Anna and Dad:
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Father's Day
It applies to me! Too crazy. But I am a dad (Papa to some: you know who you are) and Ange and Anna were good to me today. Not surprisingly, we ended up at the daddy of all English castles. Windsor Castle. It was great, but we didn't go in. Not enough time to do it justice and it is a bit dear to get in (£12 each). Still, a lovely day:
Anna and Dad:
Anna and Dad:
Friday, June 15, 2007
Chains
House Update: Still no house purcahse. The "chain" hasn't closed. Ridiculous.
Car Update: The once random occasions where I had to go through the trunk have become regular. I no longer lock the car.
Though I am about as biased as it comes, Anna is just so damn cute. She uses words we haven't taught her. Scary. Today, she pointed out a "puddle" to us. And, because she is as smart as she is cute, it was in fact a puddle.
Evidence of cute:
Evidence of trouble for dad:
Car Update: The once random occasions where I had to go through the trunk have become regular. I no longer lock the car.
Though I am about as biased as it comes, Anna is just so damn cute. She uses words we haven't taught her. Scary. Today, she pointed out a "puddle" to us. And, because she is as smart as she is cute, it was in fact a puddle.
Evidence of cute:
Evidence of trouble for dad:
Monday, June 11, 2007
Svenska Flicka
We've returned from Sweden. It was excellent. On the whole, more Canadian than I ever could have imagined. Less, of course, the Tim Hortons and more of the old stuff. Oh yeah, and a whole lot more money to buy just about anything.
There are some pretty amazing things going on in Stockholm. First, and not surprisingly to many who know me, the history is top quality. Hats off to Swedish restoration projects, which allow sad people like me to drag my family to all sorts of ancient wonders. Of particular interest is the Vasa warship, which sits in a specially built dry dock for your viewing pleasure. There are many amazing things about the Vasa, no the least of which is that it spent 335 years at the bottom of the ocean. It seems that the water around the Stockholm archipelago are just perfect for the preservation of normally biodegrateable substances like wood and leather. This means that the Vasa is incredibly well preserved; so well preserved, in fact, that when they raised it from the bottom of the ocean, it still floated. It actually floated back to the docks!
Now you're wondering why it sank if it floated? The short story is that the Swedish King (I can't remember his name, but it was particularly Nordic.... I think it was Gustav?) wanted the biggest and most impressive war ship in the world. He commissioned a ship expert to design the Vasa. Lacking computer modelling and such, the ship was made bigger than anything else. It had a remarkable 64 gun ports. To the untrained eye (albeit with the decidedly helpful hindsight of knowing it sank), it seemed to me that the lower row of gun ports were frightfully close to the water line. This meant that there are a number of large holes on the lower sides of the ship. Exacerbating the problem of loads of holes in the hull, was that the Vasa was painfully top heavy (again the result of all those canons). To make a long story short, the ship sailed about 10 minutes out and hit a swell and rolled heavily. While the crew managed to right it, the next swell got them and tipped it over heavily to one side. The water poured into the gun ports and like so many bath-tub boats from our own experience, it sank in moments.
Happily, for many of the crew, they still weren't out of the harbour so a number of fishing boats were on hand for the rescue. Of those that did go down with the ship, many were recovered with the boat (300 odd years later) and in a somewhat eerie display at the museum, their skeletons, clothes and personal belongings are on display! They've even named the skeletons and managed to give a small account of the life they led (things like, "Hagar led a hard life, which we know by the bone indication of malnutrition as a child and the worn hip from hard labour."). The ship is amazing. Stunning, in fact. But one can't help but feel the Swedes are particularly confident in themselves, as this is essentially a huge monument to the questionable nature of Swedish naval engineering.
We also visited a number of museums on the history of Stockholm and Sweden. Ange and Claire (our cousin) went to go see the Swedish National Ballet. Claire and I saw the Pirates of the Carribean. I can honestly say that the Vasa has nothing on the Black Pearl, except they both popped back up after sinking. We also spent a lot of time just walking and taking in the atmosphere, which at times was a bit surreal. On a couple of days, there were loads of flatbed trucks roving the streets of Stockholm with dozens of screaming and dancing students on the backs. Some had the most incredible sound systems set up. Mobile, mid-day raves sauntered past us.
At one point the revelry was too much and a young male fell from the back of the slow moving truck. As the rave-truck-unit behind lurched to a stop and the driver got out to pick him up, I thouht to myself how this sort of fun would never be permitted in North America. Apart from the blatant violation of Calgary-like noise by-laws and the public drinking, safety conscious crusaders would cry out against the obvious folly of drinking and dancing on the back of moving vehicles (however slow moving they may be). No sir. This sort of fun would was to be witnessed only outside of our borders. And so we did, especially enjoying the particular Swedishness when some Abba mash-up blared across the speakers.
Anna seemed to enjoy it all. She waved at the various rave-trucks, usually to their great satisfaction. She ran in the parks. She saw a fountain. We went on a boat across the harbour. She used to say "boat," but now she will only address boats by what they say. Boats say "tooooot-toooooot". In the beautiful old town, a wandering group of Japanese tourists appealed to include Anna in their photo shoot of the ancient courtyard. With her blond hair and blue eyes, she was the perfect Swedish imposter. The tourists were none the wiser that they had a Canadian kid as their stereotypical Swedish child!
There are some pretty amazing things going on in Stockholm. First, and not surprisingly to many who know me, the history is top quality. Hats off to Swedish restoration projects, which allow sad people like me to drag my family to all sorts of ancient wonders. Of particular interest is the Vasa warship, which sits in a specially built dry dock for your viewing pleasure. There are many amazing things about the Vasa, no the least of which is that it spent 335 years at the bottom of the ocean. It seems that the water around the Stockholm archipelago are just perfect for the preservation of normally biodegrateable substances like wood and leather. This means that the Vasa is incredibly well preserved; so well preserved, in fact, that when they raised it from the bottom of the ocean, it still floated. It actually floated back to the docks!
Now you're wondering why it sank if it floated? The short story is that the Swedish King (I can't remember his name, but it was particularly Nordic.... I think it was Gustav?) wanted the biggest and most impressive war ship in the world. He commissioned a ship expert to design the Vasa. Lacking computer modelling and such, the ship was made bigger than anything else. It had a remarkable 64 gun ports. To the untrained eye (albeit with the decidedly helpful hindsight of knowing it sank), it seemed to me that the lower row of gun ports were frightfully close to the water line. This meant that there are a number of large holes on the lower sides of the ship. Exacerbating the problem of loads of holes in the hull, was that the Vasa was painfully top heavy (again the result of all those canons). To make a long story short, the ship sailed about 10 minutes out and hit a swell and rolled heavily. While the crew managed to right it, the next swell got them and tipped it over heavily to one side. The water poured into the gun ports and like so many bath-tub boats from our own experience, it sank in moments.
Happily, for many of the crew, they still weren't out of the harbour so a number of fishing boats were on hand for the rescue. Of those that did go down with the ship, many were recovered with the boat (300 odd years later) and in a somewhat eerie display at the museum, their skeletons, clothes and personal belongings are on display! They've even named the skeletons and managed to give a small account of the life they led (things like, "Hagar led a hard life, which we know by the bone indication of malnutrition as a child and the worn hip from hard labour."). The ship is amazing. Stunning, in fact. But one can't help but feel the Swedes are particularly confident in themselves, as this is essentially a huge monument to the questionable nature of Swedish naval engineering.
We also visited a number of museums on the history of Stockholm and Sweden. Ange and Claire (our cousin) went to go see the Swedish National Ballet. Claire and I saw the Pirates of the Carribean. I can honestly say that the Vasa has nothing on the Black Pearl, except they both popped back up after sinking. We also spent a lot of time just walking and taking in the atmosphere, which at times was a bit surreal. On a couple of days, there were loads of flatbed trucks roving the streets of Stockholm with dozens of screaming and dancing students on the backs. Some had the most incredible sound systems set up. Mobile, mid-day raves sauntered past us.
At one point the revelry was too much and a young male fell from the back of the slow moving truck. As the rave-truck-unit behind lurched to a stop and the driver got out to pick him up, I thouht to myself how this sort of fun would never be permitted in North America. Apart from the blatant violation of Calgary-like noise by-laws and the public drinking, safety conscious crusaders would cry out against the obvious folly of drinking and dancing on the back of moving vehicles (however slow moving they may be). No sir. This sort of fun would was to be witnessed only outside of our borders. And so we did, especially enjoying the particular Swedishness when some Abba mash-up blared across the speakers.
Anna seemed to enjoy it all. She waved at the various rave-trucks, usually to their great satisfaction. She ran in the parks. She saw a fountain. We went on a boat across the harbour. She used to say "boat," but now she will only address boats by what they say. Boats say "tooooot-toooooot". In the beautiful old town, a wandering group of Japanese tourists appealed to include Anna in their photo shoot of the ancient courtyard. With her blond hair and blue eyes, she was the perfect Swedish imposter. The tourists were none the wiser that they had a Canadian kid as their stereotypical Swedish child!
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
The Alleged House Purchase
So, we've gone and done it. Ange claims that we have 'allegedly' bought a house. The conveyancing of a house from one party to another is very similar to the better-known criminal system of innocent until proven guilty.
All we have done is make an offer, confirm a mortgage, establish a solicitor, and hire a surveyor. All sorts of annecdotal evidence suggest that we will be the future owners of 32 Crowmell Street, Caversham. Nevertheless, we remain strangely detatched. By all accounts, it could go horribly wrong tomorrow when someone 3 houses down the chain pulls out because they've developed an allergy to berber carpets and had a change of heart on the agreed price of their deal. The chain collapses, everyone sighs in frustration (apart from various lawyers and surveyors who have collected fees) and we are back at square one. Still, we push on. Determined for the full British experience, it seems only suitable that we must endure this stress for us to fully appreciate the culture in which we live. I am sure this will lend to vaguely humorous remarks, knowing nods and rolled eyes at some party with strangers down the road.
Today my dad and brother Sam were in town. My dad was working (and had taken Sam along with him) in nearby Guildford and zipped across to see us. 'Zipped,' of course, a euphamism for crawling through an hour of traffic to cover 20 miles. We walked over to see 32 Cromwell. I slightly feared my dad seeing the place. I feared that he would see something so blatantly problematic that only a daft idiot who had blindly rushed into an offer would miss. Blindly rushing in would aptly describe our course of action, so it was really a odds-game as to whether I could be labelled an idiot for doing so.
As we walked up the slight hill from the bottom of our street, my dad commented that, "it certainly won't flood being up a hill." It hadn't occured to me, but the logic was irrefutable. One check for our alleged house: unlikely to flood.
Happily, dad was taken with the property. He was firmly against the ivy that grows over the side of the house. "It will have to come down immediately," he commented. Desptie quite liking the ivy, I noted to myself that my first job was to somehow get 20 years of ivy growth off the side of the house ASAP. And then my dad said something that was truly beautiful to hear. He summed up the house after walking front and back by saying, "It's good. I like it. A good solid house."
"Solid." Is there a better adjective to describe your biggest ever investment? I think not. Years from now, "lucrative" would be nice. But, in the meantime, I will settle happily on "solid."
We then had a wee moment where "solid" came into question.
"Isn't the chimney badly crooked?" Dad asked.
"Damn it. It is," my heart sank. I looked for an out. The chimney was clearly crooked. The lean was definitely a couple of degrees off. We were standing on a slope. Could that be our problem? Had we mistakenly miscalclulated our frame of reference because of the incline where we stood? Sadly not. And then? Relief. We were looking at our neighbour's chimney. Too bad for him. Unless, of course, it falls on our house. But there is surely insurance for that sort of thing.
We then discussed the ivy some more. Conversation followed about solid brick walls and their relative insulation properties. Slate roofs were discussed. Our substantial cinder-block guest house (yep, we have another guest house!) was admired for its solidness and the quality of its roof. We spotted a hole that had been drilled in the brickwork and the types of cement that ought to be used to fill it. As we trudged back to our current place, the house started to grow on dad. By the time we got back to our terrace (a mere 3 minutes away), he was entirely sold. Hooray!
Anna continues to be the most lovely little girl. I often call her "Anna Banana." I can't help myself. She's so cute. What was funny was the other day when I positioned her in front of the mirror whilst she sat in my arms.
"Who's that?" I asked
"Anna!" She cried.
"That's right!" I excaimed affirmatively.
"Anna Manana" she said again.
Yes. Anna Manana. So cute.
All we have done is make an offer, confirm a mortgage, establish a solicitor, and hire a surveyor. All sorts of annecdotal evidence suggest that we will be the future owners of 32 Crowmell Street, Caversham. Nevertheless, we remain strangely detatched. By all accounts, it could go horribly wrong tomorrow when someone 3 houses down the chain pulls out because they've developed an allergy to berber carpets and had a change of heart on the agreed price of their deal. The chain collapses, everyone sighs in frustration (apart from various lawyers and surveyors who have collected fees) and we are back at square one. Still, we push on. Determined for the full British experience, it seems only suitable that we must endure this stress for us to fully appreciate the culture in which we live. I am sure this will lend to vaguely humorous remarks, knowing nods and rolled eyes at some party with strangers down the road.
Today my dad and brother Sam were in town. My dad was working (and had taken Sam along with him) in nearby Guildford and zipped across to see us. 'Zipped,' of course, a euphamism for crawling through an hour of traffic to cover 20 miles. We walked over to see 32 Cromwell. I slightly feared my dad seeing the place. I feared that he would see something so blatantly problematic that only a daft idiot who had blindly rushed into an offer would miss. Blindly rushing in would aptly describe our course of action, so it was really a odds-game as to whether I could be labelled an idiot for doing so.
As we walked up the slight hill from the bottom of our street, my dad commented that, "it certainly won't flood being up a hill." It hadn't occured to me, but the logic was irrefutable. One check for our alleged house: unlikely to flood.
Happily, dad was taken with the property. He was firmly against the ivy that grows over the side of the house. "It will have to come down immediately," he commented. Desptie quite liking the ivy, I noted to myself that my first job was to somehow get 20 years of ivy growth off the side of the house ASAP. And then my dad said something that was truly beautiful to hear. He summed up the house after walking front and back by saying, "It's good. I like it. A good solid house."
"Solid." Is there a better adjective to describe your biggest ever investment? I think not. Years from now, "lucrative" would be nice. But, in the meantime, I will settle happily on "solid."
We then had a wee moment where "solid" came into question.
"Isn't the chimney badly crooked?" Dad asked.
"Damn it. It is," my heart sank. I looked for an out. The chimney was clearly crooked. The lean was definitely a couple of degrees off. We were standing on a slope. Could that be our problem? Had we mistakenly miscalclulated our frame of reference because of the incline where we stood? Sadly not. And then? Relief. We were looking at our neighbour's chimney. Too bad for him. Unless, of course, it falls on our house. But there is surely insurance for that sort of thing.
We then discussed the ivy some more. Conversation followed about solid brick walls and their relative insulation properties. Slate roofs were discussed. Our substantial cinder-block guest house (yep, we have another guest house!) was admired for its solidness and the quality of its roof. We spotted a hole that had been drilled in the brickwork and the types of cement that ought to be used to fill it. As we trudged back to our current place, the house started to grow on dad. By the time we got back to our terrace (a mere 3 minutes away), he was entirely sold. Hooray!
Anna continues to be the most lovely little girl. I often call her "Anna Banana." I can't help myself. She's so cute. What was funny was the other day when I positioned her in front of the mirror whilst she sat in my arms.
"Who's that?" I asked
"Anna!" She cried.
"That's right!" I excaimed affirmatively.
"Anna Manana" she said again.
Yes. Anna Manana. So cute.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
More Housing Stuff
Our good friend Erin is renting our house in Calgary. I've just spoken with her and she is short of a roommate. Erin is absolutely lovely and one of our bestest friends. She's a professional (teacher), quiet and clean. The house itslelf is also quite nice. It is in central Calgary, near Marda Loop, in an area called Garrison Woods. Most of you know the details. In fact, most of you have probably been there.
Does anyone know of a nice, quiet-ish professional friend who would like to live in Garrison Woods for entirely reasonable rent? If so, please get in touch and I will pass you along to Erin.
Does anyone know of a nice, quiet-ish professional friend who would like to live in Garrison Woods for entirely reasonable rent? If so, please get in touch and I will pass you along to Erin.
Gazump
So, we're looking at buying property in the old country. It has been an entirely eye-opening experience, leaving both Ange and I with the distinct wonder at how a house transaction ever takes place. It is certainly a case of us not knowing the system and comparing it unfairly to what we know. Nevertheless, as objectively as I can make things out, it is less efficient in the UK than in Canada.
My friend Andrew reminded me that becoming a land-over over here has a history of entitlement. I figure you're owed a certain degree of smugness for navigating the process even if you don't get the throngs of people in servitude, special voting rights, and the ability to collect taxes and hire knights to do your bidding.
Land-ownding status aside, lets take a quick walk through the process. First, do we qualify for a mortgage? It turns out we do. In fact, the banks are eager to lend us proportionally more than the Canadian banks. Not bad for being here 6 months. I suspect that must get loads of people into some real trouble. For us, we were just happy that we had the prospect of not thowing away a fortune each month in rent.
Then you find a house. They have a national website which is very good. So, you put in your maximum amount and away you go, sorting by either ascending or descending price order. I started with the lowest price at the beginning but it quickly became apparent why the lowest priced properties were the lowest prices. Now I just start with the most we can afford. This is because all sorts of things came to light that just don't register when you're searching for a house in Calgary.
In a random order of oddities, we have seen houses with wallpaper that had been painted over many times, houses with clear holes in the roof, houses with air raid shelters (I kind of liked that feature despite its questionable usefulness today), houses with no central heating, houses with 50 year old carpets, houses with no showers (only baths), houses with out-buildings to store your coal (if you don't have coal? It's a very sooty place to store your bicycle), houses with no place to park within 500m, and houses with known structural problems that you could get a 'deal' on.
Then the issue of school catchment came up. What? There is a particularly good school in Caversham and you pay a premium to buy a piece of property in the catchment of that school. One street over, pay less and send your kid to... private school?
As if negotiating all these things as a newbie didn't have its pitfalls, there is nothing binding about either putting in an offer or accepting an offer. So, even though we have made an offer on a house, they can refrain from really feeding anything back. A state of limbo develops and... you put in an offer on another house. The same thing happens. And, before you know it, you have 5 non-binding offers on 5 different houses. Should one of them accept, they might then change their mind. And they might change their mind 3 months down the road. Or, if they're in what is called "an onward chain" and something goes wrong with a sale of a house some five people down the chain... too bad, your deal is off.
This all drags out the process horribly. And because of this process that takes so long, all you have is a non-binding, gentlemanly agreement to spend a not-so-small fortune on a run down 125 year old house while the housing prices go up and up. So, if the seller is cheeky and a bit unethical, he might take an offer from someone else for more money down the road and you're "Gazumped". Its a funny word. But, I think a painful one to experience. I hope never to experience it. If I do, I will call the person gazumping me all sort of nasty things and publish their name on this blog for you to write him/her and do the same.
So, where does this all leave us? I'm not entirely sure to be honest. We might be buying a house tomorrow. We might not. We might see if there is a record for outstanding offers on houses in the Guinness Book and go for that claim-to-fame. We have put a time limit on our little experiment. If we're not moving in by Christmas, we will shake our fists and shout with indignance. And probably complain on this blog. And then continue to pay rent, somewhat comforted by the fact it might actually be harder to sell than to buy over here.
My friend Andrew reminded me that becoming a land-over over here has a history of entitlement. I figure you're owed a certain degree of smugness for navigating the process even if you don't get the throngs of people in servitude, special voting rights, and the ability to collect taxes and hire knights to do your bidding.
Land-ownding status aside, lets take a quick walk through the process. First, do we qualify for a mortgage? It turns out we do. In fact, the banks are eager to lend us proportionally more than the Canadian banks. Not bad for being here 6 months. I suspect that must get loads of people into some real trouble. For us, we were just happy that we had the prospect of not thowing away a fortune each month in rent.
Then you find a house. They have a national website which is very good. So, you put in your maximum amount and away you go, sorting by either ascending or descending price order. I started with the lowest price at the beginning but it quickly became apparent why the lowest priced properties were the lowest prices. Now I just start with the most we can afford. This is because all sorts of things came to light that just don't register when you're searching for a house in Calgary.
In a random order of oddities, we have seen houses with wallpaper that had been painted over many times, houses with clear holes in the roof, houses with air raid shelters (I kind of liked that feature despite its questionable usefulness today), houses with no central heating, houses with 50 year old carpets, houses with no showers (only baths), houses with out-buildings to store your coal (if you don't have coal? It's a very sooty place to store your bicycle), houses with no place to park within 500m, and houses with known structural problems that you could get a 'deal' on.
Then the issue of school catchment came up. What? There is a particularly good school in Caversham and you pay a premium to buy a piece of property in the catchment of that school. One street over, pay less and send your kid to... private school?
As if negotiating all these things as a newbie didn't have its pitfalls, there is nothing binding about either putting in an offer or accepting an offer. So, even though we have made an offer on a house, they can refrain from really feeding anything back. A state of limbo develops and... you put in an offer on another house. The same thing happens. And, before you know it, you have 5 non-binding offers on 5 different houses. Should one of them accept, they might then change their mind. And they might change their mind 3 months down the road. Or, if they're in what is called "an onward chain" and something goes wrong with a sale of a house some five people down the chain... too bad, your deal is off.
This all drags out the process horribly. And because of this process that takes so long, all you have is a non-binding, gentlemanly agreement to spend a not-so-small fortune on a run down 125 year old house while the housing prices go up and up. So, if the seller is cheeky and a bit unethical, he might take an offer from someone else for more money down the road and you're "Gazumped". Its a funny word. But, I think a painful one to experience. I hope never to experience it. If I do, I will call the person gazumping me all sort of nasty things and publish their name on this blog for you to write him/her and do the same.
So, where does this all leave us? I'm not entirely sure to be honest. We might be buying a house tomorrow. We might not. We might see if there is a record for outstanding offers on houses in the Guinness Book and go for that claim-to-fame. We have put a time limit on our little experiment. If we're not moving in by Christmas, we will shake our fists and shout with indignance. And probably complain on this blog. And then continue to pay rent, somewhat comforted by the fact it might actually be harder to sell than to buy over here.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
May Day Long Weekend: Again
Many years ago on May Day long weekend in 2000, Ange and I piled into a car with Vince, Andrew and Erika for a weekend in Wales. The sole reason we were going was because I had discovered that we could stay in a hostel that was actually a castle. It turned out to be arguably the best road-trip weekend ever known. All highs and no lows.
So whenever people come to England, I recommend the same itinerary that we took on that weekend. This past May Day bank holiday weekend, we repeated much of the same. With Anna in tow this time, it was bound to be different! Friends from field hockey, the McDougall family and my cousin Claire climbed into a couple of cars and took on an ambitious schedule of 4 castles, 1 abbey, a town of book stores and numerous pubs. The photos tell most of the tale: click here.
Anna held it together for most of the weekend, despite the dose of medieval history being forced on her. She charged around the various castles with few cares, loving the freedom to run. We climbed stairs. We crawled into small spaces. We fell on our face twice. Well, actually just Anna fell on her face. Uneven surfaces proved more problematic than the imposing walls! Largely because the imposing walls could be walked around in all instances where uneven surfaces are the flavour of the day. She is one determined little girl when it comes to cobblestone on a slight incline! Vince, Andrew and Erika will be pleased to note that while Anna has yet to castle hack, she has now put similar energy into having fun at the same location as they did those years ago. Fewer beers than Andrew, but just as many falls!
Anna, the morning after her first night in a castle. Her teeth aren't brushed, she has bruises from falling on her face and most of her breakfast is still on her shirt, but she has places to go... like the nearby Chepstow Castle. On some thought, there is probably little difference from her and King John, who spent time at St. Briavels in the late 1200s (apart from the flowered raincoat, of course)...
So whenever people come to England, I recommend the same itinerary that we took on that weekend. This past May Day bank holiday weekend, we repeated much of the same. With Anna in tow this time, it was bound to be different! Friends from field hockey, the McDougall family and my cousin Claire climbed into a couple of cars and took on an ambitious schedule of 4 castles, 1 abbey, a town of book stores and numerous pubs. The photos tell most of the tale: click here.
Anna held it together for most of the weekend, despite the dose of medieval history being forced on her. She charged around the various castles with few cares, loving the freedom to run. We climbed stairs. We crawled into small spaces. We fell on our face twice. Well, actually just Anna fell on her face. Uneven surfaces proved more problematic than the imposing walls! Largely because the imposing walls could be walked around in all instances where uneven surfaces are the flavour of the day. She is one determined little girl when it comes to cobblestone on a slight incline! Vince, Andrew and Erika will be pleased to note that while Anna has yet to castle hack, she has now put similar energy into having fun at the same location as they did those years ago. Fewer beers than Andrew, but just as many falls!
Anna, the morning after her first night in a castle. Her teeth aren't brushed, she has bruises from falling on her face and most of her breakfast is still on her shirt, but she has places to go... like the nearby Chepstow Castle. On some thought, there is probably little difference from her and King John, who spent time at St. Briavels in the late 1200s (apart from the flowered raincoat, of course)...
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Visiting? You'll need directions
Ah, the internet. It'll make you laugh. Even when you might not expect it to. The good folks at Google provide my smile for today (courtesy of Lisa Brake).
So you think you might like to visit us over here? If, like Alison Speck (nee Gauthier... haha, I used nee) you want to consider Google Directions to avoid flying from Calgary International Airport to our street in Caversham, click here. No, really. Do it.
Never mind the I-90 toll road near Boston(direction #37)... nor the toll from E402 from Bologne to Calais (direction #52). Just check out direction #44. I am suspicious that it accounts for a great deal of the 31 days Google allocates for the trip. Once here, I'll buy you a beer.
So you think you might like to visit us over here? If, like Alison Speck (nee Gauthier... haha, I used nee) you want to consider Google Directions to avoid flying from Calgary International Airport to our street in Caversham, click here. No, really. Do it.
Never mind the I-90 toll road near Boston(direction #37)... nor the toll from E402 from Bologne to Calais (direction #52). Just check out direction #44. I am suspicious that it accounts for a great deal of the 31 days Google allocates for the trip. Once here, I'll buy you a beer.
Coursework
My work has sent me to London for training on how to use our database. I love coming into London on the train. It is such a feeling of purpose, even if the training is completely useless (which it is). We rolled into Paddington station with only minor delays for a signal problem. I lifted the door latch when the train came to a stop by leaning through the open window and using the outside handle. That's how it is done. It is not how it would be done in Canada. One, it would be too cold and you'd get someone who had just sneezed in their hand with it stuck to the door handle; or two, someone would do something stupid and fall out; or three, someone would be unable to comprehend not being able to only open the door from the outside and miss their stop. All would probably result in litigation and wholesale changes to the rail network...
But with hardly any trains, what Canada would do is irrelevant. At Paddington station, the morning sun shone through the windowed roof high above. The diesel exhaust hung in the air from the dozens of trains. It was mostly a business crowd, and most of them were in some variation of a pinstripe suit. Mostly blue, but a number of black. Some could have gone either way. Maybe blue and covered in deisel fumes? Many women were in pinstripe suits too, only without the typically bright ties that so many of the men have over here. Hundreds of people in pinstripe uniform marched off deliberately in every direction. I marched off with a number of them and took the stairs down into the guts of the London Underground to catch my tube on the Bakerloo line.
Training is dull. Dull enough that I am able to be trained and write a blog at the same time. I am sure the lady next to me is unimpressed. The problem is that I've taught myself everything we have gone over in training simply by using the program over the past few month. So unmotivating. I've read all the post-season Flames analysis, followed the acrimony of the Chelsea-Livrepool game last night, read about Britain in Iraq, read about Canada's hockey team captain Doan being berated by Quebec politicians (do we really have so little actual news in Canada that the BQ has nothing else to discuss?) and checked Facebook about a million times. Everyone back home is asleep, so not once has anything new happened on Facebook. Except Adrienne. She was clearly up late on Facebook last night!
So I sit. Looking at the clock and looking forward to my Canadian friends waking up and getting on Facebook. And, of course, wishing I could just go home and see Anna. I've only been in London a half dozen (weekday) times since starting work. Not once have I had a truly problem free trip. Last night was going smoothly until the Reading-bound train found itself without a driver. I truly believe that it could be a 60 minute trip in a 'perfect' world. I'd be happy with a 75 minute trip home to see Anna tonight... or maybe I should just get a head start and duck out of "training" early?
But with hardly any trains, what Canada would do is irrelevant. At Paddington station, the morning sun shone through the windowed roof high above. The diesel exhaust hung in the air from the dozens of trains. It was mostly a business crowd, and most of them were in some variation of a pinstripe suit. Mostly blue, but a number of black. Some could have gone either way. Maybe blue and covered in deisel fumes? Many women were in pinstripe suits too, only without the typically bright ties that so many of the men have over here. Hundreds of people in pinstripe uniform marched off deliberately in every direction. I marched off with a number of them and took the stairs down into the guts of the London Underground to catch my tube on the Bakerloo line.
Training is dull. Dull enough that I am able to be trained and write a blog at the same time. I am sure the lady next to me is unimpressed. The problem is that I've taught myself everything we have gone over in training simply by using the program over the past few month. So unmotivating. I've read all the post-season Flames analysis, followed the acrimony of the Chelsea-Livrepool game last night, read about Britain in Iraq, read about Canada's hockey team captain Doan being berated by Quebec politicians (do we really have so little actual news in Canada that the BQ has nothing else to discuss?) and checked Facebook about a million times. Everyone back home is asleep, so not once has anything new happened on Facebook. Except Adrienne. She was clearly up late on Facebook last night!
So I sit. Looking at the clock and looking forward to my Canadian friends waking up and getting on Facebook. And, of course, wishing I could just go home and see Anna. I've only been in London a half dozen (weekday) times since starting work. Not once have I had a truly problem free trip. Last night was going smoothly until the Reading-bound train found itself without a driver. I truly believe that it could be a 60 minute trip in a 'perfect' world. I'd be happy with a 75 minute trip home to see Anna tonight... or maybe I should just get a head start and duck out of "training" early?
Friday, April 27, 2007
Warm
It came out yesterday that this April has been the warmest April in England in 300 years. I feel slightly awkward that I have been enjoying the weather as much as I have while climatologists shudder at what we've done to our world. It also strikes me that they have 300 years of weather records!
Interestingly, 1707 was when the Act of Union was signed by the
English and Scottish parliaments. A lot has happened since but never has there been an April as warm as the one that Ange, Ben and Anna have spent lounging in Caversham-on-Thames. Lounging might not, however, be the word for the next month. We have only 4 days in all of May without guests: watch this spot for adventures as we head out on numerous road trips (hoorah!). Then, the first week in June, we go to Stockholm. And today Ange informed me that I won't see her for the rest of June because work will be so mental. We're looking forward to seeing each other in July.
For those that are still inwardly smiling at the thought of me crawling through the trunk of our Passat every day to get into the car, you will be somewhat disappointed to hear that the car has inexplicably fixed itself. Suddenly the key works and the alarm has sorted itself out. I do not understand. I'm not unhappy, but I do not understand.
A couple of weekends back, we took Anna to the beach for the first time that she was able to take part (she has been as a wee baby in Vancouver last year). You will note that none of us look particularly warm. This is because, despite being the warmest April in 300 years, England is fundamentally not that warm. Still, Anna was well pleased with the size of this particular sandbox.
More photos have been added to the photo library (remember to scroll to the bottom for the most recent)!
Interestingly, 1707 was when the Act of Union was signed by the
English and Scottish parliaments. A lot has happened since but never has there been an April as warm as the one that Ange, Ben and Anna have spent lounging in Caversham-on-Thames. Lounging might not, however, be the word for the next month. We have only 4 days in all of May without guests: watch this spot for adventures as we head out on numerous road trips (hoorah!). Then, the first week in June, we go to Stockholm. And today Ange informed me that I won't see her for the rest of June because work will be so mental. We're looking forward to seeing each other in July.
For those that are still inwardly smiling at the thought of me crawling through the trunk of our Passat every day to get into the car, you will be somewhat disappointed to hear that the car has inexplicably fixed itself. Suddenly the key works and the alarm has sorted itself out. I do not understand. I'm not unhappy, but I do not understand.
A couple of weekends back, we took Anna to the beach for the first time that she was able to take part (she has been as a wee baby in Vancouver last year). You will note that none of us look particularly warm. This is because, despite being the warmest April in 300 years, England is fundamentally not that warm. Still, Anna was well pleased with the size of this particular sandbox.
More photos have been added to the photo library (remember to scroll to the bottom for the most recent)!
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Busy, Busy, Busy
It's kind of been a pouring rather than raining few weeks since Easter. I was away on a work conference for a week, which means that many pressing things did not get accomplished. Ange and I just snuck in a coffee that amounted to the first 15 minute conversation I have had with just her in nearly 2 weeks. Mental.
For most of these past days I have been driving a brand new Renault Megane. Very funky little car. If it weren't for their repuation for being brutally unreliable, I think I would consider it as a car I would buy. Having this rented car was because it was cheaper for the University to rent the car than pay for 3 people from our office to take the train to Durham for the event. The net result for me was that the Passat sat at Oxford Brookes for 10 days. When I did get back into the old beast, my first and only priority was getting it to the garage for it to go through its MOT (a yearly safety test).
Being the owner of many, many old cars with suspicious tendencies, I treat garage-visiting days with a great deal of trepidation. I fear them. They get marked on the calendar and as the day draws near, my internal fight-or-flight response nags at me to flee.
The car itself is in decent working condition. It has been, after all, a vehicle my father had owned. He's owned many and has a great threshold for putting up with things that others might find mildly annoying or slightly strange. He once owned a fully loaded Range Rover. It was the cat's ass of Range Rovers. Sadly for dad, nearly every little feature on it went wrong. His fight-or-flight response was to fight, so he attempted to mend things that went wrong. But he wasn't really on a budget to have a garage fix the Range Rover so he... ad-libbed.
When the key broke off in the ignition, he was left with replacing the ignition component as his only option. Well, almost. A Range Rover ignition component was going to run him £500. That kind of money was out of the question. A Ford ignition component from the scrappy was only £15. Can anyone see where we're going with this? The mechanics amongst you will appreciate that car companies haven't exactly worked with one another to have parts fit across the board. By the time all was said and done, dad had loosely fitted the Ford key switch into the whole where the Range Rover one had once been. "Seemless" probably wouldn't be the word to spring to mind on close inspection, but it served the purpose of having a key. The problem lay in the electrics. To resolve this little hiccup, Dad cut a whole in the dash, near to the stereo and fitted a button. Wiring the key iginition to the button and then the button to the starter, the problem was solved. Turn the key, push the button (as one might have done in 1960) and the vehicle springs to life.
So, the Passat is now in my hands and the big day arrives. I walk out to the car and go to the passenger side door to unlock the vehicle. I have to do this because about 3 years ago someone tried to break into the Passat and, in the process, broke the lock mechanism in the driver's side door. Having the key fob, Dad never bothered to replace the lock. But then one day the fob packed it in, leaving Dad with only one option for locking the car: go throught he passenger door, lock the doors through the central lock and then push the passenger side door lock down. It is marginally inconvenient to do this. People often give you strange looks and it certainly makes going to the Toyota, with its working fob, a pleasure.
But on this biggest of days for the Passat, the key won't turn the lock. A rather sudden and unexpected turn of events. I helplessly sat trying to will the key to work. Meekly, I phoned Dad. Nope, this was a new problem. One not encountered before. However, had I tried the boot? As it turned out, I hadn't. The key still worked in the boot and I was into trunk. With baited breath, I pushed the seat and it fell. I was in. Crawling through the trunk, into the back seat (on the 40 side of the 60/40 rear split) I unlocked the doors through the central lock. I fired the key in the ignition and... wait, why are the blinkers on? The alarm! The horn "long ago stopped working with the alarm." Thankfully at this point. I'm not sure I needed any added attention to my situation. However, I had to get this car to the MOT and working indicators, etc is a requirement. While I fretted, the coolant light came on. I jolted to the back of the car, grabbed the bottle of water and opened the hood to re-fill the coolant. Apparently, there was a leak but it fixed itself at one point... which is somewhat ridiculous since Dad bothered to buy a radiator for the car and it sits in his garage.
I drove up the street to the garage, four blinkers on. Thankfully, they stopped blinking before my arrival. I tried to laugh off the brand new alarm problem to the mechanic as I handed him the keys. "Just don't lock the car!" I said as I trotted off down the lane. As one might expect, the car failed the MOT. Happily not because of the alarm, key or coolant issues. So, I'm going to pony up the money to keep the car on the road. The mild inconvenience of having to go through the passenger door is exacerbated slightly by now having to go through the trunk when I have to lock the car but it builds character I reckon. I can also say with some conviction that my Dad will somehow be proud of this new badge I wear because of owning this vehicle.
For most of these past days I have been driving a brand new Renault Megane. Very funky little car. If it weren't for their repuation for being brutally unreliable, I think I would consider it as a car I would buy. Having this rented car was because it was cheaper for the University to rent the car than pay for 3 people from our office to take the train to Durham for the event. The net result for me was that the Passat sat at Oxford Brookes for 10 days. When I did get back into the old beast, my first and only priority was getting it to the garage for it to go through its MOT (a yearly safety test).
Being the owner of many, many old cars with suspicious tendencies, I treat garage-visiting days with a great deal of trepidation. I fear them. They get marked on the calendar and as the day draws near, my internal fight-or-flight response nags at me to flee.
The car itself is in decent working condition. It has been, after all, a vehicle my father had owned. He's owned many and has a great threshold for putting up with things that others might find mildly annoying or slightly strange. He once owned a fully loaded Range Rover. It was the cat's ass of Range Rovers. Sadly for dad, nearly every little feature on it went wrong. His fight-or-flight response was to fight, so he attempted to mend things that went wrong. But he wasn't really on a budget to have a garage fix the Range Rover so he... ad-libbed.
When the key broke off in the ignition, he was left with replacing the ignition component as his only option. Well, almost. A Range Rover ignition component was going to run him £500. That kind of money was out of the question. A Ford ignition component from the scrappy was only £15. Can anyone see where we're going with this? The mechanics amongst you will appreciate that car companies haven't exactly worked with one another to have parts fit across the board. By the time all was said and done, dad had loosely fitted the Ford key switch into the whole where the Range Rover one had once been. "Seemless" probably wouldn't be the word to spring to mind on close inspection, but it served the purpose of having a key. The problem lay in the electrics. To resolve this little hiccup, Dad cut a whole in the dash, near to the stereo and fitted a button. Wiring the key iginition to the button and then the button to the starter, the problem was solved. Turn the key, push the button (as one might have done in 1960) and the vehicle springs to life.
So, the Passat is now in my hands and the big day arrives. I walk out to the car and go to the passenger side door to unlock the vehicle. I have to do this because about 3 years ago someone tried to break into the Passat and, in the process, broke the lock mechanism in the driver's side door. Having the key fob, Dad never bothered to replace the lock. But then one day the fob packed it in, leaving Dad with only one option for locking the car: go throught he passenger door, lock the doors through the central lock and then push the passenger side door lock down. It is marginally inconvenient to do this. People often give you strange looks and it certainly makes going to the Toyota, with its working fob, a pleasure.
But on this biggest of days for the Passat, the key won't turn the lock. A rather sudden and unexpected turn of events. I helplessly sat trying to will the key to work. Meekly, I phoned Dad. Nope, this was a new problem. One not encountered before. However, had I tried the boot? As it turned out, I hadn't. The key still worked in the boot and I was into trunk. With baited breath, I pushed the seat and it fell. I was in. Crawling through the trunk, into the back seat (on the 40 side of the 60/40 rear split) I unlocked the doors through the central lock. I fired the key in the ignition and... wait, why are the blinkers on? The alarm! The horn "long ago stopped working with the alarm." Thankfully at this point. I'm not sure I needed any added attention to my situation. However, I had to get this car to the MOT and working indicators, etc is a requirement. While I fretted, the coolant light came on. I jolted to the back of the car, grabbed the bottle of water and opened the hood to re-fill the coolant. Apparently, there was a leak but it fixed itself at one point... which is somewhat ridiculous since Dad bothered to buy a radiator for the car and it sits in his garage.
I drove up the street to the garage, four blinkers on. Thankfully, they stopped blinking before my arrival. I tried to laugh off the brand new alarm problem to the mechanic as I handed him the keys. "Just don't lock the car!" I said as I trotted off down the lane. As one might expect, the car failed the MOT. Happily not because of the alarm, key or coolant issues. So, I'm going to pony up the money to keep the car on the road. The mild inconvenience of having to go through the passenger door is exacerbated slightly by now having to go through the trunk when I have to lock the car but it builds character I reckon. I can also say with some conviction that my Dad will somehow be proud of this new badge I wear because of owning this vehicle.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Easter Weekend
A Happy Easter to all! It has been a packed weekend for us, though every moment thoroughly enjoyable. Indeed, this may be the weekend where we hit our stride over here. Friday we went to Waddesdon Manor with our friends the McQuails. Ange met Alison when she worked at Southmapton Uni and we've now seen them a couple of times. They have a couple of young girls and manage to get out to explore regularly. Just the sort of people we're looking for: those who are sympathetic/empathetic with never really being able to hold a coversation for more than a few moments (before having to temporarily duck out to aid in a little one's exploration of the world) while still willing to explore the country!
Saturday was wonderfully relaxed. We took Anna swimming. She loves the water. Loves swimming. Loves the whole scene. This is somewhat unfortunate as Ange and I both have strong feelings about NOT swimming unless necessary. Still, it was about Anna, so we went. We then charged over to Waddlington, which is a little village on the Thames towards Oxford. It may even be a village we would consider buying in if we go that route. It is much more quaint than Caversham-on-Thames but maybe not as convenient. Of course, we may just waffle in indecision for our entire time here too. Saturday night was off to bed early so I could get up and watch Hockey Night in Canada on TV. Ange has bought me the North American Sports Network who is committed to showing most of the playoffs. It may also be responsible for some serious disruption to my sleeping patterns.
Sunday was down to Dorset. Diana and Bob hosted us for a lovely Easter roast dinner. We had a fantastic visit. Anna spent the better part of an hour playing with clothes pegs before we moved on to Gloria and Dick's house. Diana and Gloria are the daughters of Great Aunt Dorothy. Dorothy is my grandfather's cousin. She's 96. She's wonderful. In fact, so are her daughters and all of our somewhat distant family in Dorset, many of whom gathered for afternoon tea. Anna was in heaven in the extensive garden. The dog, Porky, was keen to play with Anna much to her delight. Porky's toys were Anna's toys. Sadly, she often took that to mean she should chew on them. I'm sure that is nothing on the germs at nursery. There were chickens next door to gawk at. There were horses in the field behind to point out endlessly to the rest of us. When we left at her bedtime, she crashed hard in the car and didn't wake up until 8am this morning. A full, full day.
Today we went to Beale Park. It is kind of a zoo, but not really. There are lots of birds, but nothing particularly exotic. Lots of ducks and swans and geese. There are rabbits and sheep and goats. Perhaps cashing in on some Disney movie and somewhat out of left field, there are also lemurs. Anna liked the lemurs. She was adamant about dipping herself in the children's wading pool too, but we hadn't brought her swim suit. We settled on the playground and chasing peacocks and roosters.
Saturday was wonderfully relaxed. We took Anna swimming. She loves the water. Loves swimming. Loves the whole scene. This is somewhat unfortunate as Ange and I both have strong feelings about NOT swimming unless necessary. Still, it was about Anna, so we went. We then charged over to Waddlington, which is a little village on the Thames towards Oxford. It may even be a village we would consider buying in if we go that route. It is much more quaint than Caversham-on-Thames but maybe not as convenient. Of course, we may just waffle in indecision for our entire time here too. Saturday night was off to bed early so I could get up and watch Hockey Night in Canada on TV. Ange has bought me the North American Sports Network who is committed to showing most of the playoffs. It may also be responsible for some serious disruption to my sleeping patterns.
Sunday was down to Dorset. Diana and Bob hosted us for a lovely Easter roast dinner. We had a fantastic visit. Anna spent the better part of an hour playing with clothes pegs before we moved on to Gloria and Dick's house. Diana and Gloria are the daughters of Great Aunt Dorothy. Dorothy is my grandfather's cousin. She's 96. She's wonderful. In fact, so are her daughters and all of our somewhat distant family in Dorset, many of whom gathered for afternoon tea. Anna was in heaven in the extensive garden. The dog, Porky, was keen to play with Anna much to her delight. Porky's toys were Anna's toys. Sadly, she often took that to mean she should chew on them. I'm sure that is nothing on the germs at nursery. There were chickens next door to gawk at. There were horses in the field behind to point out endlessly to the rest of us. When we left at her bedtime, she crashed hard in the car and didn't wake up until 8am this morning. A full, full day.
Today we went to Beale Park. It is kind of a zoo, but not really. There are lots of birds, but nothing particularly exotic. Lots of ducks and swans and geese. There are rabbits and sheep and goats. Perhaps cashing in on some Disney movie and somewhat out of left field, there are also lemurs. Anna liked the lemurs. She was adamant about dipping herself in the children's wading pool too, but we hadn't brought her swim suit. We settled on the playground and chasing peacocks and roosters.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Anna Making Friends
We were out on a walk today. In fact, it we spent most of the day outside as it was so lovely today. It was warm and sunny and a holiday Friday. Basically, it was a perfect day. We started off at a Rothschild property in Buckinghamshire. It was very fancy. Anna was indifferent to the 'house,' but quite enjoyed the extensive grouds (more photos here [scroll to bottom for most recent])
It was a walk in Caversham to find a park that Ange had seen while rowing down the Thames. Yes, Ange is now rowing. When in Rome... or Caversham. I'll leave that blog to her. So, we're seeking out a park that is nestled between some ancient houses and in the former grounds of a 1000 year old church. It was beautiful and we let Anna free to roam and followed her about. After 20 minutes or so, Anna spotted another small person amongst a group of adults. She stood and stared for a minute or two. Once smiles were exchanged, Anna marched over. Only, once reaching the girl, she charged right by her and (somewhat randomly) gave a friendly man in the group a big hug. The whole group of adults melted with sighs of "awww". In her element, Anna turned to the lady next to him and gave her a hug too. Then it was a kiss for the little girl who was no somewhat put out that she hadn't got a hug.
It was impossible at this point not to engage the group in some conversation. And I am so glad we did. We met the nicest couple who have an 8 week old. We met the parents of the little girl too. We chatted with them for 45 minutes! They were fantastic. In fact, we're going to meet them tomorrow at the family pub in town. Hooray for hugs!
It was a walk in Caversham to find a park that Ange had seen while rowing down the Thames. Yes, Ange is now rowing. When in Rome... or Caversham. I'll leave that blog to her. So, we're seeking out a park that is nestled between some ancient houses and in the former grounds of a 1000 year old church. It was beautiful and we let Anna free to roam and followed her about. After 20 minutes or so, Anna spotted another small person amongst a group of adults. She stood and stared for a minute or two. Once smiles were exchanged, Anna marched over. Only, once reaching the girl, she charged right by her and (somewhat randomly) gave a friendly man in the group a big hug. The whole group of adults melted with sighs of "awww". In her element, Anna turned to the lady next to him and gave her a hug too. Then it was a kiss for the little girl who was no somewhat put out that she hadn't got a hug.
It was impossible at this point not to engage the group in some conversation. And I am so glad we did. We met the nicest couple who have an 8 week old. We met the parents of the little girl too. We chatted with them for 45 minutes! They were fantastic. In fact, we're going to meet them tomorrow at the family pub in town. Hooray for hugs!
Monday, April 02, 2007
Photos
So busy. Thankfully a picture says a 1000 words. Here's 79,000... if you have the time:
2007 Adventures
Note: "Adventures" include walking, eating crayons, a birthday party, a cute cousin and some old rocks.
2007 Adventures
Note: "Adventures" include walking, eating crayons, a birthday party, a cute cousin and some old rocks.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
The milk man
We are really pushing to be as English as possible. Next I'll be buying a mini... mmmm, 1960s mini... wait... I've gone horribly off track. Our latest "when in Rome" moment came two days ago when the milk man came to the door asking if I wanted to have door-to-door delivery.
Two out of three.
The fact that it is locally sourced milk in re-usable containers (that they pick up)at better-than-supermarket prices didn't matter so much at the time (but I am happy about the environmental upside) because it was just such an English thing to do.
- Would it come in those little glass bottles with loosely fitting foil tops? Yep!
- Does it really get delivered from a little open-sided milk truck? Yep!
- Is it pulled by an old horse who grazes Oxfordshire countryside in the afternoon? No.
Two out of three.
The fact that it is locally sourced milk in re-usable containers (that they pick up)at better-than-supermarket prices didn't matter so much at the time (but I am happy about the environmental upside) because it was just such an English thing to do.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Full circle?
As noted, we are now a two car family again. It happened more by chance than design, but thanks to Dad coming through in a moment of need, we now have the back-up Passat for our motoring needs. As I get used to the quirks of the 'new' vehicle, I often smile to myself at the similarities of this vehicle and the last vehicle I took off my dad's hands.
Most probably know the story. It has been one of those life-defining stories that I re-tell to rolling eyes and knowing smiles. I can't help it... and, frankly, probably won't help it. Nevertheless, I'll give the briefest of overviews here. In 1999, I got an old BMW motorcycle off my dad to travel Europe. We managed to spend 4 months covering just shy of 20,000 miles on Fred (the name we gave our two-wheeled friend). Fred had lots of character and didn't always get us there in the end, but we enjoyed the experience immensely for what it was.
Only a week into owning the Passat, I am able to draw a number of paralells between the car and Fred. For visual learners, I will make a little table:
I will draw your attention to the last couple of points, starting with the provision of a single key. When I picked up Fred from Dad, he handed me the key and said, "Whatever you do, don't lose this key. It's the only one and getting another will be expensive and inconvenient."
For those that know me, it will be unsurprsing that it took me about 3 weeks to lose that key. We were in the Netherlands, enjoying Dutch hospitality in a small and slightly strange town on the coast. We walked about, had a pub lunch, visited the local museum, fed the birds and even went for a swim in the public pool. When we woke the next morning, the key was gone. Really, really gone. After a very long and stressful search, I pushed the bike a little over a mile to a motorcycle mechanic on the far side of town. After discussing various options which cost a lot of money, he mentioned that he had a number of keys for BMWs that had been left at the shop over the years. Out of an small, oily, wooden box he fetched a key and put it in the ignition. Despite not fitting snuggly, it turned and the bike sputtered to life. Success! And cheap. We laughed, he didn't charge us, and we drove off with a 'new' key... which I lost some weeks later in Bristol. Knowing any key fit, we grabbed one of Ange's suitcase keys and it too worked. It was so loose in the ignition, that we had to attach the key to a piece of string, which in turn was taped to the speedometer. Only we didn't have string, so we used dental floss. And the only tape we had was bright yellow duct tape that had been used previously to mend a broken panier. So everywhere we drove, the key would be flopping about the speedo on a piece of dental floss taped to the bike. Very innovative if not always appreciated by my fellow Beemer owners.
When we left on our motorbiking odessy, I questioned my dad on the reliability of the old BMW. "It's German," he said. "It'll go forever!" Later that same week, he noted, "Why, I'd take that to Moscow tomorrow without a moment's hesitation." Another moment of fondness for his time using that bike, he claimed it was the most reliable bike he had ever known.
To cut a ridiculously long story short, we broke down in every single county we visited. The bike leaked a steady flow of oil from the shaft. "No worries," dad said when I reported the development in a phone call to him, "just keep topping it up!" Our clutch cable went in Scotland. We were forced to use a small wooden block to prop up the side stand so the bike wouldn't fall over. We blew a tyre in France. We had what can only be described as 'total system failure' in Ireland. In Germany, the BMW dealership pinched an tool off a new bike and gave it to us for free to encourage our quick departure from the fore-court of their dealership. In Switzerland all we could find was the above mentioned bright-yellow duct tape to tape the paniers and their frame back together. The electrical system was so clapped out, that at one point in time in France we had no speedo, no tach, no headlights or indicators, no brake lights and my handwarmer stopped working. Occassionally a bump would jolt some or all of the electrical functionality back into the bike only for another bump to stop them from working again. We simply could not run the risk of driving at night and were confined to day driving. It wasn't lost on us that when we arrived back in Mundesley at my dad's house, he came out with a laugh and gave us both a big hug, commenting without a tinge of irony in his voice: "I can't believe you made it back with the bike!"
So here I am driving a high mileage, German vehicle that my dad has declared unquestionably reliable. As he handed it off to me, he notes that, "whatever you do, don't lose the key. It's the only one and they're expensive to replace!" He went so far as to suggest that we sell our Toyota, save the money and just drive the Passat. I admit that I smiled at the thought of it. But he has a different perspective on vehicles than I (or, I should think, most readers of this blog). Case and point was the other day when I asked how he was enjoying his new 2004 Peugot 407 (it's Peugot's nice, full sized turbo deisel and his has only 10,000 miles since new). It is probably one of the newest cars he has ever owned. It is modern in every sense of the word. And what does my dad like about it? He says to me the other day, "Ben, this car is so nice to drive. The heater is fantastic! It is warm as you want. They call it climate control or something."
God love the guy who is pleased that his brand new car has a decent heater.
And--note to self--what kind of heater do I now have?
Thank you
We've received a wonderful bunch of supportive and thoughtful messages from friends about the burglary and thefts. Thank you. It has been so nice to hear from friends. Many have offered that if they could do something, they would. While Canadian care packages make me warm inside, if you really want to do something please consider allocating some of your 2007 charitable giving to a charity in your area that tackles root causes of poverty. I suspect that where poverty is on the decline, so too is theft. If I'm wrong, reducing poverty is surely worthwhile in itself...
Most probably know the story. It has been one of those life-defining stories that I re-tell to rolling eyes and knowing smiles. I can't help it... and, frankly, probably won't help it. Nevertheless, I'll give the briefest of overviews here. In 1999, I got an old BMW motorcycle off my dad to travel Europe. We managed to spend 4 months covering just shy of 20,000 miles on Fred (the name we gave our two-wheeled friend). Fred had lots of character and didn't always get us there in the end, but we enjoyed the experience immensely for what it was.
Only a week into owning the Passat, I am able to draw a number of paralells between the car and Fred. For visual learners, I will make a little table:
| Fred | Passat | |
| German | x | x |
| high mileage | x | x |
| leaks oil | x | x |
| convienence items that once worked now don't | x | x |
| dad describes himself as having driven it 'hard' | x | x |
| dad declares it "unquestionably reliable" | x | x |
| Oddly, only one key | x | x |
I will draw your attention to the last couple of points, starting with the provision of a single key. When I picked up Fred from Dad, he handed me the key and said, "Whatever you do, don't lose this key. It's the only one and getting another will be expensive and inconvenient."
For those that know me, it will be unsurprsing that it took me about 3 weeks to lose that key. We were in the Netherlands, enjoying Dutch hospitality in a small and slightly strange town on the coast. We walked about, had a pub lunch, visited the local museum, fed the birds and even went for a swim in the public pool. When we woke the next morning, the key was gone. Really, really gone. After a very long and stressful search, I pushed the bike a little over a mile to a motorcycle mechanic on the far side of town. After discussing various options which cost a lot of money, he mentioned that he had a number of keys for BMWs that had been left at the shop over the years. Out of an small, oily, wooden box he fetched a key and put it in the ignition. Despite not fitting snuggly, it turned and the bike sputtered to life. Success! And cheap. We laughed, he didn't charge us, and we drove off with a 'new' key... which I lost some weeks later in Bristol. Knowing any key fit, we grabbed one of Ange's suitcase keys and it too worked. It was so loose in the ignition, that we had to attach the key to a piece of string, which in turn was taped to the speedometer. Only we didn't have string, so we used dental floss. And the only tape we had was bright yellow duct tape that had been used previously to mend a broken panier. So everywhere we drove, the key would be flopping about the speedo on a piece of dental floss taped to the bike. Very innovative if not always appreciated by my fellow Beemer owners.
When we left on our motorbiking odessy, I questioned my dad on the reliability of the old BMW. "It's German," he said. "It'll go forever!" Later that same week, he noted, "Why, I'd take that to Moscow tomorrow without a moment's hesitation." Another moment of fondness for his time using that bike, he claimed it was the most reliable bike he had ever known.
To cut a ridiculously long story short, we broke down in every single county we visited. The bike leaked a steady flow of oil from the shaft. "No worries," dad said when I reported the development in a phone call to him, "just keep topping it up!" Our clutch cable went in Scotland. We were forced to use a small wooden block to prop up the side stand so the bike wouldn't fall over. We blew a tyre in France. We had what can only be described as 'total system failure' in Ireland. In Germany, the BMW dealership pinched an tool off a new bike and gave it to us for free to encourage our quick departure from the fore-court of their dealership. In Switzerland all we could find was the above mentioned bright-yellow duct tape to tape the paniers and their frame back together. The electrical system was so clapped out, that at one point in time in France we had no speedo, no tach, no headlights or indicators, no brake lights and my handwarmer stopped working. Occassionally a bump would jolt some or all of the electrical functionality back into the bike only for another bump to stop them from working again. We simply could not run the risk of driving at night and were confined to day driving. It wasn't lost on us that when we arrived back in Mundesley at my dad's house, he came out with a laugh and gave us both a big hug, commenting without a tinge of irony in his voice: "I can't believe you made it back with the bike!"
So here I am driving a high mileage, German vehicle that my dad has declared unquestionably reliable. As he handed it off to me, he notes that, "whatever you do, don't lose the key. It's the only one and they're expensive to replace!" He went so far as to suggest that we sell our Toyota, save the money and just drive the Passat. I admit that I smiled at the thought of it. But he has a different perspective on vehicles than I (or, I should think, most readers of this blog). Case and point was the other day when I asked how he was enjoying his new 2004 Peugot 407 (it's Peugot's nice, full sized turbo deisel and his has only 10,000 miles since new). It is probably one of the newest cars he has ever owned. It is modern in every sense of the word. And what does my dad like about it? He says to me the other day, "Ben, this car is so nice to drive. The heater is fantastic! It is warm as you want. They call it climate control or something."
God love the guy who is pleased that his brand new car has a decent heater.
And--note to self--what kind of heater do I now have?
Thank you
We've received a wonderful bunch of supportive and thoughtful messages from friends about the burglary and thefts. Thank you. It has been so nice to hear from friends. Many have offered that if they could do something, they would. While Canadian care packages make me warm inside, if you really want to do something please consider allocating some of your 2007 charitable giving to a charity in your area that tackles root causes of poverty. I suspect that where poverty is on the decline, so too is theft. If I'm wrong, reducing poverty is surely worthwhile in itself...
Monday, March 19, 2007
Ange finds the car
For real. Ange spotted our car parked about a mile away from our house on Saturday: only two days after the theft. She walked by, confirming it was ours and... walked home to phone the police (because they had stolen both the key AND her mobile phone).
It isn't quite as random as you might think. The police have a good profile on who they think committed the crimes on our street on Wedensday night. Apparently they stash the 'hot' cars on a number of streets and wait to see if they're noticed. If they sit without discovery for a 3-4 weeks, they pick them up and start using them. The theives kind of let the car 'cool off' before actually using them. It probably was in our favour that I left the car with barely fumes in it for petrol. With so many cars to look for, the police recommend walking down a few known streets because it is easier for the owner to recognise their car quickly.
So, car is found. Now forensics has our car to see if they can get some evidence on who stole it. This, of course, leaves us with our "new" car--dad's old Passat--until we get the Carolla back. It is very exciting as within the week we're very likely to hit 200,000 MILES (about 321,869 km). I will take a photo for the blog. Hopefully we get our Carolla back in the week. Fingers crossed!
It isn't quite as random as you might think. The police have a good profile on who they think committed the crimes on our street on Wedensday night. Apparently they stash the 'hot' cars on a number of streets and wait to see if they're noticed. If they sit without discovery for a 3-4 weeks, they pick them up and start using them. The theives kind of let the car 'cool off' before actually using them. It probably was in our favour that I left the car with barely fumes in it for petrol. With so many cars to look for, the police recommend walking down a few known streets because it is easier for the owner to recognise their car quickly.
So, car is found. Now forensics has our car to see if they can get some evidence on who stole it. This, of course, leaves us with our "new" car--dad's old Passat--until we get the Carolla back. It is very exciting as within the week we're very likely to hit 200,000 MILES (about 321,869 km). I will take a photo for the blog. Hopefully we get our Carolla back in the week. Fingers crossed!
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Vignettes from a difficult week
This might be long. It has been a crazy few days. You could select a few days for a truly random read…
Saturday
A day full of promise. It was beautiful. The sun shining, the Henley team trucked into London to play against bottom-of-the-league Wimbledon. A win would put us at 7 wins in 8 and, most importantly, 5 of 6 league wins. It would launch clear of relegation and into mid-table. We didn't play our best, but we did enough to win 4-2. The win capped an incredible run as we were all but written off by everyone in January. It was a late game, starting at 3pm. That left a sprint back to Reading to meet up with the family and head down to Southampton to stay with Pete and Karen. Rach and Ellie were also by and we had a lovely evening while Anna slept soundly amongst a throng of duvet in another room.
Sunday
Rachel always needs a plan, so the night before we had decided as a group to make for Titchfield Abbey after a breakfast of bacon and egg bagels. Pete pulled together the breakfast while Anna ripped around the house and Ange and I drank coffee. Jenny and Corey were able to make it by. It is always a little weird to think my office-mate from United Way of Calgary and Area is living in Southampton. We caught up on months of daily routine and Jenny and Corey mulled over "what next" for them. Stay? Return home to Calgary? Strangely, they've managed a moderately plausible in-between: move to Ottawa. Their indecision is almost entertaining. I think Jenny likes to stress me out a little with it. They seemed happy and well-adjusted to life in the UK: Korey follows football, they want to holiday in France for their summer vacation, they text on their mobiles instead of phoning, and they're in a constant state of concern about the expense of everything! Happily, they're most likely here until the autumn, so we've plans to see them more over the summer.
Jenny and Korey were unable to join us at Titchfield Abbey, but the rest of us drove down in two cars. One car was coming back to watch England play France at rugby, the other going to the pub on the beach. It was only when we were about to leave that I realised that I had misplaced my wallet. Or had I? I had it when I left and I swore I had put it in the bag on the back of Anna's push-chair. My heart sank. I knew it was gone. We had walked away from the push-chair briefly to poke around. There were a number of people around when we came back. There were a few people who looked a stereotype that one might think would pinch something, but who knows? I took the bag apart once, twice, three times. I emptied the car. I re-emptied the car. I checked and re-checked and decided to look around at Pete's place. In the end, it was a blitz cancel of all the cards as I resigned myself to not seeing my wallet again. I was sadder about losing my wallet, which I had had since I was 16 than the 30 quid or my lost UofC alumni card. Those who knew me way-back: it is the same one that sported a ‘Rhymes with Orange’ sticker for many, many months.
The class required to steal from a baby buggy still irks me a little, but in the end, it was good to see friends in Southampton. And England won a very exciting game of rugby. As the many people cheered and clapped each England score, Anna cautiously clapped too (a vast improvement over her terror at the cheering for the Oilers in last year’s playoffs). Very cute.
Monday
I arrived at work to a phone call from Gary. Gary, who works in Cosham, near Titchfield, had found my wallet on the beach about 3 miles from Titchfield Abbey. No cash, but all the cards were in it. He kindly offered to post it to me, sending me a note along with which read, “I hope this has restored a little faith in the English. Welcome to England!” But that would not arrive until Thursday which, as it turns out, was a long way away.
Until then, Ange would have to take out money for me. I had a little leather business card holder with a bit of cash from Ange and… nothing else.
Tuesday
Survival without my wallet going well. With no need to purchase anything, I hardly noticed it being elsewhere apart from the odd full body pat (back pockets front pockets, left coat pocket, right coat pocket…) before realizing I wasn’t ‘meant’ to have it at that moment.
Wednesday
A largely uneventful day. I was on course to learn how to interview people. It was moderately interesting. Anna’s day got to end at nursery a little early as the course ended early. We hung out at home and went for a run about the garden to enjoy the sun. Everything is a bit of a jog right now. Walking firmly under the belt, she has started to lean forward slightly as she walks which throws the balance slightly and means it is full steam ahead all the time. Ange and I watched the movie The Station Agent, which was short, interesting and had a happy ending of sorts. We went to bed early-ish as I had a course in London the next day.
Thursday
We woke up and started our routines quickly. Little time to spare as snooze had been hit once or twice. As I emerged from the shower, Ange asked if I had been downstairs already. “No,” I replied inquisitively. The door was open. Our first thought was that the wind had blown it open because we hadn’t latched it firmly. The computer was there. The camera was still on the table, nothing was out of sorts. We started getting Anna’s porridge together (she loves porridge: especially with blueberries) and I grabbed my stuff to get to the train.
Ange went for her wallet to get me something… oh boy. Her attaché case wasn’t where she left it. Ange never forgets where she left something (a trait that truly does my head in)… I quickly scanned the place. The sat nav was gone. Mobile phones were gone. You could see Ange’s heart sink. I fired over to the computer to pull up the police number. Was her wallet in her bag? Yep. The phone calls started to banks in both Canada and Britain to cancel. I found the numbers quickly; almost effortlessly as if I had had practice at such things. I was so confident that it was all in hand that I thought we’d report it and get on with our day.
Then I asked if she had keys to get back in. No. They were in the attaché. I felt sick as I tore out the front door. Sure enough: the car was gone.
Suddenly the scale was big. The police were on their way as we started to realize how much had actually been taken (my work documents, good coat for work, hockey stick, cd’s, the map that Ange and I had taken around Europe with Fred the motorbike, and our London A-Z were in the car).
As we stood there looking at one another trying to take it in it became obvious I wasn’t going to London. Not the least of which was because now neither of us had a wallet.
Priority number one became to get my wallet from the post office. I walked over to the post office with my last remaining piece of ID (my passport) to collect it. Thankfully, my debit card came through the door that morning as well. I got some cash from the bank and returned home with a wallet full of canceled cards, a brand new debit card and some cash. Ange had to smile as I handed over the business card holder with the same money she had taken out for me on Sunday night.
So, we’re alright. A wee bit rattled, but nothing severe. Besides, there are now loads of things to blog about! For example, look forward to Organized Crime: Your Insurance Company or The Thames Valley Police Service: Legitimate Candidates for the Friendliest People in Britain or Dad Gives Ben a Car Not Unlike The Bike He Got for Ben in 1999 or Have a Look for You Own Car in Caversham (no reflection on how good the police really have been)…
Saturday
A day full of promise. It was beautiful. The sun shining, the Henley team trucked into London to play against bottom-of-the-league Wimbledon. A win would put us at 7 wins in 8 and, most importantly, 5 of 6 league wins. It would launch clear of relegation and into mid-table. We didn't play our best, but we did enough to win 4-2. The win capped an incredible run as we were all but written off by everyone in January. It was a late game, starting at 3pm. That left a sprint back to Reading to meet up with the family and head down to Southampton to stay with Pete and Karen. Rach and Ellie were also by and we had a lovely evening while Anna slept soundly amongst a throng of duvet in another room.
Sunday
Rachel always needs a plan, so the night before we had decided as a group to make for Titchfield Abbey after a breakfast of bacon and egg bagels. Pete pulled together the breakfast while Anna ripped around the house and Ange and I drank coffee. Jenny and Corey were able to make it by. It is always a little weird to think my office-mate from United Way of Calgary and Area is living in Southampton. We caught up on months of daily routine and Jenny and Corey mulled over "what next" for them. Stay? Return home to Calgary? Strangely, they've managed a moderately plausible in-between: move to Ottawa. Their indecision is almost entertaining. I think Jenny likes to stress me out a little with it. They seemed happy and well-adjusted to life in the UK: Korey follows football, they want to holiday in France for their summer vacation, they text on their mobiles instead of phoning, and they're in a constant state of concern about the expense of everything! Happily, they're most likely here until the autumn, so we've plans to see them more over the summer.
Jenny and Korey were unable to join us at Titchfield Abbey, but the rest of us drove down in two cars. One car was coming back to watch England play France at rugby, the other going to the pub on the beach. It was only when we were about to leave that I realised that I had misplaced my wallet. Or had I? I had it when I left and I swore I had put it in the bag on the back of Anna's push-chair. My heart sank. I knew it was gone. We had walked away from the push-chair briefly to poke around. There were a number of people around when we came back. There were a few people who looked a stereotype that one might think would pinch something, but who knows? I took the bag apart once, twice, three times. I emptied the car. I re-emptied the car. I checked and re-checked and decided to look around at Pete's place. In the end, it was a blitz cancel of all the cards as I resigned myself to not seeing my wallet again. I was sadder about losing my wallet, which I had had since I was 16 than the 30 quid or my lost UofC alumni card. Those who knew me way-back: it is the same one that sported a ‘Rhymes with Orange’ sticker for many, many months.
The class required to steal from a baby buggy still irks me a little, but in the end, it was good to see friends in Southampton. And England won a very exciting game of rugby. As the many people cheered and clapped each England score, Anna cautiously clapped too (a vast improvement over her terror at the cheering for the Oilers in last year’s playoffs). Very cute.
Monday
I arrived at work to a phone call from Gary. Gary, who works in Cosham, near Titchfield, had found my wallet on the beach about 3 miles from Titchfield Abbey. No cash, but all the cards were in it. He kindly offered to post it to me, sending me a note along with which read, “I hope this has restored a little faith in the English. Welcome to England!” But that would not arrive until Thursday which, as it turns out, was a long way away.
Until then, Ange would have to take out money for me. I had a little leather business card holder with a bit of cash from Ange and… nothing else.
Tuesday
Survival without my wallet going well. With no need to purchase anything, I hardly noticed it being elsewhere apart from the odd full body pat (back pockets front pockets, left coat pocket, right coat pocket…) before realizing I wasn’t ‘meant’ to have it at that moment.
Wednesday
A largely uneventful day. I was on course to learn how to interview people. It was moderately interesting. Anna’s day got to end at nursery a little early as the course ended early. We hung out at home and went for a run about the garden to enjoy the sun. Everything is a bit of a jog right now. Walking firmly under the belt, she has started to lean forward slightly as she walks which throws the balance slightly and means it is full steam ahead all the time. Ange and I watched the movie The Station Agent, which was short, interesting and had a happy ending of sorts. We went to bed early-ish as I had a course in London the next day.
Thursday
We woke up and started our routines quickly. Little time to spare as snooze had been hit once or twice. As I emerged from the shower, Ange asked if I had been downstairs already. “No,” I replied inquisitively. The door was open. Our first thought was that the wind had blown it open because we hadn’t latched it firmly. The computer was there. The camera was still on the table, nothing was out of sorts. We started getting Anna’s porridge together (she loves porridge: especially with blueberries) and I grabbed my stuff to get to the train.
Ange went for her wallet to get me something… oh boy. Her attaché case wasn’t where she left it. Ange never forgets where she left something (a trait that truly does my head in)… I quickly scanned the place. The sat nav was gone. Mobile phones were gone. You could see Ange’s heart sink. I fired over to the computer to pull up the police number. Was her wallet in her bag? Yep. The phone calls started to banks in both Canada and Britain to cancel. I found the numbers quickly; almost effortlessly as if I had had practice at such things. I was so confident that it was all in hand that I thought we’d report it and get on with our day.
Then I asked if she had keys to get back in. No. They were in the attaché. I felt sick as I tore out the front door. Sure enough: the car was gone.
Suddenly the scale was big. The police were on their way as we started to realize how much had actually been taken (my work documents, good coat for work, hockey stick, cd’s, the map that Ange and I had taken around Europe with Fred the motorbike, and our London A-Z were in the car).
As we stood there looking at one another trying to take it in it became obvious I wasn’t going to London. Not the least of which was because now neither of us had a wallet.
Priority number one became to get my wallet from the post office. I walked over to the post office with my last remaining piece of ID (my passport) to collect it. Thankfully, my debit card came through the door that morning as well. I got some cash from the bank and returned home with a wallet full of canceled cards, a brand new debit card and some cash. Ange had to smile as I handed over the business card holder with the same money she had taken out for me on Sunday night.
So, we’re alright. A wee bit rattled, but nothing severe. Besides, there are now loads of things to blog about! For example, look forward to Organized Crime: Your Insurance Company or The Thames Valley Police Service: Legitimate Candidates for the Friendliest People in Britain or Dad Gives Ben a Car Not Unlike The Bike He Got for Ben in 1999 or Have a Look for You Own Car in Caversham (no reflection on how good the police really have been)…
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
The Answerphone
They call answering machines, "answer phones" here. Strictly speaking, we're all voicemail here. The Brits call it voicemail, I call it voicemail. Whatever it is called, the voicemail at Oxford Brookes is ridiculous. I know, you're wondering what my blogging obsession with phones is. Let's just say that the telecommunications industry keeps providing the fuel for this fire.
As part of your new staff welcome, they give you an 'induction pack' that includes everything you need to know to work here. It's a useful piece of kit. It is particularly useful when one goes to use their voicemail. I found it slightly odd that I had to dial the somewhat random number "3000" to get my voicemail. Then you have to enter your 4-digit pin. You then get a long welcome which you can't skip. You then get some choices. Press 1 to listen to your messages is entirely normal. After you have listened to your message (this is where I get the feeling that the system hasn't been updated since some telephone engineeer-type put it together in 1992) you have the option to "listen to your next message, press 3. Or, for more options, press star". Press 3? What happened to 1 and 2? Star for more options? Hmmm, that sounds intriguing. Since I'd now either like to save the message or delete the message, I'll go down mystery star selection...
So, what do you think happens next having pressed "*"? Well, you get the full slate of 9 choices. Forward, save and remove all fall under the same option: pressing "0". Okay, I'll press "0". Again, 6 options including forwarding the message, saving the message and returning to the previous menu. Thankfully, removing the message is also under this list. You press the very intuitive "hash" (#) key. Yes, every time you want to delete a message, you have to press three different keys. If you do it too quickly (becuase you've learnt the sequence) it will spit you right back to the begining: "to listen to you messages, press 1". It's a little thing, but it drives me nuts.
Then, to compound the problem, you have to listen to a message in its entirety. You can't select to delete or skip half way through a message. You're committed to the message. When you have someone rambling on the voicemail you can't skip. You know who it is, what they want and their phone number but there will be no skipping or premature deleting of the message. No, no. With this voicemail, you will sit and listen. All the time with your finger poised to go through the secret sequence of keys that will delete the message once it is finished (but not too quickly!).
This listen to the whole message system was a feature of a past voicemail system I encountered. I think Jason Hildebrand and I may have contributed to a revision and overhaul of the Industry Canada's (Federal Government) voicemail in the mid 1990s. Jason and I lived with Lisa Brake. She wasn't Lisa Brake at that time, but a young and impressionable Lisa Reifenstein. Somehow, Jason and I had ended up with a phone number for a Federal Government program to discourage smoking amongst youth. They appealed to the public to phone in catchy marketing slogans to a voicemail. Fools.
Being a free call and the fact that Jason and I had just gotten back from a coffee that had somehow taken a wrong turn at the local bar, we started phoning this number and leaving ridiculous messages. The idea was not vulgarity or offense: merely to make whoever checked the messages laugh. For the better part of an hour we phoned this number with every ridiculous accent we could dream up. After about an hour, we started to bore and decided to phone Lisa's work phone number and leave the messages for her instead. This was much funnier for us. We could hardly dial the number, we were laughing so hard at ourselves. [The photo is of us flatmates: Lisa, me, Anu and Jason at one of the ridiculous parties we had... and standing in front the recently tinfoiled walls because it had better reflective qualities for the discoball.]
It eventually became so raucous that Lisa wandered into the room to see what we were up to. She must have suspected we were somehow doing damage to something. We explained that we were phoning the Govenment anti-smoking campaign number (but, of course, we had already switched to phoning her work number). She quickly saw the humour of leaving messages for some stranger to have to wade through. Fifteen minutes later, Lisa was in on the action. Leaving absurd messages is painful accents. The revelry continued for ages. Being a work day, however, we did evenutally go to bed.
The next day, I got the funniest email from Lisa. It amounted to, "you guys suck." Unable to skip through the messages, she was forced to listen to the whole evening before again--while at work, and including her own abuse of the messaging service. At lunch, poor Lisa had a sore neck from holding the phone to her ear while trying to work as hours of cackling messages crawled by, just waiting for each to finish so she could delete them.
Of course, I am not advocating such behaviour be applied to my work phone. And, just in case, I won't be giving out my work number to anyone who might read this! I merely want to point out that a decade on and Brookes is still using a similar voicemail.
As part of your new staff welcome, they give you an 'induction pack' that includes everything you need to know to work here. It's a useful piece of kit. It is particularly useful when one goes to use their voicemail. I found it slightly odd that I had to dial the somewhat random number "3000" to get my voicemail. Then you have to enter your 4-digit pin. You then get a long welcome which you can't skip. You then get some choices. Press 1 to listen to your messages is entirely normal. After you have listened to your message (this is where I get the feeling that the system hasn't been updated since some telephone engineeer-type put it together in 1992) you have the option to "listen to your next message, press 3. Or, for more options, press star". Press 3? What happened to 1 and 2? Star for more options? Hmmm, that sounds intriguing. Since I'd now either like to save the message or delete the message, I'll go down mystery star selection...
So, what do you think happens next having pressed "*"? Well, you get the full slate of 9 choices. Forward, save and remove all fall under the same option: pressing "0". Okay, I'll press "0". Again, 6 options including forwarding the message, saving the message and returning to the previous menu. Thankfully, removing the message is also under this list. You press the very intuitive "hash" (#) key. Yes, every time you want to delete a message, you have to press three different keys. If you do it too quickly (becuase you've learnt the sequence) it will spit you right back to the begining: "to listen to you messages, press 1". It's a little thing, but it drives me nuts.
Then, to compound the problem, you have to listen to a message in its entirety. You can't select to delete or skip half way through a message. You're committed to the message. When you have someone rambling on the voicemail you can't skip. You know who it is, what they want and their phone number but there will be no skipping or premature deleting of the message. No, no. With this voicemail, you will sit and listen. All the time with your finger poised to go through the secret sequence of keys that will delete the message once it is finished (but not too quickly!).
This listen to the whole message system was a feature of a past voicemail system I encountered. I think Jason Hildebrand and I may have contributed to a revision and overhaul of the Industry Canada's (Federal Government) voicemail in the mid 1990s. Jason and I lived with Lisa Brake. She wasn't Lisa Brake at that time, but a young and impressionable Lisa Reifenstein. Somehow, Jason and I had ended up with a phone number for a Federal Government program to discourage smoking amongst youth. They appealed to the public to phone in catchy marketing slogans to a voicemail. Fools.
Being a free call and the fact that Jason and I had just gotten back from a coffee that had somehow taken a wrong turn at the local bar, we started phoning this number and leaving ridiculous messages. The idea was not vulgarity or offense: merely to make whoever checked the messages laugh. For the better part of an hour we phoned this number with every ridiculous accent we could dream up. After about an hour, we started to bore and decided to phone Lisa's work phone number and leave the messages for her instead. This was much funnier for us. We could hardly dial the number, we were laughing so hard at ourselves. [The photo is of us flatmates: Lisa, me, Anu and Jason at one of the ridiculous parties we had... and standing in front the recently tinfoiled walls because it had better reflective qualities for the discoball.]It eventually became so raucous that Lisa wandered into the room to see what we were up to. She must have suspected we were somehow doing damage to something. We explained that we were phoning the Govenment anti-smoking campaign number (but, of course, we had already switched to phoning her work number). She quickly saw the humour of leaving messages for some stranger to have to wade through. Fifteen minutes later, Lisa was in on the action. Leaving absurd messages is painful accents. The revelry continued for ages. Being a work day, however, we did evenutally go to bed.
The next day, I got the funniest email from Lisa. It amounted to, "you guys suck." Unable to skip through the messages, she was forced to listen to the whole evening before again--while at work, and including her own abuse of the messaging service. At lunch, poor Lisa had a sore neck from holding the phone to her ear while trying to work as hours of cackling messages crawled by, just waiting for each to finish so she could delete them.
Of course, I am not advocating such behaviour be applied to my work phone. And, just in case, I won't be giving out my work number to anyone who might read this! I merely want to point out that a decade on and Brookes is still using a similar voicemail.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Lisa Q Rocks
Today is a work from home day. I kind of love them, kind of hate them. The problem with them is that once I get going, the world around me ceases to exist. I actually find it very easy to focus and suddenly 3 hours of passed: I'm hungry, I need the loo, the teabag has been in the cup for hours and the milk is going sour on the counter.
Today, however, has been balanced. Spring is suddenly in full swing. The trees are flowering, the dafs are everywhere and the sun is shining. Just stepping out your door is a new lease on life. Everyone is now selling dafodils, which I don't entirely understand. They're as pervasive as dandilions in Calgary in mid July. They're quite literally drowing up in the gaps between paving stones in every garden. Well manicured lawns are awash with dafs, or the stubs of dafs that have been mowed. Why, then, would someone pay a quid for a bunch of them at the store? I guess because they're pretty. And yellow. If you particularly like yellow.
Also, today, Ange and I received our first care package from Canada. The postman knocked at the door, giving me a start and pulling me from my concentration. He handed me a shoe-box sized package in brown paper. Realising it was from Canada, I made a point of flipping it so I couldn't see the customs declaration. Lisa Q had sent us an entire box of homemade cookies. Oh my goodness. Lisa's cookies are like cocaine and I had about 3 dozen of them in my hands. Ange doesn't even know they've arrived. A deep breath. I'll only have 2. Five minutes later, I am savouring my third. Okay, new limit: four. That gives me one more. I gobble it down, hardly giving my mouth the opportunity to taste it. The box taunts me. It needs to be moved. I am so weak and the cookies are so good. The removal-from-sight process costs me another cookie. Five. And it is only 1:30pm. Thank you Lisa. You have made my day, possibly my week.
This weekend (on Sunday) we'll head to London to pick up Oma (my mum) from Emily's flat. Anna will get two days with Oma. I'm excited for both of them. Anna has changed so much since Oma saw her at Christmas. She knows a new animal sound. An owl says, "hoo hoo." It's a quiet, high pitched sound from the back of the throat and it is so cute.
Today, however, has been balanced. Spring is suddenly in full swing. The trees are flowering, the dafs are everywhere and the sun is shining. Just stepping out your door is a new lease on life. Everyone is now selling dafodils, which I don't entirely understand. They're as pervasive as dandilions in Calgary in mid July. They're quite literally drowing up in the gaps between paving stones in every garden. Well manicured lawns are awash with dafs, or the stubs of dafs that have been mowed. Why, then, would someone pay a quid for a bunch of them at the store? I guess because they're pretty. And yellow. If you particularly like yellow.
Also, today, Ange and I received our first care package from Canada. The postman knocked at the door, giving me a start and pulling me from my concentration. He handed me a shoe-box sized package in brown paper. Realising it was from Canada, I made a point of flipping it so I couldn't see the customs declaration. Lisa Q had sent us an entire box of homemade cookies. Oh my goodness. Lisa's cookies are like cocaine and I had about 3 dozen of them in my hands. Ange doesn't even know they've arrived. A deep breath. I'll only have 2. Five minutes later, I am savouring my third. Okay, new limit: four. That gives me one more. I gobble it down, hardly giving my mouth the opportunity to taste it. The box taunts me. It needs to be moved. I am so weak and the cookies are so good. The removal-from-sight process costs me another cookie. Five. And it is only 1:30pm. Thank you Lisa. You have made my day, possibly my week.
This weekend (on Sunday) we'll head to London to pick up Oma (my mum) from Emily's flat. Anna will get two days with Oma. I'm excited for both of them. Anna has changed so much since Oma saw her at Christmas. She knows a new animal sound. An owl says, "hoo hoo." It's a quiet, high pitched sound from the back of the throat and it is so cute.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Roomy
Our good friend Erin is renting our house back home. The roommate who signed on with her is moving out and Erin is looking for someone nice to move in and share the costs. Ideally female, clean and quiet-ish. Garrison Woods is obviously a really nice area and very central to Calgary: do you know anyone? If you do, please email me and I will put you in touch with Erin (if, in fact, you don't know her already!)...
And us? We've had a peek at what would be involved in buying a house here. You see, buying is really expensive here, but so too is renting. In fact, one might argue that renting is ridiculously expensive (rather than just really expensive) because you'll never see any of the money again. Oh, it gives me a headache. So, too, does the International Tax Office of the CRA. We're still waiting on a response to questions we asked them in a letter from October last year... We've followed up with 4 more letters but have heard nothing from them. Very frustrating. More of the finer points of moving country for you? Getting a British driver's license is not straight-forward. It seems they'll only exchange a Canadian license for a British one with a limitation of automatic transmission vehicles. We'll probably need to re-test (cripes, that sounds fun after 15 years of driving) to get permission to drive standard transmission vehicles. We're going to appeal. There's some pretty strong logic on our side but I fear bureaucracy will prevail and I will be doddling around Reading with a Driving Instructor, brushing up for a test to drive a vehicle that we have been driving safely for 7 months already.
The nitty-gritty, lingering issues of international relocation can sometimes get you down. But then we're going to London on Sunday to see Stella, Em, Armando and Oma. We'll go for a walk around Tower Bridge and it will all seem pretty damn cool...
And us? We've had a peek at what would be involved in buying a house here. You see, buying is really expensive here, but so too is renting. In fact, one might argue that renting is ridiculously expensive (rather than just really expensive) because you'll never see any of the money again. Oh, it gives me a headache. So, too, does the International Tax Office of the CRA. We're still waiting on a response to questions we asked them in a letter from October last year... We've followed up with 4 more letters but have heard nothing from them. Very frustrating. More of the finer points of moving country for you? Getting a British driver's license is not straight-forward. It seems they'll only exchange a Canadian license for a British one with a limitation of automatic transmission vehicles. We'll probably need to re-test (cripes, that sounds fun after 15 years of driving) to get permission to drive standard transmission vehicles. We're going to appeal. There's some pretty strong logic on our side but I fear bureaucracy will prevail and I will be doddling around Reading with a Driving Instructor, brushing up for a test to drive a vehicle that we have been driving safely for 7 months already.
The nitty-gritty, lingering issues of international relocation can sometimes get you down. But then we're going to London on Sunday to see Stella, Em, Armando and Oma. We'll go for a walk around Tower Bridge and it will all seem pretty damn cool...
Monday, February 26, 2007
TomTom and Lady Hambleden
Ange, Anna and I have moved from a stumbling pace to a full run into the 21st century. It all started with my swish Sony Ericsson W810i mobile phone. As discussed below, it does more than any phone ever should. Ange is fully equiped with a mobile as well. Anna has a toy phone that sings songs. We have digital TV and broadband internet. The car tells us the temperature outside. Ange and I have set up Facebook accounts (we could both use 'friends'!), though still discuss why exactly we do. Social networking site are all the rage, so we're hip.
However, we took the quantum step on the weekend when we purchased 'sat nav' for the car. Apparently the TomTom software is the cat's ass of sat nav equipment. It's intuitive, it's relatively inexpensive, it's like my phone: pervasive amongst those that care. We set it up tonight. It was very exciting: the machine talks to you, warning you of upcoming directions. It is a serious improvement over Angela with a map. We had to choose the voice we wanted. We had a choice between 3 female and 1 male American voices, 1 male Australian voice, and 1 male and 1 female British voices. The Aussie male reminded me too much of the beep test and after years of misdirection from Ange, I'm not sure I trust female north American. Ange vetoed the north American male voice because she associates directions from that accent with driving control freaks (i.e., me). We went for "Mary": the British female. After all, we live here so we might as well have the right accent and it really won out by elimination anyway.
Speaking of British-ness, Ange had the most ridiculously British day at work on Wednesday last week. She left her office at the all-girl boarding and day school she works at. She walked across the courtyard to the car and drove east through Henley-on-Thames to Marlow, where she went north down a narrow, single lane country road that runs into the heart of the Chilterns. She was going to the Manor house in Hambledon (yes, discussed previously with photos). She had been invited by Lady Hambleden (yes, I'm serious) for lunch after the school had donated funds towards a charitable cause sponsored by Lady Hambleden. The ate their three course lunch which included apple crumble for pudding. Ange sat slightly perplexed with the cutlery at her disposal and quietly waited for the ladies around her to start. Turns out the spoon goes in the right hand and the desert fork is used to break and move the crumble to the spoon. After pudding, they retired to the drawing room for tea. Manor houses in the countryside, aristocracy, tea in the drawing room. It seems an unlikely work experience in Calgary. Chalk it up.
This is doing the rounds on email right now, but it makes me laugh, so I share it:
However, we took the quantum step on the weekend when we purchased 'sat nav' for the car. Apparently the TomTom software is the cat's ass of sat nav equipment. It's intuitive, it's relatively inexpensive, it's like my phone: pervasive amongst those that care. We set it up tonight. It was very exciting: the machine talks to you, warning you of upcoming directions. It is a serious improvement over Angela with a map. We had to choose the voice we wanted. We had a choice between 3 female and 1 male American voices, 1 male Australian voice, and 1 male and 1 female British voices. The Aussie male reminded me too much of the beep test and after years of misdirection from Ange, I'm not sure I trust female north American. Ange vetoed the north American male voice because she associates directions from that accent with driving control freaks (i.e., me). We went for "Mary": the British female. After all, we live here so we might as well have the right accent and it really won out by elimination anyway.
Speaking of British-ness, Ange had the most ridiculously British day at work on Wednesday last week. She left her office at the all-girl boarding and day school she works at. She walked across the courtyard to the car and drove east through Henley-on-Thames to Marlow, where she went north down a narrow, single lane country road that runs into the heart of the Chilterns. She was going to the Manor house in Hambledon (yes, discussed previously with photos). She had been invited by Lady Hambleden (yes, I'm serious) for lunch after the school had donated funds towards a charitable cause sponsored by Lady Hambleden. The ate their three course lunch which included apple crumble for pudding. Ange sat slightly perplexed with the cutlery at her disposal and quietly waited for the ladies around her to start. Turns out the spoon goes in the right hand and the desert fork is used to break and move the crumble to the spoon. After pudding, they retired to the drawing room for tea. Manor houses in the countryside, aristocracy, tea in the drawing room. It seems an unlikely work experience in Calgary. Chalk it up.
This is doing the rounds on email right now, but it makes me laugh, so I share it:
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Miscommunicate
It has come to my attention that I may have appeared a bit put off by all the visitors coming to stay with us. No, no, no!!! Definitely, it is quite the opposite: we're absolutely excited to have everyone and will happily and excitedly take more people who make the trip! Don't, for a moment, second guess our sincere desire to have you stay with us! We did, after all, set a 4553 record of 14 consecutive weeks with guests in the summer of 2005!
I do think that this spring may be getting into the realm of double-booked. But the only consquence of that is possibly some couch time or an inflatable matress in Anna's room for a night or two (we can pull Anna's cot into our bedroom)!
So, let's get that guest house full for the whole summer: come on 15 consecutive weeks!
I do think that this spring may be getting into the realm of double-booked. But the only consquence of that is possibly some couch time or an inflatable matress in Anna's room for a night or two (we can pull Anna's cot into our bedroom)!
So, let's get that guest house full for the whole summer: come on 15 consecutive weeks!
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Rockets
Have you ever eaten so many packets of Rockets that your toungue hurts? I have. Tonight, in fact.
Thank you United Way friends for sending them!
Thank you United Way friends for sending them!
Taking Bookings
Our friend Rachel has been a star over the years. When I first came to Britain in 1999, I arrived in Southampton on a beat-up old motorcycle packed heavily (and, arguably, dangerously) with my bag and camping kit. I stayed with Karen, Catherine and Victoria. They generously put me up for absolutely ages. I probably wore out my welcome 3 times over, but they were too kind to ask me to leave. Amongst the friends I made during that time was Rachel. She's Welsh. Not having ever gone to Wales, she recommended it. In fact, she went a step further and suggested I stay with her parents in Wales. It turns out, her parents' kindness and willingness to take in strangers was akin to Rach, Karen, Catherine and Victoria...
I headed up to Wales, stopping briefly in Bath on the way to see what all the fuss was about. £10 entry to the baths at Bath meant I am still left wondering what all the fuss is about. I must correct that this time around.
Anyway, I showed up in the village of Ebbw Vale. You can't believe how kind Gareth and Sue were to me. Imagine if some 24-year-old guy rolled up on an old motorcycle, covered in oil and soaking wet to your parents' doorstep. They didn't know me. Heck, Rachel hardly knew me. I think back and it strikes me as incredible they had me in. Gareth helped me set various day itineraries around their region of Wales each night and Sue prepared me a pack lunch to take with me each day. It was unreal. Ange and I visited Gareth and Sue later when we were through Wales again. We still exchange post cards.
The point of my digression? Ange and I were quite excited about a planned trip to Wales this coming weekend. Sadly, Rachel has to move house in Southampton and can't get away. We quickly looked at re-booking our trip and I came to the sudden and somewhat distressing realisation: our next free weekend is in May. And we only have two free weekends in May. I need an online event registration system to manage our personal calendar (did anyone at Cambrian House read that?)!
I can't entirely figure out how we have managed to get ourselves so booked. Oma is coming. Grandma and Dziadek are coming. Erika is coming. My cousin Claire and Aunt Lynn are coming. Aunt Val and Uncle George will be here. We have two weddings. I have a stag weekend. We're going to Southampton, Mundesley, Dorset (twice) and Portugal. Ange is going to Exeter for work. I am going to Durham for work. I think we might need a holiday to relax from it all!
Today the sun is out and pouring into our front room. I'm working from home. I think Anna and I might feed the ducks at the river after nursery.
A couple of photos (just in case you're not actually reading and just want the photographic update)... Anna and Carys enjoy a lively game of pass-the-present, which was more like adventures-with-wrapping-paper:
Warren and Carla Rae stopped by on their way back from India. Anna likes Carla Rae (and Warren too!):
Facebook update? I have 15 friends: 11 non-family!
I headed up to Wales, stopping briefly in Bath on the way to see what all the fuss was about. £10 entry to the baths at Bath meant I am still left wondering what all the fuss is about. I must correct that this time around.
Anyway, I showed up in the village of Ebbw Vale. You can't believe how kind Gareth and Sue were to me. Imagine if some 24-year-old guy rolled up on an old motorcycle, covered in oil and soaking wet to your parents' doorstep. They didn't know me. Heck, Rachel hardly knew me. I think back and it strikes me as incredible they had me in. Gareth helped me set various day itineraries around their region of Wales each night and Sue prepared me a pack lunch to take with me each day. It was unreal. Ange and I visited Gareth and Sue later when we were through Wales again. We still exchange post cards.
The point of my digression? Ange and I were quite excited about a planned trip to Wales this coming weekend. Sadly, Rachel has to move house in Southampton and can't get away. We quickly looked at re-booking our trip and I came to the sudden and somewhat distressing realisation: our next free weekend is in May. And we only have two free weekends in May. I need an online event registration system to manage our personal calendar (did anyone at Cambrian House read that?)!
I can't entirely figure out how we have managed to get ourselves so booked. Oma is coming. Grandma and Dziadek are coming. Erika is coming. My cousin Claire and Aunt Lynn are coming. Aunt Val and Uncle George will be here. We have two weddings. I have a stag weekend. We're going to Southampton, Mundesley, Dorset (twice) and Portugal. Ange is going to Exeter for work. I am going to Durham for work. I think we might need a holiday to relax from it all!
Today the sun is out and pouring into our front room. I'm working from home. I think Anna and I might feed the ducks at the river after nursery.
A couple of photos (just in case you're not actually reading and just want the photographic update)... Anna and Carys enjoy a lively game of pass-the-present, which was more like adventures-with-wrapping-paper:
Warren and Carla Rae stopped by on their way back from India. Anna likes Carla Rae (and Warren too!):
Facebook update? I have 15 friends: 11 non-family!
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Three days ago I had never heard of 'Facebook.' Of course, one hears about these sort of social networking websites in the news and such. I'd heard of Bebo and MySpace, but never this Facebook thing.
I flicked on the computer and an email came through from my cousin Claire. Claire is cool. I am not. Claire has "invited me to be her friend." Who am I to refuse? So, I diligently clicked on the link in the email. It was all a bit confusing, but I remained committed and eventually filled out my name, where I lived, my relationship status (clearly I'm not the target audience) and I even uploaded a photo (which, of course, included Anna). And then it was over. Claire was my friend. I was Claire's friend. I thought something might happen, but it didn't. Somehow, I just had another little profile up on the world wide web. World wide.
To my genuine surprise, I received another email the next day from a good friend who I haven't spoken with in ages. It really couldn't have been more random for me. She, too, had invited me to be her friend. Suddenly I have two friends! Motivated by the landslide of random affection coming my way, I put in some more information on myself (cue marketing people salivating at my predictable behaviour). Again, having done that, I was struck by the void it left. I went back once or twice to confirm that everything I had put in was, in fact, still as I had left it. It was.
Only hours later, my younger brother Thomas has emailed inviting me to "be his friend." Of course, this offer was too much to turn down... only somehow I managed to mess it up and I couldn't accept his kind offer of e-friendship. So, I clumsily found my way around the site a bit more and clicked on some link that asked Thomas to be my friend. Fingers crossed!
I'm now both suspicious and deeply intrigued. One, what kind of online viral thing is this that I can be asked 3 times in two days to be peoples' friends? And, from such a random assortment of people I know: it was time to do some serious research on what kind of website I was dealing with.
With both Claire and Thomas in the mix, I was suspicious that Facebook was cool (Jen is cool too, but she is more my age!). I needed a group of people who knew cool to see if they were involved. Field Hockey. A quick search revealed that Jenny, Jenn, Jube, Hilary, and Kaitlin (and surely loads more) were all on this Facebook thing. My gut reaction was "Oh God, get off. You don't belong." And I probably should heed this feeling... but I'm now so intrigued by it. Not only that, I only have two friends! Jenny has 136 friends. I surely have 10! As soon as Tom accepts me as his friend, I'm up to 3. But really, Claire and Tom are family, so I am not sure they count. So, let the campaign begin to get Ben 10 non-family friends on Facebook!
I flicked on the computer and an email came through from my cousin Claire. Claire is cool. I am not. Claire has "invited me to be her friend." Who am I to refuse? So, I diligently clicked on the link in the email. It was all a bit confusing, but I remained committed and eventually filled out my name, where I lived, my relationship status (clearly I'm not the target audience) and I even uploaded a photo (which, of course, included Anna). And then it was over. Claire was my friend. I was Claire's friend. I thought something might happen, but it didn't. Somehow, I just had another little profile up on the world wide web. World wide.
To my genuine surprise, I received another email the next day from a good friend who I haven't spoken with in ages. It really couldn't have been more random for me. She, too, had invited me to be her friend. Suddenly I have two friends! Motivated by the landslide of random affection coming my way, I put in some more information on myself (cue marketing people salivating at my predictable behaviour). Again, having done that, I was struck by the void it left. I went back once or twice to confirm that everything I had put in was, in fact, still as I had left it. It was.
Only hours later, my younger brother Thomas has emailed inviting me to "be his friend." Of course, this offer was too much to turn down... only somehow I managed to mess it up and I couldn't accept his kind offer of e-friendship. So, I clumsily found my way around the site a bit more and clicked on some link that asked Thomas to be my friend. Fingers crossed!
I'm now both suspicious and deeply intrigued. One, what kind of online viral thing is this that I can be asked 3 times in two days to be peoples' friends? And, from such a random assortment of people I know: it was time to do some serious research on what kind of website I was dealing with.
With both Claire and Thomas in the mix, I was suspicious that Facebook was cool (Jen is cool too, but she is more my age!). I needed a group of people who knew cool to see if they were involved. Field Hockey. A quick search revealed that Jenny, Jenn, Jube, Hilary, and Kaitlin (and surely loads more) were all on this Facebook thing. My gut reaction was "Oh God, get off. You don't belong." And I probably should heed this feeling... but I'm now so intrigued by it. Not only that, I only have two friends! Jenny has 136 friends. I surely have 10! As soon as Tom accepts me as his friend, I'm up to 3. But really, Claire and Tom are family, so I am not sure they count. So, let the campaign begin to get Ben 10 non-family friends on Facebook!
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Laying Low
A weekend of nothing just happened. Cripes. It started off on Friday when Anna was turned away from daycare. 14 months old and she's suspended from nursery! In fairness, the nursery has a "48-hour" policy when children can return from a bug and she was nowhere near that threshold...
Anna had been sick on Thursday morning (snow day), so I picked her up and brought her home. We had just got in the front door when I lifted Anna from her buggy. She looked at me in the eye, swallowed once and puked all down the front of me and her. I'm not particularly on squirmish, but the sheer volume of vomit tested my resolve. I smiled weakly at her and pulled her tight. She was clearly distressed and I wanted to minimize the puke hitting the floor. As we bounded up the stairs to the bath, poor Anna nearly squirted out of my arms we were so slimed.
A short bath and a change of clothes and Anna was suddenly herself again. There were no more accidents though the naps were longer than normal, which was good because I was able to get some work done. Being that she was so well, Ange tried to take her into nursery on Friday. They were having none of it and Ange phoned me to give me the update when she returned home. I jumped back in the car and did the return trip to Reading in rush-hour, having successfully avoided rush-hour on the trip in (I leave pretty early). Anna was lovely all day and she started to building on her first steps... almost a walk! It was very, very exciting and there was a lot of cheering. One of those gold medal (or silver medal, eh Alberta--that was just as sweet!) moments. Rightfully, Anna was very proud of herself.
Friday night was quiet. A movie, a nice dinner and some pleasant French wine.
Sadly, the weekend took a turn Saturday morning at about 2:30am. I woke up with a start. "I feel ill," I thought to myself. "How much wine did I drink?" was the immediate second thought. "Not nearly enough to feel this bad." So, it started. The most brutal 20-odd hours of flu that I've endured in a very long time. Field hockey was thankfully cancelled due to snow on the pitch, which was good for me because I wouldn't have been there.
Ange and Anna escaped the house while I lay on the couch. I was very sad that I missed Anna's first haircut, which was on the to-do list for Ange and Anna. Apparently, the novelty of the event was enough to keep Anna seated though she was somewhat perplexed that the cookie she knew to be in her hand couldn't get to her mouth. When, with the help of mum, she was able to work out how to get her hand from under the cape, the cookie was slowly consumed with a healthy dose of hair as well. Hopefully this little trim will help the hair grow in thicker. That is Ange's thought on this matter, though I remain skeptical. Cutting my hair hasn't exactly helped it grow in thicker...
As I started to turn the corner on the bug, it became clear that Ange was not going to escape it either. She took over the position on the couch only hours after I had been able to get off it. We were unable to go to Dorset to visit "Aunt" Dorothy as had been the plan. It was a shame, but this was a nasty little bug. Aunt Dorothy, at 96, certainly didn't need to catch it and I'm certain the drive down would have been truly unpleasant for Ange had she been able to get out of bed... We'll re-group and look forward to next weekend! It is one of the last we have 'free' until sometime in June. Fast times ahead!
We'll leave you with a photo of Em and Stella. Not surprisingly, Armando is a photographer. So this photo is probably copyrighted or something. Though I have used it without permission, I implore you not to do the same!
Anna had been sick on Thursday morning (snow day), so I picked her up and brought her home. We had just got in the front door when I lifted Anna from her buggy. She looked at me in the eye, swallowed once and puked all down the front of me and her. I'm not particularly on squirmish, but the sheer volume of vomit tested my resolve. I smiled weakly at her and pulled her tight. She was clearly distressed and I wanted to minimize the puke hitting the floor. As we bounded up the stairs to the bath, poor Anna nearly squirted out of my arms we were so slimed.
A short bath and a change of clothes and Anna was suddenly herself again. There were no more accidents though the naps were longer than normal, which was good because I was able to get some work done. Being that she was so well, Ange tried to take her into nursery on Friday. They were having none of it and Ange phoned me to give me the update when she returned home. I jumped back in the car and did the return trip to Reading in rush-hour, having successfully avoided rush-hour on the trip in (I leave pretty early). Anna was lovely all day and she started to building on her first steps... almost a walk! It was very, very exciting and there was a lot of cheering. One of those gold medal (or silver medal, eh Alberta--that was just as sweet!) moments. Rightfully, Anna was very proud of herself.Friday night was quiet. A movie, a nice dinner and some pleasant French wine.
Sadly, the weekend took a turn Saturday morning at about 2:30am. I woke up with a start. "I feel ill," I thought to myself. "How much wine did I drink?" was the immediate second thought. "Not nearly enough to feel this bad." So, it started. The most brutal 20-odd hours of flu that I've endured in a very long time. Field hockey was thankfully cancelled due to snow on the pitch, which was good for me because I wouldn't have been there.
Ange and Anna escaped the house while I lay on the couch. I was very sad that I missed Anna's first haircut, which was on the to-do list for Ange and Anna. Apparently, the novelty of the event was enough to keep Anna seated though she was somewhat perplexed that the cookie she knew to be in her hand couldn't get to her mouth. When, with the help of mum, she was able to work out how to get her hand from under the cape, the cookie was slowly consumed with a healthy dose of hair as well. Hopefully this little trim will help the hair grow in thicker. That is Ange's thought on this matter, though I remain skeptical. Cutting my hair hasn't exactly helped it grow in thicker...
As I started to turn the corner on the bug, it became clear that Ange was not going to escape it either. She took over the position on the couch only hours after I had been able to get off it. We were unable to go to Dorset to visit "Aunt" Dorothy as had been the plan. It was a shame, but this was a nasty little bug. Aunt Dorothy, at 96, certainly didn't need to catch it and I'm certain the drive down would have been truly unpleasant for Ange had she been able to get out of bed... We'll re-group and look forward to next weekend! It is one of the last we have 'free' until sometime in June. Fast times ahead!
We'll leave you with a photo of Em and Stella. Not surprisingly, Armando is a photographer. So this photo is probably copyrighted or something. Though I have used it without permission, I implore you not to do the same!
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Giant Day
February 8, 2007. It was a big day. Emily and Armando had their baby, Stella, this morning. Anna took her first steps. And Britain was blanketed with snow.
Anna took her first couple of steps today. We had just finished a successful potty visit and had put her "Baby" down. Her baby is a large stuffed monkey who is soft though slightly odd looking. "Baby," is one of her few words and monkey is very clearly called "Baby." She loves Baby. I placed her on her feet about half a meter away from Baby and instead of flopping and crawling, she took a step. At that point, momentum was on her side and two more steps followed. There was a lot of cheering from dad.
I worked from home today. I had been warned that snow and British roads is a recipe for spending a long time in the car. I stopped by Ange's school to take a couple of photos of the campus in the snow. It was really very pretty, as you can see:
Stella
Stella Beatriz Ribeiro was born this morning at 1:45am. According to a text from Emily she was born 6 lbs, healthy and very beautiful.
There was a bit of a text frenzy last night. Amrando, Emily, Oma, myself (and who knows whoelse?)... It is pretty neat to get the latest in a few words over your phone! I can't believe they could be bothered, but I am grateful they were...
Photos to follow.
There was a bit of a text frenzy last night. Amrando, Emily, Oma, myself (and who knows whoelse?)... It is pretty neat to get the latest in a few words over your phone! I can't believe they could be bothered, but I am grateful they were...
Photos to follow.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Baby Night In Britain
So exciting!!! Emily has gone into labour! Well, 'labour' itself might not be so exciting, but the net result is very exciting indeed. Here's today's progression:
2:12: Emily had her inducing drugs at the Royal London Hospital. (Note: 'Royal' in East London might lack the some of the luxury normally associated with the word)
5:30: Light contractions have begun.
6:48: Strong but 'low' contractions. She's on her way!
To make it real for those of you haven't seen my sister since she was in grade 8, a photo of her from her visit two weekends ago.
2:12: Emily had her inducing drugs at the Royal London Hospital. (Note: 'Royal' in East London might lack the some of the luxury normally associated with the word)
5:30: Light contractions have begun.
6:48: Strong but 'low' contractions. She's on her way!
To make it real for those of you haven't seen my sister since she was in grade 8, a photo of her from her visit two weekends ago.
Monday, February 05, 2007
The Wrong Impression
Don't worry, there is little chance of this blog becoming a social commentary. There are far too many amusing and ridiculous things that happen to the three of us for that to ever happen. However, I was just on my yahoo email and was surprised to see that London was jittery and in a state of high security alert. The story (ca.news.yahoo.com/s/afp/britain_attacks_blast) leads one to believe that England or, at least, London has security patrols and police running amuck looking for would-be terrorists and this latest blast has tensions high and people in shock.
I was startled because I hadn't heard about it all day, despite listening to the BBC (albeit Radio 1) on the way into, and the way home, from work. I quickly pulled up the BBC website to read more on the chaos that surrounds me. The incident didn't make any of the lead 10 stories, leaving me to wonder about this chaos that is reported to North America. It's all about Bird Flu today. And the consequence is that 154,000 turkeys have bigger worries than terrorism. The Beatles and Apple have settled their differences over the word "apple." Italian football is in crisis after a policeman was killed in football riots. There will be no more Mars bar ads directed at children (Jamie Oliver can take a bow, in part). And a lady who killed her boyfriend's cat got a suspended sentence. Oh the turmoil.
I was startled because I hadn't heard about it all day, despite listening to the BBC (albeit Radio 1) on the way into, and the way home, from work. I quickly pulled up the BBC website to read more on the chaos that surrounds me. The incident didn't make any of the lead 10 stories, leaving me to wonder about this chaos that is reported to North America. It's all about Bird Flu today. And the consequence is that 154,000 turkeys have bigger worries than terrorism. The Beatles and Apple have settled their differences over the word "apple." Italian football is in crisis after a policeman was killed in football riots. There will be no more Mars bar ads directed at children (Jamie Oliver can take a bow, in part). And a lady who killed her boyfriend's cat got a suspended sentence. Oh the turmoil.
Weekend in Caversham (on Thames)
Back when I was not working... and roaming the coffee shops of Caversham (you may recall from earlier posts this was as much for escaping the cold of our initial flat as to explore the town), Anna and I met Joyti and her daughter Calis (who is about 6 weeks younger than Anna; her name is Welsh and I'm certainly spelling it wrong...). With work and travel, we hadn't been in touch in some time. On Wednesday, I was home by 4:30 with Anna when Joyti spotted me letting us into our house as she packed up from a visit to the Waitrose. She came over and we had a good, albeit brief chat. It was really nice to run into friends just being on your street. It was all very Sesame Street.
Not wanting to put off getting together, we decided to meet on Friday at the Griffon Pub. Taking 12-month-olds to the pub is less Sesame Street, but very Caversham. I think I have gone on about this pub before, so I won't bother with the whole schpiel. But, Ange, Anna and I arrived to meet Joyti, her husband Allain, her husband's son (from before) Michael and, of course, Calis. They had managed to get the large table in front of the wood-burning fire. The atmosphere was great. We had a really nice evening. Allain is from the Caversham area and knew of loads of great walks and historical 'oddities' and points of interest. Indeed, had we been more flexible, we would have gone out walking with them on Sunday too! In the end, it was a good pub dinner, a nice pint and good conversation about all sorts of things. Anna like Calis' books most. Second was either Calis herself or the mashed potatoes.
Satuday was hockey day for Ben. The team I coach put in a solid effort but they continue to make too many simple mistakes. Despite being deadlocked 2-2 at half time and well into the second half, a series of simple, simple errors led to three counter-attack goals and a 5-2 loss. The score-line was not reflective of the play, but we would have done well to get points against a top team in our league. I played half a game with the 3s afterwards. They let me flick on short-corners. I really need to practice. I managed a goal, but mainly I was hitting the runner out. I felt kind of badly for him. In addition to running out about 10 times, he got hit in the feet or shins about 7 times. The 1s rebounded on Sunday in a Cup game where the team played through some shocking umpiring (which hurt both teams at different times: i.e., it wasn't biased, just really poor) and displayed some lovely finish. The final was a convincing 4-2 win and we move onto the next (5th) round. It was fun to get into the game myself at our club's top level. The taste for playing at a good level gets in your mouth and you want to really get into it again... but it is simply too much time from Ange and Anna. Next year some tough decisions need to be made about hockey commitments.
Pete Charles Turner and his lovely girlfriend, Lottie, came to the game. It was good to have PCT watch as he is playing in the league above us and they're looking at promotion in the National League. His perspective was excellent. It was also just good to seem him and Lottie. They came back 'round ours and we had tea and ate a whole package of chocolate rich tea biscuits. Is there a better way to end a weekend than cleaning off 40 chocolate rich tea biscuits between 4 people?
Not wanting to put off getting together, we decided to meet on Friday at the Griffon Pub. Taking 12-month-olds to the pub is less Sesame Street, but very Caversham. I think I have gone on about this pub before, so I won't bother with the whole schpiel. But, Ange, Anna and I arrived to meet Joyti, her husband Allain, her husband's son (from before) Michael and, of course, Calis. They had managed to get the large table in front of the wood-burning fire. The atmosphere was great. We had a really nice evening. Allain is from the Caversham area and knew of loads of great walks and historical 'oddities' and points of interest. Indeed, had we been more flexible, we would have gone out walking with them on Sunday too! In the end, it was a good pub dinner, a nice pint and good conversation about all sorts of things. Anna like Calis' books most. Second was either Calis herself or the mashed potatoes.
Satuday was hockey day for Ben. The team I coach put in a solid effort but they continue to make too many simple mistakes. Despite being deadlocked 2-2 at half time and well into the second half, a series of simple, simple errors led to three counter-attack goals and a 5-2 loss. The score-line was not reflective of the play, but we would have done well to get points against a top team in our league. I played half a game with the 3s afterwards. They let me flick on short-corners. I really need to practice. I managed a goal, but mainly I was hitting the runner out. I felt kind of badly for him. In addition to running out about 10 times, he got hit in the feet or shins about 7 times. The 1s rebounded on Sunday in a Cup game where the team played through some shocking umpiring (which hurt both teams at different times: i.e., it wasn't biased, just really poor) and displayed some lovely finish. The final was a convincing 4-2 win and we move onto the next (5th) round. It was fun to get into the game myself at our club's top level. The taste for playing at a good level gets in your mouth and you want to really get into it again... but it is simply too much time from Ange and Anna. Next year some tough decisions need to be made about hockey commitments.
Pete Charles Turner and his lovely girlfriend, Lottie, came to the game. It was good to have PCT watch as he is playing in the league above us and they're looking at promotion in the National League. His perspective was excellent. It was also just good to seem him and Lottie. They came back 'round ours and we had tea and ate a whole package of chocolate rich tea biscuits. Is there a better way to end a weekend than cleaning off 40 chocolate rich tea biscuits between 4 people?
Friday, February 02, 2007
The New Office
There has been a office shuffle at my office. A group has moved into another building as one department expands and takes on more offices in our building. As part of the move, our little department has shuffled some people about. The net result for me is a new office. Like the last one, it was probably--at one time--a bedroom in the old mansion where we work. In this instance, however, I don't have a fireplace. It is strange how I am vaguely disappointed by that. It isn't like the last one worked. In fact, the other office was probably colder, so a non-working fireplace was more of an irony than anything. Nevertheless, it is just kind of cool to have a fireplace in one's office. Especially for a colonist back in the old country.
The new office appears to have been a dumping ground for past publications, merchandise and office 'stuff.' I have a box of black bookmarks made from recycled tires with brightly coloured writing all over them. There are 4 computer keyboards in here--all slightly grimey. There's a safe that no one seems to know how to open. There is an ancient laptop computer that is locked to the desk with no key to unlock it (at least, I haven't found it yet). There are publications ranging from 2000 to last year, though the bulk of them appear to be a Spring 2003 newsletter to parents and families of students. Random.
Still, there is a very large desk and nice window that allows light to pour into the room. The window itself is a bit odd by Canadian standards. It has an after-market double glazing. To explain: there is the old loosely-fitted single pane window made up of two sections of six little panels. It sits as it has for probably the last 100 years. You can see that the frame has been painted dozens of times. The rope that works the mechanism for opening and closing the window appears worn and is caked in layers of old paint. Then, affixed to the inside of the window frame is... another window. It's kind of modern and of no particular quality. You might see one like it on an ATCO trailer or at your summer-only, 1970s-built cabin in Invemere. It is just two sheets of glass that can slide up and down in its little metal frame, which is mounted on the old wooden one. It is just odd. Mind you, it is perhaps no more odd than the fact that I just spent a paragraph describing it.
The view is largely of the car park, though if I stand right up against the window and crane my neck a little, I can see many of the spires of the Oxford churches. When the trees fill in, I will lose that view, but it will be very lush and green. It is all very pleasant. And quiet. In fact, I declare it a good place to work. And, should anyone want to know what was new in the spring of 2003 at Brookes, I have that knowledge at my fingertips.
The new office appears to have been a dumping ground for past publications, merchandise and office 'stuff.' I have a box of black bookmarks made from recycled tires with brightly coloured writing all over them. There are 4 computer keyboards in here--all slightly grimey. There's a safe that no one seems to know how to open. There is an ancient laptop computer that is locked to the desk with no key to unlock it (at least, I haven't found it yet). There are publications ranging from 2000 to last year, though the bulk of them appear to be a Spring 2003 newsletter to parents and families of students. Random.
Still, there is a very large desk and nice window that allows light to pour into the room. The window itself is a bit odd by Canadian standards. It has an after-market double glazing. To explain: there is the old loosely-fitted single pane window made up of two sections of six little panels. It sits as it has for probably the last 100 years. You can see that the frame has been painted dozens of times. The rope that works the mechanism for opening and closing the window appears worn and is caked in layers of old paint. Then, affixed to the inside of the window frame is... another window. It's kind of modern and of no particular quality. You might see one like it on an ATCO trailer or at your summer-only, 1970s-built cabin in Invemere. It is just two sheets of glass that can slide up and down in its little metal frame, which is mounted on the old wooden one. It is just odd. Mind you, it is perhaps no more odd than the fact that I just spent a paragraph describing it.
The view is largely of the car park, though if I stand right up against the window and crane my neck a little, I can see many of the spires of the Oxford churches. When the trees fill in, I will lose that view, but it will be very lush and green. It is all very pleasant. And quiet. In fact, I declare it a good place to work. And, should anyone want to know what was new in the spring of 2003 at Brookes, I have that knowledge at my fingertips.
Poorly
It seems most of the UK has a bug these days. It has even affected BBC's Radio 1 as a range of different DJs have hosted shows to cover for regulars off sick. Our office has been no exception and I was forced to take a day off on Wednesday. I slept most of the day and then went to get Anna out of the daycare early. It was an amazing day. Warm, bright, sunny. The flowers are starting to come out, the trees are budding and the birds seemed to be everywhere. Anna and I went for a little walk through the park and then down a road of old Victorian mansions (which are now mostly renovated and split into duplexes or flats) on the way home and it really felt like spring. Had it not been for the headache and sore throat, I reckon it had the potential to be the perfect spring day... in January.
Ange, who has taken about 3 sick days in her life and didn't miss one when she was pregnant left early twice this week to go to sleep and try and fight off the bug. Our North American immunity just isn't up to the task. Little Anna has been fighting off the same bug (I think) for a few days now but remains in good spirits 99% of the time regardless. She clearly as her mum's genes on that one, as I am miserable to be around when I'm sick.
Ange, who has taken about 3 sick days in her life and didn't miss one when she was pregnant left early twice this week to go to sleep and try and fight off the bug. Our North American immunity just isn't up to the task. Little Anna has been fighting off the same bug (I think) for a few days now but remains in good spirits 99% of the time regardless. She clearly as her mum's genes on that one, as I am miserable to be around when I'm sick.
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