Coffee

It was a very early start last Monday morning. Anna didn't really protest because she was hardly conscious as we piled into the car at 4:15am to get to Gatwick Airport to catch our flight to Krakow, Poland. The whole transport to the airport went off well, with hardly a hiccup. It was Ange, Anna and I along with 'cousins' Marcus and Magda. I had dropped 'cousin' Tanya off at the train station at 4am to catch a train to Gatwick as our car is only so big.

Anna came to life at the site of all the airplanes. She is a bit of an airplane freak. Every time you hear a plane, she comments (often before you can see it), "Airplane! Flying!" And then she scans the sky to find the plane. It was genuinely exciting at the start of this trip. It was fun to be with chi-chi (phonetic English of the Polish word for aunt) Magda, chi-chi Tanya and Marcus. It was fun to have Anna so deleriously excited at the mere site of planes where there were indeed many planes. It was exciting to go back to Krakow. It was exciting not to have to endure a budget airline, since the British Airways flight was a mere £10 more than Ryan Air for the family! There is something strangely reassuring about being assigned a seat on a plane. I've never really been overly encouraged by the Bulgaria to Romania bus-style rush-seating mentality to Ryan air.

Ange and I sat together. We had a window and middle seat. It was tight, but not as bad as Easy Jet. Plus, drinks and snacks were included. So, after about an hour, the flight attendant came by offering coffee, tea and an assortment of juices and fizzy drinks. I opted for coffee. It had been hours and I was into a caffeine withdrawal headache. Anna quickly pointed at my paper cup, exclaiming, "hot!". "Yes," I agreed, adding "it's coffee."

Anna took approximately 2 seconds to decide she wanted coffee. "Anna. Coffee. Please." I tried to explain that coffee was not a drink she would have much interest in. It was hot. And, it was yucky. Trapped in the tiny space and overwhelmed by the persistence of a 19 month old saying please was too much. Have you seen her eyes?

Ange and I agreed that after one sip, she'd be so revolted by the drink, she'd probably not want another sip til she was in her teens. I gave her a sip. To the amusement of the lady sitting beside us (and probably not our friends in the health care professions), Anna loved it. Perplexed, I was forced into dumping my coffee down my throat to minimise the amount of coffee Anna would get. She drank at the empty cup for a full 5 minutes after I had handed it over to her. And then, for the whole trip, the sight of a coffee was enough for Anna to be requesting her fair share.

On arrival, Poland was fantastic. Krakow is truly one of gems of this world. It is a little frayed around the edges, but has so much character. It always feels like there is so much to discover about it. The wedding in Meleic was amazing (photo is of 'cousin' Ola and Anna at the wedding). The hospitality shown by our 'family' was almost embarassing, it was so generous.

There were also the usual highlights of being in a different country. A couple of personal favourites were the petrol station called "Krak Gaz." We didn't stop at Krak Gaz for petrol, which was unfortunate since it would have been ideal to get a photo of myself in front the sign before English becomes prevelant enough in Krakow that they're forced to rename. Another was a business that had gone under, leaving a dilapitated shell of a building sitting at the side of the road. The ill fated business was called "Driver Bar," and one can only assume that the modern pressures to crack down on drinking and driving probably had something to do with the demise of a bar on a highway in the middle of nowhere.

Sentences

Anna continues to amaze Ange and I. It's not that anything she does is particularly amazing when compared to other children her age. It is just that Ange and I don't have any experience with children her age.

So, an example: last weekend we were on or way into London to see Emily, Armando and Stella. Emily was going to babysit Anna so Ange and I could go to the theatre. On our way into the city, traffic became increasingly insane. At one point, three lanes became one, forcing cars, lorries and motorcycles through a tiny lane with little notice. With no warning and London tending generally on the busy side, it caused a degree of traffic chaos. Vehicles jockeyed for position. A massive lorry (truck) simply pushed his way in front, nearly raking the side of a a little Citreon. All the while, impatient motorbikes and scooters buzzed through any space left by the other vehicles. Some became stuck, not able to move forward or back and generally adding to the confusion. A jerk in a BMW tried to race down the side and get in ahead: the whole mass of vehicles quickly inched forward in solidarity to not deny the BMW. In itself an impressive feat given how little space there was to begin with. Sociologists would have been bemused.

We sat in our little Toyota Carolla bubble. It was that temperature outside (and inside) where one can't quite decide if air conditioning is actually necessary. A children's nursery CD provided background noise rather than entertainment and all three of us looked out the window. As the lorry moved into a space and a scooter shuffled backwards towards us to get out of his way, I commented flippantly to Ange, "London is crazy." Ange agreed. And then, out of nowhere, so too did Anna. "London crazy," came from the back seat. We both looked back as we laughed. Both our initial and subsequent laughter is, of course, the positive reinforcement necessary to declare the craziness of London on a nearly daily basis. And it really is too funny to hear her say it. But Anna's observation of London's traffic problems were just the beginning. Sentences have come fast and furious this week. They include things like, "Stella's in London," and "More porridge please."

Other little language developments provide humour for us too. A personal favourite (and one for anyone who enjoyed the not-so-recent movie redo of Starsky & Hutch), is when Anna would like to do something herself: "Do it!"

And, of course, there are early indications that Anna might be developing an English accent. Water sounds like "wahr-tah," while the intination on other words certainly isn't Western Canadian. We'll get our speech expert Erika to listen in on Skype and give an update.

It's off to Poland in a couple of weeks! But before then, I have a sneaking suspicion we might see some sunshine. Of course, I won't be betting any money on that.

OK, it's wet

I wandered out to the Passat at about 6:20am. I knew I wouldn't have to crawl in through the trunk only because I hadn't bothered locking it. I hadn't bothered to lock it because the car is simply not worth locking and because I had gone to bed convinced of the very real possibility that it might float away anyway.

If anyone hasn't been watching the news, there has been a lot of rain here. So much, in fact, that rivers have shown considerable disregard to the banks that normally confine their movement.

On this morning, the car was there and the car park was wet from rain but there was no standing water. I hoppped in and started off. My drive takes me over the Chilterns, which a tourist sign notes is an "area of outstanding natural beauty." And it is beautiful. Probably beautiful enough that it doesn't need a sign to tell you it is beautiful. Those who have driven through BC will appreciate similar patronising signs that tell you that BC is beautiful as you drive past stunning glaciers, wonderful lakes and panoramic valley views.

The Chilterns are high ground in the south east corner of Oxfordshire and not subject to flooding. I bypass the chaos of the flooded towns of Abingdon and Wallingford and arrive at work. As colleagues disappear home to move furniture to the top floors of their houses, I realise that Ange and I both work on high ground. In both instances, we're at the top of a hill in a lovely old building. In both instances, there is no chance of water lapping at the doors of our place of work.

But our personal circumstances aside, things are really, really bad here. People are in a really bad way. Though I don't mean to minimise the flooding catastrophy in Manitoba (Red River) some years back, the numbers of people affected in Britain dwarf those affected in Manitoba on a shocking scale. Nearly half a million people don't have running water right now... and aren't likely to for another 2 weeks. Thousands of homes are submerged in Oxfordshire, Gloucester, Berkshire and Bedfordshire. Still, the generaly public deals with this with a stoicism that is admirable. Mind you, it might just be a stoicism of people who seem to have to deal with an epic crisis of one sort or another seemingly every year.

What is also incredible is how unaffected we have been while being sat right in the middle of it. If anything, the fact that thousands of people in our area have their cars sat under a few feet of water means that the past few days, the traffic has been incredibly light. My drive into work doesn't involve crossing any rivers and covers high ground, so things are actually moving more efficiently for me. Ange's 1 minute walk to work remains unaffected too. Anna's nursery is at the absolute high point in our town and she is unaffected. We had trouble getting to soft play for Anna last friday, but that is hardly an imposition. Today, however, Reading is meant to get hit by the high water surge. I guess we'll soon discover how close to the flood plain our house sits!

For more on just how flooded things are, check out the BBC

Best Damn Weekend

This past weekend has to rank amongst the best. Certainly for Anna it was, which means that is was for us too. I took Friday off work and we managed to sneak in both swimming and "soft play." Swimming was at the local pool, which includes waves (yes, a wave pool) and a water slide. We enjoyed both. Though rubber duckies (it was toddler hour) were almost as enjoyable to one of us...

"Soft Play", for those without kids, is like a giant warehouse full of padded climbing things. It's like a playground with reduced injury possibility. In addition to 10 padded levels of stairs and steps, there was also a ball pool and many slides. We had a blast but there are some possible hygiene concerns. I won't elaborate but next time I will go armed with Purell.

Saturday was "Fun Day" at the nursery that Anna attends. Summer fairs are an institution over here. It would be fair to say that we don't entirely get it, but I suspect Anna had fun. Next year, when she is able to understand the games a little better, she will have more fun. This year, it was all about the "Decorate your own biscuit" stall where for 20p, one was given a biscuit (digestive cookie) and pots of coloured, liquid sugar to pour all over the biscuit. It was very messy and very, very sweet. It was also quite popular.

We went to London on Saturday night to hang out with cousin Stella as Emily and Armando went out for dinner on Armando's birthday. It was a laugh. But not so much as Sunday, which involved another pool and then the Museum of Childhood. The Museum of Childhood was almost too much fun to comprehend for Anna. Every interactive display was a tantrum to pull her away, only to be replaced by the most glorious laugh of anticipation as a new interactive display was introduced to her. The Doll House display was stunning (and included, incredibly, a large doll house from 1673). Yep, 1673. A 334 year old doll house. I was probably more impressed than Anna, who was as pleased as punch with an interactive doll house (with dolls) on display to play with. It was not from the 17th century. In fact, it looked recent and possibly Scandinavian.

3 hours of traffic made the 45 mile trip home tiresome, but after so much fun, who was to complain? Well, okay, I complained a little. But not too much.

Oh-dirt

It is a good thing that Anna is fed a balanced diet at nursery. There are a couple of home favourites which we find ourselves defaulting to more often than we probably ought to.

First is yogurt. She has a near obsession with yogurt, now known in our house as 'oh-dirt'. It is requested at nearly every meal, though we try to balance how often we actually give it to her. It's tough to deny a kid natural, organic yogurt though. It's not like she's asking for some edible oil product marketed by ruthless ad agencies for maximum profit on food that is high in saturated fats and completely absent of nutritional value. It's natural yogurt. The carton has flowers, sunshine and a cow on it for crying out loud. Still, with the 'everything in moderation' mantra playing in the back of my mind, oh-dirt is only available once a day.

The other is porridge. Like the oh-dirt above, hardly seems a sinful indulgence for a child. Still, we're often able to add fruit to the porridge. Blueberries change the colour of the porridge too. But the girl can eat an astonishing amount of porridge. Breakfast is basically porridge. We can try to offer other things, but that is best done with a partial porridge offering. To make ourselves feel slightly better, we opt now for organic porridge. Luckily, (let's face it) even expensive porridge is pretty damn cheap.

So, another interactive blog (not understanding? see past post here)? Possibly. That certainly generate more interest that anything else we've done since arriving. Keep an eye on this space.

Instant Coffee

I've started drinking instant coffee at work.

I don't know why it has happened.

On reflection, I think it has to do with one of two things. It could be that I have nostalgic memories of pulling my motorcycle apart with my dad. Confused and overwhelmed, my heart would start to beat faster and my hands would get sweaty. My dad, on the other hand, would always be able to walk away and grab a coffee while working out the latest fault. He would grab me one and we (meaning, "he") would get to work figuring out the problem at hand. Dad's coffee is always instant. I was at his house the other month and he proudly proclaimed that he had some filter coffee when Ange and I winced when offered instant. He pulled out the package. Its best-before-date was August, 2000. We drank it anyway. So, the nostalgic feeling of calm and accomplishment in the face of catastrophic engine failure is one potential reason for me now turning to instant coffee at work.

The other, probably more likely explantion is that I am shockingly lazy. Our offices are in the old servants' quarters of a manor house built in 1856. The kitchen is through a maze of halls and stairs. Getting water from the nearby WC is okay except that the tap leaks horribly. The leaky tap means you have to use both hands to turn the tap as tightly as possible to stem the drip--and even that isn't perfect. Only employing a wrench would really cease the drip permanently. It can actually be quite painful to turn the tap on and off and the torque required means that people really have to put their weight behind it. The consequence is that the sink is starting to pull away from the wall. I know my luck and I really don't want to be the person who actually pulls the sink off the wall. I just can't be associated with that sort of water damage to my place of work. All that to say, water for both the coffee machine and cleaning the pot and wire filter is too far away for regular trips. So, laziness is the second potential reason for turning to istant coffee.

As I reflect and give it more thought than it deserves, I can only think of one thing. I need a coffee. Maybe someone else has mercifully made some filter coffee...

Square One

The DVLA. Oh, the DVLA. I don't even know what the hell is stands for. I can work it out though... Driving and Vehicle Licencing Authority? I'm guessing. Someone else can look it up.

I fear we may have taken on a bureaucracy that will smash us with their calous contempt rational thinking. We've had to withdraw our applications for our British licences. We need a letter. Without which, we have to re-test. But they've set up a lovely little Catch-22. We need our British automatic licence to re-test, meaning we can't legally drive a standard transmission vehicle. So how do we get our manual car to the testing site? We still have our fingers crossed that this can be avoided. We have a friend who has pulled it off, so there is hope. I'm living on this hope right now. But this faint hope that keeps my heart from racing 24-7 has been frayed somewhat by the hope that the chain might close on the house and we might actually have bought it.

I wonder if this is a characteristic of the British culture: hope that one day things might go smoothly. I'm too harsh. But Ange did point out that it is feeling like the second Anna goes to bed, all we do is fight a never-ending battle against bureaucracy. Canadin International Tax Office. Getting the right document from the Bank for our Canadian Income Tax. Getting our money back from an insurance company without original receipts for everything. Buying a house (that encompasses so many, you care not to think). Getting a British driving licence. Trying to sign up for online banking with Lloyds (its only been 9 months!). Trying to recover a ridiculous service charge because I can never get to bank during banking hours and they can't work out online banking.

Anyway, back to square one with the licence thing.

I hate square one. I hate bureaucracy. I hate spelling bureaucracy. Someone at Hooked on Phonics should step in on that word. Maybe that is our next fight. The Oxford Dictionary people are in trouble once I sort out getting a licence and can legally drive over to their office to complain.

Registry Office?

Anyone! Does anyone know someone who works at a Registry Office in Calgary... or anywhere in Alberta or BC? Can you get in touch?

A Trend Not To Be Missed

Quite suddenly, the draw of Berkshire on Canadians seems to have taken hold. It was quite unforseen. However, in the past two weeks there have been three incidents where Canadians have spoken seriously about moving to Reading.

So as not incriminate anyone, I won't use names. A couple of friends from Calgary have been living in the south of England for about a year but a job oppotunity came up in Maidenhead. They are considering the move to Reading and we should know shortly. Another friend, who I met in Calgary many years ago (through field hockey), is interviewing today for a job in Basingstoke. She would live in Reading if it all looks good and the job offer is made. Then, finally, some very close friends from Calgary who are living abroad have been in touch. As it turns out, there is a legitimate work opportunity in Reading for both of them. Suddenly, the unthinkable is being considered. A move to Reading.

So, I think everyone should ask themselves: why am I not moving to Reading? After all, everyone is doing it.

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:

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:

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!

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.

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.

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.

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)...

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.

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?

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)!

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.