Okay, I'm rubbish. I've been meaning to blog for days. The thing is, once there is 20 free minutes, all I can contemplate doing is closing my eyes. So, I'm going to have to blog while eating or something soon.
In the meantime, the winners of Galaxy chocolate are... (drum roll)...
Date & Time: Lisa Brake AND Dave Elder. It was close, so we'll call it a draw.
Boy (picked at random): Oma and Tom
Keep an eye on the post. Chocolate heaven is on its way.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Sunday, May 04, 2008
No. 1 Court
Ange, in her attempt to do all things British, recently applied (yes, you have to apply) for tickets to Wimbledon. She also applied for tickets to the Ascot (horse races), the Queen's Garden Party (self explanatory) and Trooping the Colours (she has no idea what this actually is but has it on good authority it is fun and very British).
We recently received notice that we were invited to the Queen's Garden Party. The irony of us being invited to attend this event (at Buckingham Palace no less) was not lost on me, after having teased Ange about manners and the inevitable, "what if you ever eat with the Queen," comments. My mum will be pleased to know that years of similar comments have not been wasted on me, and I will be on my best manners.
Then, today, I just opened a letter that had come through some days ago. We had won (in a lottery) permission to buy tickets to Wimbledon. Hooray. As I read through, I note that we have the option to buy tickets for Sunday, 6 July at No. 1 Court. I still haven't entirely looked into it, but it appears that 6 July is the final day of Wimbledon. And No.1 court? Could that mean 'centre' court? I don't know yet. But it seems like there is a reasonable chance that just days before heading over to Buckingham Palace to have tea with the Queen, we'll be having strawberries and cream, watching the final at Wimbledon.
To keep it real, I'm thinking in both instances we'll take the Passat. Nothing like clamouring through the boot of your car to impress your hosts.
Haven't heard about the Passat? Read more...
We recently received notice that we were invited to the Queen's Garden Party. The irony of us being invited to attend this event (at Buckingham Palace no less) was not lost on me, after having teased Ange about manners and the inevitable, "what if you ever eat with the Queen," comments. My mum will be pleased to know that years of similar comments have not been wasted on me, and I will be on my best manners.
Then, today, I just opened a letter that had come through some days ago. We had won (in a lottery) permission to buy tickets to Wimbledon. Hooray. As I read through, I note that we have the option to buy tickets for Sunday, 6 July at No. 1 Court. I still haven't entirely looked into it, but it appears that 6 July is the final day of Wimbledon. And No.1 court? Could that mean 'centre' court? I don't know yet. But it seems like there is a reasonable chance that just days before heading over to Buckingham Palace to have tea with the Queen, we'll be having strawberries and cream, watching the final at Wimbledon.
To keep it real, I'm thinking in both instances we'll take the Passat. Nothing like clamouring through the boot of your car to impress your hosts.
Haven't heard about the Passat? Read more...
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Nutbar
For all those who think Ange is slightly neurotic and possibly just slightly crazy: Ange just announced to me (proudly, though laughing at herself) that Caleb had his first successful pee on the potty today. Nine days and nine hours old.
Good grief.
By way of explanation, here's a little article that goes through both sides of the "diaper free" gig. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Ange was won over when Anna was young by ladies like Moonbeam who lived on a commune on the West Coast. I'm not kidding.
Don't worry. We're still using nappies. Just fewer of them. And, in fairness, only one fewer at this point. Mind you, when Anna was at 18 months I wasn't cleaning up poop. There's something to be said for not having to deal with poop.
Good grief.
By way of explanation, here's a little article that goes through both sides of the "diaper free" gig. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Ange was won over when Anna was young by ladies like Moonbeam who lived on a commune on the West Coast. I'm not kidding.
Don't worry. We're still using nappies. Just fewer of them. And, in fairness, only one fewer at this point. Mind you, when Anna was at 18 months I wasn't cleaning up poop. There's something to be said for not having to deal with poop.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Caleb Joseph Fitch
Suddenly, we're a family of four. Suddenly (and someone distressingly), we no longer outnumber the children. I think it is the craziest thing about having a baby. You come out of the hospital with one more person than you went in with. I still haven't got my head around it.
We went into hospital around midnight on the 21st. The lead-up was largely uneventful (at least for me). Ange had been having contractions all week, though she impressed upon me that they weren't real. So, despite 'fake' contractions, we had visited with friends, gone shopping, I had gone to work, we had hosted Opa, stayed up late to watch the Flames, and generally not changed much about our lives. On Monday, as Ange took Anna to her Music and Dance (MAD) class, her water broke. Still experiencing only 'fake' contractions, we had lunch and mused about how to go forward with Anna being at nursery.
At this point, I must interject with an acknowledgement about the support we've been given over the past weeks. The pregnancy has been a bit worrying for us in only one way: how do we manage with Anna when we know so few people well enough to impose. In the end, our worries were needless. Our friends in Southampton (60 miles away) came through with offers to come up, despite the hectic and busy lives they lead. Hilary and Nick, who were so kind to us when we first arrived and whom we see regularly, also offered to come and help look after Anna. Work commitments were more difficult for Hilary, as she works at Ange's school (a boarding school). Very kindly, both Emma and Ceri from my work offered to come down to help. Neither are close to us. Emma had offered at work one day. I pointed out that she would likely have to be at work. Emma smiled at Ceri (our supervisor) and said simply, "Not to worry. I'll just call in sick." Grace and Richard and Joyti and Aleen also offered to help. My sister offered to come out from London if it were her days off. In the end, it was like an olympic volunteer call in Calgary. We've been really touched by the kindness of both the offers to help out with Anna and more generally to support us. I've not even acknowledged many of the people who have volunteered help.
In the end, however, we sought help from Beth. Beth is one of the most generously kind people I've ever come across in my life. I know her from work, where she is in charge of events at the University. Beth seems to know and be on friendly terms with nearly everyone at the uni. It's amazing. Anyway, Beth went on maternity leave back in December after giving birth to a lovely little boy called Spencer. Spencer is one chilled little man: he takes it all in stride and hardly ever makes a fuss. From the outset, Beth has been so supportive. She single-handedly saved us a fortune when she loaned Ange two bin bags of maternity clothes. She made up the most generous bag for both Ange and the new baby... and, of course, got presents for Anna so she'd not be left out. She's also loaned us a moses basket and a number of bits. Then, when she heard that we were having trouble finding someone to look after Anna when Ange went into labour, she offered to be our on-call baby-sitter, night or day. As she was on maternity leave, had a flexible schedule, she was mobile, and gold with kids, we committed to looking to her when the time came.
We phoned the hospital to tell them the water had broke but the contractions were only those devious 'fake' ones. They asked us to come in. So, with Beth on call and we called her. She charged out from Wantage to look after Anna. Once we had had our lunch and Anna was comfortable with Beth, we wandered into the hospital. Somewhat frustratingly, after hours of waiting, they were quick to send us home after a quick examination.
When you're imposing on someone like Beth, this created a problem: what next for us? Ange suggested dinner and dancing to spur on labour. We went home. Beth went back to Wantage. Hours later? Yep, real contractions. Beth came back from Wantage, arriving just before midnight and we went back to the hospital.
Saving everyone the details, it will suffice to say that horror stories about the NHS did not apply to us in any way. The midwives were fantastic. Professional, competent and very, very supportive and helpful. With no complications this time around, a little baby boy was born at 7:59am. Caleb Joseph Fitch let out a little cry before snuggling contently with mum. The rude shock of the outside world stuck him for the weighing on a cold, plastic scale (where he weighed in at 7lbs 6oz) but he has otherwise been remarkably content.
Caleb at 2 hours old; Dad with no sleep in 30 hours:
It has been fun re-running through the little things you so quickly forget. For instance, it would probably take having a kid to appreciate the excitement around the changing colour of pooh. The realisation of just how small a newborn is, is also funny. There are the clothes that are clearly labeled newborn, which are so clearly designed for 13lb 'newborns', but which we had nonetheless put out for him because we were none the wiser 5 days ago.
Anna is adapting. Beth was a star with her. Our house had been transformed the time we were away. The lounge was a giant bed, the duvet and pillows out across the floor. Dolls and teddies were put to sleep everywhere. It was a great start for her to have so much fun. She cuddles Caleb occasionally, but is generally trying to come to terms with the emotions around sharing her parents. She hasn't asked for him to go back yet and you can see her showing slightly more interest with every passing feed, cuddle and interaction. I think what they need to do is go visit a castle together. We'll get on that.
Anna and her brother, Caleb:
We went into hospital around midnight on the 21st. The lead-up was largely uneventful (at least for me). Ange had been having contractions all week, though she impressed upon me that they weren't real. So, despite 'fake' contractions, we had visited with friends, gone shopping, I had gone to work, we had hosted Opa, stayed up late to watch the Flames, and generally not changed much about our lives. On Monday, as Ange took Anna to her Music and Dance (MAD) class, her water broke. Still experiencing only 'fake' contractions, we had lunch and mused about how to go forward with Anna being at nursery.
At this point, I must interject with an acknowledgement about the support we've been given over the past weeks. The pregnancy has been a bit worrying for us in only one way: how do we manage with Anna when we know so few people well enough to impose. In the end, our worries were needless. Our friends in Southampton (60 miles away) came through with offers to come up, despite the hectic and busy lives they lead. Hilary and Nick, who were so kind to us when we first arrived and whom we see regularly, also offered to come and help look after Anna. Work commitments were more difficult for Hilary, as she works at Ange's school (a boarding school). Very kindly, both Emma and Ceri from my work offered to come down to help. Neither are close to us. Emma had offered at work one day. I pointed out that she would likely have to be at work. Emma smiled at Ceri (our supervisor) and said simply, "Not to worry. I'll just call in sick." Grace and Richard and Joyti and Aleen also offered to help. My sister offered to come out from London if it were her days off. In the end, it was like an olympic volunteer call in Calgary. We've been really touched by the kindness of both the offers to help out with Anna and more generally to support us. I've not even acknowledged many of the people who have volunteered help.
In the end, however, we sought help from Beth. Beth is one of the most generously kind people I've ever come across in my life. I know her from work, where she is in charge of events at the University. Beth seems to know and be on friendly terms with nearly everyone at the uni. It's amazing. Anyway, Beth went on maternity leave back in December after giving birth to a lovely little boy called Spencer. Spencer is one chilled little man: he takes it all in stride and hardly ever makes a fuss. From the outset, Beth has been so supportive. She single-handedly saved us a fortune when she loaned Ange two bin bags of maternity clothes. She made up the most generous bag for both Ange and the new baby... and, of course, got presents for Anna so she'd not be left out. She's also loaned us a moses basket and a number of bits. Then, when she heard that we were having trouble finding someone to look after Anna when Ange went into labour, she offered to be our on-call baby-sitter, night or day. As she was on maternity leave, had a flexible schedule, she was mobile, and gold with kids, we committed to looking to her when the time came.
We phoned the hospital to tell them the water had broke but the contractions were only those devious 'fake' ones. They asked us to come in. So, with Beth on call and we called her. She charged out from Wantage to look after Anna. Once we had had our lunch and Anna was comfortable with Beth, we wandered into the hospital. Somewhat frustratingly, after hours of waiting, they were quick to send us home after a quick examination.
When you're imposing on someone like Beth, this created a problem: what next for us? Ange suggested dinner and dancing to spur on labour. We went home. Beth went back to Wantage. Hours later? Yep, real contractions. Beth came back from Wantage, arriving just before midnight and we went back to the hospital.
Saving everyone the details, it will suffice to say that horror stories about the NHS did not apply to us in any way. The midwives were fantastic. Professional, competent and very, very supportive and helpful. With no complications this time around, a little baby boy was born at 7:59am. Caleb Joseph Fitch let out a little cry before snuggling contently with mum. The rude shock of the outside world stuck him for the weighing on a cold, plastic scale (where he weighed in at 7lbs 6oz) but he has otherwise been remarkably content.
Caleb at 2 hours old; Dad with no sleep in 30 hours:
It has been fun re-running through the little things you so quickly forget. For instance, it would probably take having a kid to appreciate the excitement around the changing colour of pooh. The realisation of just how small a newborn is, is also funny. There are the clothes that are clearly labeled newborn, which are so clearly designed for 13lb 'newborns', but which we had nonetheless put out for him because we were none the wiser 5 days ago.
Anna is adapting. Beth was a star with her. Our house had been transformed the time we were away. The lounge was a giant bed, the duvet and pillows out across the floor. Dolls and teddies were put to sleep everywhere. It was a great start for her to have so much fun. She cuddles Caleb occasionally, but is generally trying to come to terms with the emotions around sharing her parents. She hasn't asked for him to go back yet and you can see her showing slightly more interest with every passing feed, cuddle and interaction. I think what they need to do is go visit a castle together. We'll get on that.
Anna and her brother, Caleb:
Monday, April 21, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The weather isn't great when...
The BBC weather service has declared that the south will be "less cold" than the north tomorrow in England. Not warmer. Less cold. But, I heard it snowed in Vancouver last night.
The latest on the sweepstakes (because they're still on the go, with nothing on the go here):
BOY: 7:35am, 17 April (Kristen)
BOY: 1:34am, 18 April (Hilary)
GIRL: 11:16pm, 18 April (Robyn)
BOY: 2:45am, 19 April (Lynn)
BOY: 6:32pm, 19 April (Ange)
BOY: 8:40pm, 19 April (Oma & Tom)
BOY: 1:00am, 20 April (Olivia)
BOY: 2:17am, 20 April (Catherine & Simon)
BOY: 6:04pm, 20 April (Angie & Jared)
BOY: 10:41pm, 20 April (me)
GIRL: 1:32am, 21 April (Jacqui)
BOY: 3:05am, 21 April (Lisa E)
BOY: 5:30am, 21 April (??? - this makes it difficult to send the chocolate... Pauline, is this you? It must be you.)
BOY: 8:00pm, 21 April (Dave E)
GIRL: 8:59pm, 22 April (Lisa B)
???: ?:??, 23 April (Dziadzio... Ange's dad)
Still overwhelmingly a boy, increasingly felt to be born in the morning.
Small print clarification: there will be 2 winners. The first winner is for the correct gender, picked randomly from those who guessed correctly. The second is for the closest guess to the actual time of birth, not using Price is Right rules.
The latest on the sweepstakes (because they're still on the go, with nothing on the go here):
BOY: 7:35am, 17 April (Kristen)
BOY: 1:34am, 18 April (Hilary)
GIRL: 11:16pm, 18 April (Robyn)
BOY: 2:45am, 19 April (Lynn)
BOY: 6:32pm, 19 April (Ange)
BOY: 8:40pm, 19 April (Oma & Tom)
BOY: 1:00am, 20 April (Olivia)
BOY: 2:17am, 20 April (Catherine & Simon)
BOY: 6:04pm, 20 April (Angie & Jared)
BOY: 10:41pm, 20 April (me)
GIRL: 1:32am, 21 April (Jacqui)
BOY: 3:05am, 21 April (Lisa E)
BOY: 5:30am, 21 April (??? - this makes it difficult to send the chocolate... Pauline, is this you? It must be you.)
BOY: 8:00pm, 21 April (Dave E)
GIRL: 8:59pm, 22 April (Lisa B)
???: ?:??, 23 April (Dziadzio... Ange's dad)
Still overwhelmingly a boy, increasingly felt to be born in the morning.
Small print clarification: there will be 2 winners. The first winner is for the correct gender, picked randomly from those who guessed correctly. The second is for the closest guess to the actual time of birth, not using Price is Right rules.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Still waiting
I discovered today that Ange has been having contractions all week. Apparently, because they haven't been crippling pain that include hurting her back as well as her tummy, they've not been worth mentioning. You bet they were. There was sympathy missed there. She's clearly not a guy.
Okay, so here's the latest in the Galaxy-chocolate-bar-bet-on-our-babies-arrival stakes:
BOY: 7:35am, 17 April (Kristen)
BOY: 1:34am, 18 April (Hilary)
GIRL: 11:16pm, 18 April (Robyn)
BOY: 8:40pm, 19 April (Oma & Tom)
BOY: 6:32pm, 19 April (Ange)
BOY: 2:17am, 20 April (Catherine & Simon)
BOY: 6:04pm, 20 April (Angie & Jared)
BOY: 10:41pm, 20 April (me)
BOY: 5:30am, 21 April (??? - this makes it difficult to send the chocolate... Pauline, is this you? It must be you.)
???: ?:??, 23 April (Dziadzio... Ange's dad)
Safe to say that people think it will be a boy.
Okay, so here's the latest in the Galaxy-chocolate-bar-bet-on-our-babies-arrival stakes:
BOY: 7:35am, 17 April (Kristen)
BOY: 1:34am, 18 April (Hilary)
GIRL: 11:16pm, 18 April (Robyn)
BOY: 8:40pm, 19 April (Oma & Tom)
BOY: 6:32pm, 19 April (Ange)
BOY: 2:17am, 20 April (Catherine & Simon)
BOY: 6:04pm, 20 April (Angie & Jared)
BOY: 10:41pm, 20 April (me)
BOY: 5:30am, 21 April (??? - this makes it difficult to send the chocolate... Pauline, is this you? It must be you.)
???: ?:??, 23 April (Dziadzio... Ange's dad)
Safe to say that people think it will be a boy.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Waiting for "raging pain"
I sit here listening to Ange speak with Alison in Vancouver. With her typical pragmatism, Ange matter-of-factly dismisses Alison's questions about 'signs' labour is coming.
"Nah, just waiting for the raging pain so I can get on with it."
Let me assure you that is not what I'd be feeling.
Okay, so we have some guesses at the day, time (all times presumed to be local to us) and gender. Galaxy chocolate on the line, so post a response with your guess:
BOY: 7:35am, 17 April (Kristen)
BOY: 1:34am, 18 April (Hilary)
GIRL: 11:16pm, 18 April (Robyn)
BOY: 10:41pm, 20 April (me)
Small print: will randomly pick a winner from those who pick the right gender. Is not Price is Right rules on day/time: i.e, it is the closest day and time, NOT the closest without going over.
"Nah, just waiting for the raging pain so I can get on with it."
Let me assure you that is not what I'd be feeling.
Okay, so we have some guesses at the day, time (all times presumed to be local to us) and gender. Galaxy chocolate on the line, so post a response with your guess:
BOY: 7:35am, 17 April (Kristen)
BOY: 1:34am, 18 April (Hilary)
GIRL: 11:16pm, 18 April (Robyn)
BOY: 10:41pm, 20 April (me)
Small print: will randomly pick a winner from those who pick the right gender. Is not Price is Right rules on day/time: i.e, it is the closest day and time, NOT the closest without going over.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
When 'free' isn't free
When Air Canada get involved. Lovely as they are at Aeroplan (and they were both professional and friendly), it simply doesn't constitute an amazing deal. Once you've factored in the taxes, airport 'improvement' fees, security charges, etc and paid the booking fee (because the only route available to you at the lowest amount of airmiles can't be booked online because it takes you 500 miles in the wrong direction first), it seems the tickets still cost you about 30% of what they would have had you not had airmiles.
Notwithstanding the hidden costs of a free flight, Ange's dad's kindness in donating aeroplan points means that we'll be able to come back to western Canada this summer from mid to late July. Hooray!
Thankfully, we're not flying through (the now infamous) T5 at Heathrow. The scale of incompetence displayed by British Airways defies comprehension is such a competitive industry (in case you've not heard about it, here's the skinny). For all those not involved on any level, the statistic of 19,000 lost bags at one point is truly comical.
And finally
Also, there's nothing to report as of 7:27pm, Tuesday 15 April there is no indication of the onset of labour. For all those who believe that food has a direct effect on the onset of labour, Ange had cottage pie and ridiculous amounts of chocolate 30 minutes ago. For a little interactive blog fun, we'll take guesses on date (with the hour) and gender! Simply post a comment with your guess. Winner gets Galaxy chocolate, as usual.
Notwithstanding the hidden costs of a free flight, Ange's dad's kindness in donating aeroplan points means that we'll be able to come back to western Canada this summer from mid to late July. Hooray!
Thankfully, we're not flying through (the now infamous) T5 at Heathrow. The scale of incompetence displayed by British Airways defies comprehension is such a competitive industry (in case you've not heard about it, here's the skinny). For all those not involved on any level, the statistic of 19,000 lost bags at one point is truly comical.
And finally
Also, there's nothing to report as of 7:27pm, Tuesday 15 April there is no indication of the onset of labour. For all those who believe that food has a direct effect on the onset of labour, Ange had cottage pie and ridiculous amounts of chocolate 30 minutes ago. For a little interactive blog fun, we'll take guesses on date (with the hour) and gender! Simply post a comment with your guess. Winner gets Galaxy chocolate, as usual.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
How urban are you?
Most often, I use the term "urban" in an endearing, multi-cultural way. It is a positive adjective, meant to imply the cosmopolitan nature of the community to which I refer.
We're so urban that there are 10 pubs within 10 minutes walk of our house. We're so urban, there's parking for 70 across the street from us (i.e. a car park). We're so urban, we've got 10 different take-aways within 500 meters of us. We're so urban that a full supermarket is within a 2 minute walk of our front door. And, tonight, we're so urban that the closest pub has attracted a dozen police, a couple of police cars, a police van (usually used to transport many police to the scene of some significant event) and an ambulance. Indeed, we're so urban, whatever has gone on has required police tape to go up around a section of the car park. And, I believe that we're so urban that my car (which is parked in the car park across the street) is within the police tape and likely inaccessible should Ange go into labour in the next few minutes.
We're so urban that there are 10 pubs within 10 minutes walk of our house. We're so urban, there's parking for 70 across the street from us (i.e. a car park). We're so urban, we've got 10 different take-aways within 500 meters of us. We're so urban that a full supermarket is within a 2 minute walk of our front door. And, tonight, we're so urban that the closest pub has attracted a dozen police, a couple of police cars, a police van (usually used to transport many police to the scene of some significant event) and an ambulance. Indeed, we're so urban, whatever has gone on has required police tape to go up around a section of the car park. And, I believe that we're so urban that my car (which is parked in the car park across the street) is within the police tape and likely inaccessible should Ange go into labour in the next few minutes.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Go Flames Go
Rarely is the time difference between Alberta and Berkshire more poignant than during the few weeks where the Flames are still 'alive' in the playoffs. I am about to turn into a zombie, setting the alarm for 3am to watch Kipper vs. the Sharks.
Tonight, Anna and I celebrated the impending playoff series by doing a little dance and cheer in our matching Flames jerseys (yes, she'll be wearing hers to nursery tomorrow too). This tells it all:
Of course, this sort of playoff happiness will not be known at the Brake house. In fact, there is strong and compelling evidence that being forced to cheer for the Oilers is a starkly different experience (noting Graham's mood at his Oiler hat):
Tonight, Anna and I celebrated the impending playoff series by doing a little dance and cheer in our matching Flames jerseys (yes, she'll be wearing hers to nursery tomorrow too). This tells it all:
Of course, this sort of playoff happiness will not be known at the Brake house. In fact, there is strong and compelling evidence that being forced to cheer for the Oilers is a starkly different experience (noting Graham's mood at his Oiler hat):
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Bad blogger
Okay, it has been too long! Life just seems to have taken over the past few weeks and all the funny little tidbits of life seem overwhelmed with the pressures that come to bear.
Some of the pressures and little bits of stress are, however, self-inflicted. Some we can surely not be blamed for. We were off to France a week ago for a holiday. Things were booked. I had booked the ferries and the hotels. We were heading down to Carcassonne and the Languedoc area of France and meeting up with some friends. However, the epic cross-France trip with a toddler was sensibly broken up with a stop at Disneyland Paris.
All things Disney are expensive, but it seemed like a treat for Anna in compensation for 13 hours in the car. When I say expensive, I mean it--even by British standards. It is a cool £40 per adult to get into the park. Only then does the fleece really begin. They harp on about happiness and dreams, but all are acquired at a cost. Even sustinence is not cheap. Our two boxes of chicken nuggets with fries and drink? £25. We opted out of staying at one of the Disney hotels, though we had originally intended to just do it. They were, however, only willing to sell us a two night accomodation and two day passes as a packages. As we were arriving in the evening the first day and then off the day after Disney, we only wanted the one day of park passes with two nights accomodation. They wouldn't budge on their package offer and we stayed 5 miles down the road, saving a mere £200.
But really, on a one off, one-day trip with Anna, the cost was worth it. It was chilly, but the characters were still out and the rides were running. Anna started the day by pouring an entire mug of hot chocolate down her coat. So much is soaked right through. Luckily, we had layered up and it never made it through layer 2 or 3, so it only looks like we're irresponsible parents for having a grubby child in the photos. Things got better from there.
Tigger and "Mickey the Mouse" were most popular with Anna. When we got on the It's a Small World ride, her eyes turned to saucers. It turns out the combination of a boat floating along with little mechanical children portraying national stereotypes and a "Small World" sound track of children singing the same chorus endlessly is like a drug for a 2 year old. The colours were fantastic and, importantly, it was warm. We went on it 5 times. Canadians play ice hockey, dress like mounties, live in igloos and sing with moose in case you're wondering.
We also tried the merry-go-round, climbing parks, the tea-cups (yikes, I feel ill), a boat playground and the train around the park. I think--with the possible exception of Small World--the parades were the most inspiring for Anna. Singing, dancing Disney characters captured her attention fully. It was a most enjoyable day.
Indeed, France is entirely enjoyable with a toddler. Everywhere had seats for little ones. Road-side stops had little toilets or potties for toddlers. There were dinner portions for kids that were healthy and well-sized. It was generally amazing. There were even real play areas--that were clean--for kids to entertain themselves if you wanted to take extra time to stretch, while on a long journey. I was really impressed. Nothing like a stop at the Husky House in Golden or the Little Chef on the M11 for some perspective on that!
The whole trip was generally stress-free, to be fair, but we never once had internet access or any exposure to the news. That meant the morning after we did the very, very long one day trip from Carcassonne to Calais (with the expected getting lost in Paris trick) we had no idea there was trouble on the channel. We blissfully got on the ferry at 8am, looking forward to a quick crossing and home by lunch. Our one hour ferry crossing took 8 hours. We got to Dover on rough seas, but the port was closed. So, we waited--bobbing like a toy in a bathtub--for 7 hours for the port to open. It was entirely unpleasant. It meant another long day of travel. Here's some BBC photos from our choice of day on the sea.
Also a bit stressful: the lovely people renting our house are leaving at the end of July. We're very likely going to rent through an agency this time around. However, if you know of someone you trust and love and would vouch for who would like to rent in the lovely Garrison Woods area of Calgary, maybe we should talk!
Some of the pressures and little bits of stress are, however, self-inflicted. Some we can surely not be blamed for. We were off to France a week ago for a holiday. Things were booked. I had booked the ferries and the hotels. We were heading down to Carcassonne and the Languedoc area of France and meeting up with some friends. However, the epic cross-France trip with a toddler was sensibly broken up with a stop at Disneyland Paris.
All things Disney are expensive, but it seemed like a treat for Anna in compensation for 13 hours in the car. When I say expensive, I mean it--even by British standards. It is a cool £40 per adult to get into the park. Only then does the fleece really begin. They harp on about happiness and dreams, but all are acquired at a cost. Even sustinence is not cheap. Our two boxes of chicken nuggets with fries and drink? £25. We opted out of staying at one of the Disney hotels, though we had originally intended to just do it. They were, however, only willing to sell us a two night accomodation and two day passes as a packages. As we were arriving in the evening the first day and then off the day after Disney, we only wanted the one day of park passes with two nights accomodation. They wouldn't budge on their package offer and we stayed 5 miles down the road, saving a mere £200.
But really, on a one off, one-day trip with Anna, the cost was worth it. It was chilly, but the characters were still out and the rides were running. Anna started the day by pouring an entire mug of hot chocolate down her coat. So much is soaked right through. Luckily, we had layered up and it never made it through layer 2 or 3, so it only looks like we're irresponsible parents for having a grubby child in the photos. Things got better from there.
Tigger and "Mickey the Mouse" were most popular with Anna. When we got on the It's a Small World ride, her eyes turned to saucers. It turns out the combination of a boat floating along with little mechanical children portraying national stereotypes and a "Small World" sound track of children singing the same chorus endlessly is like a drug for a 2 year old. The colours were fantastic and, importantly, it was warm. We went on it 5 times. Canadians play ice hockey, dress like mounties, live in igloos and sing with moose in case you're wondering.
We also tried the merry-go-round, climbing parks, the tea-cups (yikes, I feel ill), a boat playground and the train around the park. I think--with the possible exception of Small World--the parades were the most inspiring for Anna. Singing, dancing Disney characters captured her attention fully. It was a most enjoyable day.
Indeed, France is entirely enjoyable with a toddler. Everywhere had seats for little ones. Road-side stops had little toilets or potties for toddlers. There were dinner portions for kids that were healthy and well-sized. It was generally amazing. There were even real play areas--that were clean--for kids to entertain themselves if you wanted to take extra time to stretch, while on a long journey. I was really impressed. Nothing like a stop at the Husky House in Golden or the Little Chef on the M11 for some perspective on that!
The whole trip was generally stress-free, to be fair, but we never once had internet access or any exposure to the news. That meant the morning after we did the very, very long one day trip from Carcassonne to Calais (with the expected getting lost in Paris trick) we had no idea there was trouble on the channel. We blissfully got on the ferry at 8am, looking forward to a quick crossing and home by lunch. Our one hour ferry crossing took 8 hours. We got to Dover on rough seas, but the port was closed. So, we waited--bobbing like a toy in a bathtub--for 7 hours for the port to open. It was entirely unpleasant. It meant another long day of travel. Here's some BBC photos from our choice of day on the sea.
Also a bit stressful: the lovely people renting our house are leaving at the end of July. We're very likely going to rent through an agency this time around. However, if you know of someone you trust and love and would vouch for who would like to rent in the lovely Garrison Woods area of Calgary, maybe we should talk!
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
London shops
I have just purchased a present for Stella's first birthday. It was just easiest to buy online. By the time I pick up Anna and we've walked home from nursery, it is 4:30. Inconveniently, most shops close at 5pm. Those that don't, shut before 8pm. With traffic across the bridges into the center of Reading and Anna's not-so-demanding evening requirements of a food and a bath, mid-week shopping is essentially impossible. What stuns me is that there is anyone who can manage non-weekend shopping.
Of course, I have also provided some insight into why Saturday shopping, no matter what time of year, is akin to Boxing day shopping in North America. It also suggests that if you're investing in online companies, pick a UK-based one since the retail outlets are literally driving people to the internet by only being open during working hours.
Anyway, Emily suggested a particular item for Miss Stella some months back. Ange, noting it, has been plotting ever since to get the item. However, we've just not come across one (see above for at least one possible reason why we've not stumbled across one in a shop). Ange finally broke down and asked Emily where to get one. Emily sent us the funniest online toy store. Only in London. Or maybe New York. It is called Childrensalon. It has its own coat of arms. It has a profile on "Boys in Suits," with the requisite black and white photo of 10 year old boy--in a suit--who looks torn between attending Eaton or going to play polo. Childrensalon advertises its best selling item as Baby Dior Baby Bottle in Pink in a Gift Box. Though, sociologists and our friends who grew up in rural Alberta alike, will be both amuused and interested to note that the Bobby Baby Boy 5 Piece Ivory Suit also makes the top seller list. And, as it turns out, Chldrensalon is actually too posh for London. It has placed itself in the London commuter town of Royal Tumbridge Wells. Yes, "Royal" is actually part of the name. I suspect if you visit the shop in person, they give your kid a latté.
In fairness to it, though, it was a pleasureable online shopping experience. In fact, I recommend it. If only because there is the chance that someone will get Lisa and Damian's baby the Ivory Satin Ballet Shoes to go with his/her stupid Oilers jersey.
Of course, I have also provided some insight into why Saturday shopping, no matter what time of year, is akin to Boxing day shopping in North America. It also suggests that if you're investing in online companies, pick a UK-based one since the retail outlets are literally driving people to the internet by only being open during working hours.
Anyway, Emily suggested a particular item for Miss Stella some months back. Ange, noting it, has been plotting ever since to get the item. However, we've just not come across one (see above for at least one possible reason why we've not stumbled across one in a shop). Ange finally broke down and asked Emily where to get one. Emily sent us the funniest online toy store. Only in London. Or maybe New York. It is called Childrensalon. It has its own coat of arms. It has a profile on "Boys in Suits," with the requisite black and white photo of 10 year old boy--in a suit--who looks torn between attending Eaton or going to play polo. Childrensalon advertises its best selling item as Baby Dior Baby Bottle in Pink in a Gift Box. Though, sociologists and our friends who grew up in rural Alberta alike, will be both amuused and interested to note that the Bobby Baby Boy 5 Piece Ivory Suit also makes the top seller list. And, as it turns out, Chldrensalon is actually too posh for London. It has placed itself in the London commuter town of Royal Tumbridge Wells. Yes, "Royal" is actually part of the name. I suspect if you visit the shop in person, they give your kid a latté.
In fairness to it, though, it was a pleasureable online shopping experience. In fact, I recommend it. If only because there is the chance that someone will get Lisa and Damian's baby the Ivory Satin Ballet Shoes to go with his/her stupid Oilers jersey.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Broccoli
Children amaze me. Well, specifically, Anna amazes me. Her food preferences confound me. She is normal in so much as Cadbury Chocolate Buttons would be the choice over anything with nutritional value; however, when it comes to the "good food," she is currently on the most staggering broccoli kick you've ever seen. You'd almost be concerned that she would get heavy metal poisoning from the iron if it weren't so damn good for you.
Broccoli is now a staple of almost every dinner. Inevitably, being the age we are, it is difficult not to allude to SNL at almost every dinner. And so, for your blogging pleasure, we will share it with you (turn up the volume):
Broccoli is now a staple of almost every dinner. Inevitably, being the age we are, it is difficult not to allude to SNL at almost every dinner. And so, for your blogging pleasure, we will share it with you (turn up the volume):
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Stamps
Ange went to the local Post Office this week. The queue was longer than the normal out-the-door-length, starting to wind down the street. They had to print stickers with the postage paid (like one would normally do for international postage that costs many, many pounds) for every little item.
It seems that our Post Office has stamps delivered on Tuesdays. With Christmas and New Years both falling on a Tuesday, it hadn't received stamps in 3 weeks. Surely the smallest bit of foresite or a call to some central Royal Mail authority was in order... until then, or next Tuesday, we have a post office without stamps.
It seems that our Post Office has stamps delivered on Tuesdays. With Christmas and New Years both falling on a Tuesday, it hadn't received stamps in 3 weeks. Surely the smallest bit of foresite or a call to some central Royal Mail authority was in order... until then, or next Tuesday, we have a post office without stamps.
Friday, January 04, 2008
No disasters
As Angela, Anna and I travelled into London on the train from Reading, Ange asked when the last time my dad, sister and I had been on holiday together. It was the weekend before Christmas and we were all heading to Brussels to take in the Christmas market. I thought for a moment. It has certainly been many, many years. So many, in fact, that the chronology of the holidays we did take together have started to blur in my mind.
What was certain was that whenever the three of us tried to go on a holiday, disaster struck. Sadly for my dad, most of the time the single-parent family holiday disaster was completely out of his control. That it never seemed to strike when my mum was with us remains (to this day) a mystery to me, for I can't remember a holiday with the three of us (Dad, Emily and I) that went smoothly... at least, in the traditional sense of the word.
There were times when my dad's carefree attitude towards life meant our lack of preparedness was our undoing. Most notably was a day-trip to France when Emily and I were detained by French immigration. We were travelling on our Canadian passports while dad travelled on his British one. I was too young to remember the details, but it was either a visa issue or suspicion relating to the different passports for parent and children. Given my dad's knowledge of French, I suspect he remains with similar doubts as to why we were detained. It remains the only time I have been 'arrested' and one of two times where my immediate freedom was briefly curtailed by men with machine guns. Mum was unimpressed.
Still, there was a sense that my dad could do little to divert the disaster in most instances. It was his dumb luck that both got us into the situation and got us out unscathed.
So, while Ange, Anna and I rolled into Paddington Station, it occurred to me that the last holiday that I had taken with Emily and dad was in the mid-1980s. In so many ways, it defines how my dad was undone by forces well beyond his control. It was our last holiday together until Christmas, 2007. It was house-boating on the Shushwap.
With the sting of past holidays no doubt on his mind (a small tornado while camping, the aforementioned immigration hiccup at Calais, numerous catastrophic car engine problems and the occasional car accident), dad went conservative when he booked a week of house-boating for us. It was an amazing week of driving the houseboat around the lakes. The weather was lovely. It was hot. We swam. I read Archie comics and we listened to two or three Beatles tapes endlessly. We BBQ'ed. We went for a few walks. It was all going off without a hitch. Sure, dad took the unnecessary risk of letting Emily, aged 6ish, drive the houseboat. But he was nearby and we were none the worse for having turned in circles at 8 mph.
Sensing a holiday without disaster was within sight, my dad played it conservatively. He insisted we moor the houseboat on a beach close to the rental facility on our last night. We didn't want to rush the next day or be late so we were driving all night. The weather had gotten cloudy in the afternoon and it looked like rain, so Emily and I would be bound to the boat that night anyway and didn't complain.
As we chugged towards the nearest beach, the rain started. At first just a patter. Then, rather suddenly, the sky darkened. The rain started to come down harder. And the wind picked up. The boat, which was essentially a wooden shack on two long aluminium pontoons, started to heave in the waves. Dad started towards the beach, where he and I braved the rain to tie the boat down on the beach in amongst 20 or so other houseboats.
The waves continued to grow. As the front of the houseboat was on the beach, the back sat in lake and the waves crashed against the back. Emily and I donned our raingear and stood in the back enclosure (which had a railing around it), jumping the waves as the crashed over the decking. But the waves continued to get bigger. Big enough that it became dangerous and dad ushered us inside the boat. The waves became so big that they started crashing against the back door of the cabin and so violent that occasionally they would burst the door open. My dad grew increasingly concerned. So too did the other house-boating vacationers. People started leaving their boats to stand in the rain on the safety of the beach. We did the same. And then, as luck would have it, a propane tank broke loose of its fittings.
For those who can see where this is going, you'll know it was our boat and our propane tank that was now loose on the back enclosure. Whether it was the water or the escaping propane that propelled the tank of explosive gas around the back deck like a ping-pong ball doesn't matter. The loose propane tank was being launched around the back boat was concern enough in and of itself. People started to back away from our boat. We started to back away from our boat. Could it blow up? As people started to discuss the likelihood of the propane tank blowing up, there was an horrendous crack of thunder and a bright flash. The lake, which was now throwing four or five foot waves at our boat, was only about a kilometre wide. Which put us at about 1100 meters from a forest fire starting. I'd never seen lightning strike. I'd certainly never seen a forest fire start. The dozens of people on the beach stood in awe for a moment or two before deciding that our boat was now a genuine hazard to everyone's well-being.
I can still see the expression on my dad's face. The one of complete disbelief. The propane ran out soon enough, and the fire on the other side never really got going i the heavy rain. But it wasn't over for us. Ours being one of the smallest of the house-boating options, the beating our boat was taking was too much and it started to turn sideways. Once it turned slightly, it was all over. The flat side exposed to the huge waves was devastating to the boat. The windows smashed in. Water flooded through it. The pontoon on the water side started to come away from the "house" part of the boat. Dad, Emily and I sat in the rain and watched. The crowd that had backed away came back to take in the devastation. It was complete.
As the rain subsided and the surf died down to the calmness that one would expect from a lake, other house-boaters came to discuss our situation. People offered us food, dry clothing, even a place to sleep. Several burly guys helped us push and pull and tug the boat back into the more traditional moored position, but the back-end of the boat sank rather awkwardly into the water. Suddenly, we had become house-boating refugees.
Our radio had been smashed in the storm, so we used another houseboat's to radio our houseboat rental company for support. They were out first thing in the morning and we were taken back to the main docks in a speed boat. They would have to recover the houseboat and drag the shell back without us. I felt badly for dad at the time. It certainly hadn't ruined the holiday. It was so incredible; I think there were a number of people who didn't actually believe us. I only wish I had a picture of it!
As I recounted the story to Ange, who patiently put up with hearing it yet another time, she wondered allowed, "I wonder what will happen this weekend with you three together again?"
"Cripes!" I thought.
On seeing Emily and dad at St. Pancras, my first question to them was, "Do you have your passports?" Everyone did. There must have been an audible sigh of relief.
"Okay, let's check in!" I urged us on.
First step: French immigration.
What was certain was that whenever the three of us tried to go on a holiday, disaster struck. Sadly for my dad, most of the time the single-parent family holiday disaster was completely out of his control. That it never seemed to strike when my mum was with us remains (to this day) a mystery to me, for I can't remember a holiday with the three of us (Dad, Emily and I) that went smoothly... at least, in the traditional sense of the word.
There were times when my dad's carefree attitude towards life meant our lack of preparedness was our undoing. Most notably was a day-trip to France when Emily and I were detained by French immigration. We were travelling on our Canadian passports while dad travelled on his British one. I was too young to remember the details, but it was either a visa issue or suspicion relating to the different passports for parent and children. Given my dad's knowledge of French, I suspect he remains with similar doubts as to why we were detained. It remains the only time I have been 'arrested' and one of two times where my immediate freedom was briefly curtailed by men with machine guns. Mum was unimpressed.
Still, there was a sense that my dad could do little to divert the disaster in most instances. It was his dumb luck that both got us into the situation and got us out unscathed.
So, while Ange, Anna and I rolled into Paddington Station, it occurred to me that the last holiday that I had taken with Emily and dad was in the mid-1980s. In so many ways, it defines how my dad was undone by forces well beyond his control. It was our last holiday together until Christmas, 2007. It was house-boating on the Shushwap.
With the sting of past holidays no doubt on his mind (a small tornado while camping, the aforementioned immigration hiccup at Calais, numerous catastrophic car engine problems and the occasional car accident), dad went conservative when he booked a week of house-boating for us. It was an amazing week of driving the houseboat around the lakes. The weather was lovely. It was hot. We swam. I read Archie comics and we listened to two or three Beatles tapes endlessly. We BBQ'ed. We went for a few walks. It was all going off without a hitch. Sure, dad took the unnecessary risk of letting Emily, aged 6ish, drive the houseboat. But he was nearby and we were none the worse for having turned in circles at 8 mph.
Sensing a holiday without disaster was within sight, my dad played it conservatively. He insisted we moor the houseboat on a beach close to the rental facility on our last night. We didn't want to rush the next day or be late so we were driving all night. The weather had gotten cloudy in the afternoon and it looked like rain, so Emily and I would be bound to the boat that night anyway and didn't complain.
As we chugged towards the nearest beach, the rain started. At first just a patter. Then, rather suddenly, the sky darkened. The rain started to come down harder. And the wind picked up. The boat, which was essentially a wooden shack on two long aluminium pontoons, started to heave in the waves. Dad started towards the beach, where he and I braved the rain to tie the boat down on the beach in amongst 20 or so other houseboats.
The waves continued to grow. As the front of the houseboat was on the beach, the back sat in lake and the waves crashed against the back. Emily and I donned our raingear and stood in the back enclosure (which had a railing around it), jumping the waves as the crashed over the decking. But the waves continued to get bigger. Big enough that it became dangerous and dad ushered us inside the boat. The waves became so big that they started crashing against the back door of the cabin and so violent that occasionally they would burst the door open. My dad grew increasingly concerned. So too did the other house-boating vacationers. People started leaving their boats to stand in the rain on the safety of the beach. We did the same. And then, as luck would have it, a propane tank broke loose of its fittings.
For those who can see where this is going, you'll know it was our boat and our propane tank that was now loose on the back enclosure. Whether it was the water or the escaping propane that propelled the tank of explosive gas around the back deck like a ping-pong ball doesn't matter. The loose propane tank was being launched around the back boat was concern enough in and of itself. People started to back away from our boat. We started to back away from our boat. Could it blow up? As people started to discuss the likelihood of the propane tank blowing up, there was an horrendous crack of thunder and a bright flash. The lake, which was now throwing four or five foot waves at our boat, was only about a kilometre wide. Which put us at about 1100 meters from a forest fire starting. I'd never seen lightning strike. I'd certainly never seen a forest fire start. The dozens of people on the beach stood in awe for a moment or two before deciding that our boat was now a genuine hazard to everyone's well-being.
I can still see the expression on my dad's face. The one of complete disbelief. The propane ran out soon enough, and the fire on the other side never really got going i the heavy rain. But it wasn't over for us. Ours being one of the smallest of the house-boating options, the beating our boat was taking was too much and it started to turn sideways. Once it turned slightly, it was all over. The flat side exposed to the huge waves was devastating to the boat. The windows smashed in. Water flooded through it. The pontoon on the water side started to come away from the "house" part of the boat. Dad, Emily and I sat in the rain and watched. The crowd that had backed away came back to take in the devastation. It was complete.
As the rain subsided and the surf died down to the calmness that one would expect from a lake, other house-boaters came to discuss our situation. People offered us food, dry clothing, even a place to sleep. Several burly guys helped us push and pull and tug the boat back into the more traditional moored position, but the back-end of the boat sank rather awkwardly into the water. Suddenly, we had become house-boating refugees.
Our radio had been smashed in the storm, so we used another houseboat's to radio our houseboat rental company for support. They were out first thing in the morning and we were taken back to the main docks in a speed boat. They would have to recover the houseboat and drag the shell back without us. I felt badly for dad at the time. It certainly hadn't ruined the holiday. It was so incredible; I think there were a number of people who didn't actually believe us. I only wish I had a picture of it!
As I recounted the story to Ange, who patiently put up with hearing it yet another time, she wondered allowed, "I wonder what will happen this weekend with you three together again?"
"Cripes!" I thought.
On seeing Emily and dad at St. Pancras, my first question to them was, "Do you have your passports?" Everyone did. There must have been an audible sigh of relief.
"Okay, let's check in!" I urged us on.
First step: French immigration.
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):
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