and go to sleep." I repeated back to her. It's slow learning for both of us.
Anna and Gran pick apples near Toronto:
Anna is seriously addicted to sparkly barrettes. We were told they are called 'hair grips' here. Apparently we misheard and they are actually 'hair clips.' So, as a family, we've got it wrong. Quality foreigners.
And, of course, no ordinary, flowered hair clip will do. Only the sparkly ones. But they're called, "barky hair grips." Tonight, at bed time, the only thing that would settle for sleep was "barky hair grips... BARKY hair grips... BARKY HAIR GRIPS, PLEASE!"
"Okay, Okay!" I thought. "I'll get your barky hair grips, and then we'll sing songs and go to sleep." I repeated back to her. It's slow learning for both of us.
Anna and Gran pick apples near Toronto:
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Too Long
It is simply too long between postings on this blog. I think about it all the time. I want to post. I'm just so damn busy. Why, you ask? Well, we went to Toronto for 10 days. I was struck by the fact that Canadians aren't as nice, friendly and courteous as we make ourselves out to be. The customer service was certainly no better than Britain. I can hear the collective gasp. Wait... yep, there is the indignation. Now? Yes, denial. With denial comes? Blame. I know, we were in Toronto. Phew. We can blame it on Toronto.
Teasing aside, it was great to see little Isabelle, only five days old! Congrats to Care and Jeff. They are very calm and collected new parents. On Jeff's part, it may have had to do with how much scotch we drank that week. He explained to Isabelle at one point that I was, "Uncle Ben. Daddy's scotch drinking partner." I've never been that before. I felt good about it. Except for one morning, where I felt less good about it. I also got a quick blitz on Jeff's motorbike. It was a new bike. Addictive things them. They start first time. They accelarate so wonderfully. They handle. They don't stall indiscriminately. The clutch works. They look good. Damn it for making me want a bike over here.
Anna's favourite part of the trip was our trip to an apple orchard. There was the full family set-up. Pony rides, petting zoo, you-pick apples. It was full on. Anna was in heaven. For days after arriving back, she has reminded us that she went on a pony. "Anna ride pony." (Amusingly, she still refers to herself in the 3rd person in all instances). When you ask her what the pony's name was, she is quick to recall: "Shayan." She also fondly remembers the tractor ride (a tractor pulled a large trailer covered in hay). "Anna ride tractor." She also fed goats, a calf, pigs and lambs. She also ate an apple that was nearly the size of her head. I still can't believe she got through it all. Quality entertainment.
Since getting back, we've moved into HG (hosting guests) mode. It is super exciting to have Pauline here with us. We took her to the amazing Dover Castle and then attended the most lovely even-song at Cantebury Cathedral. I've now been to Dover 6 times and it is gold on every visit. In Cantebury, we capped off the day with a wonderful Sunday roast in a 600 year old pub on the canal. That sort of food is critical for Pauline: she's a self-identified "foody." The result for Ange, Anna and I is the most amazing assortment of cheese, paté and other goodies has piled through our door since Pauline's arrival. One of the carrots to get her here was the #1 restaurant in the world, The Fat Duck. Incredibly, it is only about 15 miles from us, in the cute little town of Bray. I made enquiries 2 months ago, managing to get a lunch reservation. Goodness. What an amazing 4 hour lunch. It did break the bank, but I can honestly say that is was worth it as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I never imagined food could taste like that.
This weekend? We've got Bath on the itinerary and then the epic, one day return trip to France on Monday to check out Calais and (hopefully) Vimy Ridge. We're also going to pick up Lisa B in France, who is coming to stay with us for a week after a couple of days in Paris! Lisa Q arrives next week from Nepal, meaning even more adventures for the coming weeks.
You can tell we've been adventuring when I pull out the camera at Dover Castle to take a photo and not only is the battery dead, but the backup battery is dead AND the video camera battery is dead. No worries, we've re-charged.
Teasing aside, it was great to see little Isabelle, only five days old! Congrats to Care and Jeff. They are very calm and collected new parents. On Jeff's part, it may have had to do with how much scotch we drank that week. He explained to Isabelle at one point that I was, "Uncle Ben. Daddy's scotch drinking partner." I've never been that before. I felt good about it. Except for one morning, where I felt less good about it. I also got a quick blitz on Jeff's motorbike. It was a new bike. Addictive things them. They start first time. They accelarate so wonderfully. They handle. They don't stall indiscriminately. The clutch works. They look good. Damn it for making me want a bike over here.
Anna's favourite part of the trip was our trip to an apple orchard. There was the full family set-up. Pony rides, petting zoo, you-pick apples. It was full on. Anna was in heaven. For days after arriving back, she has reminded us that she went on a pony. "Anna ride pony." (Amusingly, she still refers to herself in the 3rd person in all instances). When you ask her what the pony's name was, she is quick to recall: "Shayan." She also fondly remembers the tractor ride (a tractor pulled a large trailer covered in hay). "Anna ride tractor." She also fed goats, a calf, pigs and lambs. She also ate an apple that was nearly the size of her head. I still can't believe she got through it all. Quality entertainment.
Since getting back, we've moved into HG (hosting guests) mode. It is super exciting to have Pauline here with us. We took her to the amazing Dover Castle and then attended the most lovely even-song at Cantebury Cathedral. I've now been to Dover 6 times and it is gold on every visit. In Cantebury, we capped off the day with a wonderful Sunday roast in a 600 year old pub on the canal. That sort of food is critical for Pauline: she's a self-identified "foody." The result for Ange, Anna and I is the most amazing assortment of cheese, paté and other goodies has piled through our door since Pauline's arrival. One of the carrots to get her here was the #1 restaurant in the world, The Fat Duck. Incredibly, it is only about 15 miles from us, in the cute little town of Bray. I made enquiries 2 months ago, managing to get a lunch reservation. Goodness. What an amazing 4 hour lunch. It did break the bank, but I can honestly say that is was worth it as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I never imagined food could taste like that.
This weekend? We've got Bath on the itinerary and then the epic, one day return trip to France on Monday to check out Calais and (hopefully) Vimy Ridge. We're also going to pick up Lisa B in France, who is coming to stay with us for a week after a couple of days in Paris! Lisa Q arrives next week from Nepal, meaning even more adventures for the coming weeks.
You can tell we've been adventuring when I pull out the camera at Dover Castle to take a photo and not only is the battery dead, but the backup battery is dead AND the video camera battery is dead. No worries, we've re-charged.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Tragic
Last Friday was a momentous event for Ange and I. It was only a day off our one year anniversary of arriving back in UK. It was also our first time out in London, just the two of us. First you ask, how does this happen?
Well, one word for that: Shivani. Shiv offered us tickets to see a gig at the famous Astoria concert venue in London and babysat Anna so we could go out. So, what wonderfully British event did we partake in to celebrate a year in the UK? Drum roll please... we went and saw the Tragically Hip.
They were hip. The crowd, however, was the tragic part. For any Canadian who grew up in the 1990s, the Hip were the event to go to. Less frequent than the Watchmen or Spirit of the West and far cooler than the Barenaked Ladies or Great Big Sea, a Hip concert was something to look forward to and relish with a degree of disregard for one's liver and personal safety (i.e. the mosh pits).
However, the 1990s have long since passed. The crowd was painfully Canadian. As Ange and I arrived, we were greeted by a crowd that was 99% Canadian and 1% Australian friends or flatmates of Canadians. A rather painful and embarrassing Canadian national anthem broke out between the warm-up band and the Hip. Hockey jerseys were worn by every 10th person. One idiot was wearing an "I 'maple leaf' Toronto" shirt. In the middle of central London, where fashion comes alive, the Astoria was a dead zone of jeans, t-shirts, hockey jerseys and suspiciously too many plaid lumberjack button-up shirts.
When the Hip came on though, there is nothing like a soulful version of Grace Too to throw you back 10 years. The guy beside us was too much, though. He was a stocky build. Probably mid-to-late-30s. I would wager money he spent a good deal of time in some rural prairie town. His proudest sporting achievement was almost certainly either playing back up guard in a high school football quarter final or a 5th place finish in a major street hockey tournament sponsored by a deodorant company.
He stood proudly in his Darcy Tucker Maples Leafs jersey. He held a lager in each hand (it was Carlsberg, though I imagine that he imagined it was Molson or Labatt). He swayed and sang every word. He punched the air emphatically at all the right moments in every song. When he was bumped, he apologised. He, in a very distressing sense, summed up the crowd. There was no moshing. It was all very civilized. So much so, that the event ended to a raucous applause at 10:30pm. And yet, we had such a good time. It was really enjoyable to see the Hip. They were excellent. And, on hearing that we were going, my sister joined us for the night. It was great to head out with her too.
The next day, there was no hang-over. No inexplicable bruises to your shoulders and face. Just an entirely pleasant evening with a slight sense of, "gosh, I'm getting older." But, just like the old days, my ears rang for days.
Well, one word for that: Shivani. Shiv offered us tickets to see a gig at the famous Astoria concert venue in London and babysat Anna so we could go out. So, what wonderfully British event did we partake in to celebrate a year in the UK? Drum roll please... we went and saw the Tragically Hip.
They were hip. The crowd, however, was the tragic part. For any Canadian who grew up in the 1990s, the Hip were the event to go to. Less frequent than the Watchmen or Spirit of the West and far cooler than the Barenaked Ladies or Great Big Sea, a Hip concert was something to look forward to and relish with a degree of disregard for one's liver and personal safety (i.e. the mosh pits).
However, the 1990s have long since passed. The crowd was painfully Canadian. As Ange and I arrived, we were greeted by a crowd that was 99% Canadian and 1% Australian friends or flatmates of Canadians. A rather painful and embarrassing Canadian national anthem broke out between the warm-up band and the Hip. Hockey jerseys were worn by every 10th person. One idiot was wearing an "I 'maple leaf' Toronto" shirt. In the middle of central London, where fashion comes alive, the Astoria was a dead zone of jeans, t-shirts, hockey jerseys and suspiciously too many plaid lumberjack button-up shirts.
When the Hip came on though, there is nothing like a soulful version of Grace Too to throw you back 10 years. The guy beside us was too much, though. He was a stocky build. Probably mid-to-late-30s. I would wager money he spent a good deal of time in some rural prairie town. His proudest sporting achievement was almost certainly either playing back up guard in a high school football quarter final or a 5th place finish in a major street hockey tournament sponsored by a deodorant company.
He stood proudly in his Darcy Tucker Maples Leafs jersey. He held a lager in each hand (it was Carlsberg, though I imagine that he imagined it was Molson or Labatt). He swayed and sang every word. He punched the air emphatically at all the right moments in every song. When he was bumped, he apologised. He, in a very distressing sense, summed up the crowd. There was no moshing. It was all very civilized. So much so, that the event ended to a raucous applause at 10:30pm. And yet, we had such a good time. It was really enjoyable to see the Hip. They were excellent. And, on hearing that we were going, my sister joined us for the night. It was great to head out with her too.
The next day, there was no hang-over. No inexplicable bruises to your shoulders and face. Just an entirely pleasant evening with a slight sense of, "gosh, I'm getting older." But, just like the old days, my ears rang for days.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Poised
After so much conjecture about buying a house, it was all meant to get decided today.
While all indications suggest that buying a house in the current market is madness, we've plunged ahead against seemingly insurmountable odds. At first, it was getting credit. As foreigners, we not to be trusted by the banking establishment. Then, it has been the system itself which provides so many systemic road-blocks, you'd think you were trying to escape an Eastern block country in 1967 rather than give someone a bunch of money for an old, run-down house in a crowded, dirty city. Hiccups in the system prolonged the experience, the best being the mortgage lender moving head offices and leaving everyone in our chain waiting for them to pull it together.
Now that we've negotiated the various hurdles, we are left wondering if this is our best idea ever. Months of speculation by the experts have forcasted a cooling-off, if not down-turn in the housing market. Is it the British penchant for worrying or is it the reality of US mortgage crisis reaching beyond US borders? Then, of course, one of the significant mortgage lenders over here ran into a massive crisis the other day. Northern Rock (is anyone noticing the possible metephor with Canada here?) has declared a state of emergency as its investors and customers clamour to pull out. Cripes. The possible collapse of the banking industry would really conspire against us buying this house.... of course, that is a woeful overstatement. Still, we've heard nothing today from the Estate Agent, despite them having hassled us for weeks about being ready to move, move, move.
So, is it shocking customer service? Is it systemic incomeptence? Is it the wholesale collapse of the banking industry? Is it that our mortgage lender is still on summer holiday? Tough to say. My bet is that we won't exchange contracts today. The irony being: somehow we will get blamed for it. We've got the accents that will have everyone else in the chain nodding their heads in collective understanding. It must, after all, be the Canadians.
While all indications suggest that buying a house in the current market is madness, we've plunged ahead against seemingly insurmountable odds. At first, it was getting credit. As foreigners, we not to be trusted by the banking establishment. Then, it has been the system itself which provides so many systemic road-blocks, you'd think you were trying to escape an Eastern block country in 1967 rather than give someone a bunch of money for an old, run-down house in a crowded, dirty city. Hiccups in the system prolonged the experience, the best being the mortgage lender moving head offices and leaving everyone in our chain waiting for them to pull it together.
Now that we've negotiated the various hurdles, we are left wondering if this is our best idea ever. Months of speculation by the experts have forcasted a cooling-off, if not down-turn in the housing market. Is it the British penchant for worrying or is it the reality of US mortgage crisis reaching beyond US borders? Then, of course, one of the significant mortgage lenders over here ran into a massive crisis the other day. Northern Rock (is anyone noticing the possible metephor with Canada here?) has declared a state of emergency as its investors and customers clamour to pull out. Cripes. The possible collapse of the banking industry would really conspire against us buying this house.... of course, that is a woeful overstatement. Still, we've heard nothing today from the Estate Agent, despite them having hassled us for weeks about being ready to move, move, move.
So, is it shocking customer service? Is it systemic incomeptence? Is it the wholesale collapse of the banking industry? Is it that our mortgage lender is still on summer holiday? Tough to say. My bet is that we won't exchange contracts today. The irony being: somehow we will get blamed for it. We've got the accents that will have everyone else in the chain nodding their heads in collective understanding. It must, after all, be the Canadians.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Away In a Manger
We have developed a bedtime routine for Anna that I enjoy almost as much as her. She seems to like the routine, regularly declaring at about 7pm: "Anna. Bed."
A key element is me lying on the floor beside her cot. I put a collection of small pillows behind my head. Anna usually confirms I will be lying down, explaining to me: "Daddy. Pillows." And then I sing. Some of you will appreciate that I am likely doing more harm than good to poor Anna's future as a musician, but I like singing to someone who clearly doesn't care that fewer than half of the notes are remotely in tune.
I also have a pretty small repertoire of songs. I have Twinkle, Twinkle. It's an old standby, but reliable and appropriate for going to bed. I can pull of Ba, Ba, Black sheep and know enough versus of Mary Had a Little Lamb to fill a couple of minutes. It ends a little abruptly but both Anna and I are comfortable with my ending. Thanks to many campfires and a Raffi CD that gets too much airplay in the car, I can also 'sing' Kumbaya. I won't lie, it's a favourite.
My last and most accomplished song is one my mother used to sing to me when I was young. Away in a Manger. I have received a certain degree of ridicule for singing this song as a year-round bedtime song. The other day, a certain Lindsay Atkinson asked if I followed it up with Jingle Bells or I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas. It has since occurred to me that I do know a number of Christmas songs. Certainly more Christmas songs than lullabies. I am now waiting for the official word that Christmas season has begun to broaden my repertoire: North American retail. I figure if I drag Christmas tunes out til mid January, I should get a good 2, 2.5 months out of them.
Anna, however, has gotten used to our little routine. Just tonight, she was pretending to put Rupert and Teddy Bear to bed (Rupert was my teddy and Teddy Bear is from Vince and Cristina) and I started to sing Away in a Manger. I wasn't half way through the first line and Anna's thumb was in her mouth and she lay down. Ange and I laughed. She got up. I started singing again. She lay down. It still makes me smile.
A photo from the weekend, where we met Lindsay and Mike in the Cotswalds (Bourton-on-the-Water)... just before the Christmas song teasing:
And, "I like ice cream!":
A key element is me lying on the floor beside her cot. I put a collection of small pillows behind my head. Anna usually confirms I will be lying down, explaining to me: "Daddy. Pillows." And then I sing. Some of you will appreciate that I am likely doing more harm than good to poor Anna's future as a musician, but I like singing to someone who clearly doesn't care that fewer than half of the notes are remotely in tune.
I also have a pretty small repertoire of songs. I have Twinkle, Twinkle. It's an old standby, but reliable and appropriate for going to bed. I can pull of Ba, Ba, Black sheep and know enough versus of Mary Had a Little Lamb to fill a couple of minutes. It ends a little abruptly but both Anna and I are comfortable with my ending. Thanks to many campfires and a Raffi CD that gets too much airplay in the car, I can also 'sing' Kumbaya. I won't lie, it's a favourite.
My last and most accomplished song is one my mother used to sing to me when I was young. Away in a Manger. I have received a certain degree of ridicule for singing this song as a year-round bedtime song. The other day, a certain Lindsay Atkinson asked if I followed it up with Jingle Bells or I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas. It has since occurred to me that I do know a number of Christmas songs. Certainly more Christmas songs than lullabies. I am now waiting for the official word that Christmas season has begun to broaden my repertoire: North American retail. I figure if I drag Christmas tunes out til mid January, I should get a good 2, 2.5 months out of them.
Anna, however, has gotten used to our little routine. Just tonight, she was pretending to put Rupert and Teddy Bear to bed (Rupert was my teddy and Teddy Bear is from Vince and Cristina) and I started to sing Away in a Manger. I wasn't half way through the first line and Anna's thumb was in her mouth and she lay down. Ange and I laughed. She got up. I started singing again. She lay down. It still makes me smile.
A photo from the weekend, where we met Lindsay and Mike in the Cotswalds (Bourton-on-the-Water)... just before the Christmas song teasing:
And, "I like ice cream!":
An Ongoing Saga
To the surprise of almost no one who has ever dealt with a property transaction in the UK, we're only marginally closer to moving into the house we've still only allegedly purchased. It has come to the point where everyone is almost ready to exchange contracts. Once that has happened, it is all legally binding and (for the most part) there are usually no hiccups thereafter.
We had some survey work done on the house which discovered a few little but somewhat costly problems with the house. One was a leak in the roof. The other a problem with how the water tanks had been installed. The surveyor was keen to point out that these sort of issues were to be expected in a house of its age (approximately 120 years old). My dad read a copy of the report. He seemed pleased that the house was not about to imminently collapse in on itself and declared the structure fit to buy. Ange and I suggested we share the cost of the repairs with the seller.
Only, suggesting something to the seller isn't an entirely straight-forward procedure. We could go through the Estate Agent. However, as we're not paying them in this transaction and I have every reason to believe they're acting in their interest (i.e. commission) before anything else, we can't go through them. Good old Tim at Bridges is very quick to accuse us of holding up the process. I am entirely at a loss how we might hurry the process since absolutely nothing is relying on us individually. Our lawyer is often AWOL and our mortgage company just moved head offices, leaving thousands of people (including us) in a money lending limbo. Nevertheless, our accents combined with our unwillingness to rush ahead without paperwork in hand have Tim phoning me nearly daily to berate me. Even when I point out that we had all of our paperwork and things together in mid-May and it has since been with our hired help, my foreign-ness is still our undoing. It is the finest example of 1999 British customer service I have come across since we came back.
So, while we're to blame (and I can only imagine the conversations with other people in the chain), our lawyer has all but disappeared. The law firm we've retained is probably the least professional organisation I've ever come across. You can phone, but it is usually engaged (busy). If you do get through, you almost certainly go through to the answerphone. The answerphone message is the standard machine message (you can hear the crackling of the tape as you record), with no reference to the company or phone number... so, as you leave a message about private legal matters, you do so not entirely sure you're not telling some little old lady in Essex. Rather than return calls, they write us letters to ask us questions. The other day, they wrote us a letter. They misspelled 'Dudek' (yep, 5 letters inexplicably became 6) and made a couple of other errors. While they never caught the name misspelled, they did catch the other typos. Yet, rather than reprint the letter, the crossed it out with a ballpoint pen and corrected it above. Yes, we're being charged £50 for stationary and postage.
Meanwhile, our mortgage lending company seems to have checked out for a few weeks to move its head office. Our mortgage broker is perplexed and effusively apologetic. Nevertheless, we're a caught in position with thousands of other of having to wait over 6 weeks for a process that normally takes a few days. Despite having our mortgage broker explain this to Tim, Tim can't help but bring it up daily with the underlying implication being we're somehow in a credit crisis and he ought to kick us out for being too poor.
I think the underlying frustration on all parts is that, apart from this blog and occasionally asking Tim if it would be too much trouble to be polite, we're not biting. After all, "When in Rome." Today, Ange confidently explained to Tim that we were okay with it taking a little longer. We'd waited 4 months, an extra couple of days wasn't going to bother us. Tim's commission is on his mind. He wasn't convinced.
We had some survey work done on the house which discovered a few little but somewhat costly problems with the house. One was a leak in the roof. The other a problem with how the water tanks had been installed. The surveyor was keen to point out that these sort of issues were to be expected in a house of its age (approximately 120 years old). My dad read a copy of the report. He seemed pleased that the house was not about to imminently collapse in on itself and declared the structure fit to buy. Ange and I suggested we share the cost of the repairs with the seller.
Only, suggesting something to the seller isn't an entirely straight-forward procedure. We could go through the Estate Agent. However, as we're not paying them in this transaction and I have every reason to believe they're acting in their interest (i.e. commission) before anything else, we can't go through them. Good old Tim at Bridges is very quick to accuse us of holding up the process. I am entirely at a loss how we might hurry the process since absolutely nothing is relying on us individually. Our lawyer is often AWOL and our mortgage company just moved head offices, leaving thousands of people (including us) in a money lending limbo. Nevertheless, our accents combined with our unwillingness to rush ahead without paperwork in hand have Tim phoning me nearly daily to berate me. Even when I point out that we had all of our paperwork and things together in mid-May and it has since been with our hired help, my foreign-ness is still our undoing. It is the finest example of 1999 British customer service I have come across since we came back.
So, while we're to blame (and I can only imagine the conversations with other people in the chain), our lawyer has all but disappeared. The law firm we've retained is probably the least professional organisation I've ever come across. You can phone, but it is usually engaged (busy). If you do get through, you almost certainly go through to the answerphone. The answerphone message is the standard machine message (you can hear the crackling of the tape as you record), with no reference to the company or phone number... so, as you leave a message about private legal matters, you do so not entirely sure you're not telling some little old lady in Essex. Rather than return calls, they write us letters to ask us questions. The other day, they wrote us a letter. They misspelled 'Dudek' (yep, 5 letters inexplicably became 6) and made a couple of other errors. While they never caught the name misspelled, they did catch the other typos. Yet, rather than reprint the letter, the crossed it out with a ballpoint pen and corrected it above. Yes, we're being charged £50 for stationary and postage.
Meanwhile, our mortgage lending company seems to have checked out for a few weeks to move its head office. Our mortgage broker is perplexed and effusively apologetic. Nevertheless, we're a caught in position with thousands of other of having to wait over 6 weeks for a process that normally takes a few days. Despite having our mortgage broker explain this to Tim, Tim can't help but bring it up daily with the underlying implication being we're somehow in a credit crisis and he ought to kick us out for being too poor.
I think the underlying frustration on all parts is that, apart from this blog and occasionally asking Tim if it would be too much trouble to be polite, we're not biting. After all, "When in Rome." Today, Ange confidently explained to Tim that we were okay with it taking a little longer. We'd waited 4 months, an extra couple of days wasn't going to bother us. Tim's commission is on his mind. He wasn't convinced.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Coffee
It was a very early start last Monday morning. Anna didn't really protest because she was hardly conscious as we piled into the car at 4:15am to get to Gatwick Airport to catch our flight to Krakow, Poland. The whole transport to the airport went off well, with hardly a hiccup. It was Ange, Anna and I along with 'cousins' Marcus and Magda. I had dropped 'cousin' Tanya off at the train station at 4am to catch a train to Gatwick as our car is only so big.
Anna came to life at the site of all the airplanes. She is a bit of an airplane freak. Every time you hear a plane, she comments (often before you can see it), "Airplane! Flying!" And then she scans the sky to find the plane. It was genuinely exciting at the start of this trip. It was fun to be with chi-chi (phonetic English of the Polish word for aunt) Magda, chi-chi Tanya and Marcus. It was fun to have Anna so deleriously excited at the mere site of planes where there were indeed many planes. It was exciting to go back to Krakow. It was exciting not to have to endure a budget airline, since the British Airways flight was a mere £10 more than Ryan Air for the family! There is something strangely reassuring about being assigned a seat on a plane. I've never really been overly encouraged by the Bulgaria to Romania bus-style rush-seating mentality to Ryan air.
Ange and I sat together. We had a window and middle seat. It was tight, but not as bad as Easy Jet. Plus, drinks and snacks were included. So, after about an hour, the flight attendant came by offering coffee, tea and an assortment of juices and fizzy drinks. I opted for coffee. It had been hours and I was into a caffeine withdrawal headache. Anna quickly pointed at my paper cup, exclaiming, "hot!". "Yes," I agreed, adding "it's coffee."
Anna took approximately 2 seconds to decide she wanted coffee. "Anna. Coffee. Please." I tried to explain that coffee was not a drink she would have much interest in. It was hot. And, it was yucky. Trapped in the tiny space and overwhelmed by the persistence of a 19 month old saying please was too much. Have you seen her eyes?
Ange and I agreed that after one sip, she'd be so revolted by the drink, she'd probably not want another sip til she was in her teens. I gave her a sip. To the amusement of the lady sitting beside us (and probably not our friends in the health care professions), Anna loved it. Perplexed, I was forced into dumping my coffee down my throat to minimise the amount of coffee Anna would get. She drank at the empty cup for a full 5 minutes after I had handed it over to her. And then, for the whole trip, the sight of a coffee was enough for Anna to be requesting her fair share.
On arrival, Poland was fantastic. Krakow is truly one of gems of this world. It is a little frayed around the edges, but has so much character. It always feels like there is so much to discover about it. The wedding in Meleic was amazing (photo is of 'cousin' Ola and Anna at the wedding). The hospitality shown by our 'family' was almost embarassing, it was so generous.
There were also the usual highlights of being in a different country. A couple of personal favourites were the petrol station called "Krak Gaz." We didn't stop at Krak Gaz for petrol, which was unfortunate since it would have been ideal to get a photo of myself in front the sign before English becomes prevelant enough in Krakow that they're forced to rename. Another was a business that had gone under, leaving a dilapitated shell of a building sitting at the side of the road. The ill fated business was called "Driver Bar," and one can only assume that the modern pressures to crack down on drinking and driving probably had something to do with the demise of a bar on a highway in the middle of nowhere.
Anna came to life at the site of all the airplanes. She is a bit of an airplane freak. Every time you hear a plane, she comments (often before you can see it), "Airplane! Flying!" And then she scans the sky to find the plane. It was genuinely exciting at the start of this trip. It was fun to be with chi-chi (phonetic English of the Polish word for aunt) Magda, chi-chi Tanya and Marcus. It was fun to have Anna so deleriously excited at the mere site of planes where there were indeed many planes. It was exciting to go back to Krakow. It was exciting not to have to endure a budget airline, since the British Airways flight was a mere £10 more than Ryan Air for the family! There is something strangely reassuring about being assigned a seat on a plane. I've never really been overly encouraged by the Bulgaria to Romania bus-style rush-seating mentality to Ryan air.
Ange and I sat together. We had a window and middle seat. It was tight, but not as bad as Easy Jet. Plus, drinks and snacks were included. So, after about an hour, the flight attendant came by offering coffee, tea and an assortment of juices and fizzy drinks. I opted for coffee. It had been hours and I was into a caffeine withdrawal headache. Anna quickly pointed at my paper cup, exclaiming, "hot!". "Yes," I agreed, adding "it's coffee."
Anna took approximately 2 seconds to decide she wanted coffee. "Anna. Coffee. Please." I tried to explain that coffee was not a drink she would have much interest in. It was hot. And, it was yucky. Trapped in the tiny space and overwhelmed by the persistence of a 19 month old saying please was too much. Have you seen her eyes?
Ange and I agreed that after one sip, she'd be so revolted by the drink, she'd probably not want another sip til she was in her teens. I gave her a sip. To the amusement of the lady sitting beside us (and probably not our friends in the health care professions), Anna loved it. Perplexed, I was forced into dumping my coffee down my throat to minimise the amount of coffee Anna would get. She drank at the empty cup for a full 5 minutes after I had handed it over to her. And then, for the whole trip, the sight of a coffee was enough for Anna to be requesting her fair share.
On arrival, Poland was fantastic. Krakow is truly one of gems of this world. It is a little frayed around the edges, but has so much character. It always feels like there is so much to discover about it. The wedding in Meleic was amazing (photo is of 'cousin' Ola and Anna at the wedding). The hospitality shown by our 'family' was almost embarassing, it was so generous.
There were also the usual highlights of being in a different country. A couple of personal favourites were the petrol station called "Krak Gaz." We didn't stop at Krak Gaz for petrol, which was unfortunate since it would have been ideal to get a photo of myself in front the sign before English becomes prevelant enough in Krakow that they're forced to rename. Another was a business that had gone under, leaving a dilapitated shell of a building sitting at the side of the road. The ill fated business was called "Driver Bar," and one can only assume that the modern pressures to crack down on drinking and driving probably had something to do with the demise of a bar on a highway in the middle of nowhere.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Sentences
Anna continues to amaze Ange and I. It's not that anything she does is particularly amazing when compared to other children her age. It is just that Ange and I don't have any experience with children her age.
So, an example: last weekend we were on or way into London to see Emily, Armando and Stella. Emily was going to babysit Anna so Ange and I could go to the theatre. On our way into the city, traffic became increasingly insane. At one point, three lanes became one, forcing cars, lorries and motorcycles through a tiny lane with little notice. With no warning and London tending generally on the busy side, it caused a degree of traffic chaos. Vehicles jockeyed for position. A massive lorry (truck) simply pushed his way in front, nearly raking the side of a a little Citreon. All the while, impatient motorbikes and scooters buzzed through any space left by the other vehicles. Some became stuck, not able to move forward or back and generally adding to the confusion. A jerk in a BMW tried to race down the side and get in ahead: the whole mass of vehicles quickly inched forward in solidarity to not deny the BMW. In itself an impressive feat given how little space there was to begin with. Sociologists would have been bemused.
We sat in our little Toyota Carolla bubble. It was that temperature outside (and inside) where one can't quite decide if air conditioning is actually necessary. A children's nursery CD provided background noise rather than entertainment and all three of us looked out the window. As the lorry moved into a space and a scooter shuffled backwards towards us to get out of his way, I commented flippantly to Ange, "London is crazy." Ange agreed. And then, out of nowhere, so too did Anna. "London crazy," came from the back seat. We both looked back as we laughed. Both our initial and subsequent laughter is, of course, the positive reinforcement necessary to declare the craziness of London on a nearly daily basis. And it really is too funny to hear her say it. But Anna's observation of London's traffic problems were just the beginning. Sentences have come fast and furious this week. They include things like, "Stella's in London," and "More porridge please."
Other little language developments provide humour for us too. A personal favourite (and one for anyone who enjoyed the not-so-recent movie redo of Starsky & Hutch), is when Anna would like to do something herself: "Do it!"
And, of course, there are early indications that Anna might be developing an English accent. Water sounds like "wahr-tah," while the intination on other words certainly isn't Western Canadian. We'll get our speech expert Erika to listen in on Skype and give an update.
It's off to Poland in a couple of weeks! But before then, I have a sneaking suspicion we might see some sunshine. Of course, I won't be betting any money on that.
So, an example: last weekend we were on or way into London to see Emily, Armando and Stella. Emily was going to babysit Anna so Ange and I could go to the theatre. On our way into the city, traffic became increasingly insane. At one point, three lanes became one, forcing cars, lorries and motorcycles through a tiny lane with little notice. With no warning and London tending generally on the busy side, it caused a degree of traffic chaos. Vehicles jockeyed for position. A massive lorry (truck) simply pushed his way in front, nearly raking the side of a a little Citreon. All the while, impatient motorbikes and scooters buzzed through any space left by the other vehicles. Some became stuck, not able to move forward or back and generally adding to the confusion. A jerk in a BMW tried to race down the side and get in ahead: the whole mass of vehicles quickly inched forward in solidarity to not deny the BMW. In itself an impressive feat given how little space there was to begin with. Sociologists would have been bemused.
We sat in our little Toyota Carolla bubble. It was that temperature outside (and inside) where one can't quite decide if air conditioning is actually necessary. A children's nursery CD provided background noise rather than entertainment and all three of us looked out the window. As the lorry moved into a space and a scooter shuffled backwards towards us to get out of his way, I commented flippantly to Ange, "London is crazy." Ange agreed. And then, out of nowhere, so too did Anna. "London crazy," came from the back seat. We both looked back as we laughed. Both our initial and subsequent laughter is, of course, the positive reinforcement necessary to declare the craziness of London on a nearly daily basis. And it really is too funny to hear her say it. But Anna's observation of London's traffic problems were just the beginning. Sentences have come fast and furious this week. They include things like, "Stella's in London," and "More porridge please."
Other little language developments provide humour for us too. A personal favourite (and one for anyone who enjoyed the not-so-recent movie redo of Starsky & Hutch), is when Anna would like to do something herself: "Do it!"
And, of course, there are early indications that Anna might be developing an English accent. Water sounds like "wahr-tah," while the intination on other words certainly isn't Western Canadian. We'll get our speech expert Erika to listen in on Skype and give an update.
It's off to Poland in a couple of weeks! But before then, I have a sneaking suspicion we might see some sunshine. Of course, I won't be betting any money on that.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
OK, it's wet
I wandered out to the Passat at about 6:20am. I knew I wouldn't have to crawl in through the trunk only because I hadn't bothered locking it. I hadn't bothered to lock it because the car is simply not worth locking and because I had gone to bed convinced of the very real possibility that it might float away anyway.
If anyone hasn't been watching the news, there has been a lot of rain here. So much, in fact, that rivers have shown considerable disregard to the banks that normally confine their movement.
On this morning, the car was there and the car park was wet from rain but there was no standing water. I hoppped in and started off. My drive takes me over the Chilterns, which a tourist sign notes is an "area of outstanding natural beauty." And it is beautiful. Probably beautiful enough that it doesn't need a sign to tell you it is beautiful. Those who have driven through BC will appreciate similar patronising signs that tell you that BC is beautiful as you drive past stunning glaciers, wonderful lakes and panoramic valley views.
The Chilterns are high ground in the south east corner of Oxfordshire and not subject to flooding. I bypass the chaos of the flooded towns of Abingdon and Wallingford and arrive at work. As colleagues disappear home to move furniture to the top floors of their houses, I realise that Ange and I both work on high ground. In both instances, we're at the top of a hill in a lovely old building. In both instances, there is no chance of water lapping at the doors of our place of work.
But our personal circumstances aside, things are really, really bad here. People are in a really bad way. Though I don't mean to minimise the flooding catastrophy in Manitoba (Red River) some years back, the numbers of people affected in Britain dwarf those affected in Manitoba on a shocking scale. Nearly half a million people don't have running water right now... and aren't likely to for another 2 weeks. Thousands of homes are submerged in Oxfordshire, Gloucester, Berkshire and Bedfordshire. Still, the generaly public deals with this with a stoicism that is admirable. Mind you, it might just be a stoicism of people who seem to have to deal with an epic crisis of one sort or another seemingly every year.
What is also incredible is how unaffected we have been while being sat right in the middle of it. If anything, the fact that thousands of people in our area have their cars sat under a few feet of water means that the past few days, the traffic has been incredibly light. My drive into work doesn't involve crossing any rivers and covers high ground, so things are actually moving more efficiently for me. Ange's 1 minute walk to work remains unaffected too. Anna's nursery is at the absolute high point in our town and she is unaffected. We had trouble getting to soft play for Anna last friday, but that is hardly an imposition. Today, however, Reading is meant to get hit by the high water surge. I guess we'll soon discover how close to the flood plain our house sits!
For more on just how flooded things are, check out the BBC
If anyone hasn't been watching the news, there has been a lot of rain here. So much, in fact, that rivers have shown considerable disregard to the banks that normally confine their movement.
On this morning, the car was there and the car park was wet from rain but there was no standing water. I hoppped in and started off. My drive takes me over the Chilterns, which a tourist sign notes is an "area of outstanding natural beauty." And it is beautiful. Probably beautiful enough that it doesn't need a sign to tell you it is beautiful. Those who have driven through BC will appreciate similar patronising signs that tell you that BC is beautiful as you drive past stunning glaciers, wonderful lakes and panoramic valley views.
The Chilterns are high ground in the south east corner of Oxfordshire and not subject to flooding. I bypass the chaos of the flooded towns of Abingdon and Wallingford and arrive at work. As colleagues disappear home to move furniture to the top floors of their houses, I realise that Ange and I both work on high ground. In both instances, we're at the top of a hill in a lovely old building. In both instances, there is no chance of water lapping at the doors of our place of work.
But our personal circumstances aside, things are really, really bad here. People are in a really bad way. Though I don't mean to minimise the flooding catastrophy in Manitoba (Red River) some years back, the numbers of people affected in Britain dwarf those affected in Manitoba on a shocking scale. Nearly half a million people don't have running water right now... and aren't likely to for another 2 weeks. Thousands of homes are submerged in Oxfordshire, Gloucester, Berkshire and Bedfordshire. Still, the generaly public deals with this with a stoicism that is admirable. Mind you, it might just be a stoicism of people who seem to have to deal with an epic crisis of one sort or another seemingly every year.
What is also incredible is how unaffected we have been while being sat right in the middle of it. If anything, the fact that thousands of people in our area have their cars sat under a few feet of water means that the past few days, the traffic has been incredibly light. My drive into work doesn't involve crossing any rivers and covers high ground, so things are actually moving more efficiently for me. Ange's 1 minute walk to work remains unaffected too. Anna's nursery is at the absolute high point in our town and she is unaffected. We had trouble getting to soft play for Anna last friday, but that is hardly an imposition. Today, however, Reading is meant to get hit by the high water surge. I guess we'll soon discover how close to the flood plain our house sits!
For more on just how flooded things are, check out the BBC
Monday, July 09, 2007
Best Damn Weekend
This past weekend has to rank amongst the best. Certainly for Anna it was, which means that is was for us too. I took Friday off work and we managed to sneak in both swimming and "soft play." Swimming was at the local pool, which includes waves (yes, a wave pool) and a water slide. We enjoyed both. Though rubber duckies (it was toddler hour) were almost as enjoyable to one of us...
"Soft Play", for those without kids, is like a giant warehouse full of padded climbing things. It's like a playground with reduced injury possibility. In addition to 10 padded levels of stairs and steps, there was also a ball pool and many slides. We had a blast but there are some possible hygiene concerns. I won't elaborate but next time I will go armed with Purell.
Saturday was "Fun Day" at the nursery that Anna attends. Summer fairs are an institution over here. It would be fair to say that we don't entirely get it, but I suspect Anna had fun. Next year, when she is able to understand the games a little better, she will have more fun. This year, it was all about the "Decorate your own biscuit" stall where for 20p, one was given a biscuit (digestive cookie) and pots of coloured, liquid sugar to pour all over the biscuit. It was very messy and very, very sweet. It was also quite popular.
We went to London on Saturday night to hang out with cousin Stella as Emily and Armando went out for dinner on Armando's birthday. It was a laugh. But not so much as Sunday, which involved another pool and then the Museum of Childhood. The Museum of Childhood was almost too much fun to comprehend for Anna. Every interactive display was a tantrum to pull her away, only to be replaced by the most glorious laugh of anticipation as a new interactive display was introduced to her. The Doll House display was stunning (and included, incredibly, a large doll house from 1673). Yep, 1673. A 334 year old doll house. I was probably more impressed than Anna, who was as pleased as punch with an interactive doll house (with dolls) on display to play with. It was not from the 17th century. In fact, it looked recent and possibly Scandinavian.
3 hours of traffic made the 45 mile trip home tiresome, but after so much fun, who was to complain? Well, okay, I complained a little. But not too much.
"Soft Play", for those without kids, is like a giant warehouse full of padded climbing things. It's like a playground with reduced injury possibility. In addition to 10 padded levels of stairs and steps, there was also a ball pool and many slides. We had a blast but there are some possible hygiene concerns. I won't elaborate but next time I will go armed with Purell.
Saturday was "Fun Day" at the nursery that Anna attends. Summer fairs are an institution over here. It would be fair to say that we don't entirely get it, but I suspect Anna had fun. Next year, when she is able to understand the games a little better, she will have more fun. This year, it was all about the "Decorate your own biscuit" stall where for 20p, one was given a biscuit (digestive cookie) and pots of coloured, liquid sugar to pour all over the biscuit. It was very messy and very, very sweet. It was also quite popular.
We went to London on Saturday night to hang out with cousin Stella as Emily and Armando went out for dinner on Armando's birthday. It was a laugh. But not so much as Sunday, which involved another pool and then the Museum of Childhood. The Museum of Childhood was almost too much fun to comprehend for Anna. Every interactive display was a tantrum to pull her away, only to be replaced by the most glorious laugh of anticipation as a new interactive display was introduced to her. The Doll House display was stunning (and included, incredibly, a large doll house from 1673). Yep, 1673. A 334 year old doll house. I was probably more impressed than Anna, who was as pleased as punch with an interactive doll house (with dolls) on display to play with. It was not from the 17th century. In fact, it looked recent and possibly Scandinavian.
3 hours of traffic made the 45 mile trip home tiresome, but after so much fun, who was to complain? Well, okay, I complained a little. But not too much.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Oh-dirt
It is a good thing that Anna is fed a balanced diet at nursery. There are a couple of home favourites which we find ourselves defaulting to more often than we probably ought to.
First is yogurt. She has a near obsession with yogurt, now known in our house as 'oh-dirt'. It is requested at nearly every meal, though we try to balance how often we actually give it to her. It's tough to deny a kid natural, organic yogurt though. It's not like she's asking for some edible oil product marketed by ruthless ad agencies for maximum profit on food that is high in saturated fats and completely absent of nutritional value. It's natural yogurt. The carton has flowers, sunshine and a cow on it for crying out loud. Still, with the 'everything in moderation' mantra playing in the back of my mind, oh-dirt is only available once a day.
The other is porridge. Like the oh-dirt above, hardly seems a sinful indulgence for a child. Still, we're often able to add fruit to the porridge. Blueberries change the colour of the porridge too. But the girl can eat an astonishing amount of porridge. Breakfast is basically porridge. We can try to offer other things, but that is best done with a partial porridge offering. To make ourselves feel slightly better, we opt now for organic porridge. Luckily, (let's face it) even expensive porridge is pretty damn cheap.
So, another interactive blog (not understanding? see past post here)? Possibly. That certainly generate more interest that anything else we've done since arriving. Keep an eye on this space.
First is yogurt. She has a near obsession with yogurt, now known in our house as 'oh-dirt'. It is requested at nearly every meal, though we try to balance how often we actually give it to her. It's tough to deny a kid natural, organic yogurt though. It's not like she's asking for some edible oil product marketed by ruthless ad agencies for maximum profit on food that is high in saturated fats and completely absent of nutritional value. It's natural yogurt. The carton has flowers, sunshine and a cow on it for crying out loud. Still, with the 'everything in moderation' mantra playing in the back of my mind, oh-dirt is only available once a day.
The other is porridge. Like the oh-dirt above, hardly seems a sinful indulgence for a child. Still, we're often able to add fruit to the porridge. Blueberries change the colour of the porridge too. But the girl can eat an astonishing amount of porridge. Breakfast is basically porridge. We can try to offer other things, but that is best done with a partial porridge offering. To make ourselves feel slightly better, we opt now for organic porridge. Luckily, (let's face it) even expensive porridge is pretty damn cheap.
So, another interactive blog (not understanding? see past post here)? Possibly. That certainly generate more interest that anything else we've done since arriving. Keep an eye on this space.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Instant Coffee
I've started drinking instant coffee at work.
I don't know why it has happened.
On reflection, I think it has to do with one of two things. It could be that I have nostalgic memories of pulling my motorcycle apart with my dad. Confused and overwhelmed, my heart would start to beat faster and my hands would get sweaty. My dad, on the other hand, would always be able to walk away and grab a coffee while working out the latest fault. He would grab me one and we (meaning, "he") would get to work figuring out the problem at hand. Dad's coffee is always instant. I was at his house the other month and he proudly proclaimed that he had some filter coffee when Ange and I winced when offered instant. He pulled out the package. Its best-before-date was August, 2000. We drank it anyway. So, the nostalgic feeling of calm and accomplishment in the face of catastrophic engine failure is one potential reason for me now turning to instant coffee at work.
The other, probably more likely explantion is that I am shockingly lazy. Our offices are in the old servants' quarters of a manor house built in 1856. The kitchen is through a maze of halls and stairs. Getting water from the nearby WC is okay except that the tap leaks horribly. The leaky tap means you have to use both hands to turn the tap as tightly as possible to stem the drip--and even that isn't perfect. Only employing a wrench would really cease the drip permanently. It can actually be quite painful to turn the tap on and off and the torque required means that people really have to put their weight behind it. The consequence is that the sink is starting to pull away from the wall. I know my luck and I really don't want to be the person who actually pulls the sink off the wall. I just can't be associated with that sort of water damage to my place of work. All that to say, water for both the coffee machine and cleaning the pot and wire filter is too far away for regular trips. So, laziness is the second potential reason for turning to istant coffee.
As I reflect and give it more thought than it deserves, I can only think of one thing. I need a coffee. Maybe someone else has mercifully made some filter coffee...
I don't know why it has happened.
On reflection, I think it has to do with one of two things. It could be that I have nostalgic memories of pulling my motorcycle apart with my dad. Confused and overwhelmed, my heart would start to beat faster and my hands would get sweaty. My dad, on the other hand, would always be able to walk away and grab a coffee while working out the latest fault. He would grab me one and we (meaning, "he") would get to work figuring out the problem at hand. Dad's coffee is always instant. I was at his house the other month and he proudly proclaimed that he had some filter coffee when Ange and I winced when offered instant. He pulled out the package. Its best-before-date was August, 2000. We drank it anyway. So, the nostalgic feeling of calm and accomplishment in the face of catastrophic engine failure is one potential reason for me now turning to instant coffee at work.
The other, probably more likely explantion is that I am shockingly lazy. Our offices are in the old servants' quarters of a manor house built in 1856. The kitchen is through a maze of halls and stairs. Getting water from the nearby WC is okay except that the tap leaks horribly. The leaky tap means you have to use both hands to turn the tap as tightly as possible to stem the drip--and even that isn't perfect. Only employing a wrench would really cease the drip permanently. It can actually be quite painful to turn the tap on and off and the torque required means that people really have to put their weight behind it. The consequence is that the sink is starting to pull away from the wall. I know my luck and I really don't want to be the person who actually pulls the sink off the wall. I just can't be associated with that sort of water damage to my place of work. All that to say, water for both the coffee machine and cleaning the pot and wire filter is too far away for regular trips. So, laziness is the second potential reason for turning to istant coffee.
As I reflect and give it more thought than it deserves, I can only think of one thing. I need a coffee. Maybe someone else has mercifully made some filter coffee...
Friday, June 22, 2007
Square One
The DVLA. Oh, the DVLA. I don't even know what the hell is stands for. I can work it out though... Driving and Vehicle Licencing Authority? I'm guessing. Someone else can look it up.
I fear we may have taken on a bureaucracy that will smash us with their calous contempt rational thinking. We've had to withdraw our applications for our British licences. We need a letter. Without which, we have to re-test. But they've set up a lovely little Catch-22. We need our British automatic licence to re-test, meaning we can't legally drive a standard transmission vehicle. So how do we get our manual car to the testing site? We still have our fingers crossed that this can be avoided. We have a friend who has pulled it off, so there is hope. I'm living on this hope right now. But this faint hope that keeps my heart from racing 24-7 has been frayed somewhat by the hope that the chain might close on the house and we might actually have bought it.
I wonder if this is a characteristic of the British culture: hope that one day things might go smoothly. I'm too harsh. But Ange did point out that it is feeling like the second Anna goes to bed, all we do is fight a never-ending battle against bureaucracy. Canadin International Tax Office. Getting the right document from the Bank for our Canadian Income Tax. Getting our money back from an insurance company without original receipts for everything. Buying a house (that encompasses so many, you care not to think). Getting a British driving licence. Trying to sign up for online banking with Lloyds (its only been 9 months!). Trying to recover a ridiculous service charge because I can never get to bank during banking hours and they can't work out online banking.
Anyway, back to square one with the licence thing.
I hate square one. I hate bureaucracy. I hate spelling bureaucracy. Someone at Hooked on Phonics should step in on that word. Maybe that is our next fight. The Oxford Dictionary people are in trouble once I sort out getting a licence and can legally drive over to their office to complain.
I fear we may have taken on a bureaucracy that will smash us with their calous contempt rational thinking. We've had to withdraw our applications for our British licences. We need a letter. Without which, we have to re-test. But they've set up a lovely little Catch-22. We need our British automatic licence to re-test, meaning we can't legally drive a standard transmission vehicle. So how do we get our manual car to the testing site? We still have our fingers crossed that this can be avoided. We have a friend who has pulled it off, so there is hope. I'm living on this hope right now. But this faint hope that keeps my heart from racing 24-7 has been frayed somewhat by the hope that the chain might close on the house and we might actually have bought it.
I wonder if this is a characteristic of the British culture: hope that one day things might go smoothly. I'm too harsh. But Ange did point out that it is feeling like the second Anna goes to bed, all we do is fight a never-ending battle against bureaucracy. Canadin International Tax Office. Getting the right document from the Bank for our Canadian Income Tax. Getting our money back from an insurance company without original receipts for everything. Buying a house (that encompasses so many, you care not to think). Getting a British driving licence. Trying to sign up for online banking with Lloyds (its only been 9 months!). Trying to recover a ridiculous service charge because I can never get to bank during banking hours and they can't work out online banking.
Anyway, back to square one with the licence thing.
I hate square one. I hate bureaucracy. I hate spelling bureaucracy. Someone at Hooked on Phonics should step in on that word. Maybe that is our next fight. The Oxford Dictionary people are in trouble once I sort out getting a licence and can legally drive over to their office to complain.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Registry Office?
Anyone! Does anyone know someone who works at a Registry Office in Calgary... or anywhere in Alberta or BC? Can you get in touch?
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
A Trend Not To Be Missed
Quite suddenly, the draw of Berkshire on Canadians seems to have taken hold. It was quite unforseen. However, in the past two weeks there have been three incidents where Canadians have spoken seriously about moving to Reading.
So as not incriminate anyone, I won't use names. A couple of friends from Calgary have been living in the south of England for about a year but a job oppotunity came up in Maidenhead. They are considering the move to Reading and we should know shortly. Another friend, who I met in Calgary many years ago (through field hockey), is interviewing today for a job in Basingstoke. She would live in Reading if it all looks good and the job offer is made. Then, finally, some very close friends from Calgary who are living abroad have been in touch. As it turns out, there is a legitimate work opportunity in Reading for both of them. Suddenly, the unthinkable is being considered. A move to Reading.
So, I think everyone should ask themselves: why am I not moving to Reading? After all, everyone is doing it.
So as not incriminate anyone, I won't use names. A couple of friends from Calgary have been living in the south of England for about a year but a job oppotunity came up in Maidenhead. They are considering the move to Reading and we should know shortly. Another friend, who I met in Calgary many years ago (through field hockey), is interviewing today for a job in Basingstoke. She would live in Reading if it all looks good and the job offer is made. Then, finally, some very close friends from Calgary who are living abroad have been in touch. As it turns out, there is a legitimate work opportunity in Reading for both of them. Suddenly, the unthinkable is being considered. A move to Reading.
So, I think everyone should ask themselves: why am I not moving to Reading? After all, everyone is doing it.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Father's Day
It applies to me! Too crazy. But I am a dad (Papa to some: you know who you are) and Ange and Anna were good to me today. Not surprisingly, we ended up at the daddy of all English castles. Windsor Castle. It was great, but we didn't go in. Not enough time to do it justice and it is a bit dear to get in (£12 each). Still, a lovely day:
Anna and Dad:
Anna and Dad:
Friday, June 15, 2007
Chains
House Update: Still no house purcahse. The "chain" hasn't closed. Ridiculous.
Car Update: The once random occasions where I had to go through the trunk have become regular. I no longer lock the car.
Though I am about as biased as it comes, Anna is just so damn cute. She uses words we haven't taught her. Scary. Today, she pointed out a "puddle" to us. And, because she is as smart as she is cute, it was in fact a puddle.
Evidence of cute:
Evidence of trouble for dad:
Car Update: The once random occasions where I had to go through the trunk have become regular. I no longer lock the car.
Though I am about as biased as it comes, Anna is just so damn cute. She uses words we haven't taught her. Scary. Today, she pointed out a "puddle" to us. And, because she is as smart as she is cute, it was in fact a puddle.
Evidence of cute:
Evidence of trouble for dad:
Monday, June 11, 2007
Svenska Flicka
We've returned from Sweden. It was excellent. On the whole, more Canadian than I ever could have imagined. Less, of course, the Tim Hortons and more of the old stuff. Oh yeah, and a whole lot more money to buy just about anything.
There are some pretty amazing things going on in Stockholm. First, and not surprisingly to many who know me, the history is top quality. Hats off to Swedish restoration projects, which allow sad people like me to drag my family to all sorts of ancient wonders. Of particular interest is the Vasa warship, which sits in a specially built dry dock for your viewing pleasure. There are many amazing things about the Vasa, no the least of which is that it spent 335 years at the bottom of the ocean. It seems that the water around the Stockholm archipelago are just perfect for the preservation of normally biodegrateable substances like wood and leather. This means that the Vasa is incredibly well preserved; so well preserved, in fact, that when they raised it from the bottom of the ocean, it still floated. It actually floated back to the docks!
Now you're wondering why it sank if it floated? The short story is that the Swedish King (I can't remember his name, but it was particularly Nordic.... I think it was Gustav?) wanted the biggest and most impressive war ship in the world. He commissioned a ship expert to design the Vasa. Lacking computer modelling and such, the ship was made bigger than anything else. It had a remarkable 64 gun ports. To the untrained eye (albeit with the decidedly helpful hindsight of knowing it sank), it seemed to me that the lower row of gun ports were frightfully close to the water line. This meant that there are a number of large holes on the lower sides of the ship. Exacerbating the problem of loads of holes in the hull, was that the Vasa was painfully top heavy (again the result of all those canons). To make a long story short, the ship sailed about 10 minutes out and hit a swell and rolled heavily. While the crew managed to right it, the next swell got them and tipped it over heavily to one side. The water poured into the gun ports and like so many bath-tub boats from our own experience, it sank in moments.
Happily, for many of the crew, they still weren't out of the harbour so a number of fishing boats were on hand for the rescue. Of those that did go down with the ship, many were recovered with the boat (300 odd years later) and in a somewhat eerie display at the museum, their skeletons, clothes and personal belongings are on display! They've even named the skeletons and managed to give a small account of the life they led (things like, "Hagar led a hard life, which we know by the bone indication of malnutrition as a child and the worn hip from hard labour."). The ship is amazing. Stunning, in fact. But one can't help but feel the Swedes are particularly confident in themselves, as this is essentially a huge monument to the questionable nature of Swedish naval engineering.
We also visited a number of museums on the history of Stockholm and Sweden. Ange and Claire (our cousin) went to go see the Swedish National Ballet. Claire and I saw the Pirates of the Carribean. I can honestly say that the Vasa has nothing on the Black Pearl, except they both popped back up after sinking. We also spent a lot of time just walking and taking in the atmosphere, which at times was a bit surreal. On a couple of days, there were loads of flatbed trucks roving the streets of Stockholm with dozens of screaming and dancing students on the backs. Some had the most incredible sound systems set up. Mobile, mid-day raves sauntered past us.
At one point the revelry was too much and a young male fell from the back of the slow moving truck. As the rave-truck-unit behind lurched to a stop and the driver got out to pick him up, I thouht to myself how this sort of fun would never be permitted in North America. Apart from the blatant violation of Calgary-like noise by-laws and the public drinking, safety conscious crusaders would cry out against the obvious folly of drinking and dancing on the back of moving vehicles (however slow moving they may be). No sir. This sort of fun would was to be witnessed only outside of our borders. And so we did, especially enjoying the particular Swedishness when some Abba mash-up blared across the speakers.
Anna seemed to enjoy it all. She waved at the various rave-trucks, usually to their great satisfaction. She ran in the parks. She saw a fountain. We went on a boat across the harbour. She used to say "boat," but now she will only address boats by what they say. Boats say "tooooot-toooooot". In the beautiful old town, a wandering group of Japanese tourists appealed to include Anna in their photo shoot of the ancient courtyard. With her blond hair and blue eyes, she was the perfect Swedish imposter. The tourists were none the wiser that they had a Canadian kid as their stereotypical Swedish child!
There are some pretty amazing things going on in Stockholm. First, and not surprisingly to many who know me, the history is top quality. Hats off to Swedish restoration projects, which allow sad people like me to drag my family to all sorts of ancient wonders. Of particular interest is the Vasa warship, which sits in a specially built dry dock for your viewing pleasure. There are many amazing things about the Vasa, no the least of which is that it spent 335 years at the bottom of the ocean. It seems that the water around the Stockholm archipelago are just perfect for the preservation of normally biodegrateable substances like wood and leather. This means that the Vasa is incredibly well preserved; so well preserved, in fact, that when they raised it from the bottom of the ocean, it still floated. It actually floated back to the docks!
Now you're wondering why it sank if it floated? The short story is that the Swedish King (I can't remember his name, but it was particularly Nordic.... I think it was Gustav?) wanted the biggest and most impressive war ship in the world. He commissioned a ship expert to design the Vasa. Lacking computer modelling and such, the ship was made bigger than anything else. It had a remarkable 64 gun ports. To the untrained eye (albeit with the decidedly helpful hindsight of knowing it sank), it seemed to me that the lower row of gun ports were frightfully close to the water line. This meant that there are a number of large holes on the lower sides of the ship. Exacerbating the problem of loads of holes in the hull, was that the Vasa was painfully top heavy (again the result of all those canons). To make a long story short, the ship sailed about 10 minutes out and hit a swell and rolled heavily. While the crew managed to right it, the next swell got them and tipped it over heavily to one side. The water poured into the gun ports and like so many bath-tub boats from our own experience, it sank in moments.
Happily, for many of the crew, they still weren't out of the harbour so a number of fishing boats were on hand for the rescue. Of those that did go down with the ship, many were recovered with the boat (300 odd years later) and in a somewhat eerie display at the museum, their skeletons, clothes and personal belongings are on display! They've even named the skeletons and managed to give a small account of the life they led (things like, "Hagar led a hard life, which we know by the bone indication of malnutrition as a child and the worn hip from hard labour."). The ship is amazing. Stunning, in fact. But one can't help but feel the Swedes are particularly confident in themselves, as this is essentially a huge monument to the questionable nature of Swedish naval engineering.
We also visited a number of museums on the history of Stockholm and Sweden. Ange and Claire (our cousin) went to go see the Swedish National Ballet. Claire and I saw the Pirates of the Carribean. I can honestly say that the Vasa has nothing on the Black Pearl, except they both popped back up after sinking. We also spent a lot of time just walking and taking in the atmosphere, which at times was a bit surreal. On a couple of days, there were loads of flatbed trucks roving the streets of Stockholm with dozens of screaming and dancing students on the backs. Some had the most incredible sound systems set up. Mobile, mid-day raves sauntered past us.
At one point the revelry was too much and a young male fell from the back of the slow moving truck. As the rave-truck-unit behind lurched to a stop and the driver got out to pick him up, I thouht to myself how this sort of fun would never be permitted in North America. Apart from the blatant violation of Calgary-like noise by-laws and the public drinking, safety conscious crusaders would cry out against the obvious folly of drinking and dancing on the back of moving vehicles (however slow moving they may be). No sir. This sort of fun would was to be witnessed only outside of our borders. And so we did, especially enjoying the particular Swedishness when some Abba mash-up blared across the speakers.
Anna seemed to enjoy it all. She waved at the various rave-trucks, usually to their great satisfaction. She ran in the parks. She saw a fountain. We went on a boat across the harbour. She used to say "boat," but now she will only address boats by what they say. Boats say "tooooot-toooooot". In the beautiful old town, a wandering group of Japanese tourists appealed to include Anna in their photo shoot of the ancient courtyard. With her blond hair and blue eyes, she was the perfect Swedish imposter. The tourists were none the wiser that they had a Canadian kid as their stereotypical Swedish child!
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
The Alleged House Purchase
So, we've gone and done it. Ange claims that we have 'allegedly' bought a house. The conveyancing of a house from one party to another is very similar to the better-known criminal system of innocent until proven guilty.
All we have done is make an offer, confirm a mortgage, establish a solicitor, and hire a surveyor. All sorts of annecdotal evidence suggest that we will be the future owners of 32 Crowmell Street, Caversham. Nevertheless, we remain strangely detatched. By all accounts, it could go horribly wrong tomorrow when someone 3 houses down the chain pulls out because they've developed an allergy to berber carpets and had a change of heart on the agreed price of their deal. The chain collapses, everyone sighs in frustration (apart from various lawyers and surveyors who have collected fees) and we are back at square one. Still, we push on. Determined for the full British experience, it seems only suitable that we must endure this stress for us to fully appreciate the culture in which we live. I am sure this will lend to vaguely humorous remarks, knowing nods and rolled eyes at some party with strangers down the road.
Today my dad and brother Sam were in town. My dad was working (and had taken Sam along with him) in nearby Guildford and zipped across to see us. 'Zipped,' of course, a euphamism for crawling through an hour of traffic to cover 20 miles. We walked over to see 32 Cromwell. I slightly feared my dad seeing the place. I feared that he would see something so blatantly problematic that only a daft idiot who had blindly rushed into an offer would miss. Blindly rushing in would aptly describe our course of action, so it was really a odds-game as to whether I could be labelled an idiot for doing so.
As we walked up the slight hill from the bottom of our street, my dad commented that, "it certainly won't flood being up a hill." It hadn't occured to me, but the logic was irrefutable. One check for our alleged house: unlikely to flood.
Happily, dad was taken with the property. He was firmly against the ivy that grows over the side of the house. "It will have to come down immediately," he commented. Desptie quite liking the ivy, I noted to myself that my first job was to somehow get 20 years of ivy growth off the side of the house ASAP. And then my dad said something that was truly beautiful to hear. He summed up the house after walking front and back by saying, "It's good. I like it. A good solid house."
"Solid." Is there a better adjective to describe your biggest ever investment? I think not. Years from now, "lucrative" would be nice. But, in the meantime, I will settle happily on "solid."
We then had a wee moment where "solid" came into question.
"Isn't the chimney badly crooked?" Dad asked.
"Damn it. It is," my heart sank. I looked for an out. The chimney was clearly crooked. The lean was definitely a couple of degrees off. We were standing on a slope. Could that be our problem? Had we mistakenly miscalclulated our frame of reference because of the incline where we stood? Sadly not. And then? Relief. We were looking at our neighbour's chimney. Too bad for him. Unless, of course, it falls on our house. But there is surely insurance for that sort of thing.
We then discussed the ivy some more. Conversation followed about solid brick walls and their relative insulation properties. Slate roofs were discussed. Our substantial cinder-block guest house (yep, we have another guest house!) was admired for its solidness and the quality of its roof. We spotted a hole that had been drilled in the brickwork and the types of cement that ought to be used to fill it. As we trudged back to our current place, the house started to grow on dad. By the time we got back to our terrace (a mere 3 minutes away), he was entirely sold. Hooray!
Anna continues to be the most lovely little girl. I often call her "Anna Banana." I can't help myself. She's so cute. What was funny was the other day when I positioned her in front of the mirror whilst she sat in my arms.
"Who's that?" I asked
"Anna!" She cried.
"That's right!" I excaimed affirmatively.
"Anna Manana" she said again.
Yes. Anna Manana. So cute.
All we have done is make an offer, confirm a mortgage, establish a solicitor, and hire a surveyor. All sorts of annecdotal evidence suggest that we will be the future owners of 32 Crowmell Street, Caversham. Nevertheless, we remain strangely detatched. By all accounts, it could go horribly wrong tomorrow when someone 3 houses down the chain pulls out because they've developed an allergy to berber carpets and had a change of heart on the agreed price of their deal. The chain collapses, everyone sighs in frustration (apart from various lawyers and surveyors who have collected fees) and we are back at square one. Still, we push on. Determined for the full British experience, it seems only suitable that we must endure this stress for us to fully appreciate the culture in which we live. I am sure this will lend to vaguely humorous remarks, knowing nods and rolled eyes at some party with strangers down the road.
Today my dad and brother Sam were in town. My dad was working (and had taken Sam along with him) in nearby Guildford and zipped across to see us. 'Zipped,' of course, a euphamism for crawling through an hour of traffic to cover 20 miles. We walked over to see 32 Cromwell. I slightly feared my dad seeing the place. I feared that he would see something so blatantly problematic that only a daft idiot who had blindly rushed into an offer would miss. Blindly rushing in would aptly describe our course of action, so it was really a odds-game as to whether I could be labelled an idiot for doing so.
As we walked up the slight hill from the bottom of our street, my dad commented that, "it certainly won't flood being up a hill." It hadn't occured to me, but the logic was irrefutable. One check for our alleged house: unlikely to flood.
Happily, dad was taken with the property. He was firmly against the ivy that grows over the side of the house. "It will have to come down immediately," he commented. Desptie quite liking the ivy, I noted to myself that my first job was to somehow get 20 years of ivy growth off the side of the house ASAP. And then my dad said something that was truly beautiful to hear. He summed up the house after walking front and back by saying, "It's good. I like it. A good solid house."
"Solid." Is there a better adjective to describe your biggest ever investment? I think not. Years from now, "lucrative" would be nice. But, in the meantime, I will settle happily on "solid."
We then had a wee moment where "solid" came into question.
"Isn't the chimney badly crooked?" Dad asked.
"Damn it. It is," my heart sank. I looked for an out. The chimney was clearly crooked. The lean was definitely a couple of degrees off. We were standing on a slope. Could that be our problem? Had we mistakenly miscalclulated our frame of reference because of the incline where we stood? Sadly not. And then? Relief. We were looking at our neighbour's chimney. Too bad for him. Unless, of course, it falls on our house. But there is surely insurance for that sort of thing.
We then discussed the ivy some more. Conversation followed about solid brick walls and their relative insulation properties. Slate roofs were discussed. Our substantial cinder-block guest house (yep, we have another guest house!) was admired for its solidness and the quality of its roof. We spotted a hole that had been drilled in the brickwork and the types of cement that ought to be used to fill it. As we trudged back to our current place, the house started to grow on dad. By the time we got back to our terrace (a mere 3 minutes away), he was entirely sold. Hooray!
Anna continues to be the most lovely little girl. I often call her "Anna Banana." I can't help myself. She's so cute. What was funny was the other day when I positioned her in front of the mirror whilst she sat in my arms.
"Who's that?" I asked
"Anna!" She cried.
"That's right!" I excaimed affirmatively.
"Anna Manana" she said again.
Yes. Anna Manana. So cute.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
More Housing Stuff
Our good friend Erin is renting our house in Calgary. I've just spoken with her and she is short of a roommate. Erin is absolutely lovely and one of our bestest friends. She's a professional (teacher), quiet and clean. The house itslelf is also quite nice. It is in central Calgary, near Marda Loop, in an area called Garrison Woods. Most of you know the details. In fact, most of you have probably been there.
Does anyone know of a nice, quiet-ish professional friend who would like to live in Garrison Woods for entirely reasonable rent? If so, please get in touch and I will pass you along to Erin.
Does anyone know of a nice, quiet-ish professional friend who would like to live in Garrison Woods for entirely reasonable rent? If so, please get in touch and I will pass you along to Erin.
Gazump
So, we're looking at buying property in the old country. It has been an entirely eye-opening experience, leaving both Ange and I with the distinct wonder at how a house transaction ever takes place. It is certainly a case of us not knowing the system and comparing it unfairly to what we know. Nevertheless, as objectively as I can make things out, it is less efficient in the UK than in Canada.
My friend Andrew reminded me that becoming a land-over over here has a history of entitlement. I figure you're owed a certain degree of smugness for navigating the process even if you don't get the throngs of people in servitude, special voting rights, and the ability to collect taxes and hire knights to do your bidding.
Land-ownding status aside, lets take a quick walk through the process. First, do we qualify for a mortgage? It turns out we do. In fact, the banks are eager to lend us proportionally more than the Canadian banks. Not bad for being here 6 months. I suspect that must get loads of people into some real trouble. For us, we were just happy that we had the prospect of not thowing away a fortune each month in rent.
Then you find a house. They have a national website which is very good. So, you put in your maximum amount and away you go, sorting by either ascending or descending price order. I started with the lowest price at the beginning but it quickly became apparent why the lowest priced properties were the lowest prices. Now I just start with the most we can afford. This is because all sorts of things came to light that just don't register when you're searching for a house in Calgary.
In a random order of oddities, we have seen houses with wallpaper that had been painted over many times, houses with clear holes in the roof, houses with air raid shelters (I kind of liked that feature despite its questionable usefulness today), houses with no central heating, houses with 50 year old carpets, houses with no showers (only baths), houses with out-buildings to store your coal (if you don't have coal? It's a very sooty place to store your bicycle), houses with no place to park within 500m, and houses with known structural problems that you could get a 'deal' on.
Then the issue of school catchment came up. What? There is a particularly good school in Caversham and you pay a premium to buy a piece of property in the catchment of that school. One street over, pay less and send your kid to... private school?
As if negotiating all these things as a newbie didn't have its pitfalls, there is nothing binding about either putting in an offer or accepting an offer. So, even though we have made an offer on a house, they can refrain from really feeding anything back. A state of limbo develops and... you put in an offer on another house. The same thing happens. And, before you know it, you have 5 non-binding offers on 5 different houses. Should one of them accept, they might then change their mind. And they might change their mind 3 months down the road. Or, if they're in what is called "an onward chain" and something goes wrong with a sale of a house some five people down the chain... too bad, your deal is off.
This all drags out the process horribly. And because of this process that takes so long, all you have is a non-binding, gentlemanly agreement to spend a not-so-small fortune on a run down 125 year old house while the housing prices go up and up. So, if the seller is cheeky and a bit unethical, he might take an offer from someone else for more money down the road and you're "Gazumped". Its a funny word. But, I think a painful one to experience. I hope never to experience it. If I do, I will call the person gazumping me all sort of nasty things and publish their name on this blog for you to write him/her and do the same.
So, where does this all leave us? I'm not entirely sure to be honest. We might be buying a house tomorrow. We might not. We might see if there is a record for outstanding offers on houses in the Guinness Book and go for that claim-to-fame. We have put a time limit on our little experiment. If we're not moving in by Christmas, we will shake our fists and shout with indignance. And probably complain on this blog. And then continue to pay rent, somewhat comforted by the fact it might actually be harder to sell than to buy over here.
My friend Andrew reminded me that becoming a land-over over here has a history of entitlement. I figure you're owed a certain degree of smugness for navigating the process even if you don't get the throngs of people in servitude, special voting rights, and the ability to collect taxes and hire knights to do your bidding.
Land-ownding status aside, lets take a quick walk through the process. First, do we qualify for a mortgage? It turns out we do. In fact, the banks are eager to lend us proportionally more than the Canadian banks. Not bad for being here 6 months. I suspect that must get loads of people into some real trouble. For us, we were just happy that we had the prospect of not thowing away a fortune each month in rent.
Then you find a house. They have a national website which is very good. So, you put in your maximum amount and away you go, sorting by either ascending or descending price order. I started with the lowest price at the beginning but it quickly became apparent why the lowest priced properties were the lowest prices. Now I just start with the most we can afford. This is because all sorts of things came to light that just don't register when you're searching for a house in Calgary.
In a random order of oddities, we have seen houses with wallpaper that had been painted over many times, houses with clear holes in the roof, houses with air raid shelters (I kind of liked that feature despite its questionable usefulness today), houses with no central heating, houses with 50 year old carpets, houses with no showers (only baths), houses with out-buildings to store your coal (if you don't have coal? It's a very sooty place to store your bicycle), houses with no place to park within 500m, and houses with known structural problems that you could get a 'deal' on.
Then the issue of school catchment came up. What? There is a particularly good school in Caversham and you pay a premium to buy a piece of property in the catchment of that school. One street over, pay less and send your kid to... private school?
As if negotiating all these things as a newbie didn't have its pitfalls, there is nothing binding about either putting in an offer or accepting an offer. So, even though we have made an offer on a house, they can refrain from really feeding anything back. A state of limbo develops and... you put in an offer on another house. The same thing happens. And, before you know it, you have 5 non-binding offers on 5 different houses. Should one of them accept, they might then change their mind. And they might change their mind 3 months down the road. Or, if they're in what is called "an onward chain" and something goes wrong with a sale of a house some five people down the chain... too bad, your deal is off.
This all drags out the process horribly. And because of this process that takes so long, all you have is a non-binding, gentlemanly agreement to spend a not-so-small fortune on a run down 125 year old house while the housing prices go up and up. So, if the seller is cheeky and a bit unethical, he might take an offer from someone else for more money down the road and you're "Gazumped". Its a funny word. But, I think a painful one to experience. I hope never to experience it. If I do, I will call the person gazumping me all sort of nasty things and publish their name on this blog for you to write him/her and do the same.
So, where does this all leave us? I'm not entirely sure to be honest. We might be buying a house tomorrow. We might not. We might see if there is a record for outstanding offers on houses in the Guinness Book and go for that claim-to-fame. We have put a time limit on our little experiment. If we're not moving in by Christmas, we will shake our fists and shout with indignance. And probably complain on this blog. And then continue to pay rent, somewhat comforted by the fact it might actually be harder to sell than to buy over here.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
May Day Long Weekend: Again
Many years ago on May Day long weekend in 2000, Ange and I piled into a car with Vince, Andrew and Erika for a weekend in Wales. The sole reason we were going was because I had discovered that we could stay in a hostel that was actually a castle. It turned out to be arguably the best road-trip weekend ever known. All highs and no lows.
So whenever people come to England, I recommend the same itinerary that we took on that weekend. This past May Day bank holiday weekend, we repeated much of the same. With Anna in tow this time, it was bound to be different! Friends from field hockey, the McDougall family and my cousin Claire climbed into a couple of cars and took on an ambitious schedule of 4 castles, 1 abbey, a town of book stores and numerous pubs. The photos tell most of the tale: click here.
Anna held it together for most of the weekend, despite the dose of medieval history being forced on her. She charged around the various castles with few cares, loving the freedom to run. We climbed stairs. We crawled into small spaces. We fell on our face twice. Well, actually just Anna fell on her face. Uneven surfaces proved more problematic than the imposing walls! Largely because the imposing walls could be walked around in all instances where uneven surfaces are the flavour of the day. She is one determined little girl when it comes to cobblestone on a slight incline! Vince, Andrew and Erika will be pleased to note that while Anna has yet to castle hack, she has now put similar energy into having fun at the same location as they did those years ago. Fewer beers than Andrew, but just as many falls!
Anna, the morning after her first night in a castle. Her teeth aren't brushed, she has bruises from falling on her face and most of her breakfast is still on her shirt, but she has places to go... like the nearby Chepstow Castle. On some thought, there is probably little difference from her and King John, who spent time at St. Briavels in the late 1200s (apart from the flowered raincoat, of course)...
So whenever people come to England, I recommend the same itinerary that we took on that weekend. This past May Day bank holiday weekend, we repeated much of the same. With Anna in tow this time, it was bound to be different! Friends from field hockey, the McDougall family and my cousin Claire climbed into a couple of cars and took on an ambitious schedule of 4 castles, 1 abbey, a town of book stores and numerous pubs. The photos tell most of the tale: click here.
Anna held it together for most of the weekend, despite the dose of medieval history being forced on her. She charged around the various castles with few cares, loving the freedom to run. We climbed stairs. We crawled into small spaces. We fell on our face twice. Well, actually just Anna fell on her face. Uneven surfaces proved more problematic than the imposing walls! Largely because the imposing walls could be walked around in all instances where uneven surfaces are the flavour of the day. She is one determined little girl when it comes to cobblestone on a slight incline! Vince, Andrew and Erika will be pleased to note that while Anna has yet to castle hack, she has now put similar energy into having fun at the same location as they did those years ago. Fewer beers than Andrew, but just as many falls!
Anna, the morning after her first night in a castle. Her teeth aren't brushed, she has bruises from falling on her face and most of her breakfast is still on her shirt, but she has places to go... like the nearby Chepstow Castle. On some thought, there is probably little difference from her and King John, who spent time at St. Briavels in the late 1200s (apart from the flowered raincoat, of course)...
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Visiting? You'll need directions
Ah, the internet. It'll make you laugh. Even when you might not expect it to. The good folks at Google provide my smile for today (courtesy of Lisa Brake).
So you think you might like to visit us over here? If, like Alison Speck (nee Gauthier... haha, I used nee) you want to consider Google Directions to avoid flying from Calgary International Airport to our street in Caversham, click here. No, really. Do it.
Never mind the I-90 toll road near Boston(direction #37)... nor the toll from E402 from Bologne to Calais (direction #52). Just check out direction #44. I am suspicious that it accounts for a great deal of the 31 days Google allocates for the trip. Once here, I'll buy you a beer.
So you think you might like to visit us over here? If, like Alison Speck (nee Gauthier... haha, I used nee) you want to consider Google Directions to avoid flying from Calgary International Airport to our street in Caversham, click here. No, really. Do it.
Never mind the I-90 toll road near Boston(direction #37)... nor the toll from E402 from Bologne to Calais (direction #52). Just check out direction #44. I am suspicious that it accounts for a great deal of the 31 days Google allocates for the trip. Once here, I'll buy you a beer.
Coursework
My work has sent me to London for training on how to use our database. I love coming into London on the train. It is such a feeling of purpose, even if the training is completely useless (which it is). We rolled into Paddington station with only minor delays for a signal problem. I lifted the door latch when the train came to a stop by leaning through the open window and using the outside handle. That's how it is done. It is not how it would be done in Canada. One, it would be too cold and you'd get someone who had just sneezed in their hand with it stuck to the door handle; or two, someone would do something stupid and fall out; or three, someone would be unable to comprehend not being able to only open the door from the outside and miss their stop. All would probably result in litigation and wholesale changes to the rail network...
But with hardly any trains, what Canada would do is irrelevant. At Paddington station, the morning sun shone through the windowed roof high above. The diesel exhaust hung in the air from the dozens of trains. It was mostly a business crowd, and most of them were in some variation of a pinstripe suit. Mostly blue, but a number of black. Some could have gone either way. Maybe blue and covered in deisel fumes? Many women were in pinstripe suits too, only without the typically bright ties that so many of the men have over here. Hundreds of people in pinstripe uniform marched off deliberately in every direction. I marched off with a number of them and took the stairs down into the guts of the London Underground to catch my tube on the Bakerloo line.
Training is dull. Dull enough that I am able to be trained and write a blog at the same time. I am sure the lady next to me is unimpressed. The problem is that I've taught myself everything we have gone over in training simply by using the program over the past few month. So unmotivating. I've read all the post-season Flames analysis, followed the acrimony of the Chelsea-Livrepool game last night, read about Britain in Iraq, read about Canada's hockey team captain Doan being berated by Quebec politicians (do we really have so little actual news in Canada that the BQ has nothing else to discuss?) and checked Facebook about a million times. Everyone back home is asleep, so not once has anything new happened on Facebook. Except Adrienne. She was clearly up late on Facebook last night!
So I sit. Looking at the clock and looking forward to my Canadian friends waking up and getting on Facebook. And, of course, wishing I could just go home and see Anna. I've only been in London a half dozen (weekday) times since starting work. Not once have I had a truly problem free trip. Last night was going smoothly until the Reading-bound train found itself without a driver. I truly believe that it could be a 60 minute trip in a 'perfect' world. I'd be happy with a 75 minute trip home to see Anna tonight... or maybe I should just get a head start and duck out of "training" early?
But with hardly any trains, what Canada would do is irrelevant. At Paddington station, the morning sun shone through the windowed roof high above. The diesel exhaust hung in the air from the dozens of trains. It was mostly a business crowd, and most of them were in some variation of a pinstripe suit. Mostly blue, but a number of black. Some could have gone either way. Maybe blue and covered in deisel fumes? Many women were in pinstripe suits too, only without the typically bright ties that so many of the men have over here. Hundreds of people in pinstripe uniform marched off deliberately in every direction. I marched off with a number of them and took the stairs down into the guts of the London Underground to catch my tube on the Bakerloo line.
Training is dull. Dull enough that I am able to be trained and write a blog at the same time. I am sure the lady next to me is unimpressed. The problem is that I've taught myself everything we have gone over in training simply by using the program over the past few month. So unmotivating. I've read all the post-season Flames analysis, followed the acrimony of the Chelsea-Livrepool game last night, read about Britain in Iraq, read about Canada's hockey team captain Doan being berated by Quebec politicians (do we really have so little actual news in Canada that the BQ has nothing else to discuss?) and checked Facebook about a million times. Everyone back home is asleep, so not once has anything new happened on Facebook. Except Adrienne. She was clearly up late on Facebook last night!
So I sit. Looking at the clock and looking forward to my Canadian friends waking up and getting on Facebook. And, of course, wishing I could just go home and see Anna. I've only been in London a half dozen (weekday) times since starting work. Not once have I had a truly problem free trip. Last night was going smoothly until the Reading-bound train found itself without a driver. I truly believe that it could be a 60 minute trip in a 'perfect' world. I'd be happy with a 75 minute trip home to see Anna tonight... or maybe I should just get a head start and duck out of "training" early?
Friday, April 27, 2007
Warm
It came out yesterday that this April has been the warmest April in England in 300 years. I feel slightly awkward that I have been enjoying the weather as much as I have while climatologists shudder at what we've done to our world. It also strikes me that they have 300 years of weather records!
Interestingly, 1707 was when the Act of Union was signed by the
English and Scottish parliaments. A lot has happened since but never has there been an April as warm as the one that Ange, Ben and Anna have spent lounging in Caversham-on-Thames. Lounging might not, however, be the word for the next month. We have only 4 days in all of May without guests: watch this spot for adventures as we head out on numerous road trips (hoorah!). Then, the first week in June, we go to Stockholm. And today Ange informed me that I won't see her for the rest of June because work will be so mental. We're looking forward to seeing each other in July.
For those that are still inwardly smiling at the thought of me crawling through the trunk of our Passat every day to get into the car, you will be somewhat disappointed to hear that the car has inexplicably fixed itself. Suddenly the key works and the alarm has sorted itself out. I do not understand. I'm not unhappy, but I do not understand.
A couple of weekends back, we took Anna to the beach for the first time that she was able to take part (she has been as a wee baby in Vancouver last year). You will note that none of us look particularly warm. This is because, despite being the warmest April in 300 years, England is fundamentally not that warm. Still, Anna was well pleased with the size of this particular sandbox.
More photos have been added to the photo library (remember to scroll to the bottom for the most recent)!
Interestingly, 1707 was when the Act of Union was signed by the
English and Scottish parliaments. A lot has happened since but never has there been an April as warm as the one that Ange, Ben and Anna have spent lounging in Caversham-on-Thames. Lounging might not, however, be the word for the next month. We have only 4 days in all of May without guests: watch this spot for adventures as we head out on numerous road trips (hoorah!). Then, the first week in June, we go to Stockholm. And today Ange informed me that I won't see her for the rest of June because work will be so mental. We're looking forward to seeing each other in July.
For those that are still inwardly smiling at the thought of me crawling through the trunk of our Passat every day to get into the car, you will be somewhat disappointed to hear that the car has inexplicably fixed itself. Suddenly the key works and the alarm has sorted itself out. I do not understand. I'm not unhappy, but I do not understand.
A couple of weekends back, we took Anna to the beach for the first time that she was able to take part (she has been as a wee baby in Vancouver last year). You will note that none of us look particularly warm. This is because, despite being the warmest April in 300 years, England is fundamentally not that warm. Still, Anna was well pleased with the size of this particular sandbox.
More photos have been added to the photo library (remember to scroll to the bottom for the most recent)!
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Busy, Busy, Busy
It's kind of been a pouring rather than raining few weeks since Easter. I was away on a work conference for a week, which means that many pressing things did not get accomplished. Ange and I just snuck in a coffee that amounted to the first 15 minute conversation I have had with just her in nearly 2 weeks. Mental.
For most of these past days I have been driving a brand new Renault Megane. Very funky little car. If it weren't for their repuation for being brutally unreliable, I think I would consider it as a car I would buy. Having this rented car was because it was cheaper for the University to rent the car than pay for 3 people from our office to take the train to Durham for the event. The net result for me was that the Passat sat at Oxford Brookes for 10 days. When I did get back into the old beast, my first and only priority was getting it to the garage for it to go through its MOT (a yearly safety test).
Being the owner of many, many old cars with suspicious tendencies, I treat garage-visiting days with a great deal of trepidation. I fear them. They get marked on the calendar and as the day draws near, my internal fight-or-flight response nags at me to flee.
The car itself is in decent working condition. It has been, after all, a vehicle my father had owned. He's owned many and has a great threshold for putting up with things that others might find mildly annoying or slightly strange. He once owned a fully loaded Range Rover. It was the cat's ass of Range Rovers. Sadly for dad, nearly every little feature on it went wrong. His fight-or-flight response was to fight, so he attempted to mend things that went wrong. But he wasn't really on a budget to have a garage fix the Range Rover so he... ad-libbed.
When the key broke off in the ignition, he was left with replacing the ignition component as his only option. Well, almost. A Range Rover ignition component was going to run him £500. That kind of money was out of the question. A Ford ignition component from the scrappy was only £15. Can anyone see where we're going with this? The mechanics amongst you will appreciate that car companies haven't exactly worked with one another to have parts fit across the board. By the time all was said and done, dad had loosely fitted the Ford key switch into the whole where the Range Rover one had once been. "Seemless" probably wouldn't be the word to spring to mind on close inspection, but it served the purpose of having a key. The problem lay in the electrics. To resolve this little hiccup, Dad cut a whole in the dash, near to the stereo and fitted a button. Wiring the key iginition to the button and then the button to the starter, the problem was solved. Turn the key, push the button (as one might have done in 1960) and the vehicle springs to life.
So, the Passat is now in my hands and the big day arrives. I walk out to the car and go to the passenger side door to unlock the vehicle. I have to do this because about 3 years ago someone tried to break into the Passat and, in the process, broke the lock mechanism in the driver's side door. Having the key fob, Dad never bothered to replace the lock. But then one day the fob packed it in, leaving Dad with only one option for locking the car: go throught he passenger door, lock the doors through the central lock and then push the passenger side door lock down. It is marginally inconvenient to do this. People often give you strange looks and it certainly makes going to the Toyota, with its working fob, a pleasure.
But on this biggest of days for the Passat, the key won't turn the lock. A rather sudden and unexpected turn of events. I helplessly sat trying to will the key to work. Meekly, I phoned Dad. Nope, this was a new problem. One not encountered before. However, had I tried the boot? As it turned out, I hadn't. The key still worked in the boot and I was into trunk. With baited breath, I pushed the seat and it fell. I was in. Crawling through the trunk, into the back seat (on the 40 side of the 60/40 rear split) I unlocked the doors through the central lock. I fired the key in the ignition and... wait, why are the blinkers on? The alarm! The horn "long ago stopped working with the alarm." Thankfully at this point. I'm not sure I needed any added attention to my situation. However, I had to get this car to the MOT and working indicators, etc is a requirement. While I fretted, the coolant light came on. I jolted to the back of the car, grabbed the bottle of water and opened the hood to re-fill the coolant. Apparently, there was a leak but it fixed itself at one point... which is somewhat ridiculous since Dad bothered to buy a radiator for the car and it sits in his garage.
I drove up the street to the garage, four blinkers on. Thankfully, they stopped blinking before my arrival. I tried to laugh off the brand new alarm problem to the mechanic as I handed him the keys. "Just don't lock the car!" I said as I trotted off down the lane. As one might expect, the car failed the MOT. Happily not because of the alarm, key or coolant issues. So, I'm going to pony up the money to keep the car on the road. The mild inconvenience of having to go through the passenger door is exacerbated slightly by now having to go through the trunk when I have to lock the car but it builds character I reckon. I can also say with some conviction that my Dad will somehow be proud of this new badge I wear because of owning this vehicle.
For most of these past days I have been driving a brand new Renault Megane. Very funky little car. If it weren't for their repuation for being brutally unreliable, I think I would consider it as a car I would buy. Having this rented car was because it was cheaper for the University to rent the car than pay for 3 people from our office to take the train to Durham for the event. The net result for me was that the Passat sat at Oxford Brookes for 10 days. When I did get back into the old beast, my first and only priority was getting it to the garage for it to go through its MOT (a yearly safety test).
Being the owner of many, many old cars with suspicious tendencies, I treat garage-visiting days with a great deal of trepidation. I fear them. They get marked on the calendar and as the day draws near, my internal fight-or-flight response nags at me to flee.
The car itself is in decent working condition. It has been, after all, a vehicle my father had owned. He's owned many and has a great threshold for putting up with things that others might find mildly annoying or slightly strange. He once owned a fully loaded Range Rover. It was the cat's ass of Range Rovers. Sadly for dad, nearly every little feature on it went wrong. His fight-or-flight response was to fight, so he attempted to mend things that went wrong. But he wasn't really on a budget to have a garage fix the Range Rover so he... ad-libbed.
When the key broke off in the ignition, he was left with replacing the ignition component as his only option. Well, almost. A Range Rover ignition component was going to run him £500. That kind of money was out of the question. A Ford ignition component from the scrappy was only £15. Can anyone see where we're going with this? The mechanics amongst you will appreciate that car companies haven't exactly worked with one another to have parts fit across the board. By the time all was said and done, dad had loosely fitted the Ford key switch into the whole where the Range Rover one had once been. "Seemless" probably wouldn't be the word to spring to mind on close inspection, but it served the purpose of having a key. The problem lay in the electrics. To resolve this little hiccup, Dad cut a whole in the dash, near to the stereo and fitted a button. Wiring the key iginition to the button and then the button to the starter, the problem was solved. Turn the key, push the button (as one might have done in 1960) and the vehicle springs to life.
So, the Passat is now in my hands and the big day arrives. I walk out to the car and go to the passenger side door to unlock the vehicle. I have to do this because about 3 years ago someone tried to break into the Passat and, in the process, broke the lock mechanism in the driver's side door. Having the key fob, Dad never bothered to replace the lock. But then one day the fob packed it in, leaving Dad with only one option for locking the car: go throught he passenger door, lock the doors through the central lock and then push the passenger side door lock down. It is marginally inconvenient to do this. People often give you strange looks and it certainly makes going to the Toyota, with its working fob, a pleasure.
But on this biggest of days for the Passat, the key won't turn the lock. A rather sudden and unexpected turn of events. I helplessly sat trying to will the key to work. Meekly, I phoned Dad. Nope, this was a new problem. One not encountered before. However, had I tried the boot? As it turned out, I hadn't. The key still worked in the boot and I was into trunk. With baited breath, I pushed the seat and it fell. I was in. Crawling through the trunk, into the back seat (on the 40 side of the 60/40 rear split) I unlocked the doors through the central lock. I fired the key in the ignition and... wait, why are the blinkers on? The alarm! The horn "long ago stopped working with the alarm." Thankfully at this point. I'm not sure I needed any added attention to my situation. However, I had to get this car to the MOT and working indicators, etc is a requirement. While I fretted, the coolant light came on. I jolted to the back of the car, grabbed the bottle of water and opened the hood to re-fill the coolant. Apparently, there was a leak but it fixed itself at one point... which is somewhat ridiculous since Dad bothered to buy a radiator for the car and it sits in his garage.
I drove up the street to the garage, four blinkers on. Thankfully, they stopped blinking before my arrival. I tried to laugh off the brand new alarm problem to the mechanic as I handed him the keys. "Just don't lock the car!" I said as I trotted off down the lane. As one might expect, the car failed the MOT. Happily not because of the alarm, key or coolant issues. So, I'm going to pony up the money to keep the car on the road. The mild inconvenience of having to go through the passenger door is exacerbated slightly by now having to go through the trunk when I have to lock the car but it builds character I reckon. I can also say with some conviction that my Dad will somehow be proud of this new badge I wear because of owning this vehicle.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Easter Weekend
A Happy Easter to all! It has been a packed weekend for us, though every moment thoroughly enjoyable. Indeed, this may be the weekend where we hit our stride over here. Friday we went to Waddesdon Manor with our friends the McQuails. Ange met Alison when she worked at Southmapton Uni and we've now seen them a couple of times. They have a couple of young girls and manage to get out to explore regularly. Just the sort of people we're looking for: those who are sympathetic/empathetic with never really being able to hold a coversation for more than a few moments (before having to temporarily duck out to aid in a little one's exploration of the world) while still willing to explore the country!
Saturday was wonderfully relaxed. We took Anna swimming. She loves the water. Loves swimming. Loves the whole scene. This is somewhat unfortunate as Ange and I both have strong feelings about NOT swimming unless necessary. Still, it was about Anna, so we went. We then charged over to Waddlington, which is a little village on the Thames towards Oxford. It may even be a village we would consider buying in if we go that route. It is much more quaint than Caversham-on-Thames but maybe not as convenient. Of course, we may just waffle in indecision for our entire time here too. Saturday night was off to bed early so I could get up and watch Hockey Night in Canada on TV. Ange has bought me the North American Sports Network who is committed to showing most of the playoffs. It may also be responsible for some serious disruption to my sleeping patterns.
Sunday was down to Dorset. Diana and Bob hosted us for a lovely Easter roast dinner. We had a fantastic visit. Anna spent the better part of an hour playing with clothes pegs before we moved on to Gloria and Dick's house. Diana and Gloria are the daughters of Great Aunt Dorothy. Dorothy is my grandfather's cousin. She's 96. She's wonderful. In fact, so are her daughters and all of our somewhat distant family in Dorset, many of whom gathered for afternoon tea. Anna was in heaven in the extensive garden. The dog, Porky, was keen to play with Anna much to her delight. Porky's toys were Anna's toys. Sadly, she often took that to mean she should chew on them. I'm sure that is nothing on the germs at nursery. There were chickens next door to gawk at. There were horses in the field behind to point out endlessly to the rest of us. When we left at her bedtime, she crashed hard in the car and didn't wake up until 8am this morning. A full, full day.
Today we went to Beale Park. It is kind of a zoo, but not really. There are lots of birds, but nothing particularly exotic. Lots of ducks and swans and geese. There are rabbits and sheep and goats. Perhaps cashing in on some Disney movie and somewhat out of left field, there are also lemurs. Anna liked the lemurs. She was adamant about dipping herself in the children's wading pool too, but we hadn't brought her swim suit. We settled on the playground and chasing peacocks and roosters.
Saturday was wonderfully relaxed. We took Anna swimming. She loves the water. Loves swimming. Loves the whole scene. This is somewhat unfortunate as Ange and I both have strong feelings about NOT swimming unless necessary. Still, it was about Anna, so we went. We then charged over to Waddlington, which is a little village on the Thames towards Oxford. It may even be a village we would consider buying in if we go that route. It is much more quaint than Caversham-on-Thames but maybe not as convenient. Of course, we may just waffle in indecision for our entire time here too. Saturday night was off to bed early so I could get up and watch Hockey Night in Canada on TV. Ange has bought me the North American Sports Network who is committed to showing most of the playoffs. It may also be responsible for some serious disruption to my sleeping patterns.
Sunday was down to Dorset. Diana and Bob hosted us for a lovely Easter roast dinner. We had a fantastic visit. Anna spent the better part of an hour playing with clothes pegs before we moved on to Gloria and Dick's house. Diana and Gloria are the daughters of Great Aunt Dorothy. Dorothy is my grandfather's cousin. She's 96. She's wonderful. In fact, so are her daughters and all of our somewhat distant family in Dorset, many of whom gathered for afternoon tea. Anna was in heaven in the extensive garden. The dog, Porky, was keen to play with Anna much to her delight. Porky's toys were Anna's toys. Sadly, she often took that to mean she should chew on them. I'm sure that is nothing on the germs at nursery. There were chickens next door to gawk at. There were horses in the field behind to point out endlessly to the rest of us. When we left at her bedtime, she crashed hard in the car and didn't wake up until 8am this morning. A full, full day.
Today we went to Beale Park. It is kind of a zoo, but not really. There are lots of birds, but nothing particularly exotic. Lots of ducks and swans and geese. There are rabbits and sheep and goats. Perhaps cashing in on some Disney movie and somewhat out of left field, there are also lemurs. Anna liked the lemurs. She was adamant about dipping herself in the children's wading pool too, but we hadn't brought her swim suit. We settled on the playground and chasing peacocks and roosters.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Anna Making Friends
We were out on a walk today. In fact, it we spent most of the day outside as it was so lovely today. It was warm and sunny and a holiday Friday. Basically, it was a perfect day. We started off at a Rothschild property in Buckinghamshire. It was very fancy. Anna was indifferent to the 'house,' but quite enjoyed the extensive grouds (more photos here [scroll to bottom for most recent])
It was a walk in Caversham to find a park that Ange had seen while rowing down the Thames. Yes, Ange is now rowing. When in Rome... or Caversham. I'll leave that blog to her. So, we're seeking out a park that is nestled between some ancient houses and in the former grounds of a 1000 year old church. It was beautiful and we let Anna free to roam and followed her about. After 20 minutes or so, Anna spotted another small person amongst a group of adults. She stood and stared for a minute or two. Once smiles were exchanged, Anna marched over. Only, once reaching the girl, she charged right by her and (somewhat randomly) gave a friendly man in the group a big hug. The whole group of adults melted with sighs of "awww". In her element, Anna turned to the lady next to him and gave her a hug too. Then it was a kiss for the little girl who was no somewhat put out that she hadn't got a hug.
It was impossible at this point not to engage the group in some conversation. And I am so glad we did. We met the nicest couple who have an 8 week old. We met the parents of the little girl too. We chatted with them for 45 minutes! They were fantastic. In fact, we're going to meet them tomorrow at the family pub in town. Hooray for hugs!
It was a walk in Caversham to find a park that Ange had seen while rowing down the Thames. Yes, Ange is now rowing. When in Rome... or Caversham. I'll leave that blog to her. So, we're seeking out a park that is nestled between some ancient houses and in the former grounds of a 1000 year old church. It was beautiful and we let Anna free to roam and followed her about. After 20 minutes or so, Anna spotted another small person amongst a group of adults. She stood and stared for a minute or two. Once smiles were exchanged, Anna marched over. Only, once reaching the girl, she charged right by her and (somewhat randomly) gave a friendly man in the group a big hug. The whole group of adults melted with sighs of "awww". In her element, Anna turned to the lady next to him and gave her a hug too. Then it was a kiss for the little girl who was no somewhat put out that she hadn't got a hug.
It was impossible at this point not to engage the group in some conversation. And I am so glad we did. We met the nicest couple who have an 8 week old. We met the parents of the little girl too. We chatted with them for 45 minutes! They were fantastic. In fact, we're going to meet them tomorrow at the family pub in town. Hooray for hugs!
Monday, April 02, 2007
Photos
So busy. Thankfully a picture says a 1000 words. Here's 79,000... if you have the time:
2007 Adventures
Note: "Adventures" include walking, eating crayons, a birthday party, a cute cousin and some old rocks.
2007 Adventures
Note: "Adventures" include walking, eating crayons, a birthday party, a cute cousin and some old rocks.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
The milk man
We are really pushing to be as English as possible. Next I'll be buying a mini... mmmm, 1960s mini... wait... I've gone horribly off track. Our latest "when in Rome" moment came two days ago when the milk man came to the door asking if I wanted to have door-to-door delivery.
Two out of three.
The fact that it is locally sourced milk in re-usable containers (that they pick up)at better-than-supermarket prices didn't matter so much at the time (but I am happy about the environmental upside) because it was just such an English thing to do.
- Would it come in those little glass bottles with loosely fitting foil tops? Yep!
- Does it really get delivered from a little open-sided milk truck? Yep!
- Is it pulled by an old horse who grazes Oxfordshire countryside in the afternoon? No.
Two out of three.
The fact that it is locally sourced milk in re-usable containers (that they pick up)at better-than-supermarket prices didn't matter so much at the time (but I am happy about the environmental upside) because it was just such an English thing to do.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Full circle?
As noted, we are now a two car family again. It happened more by chance than design, but thanks to Dad coming through in a moment of need, we now have the back-up Passat for our motoring needs. As I get used to the quirks of the 'new' vehicle, I often smile to myself at the similarities of this vehicle and the last vehicle I took off my dad's hands.
Most probably know the story. It has been one of those life-defining stories that I re-tell to rolling eyes and knowing smiles. I can't help it... and, frankly, probably won't help it. Nevertheless, I'll give the briefest of overviews here. In 1999, I got an old BMW motorcycle off my dad to travel Europe. We managed to spend 4 months covering just shy of 20,000 miles on Fred (the name we gave our two-wheeled friend). Fred had lots of character and didn't always get us there in the end, but we enjoyed the experience immensely for what it was.
Only a week into owning the Passat, I am able to draw a number of paralells between the car and Fred. For visual learners, I will make a little table:
I will draw your attention to the last couple of points, starting with the provision of a single key. When I picked up Fred from Dad, he handed me the key and said, "Whatever you do, don't lose this key. It's the only one and getting another will be expensive and inconvenient."
For those that know me, it will be unsurprsing that it took me about 3 weeks to lose that key. We were in the Netherlands, enjoying Dutch hospitality in a small and slightly strange town on the coast. We walked about, had a pub lunch, visited the local museum, fed the birds and even went for a swim in the public pool. When we woke the next morning, the key was gone. Really, really gone. After a very long and stressful search, I pushed the bike a little over a mile to a motorcycle mechanic on the far side of town. After discussing various options which cost a lot of money, he mentioned that he had a number of keys for BMWs that had been left at the shop over the years. Out of an small, oily, wooden box he fetched a key and put it in the ignition. Despite not fitting snuggly, it turned and the bike sputtered to life. Success! And cheap. We laughed, he didn't charge us, and we drove off with a 'new' key... which I lost some weeks later in Bristol. Knowing any key fit, we grabbed one of Ange's suitcase keys and it too worked. It was so loose in the ignition, that we had to attach the key to a piece of string, which in turn was taped to the speedometer. Only we didn't have string, so we used dental floss. And the only tape we had was bright yellow duct tape that had been used previously to mend a broken panier. So everywhere we drove, the key would be flopping about the speedo on a piece of dental floss taped to the bike. Very innovative if not always appreciated by my fellow Beemer owners.
When we left on our motorbiking odessy, I questioned my dad on the reliability of the old BMW. "It's German," he said. "It'll go forever!" Later that same week, he noted, "Why, I'd take that to Moscow tomorrow without a moment's hesitation." Another moment of fondness for his time using that bike, he claimed it was the most reliable bike he had ever known.
To cut a ridiculously long story short, we broke down in every single county we visited. The bike leaked a steady flow of oil from the shaft. "No worries," dad said when I reported the development in a phone call to him, "just keep topping it up!" Our clutch cable went in Scotland. We were forced to use a small wooden block to prop up the side stand so the bike wouldn't fall over. We blew a tyre in France. We had what can only be described as 'total system failure' in Ireland. In Germany, the BMW dealership pinched an tool off a new bike and gave it to us for free to encourage our quick departure from the fore-court of their dealership. In Switzerland all we could find was the above mentioned bright-yellow duct tape to tape the paniers and their frame back together. The electrical system was so clapped out, that at one point in time in France we had no speedo, no tach, no headlights or indicators, no brake lights and my handwarmer stopped working. Occassionally a bump would jolt some or all of the electrical functionality back into the bike only for another bump to stop them from working again. We simply could not run the risk of driving at night and were confined to day driving. It wasn't lost on us that when we arrived back in Mundesley at my dad's house, he came out with a laugh and gave us both a big hug, commenting without a tinge of irony in his voice: "I can't believe you made it back with the bike!"
So here I am driving a high mileage, German vehicle that my dad has declared unquestionably reliable. As he handed it off to me, he notes that, "whatever you do, don't lose the key. It's the only one and they're expensive to replace!" He went so far as to suggest that we sell our Toyota, save the money and just drive the Passat. I admit that I smiled at the thought of it. But he has a different perspective on vehicles than I (or, I should think, most readers of this blog). Case and point was the other day when I asked how he was enjoying his new 2004 Peugot 407 (it's Peugot's nice, full sized turbo deisel and his has only 10,000 miles since new). It is probably one of the newest cars he has ever owned. It is modern in every sense of the word. And what does my dad like about it? He says to me the other day, "Ben, this car is so nice to drive. The heater is fantastic! It is warm as you want. They call it climate control or something."
God love the guy who is pleased that his brand new car has a decent heater.
And--note to self--what kind of heater do I now have?
Thank you
We've received a wonderful bunch of supportive and thoughtful messages from friends about the burglary and thefts. Thank you. It has been so nice to hear from friends. Many have offered that if they could do something, they would. While Canadian care packages make me warm inside, if you really want to do something please consider allocating some of your 2007 charitable giving to a charity in your area that tackles root causes of poverty. I suspect that where poverty is on the decline, so too is theft. If I'm wrong, reducing poverty is surely worthwhile in itself...
Most probably know the story. It has been one of those life-defining stories that I re-tell to rolling eyes and knowing smiles. I can't help it... and, frankly, probably won't help it. Nevertheless, I'll give the briefest of overviews here. In 1999, I got an old BMW motorcycle off my dad to travel Europe. We managed to spend 4 months covering just shy of 20,000 miles on Fred (the name we gave our two-wheeled friend). Fred had lots of character and didn't always get us there in the end, but we enjoyed the experience immensely for what it was.
Only a week into owning the Passat, I am able to draw a number of paralells between the car and Fred. For visual learners, I will make a little table:
| Fred | Passat | |
| German | x | x |
| high mileage | x | x |
| leaks oil | x | x |
| convienence items that once worked now don't | x | x |
| dad describes himself as having driven it 'hard' | x | x |
| dad declares it "unquestionably reliable" | x | x |
| Oddly, only one key | x | x |
I will draw your attention to the last couple of points, starting with the provision of a single key. When I picked up Fred from Dad, he handed me the key and said, "Whatever you do, don't lose this key. It's the only one and getting another will be expensive and inconvenient."
For those that know me, it will be unsurprsing that it took me about 3 weeks to lose that key. We were in the Netherlands, enjoying Dutch hospitality in a small and slightly strange town on the coast. We walked about, had a pub lunch, visited the local museum, fed the birds and even went for a swim in the public pool. When we woke the next morning, the key was gone. Really, really gone. After a very long and stressful search, I pushed the bike a little over a mile to a motorcycle mechanic on the far side of town. After discussing various options which cost a lot of money, he mentioned that he had a number of keys for BMWs that had been left at the shop over the years. Out of an small, oily, wooden box he fetched a key and put it in the ignition. Despite not fitting snuggly, it turned and the bike sputtered to life. Success! And cheap. We laughed, he didn't charge us, and we drove off with a 'new' key... which I lost some weeks later in Bristol. Knowing any key fit, we grabbed one of Ange's suitcase keys and it too worked. It was so loose in the ignition, that we had to attach the key to a piece of string, which in turn was taped to the speedometer. Only we didn't have string, so we used dental floss. And the only tape we had was bright yellow duct tape that had been used previously to mend a broken panier. So everywhere we drove, the key would be flopping about the speedo on a piece of dental floss taped to the bike. Very innovative if not always appreciated by my fellow Beemer owners.
When we left on our motorbiking odessy, I questioned my dad on the reliability of the old BMW. "It's German," he said. "It'll go forever!" Later that same week, he noted, "Why, I'd take that to Moscow tomorrow without a moment's hesitation." Another moment of fondness for his time using that bike, he claimed it was the most reliable bike he had ever known.
To cut a ridiculously long story short, we broke down in every single county we visited. The bike leaked a steady flow of oil from the shaft. "No worries," dad said when I reported the development in a phone call to him, "just keep topping it up!" Our clutch cable went in Scotland. We were forced to use a small wooden block to prop up the side stand so the bike wouldn't fall over. We blew a tyre in France. We had what can only be described as 'total system failure' in Ireland. In Germany, the BMW dealership pinched an tool off a new bike and gave it to us for free to encourage our quick departure from the fore-court of their dealership. In Switzerland all we could find was the above mentioned bright-yellow duct tape to tape the paniers and their frame back together. The electrical system was so clapped out, that at one point in time in France we had no speedo, no tach, no headlights or indicators, no brake lights and my handwarmer stopped working. Occassionally a bump would jolt some or all of the electrical functionality back into the bike only for another bump to stop them from working again. We simply could not run the risk of driving at night and were confined to day driving. It wasn't lost on us that when we arrived back in Mundesley at my dad's house, he came out with a laugh and gave us both a big hug, commenting without a tinge of irony in his voice: "I can't believe you made it back with the bike!"
So here I am driving a high mileage, German vehicle that my dad has declared unquestionably reliable. As he handed it off to me, he notes that, "whatever you do, don't lose the key. It's the only one and they're expensive to replace!" He went so far as to suggest that we sell our Toyota, save the money and just drive the Passat. I admit that I smiled at the thought of it. But he has a different perspective on vehicles than I (or, I should think, most readers of this blog). Case and point was the other day when I asked how he was enjoying his new 2004 Peugot 407 (it's Peugot's nice, full sized turbo deisel and his has only 10,000 miles since new). It is probably one of the newest cars he has ever owned. It is modern in every sense of the word. And what does my dad like about it? He says to me the other day, "Ben, this car is so nice to drive. The heater is fantastic! It is warm as you want. They call it climate control or something."
God love the guy who is pleased that his brand new car has a decent heater.
And--note to self--what kind of heater do I now have?
Thank you
We've received a wonderful bunch of supportive and thoughtful messages from friends about the burglary and thefts. Thank you. It has been so nice to hear from friends. Many have offered that if they could do something, they would. While Canadian care packages make me warm inside, if you really want to do something please consider allocating some of your 2007 charitable giving to a charity in your area that tackles root causes of poverty. I suspect that where poverty is on the decline, so too is theft. If I'm wrong, reducing poverty is surely worthwhile in itself...
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