What does Queenie really miss?

There’s nothing like a bit of a crisis to get your homeward gaze up and running smoothly, is there? There have been a few in the last couple of weeks; some major and some relatively minor; nonetheless they caused a little blip in the gallivanting through life vibe. So last week, Queenie was wistfully looking towards the land where all the people she can moan at for hours over a bottle of wine live. And now she has been asked to do the equivalent of locking herself in an empty fridge for the New Year, i.e. work on a winter federal election campaign.

In Canada.

From which, due to the fact that she’s done this before (work on a winter campaign I mean, but not in Canada), all of her instincts are shying away like a startled unicorn. Except her sense of duty, of course, which much to Queenie’s chagrin usually wins out in the end. Particularly when it’s wedded to a bit of plamas. Thankfully, the Canucks haven’t figured out that bit of Queenie’s psychology yet, so maybe Queenie’s self-interested instincts might win out this time, if she can stop the relentless strong-arming towards the fridge that’s going on.

She’s trying. Making impossible demands that are ‘non-negotiable’. None of which they can afford to meet of course. But remarkably, they are trying to meet them. In a small, furry, left-wing party kind of way. In the hope that Queenie will see how much fun she’s going to have and walk into the fridge unassisted.

I think this time they’re going to have to lock me in.

I was out canvassing yesterday with another candidate and it was not fun. Despite it being a beautiful day, Queenie’s little hand froze into a claw around the clipboard she was carrying after an hour. And there was a lot of hostility wafting out of people’s doors along with the smell of roast beef and potatoes. People don’t want a Christmas campaign. Oh no sirree.

Well, it’s their own fault for electing a minority government. And I’m the one going to be out in the snow. Of course the problem is that the Bloc Quebecois get around fifty seats and that just messes the maths up no end. You have to have 155 to have an overall majority. Which means you have to win sixty per cent of the ‘available’ seats. Which is tricky. So it’ll probably be another minority government.

Why the hell don’t they just form coalitions like everyone else on the planet and be done with this madness.

Because the Yanks haven’t done it, I suppose.

On the plus side, there’s all the excitement and fun of an election campaign. On the minus side, there’s all the excitement and fun of knocking on doors in six feet of snow, no month of quiet time in January to do a bit of writing, and no financial incentive to make the 16/7/4 regime a bit more palatable. Well, not enough. They waved a bit at her today. And she’s managed to knock them down to three weeks of the campaign. And can still say no if she wants to.

So we’ll just kick it to touch for a week and see what happens. Maybe some election junkie will lose his job and take it on.

Queenie will start praying to St. Thomas More. Who is of course the patron saint of politicians. Queenie knows about this because she’s well up on her saints. That’s because of the Theo.

Which brings me back to my original point about missing my friends. And I was thinking today, what else do I miss about Ireland?

The Irish Times

God, I miss The Irish Times. I miss Saturday’s Times in particular. That lovely feeling of achievement when you’re up and out of the house and down in Coffee Java or whatever it’s called (Queenie is starting to forget stuff) before they stop serving breakfast. You’re waiting for your bacon and eggs and triple cappuccino, you have the nice window seat, and an as yet unfolded Times lying on the table calling ‘open me, open me’. You take out the review section carefully and see what the big story is (and hope to god Eileen Battersby didn’t read it) but before you have a big old read of it, you flick through the magazine and give yourself a clap on the back for not being a media slut like all of them that write for it.

The Globe and Mail is just not the same. Although it’s okay. But it’s not the same.

And you leave Drapier till last.

Queenie was introduced to the Nova Scotian political establishment in the Chronicle’s equivalent back a few months ago when she started working here. But they spelt her surname wrong, so she couldn’t photocopy it and send it to everyone she knows in Ireland. And Queenie was well pissed off about that, even though she could have PhotoShopped it if she knew how to do that. So every time she meets ‘NS Drapier’, who is a scatty blonde, she deliberately gets her name wrong now. She’s gotten to that stage in her life now where no, it’s not alright, actually.

Queenie misses The Observer too. She reads both of them on the web every day. But it’s not the same.

Aine Lawlor

Queenie never thought she’d say this. How many times has Queenie fallen over in the shower whilst having a blue fit at whatever sanctimonious crap Yawnya was bleating at some poor politician who got up at the crack of dawn to get to the RTE studios to appear on Moaning Ireland. And that laugh! It’d make your scars bleed.

But the CBC alternative is so much worse. Ohmygod, I want to strangle that man!! His name is Don. He’s one of those ‘I became a journalist in the sixties, therefore I am A JOURNALIST, therefore I don’t have to keep up with my reading, or ask any difficult questions, or do anything except listen to my lovely radio voice’ guys.

He does my head in. He doesn’t interview people; he oozes over them. A bit like Hanly did when he was interviewing an artist. Except with an Upper Canadian accent.

He has a sidekick called Elizabeth, who’s actually quite smart and funny, but she’s not allowed to interview anyone. She introduces all the items and laughs at Don’s appalling jokes. I bet she has to have therapy every morning at nine am after the show. I’d be at home sticking needles into a Don doll if I were she.

But yeah, Morning Ireland is the business compared to CBC. I miss Cockle too, even though he’s a bitter old git. But he has a great line in ironic weariness.

And I love the fact that people on RTE all had different accents, thus mimicking the diversity of Irish accents. Everyone on Nova Scotian CBC sounds like they’re from political Ottawa (oddewah).

And yes, I know I can listen to MI on the internet, but I want Yawnya and Cockle to be taking lumps out of John Hamm, or Darrell Dexter, or Frances McKenzie. It’s not the same when you’re so far away.

Tomato Cup a Soup

I bet most of you don’t know I was addicted to it. Oh yeah. And then they brought out a chilli version, with little bits of red pepper floating in it. Yum.

It took me four months to find a replacement cup a soup brand. Liptons do one, but they don’t do tomato. Or if they do, Atlantic Superstore doesn’t stock it. Cup a Soup is only proper cupasoup if it’s tomato. Now, I have to revive my three o’clock slump with mushroom soup. Christ on a bicycle giving Mary Magdalene a sidebar! Whoever heard of mushrooms giving you a buzz?

Silence

That’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? Magic Cup a Soup…

Marks and Spencers

Nipping into M&S of a Thursday evening for a pair of tights and coming out with three pairs of sexy knickers, a new bra, a skinny top, sixteen pairs of opaque cellulite control lycra whachyamacallits and a new pair of jammies.

Miss, miss, miss, miss, miss, miss, oh, miss the precious sooo much...

And Avoca Handweavers. And Monsoon. And Rococco. Although the shopping is pretty good here, now that I’ve figured it out. There are a number of malls in Halifax, which do the Gap, Old Navy, Sears, The Bay chainstores thing, but the best boutiques are Downtown. There are three that are sooper dooper. Girly Peep Show, which is owned by the people who own Freaky Lunchbox, which is the best sweet shop in the world; Foreign Affair, which is an upmarket chain for business suits and slinky evening gear; and Le Chateau, which is a ‘total shopping experience’, according to their manager who is a row of pink frilly tents. But it is a great shopping experience. You just stay in the dressing room and they throw every single thing in the shop at you and tell you exactly what you look like in it.

And their stuff is really good value. I got a slinky pair of olive green trousers and an reddish orange velvet halter-neck for the Christmas party there for about eighty bucks. (No, they look fantastic, I don’t care what they sound like).

And he showed me how Gabrielle from DH straps her breasts up under a halterneck to get a cleavage so I could do the same.

I think I will do a shopping guide to Halifax, that’ll get you all over here. Well some of you anyway.

Ach, sure I’m having such a great time I don’t miss anything really.

Except I do of course.

Tesco/ Superquinn wine sales

Oh the wine here is like horse urine. I don’t know what it is. I try to buy the same wine, but it doesn’t taste the same. For example, I am drinking the last glass of a bottle of Valpolicella that I bought on Friday. There’s not a whole pile you can do to Valpolicella to mess it up. It’s pretty uniform stuff. But it tastes like horse urine over here.

Maybe my palette has changed.

But the liquor stores here are controlled by the government, and they have limited brands and it’s all ‘Gets Ya Locked Quick’ shiraz and ‘Demented Frog’ merlot and that kind of mass-produced, mass-marketed Australian shite that I HATE! So in order to have a proper bottle of wine you have to pay a small fortune. And then it still doesn’t taste nice.

There’s a wine shop down near the harbour that sells South African estate bottled wines that are nice, but it’s twenty-five dollars a pop for the cheapest (G.Y.L.Q. shitaz is ten dollars). So I don’t treat myself often enough. The Valpolicella was fifteen.

I think I’ll just go back to beer. They have nice beer here.

Mountains

I miss mountains. And hillwalking. Getting up at eight thirty on a Sunday morning after three hours sleep due to getting locked into Whelans the night before, purely by accident. Making a pot of coffee and pouring it into a thermos. Finding my wet gear. Making my sangidges. Packing my mini-Mars bars. Running down to Barbara and Caelan’s car and setting off for the day.

I remember the morning myself and JN were in the back of the car and poor Barbara was pregnant and the smell of drink wafting over her from the rear seats must have made her want to throw up. Because eventually even Caelan mentioned it. And I had been trying to breathe through my nose the whole time so it wouldn’t make her sick!

And then they made me run up the Spit.

Mr Bendy

Yoga will never be the same again. After Mr. Bendy in his leotard/cycling shorts. Yoga’s very spiritual here. The yoga studio is above the organic coffee co-op.

Ah no, I’m just being cynical. It’s fine here and the teachers are okay. I just miss Mr. Bendy. I never knew with him whether he was laughing at us all the whole time. I think he was.

I mean, he learned how to be a yoga teacher in LA for chrissakes.

Anyways…

So yeah, that’s some of the things that Queenie misses. As soon as she posts this, she’ll think of loads more, but it’s eleven o’clock now so she has to go to bed with her book.