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.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
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.
"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.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
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.
M.I.A. is a most excellent album.
It just takes a while to get used to it.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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