Being fundamentally lazy and lacking creativity, I'm already thinking how little preparation is required by me!
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Anna Who?
Anna was recently accused of looking like Cindy Lou Who from the Grinch. You know, there might be something in it. We watched it last night and I couldn't help but think that we had a winner for next Halloween:
Being fundamentally lazy and lacking creativity, I'm already thinking how little preparation is required by me!
Being fundamentally lazy and lacking creativity, I'm already thinking how little preparation is required by me!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Canada rocks
There's so much to update over the past little while, where do I start? Let's start with culture shock. There's so much about Canada that strikes me as slightly odd. One of my most nagging annoyances is radio in Canada. In the UK, I fed myself a diet of essentially half Radio 4 and half Radio 1. I would occasionally pick up one of the private London radio stations. It was a healthy balance of education, pop, humour and news.
In Canada, if you're not listening to some gardening show on CBC, you're probably listening to classic rock. If not classic rock, then it's likely pop rock that sounds suspiciously like classic rock. Our English friends once teased that the pop station in Calgary should be called Nickleback FM. It's just as bad here in Vancouver. Stations that declare themselves "all hits" and "top 40" still manage to include random Guns n' Roses, Nickleback, Metallica and Bryan Adams songs thinly disguised as 'retro'. It's really no wonder there are so many people running around with jeans, trainers, leather jackets and Ford Mustangs here.
Still, I can hear you say: "Ben you can avoid the radio (and consequent Foreigner and Aerosmith ballads) by bringing along your own music for the ride." This has always been my plan. Once we get settled, I fully intend to live off BBC podcasts. However, I currently lack the time, resources and MP3 player necessary. So, for my epic 12 hour drive from Calgary to Vancouver in a 26-foot moving van with a top speed of 60 mph, I came armed with many, many CDs.
When I had booked the truck (lorry?) online, I specifically noted that the 17-foot truck had a CD player. However, once I realised how much stuff we actually had, I phoned in to upgrade the truck to the bigger one. Somehow the bigger truck had fewer amenities. Actually, just one fewer. No CD player. AM/FM radio. On realising this, my shock and disappointment made me weak at the knees. Was this trip possible with the worst of regional radio as my only companion?
Let me assure you that it was bad. If I thought Calgary and Vancouver pop stations were agonisingly rock and roll, I was simply not prepared for what was on offer from Golden, Revelstoke and Salmon Arm. To be fair, I spent most of my time simply scanning for a station--any station--that I could get a signal on. There were several hours where I had no radio whatsoever. When I did, it was often country and western. However, the overriding station format of choice for rural BC seems to be rock. Often soft rock. Occasionally light rock. Invariably some classic rock. One station even proudly proclaimed that the entire city of Kamloops, "Rocked."
At first I smiled. It's been a very long time since I've heard the George Thorogood classic, 1 Bourbon, 1 Scotch, 1 Beer. Who'd have thought that I would have heard it twice in the first three hours? Aerosmith wailed Love in an Elevator twice before Revelstoke and three times by Hope. Billy Joel was a welcome relief, if only because his songs are often mercifully free of guitar solos. Still, once I heard She's Always a Women to me four times, it occurred to me that no matter how many light or soft or classic rock stations I came across, the same artists and songs were on replay. And unlike Radio 1's repeat-list of current hits, many of these songs had possibly been on a 3 hour repeat for more than 30 years.
So, with little to do other than keep track of which song was going to win the Sunday, 23 October rock-off, I tallied. I know you're dying with anticipation to know who came out on top. So, without dragging my long day out any further, let me announce the winners.
In the category of Song-most-played-on-regional-Canadian-radio-23-October-2008, the runner up was a draw between the aforementioned Billy Joel, She's Always a Women and Alanis Morisette's You Oughta Know. The winner was a run-away: Bryan Adams' 1983 (!) ballad One Night Love Affair.
In fact, on the basis of One Night Love Affair airing an incredible seven times, two renditions of Straight from the Heart, two re-runs of It's Only Love (which, if you give an equal vote to Tina Turner meant she notched four songs on the day) and one Summer of 69, there wasn't another artist or band who even came close to competing with Bryan Adam's pre-1985 repetoire currently airing regularly on regional Canadian radio.
It is as astounding as the mountains I drove through.
In Canada, if you're not listening to some gardening show on CBC, you're probably listening to classic rock. If not classic rock, then it's likely pop rock that sounds suspiciously like classic rock. Our English friends once teased that the pop station in Calgary should be called Nickleback FM. It's just as bad here in Vancouver. Stations that declare themselves "all hits" and "top 40" still manage to include random Guns n' Roses, Nickleback, Metallica and Bryan Adams songs thinly disguised as 'retro'. It's really no wonder there are so many people running around with jeans, trainers, leather jackets and Ford Mustangs here.
Still, I can hear you say: "Ben you can avoid the radio (and consequent Foreigner and Aerosmith ballads) by bringing along your own music for the ride." This has always been my plan. Once we get settled, I fully intend to live off BBC podcasts. However, I currently lack the time, resources and MP3 player necessary. So, for my epic 12 hour drive from Calgary to Vancouver in a 26-foot moving van with a top speed of 60 mph, I came armed with many, many CDs.
When I had booked the truck (lorry?) online, I specifically noted that the 17-foot truck had a CD player. However, once I realised how much stuff we actually had, I phoned in to upgrade the truck to the bigger one. Somehow the bigger truck had fewer amenities. Actually, just one fewer. No CD player. AM/FM radio. On realising this, my shock and disappointment made me weak at the knees. Was this trip possible with the worst of regional radio as my only companion?
Let me assure you that it was bad. If I thought Calgary and Vancouver pop stations were agonisingly rock and roll, I was simply not prepared for what was on offer from Golden, Revelstoke and Salmon Arm. To be fair, I spent most of my time simply scanning for a station--any station--that I could get a signal on. There were several hours where I had no radio whatsoever. When I did, it was often country and western. However, the overriding station format of choice for rural BC seems to be rock. Often soft rock. Occasionally light rock. Invariably some classic rock. One station even proudly proclaimed that the entire city of Kamloops, "Rocked."
At first I smiled. It's been a very long time since I've heard the George Thorogood classic, 1 Bourbon, 1 Scotch, 1 Beer. Who'd have thought that I would have heard it twice in the first three hours? Aerosmith wailed Love in an Elevator twice before Revelstoke and three times by Hope. Billy Joel was a welcome relief, if only because his songs are often mercifully free of guitar solos. Still, once I heard She's Always a Women to me four times, it occurred to me that no matter how many light or soft or classic rock stations I came across, the same artists and songs were on replay. And unlike Radio 1's repeat-list of current hits, many of these songs had possibly been on a 3 hour repeat for more than 30 years.
So, with little to do other than keep track of which song was going to win the Sunday, 23 October rock-off, I tallied. I know you're dying with anticipation to know who came out on top. So, without dragging my long day out any further, let me announce the winners.
In the category of Song-most-played-on-regional-Canadian-radio-23-October-2008, the runner up was a draw between the aforementioned Billy Joel, She's Always a Women and Alanis Morisette's You Oughta Know. The winner was a run-away: Bryan Adams' 1983 (!) ballad One Night Love Affair.
In fact, on the basis of One Night Love Affair airing an incredible seven times, two renditions of Straight from the Heart, two re-runs of It's Only Love (which, if you give an equal vote to Tina Turner meant she notched four songs on the day) and one Summer of 69, there wasn't another artist or band who even came close to competing with Bryan Adam's pre-1985 repetoire currently airing regularly on regional Canadian radio.
It is as astounding as the mountains I drove through.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
15th century
There's a story as to how we've managed to end up at this amazing 15th century cottage in Devon for 10 days, but I'll have to retell it later. For now, here's our cottage:
And, here's the view from a few hundred yards down the road:
And, here we are at the neighbourhood castle:
And, here's the view from a few hundred yards down the road:
And, here we are at the neighbourhood castle:
Monday, September 22, 2008
"I'm speaking French"
Part of the process of packing up around a nearly 3-year-old involves discovering things that had shifted to the backs of shelves. One item of particular interest has been a series of Polish DVDs given to us by our cousin Kasia (in Karakow). I think they're originally Czech (but my Polish is not good enough to give you a definitive on that: it is just that Praha figures in the credits) and come from the late 70s. The animation is simple and compelling to children.
In short they're lovely, if just a little strange. There is, for instance, a rabbid piggy bank spilling money while both carting off the heroin and being chased by a bear in one. I suspect there may be some underlying Communist Party message in the stories that I'm just not picking up on. Or, possibly, I am picking up on. Either way, they're a hit with Anna.
The unintended consequence is that she has suddenly begun speaking Polish (or, maybe Czech). "Jabba, jagga un gadda." seems to be what she's saying. Of course, none of us--including Anna (I think)--have a clue what she's saying. She could very well be commenting on the greedy, pig capitalists of the West. It would be timely in todays economic climate.
Smiling at this latest of parenting revelations, mum asked her if she was speaking Polish. "No," Anna explained: "I'm speaking French." Stupid parents.
In short they're lovely, if just a little strange. There is, for instance, a rabbid piggy bank spilling money while both carting off the heroin and being chased by a bear in one. I suspect there may be some underlying Communist Party message in the stories that I'm just not picking up on. Or, possibly, I am picking up on. Either way, they're a hit with Anna.
The unintended consequence is that she has suddenly begun speaking Polish (or, maybe Czech). "Jabba, jagga un gadda." seems to be what she's saying. Of course, none of us--including Anna (I think)--have a clue what she's saying. She could very well be commenting on the greedy, pig capitalists of the West. It would be timely in todays economic climate.
Smiling at this latest of parenting revelations, mum asked her if she was speaking Polish. "No," Anna explained: "I'm speaking French." Stupid parents.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The glass is definitely half full
With Eurostar failing to be a star and our need to leave the country, we booked our ferry tickets to Oostend, Belgium late on Friday night. I grabbed the tube across London to Paddington, caught a many-stop train to Reading and walked quickly across the river to grab our car... to drive right back into the centre of London. As I waited in traffic at Trafalgar Square at 1am, I could wonder about the rashness that had led me to this epic 5 hour car-pick-up as the BBC announced the chunnel had been reopened and services were to resume at 6am. In other words: our train to Paris was on.
Only, we now had our car in London, had booked a ferry to Belgium, cancelled our hotel in Paris and booked another in Brugge. There was simply no going back. Besides, I was excited about the hotel I had found on the internet. I had found a standard room in a 4 star hotel in the very centre of Brugge for only 40 euros more than our basic Hotel Ibis in Paris... and, since the ferry was an incredible 150 euros cheaper than our Eurostar tickets, the indulgence seemed worth it.
The next morning, we were up early and in the car. Getting out of London can be an adventure, so we left some time. Of course, with two days of lorries backed up on the motorways, I anticipated chaos. But, as it turns out, very few use the Ramsgate to Oostend crossing... which was very good for us. We arrived with lots of time, which, while not stressful, meant entertaining kids in a parking lot. We did a lot of jumping "over" puddles and off of metal barriers amongst the lorries. Possibly not ideal. The ferry was nearly an hour late leaving, which started to wear on my jangled nerves and patience. Still, once on the ferry, I was somewhat relieved to discover a real soft-play area of small kids. Anna played hard and met some friends. Caleb watched. Mum napped. I drifted into a state of delirium from tired. Four hours later, at about 5pm, we arrived in Belgium.
We drove to the hotel. Only, I had not had the foresight to bring our map of Europe nor did I both to look up the hotel online to get a sense of where it might be in Brugge. Driving blind, I eventually phoned the hotel after being stuck in traffic for ages with both Caleb and Anna at the end of their willingness to travel. They guided us in through the maze of cobbled streets. There was no traffic in the town, but it moved slowly, as their are more horse-drawn carriages than cars. We eventually pulled into the carpark of Hotel de Tuilerieën, which was through an arch, down a cobbled lane only marginally wider than our car and then through another, gated arch. Instantly, I realised we were not like the others at this hotel. First we had kids. Second, we were not driving a Porsche. Or an Aston Martin. Or a Ferrari. Indeed, we didn't even have a Beemer or a Merc. Unsurprisingly, the valet parked our Toyota in another lot nearby.
Ange went in. It turned out that some miscommunication between her and I resulted in us failing to disclose to the hotel that we were coming with children. It turned out the room we had booked was unsuitable for children. The people at the hotel were lovely though. Indeed, they were brilliant. Entirely befitting of a place like de Tuilerieën, they suggested an alternative room, in which we would be much more comfortable. We were. It was, quite honestly, the nicest hotel room I've ever been in. It was in a 15th century building, with antique tiles on the floors. The exposed wooden beams. The fireplace. The bathroom was larger than our lounge at home. It was heaven after the past day of travel.
We lingered for a bit to enjoy the room and then went out for dinner. We ended up in a small courtyard, which was having an opera that night. Dinner was nice, the beer excellent. Despite the beauty of the square, we were all keen to get back to our hotel, which was so nice itself. When we rocked up, the bar was empty and we had it to ourselves. 20 foot high ceilings. 16 foot windows. Marble fireplace. Chandeliers. It was incredible. Anna's hot chocolate--the highlight of the whole weekend for her--came on a tray. She drank, ate (the biscuit and whipped cream) and played for nearly half an hour with it.
It wasn't until the next morning that I asked Ange how much more the room was than the original booking. "I didn't ask..." she remarked. Almost flippantly. Hmmm. I couldn't help but feel like I would have asked if put in the same situation. She continued, "... we needed a place to stay!" The logic was infallible, if not entirely reassuring. The hotel amazing. The experience lovely. And yet I felt a pang of terror. I went to reception. While waiting behind someone who was checking out, I noticed the price list. It read something like this:
Standard rooms: 135-220 euros
Superior rooms: 240-375 euros
Executive rooms: 350-580 euros
Suits: 500-900 euros
Our room was definitely superior. I don't think an executive would have been out of place in it. And, there was a strong argument that it constituted a suit. The pang of terror returned as I approached the desk.
"You're here to check out?" the lady asked. She was as lovely as everyone who worked there. I said "Yes, thank you." In my mind, however, there was the swift calculations of how much money I actually had in my account. Then the self-negotiation: "Okay, it was an amazing place. Great service. Let's put a price on that: 200. No, I could go higher. Is it 300? Maybe 250." This quickly descended into the top number I could stomach without crying in front of the lady. I'm not sure I actually arrived at that number, but I think it was in the 400 region. Then, she announced the price to me with a friendly smile. Did she just say 1275? "Excuse me?" I asked with a calmness far more assured than might otherwise be expected for the only person in the hotel who had rocked up in a sub-compact. No. Thank God, she did not say 1275. 175. And, that included the taxes, parking, drinks and booking fee.
I'm not sure if she actually saw the relief cross my face. I could have hugged her. Or, at very least, the lady who had been working the night before who had given us the most amazing room in Brugge for the cost of a basic room. I was nearly euphoric the parking the car was a mere 25 euros (20 quid).
So, with a spring in my step, we hit Brugge. Crepes on the canal. A ride in the horse-drawn buggy was Anna's request. Admiring the shops. And just generally soaking up the atmosphere. No, it wasn't Paris. Yes, the trip was epic. But really, it could not have been a nicer couple of days in a more beautiful place...
Only, we now had our car in London, had booked a ferry to Belgium, cancelled our hotel in Paris and booked another in Brugge. There was simply no going back. Besides, I was excited about the hotel I had found on the internet. I had found a standard room in a 4 star hotel in the very centre of Brugge for only 40 euros more than our basic Hotel Ibis in Paris... and, since the ferry was an incredible 150 euros cheaper than our Eurostar tickets, the indulgence seemed worth it.
The next morning, we were up early and in the car. Getting out of London can be an adventure, so we left some time. Of course, with two days of lorries backed up on the motorways, I anticipated chaos. But, as it turns out, very few use the Ramsgate to Oostend crossing... which was very good for us. We arrived with lots of time, which, while not stressful, meant entertaining kids in a parking lot. We did a lot of jumping "over" puddles and off of metal barriers amongst the lorries. Possibly not ideal. The ferry was nearly an hour late leaving, which started to wear on my jangled nerves and patience. Still, once on the ferry, I was somewhat relieved to discover a real soft-play area of small kids. Anna played hard and met some friends. Caleb watched. Mum napped. I drifted into a state of delirium from tired. Four hours later, at about 5pm, we arrived in Belgium.
We drove to the hotel. Only, I had not had the foresight to bring our map of Europe nor did I both to look up the hotel online to get a sense of where it might be in Brugge. Driving blind, I eventually phoned the hotel after being stuck in traffic for ages with both Caleb and Anna at the end of their willingness to travel. They guided us in through the maze of cobbled streets. There was no traffic in the town, but it moved slowly, as their are more horse-drawn carriages than cars. We eventually pulled into the carpark of Hotel de Tuilerieën, which was through an arch, down a cobbled lane only marginally wider than our car and then through another, gated arch. Instantly, I realised we were not like the others at this hotel. First we had kids. Second, we were not driving a Porsche. Or an Aston Martin. Or a Ferrari. Indeed, we didn't even have a Beemer or a Merc. Unsurprisingly, the valet parked our Toyota in another lot nearby.
Ange went in. It turned out that some miscommunication between her and I resulted in us failing to disclose to the hotel that we were coming with children. It turned out the room we had booked was unsuitable for children. The people at the hotel were lovely though. Indeed, they were brilliant. Entirely befitting of a place like de Tuilerieën, they suggested an alternative room, in which we would be much more comfortable. We were. It was, quite honestly, the nicest hotel room I've ever been in. It was in a 15th century building, with antique tiles on the floors. The exposed wooden beams. The fireplace. The bathroom was larger than our lounge at home. It was heaven after the past day of travel.We lingered for a bit to enjoy the room and then went out for dinner. We ended up in a small courtyard, which was having an opera that night. Dinner was nice, the beer excellent. Despite the beauty of the square, we were all keen to get back to our hotel, which was so nice itself. When we rocked up, the bar was empty and we had it to ourselves. 20 foot high ceilings. 16 foot windows. Marble fireplace. Chandeliers. It was incredible. Anna's hot chocolate--the highlight of the whole weekend for her--came on a tray. She drank, ate (the biscuit and whipped cream) and played for nearly half an hour with it.
It wasn't until the next morning that I asked Ange how much more the room was than the original booking. "I didn't ask..." she remarked. Almost flippantly. Hmmm. I couldn't help but feel like I would have asked if put in the same situation. She continued, "... we needed a place to stay!" The logic was infallible, if not entirely reassuring. The hotel amazing. The experience lovely. And yet I felt a pang of terror. I went to reception. While waiting behind someone who was checking out, I noticed the price list. It read something like this:
Standard rooms: 135-220 euros
Superior rooms: 240-375 euros
Executive rooms: 350-580 euros
Suits: 500-900 euros
Our room was definitely superior. I don't think an executive would have been out of place in it. And, there was a strong argument that it constituted a suit. The pang of terror returned as I approached the desk.
"You're here to check out?" the lady asked. She was as lovely as everyone who worked there. I said "Yes, thank you." In my mind, however, there was the swift calculations of how much money I actually had in my account. Then the self-negotiation: "Okay, it was an amazing place. Great service. Let's put a price on that: 200. No, I could go higher. Is it 300? Maybe 250." This quickly descended into the top number I could stomach without crying in front of the lady. I'm not sure I actually arrived at that number, but I think it was in the 400 region. Then, she announced the price to me with a friendly smile. Did she just say 1275? "Excuse me?" I asked with a calmness far more assured than might otherwise be expected for the only person in the hotel who had rocked up in a sub-compact. No. Thank God, she did not say 1275. 175. And, that included the taxes, parking, drinks and booking fee.
I'm not sure if she actually saw the relief cross my face. I could have hugged her. Or, at very least, the lady who had been working the night before who had given us the most amazing room in Brugge for the cost of a basic room. I was nearly euphoric the parking the car was a mere 25 euros (20 quid).
So, with a spring in my step, we hit Brugge. Crepes on the canal. A ride in the horse-drawn buggy was Anna's request. Admiring the shops. And just generally soaking up the atmosphere. No, it wasn't Paris. Yes, the trip was epic. But really, it could not have been a nicer couple of days in a more beautiful place...
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Belgium the new France?
After the chaos of the past days on Eurostar, we've abandoned plans to go to Paris. We've found a ferry to Belgium and we're off to Flanders. No Eiffel Tower, but good coffee and great scenery await in Brugge... which will never be the new Paris, but should be a laugh.
So, off to the ferry. Mmmmm, ferries.
So, off to the ferry. Mmmmm, ferries.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Signs
As if I needed final confirmation that our gallavant around Europe is not as straight-forward in real life as it was in my dreams, our plans to go to Paris for the weekend are quickly coming unravelled. Indeed, it seems like getting over to France is tougher for us than for others. Last time we went--back in the spring--we were undone by a massive, freak spring wind-storm. Let me be the first to assure you that 13 hours on a ferry, bobbing up and down like a bath-toy in the English channel (with a 2 year old to entertain while you fight to keep from being sick) is unpleasant at best.
This weekend, we decided to avoid the ferries... to many things can un-stick a ferry trip. Striking ferry workers. Striking fishermen blockading ferry workers. Striking border patrol (it is France, after all). Bad weather. Etc.
This time, we took chance out of the equation and went with Eurostar. Heck, according to their website, 92% of their trains run on time and they're never cancelled. Well, almost never. Today, the chunnel was closed. Freak fire in the chunnel itself. We leave tomorrow on the first train... at least, in theory. Just in case you want the background, check out the BBC website story.
Especially as we're travelling with Anna and Caleb, I particularly like the last part of the story... the part titled, "Travel Chaos."
Good grief. Check back for the next blog, which I can only hope isn't titled 10 Hours of Child Minding in an International Train Foyer...
This weekend, we decided to avoid the ferries... to many things can un-stick a ferry trip. Striking ferry workers. Striking fishermen blockading ferry workers. Striking border patrol (it is France, after all). Bad weather. Etc.
This time, we took chance out of the equation and went with Eurostar. Heck, according to their website, 92% of their trains run on time and they're never cancelled. Well, almost never. Today, the chunnel was closed. Freak fire in the chunnel itself. We leave tomorrow on the first train... at least, in theory. Just in case you want the background, check out the BBC website story.
Especially as we're travelling with Anna and Caleb, I particularly like the last part of the story... the part titled, "Travel Chaos."
Good grief. Check back for the next blog, which I can only hope isn't titled 10 Hours of Child Minding in an International Train Foyer...
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Where do I start?
Sadly, months of bad blogging mean that I almost don't know where to start. I could start with the birth of Caleb, as that's where I left off. But who really wants to hear birthing stories? If you're about to have a baby, it isn't particularly inspiring. If you've had a baby, you likely aren't interested in dredging up the details. If you're in no mind to think about having babies, it is all the wierd, shocking and graphic details of someone else's problem. So, I won't start there.
Rather, I will start with my first day alone with Anna and Caleb. The day of reckoning where my kids outnumber me and I am without teammate Ange. This day came 3 weeks after Caleb's birth. Angela, despite having gone through the graphic details I have left out above, was heading back in to her school to attend an 'Old Girls Day.' Armed with 25 ounces of expressed milk, 4 sterilized bottles and invaluable experience of bringing up Anna, I was charged up for 7 hours of quality Saturday time with Anna and Caleb.
As it turned out, this Saturday in early May turned out to be summer. Nearly all of it, in fact. The weather this summer has been wet and cool. For everyone not from Vancouver: just like Vancouver. For everyone from Vancouver, it wasn't anything like Vancouver would normally be, if not for it having been the wettest 11 weeks in the last century. On this day, all that mattered was that it was warm. Even hot. Spying my opportunity, I took advantage of Ange not being part of the shopping equation (and therefore veto-ing ridiculous, frivolous purchases), I immediately piled the kids into the car and drove directly to Toys'R'Us. I found the cheapest possible wading pool, confirmed its suitability with Anna (it got the okay because Tigger and Pooh were on the side), and bought the tiny pool. Ange hadn't been gone 45 minutes and I was back in the garden with Anna filling the pool with water. Within 90 minutes of Ange being gone, we had a full pool, Anna lathered in sun screen, towels strewn across the garden, Caleb sleeping contently in the moses basket in the shade, and I was kicking back my second cup of coffee.
The day went well. Caleb basically ate all day, cleaning off the 25 ounces of expressed milk before rejecting my offers of formula out of hand. Anna was in and out of the pool, but the overwhelmingly most enjoyable game actually involved removing the water from the pool onto the garden decking. The pool supposedly held 240 L of water. Though not efficiently, Anna must have managed to remove about 200 L of water by the end of the day. It's funny what entertains, but I was in no position to complain. I think Ange was a little surprised to come home to a beach party and certainly questioned the pool investment. But in the end, it has to be one of the most enjoyable days I've had since arriving.
The British Social Season
Part of being a foreigner is that you try a whole lot harder than the locals. Case and point: Angela Dudek. Ange caught on to the fact the most of the British aristocratic prestige events now allow a few commoners entry as lip-service to the end of classism in the UK. Well, they may have got more than they bargained for this summer. Ange discovered that Johnny-commoner can, in almost all instances, put their name in a lottery to get a ticket to these special events. So, we were entered for everything. And hooray! We managed to get excellent tickets to Wimbledon on the final day. Not at Centre Court, but the atmosphere was gold and it was a fantastic day at he All England Tennis Club. We also attended the Queen's Garden Party at Buckingham Palace. That's a blog in itself. We got ourselves down to Henley for the Regatta. And then, as a bonus, we got tickets to Wembley to see England play football (soccer) and I got to go to Twickenham to see England play the Barbarians in rugby. That's all very English for us colonists!
Rather, I will start with my first day alone with Anna and Caleb. The day of reckoning where my kids outnumber me and I am without teammate Ange. This day came 3 weeks after Caleb's birth. Angela, despite having gone through the graphic details I have left out above, was heading back in to her school to attend an 'Old Girls Day.' Armed with 25 ounces of expressed milk, 4 sterilized bottles and invaluable experience of bringing up Anna, I was charged up for 7 hours of quality Saturday time with Anna and Caleb.
As it turned out, this Saturday in early May turned out to be summer. Nearly all of it, in fact. The weather this summer has been wet and cool. For everyone not from Vancouver: just like Vancouver. For everyone from Vancouver, it wasn't anything like Vancouver would normally be, if not for it having been the wettest 11 weeks in the last century. On this day, all that mattered was that it was warm. Even hot. Spying my opportunity, I took advantage of Ange not being part of the shopping equation (and therefore veto-ing ridiculous, frivolous purchases), I immediately piled the kids into the car and drove directly to Toys'R'Us. I found the cheapest possible wading pool, confirmed its suitability with Anna (it got the okay because Tigger and Pooh were on the side), and bought the tiny pool. Ange hadn't been gone 45 minutes and I was back in the garden with Anna filling the pool with water. Within 90 minutes of Ange being gone, we had a full pool, Anna lathered in sun screen, towels strewn across the garden, Caleb sleeping contently in the moses basket in the shade, and I was kicking back my second cup of coffee.
The day went well. Caleb basically ate all day, cleaning off the 25 ounces of expressed milk before rejecting my offers of formula out of hand. Anna was in and out of the pool, but the overwhelmingly most enjoyable game actually involved removing the water from the pool onto the garden decking. The pool supposedly held 240 L of water. Though not efficiently, Anna must have managed to remove about 200 L of water by the end of the day. It's funny what entertains, but I was in no position to complain. I think Ange was a little surprised to come home to a beach party and certainly questioned the pool investment. But in the end, it has to be one of the most enjoyable days I've had since arriving.The British Social Season
Part of being a foreigner is that you try a whole lot harder than the locals. Case and point: Angela Dudek. Ange caught on to the fact the most of the British aristocratic prestige events now allow a few commoners entry as lip-service to the end of classism in the UK. Well, they may have got more than they bargained for this summer. Ange discovered that Johnny-commoner can, in almost all instances, put their name in a lottery to get a ticket to these special events. So, we were entered for everything. And hooray! We managed to get excellent tickets to Wimbledon on the final day. Not at Centre Court, but the atmosphere was gold and it was a fantastic day at he All England Tennis Club. We also attended the Queen's Garden Party at Buckingham Palace. That's a blog in itself. We got ourselves down to Henley for the Regatta. And then, as a bonus, we got tickets to Wembley to see England play football (soccer) and I got to go to Twickenham to see England play the Barbarians in rugby. That's all very English for us colonists!
The big decision
In what can only be described as one of the toughest decisions we've faced in years, Ange and I took a long hard look at our situation here in the UK. We've got family and friends here. Anna is in a great nursery. We've got good jobs. But...
The big but.
The big but landed us with, at least, looking at jobs back in Canada. And, we found them. Very good jobs, in fact. The only thing is: they're in Vancouver. Now those who know me, know that I don't love Vancouver. Besides having a shocking hockey team, the city does my head in. The traffic is appalling. The cost of housing is stupid. The weather is rubbish.
However, and most importantly, we have family and friends in the immediate vicinity. Indeed, we two set of grandparents and some of our oldest and closest friends in the city. We have good jobs. Hell, we have bank accounts set up in Canada and don't need to worry about visas to live there. It's a giant decision to go back to Canada. It's just as big a decision to choose Vancouver over Calgary. But we've made it because of the people. And, quite honestly, we're super excited to be around these people.
When it comes to Vancouver, people can talk about skiing and sailing in the same day: pants because no one ever does it. They can talk about the Olympics: at least we can stop talking about Expo. They can talk about the weather: oh, how we'll discuss the rain. It doesn't make any difference. You can see ancient castles and cathedrals in Reading. They have the Reading Festival every year. The weather is reliably as wet, overcast and temperate as Vancouver. Critically, we've only got a couple of really close friends here. Our friends and family are just too far away for regular visits. We're excited to come to Vancouver because of the people (just as we'll be sad to say goodbye to our friends and family here in the UK and how disappointed we are that our friends in Calgary won't be closer).
An couple of examples of the sort of thing that will have us sad to leave:
International moves
So, we prepare for another international move with an infant. This time we can throw in a toddler for good measure. We're expecting to arrive in Vancouver some time in mid October, giving us about 4 weeks to organise the move and shut down everything here. We've got to sell two cars (anyone know someone interested in a 2003 Toyota Corolla?), ship our belongings, cancel dozens of services, maximise our English Heritage passes, see family in Norfolk, London and Dorset, see friends in London and Southampton, pack our things, buy our tickets home, and finish up at our jobs.
In usual Fitch-Dudek fashion, we'll throw in a couple of twists to make it truly interesting. Ange and Anna's visa runs out on 19 September. So, we've got to leave the country to have them re-enter on a different visa: chuck in a trip to Paris for the weekend to facilitate that. Caleb was born here and we have our church community. Let's kick in a baptism at our church (happily, finalized today) for the 28th of September. Then, because I want to, we're heading off to France for the first two weeks of October to have a holiday. You know, relax, kick back and soak in European culture, coffee and wine.
So, there you go. Check back soon. I promise that in amongst the chaos, there's bound to be a story or two to tell.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Winners
Okay, I'm rubbish. I've been meaning to blog for days. The thing is, once there is 20 free minutes, all I can contemplate doing is closing my eyes. So, I'm going to have to blog while eating or something soon.
In the meantime, the winners of Galaxy chocolate are... (drum roll)...
Date & Time: Lisa Brake AND Dave Elder. It was close, so we'll call it a draw.
Boy (picked at random): Oma and Tom
Keep an eye on the post. Chocolate heaven is on its way.
In the meantime, the winners of Galaxy chocolate are... (drum roll)...
Date & Time: Lisa Brake AND Dave Elder. It was close, so we'll call it a draw.
Boy (picked at random): Oma and Tom
Keep an eye on the post. Chocolate heaven is on its way.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
No. 1 Court
Ange, in her attempt to do all things British, recently applied (yes, you have to apply) for tickets to Wimbledon. She also applied for tickets to the Ascot (horse races), the Queen's Garden Party (self explanatory) and Trooping the Colours (she has no idea what this actually is but has it on good authority it is fun and very British).
We recently received notice that we were invited to the Queen's Garden Party. The irony of us being invited to attend this event (at Buckingham Palace no less) was not lost on me, after having teased Ange about manners and the inevitable, "what if you ever eat with the Queen," comments. My mum will be pleased to know that years of similar comments have not been wasted on me, and I will be on my best manners.
Then, today, I just opened a letter that had come through some days ago. We had won (in a lottery) permission to buy tickets to Wimbledon. Hooray. As I read through, I note that we have the option to buy tickets for Sunday, 6 July at No. 1 Court. I still haven't entirely looked into it, but it appears that 6 July is the final day of Wimbledon. And No.1 court? Could that mean 'centre' court? I don't know yet. But it seems like there is a reasonable chance that just days before heading over to Buckingham Palace to have tea with the Queen, we'll be having strawberries and cream, watching the final at Wimbledon.
To keep it real, I'm thinking in both instances we'll take the Passat. Nothing like clamouring through the boot of your car to impress your hosts.
Haven't heard about the Passat? Read more...
We recently received notice that we were invited to the Queen's Garden Party. The irony of us being invited to attend this event (at Buckingham Palace no less) was not lost on me, after having teased Ange about manners and the inevitable, "what if you ever eat with the Queen," comments. My mum will be pleased to know that years of similar comments have not been wasted on me, and I will be on my best manners.
Then, today, I just opened a letter that had come through some days ago. We had won (in a lottery) permission to buy tickets to Wimbledon. Hooray. As I read through, I note that we have the option to buy tickets for Sunday, 6 July at No. 1 Court. I still haven't entirely looked into it, but it appears that 6 July is the final day of Wimbledon. And No.1 court? Could that mean 'centre' court? I don't know yet. But it seems like there is a reasonable chance that just days before heading over to Buckingham Palace to have tea with the Queen, we'll be having strawberries and cream, watching the final at Wimbledon.
To keep it real, I'm thinking in both instances we'll take the Passat. Nothing like clamouring through the boot of your car to impress your hosts.
Haven't heard about the Passat? Read more...
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Nutbar
For all those who think Ange is slightly neurotic and possibly just slightly crazy: Ange just announced to me (proudly, though laughing at herself) that Caleb had his first successful pee on the potty today. Nine days and nine hours old.
Good grief.
By way of explanation, here's a little article that goes through both sides of the "diaper free" gig. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Ange was won over when Anna was young by ladies like Moonbeam who lived on a commune on the West Coast. I'm not kidding.
Don't worry. We're still using nappies. Just fewer of them. And, in fairness, only one fewer at this point. Mind you, when Anna was at 18 months I wasn't cleaning up poop. There's something to be said for not having to deal with poop.
Good grief.
By way of explanation, here's a little article that goes through both sides of the "diaper free" gig. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Ange was won over when Anna was young by ladies like Moonbeam who lived on a commune on the West Coast. I'm not kidding.
Don't worry. We're still using nappies. Just fewer of them. And, in fairness, only one fewer at this point. Mind you, when Anna was at 18 months I wasn't cleaning up poop. There's something to be said for not having to deal with poop.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Caleb Joseph Fitch
Suddenly, we're a family of four. Suddenly (and someone distressingly), we no longer outnumber the children. I think it is the craziest thing about having a baby. You come out of the hospital with one more person than you went in with. I still haven't got my head around it.
We went into hospital around midnight on the 21st. The lead-up was largely uneventful (at least for me). Ange had been having contractions all week, though she impressed upon me that they weren't real. So, despite 'fake' contractions, we had visited with friends, gone shopping, I had gone to work, we had hosted Opa, stayed up late to watch the Flames, and generally not changed much about our lives. On Monday, as Ange took Anna to her Music and Dance (MAD) class, her water broke. Still experiencing only 'fake' contractions, we had lunch and mused about how to go forward with Anna being at nursery.
At this point, I must interject with an acknowledgement about the support we've been given over the past weeks. The pregnancy has been a bit worrying for us in only one way: how do we manage with Anna when we know so few people well enough to impose. In the end, our worries were needless. Our friends in Southampton (60 miles away) came through with offers to come up, despite the hectic and busy lives they lead. Hilary and Nick, who were so kind to us when we first arrived and whom we see regularly, also offered to come and help look after Anna. Work commitments were more difficult for Hilary, as she works at Ange's school (a boarding school). Very kindly, both Emma and Ceri from my work offered to come down to help. Neither are close to us. Emma had offered at work one day. I pointed out that she would likely have to be at work. Emma smiled at Ceri (our supervisor) and said simply, "Not to worry. I'll just call in sick." Grace and Richard and Joyti and Aleen also offered to help. My sister offered to come out from London if it were her days off. In the end, it was like an olympic volunteer call in Calgary. We've been really touched by the kindness of both the offers to help out with Anna and more generally to support us. I've not even acknowledged many of the people who have volunteered help.
In the end, however, we sought help from Beth. Beth is one of the most generously kind people I've ever come across in my life. I know her from work, where she is in charge of events at the University. Beth seems to know and be on friendly terms with nearly everyone at the uni. It's amazing. Anyway, Beth went on maternity leave back in December after giving birth to a lovely little boy called Spencer. Spencer is one chilled little man: he takes it all in stride and hardly ever makes a fuss. From the outset, Beth has been so supportive. She single-handedly saved us a fortune when she loaned Ange two bin bags of maternity clothes. She made up the most generous bag for both Ange and the new baby... and, of course, got presents for Anna so she'd not be left out. She's also loaned us a moses basket and a number of bits. Then, when she heard that we were having trouble finding someone to look after Anna when Ange went into labour, she offered to be our on-call baby-sitter, night or day. As she was on maternity leave, had a flexible schedule, she was mobile, and gold with kids, we committed to looking to her when the time came.
We phoned the hospital to tell them the water had broke but the contractions were only those devious 'fake' ones. They asked us to come in. So, with Beth on call and we called her. She charged out from Wantage to look after Anna. Once we had had our lunch and Anna was comfortable with Beth, we wandered into the hospital. Somewhat frustratingly, after hours of waiting, they were quick to send us home after a quick examination.
When you're imposing on someone like Beth, this created a problem: what next for us? Ange suggested dinner and dancing to spur on labour. We went home. Beth went back to Wantage. Hours later? Yep, real contractions. Beth came back from Wantage, arriving just before midnight and we went back to the hospital.
Saving everyone the details, it will suffice to say that horror stories about the NHS did not apply to us in any way. The midwives were fantastic. Professional, competent and very, very supportive and helpful. With no complications this time around, a little baby boy was born at 7:59am. Caleb Joseph Fitch let out a little cry before snuggling contently with mum. The rude shock of the outside world stuck him for the weighing on a cold, plastic scale (where he weighed in at 7lbs 6oz) but he has otherwise been remarkably content.
Caleb at 2 hours old; Dad with no sleep in 30 hours:
It has been fun re-running through the little things you so quickly forget. For instance, it would probably take having a kid to appreciate the excitement around the changing colour of pooh. The realisation of just how small a newborn is, is also funny. There are the clothes that are clearly labeled newborn, which are so clearly designed for 13lb 'newborns', but which we had nonetheless put out for him because we were none the wiser 5 days ago.
Anna is adapting. Beth was a star with her. Our house had been transformed the time we were away. The lounge was a giant bed, the duvet and pillows out across the floor. Dolls and teddies were put to sleep everywhere. It was a great start for her to have so much fun. She cuddles Caleb occasionally, but is generally trying to come to terms with the emotions around sharing her parents. She hasn't asked for him to go back yet and you can see her showing slightly more interest with every passing feed, cuddle and interaction. I think what they need to do is go visit a castle together. We'll get on that.
Anna and her brother, Caleb:
We went into hospital around midnight on the 21st. The lead-up was largely uneventful (at least for me). Ange had been having contractions all week, though she impressed upon me that they weren't real. So, despite 'fake' contractions, we had visited with friends, gone shopping, I had gone to work, we had hosted Opa, stayed up late to watch the Flames, and generally not changed much about our lives. On Monday, as Ange took Anna to her Music and Dance (MAD) class, her water broke. Still experiencing only 'fake' contractions, we had lunch and mused about how to go forward with Anna being at nursery.
At this point, I must interject with an acknowledgement about the support we've been given over the past weeks. The pregnancy has been a bit worrying for us in only one way: how do we manage with Anna when we know so few people well enough to impose. In the end, our worries were needless. Our friends in Southampton (60 miles away) came through with offers to come up, despite the hectic and busy lives they lead. Hilary and Nick, who were so kind to us when we first arrived and whom we see regularly, also offered to come and help look after Anna. Work commitments were more difficult for Hilary, as she works at Ange's school (a boarding school). Very kindly, both Emma and Ceri from my work offered to come down to help. Neither are close to us. Emma had offered at work one day. I pointed out that she would likely have to be at work. Emma smiled at Ceri (our supervisor) and said simply, "Not to worry. I'll just call in sick." Grace and Richard and Joyti and Aleen also offered to help. My sister offered to come out from London if it were her days off. In the end, it was like an olympic volunteer call in Calgary. We've been really touched by the kindness of both the offers to help out with Anna and more generally to support us. I've not even acknowledged many of the people who have volunteered help.
In the end, however, we sought help from Beth. Beth is one of the most generously kind people I've ever come across in my life. I know her from work, where she is in charge of events at the University. Beth seems to know and be on friendly terms with nearly everyone at the uni. It's amazing. Anyway, Beth went on maternity leave back in December after giving birth to a lovely little boy called Spencer. Spencer is one chilled little man: he takes it all in stride and hardly ever makes a fuss. From the outset, Beth has been so supportive. She single-handedly saved us a fortune when she loaned Ange two bin bags of maternity clothes. She made up the most generous bag for both Ange and the new baby... and, of course, got presents for Anna so she'd not be left out. She's also loaned us a moses basket and a number of bits. Then, when she heard that we were having trouble finding someone to look after Anna when Ange went into labour, she offered to be our on-call baby-sitter, night or day. As she was on maternity leave, had a flexible schedule, she was mobile, and gold with kids, we committed to looking to her when the time came.
We phoned the hospital to tell them the water had broke but the contractions were only those devious 'fake' ones. They asked us to come in. So, with Beth on call and we called her. She charged out from Wantage to look after Anna. Once we had had our lunch and Anna was comfortable with Beth, we wandered into the hospital. Somewhat frustratingly, after hours of waiting, they were quick to send us home after a quick examination.
When you're imposing on someone like Beth, this created a problem: what next for us? Ange suggested dinner and dancing to spur on labour. We went home. Beth went back to Wantage. Hours later? Yep, real contractions. Beth came back from Wantage, arriving just before midnight and we went back to the hospital.
Saving everyone the details, it will suffice to say that horror stories about the NHS did not apply to us in any way. The midwives were fantastic. Professional, competent and very, very supportive and helpful. With no complications this time around, a little baby boy was born at 7:59am. Caleb Joseph Fitch let out a little cry before snuggling contently with mum. The rude shock of the outside world stuck him for the weighing on a cold, plastic scale (where he weighed in at 7lbs 6oz) but he has otherwise been remarkably content.
Caleb at 2 hours old; Dad with no sleep in 30 hours:
It has been fun re-running through the little things you so quickly forget. For instance, it would probably take having a kid to appreciate the excitement around the changing colour of pooh. The realisation of just how small a newborn is, is also funny. There are the clothes that are clearly labeled newborn, which are so clearly designed for 13lb 'newborns', but which we had nonetheless put out for him because we were none the wiser 5 days ago.
Anna is adapting. Beth was a star with her. Our house had been transformed the time we were away. The lounge was a giant bed, the duvet and pillows out across the floor. Dolls and teddies were put to sleep everywhere. It was a great start for her to have so much fun. She cuddles Caleb occasionally, but is generally trying to come to terms with the emotions around sharing her parents. She hasn't asked for him to go back yet and you can see her showing slightly more interest with every passing feed, cuddle and interaction. I think what they need to do is go visit a castle together. We'll get on that.
Anna and her brother, Caleb:
Monday, April 21, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The weather isn't great when...
The BBC weather service has declared that the south will be "less cold" than the north tomorrow in England. Not warmer. Less cold. But, I heard it snowed in Vancouver last night.
The latest on the sweepstakes (because they're still on the go, with nothing on the go here):
BOY: 7:35am, 17 April (Kristen)
BOY: 1:34am, 18 April (Hilary)
GIRL: 11:16pm, 18 April (Robyn)
BOY: 2:45am, 19 April (Lynn)
BOY: 6:32pm, 19 April (Ange)
BOY: 8:40pm, 19 April (Oma & Tom)
BOY: 1:00am, 20 April (Olivia)
BOY: 2:17am, 20 April (Catherine & Simon)
BOY: 6:04pm, 20 April (Angie & Jared)
BOY: 10:41pm, 20 April (me)
GIRL: 1:32am, 21 April (Jacqui)
BOY: 3:05am, 21 April (Lisa E)
BOY: 5:30am, 21 April (??? - this makes it difficult to send the chocolate... Pauline, is this you? It must be you.)
BOY: 8:00pm, 21 April (Dave E)
GIRL: 8:59pm, 22 April (Lisa B)
???: ?:??, 23 April (Dziadzio... Ange's dad)
Still overwhelmingly a boy, increasingly felt to be born in the morning.
Small print clarification: there will be 2 winners. The first winner is for the correct gender, picked randomly from those who guessed correctly. The second is for the closest guess to the actual time of birth, not using Price is Right rules.
The latest on the sweepstakes (because they're still on the go, with nothing on the go here):
BOY: 7:35am, 17 April (Kristen)
BOY: 1:34am, 18 April (Hilary)
GIRL: 11:16pm, 18 April (Robyn)
BOY: 2:45am, 19 April (Lynn)
BOY: 6:32pm, 19 April (Ange)
BOY: 8:40pm, 19 April (Oma & Tom)
BOY: 1:00am, 20 April (Olivia)
BOY: 2:17am, 20 April (Catherine & Simon)
BOY: 6:04pm, 20 April (Angie & Jared)
BOY: 10:41pm, 20 April (me)
GIRL: 1:32am, 21 April (Jacqui)
BOY: 3:05am, 21 April (Lisa E)
BOY: 5:30am, 21 April (??? - this makes it difficult to send the chocolate... Pauline, is this you? It must be you.)
BOY: 8:00pm, 21 April (Dave E)
GIRL: 8:59pm, 22 April (Lisa B)
???: ?:??, 23 April (Dziadzio... Ange's dad)
Still overwhelmingly a boy, increasingly felt to be born in the morning.
Small print clarification: there will be 2 winners. The first winner is for the correct gender, picked randomly from those who guessed correctly. The second is for the closest guess to the actual time of birth, not using Price is Right rules.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Still waiting
I discovered today that Ange has been having contractions all week. Apparently, because they haven't been crippling pain that include hurting her back as well as her tummy, they've not been worth mentioning. You bet they were. There was sympathy missed there. She's clearly not a guy.
Okay, so here's the latest in the Galaxy-chocolate-bar-bet-on-our-babies-arrival stakes:
BOY: 7:35am, 17 April (Kristen)
BOY: 1:34am, 18 April (Hilary)
GIRL: 11:16pm, 18 April (Robyn)
BOY: 8:40pm, 19 April (Oma & Tom)
BOY: 6:32pm, 19 April (Ange)
BOY: 2:17am, 20 April (Catherine & Simon)
BOY: 6:04pm, 20 April (Angie & Jared)
BOY: 10:41pm, 20 April (me)
BOY: 5:30am, 21 April (??? - this makes it difficult to send the chocolate... Pauline, is this you? It must be you.)
???: ?:??, 23 April (Dziadzio... Ange's dad)
Safe to say that people think it will be a boy.
Okay, so here's the latest in the Galaxy-chocolate-bar-bet-on-our-babies-arrival stakes:
BOY: 7:35am, 17 April (Kristen)
BOY: 1:34am, 18 April (Hilary)
GIRL: 11:16pm, 18 April (Robyn)
BOY: 8:40pm, 19 April (Oma & Tom)
BOY: 6:32pm, 19 April (Ange)
BOY: 2:17am, 20 April (Catherine & Simon)
BOY: 6:04pm, 20 April (Angie & Jared)
BOY: 10:41pm, 20 April (me)
BOY: 5:30am, 21 April (??? - this makes it difficult to send the chocolate... Pauline, is this you? It must be you.)
???: ?:??, 23 April (Dziadzio... Ange's dad)
Safe to say that people think it will be a boy.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Waiting for "raging pain"
I sit here listening to Ange speak with Alison in Vancouver. With her typical pragmatism, Ange matter-of-factly dismisses Alison's questions about 'signs' labour is coming.
"Nah, just waiting for the raging pain so I can get on with it."
Let me assure you that is not what I'd be feeling.
Okay, so we have some guesses at the day, time (all times presumed to be local to us) and gender. Galaxy chocolate on the line, so post a response with your guess:
BOY: 7:35am, 17 April (Kristen)
BOY: 1:34am, 18 April (Hilary)
GIRL: 11:16pm, 18 April (Robyn)
BOY: 10:41pm, 20 April (me)
Small print: will randomly pick a winner from those who pick the right gender. Is not Price is Right rules on day/time: i.e, it is the closest day and time, NOT the closest without going over.
"Nah, just waiting for the raging pain so I can get on with it."
Let me assure you that is not what I'd be feeling.
Okay, so we have some guesses at the day, time (all times presumed to be local to us) and gender. Galaxy chocolate on the line, so post a response with your guess:
BOY: 7:35am, 17 April (Kristen)
BOY: 1:34am, 18 April (Hilary)
GIRL: 11:16pm, 18 April (Robyn)
BOY: 10:41pm, 20 April (me)
Small print: will randomly pick a winner from those who pick the right gender. Is not Price is Right rules on day/time: i.e, it is the closest day and time, NOT the closest without going over.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
When 'free' isn't free
When Air Canada get involved. Lovely as they are at Aeroplan (and they were both professional and friendly), it simply doesn't constitute an amazing deal. Once you've factored in the taxes, airport 'improvement' fees, security charges, etc and paid the booking fee (because the only route available to you at the lowest amount of airmiles can't be booked online because it takes you 500 miles in the wrong direction first), it seems the tickets still cost you about 30% of what they would have had you not had airmiles.
Notwithstanding the hidden costs of a free flight, Ange's dad's kindness in donating aeroplan points means that we'll be able to come back to western Canada this summer from mid to late July. Hooray!
Thankfully, we're not flying through (the now infamous) T5 at Heathrow. The scale of incompetence displayed by British Airways defies comprehension is such a competitive industry (in case you've not heard about it, here's the skinny). For all those not involved on any level, the statistic of 19,000 lost bags at one point is truly comical.
And finally
Also, there's nothing to report as of 7:27pm, Tuesday 15 April there is no indication of the onset of labour. For all those who believe that food has a direct effect on the onset of labour, Ange had cottage pie and ridiculous amounts of chocolate 30 minutes ago. For a little interactive blog fun, we'll take guesses on date (with the hour) and gender! Simply post a comment with your guess. Winner gets Galaxy chocolate, as usual.
Notwithstanding the hidden costs of a free flight, Ange's dad's kindness in donating aeroplan points means that we'll be able to come back to western Canada this summer from mid to late July. Hooray!
Thankfully, we're not flying through (the now infamous) T5 at Heathrow. The scale of incompetence displayed by British Airways defies comprehension is such a competitive industry (in case you've not heard about it, here's the skinny). For all those not involved on any level, the statistic of 19,000 lost bags at one point is truly comical.
And finally
Also, there's nothing to report as of 7:27pm, Tuesday 15 April there is no indication of the onset of labour. For all those who believe that food has a direct effect on the onset of labour, Ange had cottage pie and ridiculous amounts of chocolate 30 minutes ago. For a little interactive blog fun, we'll take guesses on date (with the hour) and gender! Simply post a comment with your guess. Winner gets Galaxy chocolate, as usual.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
How urban are you?
Most often, I use the term "urban" in an endearing, multi-cultural way. It is a positive adjective, meant to imply the cosmopolitan nature of the community to which I refer.
We're so urban that there are 10 pubs within 10 minutes walk of our house. We're so urban, there's parking for 70 across the street from us (i.e. a car park). We're so urban, we've got 10 different take-aways within 500 meters of us. We're so urban that a full supermarket is within a 2 minute walk of our front door. And, tonight, we're so urban that the closest pub has attracted a dozen police, a couple of police cars, a police van (usually used to transport many police to the scene of some significant event) and an ambulance. Indeed, we're so urban, whatever has gone on has required police tape to go up around a section of the car park. And, I believe that we're so urban that my car (which is parked in the car park across the street) is within the police tape and likely inaccessible should Ange go into labour in the next few minutes.
We're so urban that there are 10 pubs within 10 minutes walk of our house. We're so urban, there's parking for 70 across the street from us (i.e. a car park). We're so urban, we've got 10 different take-aways within 500 meters of us. We're so urban that a full supermarket is within a 2 minute walk of our front door. And, tonight, we're so urban that the closest pub has attracted a dozen police, a couple of police cars, a police van (usually used to transport many police to the scene of some significant event) and an ambulance. Indeed, we're so urban, whatever has gone on has required police tape to go up around a section of the car park. And, I believe that we're so urban that my car (which is parked in the car park across the street) is within the police tape and likely inaccessible should Ange go into labour in the next few minutes.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Go Flames Go
Rarely is the time difference between Alberta and Berkshire more poignant than during the few weeks where the Flames are still 'alive' in the playoffs. I am about to turn into a zombie, setting the alarm for 3am to watch Kipper vs. the Sharks.
Tonight, Anna and I celebrated the impending playoff series by doing a little dance and cheer in our matching Flames jerseys (yes, she'll be wearing hers to nursery tomorrow too). This tells it all:
Of course, this sort of playoff happiness will not be known at the Brake house. In fact, there is strong and compelling evidence that being forced to cheer for the Oilers is a starkly different experience (noting Graham's mood at his Oiler hat):
Tonight, Anna and I celebrated the impending playoff series by doing a little dance and cheer in our matching Flames jerseys (yes, she'll be wearing hers to nursery tomorrow too). This tells it all:
Of course, this sort of playoff happiness will not be known at the Brake house. In fact, there is strong and compelling evidence that being forced to cheer for the Oilers is a starkly different experience (noting Graham's mood at his Oiler hat):
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Bad blogger
Okay, it has been too long! Life just seems to have taken over the past few weeks and all the funny little tidbits of life seem overwhelmed with the pressures that come to bear.
Some of the pressures and little bits of stress are, however, self-inflicted. Some we can surely not be blamed for. We were off to France a week ago for a holiday. Things were booked. I had booked the ferries and the hotels. We were heading down to Carcassonne and the Languedoc area of France and meeting up with some friends. However, the epic cross-France trip with a toddler was sensibly broken up with a stop at Disneyland Paris.
All things Disney are expensive, but it seemed like a treat for Anna in compensation for 13 hours in the car. When I say expensive, I mean it--even by British standards. It is a cool £40 per adult to get into the park. Only then does the fleece really begin. They harp on about happiness and dreams, but all are acquired at a cost. Even sustinence is not cheap. Our two boxes of chicken nuggets with fries and drink? £25. We opted out of staying at one of the Disney hotels, though we had originally intended to just do it. They were, however, only willing to sell us a two night accomodation and two day passes as a packages. As we were arriving in the evening the first day and then off the day after Disney, we only wanted the one day of park passes with two nights accomodation. They wouldn't budge on their package offer and we stayed 5 miles down the road, saving a mere £200.
But really, on a one off, one-day trip with Anna, the cost was worth it. It was chilly, but the characters were still out and the rides were running. Anna started the day by pouring an entire mug of hot chocolate down her coat. So much is soaked right through. Luckily, we had layered up and it never made it through layer 2 or 3, so it only looks like we're irresponsible parents for having a grubby child in the photos. Things got better from there.
Tigger and "Mickey the Mouse" were most popular with Anna. When we got on the It's a Small World ride, her eyes turned to saucers. It turns out the combination of a boat floating along with little mechanical children portraying national stereotypes and a "Small World" sound track of children singing the same chorus endlessly is like a drug for a 2 year old. The colours were fantastic and, importantly, it was warm. We went on it 5 times. Canadians play ice hockey, dress like mounties, live in igloos and sing with moose in case you're wondering.
We also tried the merry-go-round, climbing parks, the tea-cups (yikes, I feel ill), a boat playground and the train around the park. I think--with the possible exception of Small World--the parades were the most inspiring for Anna. Singing, dancing Disney characters captured her attention fully. It was a most enjoyable day.
Indeed, France is entirely enjoyable with a toddler. Everywhere had seats for little ones. Road-side stops had little toilets or potties for toddlers. There were dinner portions for kids that were healthy and well-sized. It was generally amazing. There were even real play areas--that were clean--for kids to entertain themselves if you wanted to take extra time to stretch, while on a long journey. I was really impressed. Nothing like a stop at the Husky House in Golden or the Little Chef on the M11 for some perspective on that!
The whole trip was generally stress-free, to be fair, but we never once had internet access or any exposure to the news. That meant the morning after we did the very, very long one day trip from Carcassonne to Calais (with the expected getting lost in Paris trick) we had no idea there was trouble on the channel. We blissfully got on the ferry at 8am, looking forward to a quick crossing and home by lunch. Our one hour ferry crossing took 8 hours. We got to Dover on rough seas, but the port was closed. So, we waited--bobbing like a toy in a bathtub--for 7 hours for the port to open. It was entirely unpleasant. It meant another long day of travel. Here's some BBC photos from our choice of day on the sea.
Also a bit stressful: the lovely people renting our house are leaving at the end of July. We're very likely going to rent through an agency this time around. However, if you know of someone you trust and love and would vouch for who would like to rent in the lovely Garrison Woods area of Calgary, maybe we should talk!
Some of the pressures and little bits of stress are, however, self-inflicted. Some we can surely not be blamed for. We were off to France a week ago for a holiday. Things were booked. I had booked the ferries and the hotels. We were heading down to Carcassonne and the Languedoc area of France and meeting up with some friends. However, the epic cross-France trip with a toddler was sensibly broken up with a stop at Disneyland Paris.
All things Disney are expensive, but it seemed like a treat for Anna in compensation for 13 hours in the car. When I say expensive, I mean it--even by British standards. It is a cool £40 per adult to get into the park. Only then does the fleece really begin. They harp on about happiness and dreams, but all are acquired at a cost. Even sustinence is not cheap. Our two boxes of chicken nuggets with fries and drink? £25. We opted out of staying at one of the Disney hotels, though we had originally intended to just do it. They were, however, only willing to sell us a two night accomodation and two day passes as a packages. As we were arriving in the evening the first day and then off the day after Disney, we only wanted the one day of park passes with two nights accomodation. They wouldn't budge on their package offer and we stayed 5 miles down the road, saving a mere £200.
But really, on a one off, one-day trip with Anna, the cost was worth it. It was chilly, but the characters were still out and the rides were running. Anna started the day by pouring an entire mug of hot chocolate down her coat. So much is soaked right through. Luckily, we had layered up and it never made it through layer 2 or 3, so it only looks like we're irresponsible parents for having a grubby child in the photos. Things got better from there.
Tigger and "Mickey the Mouse" were most popular with Anna. When we got on the It's a Small World ride, her eyes turned to saucers. It turns out the combination of a boat floating along with little mechanical children portraying national stereotypes and a "Small World" sound track of children singing the same chorus endlessly is like a drug for a 2 year old. The colours were fantastic and, importantly, it was warm. We went on it 5 times. Canadians play ice hockey, dress like mounties, live in igloos and sing with moose in case you're wondering.
We also tried the merry-go-round, climbing parks, the tea-cups (yikes, I feel ill), a boat playground and the train around the park. I think--with the possible exception of Small World--the parades were the most inspiring for Anna. Singing, dancing Disney characters captured her attention fully. It was a most enjoyable day.
Indeed, France is entirely enjoyable with a toddler. Everywhere had seats for little ones. Road-side stops had little toilets or potties for toddlers. There were dinner portions for kids that were healthy and well-sized. It was generally amazing. There were even real play areas--that were clean--for kids to entertain themselves if you wanted to take extra time to stretch, while on a long journey. I was really impressed. Nothing like a stop at the Husky House in Golden or the Little Chef on the M11 for some perspective on that!
The whole trip was generally stress-free, to be fair, but we never once had internet access or any exposure to the news. That meant the morning after we did the very, very long one day trip from Carcassonne to Calais (with the expected getting lost in Paris trick) we had no idea there was trouble on the channel. We blissfully got on the ferry at 8am, looking forward to a quick crossing and home by lunch. Our one hour ferry crossing took 8 hours. We got to Dover on rough seas, but the port was closed. So, we waited--bobbing like a toy in a bathtub--for 7 hours for the port to open. It was entirely unpleasant. It meant another long day of travel. Here's some BBC photos from our choice of day on the sea.
Also a bit stressful: the lovely people renting our house are leaving at the end of July. We're very likely going to rent through an agency this time around. However, if you know of someone you trust and love and would vouch for who would like to rent in the lovely Garrison Woods area of Calgary, maybe we should talk!
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
London shops
I have just purchased a present for Stella's first birthday. It was just easiest to buy online. By the time I pick up Anna and we've walked home from nursery, it is 4:30. Inconveniently, most shops close at 5pm. Those that don't, shut before 8pm. With traffic across the bridges into the center of Reading and Anna's not-so-demanding evening requirements of a food and a bath, mid-week shopping is essentially impossible. What stuns me is that there is anyone who can manage non-weekend shopping.
Of course, I have also provided some insight into why Saturday shopping, no matter what time of year, is akin to Boxing day shopping in North America. It also suggests that if you're investing in online companies, pick a UK-based one since the retail outlets are literally driving people to the internet by only being open during working hours.
Anyway, Emily suggested a particular item for Miss Stella some months back. Ange, noting it, has been plotting ever since to get the item. However, we've just not come across one (see above for at least one possible reason why we've not stumbled across one in a shop). Ange finally broke down and asked Emily where to get one. Emily sent us the funniest online toy store. Only in London. Or maybe New York. It is called Childrensalon. It has its own coat of arms. It has a profile on "Boys in Suits," with the requisite black and white photo of 10 year old boy--in a suit--who looks torn between attending Eaton or going to play polo. Childrensalon advertises its best selling item as Baby Dior Baby Bottle in Pink in a Gift Box. Though, sociologists and our friends who grew up in rural Alberta alike, will be both amuused and interested to note that the Bobby Baby Boy 5 Piece Ivory Suit also makes the top seller list. And, as it turns out, Chldrensalon is actually too posh for London. It has placed itself in the London commuter town of Royal Tumbridge Wells. Yes, "Royal" is actually part of the name. I suspect if you visit the shop in person, they give your kid a latté.
In fairness to it, though, it was a pleasureable online shopping experience. In fact, I recommend it. If only because there is the chance that someone will get Lisa and Damian's baby the Ivory Satin Ballet Shoes to go with his/her stupid Oilers jersey.
Of course, I have also provided some insight into why Saturday shopping, no matter what time of year, is akin to Boxing day shopping in North America. It also suggests that if you're investing in online companies, pick a UK-based one since the retail outlets are literally driving people to the internet by only being open during working hours.
Anyway, Emily suggested a particular item for Miss Stella some months back. Ange, noting it, has been plotting ever since to get the item. However, we've just not come across one (see above for at least one possible reason why we've not stumbled across one in a shop). Ange finally broke down and asked Emily where to get one. Emily sent us the funniest online toy store. Only in London. Or maybe New York. It is called Childrensalon. It has its own coat of arms. It has a profile on "Boys in Suits," with the requisite black and white photo of 10 year old boy--in a suit--who looks torn between attending Eaton or going to play polo. Childrensalon advertises its best selling item as Baby Dior Baby Bottle in Pink in a Gift Box. Though, sociologists and our friends who grew up in rural Alberta alike, will be both amuused and interested to note that the Bobby Baby Boy 5 Piece Ivory Suit also makes the top seller list. And, as it turns out, Chldrensalon is actually too posh for London. It has placed itself in the London commuter town of Royal Tumbridge Wells. Yes, "Royal" is actually part of the name. I suspect if you visit the shop in person, they give your kid a latté.
In fairness to it, though, it was a pleasureable online shopping experience. In fact, I recommend it. If only because there is the chance that someone will get Lisa and Damian's baby the Ivory Satin Ballet Shoes to go with his/her stupid Oilers jersey.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Broccoli
Children amaze me. Well, specifically, Anna amazes me. Her food preferences confound me. She is normal in so much as Cadbury Chocolate Buttons would be the choice over anything with nutritional value; however, when it comes to the "good food," she is currently on the most staggering broccoli kick you've ever seen. You'd almost be concerned that she would get heavy metal poisoning from the iron if it weren't so damn good for you.
Broccoli is now a staple of almost every dinner. Inevitably, being the age we are, it is difficult not to allude to SNL at almost every dinner. And so, for your blogging pleasure, we will share it with you (turn up the volume):
Broccoli is now a staple of almost every dinner. Inevitably, being the age we are, it is difficult not to allude to SNL at almost every dinner. And so, for your blogging pleasure, we will share it with you (turn up the volume):
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Stamps
Ange went to the local Post Office this week. The queue was longer than the normal out-the-door-length, starting to wind down the street. They had to print stickers with the postage paid (like one would normally do for international postage that costs many, many pounds) for every little item.
It seems that our Post Office has stamps delivered on Tuesdays. With Christmas and New Years both falling on a Tuesday, it hadn't received stamps in 3 weeks. Surely the smallest bit of foresite or a call to some central Royal Mail authority was in order... until then, or next Tuesday, we have a post office without stamps.
It seems that our Post Office has stamps delivered on Tuesdays. With Christmas and New Years both falling on a Tuesday, it hadn't received stamps in 3 weeks. Surely the smallest bit of foresite or a call to some central Royal Mail authority was in order... until then, or next Tuesday, we have a post office without stamps.
Friday, January 04, 2008
No disasters
As Angela, Anna and I travelled into London on the train from Reading, Ange asked when the last time my dad, sister and I had been on holiday together. It was the weekend before Christmas and we were all heading to Brussels to take in the Christmas market. I thought for a moment. It has certainly been many, many years. So many, in fact, that the chronology of the holidays we did take together have started to blur in my mind.
What was certain was that whenever the three of us tried to go on a holiday, disaster struck. Sadly for my dad, most of the time the single-parent family holiday disaster was completely out of his control. That it never seemed to strike when my mum was with us remains (to this day) a mystery to me, for I can't remember a holiday with the three of us (Dad, Emily and I) that went smoothly... at least, in the traditional sense of the word.
There were times when my dad's carefree attitude towards life meant our lack of preparedness was our undoing. Most notably was a day-trip to France when Emily and I were detained by French immigration. We were travelling on our Canadian passports while dad travelled on his British one. I was too young to remember the details, but it was either a visa issue or suspicion relating to the different passports for parent and children. Given my dad's knowledge of French, I suspect he remains with similar doubts as to why we were detained. It remains the only time I have been 'arrested' and one of two times where my immediate freedom was briefly curtailed by men with machine guns. Mum was unimpressed.
Still, there was a sense that my dad could do little to divert the disaster in most instances. It was his dumb luck that both got us into the situation and got us out unscathed.
So, while Ange, Anna and I rolled into Paddington Station, it occurred to me that the last holiday that I had taken with Emily and dad was in the mid-1980s. In so many ways, it defines how my dad was undone by forces well beyond his control. It was our last holiday together until Christmas, 2007. It was house-boating on the Shushwap.
With the sting of past holidays no doubt on his mind (a small tornado while camping, the aforementioned immigration hiccup at Calais, numerous catastrophic car engine problems and the occasional car accident), dad went conservative when he booked a week of house-boating for us. It was an amazing week of driving the houseboat around the lakes. The weather was lovely. It was hot. We swam. I read Archie comics and we listened to two or three Beatles tapes endlessly. We BBQ'ed. We went for a few walks. It was all going off without a hitch. Sure, dad took the unnecessary risk of letting Emily, aged 6ish, drive the houseboat. But he was nearby and we were none the worse for having turned in circles at 8 mph.
Sensing a holiday without disaster was within sight, my dad played it conservatively. He insisted we moor the houseboat on a beach close to the rental facility on our last night. We didn't want to rush the next day or be late so we were driving all night. The weather had gotten cloudy in the afternoon and it looked like rain, so Emily and I would be bound to the boat that night anyway and didn't complain.
As we chugged towards the nearest beach, the rain started. At first just a patter. Then, rather suddenly, the sky darkened. The rain started to come down harder. And the wind picked up. The boat, which was essentially a wooden shack on two long aluminium pontoons, started to heave in the waves. Dad started towards the beach, where he and I braved the rain to tie the boat down on the beach in amongst 20 or so other houseboats.
The waves continued to grow. As the front of the houseboat was on the beach, the back sat in lake and the waves crashed against the back. Emily and I donned our raingear and stood in the back enclosure (which had a railing around it), jumping the waves as the crashed over the decking. But the waves continued to get bigger. Big enough that it became dangerous and dad ushered us inside the boat. The waves became so big that they started crashing against the back door of the cabin and so violent that occasionally they would burst the door open. My dad grew increasingly concerned. So too did the other house-boating vacationers. People started leaving their boats to stand in the rain on the safety of the beach. We did the same. And then, as luck would have it, a propane tank broke loose of its fittings.
For those who can see where this is going, you'll know it was our boat and our propane tank that was now loose on the back enclosure. Whether it was the water or the escaping propane that propelled the tank of explosive gas around the back deck like a ping-pong ball doesn't matter. The loose propane tank was being launched around the back boat was concern enough in and of itself. People started to back away from our boat. We started to back away from our boat. Could it blow up? As people started to discuss the likelihood of the propane tank blowing up, there was an horrendous crack of thunder and a bright flash. The lake, which was now throwing four or five foot waves at our boat, was only about a kilometre wide. Which put us at about 1100 meters from a forest fire starting. I'd never seen lightning strike. I'd certainly never seen a forest fire start. The dozens of people on the beach stood in awe for a moment or two before deciding that our boat was now a genuine hazard to everyone's well-being.
I can still see the expression on my dad's face. The one of complete disbelief. The propane ran out soon enough, and the fire on the other side never really got going i the heavy rain. But it wasn't over for us. Ours being one of the smallest of the house-boating options, the beating our boat was taking was too much and it started to turn sideways. Once it turned slightly, it was all over. The flat side exposed to the huge waves was devastating to the boat. The windows smashed in. Water flooded through it. The pontoon on the water side started to come away from the "house" part of the boat. Dad, Emily and I sat in the rain and watched. The crowd that had backed away came back to take in the devastation. It was complete.
As the rain subsided and the surf died down to the calmness that one would expect from a lake, other house-boaters came to discuss our situation. People offered us food, dry clothing, even a place to sleep. Several burly guys helped us push and pull and tug the boat back into the more traditional moored position, but the back-end of the boat sank rather awkwardly into the water. Suddenly, we had become house-boating refugees.
Our radio had been smashed in the storm, so we used another houseboat's to radio our houseboat rental company for support. They were out first thing in the morning and we were taken back to the main docks in a speed boat. They would have to recover the houseboat and drag the shell back without us. I felt badly for dad at the time. It certainly hadn't ruined the holiday. It was so incredible; I think there were a number of people who didn't actually believe us. I only wish I had a picture of it!
As I recounted the story to Ange, who patiently put up with hearing it yet another time, she wondered allowed, "I wonder what will happen this weekend with you three together again?"
"Cripes!" I thought.
On seeing Emily and dad at St. Pancras, my first question to them was, "Do you have your passports?" Everyone did. There must have been an audible sigh of relief.
"Okay, let's check in!" I urged us on.
First step: French immigration.
What was certain was that whenever the three of us tried to go on a holiday, disaster struck. Sadly for my dad, most of the time the single-parent family holiday disaster was completely out of his control. That it never seemed to strike when my mum was with us remains (to this day) a mystery to me, for I can't remember a holiday with the three of us (Dad, Emily and I) that went smoothly... at least, in the traditional sense of the word.
There were times when my dad's carefree attitude towards life meant our lack of preparedness was our undoing. Most notably was a day-trip to France when Emily and I were detained by French immigration. We were travelling on our Canadian passports while dad travelled on his British one. I was too young to remember the details, but it was either a visa issue or suspicion relating to the different passports for parent and children. Given my dad's knowledge of French, I suspect he remains with similar doubts as to why we were detained. It remains the only time I have been 'arrested' and one of two times where my immediate freedom was briefly curtailed by men with machine guns. Mum was unimpressed.
Still, there was a sense that my dad could do little to divert the disaster in most instances. It was his dumb luck that both got us into the situation and got us out unscathed.
So, while Ange, Anna and I rolled into Paddington Station, it occurred to me that the last holiday that I had taken with Emily and dad was in the mid-1980s. In so many ways, it defines how my dad was undone by forces well beyond his control. It was our last holiday together until Christmas, 2007. It was house-boating on the Shushwap.
With the sting of past holidays no doubt on his mind (a small tornado while camping, the aforementioned immigration hiccup at Calais, numerous catastrophic car engine problems and the occasional car accident), dad went conservative when he booked a week of house-boating for us. It was an amazing week of driving the houseboat around the lakes. The weather was lovely. It was hot. We swam. I read Archie comics and we listened to two or three Beatles tapes endlessly. We BBQ'ed. We went for a few walks. It was all going off without a hitch. Sure, dad took the unnecessary risk of letting Emily, aged 6ish, drive the houseboat. But he was nearby and we were none the worse for having turned in circles at 8 mph.
Sensing a holiday without disaster was within sight, my dad played it conservatively. He insisted we moor the houseboat on a beach close to the rental facility on our last night. We didn't want to rush the next day or be late so we were driving all night. The weather had gotten cloudy in the afternoon and it looked like rain, so Emily and I would be bound to the boat that night anyway and didn't complain.
As we chugged towards the nearest beach, the rain started. At first just a patter. Then, rather suddenly, the sky darkened. The rain started to come down harder. And the wind picked up. The boat, which was essentially a wooden shack on two long aluminium pontoons, started to heave in the waves. Dad started towards the beach, where he and I braved the rain to tie the boat down on the beach in amongst 20 or so other houseboats.
The waves continued to grow. As the front of the houseboat was on the beach, the back sat in lake and the waves crashed against the back. Emily and I donned our raingear and stood in the back enclosure (which had a railing around it), jumping the waves as the crashed over the decking. But the waves continued to get bigger. Big enough that it became dangerous and dad ushered us inside the boat. The waves became so big that they started crashing against the back door of the cabin and so violent that occasionally they would burst the door open. My dad grew increasingly concerned. So too did the other house-boating vacationers. People started leaving their boats to stand in the rain on the safety of the beach. We did the same. And then, as luck would have it, a propane tank broke loose of its fittings.
For those who can see where this is going, you'll know it was our boat and our propane tank that was now loose on the back enclosure. Whether it was the water or the escaping propane that propelled the tank of explosive gas around the back deck like a ping-pong ball doesn't matter. The loose propane tank was being launched around the back boat was concern enough in and of itself. People started to back away from our boat. We started to back away from our boat. Could it blow up? As people started to discuss the likelihood of the propane tank blowing up, there was an horrendous crack of thunder and a bright flash. The lake, which was now throwing four or five foot waves at our boat, was only about a kilometre wide. Which put us at about 1100 meters from a forest fire starting. I'd never seen lightning strike. I'd certainly never seen a forest fire start. The dozens of people on the beach stood in awe for a moment or two before deciding that our boat was now a genuine hazard to everyone's well-being.
I can still see the expression on my dad's face. The one of complete disbelief. The propane ran out soon enough, and the fire on the other side never really got going i the heavy rain. But it wasn't over for us. Ours being one of the smallest of the house-boating options, the beating our boat was taking was too much and it started to turn sideways. Once it turned slightly, it was all over. The flat side exposed to the huge waves was devastating to the boat. The windows smashed in. Water flooded through it. The pontoon on the water side started to come away from the "house" part of the boat. Dad, Emily and I sat in the rain and watched. The crowd that had backed away came back to take in the devastation. It was complete.
As the rain subsided and the surf died down to the calmness that one would expect from a lake, other house-boaters came to discuss our situation. People offered us food, dry clothing, even a place to sleep. Several burly guys helped us push and pull and tug the boat back into the more traditional moored position, but the back-end of the boat sank rather awkwardly into the water. Suddenly, we had become house-boating refugees.
Our radio had been smashed in the storm, so we used another houseboat's to radio our houseboat rental company for support. They were out first thing in the morning and we were taken back to the main docks in a speed boat. They would have to recover the houseboat and drag the shell back without us. I felt badly for dad at the time. It certainly hadn't ruined the holiday. It was so incredible; I think there were a number of people who didn't actually believe us. I only wish I had a picture of it!
As I recounted the story to Ange, who patiently put up with hearing it yet another time, she wondered allowed, "I wonder what will happen this weekend with you three together again?"
"Cripes!" I thought.
On seeing Emily and dad at St. Pancras, my first question to them was, "Do you have your passports?" Everyone did. There must have been an audible sigh of relief.
"Okay, let's check in!" I urged us on.
First step: French immigration.
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