I had to meet with some oil people again yesterday. I keep having to meet with oil people who are over from Alberta politically schmoozing, as I am the researcher with responsiblity for stuff like that.
Because of what the oil industry in general is doing to the prairies, I am usually very cross with them and manifest my anger by looking over the top of my glasses at them and locking stares, which is becoming a more effective put down strategy as I get older.
Unfortunately they are almost always slightly modified cowboys, who act like they just happened upon enormous oil patches and the accompanying business wheeling and dealing, and they don't wear thousand dollar suits or smoke big cigars, or have Crackberries like other people who just think they are important, and consequently they are very charming in a completely non-schmoozy way, with strange body language and a hatred of having to suck up to politicians that's palpable. It's so funny and endearing I have to keep poking my guard to make sure it stays up.
Sometimes my job is very difficult!
Friday, October 06, 2006
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Do headless android chickens run in electric circles?
I am starting to forget things. I don't know if it is my age, or if I am too mithered with work and other things to focus properly. I am a bit worried about it, as what I do is very much dependent on remembering a gazillion little things and multi-tasking them all the time.
But work is getting out of control. Today, the bus was late and slow so I spent most of the time reading the Halifax Regional Economic Development plan while getting into work. I got a good chunk of it read and hoped to have it finished by eleven. Since getting into work though, I have been interrupted so many times I gave up. I have had to deal with: school sidewalks, or lack thereof, adult literacy, energy efficiency in public buildings, the alcohol and gaming authority, trade union recognition in the food sector, violence in the workplace, workers compensation and wind energy. I have had to take calls, visits from lobbyists, journalists, members of the public, politicians, civil servants and colleagues.
I am now eating my lunch and writing this on my lunchbreak which I never get, because I am too tired in the evening to blog.
After lunch, I will try to get back to HRM economic development. Then after that, I have reading/ policy work to do on: gambling and young people, the Nova Scotia oil and gas industry, energy demand side management strategies, comparative Canadian labour relations legislation, elementary education policy in rural areas, pensions, the economic implications of trade liberalisation with east Asia (I kid you not), chronic pain in women workers (I assume my tendonitis is included in that), after which time my inbox will be full and it will all start over again.
My work outputs range from verbal briefings to written briefings, to meeting positions, to letters, to legislation, to parliamentary questions, to press releases, to spreadsheets.
My outcomes... well as with most knowledge workers I don't have any. Cos they're kinda hard to measure. But I'm sure I'm doing a great job. The key thing is to always know the answer to the question that you're being asked or to know how to get the answer in ten seconds.
Is everyone's job like this nowadays? Or is it just my sector? I think I am getting too old for this. Would someone like to give me a job where I don't have to multi-task so much all the time?
Where I could sit around and think about stuff for just a minute or two?
But work is getting out of control. Today, the bus was late and slow so I spent most of the time reading the Halifax Regional Economic Development plan while getting into work. I got a good chunk of it read and hoped to have it finished by eleven. Since getting into work though, I have been interrupted so many times I gave up. I have had to deal with: school sidewalks, or lack thereof, adult literacy, energy efficiency in public buildings, the alcohol and gaming authority, trade union recognition in the food sector, violence in the workplace, workers compensation and wind energy. I have had to take calls, visits from lobbyists, journalists, members of the public, politicians, civil servants and colleagues.
I am now eating my lunch and writing this on my lunchbreak which I never get, because I am too tired in the evening to blog.
After lunch, I will try to get back to HRM economic development. Then after that, I have reading/ policy work to do on: gambling and young people, the Nova Scotia oil and gas industry, energy demand side management strategies, comparative Canadian labour relations legislation, elementary education policy in rural areas, pensions, the economic implications of trade liberalisation with east Asia (I kid you not), chronic pain in women workers (I assume my tendonitis is included in that), after which time my inbox will be full and it will all start over again.
My work outputs range from verbal briefings to written briefings, to meeting positions, to letters, to legislation, to parliamentary questions, to press releases, to spreadsheets.
My outcomes... well as with most knowledge workers I don't have any. Cos they're kinda hard to measure. But I'm sure I'm doing a great job. The key thing is to always know the answer to the question that you're being asked or to know how to get the answer in ten seconds.
Is everyone's job like this nowadays? Or is it just my sector? I think I am getting too old for this. Would someone like to give me a job where I don't have to multi-task so much all the time?
Where I could sit around and think about stuff for just a minute or two?
My kind of bear
Recent news reports from Washington State are telling the story of a bear who ambled up to a campsite and got into someone's cooler in a national park, drank 36 cans of beer and climbed a tree (unsteadily, I'd imagine) to sleep it off. Park rangers managed to coax him down from the tree and capture him, for release away from the campsite, using two cans of beer.
The hair of the dog etc..
The hair of the dog etc..
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Cape Breton Fall Colours
Everything you've ever heard about Cape Breton in the Fall when the leaves turn is true.
Magenta claret plum lilac crimson fire engine red rose peach apricot sienna umber terracotta traffic light orange tangerine lemon gold blonde palest yellow leaves all bouncing and shaking in the autumn wind against the backdrop of evergreens - sage, emerald, moss, Sherwood green. Tufts of heather and blazing ferns at the base of every tree. Rivers winding slowly through boulder-strewn valleys, waiting for rain to fill up the channels.
Winding roads up and down the North Mountain and Smokey, hugging the side of the hills with nothing beyond the cliff edge but a vast cerulean sky and a dark blue ocean capped with off-white tufts of foam meeting at a horizon that stretches all the way east to home.
Magenta claret plum lilac crimson fire engine red rose peach apricot sienna umber terracotta traffic light orange tangerine lemon gold blonde palest yellow leaves all bouncing and shaking in the autumn wind against the backdrop of evergreens - sage, emerald, moss, Sherwood green. Tufts of heather and blazing ferns at the base of every tree. Rivers winding slowly through boulder-strewn valleys, waiting for rain to fill up the channels.
Winding roads up and down the North Mountain and Smokey, hugging the side of the hills with nothing beyond the cliff edge but a vast cerulean sky and a dark blue ocean capped with off-white tufts of foam meeting at a horizon that stretches all the way east to home.
Doubting the need for doubt is a doubtful strategy
I always try to remember the words of the great man himself, Plato:
One of the penalties of refusing to be involved in politics is that you end up being governed by your inferiors.
Then sometimes I wonder whether he wasn't talking about me.
But it's not something I can ever have a conversation with my colleagues about, because doubt is a scarce commodity in political staffers.
Which is a bad thing, I think.
But maybe that's just me.
Tired. Of politics. And crazy men shooting women and children in schools because of the way they were raised. The men I mean.
Why do we raise our boys so badly?
One of the penalties of refusing to be involved in politics is that you end up being governed by your inferiors.
Then sometimes I wonder whether he wasn't talking about me.
But it's not something I can ever have a conversation with my colleagues about, because doubt is a scarce commodity in political staffers.
Which is a bad thing, I think.
But maybe that's just me.
Tired. Of politics. And crazy men shooting women and children in schools because of the way they were raised. The men I mean.
Why do we raise our boys so badly?
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
The beginning of the end - edited version
So here it is.
Queenie is a bit stretched.
blah blah blah edited out rant that would get Queenie into a lot of trouble if anyone other than Ammonite saw it....
So would someone please give Queenie a reason why she should bankrupt herself and give herself an early nervous breakdown in order to keep trying to please a whole load of people who just fucking please themselves all the time without any regard for the financial, emotional and psychic strain of being all things to all people that being Queenie entails, just because she's an accomodating type of gal?
Oh that's right. There's no fucking reason is there. Just some obscure sense of responsibility somebody inculcated in her at an early age that makes sure she'll never just say fuck it and disappear into south america with the funds.
more ranting..
But of course there's a good reason. And Queenie is just being unreasonable when she can't see it on a wet Wednesday when she can't afford to eat supper even. And she's homesick. And sick of spending the supper money on calls to other people.
And what the hell is this 'Anonymous' 'how many peope read your blog?' bullshit?
Sign your effing name if you make a comment on my blog you mingy bastard.
All Queenie has to talk to tonight is Lady Moonbeam.
You can tell, can't you!
I'm going to bed now.
Yous can all fuck off.
Goodnight.
Queenie is a bit stretched.
blah blah blah edited out rant that would get Queenie into a lot of trouble if anyone other than Ammonite saw it....
So would someone please give Queenie a reason why she should bankrupt herself and give herself an early nervous breakdown in order to keep trying to please a whole load of people who just fucking please themselves all the time without any regard for the financial, emotional and psychic strain of being all things to all people that being Queenie entails, just because she's an accomodating type of gal?
Oh that's right. There's no fucking reason is there. Just some obscure sense of responsibility somebody inculcated in her at an early age that makes sure she'll never just say fuck it and disappear into south america with the funds.
more ranting..
But of course there's a good reason. And Queenie is just being unreasonable when she can't see it on a wet Wednesday when she can't afford to eat supper even. And she's homesick. And sick of spending the supper money on calls to other people.
And what the hell is this 'Anonymous' 'how many peope read your blog?' bullshit?
Sign your effing name if you make a comment on my blog you mingy bastard.
All Queenie has to talk to tonight is Lady Moonbeam.
You can tell, can't you!
I'm going to bed now.
Yous can all fuck off.
Goodnight.
G'wan ya mad t'ing ya, Hugo!
Hugo the Boliverian Dragon Slayer has a liddel pop at Dubya the Devil today in the UN Assembly.
http://today.reuters.com/tv/videoChannel.aspx?storyid=410b4a1c3482483d2596efaf5e0b930fd1e4fb68
http://today.reuters.com/tv/videoChannel.aspx?storyid=410b4a1c3482483d2596efaf5e0b930fd1e4fb68
Understanding rural Nova Scotia
Apparently I never really will.
Ha, you puny mortals! I have studied under the great Kavanagh. I understand everything!
Epic
by Patrick Kavanagh
I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided, who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.
I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul!"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel -
"Here is the march along these iron stones."
That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was more important? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said: I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.
Ha, you puny mortals! I have studied under the great Kavanagh. I understand everything!
Epic
by Patrick Kavanagh
I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided, who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.
I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul!"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel -
"Here is the march along these iron stones."
That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was more important? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said: I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Love is blind
This is on the newswire this afternoon:
Forty-three-year old Mark Brian Harshbarger of Pennsylvania has been identified as the man who was accidentally shot during a hunting trip in central Newfoundland.
R-C-M-P initially reported his wife apparently mistook him for a bear.
The incident happened last Thursday night near Buchan's Junction. The hunting party also included two children and a guide. (VOCM)
Forty-three-year old Mark Brian Harshbarger of Pennsylvania has been identified as the man who was accidentally shot during a hunting trip in central Newfoundland.
R-C-M-P initially reported his wife apparently mistook him for a bear.
The incident happened last Thursday night near Buchan's Junction. The hunting party also included two children and a guide. (VOCM)
Monday, September 18, 2006
More about the Beta move
As I said before, I've moved over to Beta. It involves a lot of administrative work, which is always a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it means you don't have to be creative if you don't want to. On the other hand, it is grindingly boring when it involves a lot of click and point and click again on the laptop.
Also, my aching wrist/ elbow/ shoulder joints which are getting really bad again are not able for more than an hour of tagging old posts. And then typing for another thirty minutes is out of the question.
But I have 150 posts done.
I'd have more done, but I keep stopping to read old posts.
I was quite witty and interesting for a while back last winter wasn't I?
I wonder what happened to me?
le's have a liddel look at what we is blogging about...
Politics (47)
Work (30)
AHAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!! Methinks.
All the same, 24 themes is pretty good. Well rounded.
Scatty probably. Not able to settle on anything as usual.
I'm reading a very strange book at the moment.
Little Chapel on the River, by Gwendolyn Bounds.
It's strange for a number of reasons.
It's about a woman who had a very high flying career as a journalist with the Wall St. Journal. Admittedly she was the fashion correspondent, but fashion is big business and she had the designer clothes/ girlfriend/ apartment on Wall St./ hectic glamorous lifestyle us over-achieving thirty somethings aspire to.
Then 9/11 happened and she took stock.
She was out house-hunting north of New York, her apartment having been very badly damaged by the explosions, and happened upon a little town called Garrison Landing, in which there is a pub run by a man called Jim Guinan, who used to live beside the golf course in Springtown, which is of course my hometown.
And he reminds me of someone in the photos of him that scatter the book.
And the pub sounds just like my favourite pub ever, Smoothies (moment with head bowed in memory of Smoothies and all its memories), just a little bar below the house, with flexible opening hours and a laconic owner.
So she fell in love with the pub and the family that ran it, and the people who drank in it, and the town in which it was situated, and all of that, and moved to Garrison Landing and took a leave of absence from her job to work in the pub.
Which is of course what I did a year and a half ago, except the job in the pub never quite materialised. And I had nothing that I had fallen in love with apart from an idea of a place which turned out to be wrong, but in a good way.
And the book is structured very like my blog. A bit of narrative about my life. Some pen pictures of other people. Snippets of introspection and memories. Descriptions of the surrounding countryside.
No politics but. Just the occasional mention of Donatella. Or Tommy. Or other random rich people.
And a severe case of the attachments to a manky old camp that she spent summers in at an impressionable age. the fact that she was nine and I am thirty six is irrelevant.
So the parallels exist but are a bit bendy, not truly straight as parallels should be.
The existence of which mean that I have many emotions concerning this book and the woman who wrote it.
Firstly, the emotion I always have when I read a book.
Someone sat down and wrote this. So why don't I? Because I'm a lazy cow, that's why.
This one is getting annoying and is what stopped me reading before so I have to just get through it and get over myself as someone would say.
Secondly, a kind of patronising pity - if she were Irish, she would have been able to blend the glamorous life with having a nice little local. I mean, look at Bertie! Or Bono!
Thirdly, a kind of vicious hatred masquerading as pity. Effing Yank! She was ar muin na muice (I'm taking the piss here now because she keeps quoting 'charming Gaelic phrases' that Jim Guinan taught her), on the pig's back with her nice life and then it all went awfully wrong when her apartment was in the line of disaster from the Twin Towers destruction. And I'm halfway through and she still hasn't mentioned the fact that they brought it on themselves.
Fourthly, huge shame: why am being so uncharitable about what appears to be a thoughtful intelligent woman who has used the tragedy of 9/11 to figure out what is important in life?
WHICH ACTIVITY I TRY TO ENGAGE IN CONSTANTLY AND CONSEQUENTLY SHOULD ADMIRE IN OTHERS.
If I was to be brutally honest, I suppose the vicious hatred masquerading as pity is just jealousy.
Fifthly, a kind of smugness: I have done the same as her (changed my life to figure out what the important stuff is) and I haven't felt the need to write a book about it. And get an agent and get it published and write a gushy acknowledgement to just about everyone on the planet.
Sixthly - well you can imagine - a blog is just a book without a plot or an editor now isn't it, yes sirree bob, so get off your high horse MADAM.
More shame, in other words.
Maybe if I apologise to the woman I will be able to get over myself and finish the book and get over myself.
Sorry, Gwendolyn. I am enjoying the book despite my horrid little black soul.
Also, my aching wrist/ elbow/ shoulder joints which are getting really bad again are not able for more than an hour of tagging old posts. And then typing for another thirty minutes is out of the question.
But I have 150 posts done.
I'd have more done, but I keep stopping to read old posts.
I was quite witty and interesting for a while back last winter wasn't I?
I wonder what happened to me?
le's have a liddel look at what we is blogging about...
Politics (47)
Work (30)
AHAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!! Methinks.
All the same, 24 themes is pretty good. Well rounded.
Scatty probably. Not able to settle on anything as usual.
I'm reading a very strange book at the moment.
Little Chapel on the River, by Gwendolyn Bounds.
It's strange for a number of reasons.
It's about a woman who had a very high flying career as a journalist with the Wall St. Journal. Admittedly she was the fashion correspondent, but fashion is big business and she had the designer clothes/ girlfriend/ apartment on Wall St./ hectic glamorous lifestyle us over-achieving thirty somethings aspire to.
Then 9/11 happened and she took stock.
She was out house-hunting north of New York, her apartment having been very badly damaged by the explosions, and happened upon a little town called Garrison Landing, in which there is a pub run by a man called Jim Guinan, who used to live beside the golf course in Springtown, which is of course my hometown.
And he reminds me of someone in the photos of him that scatter the book.
And the pub sounds just like my favourite pub ever, Smoothies (moment with head bowed in memory of Smoothies and all its memories), just a little bar below the house, with flexible opening hours and a laconic owner.
So she fell in love with the pub and the family that ran it, and the people who drank in it, and the town in which it was situated, and all of that, and moved to Garrison Landing and took a leave of absence from her job to work in the pub.
Which is of course what I did a year and a half ago, except the job in the pub never quite materialised. And I had nothing that I had fallen in love with apart from an idea of a place which turned out to be wrong, but in a good way.
And the book is structured very like my blog. A bit of narrative about my life. Some pen pictures of other people. Snippets of introspection and memories. Descriptions of the surrounding countryside.
No politics but. Just the occasional mention of Donatella. Or Tommy. Or other random rich people.
And a severe case of the attachments to a manky old camp that she spent summers in at an impressionable age. the fact that she was nine and I am thirty six is irrelevant.
So the parallels exist but are a bit bendy, not truly straight as parallels should be.
The existence of which mean that I have many emotions concerning this book and the woman who wrote it.
Firstly, the emotion I always have when I read a book.
Someone sat down and wrote this. So why don't I? Because I'm a lazy cow, that's why.
This one is getting annoying and is what stopped me reading before so I have to just get through it and get over myself as someone would say.
Secondly, a kind of patronising pity - if she were Irish, she would have been able to blend the glamorous life with having a nice little local. I mean, look at Bertie! Or Bono!
Thirdly, a kind of vicious hatred masquerading as pity. Effing Yank! She was ar muin na muice (I'm taking the piss here now because she keeps quoting 'charming Gaelic phrases' that Jim Guinan taught her), on the pig's back with her nice life and then it all went awfully wrong when her apartment was in the line of disaster from the Twin Towers destruction. And I'm halfway through and she still hasn't mentioned the fact that they brought it on themselves.
Fourthly, huge shame: why am being so uncharitable about what appears to be a thoughtful intelligent woman who has used the tragedy of 9/11 to figure out what is important in life?
WHICH ACTIVITY I TRY TO ENGAGE IN CONSTANTLY AND CONSEQUENTLY SHOULD ADMIRE IN OTHERS.
If I was to be brutally honest, I suppose the vicious hatred masquerading as pity is just jealousy.
Fifthly, a kind of smugness: I have done the same as her (changed my life to figure out what the important stuff is) and I haven't felt the need to write a book about it. And get an agent and get it published and write a gushy acknowledgement to just about everyone on the planet.
Sixthly - well you can imagine - a blog is just a book without a plot or an editor now isn't it, yes sirree bob, so get off your high horse MADAM.
More shame, in other words.
Maybe if I apologise to the woman I will be able to get over myself and finish the book and get over myself.
Sorry, Gwendolyn. I am enjoying the book despite my horrid little black soul.
Books I've read since March... that I can remember
More reviews - this time of books
The Colony of Unrequited Love
and
The Navigator of New York
By Wayne Johnston
An election co-worker got me onto Wayne Johnston. A great writer from Newfoundland. Colony is the story of Joey Smallwood, the Liberal Premier who brought Newfieland into Confederation after the Second World War.
Great book.
Joey Smallwood was a relentless little bastard who tried to make his name by organising the rail workers and fishermen of Nova Scotia. By walking or sailing around Newfoundland in the snow. He didn’t do so well on the left but the Liberals spotted his potential and made him their whipping boy and eventually he got the Premiership.
Mostly the book is the tragedy that was his personal life – his alcoholic father, his unrequited love for the journalist Fielding, who delighted in tormenting him and whose hilarious History of Newfoundland a satirical look at the history of The Rock interspaces the fictionalised biography.
The Navigator is more fiction, but has biographical elements to it. Set in Newfoundland and New York, it is the story of a boy, abandoned by his father who ran off to be a polar explorer, who grew up and went to New York to be a polar explorer. And got in with Peary. Who sounds like a right little bollocks.
Not as good as Colony, but probably just as if you are into polar exploration.
The Delicate Storm
and
Forty Words of Sorrow
By Giles Blunt
My eternal hunt for the new James Lee Burke led me to this crime writer who writes out of Algonquin Bay, northern Ontario, a place I have always wanted to visit, due to its isolation and natural beauty. But it sounds terribly grim in the winter-time. Which is most of the time.
Detective John Cardinal is the same type of tortured soul that Robicheaux et al are, this time it’s money he stole from a crime boss to pay for his daughter’s expensive American education, and a wife with a bad dose of the blues. The crimes are pretty good though, the side-kick is a well-drawn female character and I can see myself following this series for a while.
Other detective novels
Pegasus Descending
By James Lee Burke
And
Hard Revolution
By George Pelecanos
Two of my favourite American crime writers. Pelecanos writes about DC, still mourning the loss of one Eoghan Barry. James Lee Burke writes about Louisiana and the bayou, still mourning the loss of most of New Orleans.
New Orleans gets mentioned. Surprisingly, Eoghan Barry does not. But then again, Hard Revolution is set around the assassination of Martin Luther King, a bit before his time.
So maybe that’s why.
Skin Divers
By Anne Michaels
I was blown away by her novel Fugitive Pieces a few months back, so I bought a book of her poetry just to see.
We roll over the edge into the deep field
Rise from under the rain,
From our shapes in the wet grass
Night swimmers, skin divers.
Very nice it is too to be reading poetry again. This is a book of love poetry and in the third section, usually the most innovative in your average book of poetry, Michaels takes on the personae of Marie Curie and Kathleen Scott and imagines their emotional state after the deaths of their spouses.
Did you know that when Scott was dying, he crossed out the word wife, which was on the inscription - ‘give this to my wife’ printed on the front of his diary and wrote ‘widow’ instead?
Bad Land
By Jonathan Raban
A history of the badlands, by the second best travel writer in the world – the best being Colin Thubron. Haven’t finished it yet, but it’s great so far – organised thematically as well as chronologically – Fences, Pictures, Heavy Weather, Clinging to the Wreckage – stuff like that. He captures the mournful emptiness brilliantly and following on Keepers of Truth, gave me some idea of what it would be like to live in Manitoba, which is why I didn’t want to move there.
Keepers of Truth
By Michael Collins
This guy is Irish apparently. I’ve never heard of him. Keepers was shortlisted for the 2000 Booker Prize, but I’ve never heard of it. I must have been out the day they announced it that year.
Again, annoyingly, this was in the Literature section of Doulls and not in the Irish literature section. I was about to move it as I always do (some day I will get caught doing this and barred from the shop forever) but I decided to buy it instead.
Wasn't I the lucky girl!
I really enjoyed this book. It’s a rant about the destruction of Middle America and I’d love to hear his take on things now that Bush and the Neo-Cons have swept the boards in that part of the world.
Bill, the narrator is the sub-editor on a small town newspaper in a once-prosperous manufacturing town. He gets caught up in a murder he’s reporting on with disastrous results. The characters and their over-intense interaction are well drawn and he has a great eye for the American media and the nuances of a small town and their intersection in the modern world.
Saving the World
By Julia Alvarez
My birthday book.
A story within a story. Author Alma Huebner is caught in writer’s block and ambivalent about her husband’s trip to the Dominican Republic to run an environmental project. She loses herself in the story of Isabel Sendales y Gomez, the head of a Spanish orphanage who, by chance, ends up accompanying the first expedition to bring the smallpox vaccine to the New World. Lots of story in a story parallels about the joys of being in love with an obsessive man and a ripping good story – two stories in fact – that intertwine very well. This woman is an Allendes who knows how to structure a story without making her protagonist fly when necessary.
Ta very much Mrs. Monkey.
The Colony of Unrequited Love
and
The Navigator of New York
By Wayne Johnston
An election co-worker got me onto Wayne Johnston. A great writer from Newfoundland. Colony is the story of Joey Smallwood, the Liberal Premier who brought Newfieland into Confederation after the Second World War.
Great book.
Joey Smallwood was a relentless little bastard who tried to make his name by organising the rail workers and fishermen of Nova Scotia. By walking or sailing around Newfoundland in the snow. He didn’t do so well on the left but the Liberals spotted his potential and made him their whipping boy and eventually he got the Premiership.
Mostly the book is the tragedy that was his personal life – his alcoholic father, his unrequited love for the journalist Fielding, who delighted in tormenting him and whose hilarious History of Newfoundland a satirical look at the history of The Rock interspaces the fictionalised biography.
The Navigator is more fiction, but has biographical elements to it. Set in Newfoundland and New York, it is the story of a boy, abandoned by his father who ran off to be a polar explorer, who grew up and went to New York to be a polar explorer. And got in with Peary. Who sounds like a right little bollocks.
Not as good as Colony, but probably just as if you are into polar exploration.
The Delicate Storm
and
Forty Words of Sorrow
By Giles Blunt
My eternal hunt for the new James Lee Burke led me to this crime writer who writes out of Algonquin Bay, northern Ontario, a place I have always wanted to visit, due to its isolation and natural beauty. But it sounds terribly grim in the winter-time. Which is most of the time.
Detective John Cardinal is the same type of tortured soul that Robicheaux et al are, this time it’s money he stole from a crime boss to pay for his daughter’s expensive American education, and a wife with a bad dose of the blues. The crimes are pretty good though, the side-kick is a well-drawn female character and I can see myself following this series for a while.
Other detective novels
Pegasus Descending
By James Lee Burke
And
Hard Revolution
By George Pelecanos
Two of my favourite American crime writers. Pelecanos writes about DC, still mourning the loss of one Eoghan Barry. James Lee Burke writes about Louisiana and the bayou, still mourning the loss of most of New Orleans.
New Orleans gets mentioned. Surprisingly, Eoghan Barry does not. But then again, Hard Revolution is set around the assassination of Martin Luther King, a bit before his time.
So maybe that’s why.
Skin Divers
By Anne Michaels
I was blown away by her novel Fugitive Pieces a few months back, so I bought a book of her poetry just to see.
We roll over the edge into the deep field
Rise from under the rain,
From our shapes in the wet grass
Night swimmers, skin divers.
Very nice it is too to be reading poetry again. This is a book of love poetry and in the third section, usually the most innovative in your average book of poetry, Michaels takes on the personae of Marie Curie and Kathleen Scott and imagines their emotional state after the deaths of their spouses.
Did you know that when Scott was dying, he crossed out the word wife, which was on the inscription - ‘give this to my wife’ printed on the front of his diary and wrote ‘widow’ instead?
Bad Land
By Jonathan Raban
A history of the badlands, by the second best travel writer in the world – the best being Colin Thubron. Haven’t finished it yet, but it’s great so far – organised thematically as well as chronologically – Fences, Pictures, Heavy Weather, Clinging to the Wreckage – stuff like that. He captures the mournful emptiness brilliantly and following on Keepers of Truth, gave me some idea of what it would be like to live in Manitoba, which is why I didn’t want to move there.
Keepers of Truth
By Michael Collins
This guy is Irish apparently. I’ve never heard of him. Keepers was shortlisted for the 2000 Booker Prize, but I’ve never heard of it. I must have been out the day they announced it that year.
Again, annoyingly, this was in the Literature section of Doulls and not in the Irish literature section. I was about to move it as I always do (some day I will get caught doing this and barred from the shop forever) but I decided to buy it instead.
Wasn't I the lucky girl!
I really enjoyed this book. It’s a rant about the destruction of Middle America and I’d love to hear his take on things now that Bush and the Neo-Cons have swept the boards in that part of the world.
Bill, the narrator is the sub-editor on a small town newspaper in a once-prosperous manufacturing town. He gets caught up in a murder he’s reporting on with disastrous results. The characters and their over-intense interaction are well drawn and he has a great eye for the American media and the nuances of a small town and their intersection in the modern world.
Saving the World
By Julia Alvarez
My birthday book.
A story within a story. Author Alma Huebner is caught in writer’s block and ambivalent about her husband’s trip to the Dominican Republic to run an environmental project. She loses herself in the story of Isabel Sendales y Gomez, the head of a Spanish orphanage who, by chance, ends up accompanying the first expedition to bring the smallpox vaccine to the New World. Lots of story in a story parallels about the joys of being in love with an obsessive man and a ripping good story – two stories in fact – that intertwine very well. This woman is an Allendes who knows how to structure a story without making her protagonist fly when necessary.
Ta very much Mrs. Monkey.
Albums I've bought since March
Time for some reviews I think.
Sleator-Kinney: The Woods
The brilliance of this album was driven home to me when it was nicked from the car by one of the teenage boy wonders only four days after I bought it. Usually it takes a couple of weeks for the sound to percolate through his curly mop, grown to hide his seventeen year old face from the rest of the world.
Thankfully I had uploaded it. I need say no more, it has all been said by people more qualified than me to talk about grinding guitars and screaming bass lines.
Precisely, it should have been the other way round.
Corinne Bailey-Rae: Corinne Bailey-Rae
Just Like a Star is a great love song. I like this album like I like my pink suede stiletto boots, because I bought it on the basis of a review and often that’s a bit hit and miss (unless it’s Franks of course). And just like my pink suede stiletto boots, it turned out to be totally me once I got it home.
I believe it’s being uber-hyped across the pond. Over here, it made a little splash, but nothing much, too soft for the R ‘n’ B sistas in Halifax, too girlie for the boys, too English for the Yankified. Just right for this girl.
Bruce Springsteen: The Seeger Sessions
Well, you knew I was going to buy this one didn’t you. Mweh… I do like the idea of it very much, and it is great for round a campfire when you’re getting the beers into you and the fire going, but it gets on my nerves after a while. Plus I can’t upload it as the cd/dvd thingummy setup it’s on won’t fit in my cd-rom.
Mundy: Live and Confusion
Somebody sent me this for my birthday. Again it’s a cd/dvd combo disc so I can’t upload it which means I don’t play it very often, as I don’t have a car anymore.
Keane: Under the Iron Sky
U2. Joshua Tree. Updated only slightly.
I feel old now.
It’s very whingey. And I believe Chaplin’s gone for a little rest in the Priory, so maybe the rest of them are getting a break now. But there are lyrics like:
Sometimes I get to feeling that I’m stranded in the wrong town…Is it any wonder that I’m tired/ Is it any wonder that I’m uptight
Bless him. He should try being sent to Glace Bay Nova Scotia for an election campaign.
When are the people who invent formats on computers going to invent something additional to Bold, Italics and underline.
The album’ll do for a Thursday night listen with a glass of wine and an absorbing task though.
Sam the Record Man: Halifax Indie Sampler 2006
Terry, my main man in Sam’s (who sells me my medicine, as he says) made me buy this the other day. It was only six bucks though. I’m just popping it on now, so I’ll go onto books and come back to this when I’ve had a listen.
I’ve had a listen. That was a bit of a letdown. Not as good as Ian’s magic Ireland mix. Honestly, I didn't like one song on it and the production values were crap.
NOT WORTH SIX BUCKS EVEN.
Sleator-Kinney: The Woods
The brilliance of this album was driven home to me when it was nicked from the car by one of the teenage boy wonders only four days after I bought it. Usually it takes a couple of weeks for the sound to percolate through his curly mop, grown to hide his seventeen year old face from the rest of the world.
Thankfully I had uploaded it. I need say no more, it has all been said by people more qualified than me to talk about grinding guitars and screaming bass lines.
Precisely, it should have been the other way round.
Corinne Bailey-Rae: Corinne Bailey-Rae
Just Like a Star is a great love song. I like this album like I like my pink suede stiletto boots, because I bought it on the basis of a review and often that’s a bit hit and miss (unless it’s Franks of course). And just like my pink suede stiletto boots, it turned out to be totally me once I got it home.
I believe it’s being uber-hyped across the pond. Over here, it made a little splash, but nothing much, too soft for the R ‘n’ B sistas in Halifax, too girlie for the boys, too English for the Yankified. Just right for this girl.
Bruce Springsteen: The Seeger Sessions
Well, you knew I was going to buy this one didn’t you. Mweh… I do like the idea of it very much, and it is great for round a campfire when you’re getting the beers into you and the fire going, but it gets on my nerves after a while. Plus I can’t upload it as the cd/dvd thingummy setup it’s on won’t fit in my cd-rom.
Mundy: Live and Confusion
Somebody sent me this for my birthday. Again it’s a cd/dvd combo disc so I can’t upload it which means I don’t play it very often, as I don’t have a car anymore.
Keane: Under the Iron Sky
U2. Joshua Tree. Updated only slightly.
I feel old now.
It’s very whingey. And I believe Chaplin’s gone for a little rest in the Priory, so maybe the rest of them are getting a break now. But there are lyrics like:
Sometimes I get to feeling that I’m stranded in the wrong town…Is it any wonder that I’m tired/ Is it any wonder that I’m uptight
Bless him. He should try being sent to Glace Bay Nova Scotia for an election campaign.
When are the people who invent formats on computers going to invent something additional to Bold, Italics and underline.
The album’ll do for a Thursday night listen with a glass of wine and an absorbing task though.
Sam the Record Man: Halifax Indie Sampler 2006
Terry, my main man in Sam’s (who sells me my medicine, as he says) made me buy this the other day. It was only six bucks though. I’m just popping it on now, so I’ll go onto books and come back to this when I’ve had a listen.
I’ve had a listen. That was a bit of a letdown. Not as good as Ian’s magic Ireland mix. Honestly, I didn't like one song on it and the production values were crap.
NOT WORTH SIX BUCKS EVEN.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Condi was here today
I suppose I'd better do the 9/11 thing. No disrespect to anyone who was affected badly by it, but better people than I can mark the occasion.
Condoleeza Rice marked the occasion by coming to Halifax, Nova Scotia to thank us all for putting up all the stranded air travellers when their planes were diverted from US airspace after the Twin Towers attack.
I'm suprised she kept a straight face while she was doing it.
Several times over the last few days, I have button-holed a Canadian and said the following:
So the Yanks diverted all the flights north to Canada after the Twin Tower attacks, eh?
Yes, they would say, all proud that they did their bit to save the free world from Terrorism again.
I would crack up laughing then, pointing and saying succccckkkkkkkkkkkerrrsss!
Time would pass.
The small sound of a Canadian penny dropping would be heard somewhere in their head.
Facial muscles would contort slowly as the mood changed from calm pride to wounded pride.
Eventually.... Those cocksuckers!!!!
Everytime... I swear it happened everytime I did it.
Granted, I mostly did it to people who don't really care about politics, but this is 9/11 we are talking about.
Seriously, there are 33 million LOVELY people up here in Canuckstan, who would mostly do anything for their neighbours, be they Yanks or whoever, who are being buttfucked by the Americans, with the assistance of their own government of course, and only 57 of them turned up to tell that 'disgrace to her gender' neo-cow to go home today.
And I wasn't one of them.
I must be growing up finally.
Anyways, the day that will never be the same again has come and gone again.
Condoleeza Rice marked the occasion by coming to Halifax, Nova Scotia to thank us all for putting up all the stranded air travellers when their planes were diverted from US airspace after the Twin Towers attack.
I'm suprised she kept a straight face while she was doing it.
Several times over the last few days, I have button-holed a Canadian and said the following:
So the Yanks diverted all the flights north to Canada after the Twin Tower attacks, eh?
Yes, they would say, all proud that they did their bit to save the free world from Terrorism again.
I would crack up laughing then, pointing and saying succccckkkkkkkkkkkerrrsss!
Time would pass.
The small sound of a Canadian penny dropping would be heard somewhere in their head.
Facial muscles would contort slowly as the mood changed from calm pride to wounded pride.
Eventually.... Those cocksuckers!!!!
Everytime... I swear it happened everytime I did it.
Granted, I mostly did it to people who don't really care about politics, but this is 9/11 we are talking about.
Seriously, there are 33 million LOVELY people up here in Canuckstan, who would mostly do anything for their neighbours, be they Yanks or whoever, who are being buttfucked by the Americans, with the assistance of their own government of course, and only 57 of them turned up to tell that 'disgrace to her gender' neo-cow to go home today.
And I wasn't one of them.
I must be growing up finally.
Anyways, the day that will never be the same again has come and gone again.
Jersey Girl in the Ovens with Travel Chests - Part II
So I had left off at the glimmering.
Anyways, the trunks turned out to be dead handy, in several ways:
- we sat on them around the campfire;
- we used them to block the not inconsiderable wind blowing up the east coast of America towards us that night as we camped;
- we piled all the camping stuff in them and strapped them to the roof of the car, and that is the only way we got all of the gear back up to Halifax;
- we packed everything in them to move to the new apartment;
- they provide useful end table, chest of drawers and table functions which means Queenie and Himself don't have to spend any more money on furniture than they absolutely have to (both of them having more than one set of furniture already, more seems like a stupid idea - it's one thing to have ninety pairs of shoes scattered across the western world, it's completely different to have ninety end tables.
Anyways, our night camping was great fun, if a little windy. We went down to the Chapin's family campsite family restaurant and bar, where we happened upon the Chapin Family Annual Get Together, which was why the campground was packed, this being an annual highlight of the Nova Scotia folk music calendar.
Queenie is very glad she didn't grow up loving the Nova Scotia folk music scene as she would have been a very sad (anorak sad) girl.
There was a grown man who had driven all the way from New Jersey to volunteer as a photographer at the event. He never missed one, he told me.
After just one or two songs we skedaddled out of the restaurant and left the table for REAL fans, bought some firewood (Himself was not too impressed with the need to pay for wood seeing as we were surrounded by the stuff) and lit a fire to see our beers by.
And talked about politics and the environment.
You know you have the right boyfriend when he and your friend's boyfriend can sit around agreeing that come the Apocalypse the world would be a better place due to the absence of nasty machinary and combustion engines (BH) and modernity in general (Himself).
Except for no more Anthropologie, I thought to myself but didn't verbalise it because it wasn't in the spirit of the evening and also because I was fairly sure Jersey Girl would be thinking the same thought, so I didn't need to.
After a few beers of that kind of talk it of course morphed into 'how can we speed up the apocalypse'. I think Himself was all for heading to the Albertan oil pipeline with a chainsaw and a vice grip, but I can't really remember for sure.
We managed to stop him from heading off right that night, so he went and got some more wood instead. Thankfully, he didn't burn any of the signs saying 'do not gather wood, not even dead wood - you will be fined and thrown out of Chapin's Happy Camping Place'. That would have been too cheeky. Instead he just cleared up a bit of brush and other bits and pieces, in an environmentally responsible way that was unfortunately highly unprofitable for the Chapins.
But there are some Canadians who think that the trees are for everyone.
Later that night after the moon came out and the stars were glowing really brightly, as if they were down in our atmosphere checking on the progress of the apocalypse, we went to bed. A couple of hours later I woke to find my face buried in the side of the tent, through which a storm force wind was blowing the canvass against my mouth.
bzrbzrbzrbzzrbzrbzrbzr.........bwbwwbwbwbwww.....
I can't really describe the sound properly.
I tried to move, but I was pinned. Himself was cold, so he had burrowed up against my back and wasn't for moving. Eventually I managed to wake him up, shivering in his sleep as he was.
He had brought the wrong sleeping bag.
He had to get up and put all his clothes on and then go back to sleep.
But it was dawn at that stage, so not a great night's sleep really. Some nights camping are like that.
Anyways, the trunks turned out to be dead handy, in several ways:
- we sat on them around the campfire;
- we used them to block the not inconsiderable wind blowing up the east coast of America towards us that night as we camped;
- we piled all the camping stuff in them and strapped them to the roof of the car, and that is the only way we got all of the gear back up to Halifax;
- we packed everything in them to move to the new apartment;
- they provide useful end table, chest of drawers and table functions which means Queenie and Himself don't have to spend any more money on furniture than they absolutely have to (both of them having more than one set of furniture already, more seems like a stupid idea - it's one thing to have ninety pairs of shoes scattered across the western world, it's completely different to have ninety end tables.
Anyways, our night camping was great fun, if a little windy. We went down to the Chapin's family campsite family restaurant and bar, where we happened upon the Chapin Family Annual Get Together, which was why the campground was packed, this being an annual highlight of the Nova Scotia folk music calendar.
Queenie is very glad she didn't grow up loving the Nova Scotia folk music scene as she would have been a very sad (anorak sad) girl.
There was a grown man who had driven all the way from New Jersey to volunteer as a photographer at the event. He never missed one, he told me.
After just one or two songs we skedaddled out of the restaurant and left the table for REAL fans, bought some firewood (Himself was not too impressed with the need to pay for wood seeing as we were surrounded by the stuff) and lit a fire to see our beers by.
And talked about politics and the environment.
You know you have the right boyfriend when he and your friend's boyfriend can sit around agreeing that come the Apocalypse the world would be a better place due to the absence of nasty machinary and combustion engines (BH) and modernity in general (Himself).
Except for no more Anthropologie, I thought to myself but didn't verbalise it because it wasn't in the spirit of the evening and also because I was fairly sure Jersey Girl would be thinking the same thought, so I didn't need to.
After a few beers of that kind of talk it of course morphed into 'how can we speed up the apocalypse'. I think Himself was all for heading to the Albertan oil pipeline with a chainsaw and a vice grip, but I can't really remember for sure.
We managed to stop him from heading off right that night, so he went and got some more wood instead. Thankfully, he didn't burn any of the signs saying 'do not gather wood, not even dead wood - you will be fined and thrown out of Chapin's Happy Camping Place'. That would have been too cheeky. Instead he just cleared up a bit of brush and other bits and pieces, in an environmentally responsible way that was unfortunately highly unprofitable for the Chapins.
But there are some Canadians who think that the trees are for everyone.
Later that night after the moon came out and the stars were glowing really brightly, as if they were down in our atmosphere checking on the progress of the apocalypse, we went to bed. A couple of hours later I woke to find my face buried in the side of the tent, through which a storm force wind was blowing the canvass against my mouth.
bzrbzrbzrbzzrbzrbzrbzr.........bwbwwbwbwbwww.....
I can't really describe the sound properly.
I tried to move, but I was pinned. Himself was cold, so he had burrowed up against my back and wasn't for moving. Eventually I managed to wake him up, shivering in his sleep as he was.
He had brought the wrong sleeping bag.
He had to get up and put all his clothes on and then go back to sleep.
But it was dawn at that stage, so not a great night's sleep really. Some nights camping are like that.
This blog's gone Beta
So I was talking to one of my uber-techie friends tonight by the miracle of Google Chat, and I said the blog was going Beta and he asked what that meant.
As if Queenie would effing know!!
What it boils down to is lots and lots of new gadgets to play with on the blog and the introduction of tags, which I have wanted for ever and ever, but could not figure out the HTML for, despite several patient coaching sessions from friends who have more time than sense. (in terms of dealing with my facility with HTML).
But now I get to label my posts.
Those of you who know me know that I LOVE to label things.
I should have been a Victorian botanist.
So that's a job for all the boring afternoons in the office when I should be reading some mind-numbingly boring energy sector report on effing wind turbines or solar panels or demand side management or some other yaaawwwwwn (I mean why don't they just do what the Germans did and build the effing things and clean up the air) subject. Instead of just sitting there reading the yawnathing, I can sit there and half read it and glance longingly over at the computer.
And dream of tags.
Summer's over.
Blog's gone Beta.
Back in a mo'.
As if Queenie would effing know!!
What it boils down to is lots and lots of new gadgets to play with on the blog and the introduction of tags, which I have wanted for ever and ever, but could not figure out the HTML for, despite several patient coaching sessions from friends who have more time than sense. (in terms of dealing with my facility with HTML).
But now I get to label my posts.
Those of you who know me know that I LOVE to label things.
I should have been a Victorian botanist.
So that's a job for all the boring afternoons in the office when I should be reading some mind-numbingly boring energy sector report on effing wind turbines or solar panels or demand side management or some other yaaawwwwwn (I mean why don't they just do what the Germans did and build the effing things and clean up the air) subject. Instead of just sitting there reading the yawnathing, I can sit there and half read it and glance longingly over at the computer.
And dream of tags.
Summer's over.
Blog's gone Beta.
Back in a mo'.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Jersey Girl in the Ovens with Travel Chests - Part I
The summer is nearly over. The last two days have been horribly cold, for August, and although it is to warm up again for the weekend when we are going CAMPING at the beautiful lake where Himself planted me a rose garden on the lakeside in front of my tent last summer (thus scoring himself an Irish woman forever, poor lad) September will be bitter sweet. Although not as bad as last year, when I totally spoiled the beautiful weather that Nova Scotia gets in that month by worrying about the impending winter.
Not realising that the winter wouldn’t arrive until mid-December.
At least I know what the winter will be like now.
Although last winter was a ‘good’ one.
Thinks about that for a while… shudders… decides not to think about it until November.
Anyways, the summer. I got caught up in domestic stuff recently and left off describing the summer of visitors. I had done the Queen Parents pretty much, and half of Polly’s visit, in other words her weekend in Bear Cove, after which we piled everything and everyone back into the car and came back to Halifax, so Polly could have some of the bright lights of the city.
Of course she had just come from New York, so they were a bit mweh, I’m sure, but she seemed to have enjoyed herself nonetheless. After we all summoned the energy to go out again, which took a few days.
Then it was the weekend all of a sudden again and time to bring her to the airport.
I hate that damned airport. I spend too much time in it crying and not enough being a happy Queenie.
Himself and I had to go down the South Shore then, to meet Jersey Girl and her BH (beloved husband), who had been cycling towards Halifax from Yarmouth all week. They had gotten as far as The Ovens, which was a good bit of the way, so Himself and I only had about ninety minutes drive ahead of us.
I spent most of it wondering how we were going to get JG&BH’s bikes and camping gear in the back of the car, which was already stuffed with our camping gear.
We were past Lunenburg and heading down the last part of the journey when we saw a sign for a yard sale and a lot of interesting stuff in a garden. We sidelonged each other, but nobody gave anybody the nod and we kept driving. After about a mile, Himself slowed down and said ‘I really wanted to go to that yard sale’.
So did I.
We did a quick U-turn and sped back, in case all the bargains were gone.
First thing I saw were three enormous travel trunks; the old square-lidded ones with the brass bindings. One of them was in pretty poor shape with paint on it, but it can be removed and the other two were fine. Two were marked $50 and $40. The smallest of the three wasn’t priced.
I wondered whether it would be totally insane to get the smallest one. I could put some of the camping gear in it I reasoned. So I asked how much.
Fifty bucks for the three of them, the guy said. He was moving to Saskatchewan to be near his grandchildren.
I’ll take them, the insane person who takes over Queenie’s body occasionally had her wallet out before Queenie could say ‘what about the biiiiikes?’
Well, didn’t Himself and I have some fun then, playing our own personal version of The Krypton Factor (note to Canadians – TKF is a long-defunct, but pretty high end game show on UK tv, which tested physical and intellectual endurance, with one round of spatial awareness challenges that I could never figure out).
"This evening’s challenge is to fit these three trunks into an already full Chevrolet Equinox. Which is not a small car."
Eventually Himself, who is genius at stuff like this, put the smallest trunk into the biggest, put all the camping gear into the mid-sized trunk, which is my favourite, and finally got them into the car.
One of them had to be put on the back seat, though.
Finally we got to The Ovens camping site and eventually we found JG&BH’s campsite despite the owners of the site telling me they weren’t there over and over for a half an hour, while I freaked out completely thinking they’d been eaten by a bear or something, and as we were putting up the tent at the site, I looked up and there they were walking towards us!
Hooray! And not a bear scratch on either of them!
We explained about the trunks, which were now unpacked and lying on the campsite. JG didn’t say anything but she had that glimmer behind her eyes she gets when she thinks I’m on one of my little trips down crazy lane.
The apple never falls far from the tree.
Her mother used to spend Saturday mornings years ago trying to teach me (and some other teenage girls) how to play golf, and would give me the exact same look when I’d be trying to explain why it took me 112 shots to get round the back nine.
No wonder JG is a CEO of an organisation, and I’m not.
I must cultivate a glimmer sometime.
Actually, I should just adopt the apple/tree analogy I was using earlier and just inherit the Queen Mother’s. It’s pretty ferocious when it wants to be.
Anyways, enough about glimmering, back to the story…
Himself calls at this point for a chat. Chatting ensues. Time passes. The humour for writing is off me now.
… except it’s late and my hands are sore today from typing, so I’ll go to bed and finish this tomorrow.
Not realising that the winter wouldn’t arrive until mid-December.
At least I know what the winter will be like now.
Although last winter was a ‘good’ one.
Thinks about that for a while… shudders… decides not to think about it until November.
Anyways, the summer. I got caught up in domestic stuff recently and left off describing the summer of visitors. I had done the Queen Parents pretty much, and half of Polly’s visit, in other words her weekend in Bear Cove, after which we piled everything and everyone back into the car and came back to Halifax, so Polly could have some of the bright lights of the city.
Of course she had just come from New York, so they were a bit mweh, I’m sure, but she seemed to have enjoyed herself nonetheless. After we all summoned the energy to go out again, which took a few days.
Then it was the weekend all of a sudden again and time to bring her to the airport.
I hate that damned airport. I spend too much time in it crying and not enough being a happy Queenie.
Himself and I had to go down the South Shore then, to meet Jersey Girl and her BH (beloved husband), who had been cycling towards Halifax from Yarmouth all week. They had gotten as far as The Ovens, which was a good bit of the way, so Himself and I only had about ninety minutes drive ahead of us.
I spent most of it wondering how we were going to get JG&BH’s bikes and camping gear in the back of the car, which was already stuffed with our camping gear.
We were past Lunenburg and heading down the last part of the journey when we saw a sign for a yard sale and a lot of interesting stuff in a garden. We sidelonged each other, but nobody gave anybody the nod and we kept driving. After about a mile, Himself slowed down and said ‘I really wanted to go to that yard sale’.
So did I.
We did a quick U-turn and sped back, in case all the bargains were gone.
First thing I saw were three enormous travel trunks; the old square-lidded ones with the brass bindings. One of them was in pretty poor shape with paint on it, but it can be removed and the other two were fine. Two were marked $50 and $40. The smallest of the three wasn’t priced.
I wondered whether it would be totally insane to get the smallest one. I could put some of the camping gear in it I reasoned. So I asked how much.
Fifty bucks for the three of them, the guy said. He was moving to Saskatchewan to be near his grandchildren.
I’ll take them, the insane person who takes over Queenie’s body occasionally had her wallet out before Queenie could say ‘what about the biiiiikes?’
Well, didn’t Himself and I have some fun then, playing our own personal version of The Krypton Factor (note to Canadians – TKF is a long-defunct, but pretty high end game show on UK tv, which tested physical and intellectual endurance, with one round of spatial awareness challenges that I could never figure out).
"This evening’s challenge is to fit these three trunks into an already full Chevrolet Equinox. Which is not a small car."
Eventually Himself, who is genius at stuff like this, put the smallest trunk into the biggest, put all the camping gear into the mid-sized trunk, which is my favourite, and finally got them into the car.
One of them had to be put on the back seat, though.
Finally we got to The Ovens camping site and eventually we found JG&BH’s campsite despite the owners of the site telling me they weren’t there over and over for a half an hour, while I freaked out completely thinking they’d been eaten by a bear or something, and as we were putting up the tent at the site, I looked up and there they were walking towards us!
Hooray! And not a bear scratch on either of them!
We explained about the trunks, which were now unpacked and lying on the campsite. JG didn’t say anything but she had that glimmer behind her eyes she gets when she thinks I’m on one of my little trips down crazy lane.
The apple never falls far from the tree.
Her mother used to spend Saturday mornings years ago trying to teach me (and some other teenage girls) how to play golf, and would give me the exact same look when I’d be trying to explain why it took me 112 shots to get round the back nine.
No wonder JG is a CEO of an organisation, and I’m not.
I must cultivate a glimmer sometime.
Actually, I should just adopt the apple/tree analogy I was using earlier and just inherit the Queen Mother’s. It’s pretty ferocious when it wants to be.
Anyways, enough about glimmering, back to the story…
Himself calls at this point for a chat. Chatting ensues. Time passes. The humour for writing is off me now.
… except it’s late and my hands are sore today from typing, so I’ll go to bed and finish this tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Whereupon the narrator seems to have Aquaired quite a bit of stuff
Queenie is alone tonight. With no pressing tasks to fill the silence. For the first time in seven weeks.
No visitors from anywhere.
No packing to do.
No furniture to find.
Apart from a table and chairs.
But they’ll happen someday.
Of that I have no doubt.
Himself and Tina and Martin, being from a place where possessions are recycled and handed around to those who need them and not thrown away until actually broken, went on Mission “Furnish Queenie’s House” last night, after we spotted a lovely, original 1960s wall unit on our way home, just sitting on the kerb waiting for the bin men.
It being Sunday night. Which is garbage night in the prosperous South end of Halifax.
Yes, I know this is being posted on Tuesday. Home internet access will be resumed on Wednesday, after which time blogposts will be timely again.
As quick as anything the unit, which needs a little bit of work but not much, was in the back of the van, being hauled round the rotary at breakneck speed and up the hill to the apartment, where it was dropped off with Queenie, who had to cook the dinner while the intrepid visitors went off scouring the south end for more finds.
Just as I was draining the pasta to go with the Bolognese sauce I’d slaved over for an hour, the van pulled up – great timing I thought – and was emptied, before speeding off again.
What????
I went downstairs to investigate. Martin was sitting guard over a pile of stuff that included:
A sun lounger
A sun parasol
Two garden chairs
Two beach chairs
Two red fold up chairs, one plastic, one leather
A stereo unit thingummy on wheels which fits underneath the fish tank perfectly and which means I no longer have a problem changing the water, having only to wheel the tank into the kitchen and park it alongside the sink
A brand new pull-along garden hose thingummy, replete with brand new hose
Three sets of shelves
A little wire vegetable rack on wheels, which contained a brand new apron, two oven gloves, two pot stands, a chopping board, and a packet of bag clips (I swear)
An interesting looking beige footstool with claw legs, which is exactly the right height for resting your legs on, upon which my legs are resting while I type
Two tall uplighters, neither of which appear to work unfortunately
A big bright blue plastic thingummy, the use for which Queenie still cannot ascertain, despite having stared at it for a long time
A desk in perfect condition
A wooden six-drawer bureau that will need to be sanded and stained to put in the spare room (along with the futon and the seafaring chest and the mirror) for all the visitors that will be coming to visit hopefully
A Wilson golf bag (minus the strap which is presumably why it was on the kerb)
Why a golf bag?
Martin and I sat and looked at the pile of stuff, not having yet realised that we had locked ourselves out of the apartment, and reckoned it must be an Aquarian thing, this passion for other people’s rubbish.
Himself and Tina both being Aquarians, d’ya see.
Having said that, once I get the uplighters, the golf bag and the big blue thingummy back into the garbage collection on Wednesday night it will have been a good haul.
And when you add that haul to what Himself had already Aquaired for us - a sofa and chair, a rocking chair, a huge chest of drawers for our room, an end table and a futon mattress – as well as what I have purchased – the biggest bed in the world, three seafaring trunks we got for fifty bucks the lot at a yard sale, and the makings of a pretty well-stocked kitchen and linen cupboard, and then add allathat as Gypsy used to say when she was little, to the free tv and microwave I got from Missy and Shazz, and my amazing basket of stuff which Jersey Girl and her BH gave us when they were here, which fuelled my ongoing amazement at the generosity of people - Queenie is back in the possessions game.
Sigh…
And to think I arrived a little over a year ago with two suitcases and a computer bag.
The one thing keeping me sane throughout all of this is the fact that the whole lot cost just over $1,000, of which $600 was for the King Size super deluxe Sears-O-Pedic bed with twin boxspring and soft-top mattress.
FOKO/ Ikea/ European Living/ Habitat can go and stick their over-priced Burmese teak futon with Egyptian cotton weave mattress thingummies up their own arse, boys and girls.
Also, note to self, Accent Monkey and anyone else who has ever bought furniture in Ireland – when the furniture people in Canada say they’ll deliver your bed between 12 and 5 on Saturday, which is two days after you buy the furniture, they apologise for the delay in delivery, turn up on time on the day and don’t moan about the stairs. Even if you only bought the furniture because it was being practically given away in the discount depot at the back of the shop.
I have learned two things this week.
The Sears Discount Depot in Halifax is the best shop in the world bar none.
One man’s rubbish is an Aquarian’s idea of a good time.
Anyways, so Martin and I started hauling the loot upstairs, only to realise that we had locked ourselves out of the apartment. Martin got quite anxious. But those of you who know me know that I tend to lock myself out of my apartment quite a bit. So it only took a minute to break in because I had already cased the joint because I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to break in. But we got in before the Aquarians got back, more importantly. And then we all sat around and ate pasta and drank Hemp beer in honour of the occasion and agreed where the new furniture should go.
So here I am, fully furnished, backside ensconsced in Himself’s mother’s former suite, legs resting on the new footstool, looking at the fish swirling around the tank which is resting on its mobile stand.
I feel like Del-boy Trotter. Before he hit the jackpot.
Although the apartment is a little nicer than his.
It’s the second floor of a three storey house.
The floors are all wooden, as they always are here in Nova Scotia. I think it’s real wood though, not laminate.
All the walls are a very boring shade of yellow but Himself is going to paint it when he gets a chance. There are many winter projects in this apartment, sanding and painting and staining, which will be good for both of us as we get a bit restless when the long evenings draw in and there’s nothing to do. Canadian television being awful.
The guy is coming on Wednesday to hook up the internet/phone/cable package. I ordered it today. He’s coming AFTER I GET HOME FROM WORK, so I don’t have to take a half day. He’d have come on Saturday, like the Sears guy, but that didn’t suit me.
Of course it’s probably like this at home now. So I should stop gloating. I just have such dreadful memories of ‘getting things done’ in Dublin. It always involved having to take a day off work and then spend an hour on the phone giving directions to someone who grew up in Finglas which was just down the road, or having to listen to some boring Dubliner millionaire carpet layer bang on and on and on about how he had to live in Carlow because it was so expensive living on the Northside now (because all us culchies were buying up property I supposed, I never used to take the bait) and how the wife didn’t really like it because she always had to drive home from the golf club instead of getting a taxi, but he needed to have a few scoops after all the commuting so he wasn’t going to go halves now ya know ...
The front door is up a narrow set of stairs. When you enter the apartment, the room that will be a study/dining room is on your immediate left. The living room and kitchen are both off of this space. The kitchen has tall white cupboards and a “Canadian Auto Workers circa mid-eighties productivity go slow” fashioned stove and fridge. Think Impact members making laptops – that’ll give you some sense of what level of innovation I mean.
The kitchen window looks out onto the street, which is residential and tree-lined. The living room looks out over the garden, which is mostly just grass, through the trees to the lake. The winter view will be nice I think.
Off the right-hand side of the hall, there is a large master bedroom, the bathroom, which is small and needs some work, and the spare room. Of which I am inordinately proud.
Because I know in my heart of hearts that if I had been able to afford to buy a nice apartment with a dining space and a spare room, instead of a rabbit hutch, I would probably never have left Ireland.
That’s the thing about Queenie: I never really wanted much. Just a nice place to live that I could afford, and a meaningful job with some nice people (part of which I had), and not too many traffic jams, so I could get to the countryside at the weekend. And maybe a nice person to share it all with (although I wasn’t allowed to admit that of course because that would have meant I wasn’t ecstatic about my life, which appeared to be verboten in Tigerland, although hopefully that’s not the case anymore)
But for some strange reason that I will NEVER fathom, that was not possible in the land of possibilities.
And now the fuckers have put my (Irish) mortgage up by $200 a month. Just to remind me of how insane it all is.
And Eddie Hobbs says I should put my SSIA money, what I’m counting the days down to getting just to see the number and translate it into Bahts or whatever, Eddie Hobbs (who the hell went postal in RTE and put the Del-Boy of the NGO sector in charge of the common man’s finances, although I suppose it’s better than that Trot they used to have – what was his name?) Eddie Hobbs told my mother that I should put my lovely SSIA money, which is for following my dream, that I should put the money into the gaping, yawning, greedy, panic-inducing chasm in my potential happiness and Sears-O-Pedic king sized comfy sleep at night that is my rabbit hutch of an Irish property investment.
My ass I will. The difference it would make? Fuck all, boys and girls.
Here, if whisked across the sea by the magic interbank transfer device (which I of course know how to operate, having had to explain it to the lady in the bank some months ago, along with the concept of overseas) and translated from strong EUROs into some of their Canadian dollars, I could use it to buy four acres of land by the sea, and still have enough left to go to Cuba for six months.
Or build the off-grid straw bale cottage with the organic toilet that’ll be flushed by the solar panels we’ll find on the kerb some night no doubt on the land, and just go to Cuba for two weeks.
Living the dream, eh?
I guess the trick is to try to live one. Not three or four.
But those of you who are getting yourselves sorted already know that, don’t you.
It’s difficult though, isn’t it? Managing expectations.
Why is it that we spend each of our decades extricating ourselves from the crap into which we got ourselves in the previous one?
By the way, when I was sitting on the doorstep thinking about what I was going to say this evening, the title of this blog was to be ‘Whereupon our hero emerges from the wilderness’.
And it was to be a contemplative piece on the concept of heroes. More particularly, an update on the hero for whom this blog was originally established. I mean one Percy, or Sir Perceval as he’s often known: Knight, Dragonslayer, Poet. Who has disappeared off the face of the earth for quite a while now.
But I got talking about myself. as usual.
Tomorrow.
I promise.
No visitors from anywhere.
No packing to do.
No furniture to find.
Apart from a table and chairs.
But they’ll happen someday.
Of that I have no doubt.
Himself and Tina and Martin, being from a place where possessions are recycled and handed around to those who need them and not thrown away until actually broken, went on Mission “Furnish Queenie’s House” last night, after we spotted a lovely, original 1960s wall unit on our way home, just sitting on the kerb waiting for the bin men.
It being Sunday night. Which is garbage night in the prosperous South end of Halifax.
Yes, I know this is being posted on Tuesday. Home internet access will be resumed on Wednesday, after which time blogposts will be timely again.
As quick as anything the unit, which needs a little bit of work but not much, was in the back of the van, being hauled round the rotary at breakneck speed and up the hill to the apartment, where it was dropped off with Queenie, who had to cook the dinner while the intrepid visitors went off scouring the south end for more finds.
Just as I was draining the pasta to go with the Bolognese sauce I’d slaved over for an hour, the van pulled up – great timing I thought – and was emptied, before speeding off again.
What????
I went downstairs to investigate. Martin was sitting guard over a pile of stuff that included:
A sun lounger
A sun parasol
Two garden chairs
Two beach chairs
Two red fold up chairs, one plastic, one leather
A stereo unit thingummy on wheels which fits underneath the fish tank perfectly and which means I no longer have a problem changing the water, having only to wheel the tank into the kitchen and park it alongside the sink
A brand new pull-along garden hose thingummy, replete with brand new hose
Three sets of shelves
A little wire vegetable rack on wheels, which contained a brand new apron, two oven gloves, two pot stands, a chopping board, and a packet of bag clips (I swear)
An interesting looking beige footstool with claw legs, which is exactly the right height for resting your legs on, upon which my legs are resting while I type
Two tall uplighters, neither of which appear to work unfortunately
A big bright blue plastic thingummy, the use for which Queenie still cannot ascertain, despite having stared at it for a long time
A desk in perfect condition
A wooden six-drawer bureau that will need to be sanded and stained to put in the spare room (along with the futon and the seafaring chest and the mirror) for all the visitors that will be coming to visit hopefully
A Wilson golf bag (minus the strap which is presumably why it was on the kerb)
Why a golf bag?
Martin and I sat and looked at the pile of stuff, not having yet realised that we had locked ourselves out of the apartment, and reckoned it must be an Aquarian thing, this passion for other people’s rubbish.
Himself and Tina both being Aquarians, d’ya see.
Having said that, once I get the uplighters, the golf bag and the big blue thingummy back into the garbage collection on Wednesday night it will have been a good haul.
And when you add that haul to what Himself had already Aquaired for us - a sofa and chair, a rocking chair, a huge chest of drawers for our room, an end table and a futon mattress – as well as what I have purchased – the biggest bed in the world, three seafaring trunks we got for fifty bucks the lot at a yard sale, and the makings of a pretty well-stocked kitchen and linen cupboard, and then add allathat as Gypsy used to say when she was little, to the free tv and microwave I got from Missy and Shazz, and my amazing basket of stuff which Jersey Girl and her BH gave us when they were here, which fuelled my ongoing amazement at the generosity of people - Queenie is back in the possessions game.
Sigh…
And to think I arrived a little over a year ago with two suitcases and a computer bag.
The one thing keeping me sane throughout all of this is the fact that the whole lot cost just over $1,000, of which $600 was for the King Size super deluxe Sears-O-Pedic bed with twin boxspring and soft-top mattress.
FOKO/ Ikea/ European Living/ Habitat can go and stick their over-priced Burmese teak futon with Egyptian cotton weave mattress thingummies up their own arse, boys and girls.
Also, note to self, Accent Monkey and anyone else who has ever bought furniture in Ireland – when the furniture people in Canada say they’ll deliver your bed between 12 and 5 on Saturday, which is two days after you buy the furniture, they apologise for the delay in delivery, turn up on time on the day and don’t moan about the stairs. Even if you only bought the furniture because it was being practically given away in the discount depot at the back of the shop.
I have learned two things this week.
The Sears Discount Depot in Halifax is the best shop in the world bar none.
One man’s rubbish is an Aquarian’s idea of a good time.
Anyways, so Martin and I started hauling the loot upstairs, only to realise that we had locked ourselves out of the apartment. Martin got quite anxious. But those of you who know me know that I tend to lock myself out of my apartment quite a bit. So it only took a minute to break in because I had already cased the joint because I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to break in. But we got in before the Aquarians got back, more importantly. And then we all sat around and ate pasta and drank Hemp beer in honour of the occasion and agreed where the new furniture should go.
So here I am, fully furnished, backside ensconsced in Himself’s mother’s former suite, legs resting on the new footstool, looking at the fish swirling around the tank which is resting on its mobile stand.
I feel like Del-boy Trotter. Before he hit the jackpot.
Although the apartment is a little nicer than his.
It’s the second floor of a three storey house.
The floors are all wooden, as they always are here in Nova Scotia. I think it’s real wood though, not laminate.
All the walls are a very boring shade of yellow but Himself is going to paint it when he gets a chance. There are many winter projects in this apartment, sanding and painting and staining, which will be good for both of us as we get a bit restless when the long evenings draw in and there’s nothing to do. Canadian television being awful.
The guy is coming on Wednesday to hook up the internet/phone/cable package. I ordered it today. He’s coming AFTER I GET HOME FROM WORK, so I don’t have to take a half day. He’d have come on Saturday, like the Sears guy, but that didn’t suit me.
Of course it’s probably like this at home now. So I should stop gloating. I just have such dreadful memories of ‘getting things done’ in Dublin. It always involved having to take a day off work and then spend an hour on the phone giving directions to someone who grew up in Finglas which was just down the road, or having to listen to some boring Dubliner millionaire carpet layer bang on and on and on about how he had to live in Carlow because it was so expensive living on the Northside now (because all us culchies were buying up property I supposed, I never used to take the bait) and how the wife didn’t really like it because she always had to drive home from the golf club instead of getting a taxi, but he needed to have a few scoops after all the commuting so he wasn’t going to go halves now ya know ...
The front door is up a narrow set of stairs. When you enter the apartment, the room that will be a study/dining room is on your immediate left. The living room and kitchen are both off of this space. The kitchen has tall white cupboards and a “Canadian Auto Workers circa mid-eighties productivity go slow” fashioned stove and fridge. Think Impact members making laptops – that’ll give you some sense of what level of innovation I mean.
The kitchen window looks out onto the street, which is residential and tree-lined. The living room looks out over the garden, which is mostly just grass, through the trees to the lake. The winter view will be nice I think.
Off the right-hand side of the hall, there is a large master bedroom, the bathroom, which is small and needs some work, and the spare room. Of which I am inordinately proud.
Because I know in my heart of hearts that if I had been able to afford to buy a nice apartment with a dining space and a spare room, instead of a rabbit hutch, I would probably never have left Ireland.
That’s the thing about Queenie: I never really wanted much. Just a nice place to live that I could afford, and a meaningful job with some nice people (part of which I had), and not too many traffic jams, so I could get to the countryside at the weekend. And maybe a nice person to share it all with (although I wasn’t allowed to admit that of course because that would have meant I wasn’t ecstatic about my life, which appeared to be verboten in Tigerland, although hopefully that’s not the case anymore)
But for some strange reason that I will NEVER fathom, that was not possible in the land of possibilities.
And now the fuckers have put my (Irish) mortgage up by $200 a month. Just to remind me of how insane it all is.
And Eddie Hobbs says I should put my SSIA money, what I’m counting the days down to getting just to see the number and translate it into Bahts or whatever, Eddie Hobbs (who the hell went postal in RTE and put the Del-Boy of the NGO sector in charge of the common man’s finances, although I suppose it’s better than that Trot they used to have – what was his name?) Eddie Hobbs told my mother that I should put my lovely SSIA money, which is for following my dream, that I should put the money into the gaping, yawning, greedy, panic-inducing chasm in my potential happiness and Sears-O-Pedic king sized comfy sleep at night that is my rabbit hutch of an Irish property investment.
My ass I will. The difference it would make? Fuck all, boys and girls.
Here, if whisked across the sea by the magic interbank transfer device (which I of course know how to operate, having had to explain it to the lady in the bank some months ago, along with the concept of overseas) and translated from strong EUROs into some of their Canadian dollars, I could use it to buy four acres of land by the sea, and still have enough left to go to Cuba for six months.
Or build the off-grid straw bale cottage with the organic toilet that’ll be flushed by the solar panels we’ll find on the kerb some night no doubt on the land, and just go to Cuba for two weeks.
Living the dream, eh?
I guess the trick is to try to live one. Not three or four.
But those of you who are getting yourselves sorted already know that, don’t you.
It’s difficult though, isn’t it? Managing expectations.
Why is it that we spend each of our decades extricating ourselves from the crap into which we got ourselves in the previous one?
By the way, when I was sitting on the doorstep thinking about what I was going to say this evening, the title of this blog was to be ‘Whereupon our hero emerges from the wilderness’.
And it was to be a contemplative piece on the concept of heroes. More particularly, an update on the hero for whom this blog was originally established. I mean one Percy, or Sir Perceval as he’s often known: Knight, Dragonslayer, Poet. Who has disappeared off the face of the earth for quite a while now.
But I got talking about myself. as usual.
Tomorrow.
I promise.
Monday, August 28, 2006
It was to have been the second last night in the little yellow house...
This should have been posted on Friday night, but the lack of internet access in my new apartment has meant it is late.
It’s funny how everything always turns out exactly the opposite to what I have planned these days, but it’s generally okay anyways.
This was to be my second last night in the little yellow house on the tree-lined street, beside the Montreal train line, at the edge of the peninsula, beside the sea, close to the university, where the first year in Canada took place.
I was to have two more nights in this gorgeous little house that took me in a year ago and got me through my first Nova Scotian winter.
I had it all planned in my head.
Had it visualised.
Saw myself doing it.
Himself had other ideas of course.
I had gotten rid of him for the weekend. He was gone back to the island with the children, who were wonderful if a little tiring for a girl who’s not used to children.
I was going to chill out Friday night, and by chill out, I mean sit and have a few drinks and blog and worry about the packing in the morning, because I’m going to be a bitch tomorrow, because Lady Moonbeam has announced her imminent arrival in the form of a low, grinding pain in my abdomen. So I was going to slowly drink everything left in the house to dull that ache, and then wake up with a hangover, and three ‘drunken landlady and her friends’ people in the house to deal with, and I was going to finish the packing.
But it was okay, because it was a challenge, and then I was going to go over to the new place, and wait for my super deluxe king-size Sears-O-Pedic bed to arrive, which I got for one third of the price for some strange reason, and then I was going to think about going out for a long time before hitting the shower/ clothes/ make up routine I haven’t engaged in for about four months, and head out with Hotspur, the Goddess of Spin.
For one of our evenings.
Because her man will have gone back to Maine for his university course. And she’ll be feeling a bit lost.
So I had gotten home and dealt with the ‘excited because she was soon to be drunk with her best mates’ landlady I had found sitting in my living room (her friend was over from Ottawa and they were staying here tonight to see could the landlady possibly live here for tax reasons for a year – of course, I thought, it’s the most beautiful house in the world – I do love my landlady, I have a bastard landlord now… but he has an Irish peasant which is probably worse) and I was sitting upstairs listening to my new Keane album and contemplating the packing (in other words the evening) when I got a text from Himself.
It said:
What are you doing
were coming up
tonight tiny martin I
help ya cleen going
on tear tomorrow
night
5.38pm 25/8/06
Even I, with my miraculous powers of understanding Himself’s texts, was baffled by this.
So I called him.
So Himself and Martin and Tina are coming up to move me into the new flat tonight and help me clean both houses tomorrow and then we’re going to Tammy’s sister’s fortieth in Kentville tomorrow night.
Whatever about Tammy’s sister’s fortieth, which I’d rather not go to it being in Kentville which is miles away, I saw the plan for what it was.
My last night in this house was Thursday night.
So the year in Canada will be over in about an hour.
It was a little more than a year of course.
But this is the last night.
I can feel it.
So I packed like a mad one for about an hour.
And now I am sitting on the smallest deck in the world for the last time drinking a raspberry swirl cooler I acquired at some bonfire this summer, and all the last bits of me in this house are packed and ready to go.
Except for the laptop of course.
I have finished the bottle of wine and all that’s left to drink before Himself arrives to find me drunk and maudlin is the leftovers of the bottle of sloe gin I got from the Queen Dad at Christmas.
That should do it.
The new bottle is in the new apartment.
You gotta reward yourself for change.
So I sat on the deck and looked at my trees, each one of which I know so well now, and listened for the last time, and looked at the golden light on the trees, which are thinking about turning now it’s nearly September, and thought about all the times that I sat here and whom I sat with and all the people who never sat here but whom I thought about while I did, whether thinking about them made me sad or happy or both.
Then the jays landed in their various gardens and screeched at each other for about an hour. They’re black and white and they scurry up and down the branches like they can’t fly, occasionally taking off like helicopters to gain a bit of height. I think there are three of them. The one in my garden hops from tree to tree so I suppose he/ she is marking out its territory.
I love to listen to their screeches. And imagine what they’re saying to each other.
How was your day, honey?
Disastrous! Thanks for asking but. I totally fucked up on that final part of the presentation.
Then the squirrels started up and nibbled at each other in a high-pitched tone for a bit. Clarence the tree surgeon came by a couple of weeks ago, when Polly was here, and took down their two favourite trees. So they had to move too.
I felt so bad for them, knowing as I do how traumatic change is.
Now it’s just the crows. Everything else is asleep as it’s almost dark. Except for the crickets are starting up.
They only arrive here in August. Do they sleep for eleven months of the year?
Their relations in the Mediterranean must think they’re crazy, moving to Canada.
Anyways, Himself will be here in less than an hour, with our friends, to move me into my second year in Canada.
How lucky I am to have such wonderful people to move me.
How I wish all the wonderful people in my life could meet each other, under my benevolent eye.
(yes, yes, I know I’m a control freak)
Is that why people get married?
I have always assumed it was so.
I have a sneaking suspicion some people do it for the presents.
But you can always tell those people, can’t you!
When I get married you will all have to bring a sleeping bag.
It’s up to you whether you buy one in the autumn sales.
Oh! There’s the first bat of the evening!
Talk to you soon, boys and girls.
It’s funny how everything always turns out exactly the opposite to what I have planned these days, but it’s generally okay anyways.
This was to be my second last night in the little yellow house on the tree-lined street, beside the Montreal train line, at the edge of the peninsula, beside the sea, close to the university, where the first year in Canada took place.
I was to have two more nights in this gorgeous little house that took me in a year ago and got me through my first Nova Scotian winter.
I had it all planned in my head.
Had it visualised.
Saw myself doing it.
Himself had other ideas of course.
I had gotten rid of him for the weekend. He was gone back to the island with the children, who were wonderful if a little tiring for a girl who’s not used to children.
I was going to chill out Friday night, and by chill out, I mean sit and have a few drinks and blog and worry about the packing in the morning, because I’m going to be a bitch tomorrow, because Lady Moonbeam has announced her imminent arrival in the form of a low, grinding pain in my abdomen. So I was going to slowly drink everything left in the house to dull that ache, and then wake up with a hangover, and three ‘drunken landlady and her friends’ people in the house to deal with, and I was going to finish the packing.
But it was okay, because it was a challenge, and then I was going to go over to the new place, and wait for my super deluxe king-size Sears-O-Pedic bed to arrive, which I got for one third of the price for some strange reason, and then I was going to think about going out for a long time before hitting the shower/ clothes/ make up routine I haven’t engaged in for about four months, and head out with Hotspur, the Goddess of Spin.
For one of our evenings.
Because her man will have gone back to Maine for his university course. And she’ll be feeling a bit lost.
So I had gotten home and dealt with the ‘excited because she was soon to be drunk with her best mates’ landlady I had found sitting in my living room (her friend was over from Ottawa and they were staying here tonight to see could the landlady possibly live here for tax reasons for a year – of course, I thought, it’s the most beautiful house in the world – I do love my landlady, I have a bastard landlord now… but he has an Irish peasant which is probably worse) and I was sitting upstairs listening to my new Keane album and contemplating the packing (in other words the evening) when I got a text from Himself.
It said:
What are you doing
were coming up
tonight tiny martin I
help ya cleen going
on tear tomorrow
night
5.38pm 25/8/06
Even I, with my miraculous powers of understanding Himself’s texts, was baffled by this.
So I called him.
So Himself and Martin and Tina are coming up to move me into the new flat tonight and help me clean both houses tomorrow and then we’re going to Tammy’s sister’s fortieth in Kentville tomorrow night.
Whatever about Tammy’s sister’s fortieth, which I’d rather not go to it being in Kentville which is miles away, I saw the plan for what it was.
My last night in this house was Thursday night.
So the year in Canada will be over in about an hour.
It was a little more than a year of course.
But this is the last night.
I can feel it.
So I packed like a mad one for about an hour.
And now I am sitting on the smallest deck in the world for the last time drinking a raspberry swirl cooler I acquired at some bonfire this summer, and all the last bits of me in this house are packed and ready to go.
Except for the laptop of course.
I have finished the bottle of wine and all that’s left to drink before Himself arrives to find me drunk and maudlin is the leftovers of the bottle of sloe gin I got from the Queen Dad at Christmas.
That should do it.
The new bottle is in the new apartment.
You gotta reward yourself for change.
So I sat on the deck and looked at my trees, each one of which I know so well now, and listened for the last time, and looked at the golden light on the trees, which are thinking about turning now it’s nearly September, and thought about all the times that I sat here and whom I sat with and all the people who never sat here but whom I thought about while I did, whether thinking about them made me sad or happy or both.
Then the jays landed in their various gardens and screeched at each other for about an hour. They’re black and white and they scurry up and down the branches like they can’t fly, occasionally taking off like helicopters to gain a bit of height. I think there are three of them. The one in my garden hops from tree to tree so I suppose he/ she is marking out its territory.
I love to listen to their screeches. And imagine what they’re saying to each other.
How was your day, honey?
Disastrous! Thanks for asking but. I totally fucked up on that final part of the presentation.
Then the squirrels started up and nibbled at each other in a high-pitched tone for a bit. Clarence the tree surgeon came by a couple of weeks ago, when Polly was here, and took down their two favourite trees. So they had to move too.
I felt so bad for them, knowing as I do how traumatic change is.
Now it’s just the crows. Everything else is asleep as it’s almost dark. Except for the crickets are starting up.
They only arrive here in August. Do they sleep for eleven months of the year?
Their relations in the Mediterranean must think they’re crazy, moving to Canada.
Anyways, Himself will be here in less than an hour, with our friends, to move me into my second year in Canada.
How lucky I am to have such wonderful people to move me.
How I wish all the wonderful people in my life could meet each other, under my benevolent eye.
(yes, yes, I know I’m a control freak)
Is that why people get married?
I have always assumed it was so.
I have a sneaking suspicion some people do it for the presents.
But you can always tell those people, can’t you!
When I get married you will all have to bring a sleeping bag.
It’s up to you whether you buy one in the autumn sales.
Oh! There’s the first bat of the evening!
Talk to you soon, boys and girls.
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