It was a big weekend for the Fitch-Dudeks. On Saturday, Emily and Armando came out to the 'country' from London. They arrived in the afternoon. Ange and Anna met them in town and walked back across the Thames to Caversham. When I arrived back from field hockey, the tea was on, the biscuits were out and everyone was in good spirits. Anna darted around the room, playing with anything that she ought not to play with.
We're at a point in time where everything should go in a cup. So, one has to be careful where one leaves their mostly-finished tea cup. Keys go into the tea cup, keys come out. Mobile phone goes into the tea cup, mobile phone comes out. Camera doesn't quite fit in the tea cup at this angle, camera doesn't quite fit into the tea cup at that angle. Camera is disgarded.
We watched An Inconvenient Truth which was both facinating and spurred some great conversation. Whilst it was largely 'preaching to the choir,' it was still somehow comforting to see that a film about the perils of our wastefulness get the level of exposure the film has generated. One hopes that the message isn't dismissed out of hand through a sense partisan bias by those in the States who see themselves as Republican.
With Em and Armando staying over and Anna now into her room, Ange and I took the opportunity to test out the guest house. The "guest house," you ask? We live in a two bedroom terraced house, meaning that space is at a premium. At the bottom of our garden sits a shed. Of course, 'shed' or 'guest house' is a matter of perspective. If you're about to visit us, it is definitely a guest house. If you've just visited, it might be funny to tell people that we put you in the garden shed. But really, it is more guest-house-like than shed-like. Our garden is entirely decking, so you walk outside from the kitchen to the small wooden structure at the end of the garden, or about 15 feet. The previous owner had made it into his working office, so it is quality. The guest house is fully insulated and has double glazed windows. It has a de-humidifier and a heater. We have an extra heater there too. There's a full king sized (British king sized) bed. And, I can now say with authority that it is entirely warm, dry and comfortable and very private. Certainly, I would rank it as far superior to our original flat that we moved into.
On Sunday, we ventured into London for Emily and Armando's baby shower put on by their friends Dave and Dan. We drove in, which was a minor accomplishment for me as it took us right through the centre of London and I didn't get horrifically lost. Picadilly Circus is appropriately named. Dave and Dan have rented a fantastic flat in an old converted match factory. Very cool setting and a super party. The spread of food and games was second to none. Em has some top quality friends. Both Dave and Dan who through the party and the many, many people who came to celebrate with her despite the fact that noone here really knows what a "baby shower" is.
Ange, Anna and I charged back to 'Caversham-on-Thames' after the shower. Only one wrong turn without navigator Armando. It put us 20 minutes wrong but did take us over Tower Bridge. Twice. It is a very nice bridge.
Then, as if the weekend wasn't a resounding success, my old workmate Jasmine and a colleague of hers, MJ, made the trip out from London to ours for the evening. They're only in town for a couple of days from Calgary and their willingness to take the trip on a Sunday night is a testament to them. People-people rock. We chatted 'til late about all sorts and they're both the sort of people who get you excited about everything life has to offer! It was so good to see them. Fantastic.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
Ripe For Abuse
There has clearly been a long history of bureaucrats with very little foresight (see previous post on the placement of a nuclear power station). Reading's oldest church (dating from 979) stands only meters from the road sign. Surely current bureaucrats don't wonder why this sign suffers from (surely constant) vandalism.
Water is for Drinking
Anna sat in the bath last night playing with her Playmobile boat and its little sailor. Man goes into the boat. Man comes out of the boat. Man goes into the boat. Boat sinks.
At one point, the focus switched to a little red lobster who has a wind-up tail at the far end of the tub. She started to crawl but slipped. Both Ange and I moved forward to rescue, but she was back up having only had her mouth go under water. She swallowed the mouthfull of bathwater. She looked up at us as she smiled. And then the look. It seemed to say, "hold on a minute..." And we watched with amusment as a relationship was firmly established in her brain. She had realised that the stuff in the bath was the same stuff in her cup (just, maybe, a little soapy... hopefully only soap...). She laughed and ducked her head down for another swig. She looked around, crawled two paces and look another swig. For the remaining minutes of her bath, not more than a few moments went by before she excitedly slurped up more water. We both had a laugh as she enjoyed the rest of her bath in the largest sippy cup she'd ever seen.
At one point, the focus switched to a little red lobster who has a wind-up tail at the far end of the tub. She started to crawl but slipped. Both Ange and I moved forward to rescue, but she was back up having only had her mouth go under water. She swallowed the mouthfull of bathwater. She looked up at us as she smiled. And then the look. It seemed to say, "hold on a minute..." And we watched with amusment as a relationship was firmly established in her brain. She had realised that the stuff in the bath was the same stuff in her cup (just, maybe, a little soapy... hopefully only soap...). She laughed and ducked her head down for another swig. She looked around, crawled two paces and look another swig. For the remaining minutes of her bath, not more than a few moments went by before she excitedly slurped up more water. We both had a laugh as she enjoyed the rest of her bath in the largest sippy cup she'd ever seen.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Huffed and Puffed
It has been windy the past couple of days. Vancouver style. Ange's school now has an outdoor swimming pool after the roof blew off. I missed it on Friday as I leave in the dark, but our garden wall blew over too! What is extraordinary to me is that it is a brick wall.
After years of hearing about the Big Bad Wolf, I had more faith in brick. Who is going to break the news to the pigs that they need new building materials?
After years of hearing about the Big Bad Wolf, I had more faith in brick. Who is going to break the news to the pigs that they need new building materials?
Friday, January 19, 2007
So Many Telephones
When we decided to move to the UK, I announced to Ange that we were only going to have one phone. We would only need the mobile phone. With that, all needs would be met. Sadly, the telecommunications companies of Britain have conspired against me.
We bought our mobile phone from Orange. A hip little number. One that all the kids have. A Sony Ericsson w810i. In addition to being a phone it is a mp3 player, a camera, a video camera, a flashlight, an alarm clock and a games machine. I suspect it does many more things, but I can't be asked to work them out.
Life with the Orange phone lasted about 2 weeks when we realised that they didn't have a decent international plan. I looked into many options, buying a calling card from the Post Office at one point. What seemed to make sense was to buy a pay-as-you-go long distance SIM card (they're cheap: £10 was all we had to fork out) and fire it into an old mobile (which we had from my brother Sam). This would have the dual benefit of giving us a phone with cheap long distance (5p a minute to Canada) and allow Ange a mobile for emergencies. Suddenly we had two mobile phones.
As we moved into our house, my focus was entirely on broadband internet. There were lots of options (discussed below in another entry) but going with Orange made the most sense, cost-wise. The hiccup? We needed a BT (British Telecom) phone line. So we got a BT phone line. The house came with a phone, so one might as well plug it in. Bob's your uncle, we have two mobiles and a landline. For an extra £1/month, we got cheap calls to North America (4p per minute). How could I resist: Ange's mobile is almost certain to give you a brain tumor with extended use and it is a pain to top-up, so I signed us up to BT's international plan.
Last night I get a call from Orange. With our 'Livebox' (read: internet modem thingy), we get free calls to over 100 countries around the world. Cripes. All we have to do is plug a phone into this Livebox thing. You know I won't be able to resist. Free calls? Time difference being the only obstacle to phoning friends and family? By Sunday, we will probably be the not-so-proud owners of two mobile phones and two landlines. Four numbers, not including work numbers. If you include plastic phones that light up and play songs when you hit the numbers, we will have six phones in the house. I fear we have become slaves to the age of easy-peasy digital communciations.
We bought our mobile phone from Orange. A hip little number. One that all the kids have. A Sony Ericsson w810i. In addition to being a phone it is a mp3 player, a camera, a video camera, a flashlight, an alarm clock and a games machine. I suspect it does many more things, but I can't be asked to work them out.
Life with the Orange phone lasted about 2 weeks when we realised that they didn't have a decent international plan. I looked into many options, buying a calling card from the Post Office at one point. What seemed to make sense was to buy a pay-as-you-go long distance SIM card (they're cheap: £10 was all we had to fork out) and fire it into an old mobile (which we had from my brother Sam). This would have the dual benefit of giving us a phone with cheap long distance (5p a minute to Canada) and allow Ange a mobile for emergencies. Suddenly we had two mobile phones.
As we moved into our house, my focus was entirely on broadband internet. There were lots of options (discussed below in another entry) but going with Orange made the most sense, cost-wise. The hiccup? We needed a BT (British Telecom) phone line. So we got a BT phone line. The house came with a phone, so one might as well plug it in. Bob's your uncle, we have two mobiles and a landline. For an extra £1/month, we got cheap calls to North America (4p per minute). How could I resist: Ange's mobile is almost certain to give you a brain tumor with extended use and it is a pain to top-up, so I signed us up to BT's international plan.
Last night I get a call from Orange. With our 'Livebox' (read: internet modem thingy), we get free calls to over 100 countries around the world. Cripes. All we have to do is plug a phone into this Livebox thing. You know I won't be able to resist. Free calls? Time difference being the only obstacle to phoning friends and family? By Sunday, we will probably be the not-so-proud owners of two mobile phones and two landlines. Four numbers, not including work numbers. If you include plastic phones that light up and play songs when you hit the numbers, we will have six phones in the house. I fear we have become slaves to the age of easy-peasy digital communciations.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Balance
Anna plays a game with Ange and I. It involves walking around the house with her little hands clasped around our 'pointer-fingers'. Her crawling has reached astounding speeds now and she seems to want to move onto walking at the same rate or... or, it simply not worth doing.
So we walk with her, Ange or I hunched over, exploring and re-exploring the chairs and the couch and the computer stand. I find bits on the floor and make a mental note to go back after the walking game and pick them up. The I forget and re-discover the bit on the next circle of the house.
She leads the way by leaning in the direction she wants to go. Much of this leaning takes on a fairly severe angle. So at 45 degrees to the floor and with her little legs pumping away, we are probably learning very little about walking. As I retold this little story to Chris in an email, I mused that she might, however, be in training to be a sprinter...
So we walk with her, Ange or I hunched over, exploring and re-exploring the chairs and the couch and the computer stand. I find bits on the floor and make a mental note to go back after the walking game and pick them up. The I forget and re-discover the bit on the next circle of the house.
She leads the way by leaning in the direction she wants to go. Much of this leaning takes on a fairly severe angle. So at 45 degrees to the floor and with her little legs pumping away, we are probably learning very little about walking. As I retold this little story to Chris in an email, I mused that she might, however, be in training to be a sprinter...
Monday, January 15, 2007
The Little Absurdities
Today was any given Monday. I woke up early to the sound of my phone alarm. It's an annoying little jingle that both gets me out of bed and makes me want to crush my phone all at the same time. That I'm using my phone as an alarm at all is the first little absurdity in my day. We don't have an alarm clock. We've tried to buy one. The local gadget store sold one that projected the time onto the roof, which was a little more clock than we wanted. The Tesco had one with a digital radio but it cost nearly $50, which seemed too steep. Argos (the Consumer Distributing of Britain) has one: we've seen it in their catalogue. But getting to Argos has proven problematic. So my phone is our clock.
At 7am, about 30 minutes after I leave and just as the light starts to appear over the Oxfordshire fields, I call Ange to wake her up. Indeed, rural Oxfordshire is lovely in the mornings. The cool nights lend themselves to early morning mists. The mists wander through the trees that separate the many green fields of the rural drive. Dorchester, with its ancient abbey, passes on my left as I head to work. I then pass through the village of Nuneham Courtenay, which is comprised of a series of nearly identical small brick 'duplex' houses that look to have been built in the 1800s. The roofs sag slightly and the black timber framing contrasts against the brick. The doors are all noticably smaller than anything from the past 200 years. And, as a backdrop to this lovely drive, which sits high on the hills to the west is the Oxford Nuclear Power Station. Its cylindrical towers, just like those Mr. Burn's Springfield nuclear power station, rising high above the church spires that sit in front of it and the smoke rising into the sky. What bureaucratic process led to putting a massive power station next to one of Britain historical gems?
I work in an old mansion. It is now a place for Oxford Brookes Unversity receptions and houses most of Corporate Affairs for the university. It is probably only about 150 years old. My office was probably a bedroom at one time. The Victorian coal fireplace mantle is still there, but the opening has been covered to prevent drafts. The old single pane window fits loosely in the frame ans shakes in the wind, but a second glaze has been retrofit to the inside frame and provides modern insulative properties. Oddly, the men's loo remains unheated.
Returning home after a day of work that has been entirely enjoyable, the little frustrations of rented accomodation strike me as vaguely humerous. The perspective of the arctic flat still in my mind, these don't amount to complaints: merely observations. Because water standard water pressure leaves something to be desired here, the owners of our flat have installed some sort of motorized pump to pressurize the water before it makes it to our shower. It makes an aweful noise as it gets going but worked quite well up until this weekend when it suddenly started to cut out. At first it was only once or twice a shower. It slowly got worse until this morning's shower, when it quickly deteriorated into horrible convulsions. The racket of the motor coming on and cutting out while water spurted and sprayed. I stood there incredulous. Why is having a normal shower such a luxury for me over here?
Then, tonight, as I went to make some quesadillas I realised that the owner of the house had only provided the most ridiculous of cheese graters. Barely the size of the palm of my hand, it amounted to only about 1/4 the size of the block of cheese I was trying to grate. It slipped and slided. I grated the cheese and my finger. Who would bother to make a grater this small? Was it actually a Monopoly character? Our quesadillas were not the cheesiest ever.
By contrast, we needed a couple of items for dinner tonight. We didn't need to bundle up: it was 10 degrees at 6pm. As we walked out, one or two of the houses in our terrace were burning their coal fires and the smell of coal fire lingered in the air. The smell immediately launched me back to our travels through eastern Europe. It can't be 300 yards to to the Waitrose supermarket. We bought our items and were back in the kitchen in 15 minutes. It's just different. Yes, it is absurd that Oxford has a power station on its horizon, that water pressure is strangely unattainable and that we've rented a place which has provided a cheese grater completely incapable of grating cheese but tomorrow I will drive back from Oxford along a route that will take me up a small rise and through a village that looks much like it must have 300 years ago (apart from the speed camera keeping me to 30mph). And I will shake my head at the beauty of the Norman church that sits amongst the collection of houses, pubs and shops. And then I'll pick up Anna and she won't care about the phone alarm clock, the power station, the water pressure, the cheese grater or the church. She'll just be happy to see me. I'm already looking forward to it.
At 7am, about 30 minutes after I leave and just as the light starts to appear over the Oxfordshire fields, I call Ange to wake her up. Indeed, rural Oxfordshire is lovely in the mornings. The cool nights lend themselves to early morning mists. The mists wander through the trees that separate the many green fields of the rural drive. Dorchester, with its ancient abbey, passes on my left as I head to work. I then pass through the village of Nuneham Courtenay, which is comprised of a series of nearly identical small brick 'duplex' houses that look to have been built in the 1800s. The roofs sag slightly and the black timber framing contrasts against the brick. The doors are all noticably smaller than anything from the past 200 years. And, as a backdrop to this lovely drive, which sits high on the hills to the west is the Oxford Nuclear Power Station. Its cylindrical towers, just like those Mr. Burn's Springfield nuclear power station, rising high above the church spires that sit in front of it and the smoke rising into the sky. What bureaucratic process led to putting a massive power station next to one of Britain historical gems?
I work in an old mansion. It is now a place for Oxford Brookes Unversity receptions and houses most of Corporate Affairs for the university. It is probably only about 150 years old. My office was probably a bedroom at one time. The Victorian coal fireplace mantle is still there, but the opening has been covered to prevent drafts. The old single pane window fits loosely in the frame ans shakes in the wind, but a second glaze has been retrofit to the inside frame and provides modern insulative properties. Oddly, the men's loo remains unheated.
Returning home after a day of work that has been entirely enjoyable, the little frustrations of rented accomodation strike me as vaguely humerous. The perspective of the arctic flat still in my mind, these don't amount to complaints: merely observations. Because water standard water pressure leaves something to be desired here, the owners of our flat have installed some sort of motorized pump to pressurize the water before it makes it to our shower. It makes an aweful noise as it gets going but worked quite well up until this weekend when it suddenly started to cut out. At first it was only once or twice a shower. It slowly got worse until this morning's shower, when it quickly deteriorated into horrible convulsions. The racket of the motor coming on and cutting out while water spurted and sprayed. I stood there incredulous. Why is having a normal shower such a luxury for me over here?
Then, tonight, as I went to make some quesadillas I realised that the owner of the house had only provided the most ridiculous of cheese graters. Barely the size of the palm of my hand, it amounted to only about 1/4 the size of the block of cheese I was trying to grate. It slipped and slided. I grated the cheese and my finger. Who would bother to make a grater this small? Was it actually a Monopoly character? Our quesadillas were not the cheesiest ever.
By contrast, we needed a couple of items for dinner tonight. We didn't need to bundle up: it was 10 degrees at 6pm. As we walked out, one or two of the houses in our terrace were burning their coal fires and the smell of coal fire lingered in the air. The smell immediately launched me back to our travels through eastern Europe. It can't be 300 yards to to the Waitrose supermarket. We bought our items and were back in the kitchen in 15 minutes. It's just different. Yes, it is absurd that Oxford has a power station on its horizon, that water pressure is strangely unattainable and that we've rented a place which has provided a cheese grater completely incapable of grating cheese but tomorrow I will drive back from Oxford along a route that will take me up a small rise and through a village that looks much like it must have 300 years ago (apart from the speed camera keeping me to 30mph). And I will shake my head at the beauty of the Norman church that sits amongst the collection of houses, pubs and shops. And then I'll pick up Anna and she won't care about the phone alarm clock, the power station, the water pressure, the cheese grater or the church. She'll just be happy to see me. I'm already looking forward to it.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Anna Likes Cake
We arrived in Abbotsford a little bleary eyed (see post below) where Oma and Opa kindly shuttled us back to their house near White Rock. We collapsed into our beds and fell asleep. Somehow, 11 hours later came early.
It was only a few days to Christmas, but we had Allison and John's wedding to prepare for and take part in (Ange was in the wedding party and I was the emcee), Christmas presents to buy and wrap and a big old birthday party to celebrate with Anna. Oma and Opa were fantastic about taking Anna, allowing her to get a semblance of a routine while we went off to meet with the rest of the wedding party on the 20th. Allison was a bit stressed at this point. I always fear telling a story about Alison lest I fail to do it justice. Allison is probably the best story teller I have ever met, but since many of you can't ask her about the week, I will dare to relate a few wedding and wedding-prep tidbits. Also noteworthy is that crisis follows Alison in an uncanny way. The many crises of life provide fantastic material for the later retelling of the story but can make the moment a little harry.
Allison had originally wanted to elope to avoid all the stress that goes into planning a wedding. Instead, she chose to have her wedding during the busiest social time of the year, only two days before Christmas. On hearing of this new plan in August, Ange and I shook our heads. We would do what we could to help from England.
Anyway, Allison was a bit stressed. We sat having a glass of wine discussing the logistics leading up to the wedding. John summed up the their perspective well, explaining to me at one point that, "Allison and I are perfect for each other. We can make disaster out of anything." As we were leaving, Allison confirmed that Ange would be coming to the nail/spa thing the next day. Nail/spa thing? We hadn't received that email. You could see Allison starting to twitch. "No problem!" I interjected before there was time for genuine concern by either Ange or Allison, "We'll work it out." And, of course, it was the least we could do to work it out so Alison didn't worry about it.
The result was a little drive for me in the lower mainland, which I would do a million times for Allison and John. But I might also take this moment to note that the Lower Mainland (or Vancouver for those not intimately tied to the city) commute accentuates my completely conflicted feeling about the city. It is shockingly beautiful. We have loads of friends there. But the endless driving! Oh my goodness. There is seldom a day I spend in Vancouver that I don't drive in excess of 100km in bumper to bumper traffic. So, the next day Anna and I hopped in the car in White Rock and drove across the municipalities of Surrey, Delta, Coquitlam and Port Moody to drop Ange off. While Ange, Allison, Katrin and Tracey enjoyed the spa, Anna and I ate lunch in the mall food court with pre-Christmas shoppers who held expressions as if they had just done a similar commute. We then headed back. I don't think at any point we exceeded 60km/h over the 2.5 hours in the car.
However, arriving back at my parents house, we prepared for Anna's birthday party. Oma was putting on the full spread, as the full Vancouver family contingent was coming over. She even made a beautiful 'Care Bear' cake for Anna. Anna slept.
The party was a resounding success. Anna played gleefully with her cousins Lydia, Chloe and Rebecca while we enjoyed the lovely food and caught up with the family. By the time we were ready for cake, Anna was asleep at the wheel. She could barely keep her eyes open. She could not keep her eyes open in mum's arms when the cake was pulled out. Not knowing what cake was exactly, she clung to mum seeming to wish that mum would just take her to bed. The candle was blown out for her by a cousin and a piece cut for Anna.
She looked at piece of cake before her. She studied it. She held out a hand, then took it back. She repeated this a few times, sometimes tucking her head into mum's shoulder as if she might choose sleep over this thing before her. Finally, curiosity and the sense that the whole room was hanging on the moment, she grabbed a bit of the cake in her hand. She squished it in her hand. Inoffensive. She grabbed a bit more and put it to her mouth. Seeing the moment that someone first discovers homemade icing on cake is something to behold. Her eyes lit up. The other hand went to the plate to fill itself with this amazing substance. She looked at Ange and I, her eyes pleading with us:
Have you had this stuff?"
"You have?"
"Why the hell haven't you introduced us before now?!?
Then, as she stuffed her mouth hand over hand, the tiredness overwhelmed her. Even as she fell asleep, her eyes only half open she stuffed more cake in her mouth. A few minutes later, she was asleep in her crib without a noise of protest. The party and the cake must have occupied her thoughts well that night as she slept in the next morning til nearly 9am.
We could be fairly certain that Anna liked cake. But just in case, it made cameo appearances at the end of the next couple of lunches to similar joy. Based on this, I can say with some certainty that if an interactive blog happens that involves pink Care Bear cake, I would recommend your money goes on the cake.
It was only a few days to Christmas, but we had Allison and John's wedding to prepare for and take part in (Ange was in the wedding party and I was the emcee), Christmas presents to buy and wrap and a big old birthday party to celebrate with Anna. Oma and Opa were fantastic about taking Anna, allowing her to get a semblance of a routine while we went off to meet with the rest of the wedding party on the 20th. Allison was a bit stressed at this point. I always fear telling a story about Alison lest I fail to do it justice. Allison is probably the best story teller I have ever met, but since many of you can't ask her about the week, I will dare to relate a few wedding and wedding-prep tidbits. Also noteworthy is that crisis follows Alison in an uncanny way. The many crises of life provide fantastic material for the later retelling of the story but can make the moment a little harry.
Allison had originally wanted to elope to avoid all the stress that goes into planning a wedding. Instead, she chose to have her wedding during the busiest social time of the year, only two days before Christmas. On hearing of this new plan in August, Ange and I shook our heads. We would do what we could to help from England.
Anyway, Allison was a bit stressed. We sat having a glass of wine discussing the logistics leading up to the wedding. John summed up the their perspective well, explaining to me at one point that, "Allison and I are perfect for each other. We can make disaster out of anything." As we were leaving, Allison confirmed that Ange would be coming to the nail/spa thing the next day. Nail/spa thing? We hadn't received that email. You could see Allison starting to twitch. "No problem!" I interjected before there was time for genuine concern by either Ange or Allison, "We'll work it out." And, of course, it was the least we could do to work it out so Alison didn't worry about it.
The result was a little drive for me in the lower mainland, which I would do a million times for Allison and John. But I might also take this moment to note that the Lower Mainland (or Vancouver for those not intimately tied to the city) commute accentuates my completely conflicted feeling about the city. It is shockingly beautiful. We have loads of friends there. But the endless driving! Oh my goodness. There is seldom a day I spend in Vancouver that I don't drive in excess of 100km in bumper to bumper traffic. So, the next day Anna and I hopped in the car in White Rock and drove across the municipalities of Surrey, Delta, Coquitlam and Port Moody to drop Ange off. While Ange, Allison, Katrin and Tracey enjoyed the spa, Anna and I ate lunch in the mall food court with pre-Christmas shoppers who held expressions as if they had just done a similar commute. We then headed back. I don't think at any point we exceeded 60km/h over the 2.5 hours in the car.
However, arriving back at my parents house, we prepared for Anna's birthday party. Oma was putting on the full spread, as the full Vancouver family contingent was coming over. She even made a beautiful 'Care Bear' cake for Anna. Anna slept.
The party was a resounding success. Anna played gleefully with her cousins Lydia, Chloe and Rebecca while we enjoyed the lovely food and caught up with the family. By the time we were ready for cake, Anna was asleep at the wheel. She could barely keep her eyes open. She could not keep her eyes open in mum's arms when the cake was pulled out. Not knowing what cake was exactly, she clung to mum seeming to wish that mum would just take her to bed. The candle was blown out for her by a cousin and a piece cut for Anna.
She looked at piece of cake before her. She studied it. She held out a hand, then took it back. She repeated this a few times, sometimes tucking her head into mum's shoulder as if she might choose sleep over this thing before her. Finally, curiosity and the sense that the whole room was hanging on the moment, she grabbed a bit of the cake in her hand. She squished it in her hand. Inoffensive. She grabbed a bit more and put it to her mouth. Seeing the moment that someone first discovers homemade icing on cake is something to behold. Her eyes lit up. The other hand went to the plate to fill itself with this amazing substance. She looked at Ange and I, her eyes pleading with us:Have you had this stuff?"
"You have?"
"Why the hell haven't you introduced us before now?!?
Then, as she stuffed her mouth hand over hand, the tiredness overwhelmed her. Even as she fell asleep, her eyes only half open she stuffed more cake in her mouth. A few minutes later, she was asleep in her crib without a noise of protest. The party and the cake must have occupied her thoughts well that night as she slept in the next morning til nearly 9am.
We could be fairly certain that Anna liked cake. But just in case, it made cameo appearances at the end of the next couple of lunches to similar joy. Based on this, I can say with some certainty that if an interactive blog happens that involves pink Care Bear cake, I would recommend your money goes on the cake.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Lille-Reading-Calgary-Abbotsford
When I booked the trip to Lille, France back in October I was thinking of a couple of things. One was how beautiful France was near Christmas and the appeal of a Christmas market to set the mood for the holidays was strong. Second was that field hockey would wind up for the holidays early-ish in December. So, with no further forsight, I booked the weekend of December 15-17 for a Christmas excursion with the family.
We woke up on at a leisurely 9am on Friday morning to head over to the train station, where the First Great Western train service calling at everywhere imagineable took us to Waterloo (we chose this long option because it meant avoiding the tube with Anna and a very full stroller). We grabbed a coffee and boarded the Eurostar which whisked us off to France. It was all very efficient. In fact, it was so efficient that we arrived in Lille before I had time to realise that I had no idea where the hotel was from the train station. And then we did something I should know never to do. We just started walking. It wasn't aimlessly per se. I phoned our friend, Dan, who had been there and recommended Hotel Ibis (a French chain akin to Best Western) who managed to sort me out with a very general direction. I eagerly asked people for directions, using the opportunity to practice my disasterous French. Something must have been lost in translation as we ended up at the wrong Hotel Ibis. Happily and yet strangely the wrong Hotel Ibis (the one without our reservation) was a mere 300 meters from the correct Hotel Ibis.
We settled into our room quickly after a good 6 hours on the road. Rest being for those smarter than ourselves, we turned the show around and headed right back out for a lovely dinner in the old town. A British family with three kids made for an excellent distraction from Anna's meagre protests at being couped up in a high chair having been in the buggy/stroller/chariot all day. We capped the night off with a speedy tear around the Christmas market and a mulled wine.
We woke up on at a leisurely 9am on Friday morning to head over to the train station, where the First Great Western train service calling at everywhere imagineable took us to Waterloo (we chose this long option because it meant avoiding the tube with Anna and a very full stroller). We grabbed a coffee and boarded the Eurostar which whisked us off to France. It was all very efficient. In fact, it was so efficient that we arrived in Lille before I had time to realise that I had no idea where the hotel was from the train station. And then we did something I should know never to do. We just started walking. It wasn't aimlessly per se. I phoned our friend, Dan, who had been there and recommended Hotel Ibis (a French chain akin to Best Western) who managed to sort me out with a very general direction. I eagerly asked people for directions, using the opportunity to practice my disasterous French. Something must have been lost in translation as we ended up at the wrong Hotel Ibis. Happily and yet strangely the wrong Hotel Ibis (the one without our reservation) was a mere 300 meters from the correct Hotel Ibis.
We settled into our room quickly after a good 6 hours on the road. Rest being for those smarter than ourselves, we turned the show around and headed right back out for a lovely dinner in the old town. A British family with three kids made for an excellent distraction from Anna's meagre protests at being couped up in a high chair having been in the buggy/stroller/chariot all day. We capped the night off with a speedy tear around the Christmas market and a mulled wine.
Emily (my sister) and Armando (brother-in-law) arrived the next morning to spend the weekend with us. Emily is well pregnant now, meaning her and Anna travel at about the same speed: both troopers with limits. There were coffees to be had, shops to be perused, and a market to be enjoyed. We did it all and had a wonderful visit with Emily and Armando along the way. Anna even got to try a merry-go-round, which she enjoyed immensely. Dad enjoyed it considerably less. I can't figure out why, given a speed setting for 2 year olds, I managed to feel as poorly as I did coming off that ride, but it was a good few hours later before I was ready for dinner!
We enjoyed a lovely dinner that night and a hotel breakfast the next morning, before more French coffee and a mid afternoon departure to London. Sunday tube service could not stand in our way this round as we boarded the train directly from Waterloo to Reading... we collapsed through our front door at about 9pm, having left Lille at 3:00. This is where some foresight back in October would have been ideal. We had to get up at 6am to catch the bus to Heathrow.
6:00am came early. We had packed ourselves into a backpack and a ice hockey bag... and two little "day" packs, a diaper bag, a stroller, and a car seat and base. The walk took a while, but we boarded the coach on time and found ourselves at Heathrow in plenty of time. The flight was uneventful and we landed in Calgary and passed through immigration with out a hitch. Damian kindly picked us up at the airport in his truck, which is only marginally smaller than the coach we took to Heathrow. We visited our house, which Erin has kept beautifully, and the Brakes had people by to visit with us. It was a grand evening of visiting good friends, only affected slightly by the shocking tiredness of the two days of travel. I drifted off to sleep as the Flames put on a poor show for my only hockey of the year. Erin kindly let us borrow her car the next day, allowing us to get countless chores done before she took us to the airport and another flight to Vancouver. We really could have used the little TV in the back of the seat that seems to be on nearly every WestJet plane except for the one we took to Abbotsford that night, but were able to hold oursleves and Anna together until my parents picked us up from the airport.
As we waited for our luggage to arrive, my mum briefly fretted about Anna crawling on the floor at Abbotsford Airport. As I thought of Anna crawling on the Eurostar, in the kids plays section at Heathrow International, and the floor of the plane in front of our seats, I couldn't help but chuckle. Somehow my perspective on Abbotsford grimy-ness didn't raise any red flags.
We enjoyed a lovely dinner that night and a hotel breakfast the next morning, before more French coffee and a mid afternoon departure to London. Sunday tube service could not stand in our way this round as we boarded the train directly from Waterloo to Reading... we collapsed through our front door at about 9pm, having left Lille at 3:00. This is where some foresight back in October would have been ideal. We had to get up at 6am to catch the bus to Heathrow.6:00am came early. We had packed ourselves into a backpack and a ice hockey bag... and two little "day" packs, a diaper bag, a stroller, and a car seat and base. The walk took a while, but we boarded the coach on time and found ourselves at Heathrow in plenty of time. The flight was uneventful and we landed in Calgary and passed through immigration with out a hitch. Damian kindly picked us up at the airport in his truck, which is only marginally smaller than the coach we took to Heathrow. We visited our house, which Erin has kept beautifully, and the Brakes had people by to visit with us. It was a grand evening of visiting good friends, only affected slightly by the shocking tiredness of the two days of travel. I drifted off to sleep as the Flames put on a poor show for my only hockey of the year. Erin kindly let us borrow her car the next day, allowing us to get countless chores done before she took us to the airport and another flight to Vancouver. We really could have used the little TV in the back of the seat that seems to be on nearly every WestJet plane except for the one we took to Abbotsford that night, but were able to hold oursleves and Anna together until my parents picked us up from the airport.
As we waited for our luggage to arrive, my mum briefly fretted about Anna crawling on the floor at Abbotsford Airport. As I thought of Anna crawling on the Eurostar, in the kids plays section at Heathrow International, and the floor of the plane in front of our seats, I couldn't help but chuckle. Somehow my perspective on Abbotsford grimy-ness didn't raise any red flags.
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