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):
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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