I have just purchased a present for Stella's first birthday. It was just easiest to buy online. By the time I pick up Anna and we've walked home from nursery, it is 4:30. Inconveniently, most shops close at 5pm. Those that don't, shut before 8pm. With traffic across the bridges into the center of Reading and Anna's not-so-demanding evening requirements of a food and a bath, mid-week shopping is essentially impossible. What stuns me is that there is anyone who can manage non-weekend shopping.
Of course, I have also provided some insight into why Saturday shopping, no matter what time of year, is akin to Boxing day shopping in North America. It also suggests that if you're investing in online companies, pick a UK-based one since the retail outlets are literally driving people to the internet by only being open during working hours.
Anyway, Emily suggested a particular item for Miss Stella some months back. Ange, noting it, has been plotting ever since to get the item. However, we've just not come across one (see above for at least one possible reason why we've not stumbled across one in a shop). Ange finally broke down and asked Emily where to get one. Emily sent us the funniest online toy store. Only in London. Or maybe New York. It is called Childrensalon. It has its own coat of arms. It has a profile on "Boys in Suits," with the requisite black and white photo of 10 year old boy--in a suit--who looks torn between attending Eaton or going to play polo. Childrensalon advertises its best selling item as Baby Dior Baby Bottle in Pink in a Gift Box. Though, sociologists and our friends who grew up in rural Alberta alike, will be both amuused and interested to note that the Bobby Baby Boy 5 Piece Ivory Suit also makes the top seller list. And, as it turns out, Chldrensalon is actually too posh for London. It has placed itself in the London commuter town of Royal Tumbridge Wells. Yes, "Royal" is actually part of the name. I suspect if you visit the shop in person, they give your kid a latté.
In fairness to it, though, it was a pleasureable online shopping experience. In fact, I recommend it. If only because there is the chance that someone will get Lisa and Damian's baby the Ivory Satin Ballet Shoes to go with his/her stupid Oilers jersey.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
Broccoli
Children amaze me. Well, specifically, Anna amazes me. Her food preferences confound me. She is normal in so much as Cadbury Chocolate Buttons would be the choice over anything with nutritional value; however, when it comes to the "good food," she is currently on the most staggering broccoli kick you've ever seen. You'd almost be concerned that she would get heavy metal poisoning from the iron if it weren't so damn good for you.
Broccoli is now a staple of almost every dinner. Inevitably, being the age we are, it is difficult not to allude to SNL at almost every dinner. And so, for your blogging pleasure, we will share it with you (turn up the volume):
Broccoli is now a staple of almost every dinner. Inevitably, being the age we are, it is difficult not to allude to SNL at almost every dinner. And so, for your blogging pleasure, we will share it with you (turn up the volume):
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Stamps
Ange went to the local Post Office this week. The queue was longer than the normal out-the-door-length, starting to wind down the street. They had to print stickers with the postage paid (like one would normally do for international postage that costs many, many pounds) for every little item.
It seems that our Post Office has stamps delivered on Tuesdays. With Christmas and New Years both falling on a Tuesday, it hadn't received stamps in 3 weeks. Surely the smallest bit of foresite or a call to some central Royal Mail authority was in order... until then, or next Tuesday, we have a post office without stamps.
It seems that our Post Office has stamps delivered on Tuesdays. With Christmas and New Years both falling on a Tuesday, it hadn't received stamps in 3 weeks. Surely the smallest bit of foresite or a call to some central Royal Mail authority was in order... until then, or next Tuesday, we have a post office without stamps.
Friday, January 04, 2008
No disasters
As Angela, Anna and I travelled into London on the train from Reading, Ange asked when the last time my dad, sister and I had been on holiday together. It was the weekend before Christmas and we were all heading to Brussels to take in the Christmas market. I thought for a moment. It has certainly been many, many years. So many, in fact, that the chronology of the holidays we did take together have started to blur in my mind.
What was certain was that whenever the three of us tried to go on a holiday, disaster struck. Sadly for my dad, most of the time the single-parent family holiday disaster was completely out of his control. That it never seemed to strike when my mum was with us remains (to this day) a mystery to me, for I can't remember a holiday with the three of us (Dad, Emily and I) that went smoothly... at least, in the traditional sense of the word.
There were times when my dad's carefree attitude towards life meant our lack of preparedness was our undoing. Most notably was a day-trip to France when Emily and I were detained by French immigration. We were travelling on our Canadian passports while dad travelled on his British one. I was too young to remember the details, but it was either a visa issue or suspicion relating to the different passports for parent and children. Given my dad's knowledge of French, I suspect he remains with similar doubts as to why we were detained. It remains the only time I have been 'arrested' and one of two times where my immediate freedom was briefly curtailed by men with machine guns. Mum was unimpressed.
Still, there was a sense that my dad could do little to divert the disaster in most instances. It was his dumb luck that both got us into the situation and got us out unscathed.
So, while Ange, Anna and I rolled into Paddington Station, it occurred to me that the last holiday that I had taken with Emily and dad was in the mid-1980s. In so many ways, it defines how my dad was undone by forces well beyond his control. It was our last holiday together until Christmas, 2007. It was house-boating on the Shushwap.
With the sting of past holidays no doubt on his mind (a small tornado while camping, the aforementioned immigration hiccup at Calais, numerous catastrophic car engine problems and the occasional car accident), dad went conservative when he booked a week of house-boating for us. It was an amazing week of driving the houseboat around the lakes. The weather was lovely. It was hot. We swam. I read Archie comics and we listened to two or three Beatles tapes endlessly. We BBQ'ed. We went for a few walks. It was all going off without a hitch. Sure, dad took the unnecessary risk of letting Emily, aged 6ish, drive the houseboat. But he was nearby and we were none the worse for having turned in circles at 8 mph.
Sensing a holiday without disaster was within sight, my dad played it conservatively. He insisted we moor the houseboat on a beach close to the rental facility on our last night. We didn't want to rush the next day or be late so we were driving all night. The weather had gotten cloudy in the afternoon and it looked like rain, so Emily and I would be bound to the boat that night anyway and didn't complain.
As we chugged towards the nearest beach, the rain started. At first just a patter. Then, rather suddenly, the sky darkened. The rain started to come down harder. And the wind picked up. The boat, which was essentially a wooden shack on two long aluminium pontoons, started to heave in the waves. Dad started towards the beach, where he and I braved the rain to tie the boat down on the beach in amongst 20 or so other houseboats.
The waves continued to grow. As the front of the houseboat was on the beach, the back sat in lake and the waves crashed against the back. Emily and I donned our raingear and stood in the back enclosure (which had a railing around it), jumping the waves as the crashed over the decking. But the waves continued to get bigger. Big enough that it became dangerous and dad ushered us inside the boat. The waves became so big that they started crashing against the back door of the cabin and so violent that occasionally they would burst the door open. My dad grew increasingly concerned. So too did the other house-boating vacationers. People started leaving their boats to stand in the rain on the safety of the beach. We did the same. And then, as luck would have it, a propane tank broke loose of its fittings.
For those who can see where this is going, you'll know it was our boat and our propane tank that was now loose on the back enclosure. Whether it was the water or the escaping propane that propelled the tank of explosive gas around the back deck like a ping-pong ball doesn't matter. The loose propane tank was being launched around the back boat was concern enough in and of itself. People started to back away from our boat. We started to back away from our boat. Could it blow up? As people started to discuss the likelihood of the propane tank blowing up, there was an horrendous crack of thunder and a bright flash. The lake, which was now throwing four or five foot waves at our boat, was only about a kilometre wide. Which put us at about 1100 meters from a forest fire starting. I'd never seen lightning strike. I'd certainly never seen a forest fire start. The dozens of people on the beach stood in awe for a moment or two before deciding that our boat was now a genuine hazard to everyone's well-being.
I can still see the expression on my dad's face. The one of complete disbelief. The propane ran out soon enough, and the fire on the other side never really got going i the heavy rain. But it wasn't over for us. Ours being one of the smallest of the house-boating options, the beating our boat was taking was too much and it started to turn sideways. Once it turned slightly, it was all over. The flat side exposed to the huge waves was devastating to the boat. The windows smashed in. Water flooded through it. The pontoon on the water side started to come away from the "house" part of the boat. Dad, Emily and I sat in the rain and watched. The crowd that had backed away came back to take in the devastation. It was complete.
As the rain subsided and the surf died down to the calmness that one would expect from a lake, other house-boaters came to discuss our situation. People offered us food, dry clothing, even a place to sleep. Several burly guys helped us push and pull and tug the boat back into the more traditional moored position, but the back-end of the boat sank rather awkwardly into the water. Suddenly, we had become house-boating refugees.
Our radio had been smashed in the storm, so we used another houseboat's to radio our houseboat rental company for support. They were out first thing in the morning and we were taken back to the main docks in a speed boat. They would have to recover the houseboat and drag the shell back without us. I felt badly for dad at the time. It certainly hadn't ruined the holiday. It was so incredible; I think there were a number of people who didn't actually believe us. I only wish I had a picture of it!
As I recounted the story to Ange, who patiently put up with hearing it yet another time, she wondered allowed, "I wonder what will happen this weekend with you three together again?"
"Cripes!" I thought.
On seeing Emily and dad at St. Pancras, my first question to them was, "Do you have your passports?" Everyone did. There must have been an audible sigh of relief.
"Okay, let's check in!" I urged us on.
First step: French immigration.
What was certain was that whenever the three of us tried to go on a holiday, disaster struck. Sadly for my dad, most of the time the single-parent family holiday disaster was completely out of his control. That it never seemed to strike when my mum was with us remains (to this day) a mystery to me, for I can't remember a holiday with the three of us (Dad, Emily and I) that went smoothly... at least, in the traditional sense of the word.
There were times when my dad's carefree attitude towards life meant our lack of preparedness was our undoing. Most notably was a day-trip to France when Emily and I were detained by French immigration. We were travelling on our Canadian passports while dad travelled on his British one. I was too young to remember the details, but it was either a visa issue or suspicion relating to the different passports for parent and children. Given my dad's knowledge of French, I suspect he remains with similar doubts as to why we were detained. It remains the only time I have been 'arrested' and one of two times where my immediate freedom was briefly curtailed by men with machine guns. Mum was unimpressed.
Still, there was a sense that my dad could do little to divert the disaster in most instances. It was his dumb luck that both got us into the situation and got us out unscathed.
So, while Ange, Anna and I rolled into Paddington Station, it occurred to me that the last holiday that I had taken with Emily and dad was in the mid-1980s. In so many ways, it defines how my dad was undone by forces well beyond his control. It was our last holiday together until Christmas, 2007. It was house-boating on the Shushwap.
With the sting of past holidays no doubt on his mind (a small tornado while camping, the aforementioned immigration hiccup at Calais, numerous catastrophic car engine problems and the occasional car accident), dad went conservative when he booked a week of house-boating for us. It was an amazing week of driving the houseboat around the lakes. The weather was lovely. It was hot. We swam. I read Archie comics and we listened to two or three Beatles tapes endlessly. We BBQ'ed. We went for a few walks. It was all going off without a hitch. Sure, dad took the unnecessary risk of letting Emily, aged 6ish, drive the houseboat. But he was nearby and we were none the worse for having turned in circles at 8 mph.
Sensing a holiday without disaster was within sight, my dad played it conservatively. He insisted we moor the houseboat on a beach close to the rental facility on our last night. We didn't want to rush the next day or be late so we were driving all night. The weather had gotten cloudy in the afternoon and it looked like rain, so Emily and I would be bound to the boat that night anyway and didn't complain.
As we chugged towards the nearest beach, the rain started. At first just a patter. Then, rather suddenly, the sky darkened. The rain started to come down harder. And the wind picked up. The boat, which was essentially a wooden shack on two long aluminium pontoons, started to heave in the waves. Dad started towards the beach, where he and I braved the rain to tie the boat down on the beach in amongst 20 or so other houseboats.
The waves continued to grow. As the front of the houseboat was on the beach, the back sat in lake and the waves crashed against the back. Emily and I donned our raingear and stood in the back enclosure (which had a railing around it), jumping the waves as the crashed over the decking. But the waves continued to get bigger. Big enough that it became dangerous and dad ushered us inside the boat. The waves became so big that they started crashing against the back door of the cabin and so violent that occasionally they would burst the door open. My dad grew increasingly concerned. So too did the other house-boating vacationers. People started leaving their boats to stand in the rain on the safety of the beach. We did the same. And then, as luck would have it, a propane tank broke loose of its fittings.
For those who can see where this is going, you'll know it was our boat and our propane tank that was now loose on the back enclosure. Whether it was the water or the escaping propane that propelled the tank of explosive gas around the back deck like a ping-pong ball doesn't matter. The loose propane tank was being launched around the back boat was concern enough in and of itself. People started to back away from our boat. We started to back away from our boat. Could it blow up? As people started to discuss the likelihood of the propane tank blowing up, there was an horrendous crack of thunder and a bright flash. The lake, which was now throwing four or five foot waves at our boat, was only about a kilometre wide. Which put us at about 1100 meters from a forest fire starting. I'd never seen lightning strike. I'd certainly never seen a forest fire start. The dozens of people on the beach stood in awe for a moment or two before deciding that our boat was now a genuine hazard to everyone's well-being.
I can still see the expression on my dad's face. The one of complete disbelief. The propane ran out soon enough, and the fire on the other side never really got going i the heavy rain. But it wasn't over for us. Ours being one of the smallest of the house-boating options, the beating our boat was taking was too much and it started to turn sideways. Once it turned slightly, it was all over. The flat side exposed to the huge waves was devastating to the boat. The windows smashed in. Water flooded through it. The pontoon on the water side started to come away from the "house" part of the boat. Dad, Emily and I sat in the rain and watched. The crowd that had backed away came back to take in the devastation. It was complete.
As the rain subsided and the surf died down to the calmness that one would expect from a lake, other house-boaters came to discuss our situation. People offered us food, dry clothing, even a place to sleep. Several burly guys helped us push and pull and tug the boat back into the more traditional moored position, but the back-end of the boat sank rather awkwardly into the water. Suddenly, we had become house-boating refugees.
Our radio had been smashed in the storm, so we used another houseboat's to radio our houseboat rental company for support. They were out first thing in the morning and we were taken back to the main docks in a speed boat. They would have to recover the houseboat and drag the shell back without us. I felt badly for dad at the time. It certainly hadn't ruined the holiday. It was so incredible; I think there were a number of people who didn't actually believe us. I only wish I had a picture of it!
As I recounted the story to Ange, who patiently put up with hearing it yet another time, she wondered allowed, "I wonder what will happen this weekend with you three together again?"
"Cripes!" I thought.
On seeing Emily and dad at St. Pancras, my first question to them was, "Do you have your passports?" Everyone did. There must have been an audible sigh of relief.
"Okay, let's check in!" I urged us on.
First step: French immigration.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Is Britain more expensive?
Of course it is. However, next time I am being lectured on how Canada is cheaper, I shall simply tell this story. That really sucks.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
A tad political
Okay, I promise this won't become a political blog. But a couple of things have come out of Canada in the past few weeks that have been particularly upsetting. I think more generally, the Canadian image has also taken a beating these past few weeks in Europe (at least).
First, the RCMP are caught using a taser on a confused and distressed imigrant who seems to be clearly no threat to the four (!) armed officers who confront him. I was horrified to learn the RCMP had lied about what happened and, to most observers, seemed to be covering it up until the video surfaced. That has played out very badly in Europe, especially in Poland. The actions of those four officers have not only cost a life, but have damaged Canada's image. From a personal, human level, I can't see how the officers involved haven't been charged.
The Picton thing has also got a lot of airplay over here. One crazed individual is, of course, how it is reported. But as I follow Canadian newspapers online, it is stiking how long the RCMP took to react to the possibility that dozens of women from the same community going missing might be linked.
Finally, the Canadian government in Bali over climate change: we're being obstructive over climate change (here's a Globe and Mail article)? There's lots to say about this, but I will sum it up: I think that this tact is short sighted.
Okay. Enough controversy (did you know that they pronounce that word differently over here? Emphasis is on the conTROVersy... really!). I just had to get it off my chest.
First, the RCMP are caught using a taser on a confused and distressed imigrant who seems to be clearly no threat to the four (!) armed officers who confront him. I was horrified to learn the RCMP had lied about what happened and, to most observers, seemed to be covering it up until the video surfaced. That has played out very badly in Europe, especially in Poland. The actions of those four officers have not only cost a life, but have damaged Canada's image. From a personal, human level, I can't see how the officers involved haven't been charged.
The Picton thing has also got a lot of airplay over here. One crazed individual is, of course, how it is reported. But as I follow Canadian newspapers online, it is stiking how long the RCMP took to react to the possibility that dozens of women from the same community going missing might be linked.
Finally, the Canadian government in Bali over climate change: we're being obstructive over climate change (here's a Globe and Mail article)? There's lots to say about this, but I will sum it up: I think that this tact is short sighted.
Okay. Enough controversy (did you know that they pronounce that word differently over here? Emphasis is on the conTROVersy... really!). I just had to get it off my chest.
Monday, December 10, 2007
English Conifers
We have set up our tree and it really is excellent. Our house smells lovely. The tree is very pretty and really makes our little terrace feel like home during the holiday season.
Buying a tree in England was a good little piece of cultural nuance. For the most part, it was the same as Canada. Only more expensive. But then, when you're dealing in coniferous trees, do you really expect an overcrowded little island with few (if any) naturally occurring coniferous forests left to be able to offer trees at a similar price to an under-populated half continent with nothing but coniferous forests?
We met up with Emma and Stig. Emma is a colleague of mine from the university. Were it not for the fact she lives 20 miles the other side of Oxford from us (or 50 miles from us), I reckon we'd probably hang out some. We were trying to pick a place and, being entirely North American, I suggested somewhere with a coffee shop. Emma was baffled. As if the thought of going for a coffee on a Sunday afternoon had never occurred to her. Certainly not in her village. I then suggested a small town (called Woodstock) we'd been to for a work meeting some months earlier. Oh yes, she thought, they would have a coffee shop. I digress only to point out the irony that the Canadian who had been through this town once had noticed the coffee shops. Emma had grown up in the town.
We had our coffee and drove off to the tree/garden centre. There was a mist settled in the valleys of the rolling hills of the Cotswolds and the rain poured down as we arrived at the old house that had been converted into a one-stop garden centre... which, for the month of December, was a Christmas centre. There were lots of trees, but not overwhelmingly many. There were really big ones, but mostly in the 5 to 8 foot range. There were a couple that were basically shrubs. Little balls of conifer that didn't remotely resemble a tree. They were just evergreen bushes. Very odd.
The first step for us foreigners was to pick between the two basic types of trees. Ange liked one type and me the other. Sadly, I liked the more expensive one and Ange gives me a hard time about picking trees year on year. She was picking this year. So, we chose the type she liked and I went to pick it up.
"Ouch!" I said aloud as went to pick it up. The damn thing had bit me. I went in more cautiously, aware that the British version of an evergreen had clearly learned to defend itself from years of competition with the local population. By the time I got it in the car, by arms were covered in a rash of little pricks from the needles. Putting the tree up in the house only made the rash worse. Our tree is the perfect shape and lovely to look at but do not touch it! It is essentially 8 feet of stinging nettle.
Once up and covered in lights, Anna was nearly beside herself with excitement. The decorations were purchased from the local department store and completely lack any sort of soul. However, where the decorations lack soul, Anna's style of decorating has added character! You see, everything at shin height is in clumps. If Anna found a good branch--one worthy of a decoration--she would place as many decorations as possible on the same branch. You don't mess with a good thing! We also had Hilary and Nick (our friends from Ange's school) come by. They added loads of life to the tree decorating and Anna loves them. We had the Carpenters Christmas playing away in the background.
Anna's decorating style (on the dangerous nettle tree):
So, despite a dangerous stinging tree, cheap, plastic tree decorations, and lame 70s Christmas music, it was a wonderful--and very festive--night. Now... off to try and get going on Christmas cards...
Buying a tree in England was a good little piece of cultural nuance. For the most part, it was the same as Canada. Only more expensive. But then, when you're dealing in coniferous trees, do you really expect an overcrowded little island with few (if any) naturally occurring coniferous forests left to be able to offer trees at a similar price to an under-populated half continent with nothing but coniferous forests?
We met up with Emma and Stig. Emma is a colleague of mine from the university. Were it not for the fact she lives 20 miles the other side of Oxford from us (or 50 miles from us), I reckon we'd probably hang out some. We were trying to pick a place and, being entirely North American, I suggested somewhere with a coffee shop. Emma was baffled. As if the thought of going for a coffee on a Sunday afternoon had never occurred to her. Certainly not in her village. I then suggested a small town (called Woodstock) we'd been to for a work meeting some months earlier. Oh yes, she thought, they would have a coffee shop. I digress only to point out the irony that the Canadian who had been through this town once had noticed the coffee shops. Emma had grown up in the town.
We had our coffee and drove off to the tree/garden centre. There was a mist settled in the valleys of the rolling hills of the Cotswolds and the rain poured down as we arrived at the old house that had been converted into a one-stop garden centre... which, for the month of December, was a Christmas centre. There were lots of trees, but not overwhelmingly many. There were really big ones, but mostly in the 5 to 8 foot range. There were a couple that were basically shrubs. Little balls of conifer that didn't remotely resemble a tree. They were just evergreen bushes. Very odd.
The first step for us foreigners was to pick between the two basic types of trees. Ange liked one type and me the other. Sadly, I liked the more expensive one and Ange gives me a hard time about picking trees year on year. She was picking this year. So, we chose the type she liked and I went to pick it up.
"Ouch!" I said aloud as went to pick it up. The damn thing had bit me. I went in more cautiously, aware that the British version of an evergreen had clearly learned to defend itself from years of competition with the local population. By the time I got it in the car, by arms were covered in a rash of little pricks from the needles. Putting the tree up in the house only made the rash worse. Our tree is the perfect shape and lovely to look at but do not touch it! It is essentially 8 feet of stinging nettle.
Once up and covered in lights, Anna was nearly beside herself with excitement. The decorations were purchased from the local department store and completely lack any sort of soul. However, where the decorations lack soul, Anna's style of decorating has added character! You see, everything at shin height is in clumps. If Anna found a good branch--one worthy of a decoration--she would place as many decorations as possible on the same branch. You don't mess with a good thing! We also had Hilary and Nick (our friends from Ange's school) come by. They added loads of life to the tree decorating and Anna loves them. We had the Carpenters Christmas playing away in the background.
Anna's decorating style (on the dangerous nettle tree):
So, despite a dangerous stinging tree, cheap, plastic tree decorations, and lame 70s Christmas music, it was a wonderful--and very festive--night. Now... off to try and get going on Christmas cards...
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Big Rocks
Happily, one of the most easily accessible sites-of-interest near to us is a wee circle of rocks, known to many as Stonehenge. It is about an hour's drive from our place, through some lovely countryside. Owned and operated by our friends at English Heritage, our passes get us in for free. It should be no surprise, therefore, that we've visited it a few times since arriving here a little over a year ago.
Ange's "aunt" Grazyna from Calgary was visiting this past weekend. Grazyna emigrated from Poland to Canada many, many years ago and married a Brit. But in all her travels to Europe, she had never stepped outside of Heathrow. With only a couple of days, we needed to maximise sight-seeing. So, with Stonehenge so close and--arguably--a wonder of the world, we went off to see the 5000 year old rock arrangement. Does that make it a "rockery?" I'm sure Monty Python would have an opinion.
To Anna, they're merely rocks. Big rocks, in fairness, but still rocks. Anna was more interested in running up and down the paths. So, Anna ran her socks off while Grazyna and Ange took in the audio tour. It is truly fantastic. But, on some level, Stonehenge is somewhat unremarkable to the casual observer. For instance, at first glance, the rocks aren't really that big in the scale of 20th century architecture. This, of course, is not appreciating that stone-age people somehow managed to move these rocks from south Wales... about 250 miles. Some of the rocks are over 4 tonnes. Then there is the stunning alignment of the rocks and how it coincides with the seasons. It's crazy. However, the site itself sits between a Y in the road. While the main road draws off to the southwest, another small road pulls northwest. These two roads meet just a couple of hundred meters from Stonehenge. So, you can see all of Stonehenge from the road. There's only a chain-link fence keeping you out, meaning that anyone can grab a quick photo and, from a bit of distance, walk around two thirds of it.
You're paying for the audio tour, to get a little closer, and to have access to the gift shop. Or, for us loyal English Heritage supporters, you're giving money to the upkeep of heritage sites around the country (since sites like Stonehenge subsidize the hundreds of free sites that aren't nearly as popular).
Yet, as Anna and I walked into the site, I was distressed to hear a North American couple lamenting the money they had spent to see it. There was a gentleman in is late 50s/early 60s, dressed in North Face jacket suitable for an Everest expedition. The jacket was proudly hitched up on one side to display his Blackberry, which was attached to his trousers with a giant plastic clip. He walked with his wife/partner, who had also come from North America prepared for the English winter in uber-expensive, arctic expedition trecking gear. He had noticed a mural on the wall of the access tunnel to Stonehenge and commented to his wife, "Ahhhhhhh! That is what it is meant to look like!" She responded, "Yeah, that was disappointing. I don't know what the big deal is. Half of it is missing."
I smiled. So did Anna. But for different reasons. They had smiled at Anna and she is friendly. Clearly nice people. But I was at pains not to ask: "What were you expecting?"
You can clearly see everything there is to offer from other side of the fence (that neither tries nor succeeds in blocking anyone's view of the site)! You can see it as you drive up, you see it as you walk by. What could possibly change by paying $12, apart from getting an audio tour (which, by the way, is excellent!)?!? Of course, the other question that lingers is the expectation of the completeness of a monument that is over 5000 years old. I should have warned them off of Greece. And Turkey. And Rome (the Italians have let all sorts of things, like the Collesium, deteriorate!). And most castles in Europe. And, of course--should they ever visit Alberta--Head Smashed in Buffalo Jump.
Anna enjoying the path in front of Stonehenge (which, by the way, I would argue is more enjoyable than Head Smashed in Buffalo Jump on a number of levels):
Grazyna and Ange enjoying the audio experience in front of the henge (which, doesn't really get a whole lot bigger or more exciting than this picture):
Ange's "aunt" Grazyna from Calgary was visiting this past weekend. Grazyna emigrated from Poland to Canada many, many years ago and married a Brit. But in all her travels to Europe, she had never stepped outside of Heathrow. With only a couple of days, we needed to maximise sight-seeing. So, with Stonehenge so close and--arguably--a wonder of the world, we went off to see the 5000 year old rock arrangement. Does that make it a "rockery?" I'm sure Monty Python would have an opinion.
To Anna, they're merely rocks. Big rocks, in fairness, but still rocks. Anna was more interested in running up and down the paths. So, Anna ran her socks off while Grazyna and Ange took in the audio tour. It is truly fantastic. But, on some level, Stonehenge is somewhat unremarkable to the casual observer. For instance, at first glance, the rocks aren't really that big in the scale of 20th century architecture. This, of course, is not appreciating that stone-age people somehow managed to move these rocks from south Wales... about 250 miles. Some of the rocks are over 4 tonnes. Then there is the stunning alignment of the rocks and how it coincides with the seasons. It's crazy. However, the site itself sits between a Y in the road. While the main road draws off to the southwest, another small road pulls northwest. These two roads meet just a couple of hundred meters from Stonehenge. So, you can see all of Stonehenge from the road. There's only a chain-link fence keeping you out, meaning that anyone can grab a quick photo and, from a bit of distance, walk around two thirds of it.
You're paying for the audio tour, to get a little closer, and to have access to the gift shop. Or, for us loyal English Heritage supporters, you're giving money to the upkeep of heritage sites around the country (since sites like Stonehenge subsidize the hundreds of free sites that aren't nearly as popular).
Yet, as Anna and I walked into the site, I was distressed to hear a North American couple lamenting the money they had spent to see it. There was a gentleman in is late 50s/early 60s, dressed in North Face jacket suitable for an Everest expedition. The jacket was proudly hitched up on one side to display his Blackberry, which was attached to his trousers with a giant plastic clip. He walked with his wife/partner, who had also come from North America prepared for the English winter in uber-expensive, arctic expedition trecking gear. He had noticed a mural on the wall of the access tunnel to Stonehenge and commented to his wife, "Ahhhhhhh! That is what it is meant to look like!" She responded, "Yeah, that was disappointing. I don't know what the big deal is. Half of it is missing."
I smiled. So did Anna. But for different reasons. They had smiled at Anna and she is friendly. Clearly nice people. But I was at pains not to ask: "What were you expecting?"
You can clearly see everything there is to offer from other side of the fence (that neither tries nor succeeds in blocking anyone's view of the site)! You can see it as you drive up, you see it as you walk by. What could possibly change by paying $12, apart from getting an audio tour (which, by the way, is excellent!)?!? Of course, the other question that lingers is the expectation of the completeness of a monument that is over 5000 years old. I should have warned them off of Greece. And Turkey. And Rome (the Italians have let all sorts of things, like the Collesium, deteriorate!). And most castles in Europe. And, of course--should they ever visit Alberta--Head Smashed in Buffalo Jump.
Anna enjoying the path in front of Stonehenge (which, by the way, I would argue is more enjoyable than Head Smashed in Buffalo Jump on a number of levels):
Grazyna and Ange enjoying the audio experience in front of the henge (which, doesn't really get a whole lot bigger or more exciting than this picture):
Friday, November 23, 2007
DVLA Update
For those of you that are holding your breath, wondering daily about wheter or not I am legally entitled to drive in the UK, there is good news.
I got my UK licence. And, I passed the test that allows me to drive a standard transmission vehicle. In fact, I passed the test first time. Angela was my instructor and is owed much respect in equal parts for 1)having taught me well; and, 2)being willing to teach such an arrogant punk.
Without going into the details, some interesting conversation from the test experience:
"So..." asks the tester [exagerated pause for reflection after having been driving for 5 minutes or so] "...you've driven a standard before." Was it a question or a statement? Did he think he had caught one of the stand-in applicants who have been doing tests on behalf of others (apparently hundreds of people have got their licence through these people pretending to be the new driver)....
"Yes." I replied calmly, almost proudly.
"So, why are you taking this test?"
"Because I can't prove with official documentation that I did my original test on a manual transmission vehicle."
"Ah, you're from Canada."
There's a government policy hard at work.
I got my UK licence. And, I passed the test that allows me to drive a standard transmission vehicle. In fact, I passed the test first time. Angela was my instructor and is owed much respect in equal parts for 1)having taught me well; and, 2)being willing to teach such an arrogant punk.
Without going into the details, some interesting conversation from the test experience:
"So..." asks the tester [exagerated pause for reflection after having been driving for 5 minutes or so] "...you've driven a standard before." Was it a question or a statement? Did he think he had caught one of the stand-in applicants who have been doing tests on behalf of others (apparently hundreds of people have got their licence through these people pretending to be the new driver)....
"Yes." I replied calmly, almost proudly.
"So, why are you taking this test?"
"Because I can't prove with official documentation that I did my original test on a manual transmission vehicle."
"Ah, you're from Canada."
There's a government policy hard at work.
Lisa Squared
Somehow another month has slipped by without a blog update. Rubbish. I wish I could blame it on Facebook, but it too has disappeared from my daily radar of things to accomplish. Life just doesn't get any less busy.
But being busy has been a real joy. On Pauline's last day in England, we went to France. We had plans to go see Vimy Ridge, the Canadian war memorial near Arras. However, as the ferry shuffled across the English Channel and France came into view, I pulled out the map. A map always puts Europe in perspective. I suppose it puts anywhere in perspective, since that's exactly what they're designed to do. But somehow, it is especially true with Europe. As I plotted our route from Calais (the port where we were to arrive from Dover), it struck me just how close we were to Belgium. It only took a further moment to realise just how small Belgium actually is. Sure, it's bigger than Luxemburg or Monaco, but it only two thirds the size of our biggest national park, Wood Buffalo National Park.
It was a revelation to see that one of Europe's true gems, Brugge, was no further from us than Arras. So, on Pauline's final day in England, we skipped France and went to Belgium. Brugge rocks. Anna loved Brugge (especially the little fun fair in one of the squares). Pauline loved Brugge (especially the chocolate). And Ange and I love Brugge.
After spending the day in the medieval old town, we jumped back in the car to get back to Calais to pick up Lisa Brake. Lisa is a star. Despite being six months pregnant, she decided to fit one last sans-baby adventure in and came to Europe. Flying into Paris, she took the train to Calais to meet us. We rendezvous-ed without too much trouble and caught the ferry back to England. A long day, but thoroughly enjoyable.
One thing about Lisa is that she hates to miss out on anything. Our old roommate, Jason, and I quickly learned this about Lisa when we shared a house back in Hull, Quebec many years ago. It is worth asking Lisa to re-tell the story about Anu 'forcing' her to party one work night in Ottawa. Of course, there is also wildly popular story of Lisa participating in leaving messages on the "federal government Action on Smoking" voicemail, which was recently re-told in this blog (click here to re-live it!). So, when Lisa heard about Lisa Quattrochi (often known as simply 'Q') coming to visit us on the way back from Nepal, it was the impetus needed to spur her to booking the ticket. They overlapped their visits so they could check out England together and so Anna would only have to declare, "Lisa" to get half the room to respond.
Lisa Q arrived the next day from Nepal and suddenly we had two Lisas in the house. Not only that, but they were both a huge hit with Anna. Sowing little preference between the Lisas, Anna would call out "Lisa!" Invariably, the wrong one would respond to her, to which Anna would explain, "No. The other one." We laughed many times at this.
Lisa and Lisa didn't get as much sight-seeing in as I had hoped they might. Q was jet-lagged and feeling poorly from some nasty bug she picked up on the flight or in Delhi airport. She rebounded quickly, though, and they were able to come into Oxford with me one day. On the final day, I had hockey and had to be in Henley. Ange, Anna and the Lisas stuck close to Reading, coming into Henley themselves in the afternoon. It was all very nice, but I remained somewhat disappointed that their visit hadn't been more exciting.
Then, out of the blue, we had the most English of English nights ever. And, I mean ever. It was November 3 and there were advertisements for Guy Fawkes night celebrations. We went to check them out. Sure enough, thousands of people had gathered. We actually drove away to consider our options. In stopping to discuss, we picked up a movie and some dinner from a take-away. We decided to go for it.
So, our fish and chips in hand, we went back to the bonfire party. It was great. Held at the rugby club, it was all very, very British. And, there we were with out fish and chips. The fireworks display was really impressive. However, it clearly was not the only one going on. So, all across the sky--in every direction--fireworks were going off. Anna was mesmerized. I was mesmerised. It was really good.
After the display, we headed back to our little terrace where--to cap off an evening of bure Britania--we watched... Monty Python's Search for the Holy Grail. Jolly good indeed.
Lisas and Anna:
But being busy has been a real joy. On Pauline's last day in England, we went to France. We had plans to go see Vimy Ridge, the Canadian war memorial near Arras. However, as the ferry shuffled across the English Channel and France came into view, I pulled out the map. A map always puts Europe in perspective. I suppose it puts anywhere in perspective, since that's exactly what they're designed to do. But somehow, it is especially true with Europe. As I plotted our route from Calais (the port where we were to arrive from Dover), it struck me just how close we were to Belgium. It only took a further moment to realise just how small Belgium actually is. Sure, it's bigger than Luxemburg or Monaco, but it only two thirds the size of our biggest national park, Wood Buffalo National Park.
It was a revelation to see that one of Europe's true gems, Brugge, was no further from us than Arras. So, on Pauline's final day in England, we skipped France and went to Belgium. Brugge rocks. Anna loved Brugge (especially the little fun fair in one of the squares). Pauline loved Brugge (especially the chocolate). And Ange and I love Brugge.After spending the day in the medieval old town, we jumped back in the car to get back to Calais to pick up Lisa Brake. Lisa is a star. Despite being six months pregnant, she decided to fit one last sans-baby adventure in and came to Europe. Flying into Paris, she took the train to Calais to meet us. We rendezvous-ed without too much trouble and caught the ferry back to England. A long day, but thoroughly enjoyable.
One thing about Lisa is that she hates to miss out on anything. Our old roommate, Jason, and I quickly learned this about Lisa when we shared a house back in Hull, Quebec many years ago. It is worth asking Lisa to re-tell the story about Anu 'forcing' her to party one work night in Ottawa. Of course, there is also wildly popular story of Lisa participating in leaving messages on the "federal government Action on Smoking" voicemail, which was recently re-told in this blog (click here to re-live it!). So, when Lisa heard about Lisa Quattrochi (often known as simply 'Q') coming to visit us on the way back from Nepal, it was the impetus needed to spur her to booking the ticket. They overlapped their visits so they could check out England together and so Anna would only have to declare, "Lisa" to get half the room to respond.
Lisa Q arrived the next day from Nepal and suddenly we had two Lisas in the house. Not only that, but they were both a huge hit with Anna. Sowing little preference between the Lisas, Anna would call out "Lisa!" Invariably, the wrong one would respond to her, to which Anna would explain, "No. The other one." We laughed many times at this.
Lisa and Lisa didn't get as much sight-seeing in as I had hoped they might. Q was jet-lagged and feeling poorly from some nasty bug she picked up on the flight or in Delhi airport. She rebounded quickly, though, and they were able to come into Oxford with me one day. On the final day, I had hockey and had to be in Henley. Ange, Anna and the Lisas stuck close to Reading, coming into Henley themselves in the afternoon. It was all very nice, but I remained somewhat disappointed that their visit hadn't been more exciting.
Then, out of the blue, we had the most English of English nights ever. And, I mean ever. It was November 3 and there were advertisements for Guy Fawkes night celebrations. We went to check them out. Sure enough, thousands of people had gathered. We actually drove away to consider our options. In stopping to discuss, we picked up a movie and some dinner from a take-away. We decided to go for it.
So, our fish and chips in hand, we went back to the bonfire party. It was great. Held at the rugby club, it was all very, very British. And, there we were with out fish and chips. The fireworks display was really impressive. However, it clearly was not the only one going on. So, all across the sky--in every direction--fireworks were going off. Anna was mesmerized. I was mesmerised. It was really good.
After the display, we headed back to our little terrace where--to cap off an evening of bure Britania--we watched... Monty Python's Search for the Holy Grail. Jolly good indeed.
Lisas and Anna:
Friday, October 26, 2007
New Photos!
Okay, I've been bad. New photos are finally posted. Click here. Scroll to the bottom.
Anna is seriously addicted to sparkly barrettes. We were told they are called 'hair grips' here. Apparently we misheard and they are actually 'hair clips.' So, as a family, we've got it wrong. Quality foreigners.
And, of course, no ordinary, flowered hair clip will do. Only the sparkly ones. But they're called, "barky hair grips." Tonight, at bed time, the only thing that would settle for sleep was "barky hair grips... BARKY hair grips... BARKY HAIR GRIPS, PLEASE!"
"Okay, Okay!" I thought. "I'll get your barky hair grips, and then we'll sing songs and go to sleep." I repeated back to her. It's slow learning for both of us.
Anna and Gran pick apples near Toronto:
Anna is seriously addicted to sparkly barrettes. We were told they are called 'hair grips' here. Apparently we misheard and they are actually 'hair clips.' So, as a family, we've got it wrong. Quality foreigners.
And, of course, no ordinary, flowered hair clip will do. Only the sparkly ones. But they're called, "barky hair grips." Tonight, at bed time, the only thing that would settle for sleep was "barky hair grips... BARKY hair grips... BARKY HAIR GRIPS, PLEASE!"
"Okay, Okay!" I thought. "I'll get your barky hair grips, and then we'll sing songs and go to sleep." I repeated back to her. It's slow learning for both of us.
Anna and Gran pick apples near Toronto:
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Too Long
It is simply too long between postings on this blog. I think about it all the time. I want to post. I'm just so damn busy. Why, you ask? Well, we went to Toronto for 10 days. I was struck by the fact that Canadians aren't as nice, friendly and courteous as we make ourselves out to be. The customer service was certainly no better than Britain. I can hear the collective gasp. Wait... yep, there is the indignation. Now? Yes, denial. With denial comes? Blame. I know, we were in Toronto. Phew. We can blame it on Toronto.
Teasing aside, it was great to see little Isabelle, only five days old! Congrats to Care and Jeff. They are very calm and collected new parents. On Jeff's part, it may have had to do with how much scotch we drank that week. He explained to Isabelle at one point that I was, "Uncle Ben. Daddy's scotch drinking partner." I've never been that before. I felt good about it. Except for one morning, where I felt less good about it. I also got a quick blitz on Jeff's motorbike. It was a new bike. Addictive things them. They start first time. They accelarate so wonderfully. They handle. They don't stall indiscriminately. The clutch works. They look good. Damn it for making me want a bike over here.
Anna's favourite part of the trip was our trip to an apple orchard. There was the full family set-up. Pony rides, petting zoo, you-pick apples. It was full on. Anna was in heaven. For days after arriving back, she has reminded us that she went on a pony. "Anna ride pony." (Amusingly, she still refers to herself in the 3rd person in all instances). When you ask her what the pony's name was, she is quick to recall: "Shayan." She also fondly remembers the tractor ride (a tractor pulled a large trailer covered in hay). "Anna ride tractor." She also fed goats, a calf, pigs and lambs. She also ate an apple that was nearly the size of her head. I still can't believe she got through it all. Quality entertainment.
Since getting back, we've moved into HG (hosting guests) mode. It is super exciting to have Pauline here with us. We took her to the amazing Dover Castle and then attended the most lovely even-song at Cantebury Cathedral. I've now been to Dover 6 times and it is gold on every visit. In Cantebury, we capped off the day with a wonderful Sunday roast in a 600 year old pub on the canal. That sort of food is critical for Pauline: she's a self-identified "foody." The result for Ange, Anna and I is the most amazing assortment of cheese, paté and other goodies has piled through our door since Pauline's arrival. One of the carrots to get her here was the #1 restaurant in the world, The Fat Duck. Incredibly, it is only about 15 miles from us, in the cute little town of Bray. I made enquiries 2 months ago, managing to get a lunch reservation. Goodness. What an amazing 4 hour lunch. It did break the bank, but I can honestly say that is was worth it as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I never imagined food could taste like that.
This weekend? We've got Bath on the itinerary and then the epic, one day return trip to France on Monday to check out Calais and (hopefully) Vimy Ridge. We're also going to pick up Lisa B in France, who is coming to stay with us for a week after a couple of days in Paris! Lisa Q arrives next week from Nepal, meaning even more adventures for the coming weeks.
You can tell we've been adventuring when I pull out the camera at Dover Castle to take a photo and not only is the battery dead, but the backup battery is dead AND the video camera battery is dead. No worries, we've re-charged.
Teasing aside, it was great to see little Isabelle, only five days old! Congrats to Care and Jeff. They are very calm and collected new parents. On Jeff's part, it may have had to do with how much scotch we drank that week. He explained to Isabelle at one point that I was, "Uncle Ben. Daddy's scotch drinking partner." I've never been that before. I felt good about it. Except for one morning, where I felt less good about it. I also got a quick blitz on Jeff's motorbike. It was a new bike. Addictive things them. They start first time. They accelarate so wonderfully. They handle. They don't stall indiscriminately. The clutch works. They look good. Damn it for making me want a bike over here.
Anna's favourite part of the trip was our trip to an apple orchard. There was the full family set-up. Pony rides, petting zoo, you-pick apples. It was full on. Anna was in heaven. For days after arriving back, she has reminded us that she went on a pony. "Anna ride pony." (Amusingly, she still refers to herself in the 3rd person in all instances). When you ask her what the pony's name was, she is quick to recall: "Shayan." She also fondly remembers the tractor ride (a tractor pulled a large trailer covered in hay). "Anna ride tractor." She also fed goats, a calf, pigs and lambs. She also ate an apple that was nearly the size of her head. I still can't believe she got through it all. Quality entertainment.
Since getting back, we've moved into HG (hosting guests) mode. It is super exciting to have Pauline here with us. We took her to the amazing Dover Castle and then attended the most lovely even-song at Cantebury Cathedral. I've now been to Dover 6 times and it is gold on every visit. In Cantebury, we capped off the day with a wonderful Sunday roast in a 600 year old pub on the canal. That sort of food is critical for Pauline: she's a self-identified "foody." The result for Ange, Anna and I is the most amazing assortment of cheese, paté and other goodies has piled through our door since Pauline's arrival. One of the carrots to get her here was the #1 restaurant in the world, The Fat Duck. Incredibly, it is only about 15 miles from us, in the cute little town of Bray. I made enquiries 2 months ago, managing to get a lunch reservation. Goodness. What an amazing 4 hour lunch. It did break the bank, but I can honestly say that is was worth it as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I never imagined food could taste like that.
This weekend? We've got Bath on the itinerary and then the epic, one day return trip to France on Monday to check out Calais and (hopefully) Vimy Ridge. We're also going to pick up Lisa B in France, who is coming to stay with us for a week after a couple of days in Paris! Lisa Q arrives next week from Nepal, meaning even more adventures for the coming weeks.
You can tell we've been adventuring when I pull out the camera at Dover Castle to take a photo and not only is the battery dead, but the backup battery is dead AND the video camera battery is dead. No worries, we've re-charged.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Tragic
Last Friday was a momentous event for Ange and I. It was only a day off our one year anniversary of arriving back in UK. It was also our first time out in London, just the two of us. First you ask, how does this happen?
Well, one word for that: Shivani. Shiv offered us tickets to see a gig at the famous Astoria concert venue in London and babysat Anna so we could go out. So, what wonderfully British event did we partake in to celebrate a year in the UK? Drum roll please... we went and saw the Tragically Hip.
They were hip. The crowd, however, was the tragic part. For any Canadian who grew up in the 1990s, the Hip were the event to go to. Less frequent than the Watchmen or Spirit of the West and far cooler than the Barenaked Ladies or Great Big Sea, a Hip concert was something to look forward to and relish with a degree of disregard for one's liver and personal safety (i.e. the mosh pits).
However, the 1990s have long since passed. The crowd was painfully Canadian. As Ange and I arrived, we were greeted by a crowd that was 99% Canadian and 1% Australian friends or flatmates of Canadians. A rather painful and embarrassing Canadian national anthem broke out between the warm-up band and the Hip. Hockey jerseys were worn by every 10th person. One idiot was wearing an "I 'maple leaf' Toronto" shirt. In the middle of central London, where fashion comes alive, the Astoria was a dead zone of jeans, t-shirts, hockey jerseys and suspiciously too many plaid lumberjack button-up shirts.
When the Hip came on though, there is nothing like a soulful version of Grace Too to throw you back 10 years. The guy beside us was too much, though. He was a stocky build. Probably mid-to-late-30s. I would wager money he spent a good deal of time in some rural prairie town. His proudest sporting achievement was almost certainly either playing back up guard in a high school football quarter final or a 5th place finish in a major street hockey tournament sponsored by a deodorant company.
He stood proudly in his Darcy Tucker Maples Leafs jersey. He held a lager in each hand (it was Carlsberg, though I imagine that he imagined it was Molson or Labatt). He swayed and sang every word. He punched the air emphatically at all the right moments in every song. When he was bumped, he apologised. He, in a very distressing sense, summed up the crowd. There was no moshing. It was all very civilized. So much so, that the event ended to a raucous applause at 10:30pm. And yet, we had such a good time. It was really enjoyable to see the Hip. They were excellent. And, on hearing that we were going, my sister joined us for the night. It was great to head out with her too.
The next day, there was no hang-over. No inexplicable bruises to your shoulders and face. Just an entirely pleasant evening with a slight sense of, "gosh, I'm getting older." But, just like the old days, my ears rang for days.
Well, one word for that: Shivani. Shiv offered us tickets to see a gig at the famous Astoria concert venue in London and babysat Anna so we could go out. So, what wonderfully British event did we partake in to celebrate a year in the UK? Drum roll please... we went and saw the Tragically Hip.
They were hip. The crowd, however, was the tragic part. For any Canadian who grew up in the 1990s, the Hip were the event to go to. Less frequent than the Watchmen or Spirit of the West and far cooler than the Barenaked Ladies or Great Big Sea, a Hip concert was something to look forward to and relish with a degree of disregard for one's liver and personal safety (i.e. the mosh pits).
However, the 1990s have long since passed. The crowd was painfully Canadian. As Ange and I arrived, we were greeted by a crowd that was 99% Canadian and 1% Australian friends or flatmates of Canadians. A rather painful and embarrassing Canadian national anthem broke out between the warm-up band and the Hip. Hockey jerseys were worn by every 10th person. One idiot was wearing an "I 'maple leaf' Toronto" shirt. In the middle of central London, where fashion comes alive, the Astoria was a dead zone of jeans, t-shirts, hockey jerseys and suspiciously too many plaid lumberjack button-up shirts.
When the Hip came on though, there is nothing like a soulful version of Grace Too to throw you back 10 years. The guy beside us was too much, though. He was a stocky build. Probably mid-to-late-30s. I would wager money he spent a good deal of time in some rural prairie town. His proudest sporting achievement was almost certainly either playing back up guard in a high school football quarter final or a 5th place finish in a major street hockey tournament sponsored by a deodorant company.
He stood proudly in his Darcy Tucker Maples Leafs jersey. He held a lager in each hand (it was Carlsberg, though I imagine that he imagined it was Molson or Labatt). He swayed and sang every word. He punched the air emphatically at all the right moments in every song. When he was bumped, he apologised. He, in a very distressing sense, summed up the crowd. There was no moshing. It was all very civilized. So much so, that the event ended to a raucous applause at 10:30pm. And yet, we had such a good time. It was really enjoyable to see the Hip. They were excellent. And, on hearing that we were going, my sister joined us for the night. It was great to head out with her too.
The next day, there was no hang-over. No inexplicable bruises to your shoulders and face. Just an entirely pleasant evening with a slight sense of, "gosh, I'm getting older." But, just like the old days, my ears rang for days.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Poised
After so much conjecture about buying a house, it was all meant to get decided today.
While all indications suggest that buying a house in the current market is madness, we've plunged ahead against seemingly insurmountable odds. At first, it was getting credit. As foreigners, we not to be trusted by the banking establishment. Then, it has been the system itself which provides so many systemic road-blocks, you'd think you were trying to escape an Eastern block country in 1967 rather than give someone a bunch of money for an old, run-down house in a crowded, dirty city. Hiccups in the system prolonged the experience, the best being the mortgage lender moving head offices and leaving everyone in our chain waiting for them to pull it together.
Now that we've negotiated the various hurdles, we are left wondering if this is our best idea ever. Months of speculation by the experts have forcasted a cooling-off, if not down-turn in the housing market. Is it the British penchant for worrying or is it the reality of US mortgage crisis reaching beyond US borders? Then, of course, one of the significant mortgage lenders over here ran into a massive crisis the other day. Northern Rock (is anyone noticing the possible metephor with Canada here?) has declared a state of emergency as its investors and customers clamour to pull out. Cripes. The possible collapse of the banking industry would really conspire against us buying this house.... of course, that is a woeful overstatement. Still, we've heard nothing today from the Estate Agent, despite them having hassled us for weeks about being ready to move, move, move.
So, is it shocking customer service? Is it systemic incomeptence? Is it the wholesale collapse of the banking industry? Is it that our mortgage lender is still on summer holiday? Tough to say. My bet is that we won't exchange contracts today. The irony being: somehow we will get blamed for it. We've got the accents that will have everyone else in the chain nodding their heads in collective understanding. It must, after all, be the Canadians.
While all indications suggest that buying a house in the current market is madness, we've plunged ahead against seemingly insurmountable odds. At first, it was getting credit. As foreigners, we not to be trusted by the banking establishment. Then, it has been the system itself which provides so many systemic road-blocks, you'd think you were trying to escape an Eastern block country in 1967 rather than give someone a bunch of money for an old, run-down house in a crowded, dirty city. Hiccups in the system prolonged the experience, the best being the mortgage lender moving head offices and leaving everyone in our chain waiting for them to pull it together.
Now that we've negotiated the various hurdles, we are left wondering if this is our best idea ever. Months of speculation by the experts have forcasted a cooling-off, if not down-turn in the housing market. Is it the British penchant for worrying or is it the reality of US mortgage crisis reaching beyond US borders? Then, of course, one of the significant mortgage lenders over here ran into a massive crisis the other day. Northern Rock (is anyone noticing the possible metephor with Canada here?) has declared a state of emergency as its investors and customers clamour to pull out. Cripes. The possible collapse of the banking industry would really conspire against us buying this house.... of course, that is a woeful overstatement. Still, we've heard nothing today from the Estate Agent, despite them having hassled us for weeks about being ready to move, move, move.
So, is it shocking customer service? Is it systemic incomeptence? Is it the wholesale collapse of the banking industry? Is it that our mortgage lender is still on summer holiday? Tough to say. My bet is that we won't exchange contracts today. The irony being: somehow we will get blamed for it. We've got the accents that will have everyone else in the chain nodding their heads in collective understanding. It must, after all, be the Canadians.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Away In a Manger
We have developed a bedtime routine for Anna that I enjoy almost as much as her. She seems to like the routine, regularly declaring at about 7pm: "Anna. Bed."
A key element is me lying on the floor beside her cot. I put a collection of small pillows behind my head. Anna usually confirms I will be lying down, explaining to me: "Daddy. Pillows." And then I sing. Some of you will appreciate that I am likely doing more harm than good to poor Anna's future as a musician, but I like singing to someone who clearly doesn't care that fewer than half of the notes are remotely in tune.
I also have a pretty small repertoire of songs. I have Twinkle, Twinkle. It's an old standby, but reliable and appropriate for going to bed. I can pull of Ba, Ba, Black sheep and know enough versus of Mary Had a Little Lamb to fill a couple of minutes. It ends a little abruptly but both Anna and I are comfortable with my ending. Thanks to many campfires and a Raffi CD that gets too much airplay in the car, I can also 'sing' Kumbaya. I won't lie, it's a favourite.
My last and most accomplished song is one my mother used to sing to me when I was young. Away in a Manger. I have received a certain degree of ridicule for singing this song as a year-round bedtime song. The other day, a certain Lindsay Atkinson asked if I followed it up with Jingle Bells or I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas. It has since occurred to me that I do know a number of Christmas songs. Certainly more Christmas songs than lullabies. I am now waiting for the official word that Christmas season has begun to broaden my repertoire: North American retail. I figure if I drag Christmas tunes out til mid January, I should get a good 2, 2.5 months out of them.
Anna, however, has gotten used to our little routine. Just tonight, she was pretending to put Rupert and Teddy Bear to bed (Rupert was my teddy and Teddy Bear is from Vince and Cristina) and I started to sing Away in a Manger. I wasn't half way through the first line and Anna's thumb was in her mouth and she lay down. Ange and I laughed. She got up. I started singing again. She lay down. It still makes me smile.
A photo from the weekend, where we met Lindsay and Mike in the Cotswalds (Bourton-on-the-Water)... just before the Christmas song teasing:
And, "I like ice cream!":
A key element is me lying on the floor beside her cot. I put a collection of small pillows behind my head. Anna usually confirms I will be lying down, explaining to me: "Daddy. Pillows." And then I sing. Some of you will appreciate that I am likely doing more harm than good to poor Anna's future as a musician, but I like singing to someone who clearly doesn't care that fewer than half of the notes are remotely in tune.
I also have a pretty small repertoire of songs. I have Twinkle, Twinkle. It's an old standby, but reliable and appropriate for going to bed. I can pull of Ba, Ba, Black sheep and know enough versus of Mary Had a Little Lamb to fill a couple of minutes. It ends a little abruptly but both Anna and I are comfortable with my ending. Thanks to many campfires and a Raffi CD that gets too much airplay in the car, I can also 'sing' Kumbaya. I won't lie, it's a favourite.
My last and most accomplished song is one my mother used to sing to me when I was young. Away in a Manger. I have received a certain degree of ridicule for singing this song as a year-round bedtime song. The other day, a certain Lindsay Atkinson asked if I followed it up with Jingle Bells or I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas. It has since occurred to me that I do know a number of Christmas songs. Certainly more Christmas songs than lullabies. I am now waiting for the official word that Christmas season has begun to broaden my repertoire: North American retail. I figure if I drag Christmas tunes out til mid January, I should get a good 2, 2.5 months out of them.
Anna, however, has gotten used to our little routine. Just tonight, she was pretending to put Rupert and Teddy Bear to bed (Rupert was my teddy and Teddy Bear is from Vince and Cristina) and I started to sing Away in a Manger. I wasn't half way through the first line and Anna's thumb was in her mouth and she lay down. Ange and I laughed. She got up. I started singing again. She lay down. It still makes me smile.
A photo from the weekend, where we met Lindsay and Mike in the Cotswalds (Bourton-on-the-Water)... just before the Christmas song teasing:
And, "I like ice cream!":
An Ongoing Saga
To the surprise of almost no one who has ever dealt with a property transaction in the UK, we're only marginally closer to moving into the house we've still only allegedly purchased. It has come to the point where everyone is almost ready to exchange contracts. Once that has happened, it is all legally binding and (for the most part) there are usually no hiccups thereafter.
We had some survey work done on the house which discovered a few little but somewhat costly problems with the house. One was a leak in the roof. The other a problem with how the water tanks had been installed. The surveyor was keen to point out that these sort of issues were to be expected in a house of its age (approximately 120 years old). My dad read a copy of the report. He seemed pleased that the house was not about to imminently collapse in on itself and declared the structure fit to buy. Ange and I suggested we share the cost of the repairs with the seller.
Only, suggesting something to the seller isn't an entirely straight-forward procedure. We could go through the Estate Agent. However, as we're not paying them in this transaction and I have every reason to believe they're acting in their interest (i.e. commission) before anything else, we can't go through them. Good old Tim at Bridges is very quick to accuse us of holding up the process. I am entirely at a loss how we might hurry the process since absolutely nothing is relying on us individually. Our lawyer is often AWOL and our mortgage company just moved head offices, leaving thousands of people (including us) in a money lending limbo. Nevertheless, our accents combined with our unwillingness to rush ahead without paperwork in hand have Tim phoning me nearly daily to berate me. Even when I point out that we had all of our paperwork and things together in mid-May and it has since been with our hired help, my foreign-ness is still our undoing. It is the finest example of 1999 British customer service I have come across since we came back.
So, while we're to blame (and I can only imagine the conversations with other people in the chain), our lawyer has all but disappeared. The law firm we've retained is probably the least professional organisation I've ever come across. You can phone, but it is usually engaged (busy). If you do get through, you almost certainly go through to the answerphone. The answerphone message is the standard machine message (you can hear the crackling of the tape as you record), with no reference to the company or phone number... so, as you leave a message about private legal matters, you do so not entirely sure you're not telling some little old lady in Essex. Rather than return calls, they write us letters to ask us questions. The other day, they wrote us a letter. They misspelled 'Dudek' (yep, 5 letters inexplicably became 6) and made a couple of other errors. While they never caught the name misspelled, they did catch the other typos. Yet, rather than reprint the letter, the crossed it out with a ballpoint pen and corrected it above. Yes, we're being charged £50 for stationary and postage.
Meanwhile, our mortgage lending company seems to have checked out for a few weeks to move its head office. Our mortgage broker is perplexed and effusively apologetic. Nevertheless, we're a caught in position with thousands of other of having to wait over 6 weeks for a process that normally takes a few days. Despite having our mortgage broker explain this to Tim, Tim can't help but bring it up daily with the underlying implication being we're somehow in a credit crisis and he ought to kick us out for being too poor.
I think the underlying frustration on all parts is that, apart from this blog and occasionally asking Tim if it would be too much trouble to be polite, we're not biting. After all, "When in Rome." Today, Ange confidently explained to Tim that we were okay with it taking a little longer. We'd waited 4 months, an extra couple of days wasn't going to bother us. Tim's commission is on his mind. He wasn't convinced.
We had some survey work done on the house which discovered a few little but somewhat costly problems with the house. One was a leak in the roof. The other a problem with how the water tanks had been installed. The surveyor was keen to point out that these sort of issues were to be expected in a house of its age (approximately 120 years old). My dad read a copy of the report. He seemed pleased that the house was not about to imminently collapse in on itself and declared the structure fit to buy. Ange and I suggested we share the cost of the repairs with the seller.
Only, suggesting something to the seller isn't an entirely straight-forward procedure. We could go through the Estate Agent. However, as we're not paying them in this transaction and I have every reason to believe they're acting in their interest (i.e. commission) before anything else, we can't go through them. Good old Tim at Bridges is very quick to accuse us of holding up the process. I am entirely at a loss how we might hurry the process since absolutely nothing is relying on us individually. Our lawyer is often AWOL and our mortgage company just moved head offices, leaving thousands of people (including us) in a money lending limbo. Nevertheless, our accents combined with our unwillingness to rush ahead without paperwork in hand have Tim phoning me nearly daily to berate me. Even when I point out that we had all of our paperwork and things together in mid-May and it has since been with our hired help, my foreign-ness is still our undoing. It is the finest example of 1999 British customer service I have come across since we came back.
So, while we're to blame (and I can only imagine the conversations with other people in the chain), our lawyer has all but disappeared. The law firm we've retained is probably the least professional organisation I've ever come across. You can phone, but it is usually engaged (busy). If you do get through, you almost certainly go through to the answerphone. The answerphone message is the standard machine message (you can hear the crackling of the tape as you record), with no reference to the company or phone number... so, as you leave a message about private legal matters, you do so not entirely sure you're not telling some little old lady in Essex. Rather than return calls, they write us letters to ask us questions. The other day, they wrote us a letter. They misspelled 'Dudek' (yep, 5 letters inexplicably became 6) and made a couple of other errors. While they never caught the name misspelled, they did catch the other typos. Yet, rather than reprint the letter, the crossed it out with a ballpoint pen and corrected it above. Yes, we're being charged £50 for stationary and postage.
Meanwhile, our mortgage lending company seems to have checked out for a few weeks to move its head office. Our mortgage broker is perplexed and effusively apologetic. Nevertheless, we're a caught in position with thousands of other of having to wait over 6 weeks for a process that normally takes a few days. Despite having our mortgage broker explain this to Tim, Tim can't help but bring it up daily with the underlying implication being we're somehow in a credit crisis and he ought to kick us out for being too poor.
I think the underlying frustration on all parts is that, apart from this blog and occasionally asking Tim if it would be too much trouble to be polite, we're not biting. After all, "When in Rome." Today, Ange confidently explained to Tim that we were okay with it taking a little longer. We'd waited 4 months, an extra couple of days wasn't going to bother us. Tim's commission is on his mind. He wasn't convinced.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, August 03, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
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
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
Monday, July 09, 2007
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.
"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.
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