Queenie drove 750 kilometres yesterday. It was a long drive, interspaced with meetings, but a long drive in solitude. A long drive in solitude generally results in a long think.
Yesterday was a long drive in varying winter driving conditions - terrifying black ice conditions in complete darkness along the airport highway, a long, slow dawn up towards Truro, the brightening sky streaming rose pink shadows onto the snow covered landscape, more black ice, then wind and blowing snow on the hills near Pictou, passing an accident near Exit 21, a woman sitting weeping in her car as the police try to pull her out of a snowbank.
I do this driving because I live here now and I have to learn. I don't take any risks and today I am not driving to Amherst because the forecast is bad and Himself said no.
I think that Himself is a little protective of me driving and I probably would have made it, but the deal is that if Himself says no I don't go.
Normally I don't pay much attention to other people's views on stuff or let other people dictate my actions, but in this case if I ignore his request and travel, he would spend all day worrying about me and waiting for text messages to say that I have reached pre-agreed milestones safely.
I suppose part of loving someone involves compromise so they don't spend their day worrying about you for no reason apart from the fact that you are a stubborn git who takes work too seriously.
Commitment to work = good; injury or death because of it = egotistical stupidity.
Also, it is an intelligent choice to listen to the advice of a local who drives for a living and who is spending the winter clearing snow so that people can drive safely, so who knows what he is talking about.
Also it is the anniversary of the day I could have died on the same road while a passenger in another vehicle. With a much more experienced driver.
The portents were all telling me the same thing.
But yesterday was different as the forecast was progressively better rather than worse.
Finally, around nine am, brilliant sunshine emerged to etch the landscape onto my eye all through Guysborough County. The sunshine made it easier to go off-highway onto snow-covered roads into Sherbrooke, warmed up the road during a slippery drive along the riverbank to my last meeting, and finally, I turned for home, driving three hours into a deep orange sunset along the Eastern Shore. So bright I couldn't see the winding road.
A lotta scary moments. A lotta impatient drivers overtaking me when they shouldn't have.
A lotta thinking.
Life is so precious. Why are people in such a hurry? Why do people insist on taking such risks? Do they not stop to think about the cost of a mistake in these circumstances?
What about my life? Do they have the right to make that decision if it affects me?
I don't think so.
I don't think they have the right to make the choice for themselves, because everyone has someone who is worrying about them on the road somewhere.
I want to pay special tribute to the nice driver from Seaboard's who overtook me at 160kph near the airport in complete darkness, with black ice, zero visibility and blowing snow from the lake.
Thanks dude.
Your backwash sprayed my mirror with icy slush that my wipers couldn't get rid of.
I had to pull over on the AIRPORT HIGHWAY where nobody dares to pull off because the lanes are so confusing.
I had to spend three minutes finding the stupid hazard lights in the stupid dark in the stupid hire car, praying nobody would thump into me.
I had to get out of the car in minus 12 temperatures ON THE HIGHWAY IN THE DARK and clean my windshield off with my lunchbag because the cleaner brush couldn't get the crud off my car, it was so encrusted with the oily dirt from your badly kept wheels.
I had to sit back into the car with the heater on ROAR for five minutes so I could actually feel my foot enough to put it back on the accelerator.
I had to talk myself into pulling back out onto the road. "Queenie, you can't spend the rest of your life on the highway, so you may as well go somewhere there is coffee at least."
Who the hell do you think you are?
And thanks to the Eisener driver who did the same thing about twenty miles later.
Thanks to the companies that cut back on drivers so that these guys face impossible deadlines and consequently do this to other people.
And thanks to the people who have 'surveillance cameras' on that highway that everyone knows are empty so that they don't have to pay cops to put up speed traps.
I hate the airport highway.
Ironically, it is the Veterans Highway. A big sign at either end solemnly says: Lest we forget.
It should be renamed, Lest we be five minutes late.
As I mentioned, I spent time thinking about the choices people make.
Pretty dark thinking all round all day, but that was because I spent most of the day thinking about the way loss is forced on some people.
Life is always precious but sometimes you lose people you just shouldn't lose yet. I spent a lotta time yesterday thinking about one such person, a neighbour who passed away a few weeks ago. I have not been thinking about her death much, because I still can't believe she is gone. I cannot believe that her family have to go through this loss and go through it without her.
She was such a force of life. She literally was a sunbeam. Her smile was the epicentre of that sunbeam. Every picture I have of her in my head, pictures stretching back thirty four years, to when I was a toddler and she was about seven, are of her smiling.
Even yesterday, with all day to think about it, coming to terms with the fact that she is gone on such a beautiful beautiful beautiful day was almost impossible.
Maybe she was somewhere in the cosmos, helping the dawn turn the snow rose pink with her smile ...
Maybe ...
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Snow talk
There's no business, like snow business, like no business I know.....
We are in the snow business in our house these days.
It's kinda counter-intuitive but.
Normally when it snows it's all, hooray, snow, let's stay inside and watch tv and eat crap.
But now, I get to do that and Himself has to go out and plough the stuff away.
For which he gets paid. Which is good.
But which tends to happen at midnight and on weekends.
Not so good.
But I am becoming expert in all things snow-like.
Flurrie: A snow flurry is a snow fall of impossible to predict magnitude. For example, last night flurries result in almost a foot of the stuff being dumped on us. Previously, flurries used to mean a couple of cms.
Blowin' snow: Blowing snow means Himself will call you on your cell and order you back to Halifax when you're supposed to be going to Cape Breton. Thankfully too, because as I was driving down the hill to the carpark next to the office, I put my foot gently on the brake to stop the car.
AND IT DIDN'T.
hahahahahhaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
Not nice.
Snow drift: The stuff the weather puts in the middle of the highway to stop you from travelling over to the wrong side when you are in a snow-induced spin.
Snow day: day off when it is snowing. Queenie has had one since she moved to Canada. One is not enough for all the snow she has had to put up with.
We are in the snow business in our house these days.
It's kinda counter-intuitive but.
Normally when it snows it's all, hooray, snow, let's stay inside and watch tv and eat crap.
But now, I get to do that and Himself has to go out and plough the stuff away.
For which he gets paid. Which is good.
But which tends to happen at midnight and on weekends.
Not so good.
But I am becoming expert in all things snow-like.
Flurrie: A snow flurry is a snow fall of impossible to predict magnitude. For example, last night flurries result in almost a foot of the stuff being dumped on us. Previously, flurries used to mean a couple of cms.
Blowin' snow: Blowing snow means Himself will call you on your cell and order you back to Halifax when you're supposed to be going to Cape Breton. Thankfully too, because as I was driving down the hill to the carpark next to the office, I put my foot gently on the brake to stop the car.
AND IT DIDN'T.
hahahahahhaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
Not nice.
Snow drift: The stuff the weather puts in the middle of the highway to stop you from travelling over to the wrong side when you are in a snow-induced spin.
Snow day: day off when it is snowing. Queenie has had one since she moved to Canada. One is not enough for all the snow she has had to put up with.
Grammys, ECMAs, and other stuff
So Amy won the Grammys.
So what. We had the East Coast Music Awards on the same night in the Maritimes.
Much more important.
Joel Plaskett Emergency won all the prizes for a mediocre album about an ashtray.
Poor Wintersleep didn't win anything, despite the fact that the music journalist in town loves them.
Boo fucking hoo.
Reminds me so much of Ireland in the eighties when U2 won all the prizes.
Except of course, I liked U2.
I like neither of these acts.
God I wish I was somewhere where you could go to a gig in a heated venue that started before eleven.
More importantly, The Daily News is closing down today.
That is bad.
How can you have a first rate city with one newspaper?
Apparently, the Greater Halifax Partnership have taken to referring to Halifax as 'the new Dublin'.
Now there's a scary thought.
That would put me living beside the Red Cow Inn, where people get shot.
Oh, that's right, I live near Spryfield, where, er, people get shot.
But only sometimes.
Not as often as when I lived in Dublin.
Halifax is not the new Dublin.
Halifax is the old Dublin.
That's why I like Halifax.
Like the old Dublin, Halifax is a former colonial capital that has gone to seed due to the pull factor of Ontario and Alberta. Unlike Dublin, it is not the entry point to the lucrative EMEA markets and it doesn't have a dodgy tax break system that facilitates MNCs to set up shop here.
Its best hope is to become the Florida of the north.
We should send a flotilla of boats to Cuba and load up anyone interesting (shouldn't be too difficult, everyone here knows the way to Cuba), and then set the town on fire with a salsa beat.
Plus we'd have all those trained Cuban healthcare professionals to fill the jobs we will need filled.
(Apologies to Cubans by the way, I am not being insensitive to your culture, I am merely taking the piss out of the GHP)
Hey, we'd have fun at next year's ECMAs.
Incoming February bleughs alert.
May the existential crisis and unconnected ramblings time of the year begin.
So what. We had the East Coast Music Awards on the same night in the Maritimes.
Much more important.
Joel Plaskett Emergency won all the prizes for a mediocre album about an ashtray.
Poor Wintersleep didn't win anything, despite the fact that the music journalist in town loves them.
Boo fucking hoo.
Reminds me so much of Ireland in the eighties when U2 won all the prizes.
Except of course, I liked U2.
I like neither of these acts.
God I wish I was somewhere where you could go to a gig in a heated venue that started before eleven.
More importantly, The Daily News is closing down today.
That is bad.
How can you have a first rate city with one newspaper?
Apparently, the Greater Halifax Partnership have taken to referring to Halifax as 'the new Dublin'.
Now there's a scary thought.
That would put me living beside the Red Cow Inn, where people get shot.
Oh, that's right, I live near Spryfield, where, er, people get shot.
But only sometimes.
Not as often as when I lived in Dublin.
Halifax is not the new Dublin.
Halifax is the old Dublin.
That's why I like Halifax.
Like the old Dublin, Halifax is a former colonial capital that has gone to seed due to the pull factor of Ontario and Alberta. Unlike Dublin, it is not the entry point to the lucrative EMEA markets and it doesn't have a dodgy tax break system that facilitates MNCs to set up shop here.
Its best hope is to become the Florida of the north.
We should send a flotilla of boats to Cuba and load up anyone interesting (shouldn't be too difficult, everyone here knows the way to Cuba), and then set the town on fire with a salsa beat.
Plus we'd have all those trained Cuban healthcare professionals to fill the jobs we will need filled.
(Apologies to Cubans by the way, I am not being insensitive to your culture, I am merely taking the piss out of the GHP)
Hey, we'd have fun at next year's ECMAs.
Incoming February bleughs alert.
May the existential crisis and unconnected ramblings time of the year begin.
Snowbound so there's no excuse
I have been putting off writing in this blog for a while now. But a combination of the never-ending snow and a half-day with nothing to do, apart from shovel snow, means that really I should write on my blog today.
Sigh.
What to write about...
I see Macca and Heather are back in court for their divorce.
I am betting myself a new pair of shoes that Macca and Heather will be divorced before Himself and She Who Would be Married Forever.
Even though Himself and SWWBMF have been at it since 2004 and they've only been at it since 2006.
It constantly brings this famous case to mind:
Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on.
This scarecrow of a suit has, in course of time, become so complicated that no man alive knows what it means. The parties to it understand it least, but it has been observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five minutes without coming to a total disagreement as to all the premises.
Innumerable children have been born into the cause; innumerable old people have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce without knowing how or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds with the suit.
The little plaintiff or defendant who was promised a new rocking-horse (or dirt bike, as we say in today's world) when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be settled has grown up, possessed himself of a real horse (or Harley), and trotted away into the other world.
Fair wards of court have faded into mothers and grandmothers; a long procession of Chancellors has come in and gone out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere bills of mortality; there are not three Jarndyces left upon the earth perhaps since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew his brains out at a coffee-house in Chancery Lane; but Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its dreary length before the court, perennially hopeless.
Nevermind, as the delightful Kanye says, what doesn't kill us makes us stronger.
And of course disposing of the copious output from the lawyers is great for adding texture to the compost bin.
It's the little people who have to live in Bleak House I worry about.
Sigh.
What to write about...
I see Macca and Heather are back in court for their divorce.
I am betting myself a new pair of shoes that Macca and Heather will be divorced before Himself and She Who Would be Married Forever.
Even though Himself and SWWBMF have been at it since 2004 and they've only been at it since 2006.
It constantly brings this famous case to mind:
Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on.
This scarecrow of a suit has, in course of time, become so complicated that no man alive knows what it means. The parties to it understand it least, but it has been observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five minutes without coming to a total disagreement as to all the premises.
Innumerable children have been born into the cause; innumerable old people have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce without knowing how or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds with the suit.
The little plaintiff or defendant who was promised a new rocking-horse (or dirt bike, as we say in today's world) when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be settled has grown up, possessed himself of a real horse (or Harley), and trotted away into the other world.
Fair wards of court have faded into mothers and grandmothers; a long procession of Chancellors has come in and gone out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere bills of mortality; there are not three Jarndyces left upon the earth perhaps since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew his brains out at a coffee-house in Chancery Lane; but Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its dreary length before the court, perennially hopeless.
Nevermind, as the delightful Kanye says, what doesn't kill us makes us stronger.
And of course disposing of the copious output from the lawyers is great for adding texture to the compost bin.
It's the little people who have to live in Bleak House I worry about.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
The Joker will rule
Did I say The Joker?
I must have meant Batman.
Went to see I am Legend last night.
Yawn.
Dog lovers should avoid this film.
However, we did see a trailer for Batman: The Dark Knight.
This movie will be all about the Joker.
Brilliant characterisation, brilliant accent - so brilliant, we didn't even notice who was playing Batman.
Such a pity Mr. Ledger won't be around to hear the praise.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
The things your friends find for you to do...
Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!
Queenie has finally sorted out the parameters of the 2007 mix for Inmyday.
Not that she was under any pressure, GOD NO, cds popping into the mail box every evening from people who have jobs AND children is not PRESSURE.
Nosireebob.
It just took a while to organise the potential tracks on the iTunes.
Finally, she did a smart list that was tracks added after 01/01/2007 and tracks added before 01/01/2008.
That only took a month to figure out.
Then she had to get the names of the tracks, having done something stupid to the iTunes so that it wouldn't 'get track names' for her. Everytime she tried it sent her a stupid message saying unable to connect to iTunes.
WTF?
I thought the whole point of iTunes and iPods etc was to force you to buy music.
With your shiny new Canaydyan credit card.
Nope.
The point is to make Queenie get in tune with her technology.
At least it's only every three years.
So, three hours, a disk defragmentation, the wholesale clear out of her hard disk and a download of the latest version of iTunes update later, we are ready to begin....
... I was just downloading Version 7.6 of iTunes when the door opened and the Himself who was supposed to be working till midnight walked in.
Shit.
No dinner (why bother with dinner when it's Tuesday, you've had a stressful day wowing the masses, there's an open bottle of wine, and no Himself).
Thankfully Himself is the kind of Himself who sees the lack of dinner on the table as an opportunity to cook dinner for the woman he loves.
He even washed a wine glass for me.
What did I do in a past life to deserve this man?
I must have brokered the peace treaty between the Chinese and the Parthians in the eleventh centurey, or something equally major.
Anyways, just as we were eating dinner, the phone rang and it was the weather saying, it's snowing again, come back to work, so off Himself went again until midnight so I will try to get this done.
Inmyday Music 2007 - Queenie's cd.
Well, I have 5.26 GB to choose from, but there are some issues.
Some of it I stole from Mr. Monkey's laptop when he was over during the summer.
I don't know if that counts.
Also, I spent a lot of this year trying to rebalance the emphasis on the iTunes from plinkity plink shite that Queenie listens to in favour of a little cock rock for Himself.
When we're having our Friday night chats we always end up having an argument about whether or not cock rock is a valid music genre.
Yes it is.
Cock rock is rock played by a band with a guitarist who plays with his guitar resting on his enormous cock, sung by a singer who sings while squeezing his equally enormous cock.
Yes it is.
So we will have some CR on the cd.
It's good for the soul, really it is.
But we'll start off mellow.
1. Cowboy Junkies, a lovely mellow cover of The Way I feel, from the Gordon Lightfoot tribute album, Beautiful.
In celebration of the fact that I am now supposed to be okay about GL.
Buy the album.
It rocks.
2. Yaser Habeeb, Elana.
From a $1 album I got at a yard sale, called Sahara Lounge. Vurry smooood.....
And cos I love yard sales.
3. Elliot Smith, Angel in the Snow.
'Cause I'm going out with one.
Ahhhhhhh...
Also, this is my most played song this year, with a whopping 27 plays according to the software that monitors your darkest moods and silliest parties.
The reason I play it so much is because I just think the guitar riff is the sweetest little complicated but simple little riff I've ever heard.
4. Burial, Archangel
This is my favourite album of 2007.
I found it on eMusic one day when I was really desperate to spend my 30 buys, it being the end of the month. As I mentioned in an earlier post, every song on this album reminds me of a band I used to listen to in the eighties. I wanted to put the whole album on the playlist, but I didn't for reasons of DE RULES (which took up about 37 emails - I love inmyday because we can have 76 emails about music and 3 about war on the same day. Or vice versa. Depending)
I put Archangel on because a) it is about angels, b) it is 5 star rated, and c) it is my most played 5 star on the album (see I did pay some attention to DE RULES).
5. Jimmi Hendrix, All Along the Watchtower
This was my first purchase in the attempt to balance the music collection. It didn't go down particularly well. It's not cock rocky enough, apparently.
I think it's pretty good.
And he wore very tight trousers.
Isn't it very similar to Archangel in a weird slowed down speeded up kinda way?!
6. Led Zeppelin, Whole Lotta Love
HOORAH!!!!!!!!!! COOOOOOOOOOOCK RAAAAAAAAAAAWK!
You need coolin'! de dum DUM de DUM de DUM de DUM DE DUM!
What an opening line!
On Friday nights, the cock rock argument usually stems from the 'if I were to walk down an aisle at some point in time, what would be the song' argument.
In a very frightening way, this CANNOT be dislodged from the top five.
Angels have a stubborn side to them.
I need someone to send me a cd of 'potential walk down the aisle songs if they were ever to be needed ever' real soon.
Otherwise the Queen Dad could be in a world of pain some day.
7. Radiohead, Weird Fishes, Arpeggio
This is the one I want.
It's Radiohead.
I can't do it to anything else.
This was a question on Canada's smartest people quiz Sunday night. Which band sold their album for what you can afford last year?
WTF? It's in the shops now.
That wasn't part of the deal, lads.
Anyways, let's stop for a moment and listen to the SONG OF 2007.
By the way, Zoom are flying to Nova Scotia from Belfast from the end of June to the end of September this year. Please form an orderly queue if you wish to recommend a particular week, bearing in mind that August and September are the best months. Also bearing in mind that Electric Picnic is on during Labour weekend so I need to know soon if people want to do both.
8. Patrick Watson, Drifters
I only discovered this guy this year. Actually this was the year of Watson, Cat Power, Elliot Smith and Erik Wollos. Four artists I had never heard of but am very glad that I have now, as they formed the spine of my listening.
Plus Tom Waits, as Mike, the neighbour who chose to abandon us, as did Kate and the kids and the dogs, gave me the complete works this summer.
Talk about giving a girl a doorway back to 1989....
9. Erik Wollo, Totem
I like this song, because it reminds me of our key joint learning pathway last year, which was a journey into the Aboriginal American experience. 2007 will be a key year in the Canadian history of dealing with 'the Aboriginal question' I think.
Many things happened.
Caledonia. The riots in the summer. The tension between the old guard, the recognised leaders, and the younger leaders coming up, who are sick of the same old same old.
Jim Prentice. Minister of Indian Affairs. A man who seemed to get it, but because he was competent (and ambitious I assume), he got moved to Industry. With disastrous results.
Payments for the industrial schools. Long conversations on the radio about how large cheques would result in drunkenness on reservations. And now everytime there is an accident, that's the reason.
The abandonment of the historic Kelowna Accord signed by the previous governments, along with everything else that was signed by them.
In the absence of being able to do anything, we watched a lot of movies on the issue and read some books.
I even read Germs, Guns and Steel.
I still don't get it.
10. Mavis Staples, Down in Missippi
For Barack. The day after MLK day.
God love him.
This was a great find. Staples was one of the singers that associated with MLK. Ry Cooder has rerecorded her hits, you can hear him in the background.
This is why I like Canada.
They might not get their own inequities.
But by God, they get the inequities in YankeeLand.
Ohyessirreebobtheydo.
11. Cat Power, Keep on Running
Because you have to, don't you.
Now we head into the difficult last couple of songs part of the cd.
There are about seven in the playlist, so I will have to cull...
Give me about twenty minutes to figure out what to delete and what to keep in and what order to put them in, etc.
Time passes.....
12. Okkervil River, Love to a Monster
Okkervil River beat Spoon, which is probably not right.
But it's past my bedtime.
And it's only Tuesday.
13. John Lee Hooker, Let's go out tonight
This is the first cd that Himself chose, bought and added to the online collection.
So let's stay in and listen to it.
Now, all I have to do is go buy enough cds to burn, envelopes, stamps, etc.
This weekend. I will.
Anyone else who wants one let me know.
I will burn twenty copies.
Note to self: I have already set up 2008's smart list.
I ain't going through all this again.
Night.
xx
Queenie has finally sorted out the parameters of the 2007 mix for Inmyday.
Not that she was under any pressure, GOD NO, cds popping into the mail box every evening from people who have jobs AND children is not PRESSURE.
Nosireebob.
It just took a while to organise the potential tracks on the iTunes.
Finally, she did a smart list that was tracks added after 01/01/2007 and tracks added before 01/01/2008.
That only took a month to figure out.
Then she had to get the names of the tracks, having done something stupid to the iTunes so that it wouldn't 'get track names' for her. Everytime she tried it sent her a stupid message saying unable to connect to iTunes.
WTF?
I thought the whole point of iTunes and iPods etc was to force you to buy music.
With your shiny new Canaydyan credit card.
Nope.
The point is to make Queenie get in tune with her technology.
At least it's only every three years.
So, three hours, a disk defragmentation, the wholesale clear out of her hard disk and a download of the latest version of iTunes update later, we are ready to begin....
... I was just downloading Version 7.6 of iTunes when the door opened and the Himself who was supposed to be working till midnight walked in.
Shit.
No dinner (why bother with dinner when it's Tuesday, you've had a stressful day wowing the masses, there's an open bottle of wine, and no Himself).
Thankfully Himself is the kind of Himself who sees the lack of dinner on the table as an opportunity to cook dinner for the woman he loves.
He even washed a wine glass for me.
What did I do in a past life to deserve this man?
I must have brokered the peace treaty between the Chinese and the Parthians in the eleventh centurey, or something equally major.
Anyways, just as we were eating dinner, the phone rang and it was the weather saying, it's snowing again, come back to work, so off Himself went again until midnight so I will try to get this done.
Inmyday Music 2007 - Queenie's cd.
Well, I have 5.26 GB to choose from, but there are some issues.
Some of it I stole from Mr. Monkey's laptop when he was over during the summer.
I don't know if that counts.
Also, I spent a lot of this year trying to rebalance the emphasis on the iTunes from plinkity plink shite that Queenie listens to in favour of a little cock rock for Himself.
When we're having our Friday night chats we always end up having an argument about whether or not cock rock is a valid music genre.
Yes it is.
Cock rock is rock played by a band with a guitarist who plays with his guitar resting on his enormous cock, sung by a singer who sings while squeezing his equally enormous cock.
Yes it is.
So we will have some CR on the cd.
It's good for the soul, really it is.
But we'll start off mellow.
1. Cowboy Junkies, a lovely mellow cover of The Way I feel, from the Gordon Lightfoot tribute album, Beautiful.
In celebration of the fact that I am now supposed to be okay about GL.
Buy the album.
It rocks.
2. Yaser Habeeb, Elana.
From a $1 album I got at a yard sale, called Sahara Lounge. Vurry smooood.....
And cos I love yard sales.
3. Elliot Smith, Angel in the Snow.
'Cause I'm going out with one.
Ahhhhhhh...
Also, this is my most played song this year, with a whopping 27 plays according to the software that monitors your darkest moods and silliest parties.
The reason I play it so much is because I just think the guitar riff is the sweetest little complicated but simple little riff I've ever heard.
4. Burial, Archangel
This is my favourite album of 2007.
I found it on eMusic one day when I was really desperate to spend my 30 buys, it being the end of the month. As I mentioned in an earlier post, every song on this album reminds me of a band I used to listen to in the eighties. I wanted to put the whole album on the playlist, but I didn't for reasons of DE RULES (which took up about 37 emails - I love inmyday because we can have 76 emails about music and 3 about war on the same day. Or vice versa. Depending)
I put Archangel on because a) it is about angels, b) it is 5 star rated, and c) it is my most played 5 star on the album (see I did pay some attention to DE RULES).
5. Jimmi Hendrix, All Along the Watchtower
This was my first purchase in the attempt to balance the music collection. It didn't go down particularly well. It's not cock rocky enough, apparently.
I think it's pretty good.
And he wore very tight trousers.
Isn't it very similar to Archangel in a weird slowed down speeded up kinda way?!
6. Led Zeppelin, Whole Lotta Love
HOORAH!!!!!!!!!! COOOOOOOOOOOCK RAAAAAAAAAAAWK!
You need coolin'! de dum DUM de DUM de DUM de DUM DE DUM!
What an opening line!
On Friday nights, the cock rock argument usually stems from the 'if I were to walk down an aisle at some point in time, what would be the song' argument.
In a very frightening way, this CANNOT be dislodged from the top five.
Angels have a stubborn side to them.
I need someone to send me a cd of 'potential walk down the aisle songs if they were ever to be needed ever' real soon.
Otherwise the Queen Dad could be in a world of pain some day.
7. Radiohead, Weird Fishes, Arpeggio
This is the one I want.
It's Radiohead.
I can't do it to anything else.
This was a question on Canada's smartest people quiz Sunday night. Which band sold their album for what you can afford last year?
WTF? It's in the shops now.
That wasn't part of the deal, lads.
Anyways, let's stop for a moment and listen to the SONG OF 2007.
By the way, Zoom are flying to Nova Scotia from Belfast from the end of June to the end of September this year. Please form an orderly queue if you wish to recommend a particular week, bearing in mind that August and September are the best months. Also bearing in mind that Electric Picnic is on during Labour weekend so I need to know soon if people want to do both.
8. Patrick Watson, Drifters
I only discovered this guy this year. Actually this was the year of Watson, Cat Power, Elliot Smith and Erik Wollos. Four artists I had never heard of but am very glad that I have now, as they formed the spine of my listening.
Plus Tom Waits, as Mike, the neighbour who chose to abandon us, as did Kate and the kids and the dogs, gave me the complete works this summer.
Talk about giving a girl a doorway back to 1989....
9. Erik Wollo, Totem
I like this song, because it reminds me of our key joint learning pathway last year, which was a journey into the Aboriginal American experience. 2007 will be a key year in the Canadian history of dealing with 'the Aboriginal question' I think.
Many things happened.
Caledonia. The riots in the summer. The tension between the old guard, the recognised leaders, and the younger leaders coming up, who are sick of the same old same old.
Jim Prentice. Minister of Indian Affairs. A man who seemed to get it, but because he was competent (and ambitious I assume), he got moved to Industry. With disastrous results.
Payments for the industrial schools. Long conversations on the radio about how large cheques would result in drunkenness on reservations. And now everytime there is an accident, that's the reason.
The abandonment of the historic Kelowna Accord signed by the previous governments, along with everything else that was signed by them.
In the absence of being able to do anything, we watched a lot of movies on the issue and read some books.
I even read Germs, Guns and Steel.
I still don't get it.
10. Mavis Staples, Down in Missippi
For Barack. The day after MLK day.
God love him.
This was a great find. Staples was one of the singers that associated with MLK. Ry Cooder has rerecorded her hits, you can hear him in the background.
This is why I like Canada.
They might not get their own inequities.
But by God, they get the inequities in YankeeLand.
Ohyessirreebobtheydo.
11. Cat Power, Keep on Running
Because you have to, don't you.
Now we head into the difficult last couple of songs part of the cd.
There are about seven in the playlist, so I will have to cull...
Give me about twenty minutes to figure out what to delete and what to keep in and what order to put them in, etc.
Time passes.....
12. Okkervil River, Love to a Monster
Okkervil River beat Spoon, which is probably not right.
But it's past my bedtime.
And it's only Tuesday.
13. John Lee Hooker, Let's go out tonight
This is the first cd that Himself chose, bought and added to the online collection.
So let's stay in and listen to it.
Now, all I have to do is go buy enough cds to burn, envelopes, stamps, etc.
This weekend. I will.
Anyone else who wants one let me know.
I will burn twenty copies.
Note to self: I have already set up 2008's smart list.
I ain't going through all this again.
Night.
xx
Friday, January 18, 2008
Let the crapness begin (and may I learn to embrace it)
So, it's Friday afternoon and there is a rainstorm outside in which Himself is travelling in Albert to the Island for the weekend. Queenie is home alone apart from the wretched bacterium that is ravaging her bronchial tubes, making her sweat and cough and wheeze and pant in a shallow manner reminiscent of a hot dog (as in sweltering animal, not weiner) due to the pain in her chest when she breathes.
No doubt it is the teenage mutant cousin of the bacterium that tried to fell her over Christmas and failed.
It is not going to fail this weekend.
I am felled.
Alone I sit, in layers of Himself's comfiest fleece jumpers and socks (at least they didn't abandon me), the last bag of Tayto's in the house lying empty on the desk beside the laptop, the weekend disappearing in a haze of ice-white rain and greenish-yellow phlegm.
Think positive, Queenie, think positive.
Positive Thought No. 1
Himself forgot to bring back the dvds so I can watch Eastern Promises again and watch the Viggo running naked round a Turkish bath knifing Russian mobsters scene as many times as I like without any jealous sulking going on in the kitchen.
Himself accidentally on purpose realised he needed my full attention for the duration of the scene the first time I watched the movie.
I should never have told him the only competition in the world for my affections he needs to ever worry about is VM.
The fact that he appears to take the threat somewhat seriously is of course the best form of defence he could muster.
Bless him. He knows me so well.
Positive Thought No. 2
I have a Creme Egg I forgot to eat yesterday.
I was in my local Needs Convenience Store the other day buying Creme Eggs and I remarked to the guy behind the counter that he must hate Creme Egg season because they are so difficult to swipe with the price reader, being all wrapped in crinkly paper.
He looked at me in a kind of vaguely joyous way when I said it because I think he thought that he was the problem.
The store stank of weed, d'ya see.
Positive Thought No. 3
I have already done the doctor thing and gotten the kick ass antibiotics so I am to be better by Sunday and I don't have to figure out how to get to the doctors in the freezing rain.
Not that I didn't appreciate the antibiotics I got at Christmas.
Positive Thought No. 4
I remembered to go to the ATM, so if I ever feel the inclination to eat food that is not crisps or chocolate, I can just call the Chinese. Or the gourmet pizza place.
Positive Thought No. 5
Sick people can't do housework. It's best if they just lie around and read books and write in their blog.
No doubt it is the teenage mutant cousin of the bacterium that tried to fell her over Christmas and failed.
It is not going to fail this weekend.
I am felled.
Alone I sit, in layers of Himself's comfiest fleece jumpers and socks (at least they didn't abandon me), the last bag of Tayto's in the house lying empty on the desk beside the laptop, the weekend disappearing in a haze of ice-white rain and greenish-yellow phlegm.
Think positive, Queenie, think positive.
Positive Thought No. 1
Himself forgot to bring back the dvds so I can watch Eastern Promises again and watch the Viggo running naked round a Turkish bath knifing Russian mobsters scene as many times as I like without any jealous sulking going on in the kitchen.
Himself accidentally on purpose realised he needed my full attention for the duration of the scene the first time I watched the movie.
I should never have told him the only competition in the world for my affections he needs to ever worry about is VM.
The fact that he appears to take the threat somewhat seriously is of course the best form of defence he could muster.
Bless him. He knows me so well.
Positive Thought No. 2
I have a Creme Egg I forgot to eat yesterday.
I was in my local Needs Convenience Store the other day buying Creme Eggs and I remarked to the guy behind the counter that he must hate Creme Egg season because they are so difficult to swipe with the price reader, being all wrapped in crinkly paper.
He looked at me in a kind of vaguely joyous way when I said it because I think he thought that he was the problem.
The store stank of weed, d'ya see.
Positive Thought No. 3
I have already done the doctor thing and gotten the kick ass antibiotics so I am to be better by Sunday and I don't have to figure out how to get to the doctors in the freezing rain.
Not that I didn't appreciate the antibiotics I got at Christmas.
Positive Thought No. 4
I remembered to go to the ATM, so if I ever feel the inclination to eat food that is not crisps or chocolate, I can just call the Chinese. Or the gourmet pizza place.
Positive Thought No. 5
Sick people can't do housework. It's best if they just lie around and read books and write in their blog.
Monday, January 14, 2008
How many people do you meet in the course of a lifetime?
I often see people in the street who remind me of people I had forgotten I knew.
Today, I was standing at the bus stop when a Germanic-looking woman with long blonde hair, a crocheted cloche and a big back pack walked past. I immediately thought of a German woman I knew in Trinity who looked and dressed the same.
I couldn't remember her name. And when I tried to trace the memory back through other people, I couldn't remember their names either.
Then I shrugged it off - currently I am meeting so many new people, due to a new job, that I am obviously deleting old records.
But then I got to thinking... how many people does the average person meet in his or her lifetime?
Yahoo questions didn't know.
Google didn't know.
Wiki didn't know.
Say you took an average of one person a day (or is that too few? some days I meet twenty people and some days none, so I'd say one or two).
Say two people a day. Because of my lifestyle and profession.
By meet I mean introduced to. Had at least three sentences of dialogue with.
Multiply that by the days in your life when you're conscious of meeting people, so in my case that would be 34 years X 365 days + 8 Leap Year days = 4,529,650 days X 2 people.
That's 9,059,300 so far.
Maybe just one.
Even if it's just one - that's 4.5 million people.
That's the population of Ireland.
No wonder I had to move to Canada!
I really should stop worrying what people think of me.
They're far too busy trying to remember everyone's name!
Today, I was standing at the bus stop when a Germanic-looking woman with long blonde hair, a crocheted cloche and a big back pack walked past. I immediately thought of a German woman I knew in Trinity who looked and dressed the same.
I couldn't remember her name. And when I tried to trace the memory back through other people, I couldn't remember their names either.
Then I shrugged it off - currently I am meeting so many new people, due to a new job, that I am obviously deleting old records.
But then I got to thinking... how many people does the average person meet in his or her lifetime?
Yahoo questions didn't know.
Google didn't know.
Wiki didn't know.
Say you took an average of one person a day (or is that too few? some days I meet twenty people and some days none, so I'd say one or two).
Say two people a day. Because of my lifestyle and profession.
By meet I mean introduced to. Had at least three sentences of dialogue with.
Multiply that by the days in your life when you're conscious of meeting people, so in my case that would be 34 years X 365 days + 8 Leap Year days = 4,529,650 days X 2 people.
That's 9,059,300 so far.
Maybe just one.
Even if it's just one - that's 4.5 million people.
That's the population of Ireland.
No wonder I had to move to Canada!
I really should stop worrying what people think of me.
They're far too busy trying to remember everyone's name!
When to say stop
Those of you who know Queenie know that I can put up with a lot of crap from people.
Particularly if they are of the type who have to live on welfare for a while, or even forever, for whatever reason. They get enough crap from the system, they shouldn't get any from me.
But there are two things that can happen that tap into a righteously vicious side of me that I really don't like.
One is if I catch them stealing from me.
The other is if they try to get me to waste energy for their convenience.
So the Neighbour and the Lover are with child.
I am happy for them, really I am.
I'm glad all the shrieking we have to listen to paid off.
So I got a long note telling me to put the heat on Full all day and all night from now on because of the pregnancy and the sore back and the other child who comes to visit. By some freakish twist of fate, her heating is controlled from our apartment's zone.
Because good neighbours help each other out.
And if I was too hot I could open a window, which would be nice.
NICE?!
Christ I am so mad...
We are so hot now that we have three windows open - in Canada in January - and still the place is like an oven all the time.
And all that oil is just blowing out the window into the atmosphere.
Gaaaaah!
I thought being pregnant made your internal core warmer?
Particularly if they are of the type who have to live on welfare for a while, or even forever, for whatever reason. They get enough crap from the system, they shouldn't get any from me.
But there are two things that can happen that tap into a righteously vicious side of me that I really don't like.
One is if I catch them stealing from me.
The other is if they try to get me to waste energy for their convenience.
So the Neighbour and the Lover are with child.
I am happy for them, really I am.
I'm glad all the shrieking we have to listen to paid off.
So I got a long note telling me to put the heat on Full all day and all night from now on because of the pregnancy and the sore back and the other child who comes to visit. By some freakish twist of fate, her heating is controlled from our apartment's zone.
Because good neighbours help each other out.
And if I was too hot I could open a window, which would be nice.
NICE?!
Christ I am so mad...
We are so hot now that we have three windows open - in Canada in January - and still the place is like an oven all the time.
And all that oil is just blowing out the window into the atmosphere.
Gaaaaah!
I thought being pregnant made your internal core warmer?
Monday, January 07, 2008
Say Hello Wave Goodbye
Well, there was a trip undertaken at the speed of light if ever there was one.
Months and weeks spent thinking about going home and now I'm back already.
I had to clear a whole shelf on the bookcase for all the books that Santy brought me this year. And somehow I have managed to bring home two copies of Colin Thubron's In the Shadow of the Silk Road, so apologies to whoever I accidentally stole a copy from.
You may have it back upon receipt of proof that you actually own it and care about it.
Nearly everything made it back to Nova Scotia in one piece except for a lovely sculpture that Eileen and Stevo gave me that has one little chip in it. It will be lovingly fixed as soon as I get my hands on some superglue.
Of course I forgot Andrew and Myles' birthdays as usual.
Happy Birthday guys.
Off to cook supper now and shall resume blogging later.
Months and weeks spent thinking about going home and now I'm back already.
I had to clear a whole shelf on the bookcase for all the books that Santy brought me this year. And somehow I have managed to bring home two copies of Colin Thubron's In the Shadow of the Silk Road, so apologies to whoever I accidentally stole a copy from.
You may have it back upon receipt of proof that you actually own it and care about it.
Nearly everything made it back to Nova Scotia in one piece except for a lovely sculpture that Eileen and Stevo gave me that has one little chip in it. It will be lovingly fixed as soon as I get my hands on some superglue.
Of course I forgot Andrew and Myles' birthdays as usual.
Happy Birthday guys.
Off to cook supper now and shall resume blogging later.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
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.'
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.'
Saturday, December 08, 2007
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.
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?
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?
Saturday, December 01, 2007
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.
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!
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.
Monday, November 26, 2007
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.
"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.
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.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Saturday, October 13, 2007
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
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
Friday, October 12, 2007
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!
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!
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, October 05, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, September 21, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
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.
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.
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