It's started again.

The random need to sob.

FFS.

Well only three point five days to holidays and nothing done.

Nothing.

Of course, Scotiabank didn't help.

Scotiabank.

The bank that likes to say 'fuck off you presumptuous little immigrant, coming here stealing our jobs and men, and then on top of that, expecting twenty first century banking procedures.'

The new green Grinch

I was reading an article in The Globe and Mail the other day about the new green grinch, who is a nasty type of new person stalking the planet, stealing Christmas from everyone else by moaning about consumerism and packaging and waste, etc.

Ahaaaa, Queenie thought, so that's what I am!!

I knew there'd be a label for it somewhere.

My grinchiness is deeper than my greenness however. My greenness is just a mask for a far deeper flaw.

I am just a grinch at heart.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

The Queen Dad texted me this week.

'Don't buy me a Christmas present. I am not buying any this year. Dad'

Okey dokey.

Firstly, I am flying home to be with you for Christmas, oh grinchmeister, so that's your flippin' present.

I'm sure he'd come up with some smart ass reply to that if he actually read my blog.

Secondly, if he had thought his daughter's grinchiness through correctly, he would have known that I have already bought the Queen Dad his Christmas present, so that I could read it before I had to wrap it.

Which is what I always do.

And furthermore, he would have guessed that I got it in Doull's.

Which is even grinchier.

It being the second hand book store par excellence in Halifax.

But actually, I bought it there because I'll never find it again.

It being a hard to find copy of the first novel by one of our favourites. And Doull's being a place that's hard to find books in. Despite it being a bookstore.

But that's okay.

I'll just keep it.

Or give it to someone else.

Who doesn't even like this writer.

This is my point.

I hate buying Christmas presents.

Unless I wake up one morning and realise that I have thought of the perfect present and then I have to go out and hunt it down.

Then I love Christmas shopping.

But that day when you have to head out into the cold with a list of people and NO FRIGGIN' IDEA what to buy any of them.....

I hate that.

So I have been staring at my list for what seems like forever. Trying to think of the right present.

And I had only managed to buy two. Two spectacularly correct presents for the people for whom they were purchased.

I was really proud of both of them.

And one of them doesn't want it now.

I hate Christmas shopping.

One of the columnists in The Coast was talking about how difficult it was for her this year, because she's having 'a year of not buying anything new', so she has to make all her gifts.

It got me thinking.

I was thinking of trying a year of not buying anything new.

I discussed it with Himself last night.

'Dude, I think we should do a year of not buying anything new, what do you think?'

Himself was turning over potatoes from the new bag of PEI roosters, trying to find the best two bakers for supper, so he wasn't really concentrating.

'Well, what do you mean?'

'Well, we don't buy anything new for a year. Apart from food. And liquor. So if we need something we have to find it second-hand. And then we help save the planet.'

'But that's what we do normally, isn't it?'

I considered this. Having had the finances relatively stable for a while, I had noticed that my purchasing of never used items had crept up a little. Particularly with regard to clothes.

And shoes.

When I got my new job I treated myself to two pairs of the cutest damned shoes in the world. As a reward for all my hard work.

Well, we buy new clothes.

I don't.

Yes you do.

Only when you make me, and I have enough now to do me for three years.

I voiced the opinion then that maybe I should stop buying new clothes.

But women have to buy new clothes. So they'll look nice.

Don't you just love this guy!

And he's right. We engage in very little consumption.

So maybe I'm as green grinch as it gets.

But I still have to do the Christmas shopping.

Better go get ready.

The wrong end of the schtick

So some poor pretty Irish girl who wanted to be a celebrity so much she became one of those famous for being famous people took too much cocaine and died.

Along with the other two people who took too much cocaine at a twenty first party in Waterford a few weeks back, and died this week.

And apparently some actor called Tom Murphy earlier this year (I hope it's not the Tom Murphy I know), who died of an overdose.

Not to mention all the non-famous for dying of cocaine overdosing people who will die this year.

Shouldn't we be talking about who sold them the frickin' cocaine, instead of wondering what it all means for the dying embers of the tiger?

Mr. Newspaperman?

The end of the beginning

From Saturday

That's what today feels like.

Last night I went downstairs for supper with my neighbour. Himself stayed home as he thought it was going to snow and he would have to run a snow plough in the middle of the night. So he wanted to get some sleep.


Sleep has been in short supply in this house for a bit.


Queenie is a little concerned that when she gets to Ireland all she and Himself will want to do is sleep for two weeks.


Anyways, Queenie got home about one and was in a lovely deep sleep when the Snow Plough Cell from Hell rang loudly and Himself fell out of bed to answer it.


Wrong number.

Ah well.


Himself got up at four anyways and went to do his Snicking (something to do with ice and salt and carparks).

Isn't it FANTASTIC that November is over and it's December today.


December's exciting news is that Queenie has to work out her notice in the Tree House for two weeks, then start her new job, then go to Ireland for two weeks.

Today, Thursday

Well, it stopped snowing eventually on Monday and Himself got home eventually around midnight, and then had to go back in to work four hours later, but not before I told him that I had watched The National and it said it would be the worst winter in fourteen years or something equally horrible, so I guess this will be the winter of not enough sleep.

At least I just get woken up and can go back to sleep. He's the one who has to get up and go out in the freezing cold at four am.

I am definitely getting the better half of the deal.

Speaking of terrible news on the radio, CBC are talking about a longitudinal study this morning, undertaken in the States. Apparently if you get laid off when you're in your forties your life expectation is reduced by a number of years.

Due to the stress of financial and emotional meltdown.

Well, there's a big surprise.

I wonder, if you have the same kind of meltdown due to the breakdown of your marriage with consequent poverty and emotional stress, whether the same results will ensue.

Another study on the radio news this morning says that if you have a big ass it doesn't matter so long as you are fit. It's is only a big belly that is a problem.

Apparently.

I spend my time wondering who sponsors these studies.

The belly-reducing stretch-o-rope people this morning, no doubt.

Anyways, Queenie is not worried about her life expectancy, or her health, or anything at the moment.

This month marks the end of the beginning of the Canada adventure.

Roll on the middle bit.

May it be taut and muscular and life-enhancing!

Andrew's an Auld Dog

Andrew's a stranger in a not-very-strange land. He's been living in London for just over two years now, and recently took the quite-rare decision to stop letting things slide and set up a time by which he'll start talks about talks about growing up.

I've learned later than I should have that form is not content - just because what someone is saying to you now has the same informational payload as what they might have said before, it doesn't mean they're just repeating themselves.

I've learned that an interest in what's going on and a willingness to lend a hand will get you pretty far into any scene, but those things plus really memorable hair will get you further. I haven't learned what happens when I go back to the usual, or how much I'm worried that, Samson like, the hair is the star.

I've learned that you don't need to have a perfect match with a girl before making a move - a lesson that the rest of the human race learned not long after the one about how if you leave these gourds out in the sun, they taste FANTASTIC. Then again, I've also learned that an honest heart and simple desire will get you so far, but not compared with that plus three pints of cider in you.

I've learned that you have no idea what's happening until it's passed: my best friend the first year I was here, I met by going out to a gig. The reason that I went out to the gig was that I'd posted something asking my then-circle of friends if anyone was going to a pub of a Friday evening, and received no response. So I went out anyway, and met a new friend, and was still so convinced that the weekend was a washout that I threw a very undignified strop at my friends on the Monday.

I've learned that most people act as if they have no idea that the world existed before they were born, or will continue after they die. For example, the convulsions amongst record companies about the modern state of record sales, contrasted with the fact that my grandfather who passed away this year can remember a time before there was ever a prospect of people making money from someone selling recordings of their music. But people assume that because the flow of history was in a particular shape when they arrived, they have a divine right to pin it to there by any means necessary. The clearest projection of this view into the future is the refusal of anyone to believe that we have an effect on the environment. It was like that when we found it! Just let it walk it off for a few minutes, everything'll be grand. The specific attitude of certain fundamentalist Christians not unadjacent to the White House on this is particularly galling.

I learned early on that there was love in the world. My parents taught me that, and so many other things that I didn't notice while I was shoving books in front of my face as fast as possible. It's kept me better than anything I was learning at the time.

I have learned that there are people who like my writing, who can form an attachment to it unconnected to actually knowing me. I still find this a little hard to believe, and expect them to just wander away at some point.

I've come to believe that compatible senses of humour are the largest part of a connection between people. Even one that's unidirectional -I can't think of any artists that I feel a connection but find unfunny.

I've learned that I'm tougher than I thought, and unless I'm mistaken, tougher than almost everyone else thought as well.

I've learned that I should have talked to Queenie more when we were in the same city.

Auld Dog is an intermittent column on this blog, where people offer their pearls of wisdom for the rest of us to ponder. If you would like to be an Auld Dog, send 600 - 700 words of wisdom, along with a bio and photo (or I'll write/ pick them) to auld.dog@gmail.com and I'll post it here.

A blast from the past: and they say the Left used to be hardline!

This is an excerpt from a document I am reading from 1999, from a leading business organisation in the city of Halifax.

"An important consideration, in any case, is the meaning of 'a job'. To a considerable extent political discourse over the past 50 years has classifed jobs as a commodity. Jobs are 'saved' or 'lost', with the underlying belief that the retention of each existing job is a significant social benefit.

It could not be farther from the truth. Jobs are not an output. With land and capital they are one of the three basic inputs to every production process. It is the objective of every manager interested in effective production - whether they are in the public or the private sector - to reduce all of these inputs. To do otherwise is to waste resources.

The use of too many people to produce a product or service displaces resources that could be applied to beneficial purposes. It usually also increases the use of the other inputs such as land and resources. This has environmental consequences."

I do love it when the chamber of commerce worries about the environment.

Red carpet: six

6. Ireland is at the end of the cycle, and Nova Scotia is at the beginnning of the cycle.

So there is something amazing that we could create together if we just sat down for an hour and talked about it.

I have to find a way to say this without saying the name of a place that they can't drive to.

Music

The Burial album Untrue is very good.

Fuck, I hope I'm right about this.

I love the journeys it takes me on.

They're very eighties I find.

The echo in it reminds me of stuff I used to listen to.

Etched Headplate is so Prince for example.

Roll out the red carpet: five

Well, why should I do all the thinking?

What do you think?

Therein lies the question.

The workin' man here doesn't want us because he's just at the point where there's such a need for increased productivity that maybe, just maybe, the bossman might consider giving him a proper raise....

.... and there's the payment on the satellite radio in the truck...

... and the truck payment of course...

... and the Golf...

... and the four wheeler...

... and the new kitchen...

... and the fishing camp...

... that means the Home Depot card...

... and the Canadian Tire...

... and the PC card...

Why is there not an NDP card or a Liberal card?

Anyways, I think us immigrants are going to find ourselves in the midst of the battle for the hearts and minds of the workers.

I am happy to sit it out. It might prove interesting enough to be congratulated for surviving it.

I sure as hell aren't going to invite my friends over any more though.

And I'm not voting for more health spending.

Back to the red carpet.

4. Maybe you should treat your own workers well.

Then they'd tell other people to come here.

That's how it works by the way.

Red carpets: off-carpet

Well, I tidied a bit. And opened a bottle of wine. And I shall eat eventually I imagine.

And I am listening to music.

On my own.

I am reading a Paul Theroux paperback at the moment. I keep finding these 1980s classics that I never read when I was young.

This one is his trip around the British Isles. By foot and train. It was before Thatcher got rid of the trains.

Everyone was in a state of panic. The Falkland War was on.

Jonathan Raban wrote one at the same time. From the sea. And they met for lunch in Brighton.

And it all looked really calm from the sea.

And Theroux keeps wondering why everyone stands looking out to sea.

And he's so paranoid you know he's wondering if they're waiting for Raban.

It's a brilliant juxtaposition.

Rolling out the Red Carpet

This shall be my theme this weekend.

Yes, I have decided to have a theme.

Maybe that would force me to blog through guilt.

The pr company that my recent boss recently absconded to with all the knowledge of the Justice portfolio and gas regulation and other things (damned knowledge workers and their portable brains) is asking people how Nova Scotian businesses should roll out the red carpet for immigrants.

I thought I should come up with a few ideas.

I shall be mulling it over the weekend.

Here's a couple of starters.

1. Pay us properly.

2. No? In lieu of that, gissa chance at getting the jammy jobs. Why should they all go to well-connected locals with funny college rings on their fingers?

3. No? In lieu of that, don't promote Nova Scotia for its quality of life and then work us to death.

Queenie goes off to tidy up, eat, open a bottle of wine for to continue mulling.

It's safe to go back on the road now.

I sent an email around work on Thursday morning, saying I was going home with some work I have to get done by Monday, and mentioning that I was doing my driving test at 3.30pm, so not to call me then.

"And we should all probably stay off the road then too", was the smartass reply from one of my colleagues.

Haha.

Well, it's safe to go back on the road now because I passed my test.

It was actually pretty easy. Or it would have been if I had been able to breathe normally during the test. As it was, I took every opportunity at a traffic light to try to release my death grip on the steering wheel and breathe out from the pit of my stomach, so that I would breathe in again and not pass out from lack of oxygen.

While I was waiting in the test centre, a young girl came in to do her test. She was wearing a pair of denim shorts, fishnet thigh high stockings and a pair of white runners.

Attagirl.

I remember when I wore stuff like that.

Not in a Canadian November of course. Nor for my driving test.

But in the absence of large jangly earrings (for to ensure the tester knows you are looking at the mirrors) it was a show stopper.

The tester didn't know what to look at.

She passed her test of course.

I waited and waited and eventually a smallish man bundled in an enormous anorak, with a buzz cut and the kind of messed up face that would get him a role as the nasty drill sergeant in an edgy war movie came out and said 'Queenie?'.

Damn.

Turns out appearances are deceptive.

He had a South Shore accent, which is a mellifluous hillbilly type affair with just a hint of German in it and which I love. So that helped a little.

He checked my lights and brakes and indicators and horn and then he sat in with his big anorak squashing me into the side of the car, opened the window and said 'now we'll go straight out.'

I was parked nose to nose with a Lexus at a ninety degree angle to the two possible exit roads so I knew straight out was not literally what he meant.

Nova Scotians are nothing if not vague about directions. You go down to Cape Breton from Halifax. I go up to Cape Breton. I have had two hour rows with Cape Bretoners over this. You go up to Windsor. I go over. You go along the shore. I go up or down. You always go down the Valley. I go to the Valley and then down. Or up. Depending on where I'm starting from.

So I just asked, even though I wasn't supposed to talk to him. He waved vaguely in the direction of the road with the enormous puddle in it. The one with the blind spot and the sharp turn left and the ridiculous right of way system.

Great. I was sure it would have been the other one. I had even parked the car so I could easily reverse out to the other side.

I gingerly put the car in reverse and started backing out to the left, which I can't do properly, thinking, well, if I get past this bit without him writing on the sheet he had hidden by his enormous anorak I'm sorted.

Halfway through the nightmare of getting out of the carpark, turning left onto the feeder road, trying to figure out whether I could drive on the left to get past the puddle, gunning her through and up the hill, he swept his hand under the anorak and scribbled something.

Damn.

It was 3.45pm so it was rush hour in Halifax.

We did a lot of queuing for lights and I had to do the left hand turn onto Connaught from Chebucto which is a Kamikaze turn during a gap in the traffic at the best of times, then some more driving around Halifax's key arterial roads, changing lanes between the hurtling SUVs and then he directed me into a residential area and got me to park along the kerb.

Empty kerb mind. No cars to park between like in Ireland. Except there were so many leaves on the side of the road you couldn't actually see the grass kerb.

Not that that bothered a girl who learned how to parallel park with her father and assorted farmers/ vets/ assistants/ office staff and neighbours standing around with their arms folded and big grins on their faces every time.

After I parked he said good.

I nearly died of shock. It wasn't that good. Just straight and flush to the kerb, like it's supposed to be.

The Queen Father would have been proud.

"Now, we'll start again", he said, "this is your hill start."

It was almost flat. Dundrum Hill it wasn't. I had a brief memory flash of my first test, trying to hill start the Charade on Dundrum Hill with an enormous instructor and a broken clutch (which I didn't realise at the time) before I put failure OUT of MY MIND and drove through a four way stop without even realising it was there.

Double damn.

Then we tootled back onto the main road and back to the carpark, where I reversed parked the car assways into the slot twice, leaving no room on the passenger side either side because I can't get used to turning my head right to reverse. I had a third try in reserve, but I had had enough at that point, so I just gave up and turned off the engine.

"You might want to throw your eye over your shoulder occasionally, check your blind spots, just using the mirrors isn't enough", he said in his kind voice.

"And you didn't use your indicator on that first turn off."

"But that's alright now, there you go now, take this inside and give it to them."

I stared at him beseechingly.

"You've passed."

"Oh, thank you thank you thank you."

He smiled and opened the door the four inches I had left on his side and squeezed himself and his enormous anorak out and hobbled off.

I texted Himself.

Then I texted the Queen Mother.

Then I called the office and said it was safe to go back on the road.

Then I went to the liquor store and bought something to restore my nerves.

Boy am I glad that is over.

I ain't emigrating anywhere else ever again.

Another milestone...

In another milestone in Queenie's 'my early adult years were so great I did them twice, albeit with less fun the second time' current phase, today I am doing my driving test.

Those of you who know me know how stressful this is.

When I found out that I would have to do my driver's test again in order to function in Canada I nearly went home to Ireland.

Then I successfully avoided driving for two years.

Then I thought I'd pull the old 'driving on the provisional' stunt for another while. No luck. The provisional only lasts for thirty days if you're a come from away with a licence from another country.

So at three thirty today I will head down to Mumford and face the greatest of my fears. Again.

My hands are shaking so much I can hardly type.

Himself says I'm a good driver and not to worry. Also, I have the 3.30 slot, so buddy will want to go home and view me as a definite pass.

'You won't even get out of the carpark', he said to me last night as I was curled in a foetal ball of fear on the dining room floor.

If I was buddy, I'd throw the book of hard things in the test at me. Just to see how they teach people how to drive in Ireland.

Because I'd know what everyone else seems to have forgotten.

Queenie learned to drive on the wrong side of the road all those years ago.

You try to reverse parallel park a flippin' Ford Taurus estate backwards.

The Queen Father taught me to reverse before he taught me to drive. Therefore my reversing reflexes are innate and unreversable. Therefore, I always turn my head to the LEFT when I reverse.

WHICH IS THE WRONG WAY OF COURSE.

I woke up at four am this morning and lay awake turning my head to the right to try to imprint it on my brain.

It just feels wrong.

Ah well....

Hopefully, in a few hours I will have a Nova Scotia driver's licence and I will finally finally finally be done with this immigration business.

It's been a long, winding road, with me driving on the wrong side the whole way.

Ian was right and Queenie was wrong

Not for the first time.

M.I.A. is a most excellent album.

It just takes a while to get used to it.

The problem with a public diary...

... is that there are things you want to write about and you can't write about them, because so and so might read it and they can't know the thing yet.

If you get my drift.

So most of the stuff I want to write about at the moment I can't.

Which is why I'm not blogging.

Which is a pain in the ass.

So I told Himself I had to blog tonight or die, and He said, well don't write about the thing I was going to do but I didn't because **** might read it and he'd be annoyed.

Well, great then, I won't write about anything so.

OKaY, everyone has to stop reading my blog now before I implode under the strain of not sorting out how I feel about majorly important stuff in my life that I can't blog about because someone might read it and get annoyed.

I could just write in code....

Time passes while Queenie tries to come up with a code.

Well, Himself and I decided to do something really cool. And that was great for about ten seconds. And then the thing that always comes up and bites us in the ass when we try to make a forward move in that area of our lives came up and bit us in the ass again.

So we're on hold with the excited enthusiasm at the moment.

Also, the reaction from some people was all about them. When in fact it's all about me and Himself.

So they're not coming to the thing I can't talk about.

Are ye wit' me?

It's supposed to snow on Sunday.

Am I allowed to talk about snow, dear?

Yes, dear.

Snow is boring.

I got exciting new snow boots though. Goldy-brown zip ups with a fetching fur mid-shin tassle and two fake fur bobbles.

I'm very glad I'm in my thirties and get to wear them with jeans and a warm coat and not with a micro mini and a tee-shirt which is how all the young gamine things wear them now.

Himself is listening to CNN and I just yelled out 'I can't listen to that SHIT anymore and I realise that he's asleep.

FFS - I have been listening to racist bullshit for half an hour for no reason.

I'm no better nor worse than the others

...who profess to be bloggers and who don't update their blogs.

Although some of them aren't because they are in Italy writing novels, or dealing with plumbing emergencies, or in hospital, or vanished off the face of the earth pretty much (AMMONITE - where on earth are you?) etc.

None of them are not blogging because they are too boring to blog about anything.#

They are all not blogging because they are on Facebook.

Facebook is dreadful - it sucks away your writing urge in a desperate trawl of the dictionaries of the world to find a 55 score seven letter word beginning with Y and ending in a triple word score.

A CURSE ON IT.

The benefits of insomnia

Hobson's Choice

So today is Throne Speech day. For all you paddies, Throne Speech day is the day the Canadian parliament goes back into session (no, they haven't gone back to work yet - and they wonder why Canada is not competitive), the Governor General (a lovely Haitian lady called Michael Jean) reads out a speech written by the government (ie Stephen Harper) about all the work it's going to do for the next year.

Then everyone tries to jostle into a position whereby they can cause an election without actually getting blemt for it (as over 70% of Canadians don't want an election).

But Queenie, if there's an election, then the government won't get to do any of the work in the speech.

I know, boys and girls, I know.

Problem is, politics in Canada is staffed with people who have degrees in political science, as opposed to people who have degrees in economics, or sociology, education policy, or public administration. Consequently, they like to have elections.

Hobson's Choice Day: another year of Stephen Harper talking about carbon sequestration rather than wind power, or another effing election.

Grrrrrrgh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A poem for Jim

This is a poem posted in honour of the memory of one of my favourite people, who has gone Home after a long illness, to be with his wife and friend.

Jim Loftus

Husband to dearly missed Eileen, father to beloved Nabla and Roisin, father-in-law to Allan (and Shane), grandfather to Dara and the babies, godfather to many, including my brother Baz (of which I was always insanely jealous)...

History teacher to me and hundreds more, including the wonderful students in Nigeria he never forgot and often told us dreadful Irish students about (little birds with their mouths open, they wanted to learn so much)...

Good friend to the Queen Parents and dozens more...

Intellectual, wit, anarchist in his own way, owner of the greatest book collection I saw before I went to Trinity College library, crossword fanatic...

Trivial Pursuit cheat (not that he ever needed to)...

Mentor to me always, mostly with a grin at my naivety/ stupidity/ whatever, always with a kind word, a witty comeback and sound advice...

The subterfuge we both descended to in order to get in a round for each other, subterfuge I never won...

Wearer of red socks, pipe-smoker, dog-lover (Juko, Scamp, Flop, Fiddler)...

Clareman, no, Kilfenora man...

A man with stars in his eyes, the soul of a poet and the pointedness of a swordsman.

Goodbye Sir James. Sir.

My life is emptier for your absence.
My soul is better for your influence on it.

I'm sorry I crashed your car when I was three.
It wasn't Nabla's fault.
Honest.

It was mine.

Say hello to Eileen and Mr. O'Neill for me.
Tell Eileen I miss her dreadfully still.
Tell Mr. O'Neill I still can't call him Jimmy. And I still can't sing Pythagoras.

I'm sorry I didn't know the last time I saw you was the last time. But we had a nice chat in the kitchen that night didn't we.

A poem for the end of the century
By Czeslaw Milosz

When everything was fine
And the notion of sin had vanished
And the earth was ready
In universal peace
To consume and rejoice
Without creeds and utopias,

I, for unknown reasons,
Surrounded by the books
Of prophets and theologians,
Of philosophers, poets,
Searched for an answer,
Scowling, grimacing,
Waking up at night, muttering at dawn.

What oppressed me so much
Was a bit shameful.
Talking of it aloud
Would show neither tact nor prudence.
It might even seem an outrage
Against the health of mankind.

Alas, my memory
Does not want to leave me
And in it, live beings
Each with its own pain,
Each with its own dying,
Its own trepidation.

Why then innocence
On paradisal beaches,
An impeccable sky
Over the church of hygiene?
Is it because that
Was long ago?

To a saintly man
--So goes an Arab tale--
God said somewhat maliciously:
"Had I revealed to people
How great a sinner you are,
They could not praise you."

"And I," answered the pious one,
"Had I unveiled to them
How merciful you are,
They would not care for you."

To whom should I turn
With that affair so dark
Of pain and also guilt
In the structure of the world,
If either here below
Or over there on high
No power can abolish
The cause and the effect?

Don't think, don't remember
The death on the cross,
Though everyday He dies,
The only one, all-loving,
Who without any need
Consented and allowed
To exist all that is,
Including nails of torture.

Totally enigmatic.
Impossibly intricate.
Better to stop speech here.
This language is not for people.
Blessed be jubilation.
Vintages and harvests.
Even if not everyone
Is granted serenity

It's nice to be reminded sometimes...

Himself is sick.

There we were, home at last on Friday, lazing around in the afterglow of a good week's work done (on Himself's part anyways), thinking about how we were going to spend the rest of the evening (after I had finished reading my Nordic detective novel - God knows, you can't get a word out of me when I'm tucked up reading one of them. And the library filled one of their 'don't know what to read?' wheelie units full of them and entitled it Snowy Death for my delection this week, saving me from even having to ferret them out), when suddenly Himself is throwing up into the toilet (I do love a man who throws up into the toilet. I went out with one who insisted on throwing up into the sink all the time and was then too sick to clean it up) and is lying in bed all hot and feverish and s-i-c-k....

I wiped him down with a damp cloth all Florence Nightingale-like, and resisted the urge to give him a whatchamacall it with it (I am not too up on the male dressing room lingo but you know what I mean).

No?

Well, I know what I mean and it's not as bad as it sounds.

Oh no, since I started typing he's arisen from the feverish near dead and is up and at the tomato soup!

Let's hope it works.

There's nothing worse than throwing up tomato soup.

After reading this out to Himself, he concurs.

It'll kill him or cure him.

Well, he can't be that sick if he's laying into soup and bread.

He was probably just making room for it, after his enormous Chinese takeaway dinner that Andy the big boss bought for them all for being such great workers.

Now we're onto the 'maybe it's the sludge that is killing me slowly' conversation.

Maybe.

I must check whether the company has paid up it's workers' compensation payments.

I am JOKING!

We are both just bone tired I think.

Today's exciting news is that it rained.

Proper rain. Sheets of it hurling itself against my office window. The clouds low over the harbour and the oil tankers and the Post-Panamax cargo ships looming out of them with a suddenness that is entertaining when you are desparately looking out of the window because the pile of work on your desk is so soul-destroying you would rather look at the rain.

With a 90kmph wind that skitters the water uphill so it looks like a river has jumped out of the harbour and is disobeying the forces of gravity on the slopes of the hill upon which downtown is piled.

I love when it rains like that. People stop and say: 'does it rain like that in Ireland, eh?' And I say: 'oh yes.'

'Most days.'

Their faces are a picture.

The other exciting news is that we bought a GPS unit. From a bloke in the AirForce base. For $75.

We ain't never getting lost in the woods again, nosirreebob.

Not that we ever did. But now, we can get out of the car, plot it on the GPS, break through the tree cover and go where we please.

We can get lost deliberately.

Hooray.

I think.

Which reminds me of another ex of mine who used to get lost on the mountains deliberately for the fun of it.

But who despised people with GPS units.

It is so nice to have a boyfriend who understands that I hate to

a) get lost in the woods for no effing reason, and

b) clean up other people's hurl.

Now if I could just get him to stay away from my nice tomato and basil soup that I had planned for later!

Bored with my blog

Yes, I am officially bored with my blog. Don't want to talk about politics or the environment; don't want to tell you all any more stories about domestic bliss, or wilderness camping, or work, or discuss my innermost feelings or anything.

Maybe it's the fact that someone advised me recently to do something positive with my spare time as my blog was really depressing and was probably depressing me.

I was a bit annoyed about that.

I didn't think it was depressing. I just thought it was normal.

Anyways, going to bed to read my uplifting book about the Armenian massacre of 1915 and think about

a) what we could do legislatively to eradicate poverty (they don't ask for much in work do they)

b) think about a whole new rant stream that is positive and uplifting and worth blogging about

c) maybe go to sleep at some point.

Had a nice trip in the grand tangier wilderness on Thanksgiving weekend.

Can't be arsed putting up the photos yet. Will do sometime.

Good night.

Frittering a day away on Facebook

Scrabulous..... English graduate crack.

That's all I have to say on the subject.

CBC have done a week's worth of Futurism on their morning radio show, with William Gibson on yesterday talking about animated tattoos. You go Bill. Everyone else was talking about computer chips in their brain, but that's so Necromancer...

Nobody was talking about the environment of course. (well, Gibson mentioned it in passing).

Typical geeks.

When I am the divine Lady of all Creation, I shall force geeks to do organic gardening and off-grid living challenges in their spare time. Which I will force their bosses to give them as part of the new carbon neutralising taxation plan.

They (the geeks), being the people who are good at solving problems (as opposed to the environentalists who are mostly good at pointing them out) will of course become enthused with their new regime (as they do about most things) and work together in loose collectives based around the globe to solve all the problems related therein using technology.

Et voila... the future will be shiny, with a fun, easy to operate user interface and most importantly, carbon neutral.

Then the stocks in their companies will spiral into heady heights of success and then they will all buy the new gliding boats that they have invented to travel the world.

Everybody wins.

Why has nobody done this already?

Ohmygosh it's so nice to have a day to myself at last.

What will I think about today. I am determined to only think happy thoughts until next Tuesday.

It's been a while I know

But I've been not in the mood for writing.

First I went to Digby for a three day think in for work which obviously I can't write about because it is work and therefore confidential. Then I came back to Halifax for a night before going back down to Digby on the way to the island for the weekend. Which was a non-event of a weekend as I volunteered to babysit while Himself went out. Then I had to go back to work. Then today I went back down to Digby with Himself to watch him sign his divorce papers.

Which is some sort of closure on the whole thing and which we should be happy about (if happy is an appropriate word for the end of a marriage), except that I am reeling from some bad news from home. And I have a pounding headache and a fever. Which means that either I won't be going canoeing and camping this weekend, or I will be with the remnants of a fever and a heavy heart.

When is this year going to improve?

It's nearly effing over. Maybe that's when.

Anyways.... stay safe everyone... there's too much pain around at the moment for my liking.

We take our comfort where we can get it.

What a friggin' disappointment.

The Queen Mother valiantly tried to give me a flavour of the match by text as I didn't get out of work in time to get the Setanta package on the interweb. She was actually way ahead of the Guardian minute-by-minute reporter; who was too busy watching the match to actually tell any of us what was going on.

Which proves yet again that my brother is his mother's son in a lot of ways. My brother always remembers he should be typing when it's exciting. Which is why his minute-by-minutes are better than his colleagues. It was too much to hope that he would be doing the commentary. No doubt he was somewhere far more interesting than in front of a creaking laptop for the match.

(For all you Canadian readers, I am talking about the Ireland - France rugby world cup pool game that took place last night and was the perfect end to a perfect week chez Queenie).

You leave a country for two years, and the rugby team collapses. I have heard all kinds of rumours which I am not going to repeat here because according to certain players who couldn't kick a ball straight if it killed him last night that they are not true.

Well, he may not have been kicked out of his own house, but he should be now! That's all I am going to say.

Kicked out of the country more like. Unlike his manager I disagree that his performance should be judged on how much possession he gets. Where I come from, his performance should be judged on what he does with the possession he gets.

Call me stupid, if you like, but you shape the clay you are given.

Anyways, I didn't see his performance so I can't really talk about it.

What I can say is that some of the rumours I have heard are about a Munster - Leinster split in the team.

A what?

Is this friggin' true?

Is this all we are capable of as a nation?

We endure a thirty year conflict that pits neighbour against neighbour at its lowest points, emerge from it stunned and grateful, get a few jobs, make a little money, and now a crowd of overpaid middle class boarding school boys are having a Munster - Leinster split? Over rugby?

I friggin' give up.

I had a crappy week. But I think everyone else did too, so it must have been some astrological trine or something annoying everyone this week.

The third last shitty thing that happened to me this week (the last being the knowledge that we were going down 25 - 3 to France which I received in a text message from the QM) was that I found out that I should know by the way I am treated in work how valued I am.

That's good to know. I'm glad they cleared that up.

After I heard O'Sullivan's post-match interview I realised what they meant. It's all about what kind of possession you get, you see (in staff terms). Nothing at all about what you do with said possession.

Well, we saw how well that worked for the Irish rugby team yesterday.

Himself and I went to Sugar Spice, the Jamaican diner to comfort ourselves with jerk chicken and then we got some dvds to while away the evening.

Seraphim Falls.

I never heard of this movie before. Liam Neeson and Pierce Brosnan chase each other across the Wild West in a John Toll-filmed (Braveheart, Legend of the Falls) landscape that just jumps off the screen at you (snowy Oregon mountains and New Mexico).

It cheered me right up. Restored my faith in Irish men on a world stage.

Liam Neeson was wearing a pair of slinky suede trousers that showed off the longest pair of male legs in Hollywood. He had a gun as long as his legs, and a grudge to match.

Pierce Brosnan was doing his James Bond schtick: but this time it was in the forest with no toys and no women.

He is actually a good actor. You can see why he was such a good Bond. It was the possessions that did for him towards the end of his reign in that franchise. His attempts to light a fire to dry off after getting shot in the arm and falling into a winter river are fantastic.

Then we watched Taxi Driver (not Taxi!) because Himself has never seen it.

That's right. Himself had never seen it.

I'd forgotten how good it is.

Sometimes a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

Sometimes so does a woman.

Watch this space.

What's going to happen this evening?

The Queen Dad is in Paris today; one of the many thousands of Irish people who must be wondering what the hell they are doing in the city of light on a night when it is possible that our rugby dream is going to be washed down the toilet.

I am wandering around in a state of complete bewilderment, no doubt engendered by my prolonged absence from the Irish rugby scene.

Stringer dropped for some bloke I've never heard of? WTF?!

All my memories of our recent successes in rugby are tinged with little baldy Peter wrestling the ball away from scrums twenty times his size and passing it to our Ronan, who then kicks it to suave Brian/ suave (other tall guy I can't remember because it's 6am) who then puts it over the touch line.

I think I remember Peter getting dropped once before and the results being an unmitigated disaster. Or maybe he was injured. I don't have a brain that can remember these things well.

And the Queen Dad is in Paris so I can't ask him.

Anyways, I am in confused shock. No doubt Stringer has had a string of bad games that I know nothing about. Because Eddie Sullivan wouldn't make a stupid decision would he?

And what's all this about the guys having 'personal problems'?

The last time I was in Paris, France annihilated Ireland in the Five Nations and the Queen Mum and I had to put up with it in a tiny room in the Hotel des Arts in Montmartre.

I hope that the Queen Dad gets a moment in the sun. At least he is on a pharma-junket, so the hotel room should have enough room to swing a cat in celebration if necessary.

Anyone who feels like sending me text updates this evening will be my friend for life. I shall be hanging onto the internet like a mad woman, trying to get the game on Setanta. Which is nigh on impossible.

Stupid internet pay per view.

Speaking of the unspeakable, on his recent visit here, the Queen Dad gave me Cormac MacCarthy's The Road to read. I asked him what it was like. He kind of shivered (strange for him) and said: 'it's a bit intense. It's a bit frightening. It's a strange strange book'.

I read it.

I couldn't be in a room on my own when I was reading it.

This book blows the bleak, post-apocalyptic vision of Margaret Atwood and her ilk right out of the ooze. It is delivered in McCarthy's simple prose, which as usual contains huge ideas in small sentences (how does he do that).

Then I read Charlie Brooker the other day:

This week Charlie finished reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy ("which might as well come with a razor-sharp spine, so you can slash your wrists once you've finished it"). He continued playing Bioshock on the Xbox360 ("but I can only play it if someone's in the room with me, because it's too scary to tackle alone"); and he failed to quit smoking for the 18 millionth time.

I'm glad it's not me.

If this book does not get you sorting out your compostibles from your paper waste, then nothing will.

A man and his son wander around a post-apocalyptic north american continent, heading for the (Pacific I think) ocean. The world has been on fire. The remains of the built and natural world still smoulder. Ash settles on everything. The sun is blotted out. Hordes of cannibal wildmen roam the land searching for food and weapons.

I kept reading bits of it out to Himself in a panic. 'Would we survive, babe?' I kept asking. 'Sure', he said.

Then I got to the bit that told me what happened to the man's wife.

I'd head north, meself. Fuck the ocean. They couldn't see it anyway.

Anyways, up the lads, I'm wearing my rugby shirt to work today and they had better not let me down.

Is it that time of the week already?

I got home from the movies at nine thirty tonight and Himself was already asleep in bed.

So I woke him up for a chat.

I can't go a day without chatting to Himself.

It would be like a day without coffee.

Impossible to even imagine.

Himself was very tired, so he went to bed early so that he wouldn't be a total waste of space tomorrow night. Which is very thoughtful of him.

It's not like we get up to much on a Friday night anymore.

Sometimes I go to one of the laydeez houses and we lie around and drink wine and eat nice cheese and bitch about work until midnight when we all yawn a lot and call a cab.

It helps to get all the bitching done on a Friday night, as it sets you up for a nice non-work-obsessed weekend.

Although I don't need to do it so much as I used to. I have gotten remarkably good at totally forgetting I have a job until six pm on a Sunday. When I remember. And get a tummy ache.

It's kinda sad really that a thirty seven year old woman would be still getting boarding school tummy twenty four years after she left boarding school. But there you go.

I didn't even know what it was until I read the U2 biography years and years ago and Adam Clayton described it and I said 'A-haaa!'

It is not work tummy.

It is boarding school tummy.

Anyways, I went to see Francois Giraud's Silk tonight, which involved working until six pm so I wouldn't go to see what new clothes they have in Biscuit and then a walk up the hill to end all hills to the cinema.

Silk is either unmitigated male psuedo-intellectual tosh, or a deeply ironic look at the frailty of the male penis-fixation (when it is dressed up as passion).

A young provincial French man (Pitt the lesser) comes home from the army and meets Keira Knightly, who has a very strange jaw in this movie, or maybe it was the angle I was sitting at, falls in love and marries her, circa 1863. The local money guy convinces him to leave the army and travel to Egypt to buy silkworms for his silk mills. When the worms come back blighted he sends him to Japan (which is closed to foreigners) to get some more.

While in an obscure village in Japan he sees a concubine and falls in love with her back, or her eyes, or the way she pours a cup of tea, or something.

He tries to tell the wife about it when he returns, all morose doncha know, but (thankfully for her) can't find the courage to blurt it out.

Poosams.

So entranced with the memory of this woman he is, and a note in Japanese she gives him that the local Japanese courtesan tells him says 'Come back or I will die' (she quite sensibly says don't go back, she won't die) that he heads off back to Japan for some more silk worms, just to get another look at her.

Which he does when she's setting him up with another concubine.

Whom he fucks.

While she's crying outside the paper door.

Then he heads back to France for another bout of depression and morosity, before heading back to Japan YET AGAIN, for another look at the concubine he really likes.

With dreadful consequences, etc.

All in all, the film festival was disappointing. I liked Fugitive Pieces, but that was mainly because I didn't think anyone could adapt it properly and while they didn't they made a good film of the story.

Ah well, roll on Halifax Pop Explosion in October. Maybe my need for art will be satiated then.

Life is a movie... if you can get a ticket of course

So I went to the movies last night. The movie started at nine, so at ten to nine I arrived at the cinema. There were two queues. There was a queue for people who had paid for and received tickets. And there was a queue for people who didn't have tickets. And there were a lot of people who had booked tickets online but who didn't have the tickets with them. And there were also some people who had a pass but no ticket. There was no queue specifically for them, so they were just joining either queue.

But it was all quite good-humoured at first. We're in Canada, eh! We just stand in the queue and roll our eyes at each other and congratulate ourselves on how laid back we are.

It's not like there was nobody in charge. In fact, there were a lot of people walking around with clipboards, wearing film festival tee shirts with volunteer written on them. Mostly they stood in front of the door, while everyone queued patiently. Occasionally, one of them would walk down the queue I was in and ask whether everyone had a ticket.

Unfortunately I had someone with me who didn't have a ticket. And who consequently should have been in the other queue. But then we would have had to stand in different queues, and he's a teenager so I figured we would just queue together and then I would buy him a ticket at the box office when we got inside. Neither queue was moving after thirty minutes of standing around and I didn't want him to have to stand on his own.

Also, I figured as this was the queue for people with tickets we'd get into the box office before all the tickets were gone.

Normal resourceful behaviour in every way.

Are you all still with me?

So then, in the way of queues that have to stand around for long periods of time without any explanation, the adjoining people in the queue started chatting and bitching about the queue. As my adjoining people were an elderly couple, who were getting completely pissed off at having to stand on the street in the dark, I volunteered to go up and find out what the frig was going on.

I approached the most approachable-looking of the pack of volunteers milling around hugging their clipboards against their free tee-shirts (which were incidentally, the ugliest film festival tee-shirts I have ever seen, white with AFFA in black on the front).

I asked the little woman with the big tee-shirt and the clipboard why there was a delay.

There was a question and answer session on in the theatre, but it was nearly over.

Being experienced at extracting information from officious Nova Scotians at this stage, I said: 'so we'll be getting in soon, then?'

She looked a little panicked. 'Well, they'll have to clean the theatre then.'

'Okay so, and then they'll let us in?'

'Oh yes.'

'Great', I said. She looked relieved. 'And when will that be?' I asked.

Another panic look.

'About twenty minutes?' I suggested helpfully.

She did not compute.

'Fifteen minutes?'

You often have to give them an alternative, so they can pick the easiest one.

'Oh no', she said, 'at least twenty minutes.'

'Grand so', I said. She smiled in relief.

Back I went and told the old dears and resumed queuing while he went for a coffee and we held his space and kept her company. The girls arrived and joined the queue beside us and nobody said anything about queue-jumping so I figured that was okay.

And then someone came down the queue a minute later and told everyone that there was a question and answer session on inside but it was nearly over and then they would clean the theatre and then they would let us all in in about twenty minutes.

Old dear rolled her eyes at me.

Eventually, the queue started moving and after another bit we got into the theatre.

The girls went in to keep seats and I stood at edge of the box office queue to get Justin a ticket.

There were two volunteers standing behind the counter with a huge pile of tickets and a lot of paperwork and a box with names and envelopes with tickets in them. All of which looked to me like the guest list. (which in normal societies that function properly is kept separate from the box office, as you all know).

The queue seemed to be made up of people who were either a) collecting free tickets, or b) collecting tickets they had purchased online, or c) collecting tickets because they had a pass hanging around their neck (which of course in a functioning society would get you into the theatre without having to queue). There was a lot of signing of forms for said ticket and waiting for the computer or something to print stuff, but nobody seemed to be buying a ticket for cash.

So, I figured nobody would mind if I just nipped in and got a ticket for cash while the people behind the counter were waiting for the computer to spit out some random piece of bureaucratic paper they needed to part with tickets.

So I nipped in and waved a twenty at them and asked could I buy one.

No, apparently. I had to queue to buy a ticket.

I explained that I had queued for an hour already.

I must have been in the wrong queue. I would have to go outside and join the queue for buying tickets.

I looked outside.

It was a really long queue.

So I decided that in the absence of any system on their part for the efficient vending of cinema tickets for cash I was not participating in their effing Kafkaesque nightmare just so Justin could go to the movies.

We stood in the lobby for a while near the box office, sussing out the lay of the land.

There were too many volunteers milling around to leg it in without a ticket (remembering of course that I have a ticket for myself and it would be just Justin who was getting in for free).

Justin was up for it.

I figured we'd be caught.

The pair behind the counter were studiously avoiding eye contact with me so that they didn't have to deal with an actual film-loving, paying punter while they were handing out the freebies.

Eventually I approached one of the volunteers and explained my predicament and asked if I could just buy a ticket so we could sit down because we had been waiting for an hour.

They looked sympathetic, as they had been following my progress, there not being much else for the seven of them to do.

I know they sympathised with me. There was a lot of looking panically at each other and then eventually, a group shrug and someone said 'there's nothing we can do, it's just the bureaucracy.'
I said: 'you are the bureaucracy. Why can't you just do something about it?' and walked away before I effing hit one of them.

A Scottish woman behind me said helpfully: 'you just have to let them do it and wait your turn.'

I often get told stuff like this in similar situations. I think it is because people feel I don't understand the Canadian way. They don't realise that I just think it is the stupid way.

'I don't think so', I said.

All of this had taken about twenty minutes, so it was now nearly ten o'clock and I had been standing for over an hour.

Then, suddenly, with loads and loads of people still queuing outside, they locked the doors. There was a small queue left inside, so I joined it and judging from the enormous pile of unclaimed tickets I figured I was going to succeed.

I gave Justin the thumbs up.

He gave me one back.

Justin is eighteen and about six feet tall and was standing in the corner wearing combats, a baseball cap and a hoodie over it. But he had been really patient.

I was very proud of him.

I was determined to get him a ticket after all this.

Just then, the senior clipboard person came over and said she was sorry for the problem, but I just had to queue up if I wanted to buy a ticket.

I pointed out that I was, in fact, doing that very thing.

She pointed out that I had jumped the queue.

I pointed out that the door was locked, so for all intents and purposes, this was the end of the queue, which is where I had been told to go, so in fact, I was obeying orders.

She pointed out that I had been standing around inside for a while, so that didn't count.

I pointed out that I had queued for an hour OUTSIDE in the queue for PEOPLE WHO ARE FUCKING ORGANISED enough to have a ticket.

She looked completely confused then. Well why do you want a ticket, she asked.

For my friend, I said.

'Why didn't you buy him one in advance, then?'

She hugged her clipboard to herself triumphantly.

'Because I didn't friggin' know he was coming when I bought the tickets, did I!'

I probably was screaming in frustration at this point, I don't know, the rushing of blood in my head was blocking out all sound.

'Well, you should have made him queue to buy a ticket', she explained.

'He's a teenager! What, am I going to make him queue in the dark on his own.'

She looked over at Justin, who was leaning against the wall looking like a really smelly crack dealer, and then looked back at me in utter disbelief.

Well, it was worth a try.

'I am sorry I can't do anything', she said.

'That's okay', I said, 'why don't you just organise it better next year.'

She stared at me for a long moment and then turned and walked away.

Then it was my turn to buy a ticket.

Tickets in hand, we bounded up the stairs to look for the others.

There were at least fifteen rows of empty seats in the theatre.

Yes, that's what I said.

There were at least fifteen rows of empty seats in the theatre.

I was standing at the top of the stairs, gobsmacked with astonishment at the complete incapacity to organise a piss up in a brewery; that had led to a situation whereby the volunteers had locked the doors on a long queue of people who wanted to see the movie, before making sure the hall was filled with punters.

Said volunteers being volunteers because the Atlantic Film Festival is a film festival that's always whingeing about not having any cash.

Then the Scottish woman who had advised me to go outside and join the very end of the said queue stood behind me and loudly said: 'there she is, she's very brazen'.

I thought she was impressed with my resourcefulness.

I turned around and waved my tickets at her.

'I am, aren't I!' I laughed.

'Fucking queue-jumper', she hissed at me.

Justin looked at me and said 'what did she call you?'

'A fucking queue-jumper.'

'But we did queue!'

'I know.'

'For a friggin' hour, Queenie!'

'I know, Justin, I know.'

Anyways, the movie, The Stone Queen was good, but not good enough to have had to put up with bureaucratic bullshit for almost two hours.

A pox on the Atlantic Film Festival. You better not ever come to me looking for money.

And I have four more tickets for shows.

Two of which are for the same cinema.

Himself reckons they have a photo of me in the volunteer room to ensure I'll never get in again.

Sigh.

Is it me?

Or is it them?

That's all I want to know.

If it's me, I'll change. I'll become a better person. I will never again weigh up the benefits of two queues and pick the smarter one. I will go to the queue that inconveniences me the most and benefits the supplier of the service that I am purchasing the best.

I will.

I will swallow my consumer rights knowledge and let them fuck me around because my desire for efficient customer service is irresponsible on my part.

I will.

But I just can't help but think it's them.

They could have:

- Spent the hour we were all queuing giving people their freebies.
- Spent the hour we were all queuing sorting out ticket collections.
- Spent the hour we were all queuing selling us coffee, hot dogs, chocolate, tee-shirts.
- Spent the hour we were all queuing creating a buzz about the film festival, handing out fliers

In other words, they could have spent that hour we were all captive to them extracting money for us and SAVING THE ATLANTIC FILM FESTIVAL.

But no.

They were all in there seething about the woman who got the biggest clip board because her husband is on the board of the Festival.

And working out who was going to deal with the Irish woman going postal in the lobby because she didn't want to queue.

I can hear them now.

Effing come from aways.

They have no manners, do they!

They just don't understand it's the Canadian way, or the highway.

They think that just because all Canadian population growth from this year on will be due to immigration that they can come in here and take our jobs and then swan around demanding we treat people with respect just because they are paying punters.

The right to reside in the tree

So Canada Post never bothered to get my passport signed for in the Immigration Office in New York. Consequently while they were 'looking for it urgently', it stayed there for a while, got its shiny new PRC stamp in it and found its way back to me today.

Via Canada Post of course.

I waved it at Himself (well the note from the postman saying 'while you were out...' anyways) and said, now, I'm in. Finally. Does that mean I get to live in the Tree House? Previous readers of this blog will know that the Tree House is where the big boys get to hang out. Girls don't often get to hang in the Tree House. Well this one doesn't anyways.

No, Himself said. You just get to live in the tree.

Himself was not being defeatist. It's just Himself has been dealing with an extended period of Queenie asking to be let into the Tree House at work and the boys saying no and Queenie coming home in tears, and claiming she's going home to Ireland so he'd better sort out the CD collection. Or wanting to move to South America, or Alberta, immediately!, before he's even had his supper, so he's pretty much defined his position on all things boreal-based and habitationally-inclined for the moment and is having none of the boys ever again.

Even if it does mean voting for the Greens.

Well, how the hell am I going to get into the Tree House now, I asked Him.

Cut the tree down, he suggested.

I love the fact that Himself is an anarchist by instinct.

Anyways, I feel a bit better now. It was pretty hard to say goodbye to the Queen Parents and the neighbours in the same week, and then to lose the boss, and then get a new boss without any pretext of a competition, and have Canada Post not give a shit about my passport and nobody care about the fact that I need a pension and to get my teeth seen to, and to see good friends not let into the Tree House either. Etc.

But you can't keep a good lumberjack down, can you.

Sometimes the weekends take longer than you have

Himself and Queenie were both sick today.

Terrible.

Couldn't go to work.

Either of us.

Happily we are all better now after a sleep and a lie around all day, so we'll be back at the coalface tomorrow.

Don't know what could have possibly caused it.

Honest.

Maybe the shrimp we had last night. I'm always a bit queasy when I have shrimp. But I thought barbequed would be okay.

Probably the shrimp.

Not the weekend at all.

Nosirree bob.

Nor the twelve weekends preceeding that catching up on us.

Some days, you just need a day to get your head and your body and your ability to face the hell that is being employed by the man (in Nova Scotia) all back into alignment after a bad week.

Call it a mental health day or whatever. Some days it is physically and mentally impossible to face work.

In exciting building news, Peter the Lover is back ensconced in the apartment upstairs with the new neighbour from hell, and NO I DID NOT read the letter - what kind of a wench do you all think I am?

But it must have been a good letter, as it is all back to normal upstairs.

Hurray.

Not.

However, apart from being woken at 2.30am last night by the NNFH moving the furniture or something around, it's been quiet so far.

We spent the weekend in Londonderry.

Londonderry, Nova Scotia.

With Himself's cousin and his family. Great time had by all as is normal on our annual trip to Londonderry.

Every time we go we say - we must do this more often. And then we never do of course.

Anyway, washed those work blues right out of my hair.

And then when we got back the Melwood gang had a bonfire with BBQ shrimp AND sparklers. All finished by eleven pm too.

So I'm all set to go back and face into another few weeks of the TreeHouse Gang.

Sigh.

The things we have to do to pay the rent.

Moral choices

Saturday morning....

We lay in bed and watched a spider abseiling up and down from the ceiling for about an hour then we sent it outside to play.

Himself told me the neighbours had a big fight last night, and when I went outside to put the spider out in the front yard, there was a note on my neighbour's door, saying 'Peter, there's a letter for you in my mailbox'.

What would you do?

No, what would you want to do? The correct behaviour is obvious, of course.

But still...

Apologies for the previous post, I think I left the middle bit of what I was trying to say out.

And now I can't remember what I was thinking about.

I must be getting old.

The first thing I do, when I log onto my blog in the morning

... is look to my links.

What do you do?

Are you even there anymore?

What are we all doing on multiple platforms?

Intuitively, I feel it is the best way.

But I feel myself drawn to the simplicity of a single interface.

Is that what all of this is about.

Jesus. If I had known that, I would have said the following:

Communism was a simple idea.

And so was Fascism.

And so is Christianity.

Intelligent Design has two words.

I'm not allowed into that kind of high-level focus group.

But as a member of the voting public; oh that's right, I don't have the right to vote. Even though I pay tax.

Must remember my lowly position in Canadian society.

After all that.

It's not about focus groups boys and girls.

A focus group is just a group of people who aren't us, sitting in a pretend pub.

That's what I miss most about home.

Conversation.

At least I have found it here now.

Canada Post ate my passport

So Canada Post has mislaid my passport.

I sent it off via their guaranteed XPress post to the Consulate in New York on 16th August, sat back and waited for the tracking device to kick in on the internet.

The joys of technology.

It left Canada on 18th August.

Since then, nothing.

So I called Canada Post. Complained. Nicely. Explained it was my passport. Explained that they needed to find it. They opened a file. The nice lady Karen, whose English wasn't so good called me and told me she would call me again when she had any information.

Five days passed and nothing. I called again. The nice lady Karen had gone on vacation until September 17th, so I re-entered the bowels of the call centre and got a nice boy who said the file had been closed because I hadn't called back.

He re-opened the file. Another nice non-English lady eventually called yesterday and said they can't find the passport and can I (yes, moi, me, mise) call the Consulate General in New York and see if they have it.

I pointed out that they are supposed to have the package signed for so they will know and that is why I pay them the big bucks.

They pointed out that I have to call.

It's my own fault. This is the second time they have done this to me.

Can I spend the night with...?

No you can't.

Multiply that by one hundred.

That was last night.

Yes, the teenager is back. For a few days anyway.

And she is out with her friends, as teenagers are. But she wants to spend the night.

There are two problems with this.

One, she never actually spends the night where she says she's going to. So we cannot calculate odds and say, yes, that place is fine. Because we don't know where she'll end up.

Two, there has been a spate of teenage violence in Halifax in the last two weeks. A sixteen year old stabbed four security guards at a teenage disco last weekend and nearly killed one of them. Three sixteen year old girls attacked an elderly lady with iron table legs (for no apparent reason) at 9.30pm on the Commons and were set upon by the crusties who hang out there who held them until the cops came.

Plus all the usual swarmings etc.

Now, I'm pretty sure Kitty wouldn't stab anyone, or attack someone's granny with a table leg, but she has been known to throw rocks at her own house (there must be some Irish in her somewhere), so no, she can't spend the night.

Then she got home at eleven pm on a Thursday and started with the 'It's so crap having an eleven pm curfew. Nobody else has an eleven pm curfew' rant.

By eighty eight times.

I listed all the other sixteen year olds who have one.

They are all losers, apparently.

I have to laugh. It's all exactly the same as the conversations I had with my mother. Except this time the Queen Mother was sitting listening to me having this conversation with a sixteen year old. There's even an annoying little brother butting in.

Karma.

This week has been one of massive shifts and changes and it's all a bit unsettling.

I am currently spying on the new neighbours. Mike and Kate and Connor and Mika and the dogs left on Wednesday for Ottawa and the new neighbours are a couple with a baby who are teachers and triathletes at the weekend. They have just arrived on their matching bicycles sans baby and are now walking around the house checking every inch of the exterior very carefully.

I'm sure they'll be lovely.

Himself is despondent. Not without cause.

Craig and Lyse whom we love and who were the best neighbours ever left a month ago and were replaced by a nurse who is on disability which means she sleeps all day and moves furniture around all night and has the LOUDEST LONGEST SEX in the world.

Every night.

When she and 'Peter your Lover' (that's how he signs the notes he leaves on her door) are having loud energetic sex and we are in the garden we have to be sure not to look up at her windows because she often likes to have sex against the window.

It was poor Himself who copped that one night when he was putting the garbage out.

It's actually quite annoying.

At least we know it's not her back is causing her disability.

What's most annoying though is that Peter the Lover usually arrives around seven, so she has long, loud showers in the hour preceding that, which is when Himself arrives home from work covered in diesel actually needing a shower and as our pipes are connected, there's never any water for him.

He got so pissed off yesterday he turned the hot water on and left it to run while she was abluting.

I have never ever seen him do something vindictive. But all his male buddies are abandoning him, see, so poor Himself is upset.

We need a house in its own gardens with no neighbours, and a dog for Himself to play with. That's what we need.

The baby has arrived in a battered old station wagon (the baby is not driving it obviously).

Well, a battered old station wagon is usually a good sign.

And the D key has fallen off my laptop. No D, no K, and two of the cursor keys are now gone.

I possibly may need a new keyboard.

I hate the end of the summer. The Queen Parents leave tonight and then it's Labour Day weekend and then it's back to nose on grindstone for another four months.

The good news is that we will be in Ireland from 22nd December - 5th January.

Well, good news for some anyways.

Bible talk time

It would appear I know my enemy better than I thought I did.

You know the Bible 92%!

Wow! You are awesome! You are a true Biblical scholar, not just a hearer but a personal reader! The books, the characters, the events, the verses - you know it all! You are fantastic!

Ultimate Bible Quiz
Create MySpace Quizzes

Sorry but

I was going to blog then I noticed my neighbours who are leaving forever on Wednesday are sitting in their garden, so people being more important than blogging always, sorry but.

Why are sleeplessness and marriage so terrifying?

So I didn't sleep much last night.

First of all, I had a strong coffee after my meal, which is not something I should do without a bucketful of wine to counteract it.

Second of all, I came home and blogged when I was tired which made me wired.

Then I read The Blair Years until my eyes hurt.

And then when I turned the light out I realised that there was roadworks being done somewhere, so that was it for me.

I got up at two and emailed Deveaux in Vietnam, figuring he'd be up.

What the fuck are you doing up at this hour, he responded.

WTF indeed.

It was after three the last time I remember looking at the clock.

Then Himself bounced in the door at 6.30am, got into bed and started talking about getting married.

Needless to say I was not in the mood to talk about anything, much less the single most terrifyinig concept in my world.

A world that includes grizzly bears and drowning.

I think I hurt Himself's feelings. Which I am sorry for, not just because I shouldn't do it, but because he just looks so damned sad when I do. Makes me feel like a nasty Queenie, which I don't mean to be. I'm just a sleepless Queenie, alone and adrift in a big bed for too many hours.

How ironic that I would spend a large part of my twenties feeling alone and adrift because the man I was with refused to contemplate the idea of marriage, and now that I am in my thirties and am with the only man in the world I could probably stay married to, the thought of it makes me feel alone and adrift.

I am probably over-analysing it as I normally do with the choices in life.

However, being a good Irish Catholic girl by instinct (if not by reputation), I think a bit of over-analysing is quite proper.

I was at a funeral recently at which they offered Communion and I didn't go up and told my (Jewish) friend that I wasn't because I was in a state of mortal sin. She just looked at me like I was an idiot and said 'do you follow the rules?'

To which I had no answer.

Some of them, I do.

And saying I do would be one of them.

Not that I would ever get married in a church or by a priest, but I would say I do and mean it.

Not that everyone doesn't I suppose.

But that's kinda scary isn't it.

It's like when I was trying to pass my driving test and I couldn't and there were people whom I knew for a fact to be utter morons and they could pass their test.

And eventually I got so impatient with my own inability to cross whatever psychological barrier needed to be passed to do it that I just went out and did it.

Hopefully, this will be the same.

It's not like I have to make my mind up anytime soon. Himself being wedded to the woman who WOULD BE WEDDED TO HIM FOREVER.

What happens when you run out of steam?

Hey, I justed turned 35 and I'm wondering whether I should be settling into nicely into painting the back garden. I am still addicted to painting the town red. I think that Dublin right now is a seriously tough place to have a relaxed lifestyle - it's so manic and expensive and it really suits a manic and expensive life. So what happens when I run out steam? Meath? Leitrim? Wicklow?

I have been thinking about this comment for some time. As Luke is the guardian of the spirit of the girl I used to be, am now and always will be, I feel obliged to tackle it.

What happens when you run out of steam?

The Queen Parents took me out for a very nice fish supper with a nice chardonnay to wash it down and then retired; Himself is working nights tonight, which involves playing cards with Greg and keeping the refinery going; absolutely no distractions for Queenie for the next couple of hours.

I have made a nice mix of Cat Power You are Free, Patrick Watson Close to Paradise, and The Magnetic Fields 69 Love Songs to keep me company.

The northwest wind that was sniffing around Halifax for a few days is gone and when we left the restaurant tonight it was muggy and warm again. I dropped the QPs home and then headed up Spring Garden to get some cash and a cab.

It was hoppin'.

For a Monday.

People walking out into the traffic in that 'the air is warm so I'm going to be crazy' way people have when they realise the summer is still on.

What happens when you run out of steam?

You sniff the air and it is intoxicating, but even though your body itches to head down towards your favourite bar, your brain propels you into the ATM unit and back to the cab rank because it is Monday night and you have a week ahead tomorrow.

I sat into the cab and clicked myself in and told cabbie where I wanted to go and sat back for the rush that is a cab drive down the Northwest Arm on a hot August night.

In the absence of going crazy on a Monday night when I have nowhere to be and money to spend, I love summer taxi rides with the window open. I love being propelled forward through the night by a stranger who may or may not talk to you about something interesting or crazy or just banal.

Sometimes the idea is better than the reality, isn't it.

We hit a light pretty much straight away. It was a long one. I started to notice a weird smell in the cab. Then I noticed that cabbie's hair was a bit 'messy'.

Also, he was gnawing his finger knuckles and making a strange bronchial sucking sound.

When I say gnawing, I mean he had three of them in his mouth and when I say bronchial I mean Denis Hopper in the rape scene in Blue Velvet.

The smell was getting worse.

There was no window opening device in the back of the cab.

We hit road works on Bell St. and cabbie was in the wrong lane. It was closed for repairs. He peered through his enormously thick lenses into the car in the next lane. He was trying to see if the girl in the car would let him into the lane I think, but she took one look at whatever his look said to her and REACTED.

Then she looked at me.

I shrugged.

Which is hard to do when you've stopped breathing because of the smell in the cab.

She mouthed something at me.... don't know what it was.

Probably something along the lines of 'just shout if you need help'.

It was only a cab ride.

I've done worse things on a Monday.

Long pause while nothing happened because the guy working the stop-go sign was having a spliff break or something.

Cabbie did a u-ie in the middle of the road and we sped off down the other route.

We passed the church on North St.

The sign which I always read when I pass this church said 'I came to bring fire to the world and how I wish it were already kindled' (Luke 12:49).

Sometimes you pass that church and it says something really religious. And sometimes you pass it and it says what you've been thinking all day.

As we drove past I craned my neck to see if it was repeated on the other side of the sign, as I hadn't caught the verse number.

'Golf tournament, for details call 4** 2***'

Is that what happens when you run out of steam?

Eventually I got the drive down the NorthWest Arm but the smell meant the rush was not the rush I intended.

Through the Rotary. Which is a Cretan labryinth of red and black traffic bollards at the moment. Cabbie drove ve-ry slowly round due to the lack of eyesight.

Up the hill and he took his sweet time about getting me my change.

Finally I got out of the smell and got my evening back.

WHY ARE HALIFAX CABS SO EFFING SMELLY? IT'S EFFING EMBARRASSING.

So anyways, what happens when you run out of steam?

I am reading Alastair Campbell's diaries at the moment. I am obsessed with them. They are the most accurate description of working for a politician I have ever read and I have read them all.

A former colleague recently pointed out to me that the problem with where I work is that everyone there acts like they are five years old all the time. And I took that incredibly accurate observation on board and resolved to grow up and be twelve, at least.

On a good day anyway.

And after having done that for a month with all the self-control that that entailed, I start reading this book and realise that the architects of New Labour all acted like they were five.

All the time.

The whole book is peppered with Mandelson having a hissy fit about nobody listening to him. And Gordon Brown having a sulk because no one listens to him. And Robin Cook plotting against everyone because he is the smartest person in the universe and yet nobody listens to him. And Prescott trying to beat up people because they won't listen to him. And Clare Shortt fucking everything up for everyone on the Channel 4 news, because she is the conscience of the party and nobody listens to her.

And Harriet Harman and Mo Mowlam are just appalling. All the time.

And Cherie having a tantrum because Alastair sees more of Tony than she does.

And Alastair having a fit because Tony didn't care enough about his ulcerative colitis.

And Tony Blair in the middle of it all sitting on a bed in a chateau somewhere playing air guitar with his underpants on his head saying, for fuck's sake, we're trying to be the government here, can we all stop acting like we're five

Change a few names and we have every political party I have ever worked for.

It sounds like they had a lot of laughs at their own expense. Which is the same for every political party I have ever worked for. Which is why I still do it even though I feel like I have run out of ideas most of the time.

Himself just called and said one of the boilers is not working, so he has run out of steam for sure tonight.

I don't think I ever ran out of steam. I don't think that was what happened.

Honestly.

One day I had a life that involved dinners with ambassadors and weekends in draughty cottages in the west of Ireland with appallingly arrogant Guardian journalists and race meetings with dodgy millionaires and ladies' room chats about other people with drunk female politicians and parties in all the best places and knowing whose intellect was propped up with cocaine and whose was propped up by their wife and what Nobel Laureate to avoid because he was a fucking sexual deviant and which one was the party bore.

And the next day that life was over.

And I never missed that life.

Not for a minute.

Because apart from the fact that all experiences pall after a while, I had moved on and I had a life that involved being on my own and being in total control of what I did and I never had to watch my words or spend an eternity at some boring PR witch's theatre supper because some better guest had dropped out at the last minute and I got to hang out with the best kind of rock band - the professional touring band - which involved nights in the Camden Palace snooker hall and too many pints and then a walk in the Wicklow mountains in the rain with my favourite people in the world.

And then I had a moment of utter silence in the most expensive shoe box I had ever bought and realised that a life without the background noise of the real universe is not a life and decided that I should try to find that soundtrack and live in it.

And sometimes I miss that life.

But I remember every single second of it and when I get achey for it I just tell Himself stories about it and he appreciates hearing about the me that was me before the me that is me now.

And so do I.

And now I have a life that quite improbably and remarkably involves a seamless shift between the ridiculously pompous work of trying to figure out what is the best option for the society I live in and putting it out there safe in the knowledge that when I am wrong someone smarter than me will spot that and call me and tell me to cop the fuck on...

... and the times when I just sit in what's left of the wilderness from which that society was carved and listen to a trio of woodpeckers bore into a spruce bole.

And a whole bunch of creative, ridiculous five year olds to hang out with during the week.

And I don't have to feel guilty about how I spend my money, or my time, or my carbon, or my emotions.

It's not that I ran out of steam.

I just ran out of reasons not to live my life the way I am supposed to this time round.

So I suppose if you are living a life that you choose and it is the life you are meant to be living then you will never run out of steam.

Did you come to bring fire to the world, Luke?

Yes. Definitely.

Are you wishing it was already kindled?

If you are not then you are in the right place.

If you are then know that it is, somewhere and go find it.

And if you're not sure, then come to Bear Cove next August where we'll be kindling a fire.

Like the one in the photo. That's last year's fire I think.

Maybe some whales will come in to feed when the moon is overhead.

We might see a coyote on his nightly run.

We could even hear a shark take a seal.

I have to warn you though, it takes a long time for a seal to die from a shark bite.

And it's very bronchial.

In a Dennis Hopper kind of way.

Vikings apologise.... finally

From the Guardian:

More than 1,200 years ago hordes of bloodthirsty Viking raiders descended on Ireland, pillaging monasteries and massacring the inhabitants. Yesterday, one of their more mild-mannered descendants stepped ashore to apologise.

The Danish culture minister, Brian Mikkelson, who was in Dublin to participate in celebrations marking the arrival of a replica Norse longboat, apologised for the invasion and destruction inflicted. "In Denmark we are certainly proud of this ship, but we are not proud of the damages to the people of Ireland that followed in the footsteps of the Vikings," Mr Mikkelson declared in his welcoming speech delivered on the dockside at the river Liffey. "But the warmth and friendliness with which you greet us today and the Viking ship show us that, luckily, it has all been forgiven."

Of course, when I demanded an apology from the National Museum in Copenhagen, circa 1998 -99 I think, for neglecting to mention the rape and pillage their people had inflicted on mine during the Viking raids, they just laughed at me and said that history was written by the winners.

The section of the museum that dealt with that time was a total whitewash. Along the lines of 'during this period in history, the Danes farmed and built ships to travel to other lands'. Got me right riled up at the time.

Glad to see they've seen sense at last.

Wonder whether they will change the museum exhibit now?

Shelbird Lake - the Inside Passage of Nova Scotia

A big regret was that the Monkeys and us didn't get to go camping. We were going to head down to Bear Falls and I went so far as to book a spot, but it poured rain that weekend, so we did the city break thing of coffee shops and book shops and spent time in Doulls buying second hand books, and then spent more time sipping cappucino in the PaperChase. Which was cool because they had the front of the shop down (it's all glass) and there was an almighty thunder and lightening storm which we got to watch from a sofa.

As usual in Doulls, I went in with nothing particularly in mind and got some great books just by wandering around a bit:

Jonathan Raban's Coasting, and his Passage to Juneau.
Colin Thubron's Behind the Wall (I have nearly all of his work now).
Wayne Johnston's The Custodian of Paradise (I have everything of his now).
and Mrs. Monkey bought me Ahab's Wife.

Added to that, I got Vikram Chandra's Sacred Games, and Orhan Pamuk's Snow for my birthday.

Also, I got an Amazon voucher which I used to buy Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policeman's Union, as well as some books on Costa Rica which I am going to use to whet my appetite and try to get myself organised to go there sometime.

And I also bought Michael Ondjaate's Desiridata.

So the last four weeks have been mainly about trying to get all these books read.

I got through Sacred Games in about ten days, despite its size. Great book. Great great great. A most wonderful description of Mumbai. I spent most of the time I was reading dreaming about Indian food, to the extent that I broke off one day and cooked a biryani because I wanted one so badly. Well, I tried to cook and read at the same time, so it wasn't the best biryani in the world, and then I didn't have any yoghurt so I had to put the book DOWN and drive to the supermarket to get the yoghurt. And then because I had growled at Himself for being in the same world that did that to me and I had to leave the book down while we ate and be nice to him, the break actually kept me from the book for an entire hour, the biryani was probably a mistake.

You always know when you have a great book because the only time you stop to eat is if you can prepare the food while reading the book. That's why I always have cheese and crackers in the house.

Nevertheless, I got through the next part of the book with a lovely full tummy and the slight taste of yoghurt and cumin in the back of my throat so it was nearly as good as being in India.

Great characterisation, and a great description of the politics that nearly tore Mumbai apart in the nineties, and which will probably nearly do so again sometime soon.

Very strange ending though. The book ends. And then there's this totally random epilogue, which creates a sense of 'oh yeah, how interesting'. But I felt the ending was not expanded enough and the epilogue was a bit of a rush job on a sub-plot that the author insisted be left in.

It would be interesting to know whether his editor agreed with him.

After that I tackled Raban.

Coasting first.

He took off on a converted fishing boat to coast around the UK coastline while Thatcher broke the miners and declared war on Argentina over the Falklands.

Coasting was pretty easy. It's only a small thin volume, so I started using the lovely yellow organic cotton bag that my friend Barbara sent me for my birthday and just took it out every time I had a minute.

In fact, the bag is now my handbag of choice because I can fit my book and my camera and my coffee mug and all the rest of my crap in it and I am SET for the summer.

I will cry when I wear a hole in the bottom of it, as I will do because I wreck every bag I love through overuse.

Think small girl trailing dirty one-armed teddy bear through mud, fast-forwarded thirty years.

So the attempt to read the book in between the chaos that is my summer went off pretty well and I still managed to get enough time to sit around and think about Raban's views on life, love and the importance of being in touch with the ocean. Which is an important part of life.

If you are interested in politics, or English people, or class structures, or the sea, and you ever find a copy of this book buy it and bring it home and treasure it.

I was so energised by Raban's writing that I decided to head straight into Passage to Juneau. I reckoned that I would be sorted for this one, even though it's a lot longer than Coasting, because Himself and I were having OUR WEEKEND.

It had been a long time in the coming. Since January, we have been raising a teenager. Then when she went home for the summer, we have hosted innumerable barbeques, backyard parties, camping trips, evenings in, evenings out, worked pretty solidly and kept the cogs of life going.

We sat looking at each other one evening over the dinner table and said:

HOW ABOUT WE SPEND THE WEEKEND TOGETHER, DUDE?

Enter Syd.

I work with Syd.

We did a two day work trip up the Eastern Shore a few weeks back and on the way home I told Syd that Himself and I love to camp.

Syd had a camp.

Way back in the woods.

Would we like to stay there sometime.

Would we what!

I went home and told Himself.

Himself didn't talk about anything else for the ten days it took to get three days off and the key from Syd.

We drove ninety minutes up the Eastern Shore and inland to Mooseland.

Yes, boys and girls, there is a place in Nova Scotia called Mooseland.

Syd got out his four wheeler and we drove down a back road for a couple of miles and met him and his wife Nancy at a crossroads.

Yes, boys and girls, I work with a Syd who is married to a Nancy.

Then we drove down an old logging road for forty kilometres.

Poor Albert is scratched to death.

Then we hiked in another mile.

And then we were at Shelbird Lake. At the edge of the Grand Tangier Great Lake Wilderness.

Syd and Nancy showed us the cabin and helped us unpack and then they left.

Me. Himself. A cabin with no electricity. A lake. The fog rolling in. A thunderstorm in the distance.

I was out on the rocks by the lake calling loons before you could say Canada's national bird.

After about four minutes one started calling me back.

Another thirty minutes later, Mr and Mrs Loon came to visit me.

Oh joy...... I just love loons.

Himself was on the other rock fishing.

Before we arrived, we had struck a deal. I would read. He would fish. When it was too dark to do either we would sit in the night air and watch the stars come out one by one. When it was too damp to do that we would sit in the cabin and talk in the candlelight. When it was too late to do that we would sleep in the FANTABULOUS new double sleeping bag that the Monkeys donated to the Himself and Queenie camping equipment fund.

Next day we struck off on a hike and got EATEN by horseflies. After that we confined ourselves to the lake. We had a little rowboat and we paddled around the entire circumferance of the lake, explored every nook and cranny, cast for trout in every deep pool, punted up every brook that led to the Great Tangier Lake that loomed on the far side of the trees.

A very dangerous lake for wind apparently. We stuck to Shelbird.

The first day was foggy and mysterious and we couldn't see past the trees on the side of the lake. But it was very warm so we didn't care. Raban was travelling up the Inside Passage from Seattle and telling me about Captain Vancouver's trip to map it for the English Crown. He had a miserable time, old Vancouver, but Raban's empathy overrode the nasty character he seemed to be. I felt sorry for him, hemmed in on all sides by trees and fog and water. Himself and I talk constantly about what it must be like to have been the first white man to explore Canada. I suppose our little trips into the woods are an attempt to recapture that feeling somewhat.

I spent the day in a delicious fug of Canadian wilderness fear disorder.

Unfortunately, the bear I was hoping for (they are still roaming the Tangier) didn't turn up.

Jonathan Raban saw lots of them of course. I think he is as scared of them as I am.

On the second day the sun blazed and we spent most of the day in the boat. Two men passed by on the far side of the lake in a kayak. Four ducks came and swam in our brook for a while. A family of woodpeckers took up residence in a tree and bored it for about an hour.

Busy day.

We went skinny dipping in the lake and fished some more and I travelled up the Inside Passage from Seattle to Juneau with Jonathan Raban as he tried to make sense of his life. At night watching the stars we tried to do the same.

Same stars.

By the last day Himself had, understandably seeing as it was thirty degrees and August, not caught a trout. Jonathan Raban had lost his father to cancer and been dumped most heartlessly in Juneau by his wife.

I didn't know who I felt worse for.

I do know that despite the fact that I was eaten alive by horseflies on day one, gave myself a black eye on the bunkbed frame on night two and hauled a hundredweight of gear in and out a narrow woodland path, I wouldn't have missed this weekend for the world.

Pictures under the heading.

When we got home I headed straight into Thubron's Behind the Wall, which is a portrait of China circa 1988 I think. It was very interesting too, a very deep meditation on the why of the Chinese personality's ability to take part in the Cultural Revolution.

And I just finished Pamuk's Snow.

I am going to have to read it again. I have a feeling it is the Ulysses of Turkish literature. Far too much in it for me to absorb in one reading. Especially the way I devour books.

He definitely deserved his Nobel Prize.

More about that anon. Hands are tired now.