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

... is look to my links.

What do you do?

Are you even there anymore?

What are we all doing on multiple platforms?

Intuitively, I feel it is the best way.

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

Is that what all of this is about.

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

Communism was a simple idea.

And so was Fascism.

And so is Christianity.

Intelligent Design has two words.

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

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

Must remember my lowly position in Canadian society.

After all that.

It's not about focus groups boys and girls.

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

That's what I miss most about home.

Conversation.

At least I have found it here now.

Canada Post ate my passport

So Canada Post has mislaid my passport.

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

The joys of technology.

It left Canada on 18th August.

Since then, nothing.

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

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

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

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

They pointed out that I have to call.

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

Can I spend the night with...?

No you can't.

Multiply that by one hundred.

That was last night.

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

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

There are two problems with this.

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

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

Plus all the usual swarmings etc.

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

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

By eighty eight times.

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

They are all losers, apparently.

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

Karma.

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

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

I'm sure they'll be lovely.

Himself is despondent. Not without cause.

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

Every night.

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

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

It's actually quite annoying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I possibly may need a new keyboard.

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

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

Well, good news for some anyways.

Bible talk time

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

You know the Bible 92%!

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

Ultimate Bible Quiz
Create MySpace Quizzes

Sorry but

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

Why are sleeplessness and marriage so terrifying?

So I didn't sleep much last night.

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

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

Then I read The Blair Years until my eyes hurt.

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

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

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

WTF indeed.

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

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

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

A world that includes grizzly bears and drowning.

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

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

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

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

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

To which I had no answer.

Some of them, I do.

And saying I do would be one of them.

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

Not that everyone doesn't I suppose.

But that's kinda scary isn't it.

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

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

Hopefully, this will be the same.

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

What happens when you run out of steam?

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

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

What happens when you run out of steam?

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

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

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

It was hoppin'.

For a Monday.

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

What happens when you run out of steam?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The smell was getting worse.

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

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

Then she looked at me.

I shrugged.

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

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

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

It was only a cab ride.

I've done worse things on a Monday.

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

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

We passed the church on North St.

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

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

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

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

Is that what happens when you run out of steam?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On a good day anyway.

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

All the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Honestly.

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

And the next day that life was over.

And I never missed that life.

Not for a minute.

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

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

And sometimes I miss that life.

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

And so do I.

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

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

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

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

It's not that I ran out of steam.

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

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

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

Yes. Definitely.

Are you wishing it was already kindled?

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

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

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

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

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

We might see a coyote on his nightly run.

We could even hear a shark take a seal.

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

And it's very bronchial.

In a Dennis Hopper kind of way.

Vikings apologise.... finally

From the Guardian:

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

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

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

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

Glad to see they've seen sense at last.

Wonder whether they will change the museum exhibit now?

Shelbird Lake - the Inside Passage of Nova Scotia

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

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

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

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

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

And I also bought Michael Ondjaate's Desiridata.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that I tackled Raban.

Coasting first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HOW ABOUT WE SPEND THE WEEKEND TOGETHER, DUDE?

Enter Syd.

I work with Syd.

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

Syd had a camp.

Way back in the woods.

Would we like to stay there sometime.

Would we what!

I went home and told Himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poor Albert is scratched to death.

Then we hiked in another mile.

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

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

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

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

After about four minutes one started calling me back.

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

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

Himself was on the other rock fishing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Busy day.

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

Same stars.

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

I didn't know who I felt worse for.

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

Pictures under the heading.

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

And I just finished Pamuk's Snow.

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

He definitely deserved his Nobel Prize.

More about that anon. Hands are tired now.

Washer toss - the sport of Queens. And Monkeys.

Well, it's been a very full four weeks.


Firstly, Mr. and Mrs. Monkey were here. That involved a lot of shopping for food and wine and obscure Canadian beers; preparation and consumption of aforementioned food, wine and obscure Canadian beers, followed by work, repeat as necessary.

Gone are the days when the Monkeys and I would tear the town apart, put it back together and paint it red in search of a good time. We have settled nicely into painting the back garden a nice orange firelight glow.

Seen through the nice wine glass.

But it was great to see them. It's great to see them particularly, but it's also great to spend time with people who know you since forever and just get you, so you don't have to work out whether their facial expressions mean you have overstepped some invisible Canadian social boundary.

Which are legion.

If you overstep the boundary with people who know you forever, they just tell you to fuck off. In a nice way of course.


And of course it was even better because Mrs. Monkey and I proved yet again the superiority of the female species by whupping male ass in the washer toss stakes.

Washer toss is the best game.





The two boxes you see in the picture above are placed approximately twenty feet apart. Two teams of two people each play, a member of each team behind each box. You take turns to throw washers into the box. Within a stick's length of the box is one point; in the box is two points; in the white tube (which is inside the box) is three points. First team to twenty one wins.


Easy peasy.


Even if you've had a few beers. It's all about the heft of the washer in your hand as you let it fly in the air.


My weren't Himself and Mr. Monkey flailing around in a sea of missed opportunity and overshot throwing attempts.


Ha!


We had to give up after a while, such was the sulking that was going on. And when we let them win a game - the overbearing sense of superiority (quickly diminished by a swift kicking in the following two games) was pretty unpalatable.


I fear, although our menfolk are excellent in the areas of providing, caring, loving and doing their share of the housework, they show their true colours in the area of washer toss.


We didn't let it spoil our evenings though.


Me and Mrs. Monkey didn't, I mean.


The Queen Parents are coming for a two week stay on Saturday; I wonder how the Queen Dad will take his beating at washer toss.

The things you do for your friends' kids' college fund...

So I had heard that medical tourism was the up and coming thing and then my mate Caelen started his own company in the sector.

So it must be true.

Caelen has had a successful surf of the internet for a number of years now, and like all success, it is borne out of hard work.

So he asked for a mention, as it will help with his internet ratings.

The more money Caelen has, the more money Denali and Meeda have in their college fund, so I am happy to oblige.

My only question is: why are there no Venezuelan breast implant clinics on the site? They are recognised to be the best in the world and thousands of Americans (continental rather than stateside) travel there to have their boobs done every year.

A trip to the beach in Venezuela is a very interesting experience, if you are interested in implants of any kind.

And a trip to Reva Health Network is also a very interesting experience - check it out for all your cosmetic and other medical needs. If you don't live in Canada where we have FREE HEALTH CARE FOR EVERYONE.

Thanks to the NDP.

Memories are funny things, but not as funny as self-help books

The Monkeys are here of course. By that I mean accentmonkey and her husband, Mr. Monkey. So there's been a lot of sitting around in the sunshine (after work for me) having a beer and shooting the breeze about everyone and everything going on in Ireland.

Nostalgia rules.

And then out of the blue yesterday, a friend of mine from college turns up on Facebook. We figured it out last night; I hadn't seen her for over six years.

She hasn't changed ONE LITTLE BIT.

She has a converted ambulance called Bessie that she camps in.

Of course she does. I expect nothing less than a converted ambulance.

Except maybe a converted fire truck.

I'm sure that's on the To Do List.

Tor always had the best To Do lists.

I wonder whether Albert the Stationwagon and Bessie the Converted Ambulance would get on?

Probably, their owners always did.

Anyways, it brought back a lot of memories of an apartment we shared on the North Circular Rd in Dublin way back in 1989/ 90.

The other hippie chick in my life, little sister, sent me a book for my birthday. A self-help book. I don't usually read them, but as it was a gift I did. It's called The Monk who sold his Ferrari, by Robin Sharma.

I am now very conflicted about said book.

There were a lot of very inspiring quotes in the book. None of which were written by Mr. Sharma, of course. The bits he wrote were very badly written. The premise of the book is that

1. We are all walking around with an illusion of the world created by the fact that we had to conform to our parents (and thereby other people) in order to feel loved.

2. That blindness prevents us from accessing our true selves, and consequently we all hurt and do nasty things to each other.

3. When we strip away the illusion and see the world as it really is, and re-invent our innocent pure selves, the Universe will reward us with abundance.

4. This takes a lot of effort: meditation, yoga, reading, journalling, massage, diet, walks in the countryside will all help to keep us healthy and work through the anger. Going to seminars is helpful too. (I assume Mr. Sharma does seminars).

5. Most people can't do this, but those who can live 'the biggest life possible'.

Mr. Sharma was a little sketchy on the details of the biggest life possible, but it involved appreciating nature and the people in your life. And service to mankind.

My problems with these books is that the people who are the main characters are always highly successful businessmen who have a crisis of health which leads to a crisis of conscience, and then realise (with the help of a shaven-headed guru who drives a Ferrari that they don't own) that if they are nicer people, they will get to keep their money and have a shiny soul as well.

I would like to read a book about a woman who works in a call centre in Windsor, for example, who goes home each evening to three kids, a useless husband and a mother with Alzheimer's, who gets totally fed up and leaves. When she opens her heart to the universe, she ends up being the next Martha Stewart (in income terms) and finds peace sailing the world in a flashy yacht that she doesn't own.

But it never works like that in those books.

I should write the anti-self-help book.

It would help me work through the anger.

Anyways, I opened my heart to the universe last night and the universe responded by dumping two inches of rain on my yard this morning, and made me get up at 5.30am to drive Himself to work so I could have Albert for the day.

I didn't even get to admire the sunrise, as it was too foggy.

Container ship with George's Island and tall ship in the background, Halifax Harbour

It's all about perspective, isn't it.

Having read some Campbell diary extracts...

... I have a whole new respect for my Taoiseach.

Poison 'em all, indeed.

Hahahahahaahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!

I'd love to have seen Wally Kirwan's face when he said that.

I am really looking forward to reading this book when it wends it way over here.

Teenagers.... sigh...at least I've stopped throwing up

I appear to have stopped throwing up. Our neighbour came in today and said the throwing up was probably due to the passing on of a nasty little virus from his kids.

Bloody kids.

Not those ones particularly. They're lovely kids.

Just kids in general.

Kitty called looking for money today to go on a shopping trip to St. John, and when we wouldn't give her enough (ie more than $150 which we scraped together at a day's notice) she swore at her father. Then she called back and when I took a strip off her for being an ungrateful little hussy, she swore at me.

So we reduced the amount we are giving her by fifty dollars. To teach her a lesson about ingratitudinal swearing.

Then her mother called to say that we were a pair of selfish layabouts and so she was going to go after alimony (from me, apparently, I don't ever remember having a lesbian marriage with a psychopath, but I've done stranger things when I'm drunk so maybe) and swore at Himself a lot about how we were living high on the hog (whatever way you say that when you're a psychotic Quebecoise), and how that was all going to end soon.

I told Himself I had that possibility checked out by the greatest legal minds in Nova Scotia as soon as I realised he was divorcing a psychopath and it was okay, my millions are safe from her.

Pennies can be millions too, boys and girls, it's all about perspective.

So now we are both sitting here relieved we have stopped throwing up finally (no small measure for Himself who had to not throw up into his oxygen mask at work all day) but kinda sad that there's all this swearing going on about money.

Honey catches flies better than vinegar.

I very much hope that Kitty will learn that one of the days, when she's a little more mature. Of course, I'm one to talk - I wrote a lofty, patronising message on her Facebook wall for all her relations and friends to see, and deleted her as a friend so she can't swear at me online - so I don't think maturity is the issue.

It's all about perspective. My parents went short to give me things and so when Kitty was here, I did the same and we went short to give her things, and because her mother would never dream of doing that, the fact that she had clothes and shoes and bags and books and money in her pocket when she got home meant that I must be rich.

Anyways, we have transferred the child benefit back to her mother's name, as Kitty seems to have settled down a bit too well at home, so hopefully the federal machinary will creak into action at some point and she will calm down and stop forcing her daughter to extort money out of me.

What hurt the most was Kitty telling me that she didn't have to take any (of my) crap from someone that wasn't even in her family.

I suppose that's why she forgot my birthday last week.

It doesn't hurt because it's hurtful - well, forgetting my birthday was actually kinda hurtful. That's the downside of Facebook - if you forget you just don't care, do you!! But she's just a teenager, and her hormones are in control.

It hurts because it reminds me of all the hurtful things I said to my mother when I was sixteen.

At least I get to apologise nowadays though. Two weeks of it in August, as the Queen Parents make their second royal visit to Nova Scotia.

Hooray!

A year in review

I should do this now, because I will be busy later.

But I don't really want to do it.

Himself will be up in a bit, though, and then it will be all go, all of the time until tomorrow.

2006 - 07 - What have I achieved?

I can't even remember most of it, what happened? Let's see...

I moved house and found this place, which is great and which we love.

I sold some of my photo cards, that was pretty cool. Making money from something creative is very cool. I will do more of that next year.

I went to Ireland. That was pretty cool too. I will do that again soon of course.

I parented someone for a number of months. That was not cool. That was difficult. My mothering style is a sarcastic version of my mother's. Which would have probably worked if I was mothering me, but I was dealing with a whole different kettle of fish.

I also learned that there is nothing wrong with saying that X, Y or Z is a pointless piece of marketing-driven shit and that the child involved should walk away from it now. Right now. The ensuing absence of said piece of marketing-driven shit is a learning experience for them, not a privation. Parents need to re-assert themselves against the forces of advertising. Starting by ignoring it themselves a bit.

I read a lot of books. Much more manageable, books. Pop em on a shelf until you need 'em and then pop 'em back when you're finished with them.

I sold books for the first time so we could buy dinner, and a hole did not appear in my universe.

I managed not to blow my SSIA money on anything. (Did anyone else notice that piece in the IT about how everyone paid off their credit cards with their SSIA money, cutting debt by EU6 billion or something in one month - scary!!)

Yet.

I bought Albert the Stationwagon, and sold my car in Ireland.

I continued to pay some of my mortgage in Ireland as well as my rent here, on a pitiful salary. I have got to sort this out. This year's challenge.

I moved in with someone and it worked despite the slam dunk of a teenager right from the start, and we still get on. That's pretty cool.

I completed my immigration process and am now waiting for a decision.

I bought a new camera and took lots of nice photos.

I learned how to bind books.

I learned how to use a barbeque.

I planted a vegetable garden.

I lost my beloved fish and got the phish.

I learned whatever effing lesson about money Saturn is trying to teach me and am now anxiously waiting for 2nd September when he goes away for a bit.

I managed to keep this blog going.

I bought a bed.

I furnished an apartment for less then $1,000.

I guess I did okay.

I wonder what next year will bring?

It's not how old you are, it's how you are old

So my Google interface told me today anyway.


How apt, it being my birthday weekend.

I have a love hate relationship with my birthday.

I hate my birthday. But it is my birthday. So I get all sniffy if people don't mark it. But I get all sniffy if people do mark it because I find it embarrassing to be the centre of attention.

I am a pain in the ass about it, basically. Needy-needy in all the bad ways about it.

Who cares, it's MY birthday.

Speaking of, I am having a barbeque this afternoon to mark my birthday by feeding other people (that I can handle, being a Cancerian), and two guests have already emailed me this week to say, hewm...naaahhh... don't know if I can be arsed, maybe I'll come, type out all the instructions again for me in case I'm REALLY bored and decide to turn up.

The fuck I will.

Listen, petaleen (as Nabla says when she's mad with me), if you don't care about me enough to pretend that you are very busy doing some dreadful domestic chore, so you are terribly sad that you're maybe going to miss my birthday, then you have no business coming to my home to eat my food if there's nothing better on offer.

I am completely astounded at the rudeness of it.

Not the not turning up part, I've been doing that myself for decades.

The openly, cheerfully, candidly admitting they can't be arsed part.

What, do they think I am stupid? Do they think I have no feelings?

Of course they are younger than me, so that's probably why they think it's okay.

Us oldarses know better....

Thirty seven.

God how boring that sounds.

Some Potery for Ur Edification

I just took a notion to read this today. It reminds me of a lot of things... reasons why I came to Canada mostly...

The Fisherman
By WB Yeats

ALTHOUGH I can see him still.
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.

All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.

Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, 'Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.

It's not raining in Nova Scotia

Happy Canada Day, from the Bear Falls' frog