Bored with my blog

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

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

I was a bit annoyed about that.

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

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

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

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

c) maybe go to sleep at some point.

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

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

Good night.

Frittering a day away on Facebook

Scrabulous..... English graduate crack.

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

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

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

Typical geeks.

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

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

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

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

Everybody wins.

Why has nobody done this already?

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

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

It's been a while I know

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

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

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

When is this year going to improve?

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

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

We take our comfort where we can get it.

What a friggin' disappointment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A what?

Is this friggin' true?

Is this all we are capable of as a nation?

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

I friggin' give up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seraphim Falls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's right. Himself had never seen it.

I'd forgotten how good it is.

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

Sometimes so does a woman.

Watch this space.

What's going to happen this evening?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid internet pay per view.

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

I read it.

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

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

Then I read Charlie Brooker the other day:

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

I'm glad it's not me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is it that time of the week already?

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

So I woke him up for a chat.

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

It would be like a day without coffee.

Impossible to even imagine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is not work tummy.

It is boarding school tummy.

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

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

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

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

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

Poosams.

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

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

Whom he fucks.

While she's crying outside the paper door.

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

With dreadful consequences, etc.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Normal resourceful behaviour in every way.

Are you all still with me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Oh yes.'

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

Another panic look.

'About twenty minutes?' I suggested helpfully.

She did not compute.

'Fifteen minutes?'

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

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

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

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

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

Old dear rolled her eyes at me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I explained that I had queued for an hour already.

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

I looked outside.

It was a really long queue.

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

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

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

Justin was up for it.

I figured we'd be caught.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I gave Justin the thumbs up.

He gave me one back.

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

I was very proud of him.

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

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

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

She pointed out that I had jumped the queue.

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

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

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

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

For my friend, I said.

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

She hugged her clipboard to herself triumphantly.

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

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

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

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

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

Well, it was worth a try.

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

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

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

Then it was my turn to buy a ticket.

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

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

Yes, that's what I said.

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

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

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

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

I thought she was impressed with my resourcefulness.

I turned around and waved my tickets at her.

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

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

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

'A fucking queue-jumper.'

'But we did queue!'

'I know.'

'For a friggin' hour, Queenie!'

'I know, Justin, I know.'

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

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

And I have four more tickets for shows.

Two of which are for the same cinema.

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

Sigh.

Is it me?

Or is it them?

That's all I want to know.

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

I will.

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

I will.

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

They could have:

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

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

But no.

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

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

I can hear them now.

Effing come from aways.

They have no manners, do they!

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

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

The right to reside in the tree

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

Via Canada Post of course.

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

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

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

Even if it does mean voting for the Greens.

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

Cut the tree down, he suggested.

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

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

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

Sometimes the weekends take longer than you have

Himself and Queenie were both sick today.

Terrible.

Couldn't go to work.

Either of us.

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

Don't know what could have possibly caused it.

Honest.

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

Probably the shrimp.

Not the weekend at all.

Nosirree bob.

Nor the twelve weekends preceeding that catching up on us.

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

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

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

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

Hurray.

Not.

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

We spent the weekend in Londonderry.

Londonderry, Nova Scotia.

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

The things we have to do to pay the rent.

Moral choices

Saturday morning....

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

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

What would you do?

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

But still...

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

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

I must be getting old.

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

... is look to my links.

What do you do?

Are you even there anymore?

What are we all doing on multiple platforms?

Intuitively, I feel it is the best way.

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

Is that what all of this is about.

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

Communism was a simple idea.

And so was Fascism.

And so is Christianity.

Intelligent Design has two words.

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

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

Must remember my lowly position in Canadian society.

After all that.

It's not about focus groups boys and girls.

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

That's what I miss most about home.

Conversation.

At least I have found it here now.

Canada Post ate my passport

So Canada Post has mislaid my passport.

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

The joys of technology.

It left Canada on 18th August.

Since then, nothing.

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

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

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

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

They pointed out that I have to call.

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

Can I spend the night with...?

No you can't.

Multiply that by one hundred.

That was last night.

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

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

There are two problems with this.

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

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

Plus all the usual swarmings etc.

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

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

By eighty eight times.

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

They are all losers, apparently.

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

Karma.

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

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

I'm sure they'll be lovely.

Himself is despondent. Not without cause.

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

Every night.

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

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

It's actually quite annoying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I possibly may need a new keyboard.

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

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

Well, good news for some anyways.

Bible talk time

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

You know the Bible 92%!

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

Ultimate Bible Quiz
Create MySpace Quizzes

Sorry but

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

Why are sleeplessness and marriage so terrifying?

So I didn't sleep much last night.

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

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

Then I read The Blair Years until my eyes hurt.

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

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

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

WTF indeed.

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

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

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

A world that includes grizzly bears and drowning.

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

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

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

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

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

To which I had no answer.

Some of them, I do.

And saying I do would be one of them.

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

Not that everyone doesn't I suppose.

But that's kinda scary isn't it.

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

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

Hopefully, this will be the same.

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

What happens when you run out of steam?

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

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

What happens when you run out of steam?

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

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

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

It was hoppin'.

For a Monday.

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

What happens when you run out of steam?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The smell was getting worse.

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

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

Then she looked at me.

I shrugged.

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

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

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

It was only a cab ride.

I've done worse things on a Monday.

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

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

We passed the church on North St.

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

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

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

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

Is that what happens when you run out of steam?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On a good day anyway.

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

All the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Honestly.

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

And the next day that life was over.

And I never missed that life.

Not for a minute.

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

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

And sometimes I miss that life.

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

And so do I.

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

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

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

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

It's not that I ran out of steam.

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

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

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

Yes. Definitely.

Are you wishing it was already kindled?

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

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

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

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

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

We might see a coyote on his nightly run.

We could even hear a shark take a seal.

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

And it's very bronchial.

In a Dennis Hopper kind of way.

Vikings apologise.... finally

From the Guardian:

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

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

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

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

Glad to see they've seen sense at last.

Wonder whether they will change the museum exhibit now?

Shelbird Lake - the Inside Passage of Nova Scotia

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

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

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

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

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

And I also bought Michael Ondjaate's Desiridata.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that I tackled Raban.

Coasting first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HOW ABOUT WE SPEND THE WEEKEND TOGETHER, DUDE?

Enter Syd.

I work with Syd.

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

Syd had a camp.

Way back in the woods.

Would we like to stay there sometime.

Would we what!

I went home and told Himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poor Albert is scratched to death.

Then we hiked in another mile.

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

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

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

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

After about four minutes one started calling me back.

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

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

Himself was on the other rock fishing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Busy day.

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

Same stars.

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

I didn't know who I felt worse for.

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

Pictures under the heading.

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

And I just finished Pamuk's Snow.

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

He definitely deserved his Nobel Prize.

More about that anon. Hands are tired now.

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.