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

Camping Gear List

For Accent Monkey - hope they can fit it all on the plane!!!
(I jest, we will provide all except sleeping bags)

Accommodation Gear

Tent x 2
Sleeping bags x 2
Air mattress and blanket
Comforter and blanket
Pillows (Lorraine’s camping pillow)
Night lamp
Head Torches x 2
Tent lights
Wind up radio
Hammock and rope
4 x camping chairs

Cooking Gear

Stove and propane tank
Burner and propane tank
Kettle and coffee pot
BBQ tool bag

Cooking bag – frying pan, saucepans, 5 x plates, 5 x glasses, 5 x cups, 5 x cutlery, chopping board, sharp knife, corkscrew, can opener, wine cork,

Condiments cooler - salt, pepper, olive oil, BBQ sauce, tomato sauce, pickle, mayonnaise, mustard, margarine, jam/ honey, soy sauce, hot sauce

Wash up bowl - w-up liquid, kitchen towel, recycle, garbage bags

Washing bucket - soap, shampoo, shaving foam and razor, toothpaste and brushes

Food Cooler – burgers, hot dogs, sausages, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, bread, apples, oranges, grapes, cheese slices, ham slices, burger buns, hot dog buns, tomatoes, lettuce, onions, tinned beans, tinned soup, tinned fruit, box of rice, box of cereal, coffee, teabags, sugar, granola bars, peanuts, chips, hummus/ dips and pita wraps

Drinks Cooler– 4L water bag, beer, wine, pop, milk, juice packs (lots of)

Miscellaneous Gear

Swimsuits, life-jackets, towels
Basketball/ rings game/ pack of cards
Sweaters and long pants for evening
Off/ anti-mossie spray, Sunscreen
Hiking boots/ socks, Wind-breaker
Backpacks, Water bottles, thermos’

First Aid pack

band-aids, topical cream, needle (for splinters), ibuprofen, motilium, gauze, bandages, anti-histamine, cotton buds, cotton pads, sterile spray, insect relief, tweezers, scissors, electrolytes, sunburn cream, Optrex

Garden's all planted as well

My, don't you get a lot done when there's no teenager in the house needing to be fed and clothed and entertained and nagged and lectured. The day Kitty left for a trip down home Himself and I wandered aimlessly around the apartment for hours.

Couldn't figure out why.

Turned out nothing needed to be put away, no laundry needed to be done, no meals needed to be prepared, no shopping needed to be undertaken, no life lessons needed to be taught.

Nothing.

It took me one day to find stuff to do. There being a bit of a backlog.

Saturday was a bit of a washout what with it pouring rain all friggin' day. But at least we had the house warming/ shivering. As a result of the rain, however, most of the people left the housewarming early and it was up to us to keep the host company while he got drunk and turned his shed stereo up to eleven to welcome himself to the neighbourhood. Then we walked home. Down the dark bendy road (you'd swear we lived in the country, but we live in Armdale, which is very shady and treelined) past the house where the Red Chair Man lives.

Four tipsy adults and the urban myth of the Red Chair Man = silly time had by all.

Red Chair Man sits in a red chair in his yard all day smoking cigarettes and drinking tea. The chair is placed in the centre of his driveway which is a little odd. However, what is worrysome is the bag hanging from the tree on his lawn. The bag is an oblong, grey sac, that bulges.

It could be an alien breeding pod.

It could contain the skulls of his victims (Canada is currently living through the horrific trial of Willie Pickton, accused serial killer of down and out women in Vancouver, so the mind jumps to these conclusions currently).

It could be full of rotten fruit.

It could be his dirty laundry.

Whatever it is, what is it doing in the tree?

Lyse announced herself petrified of Red Chair Man and the contents of his bag. Lyse doesn't drink, I'd like to point out by the way.

Himself and Craig decided to open the bag and see for themselves.

It being one am and Saturday to boot.

Himself and Craig like to drink of course.

Off they 'tiptoed' across RCM's lawn. They neglected to notice that RCM was standing in his front room looking at them, so when he turned on his outside light to get a closer look at the intruders, they fell over themselves in shock and lay rabbit-in-headlights for a bit, trying to decide whether they'd make it to the bag before he murdered.

That's what they told me anyway. After they ran down the hill and round the corner.

Lyse and I were bent into each other laughing under the trees on the other side of the road.

Next day, I had to walk up the hill BY MYSELF to collect the car. Red Chair Man was sitting in the red chair in his driveway, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of tea. Rather than the scary looking older man I was imagining, he's about Himself's age, with nothing going on apart from a mullet. A slightly seedy looking blonde was sunbathing on the lawn UNDER THE OBLONG BAG.

They both looked at me as I scurried by.

I don't know what to think.

They looked normal enough.

It's the three word name that gives it away of course. Red. Chair. Man.

Anyways, when I got to Lyse's house, she had a load of seeds for me, so instead of having to go to the garden centre we got straight to it, planted our garden finally and hopefully, the horse manure I put in a month ago will do the trick.

We have:

Lettuce
Peas
Beans
Radishes
Tomatoes
Chives
Parsnips
Beets
Squash, summer and winter
Sage
Oregano
Thyme
Basil
Echinecea
Dill

and Sunflowers and Nasturtiums.

Just gotta get some carrots and some garlic and we're set.

Pat the phish, the neon paparazzi, Pee and Dee

In all the chaos that is my life these days I forgot to tell you all that I finally replaced Alexa and Peter, my goldfish, who slipped away one after t'other a few months back, leaving me bereft of animal company.

Well, replaced is a strong word. They are irreplaceable.

I finally got my act together one day and bought some fish.

A scarlet ghourami, two hatchet fish, and four neon tetras.

Put them in the tank. Watched them for a bit.

No personality emerged, so I ignored them, apart from feeding them the required amounts.

Very boring. No names jumped out at me or anything.

In fact, they just made me miss Alexa and Peter more. (I know, it's sad, but they had personality and liked music and all kinds of things. Plus I didn't know many people then).

Anyways, after a couple of weeks I was bored one night, so I watched them for a bit.

I don't like the ghourami. He's a big reddish fish with a pot belly and long whiskers dangling down either side of his pout. He swims around the bowl like he owns it. In fact, he reminds me of Pat Rabbitte a bit in his gait. (Except I like Pat).

And he was bullying the tetras. The four of them were huddled together in a corner of the bowl quivering as he sailed around imperiously.

I decided to call them the meeja.

So anyways, time passed and suddenly we were at the housewarming for our neighbours who just bought a house up the road. Which took place last Saturday in the pouring rain, so it wasn't really a warming, more a shivering under the gazebo on the patio avoiding the clumps of water falling from the sky.

Or an Irish Barbeque, as we call it at home.

Happily though, I ended up sitting beside a molecular biologist from Carolina called Amy, who had dressed for the Carolinas in June, not the Maritimes in June, but who was nonetheless interested in my fish dilemma. 'Buy another ghourami', she advised me, 'one about the same size'.

I considered that for a moment, and was trying to think of how I'd explain about how there was only one Pat Rabbitte the phish really and that wouldn't work because he'd take lumps out of another similar fish, when she sensed my hesitation and said I could buy a rake more tetras, so they'd have safety in numbers.

So now the meeja have turned into the paparazzi, and Pat Rabbitte the phish is the one skulking in the undergrowth.

Serves him right for scaring them.

I have two hatchet fish as well. I decided to call them Pee and Dee, because there's only two of them, he he, he. (People from Canada will not get this, Irish political Humour, d'ya see).

So there you go, the menagerie is complete again.

Oooh, I do love to go camping

Himself is cooking supper and singing 'We're goin' campin' this weekend, we're goin' to have sooo much fun!' while he works. Himself is happy, because he is making hamburgers and because we are going camping this weekend.

This weekend is Canada Day weekend. Start of the camping season. Hoorah!! We found an amicable compromise this weekend. While we both like wilderness camping, Himself wants to fish this weekend and that involves a lot of black fly this time of year if you are in the wrong sort of spot. And Queenie will have Lady Moonbeam visiting (there ain't nuthun in this world worse than eco-friendly wilderness camping with Lady Moonbeam and a swarm of black fly in tow). So I kinda put the foot down this year, having done back country camping last year in similar circumstances.

Himself was bitterly disappointed when I did, as was I really, as the provincial park campsites here are expensive and liquor free and most of the private sites are full of ATV wankers. There was a bit of a grump going on last night, about how Himself never gets to do what he wants. But happily a bit of interweb research this morning found the Bear Falls Wilderness eco-camping site, run by Eli Shannon. So I called Eli and he had a site or two left and booked us into one right on the river where there are some nice trout for Himself and handy access to an outhouse for Queenie.

And then I showed it to Himself who deemed it suitable, so we're set. In fact, Himself is very excited that it might be good, and then we'll have a handy weekend spot for the summer. Routine is nice, isn't it.

The campsite is just outside the Tobeatic Wilderness in Queens County, which is a wonderful part of the province that we haven't really explored yet. And it beats staying in Kejji, the big park there, which is run by the Official Anti-Fun Police.

So now the preparations begin. Preparations for the first camping trip of the year are intense and take about three evenings. First we have to take the stove apart and clean it and put it back together again (one person one evening swearing, other person half an evening assisting). Then we have to assemble the gear, which involves finding the gear, cleaning and fixing the gear (although I am pretty good about storing things clean), remembering the new gear we got during the year (mental note to self - hammock, new chairs, new burner, new wind up radio, new lamps). That will take another evening (one person), while the other has to go and get the canoe and lifejackets from Leonard.

Finally, we have to get the provisions ready. Food, liquor, kindling, games, clothes, tents, bedding, cooking and eating equipment (two people falling over each other in apartment, one evening).

Eli says not to worry about firewood, there's loads there. That's the kind of campsite owner you like to talk to.

After about the third trip it gets easier. Because it all gets dumped in a corner of the apartment until the next time.

Then there is the obsessive checking of the weather forecast all week. So far the five day forecast is good for Saturday and blank. Tomorrow will reveal more.

Oooh, I do love camping. The neighbours are thinking about coming too.

I wonder if there are any bears in Bear Falls? There have been a lot of black bears spotted this year in Nova Scotia so far.

Ooooh, shiver.

eMusic morning

Himself is still asleep, even though I have bribed him with the four yard sales that are on in the area this morning if he gets up. Himself prefers sleep to almost anything. Which is bad, because he lives with the early morning fairy.

So I amused myself for a while downloading my monthly quota from eMusic. This month I finished downloading the Elliot Smith album, New Moon, then I downloaded some random Malian music, because I do like it to be interspersed with everything else I listen to. Finally, I downloaded Mavis Staples, We'll Never Turn Back which is her performance of all the old civil rights music she sang in the sixties. This time, however, it is produced by Ry Cooder.

Most excellent. You should get the album.

Currently, I am listening to High Times, by Elliot Smith, whom I only discovered after he was dead. Like many other people I suppose.

It's quiet. Kitty has gone home for a while seeing as it is the summer and she is off school. So there is no television blaring or hip hop music blasting from her room.

Anyways, Himself has emerged so it's time to go yard-saling.

Back again at last. I'd say hooray but that would be unCanadian

Oh that's right, I'm not Canadian.

Hooray!!

I see Mary McAleese and the Irish contingent with her were amazed at how self-effacing Canadians are and how they look at their feet rather than accept a compliment.

Well, yes, that's Canader for yer.

Denis Staunton has a long article in the Irish Times today giving out about how Canadians have it all and they can't see it. He lists the enormous resource wealth of the country and medicare as two reasons to celebrate.

Then he mentions the treatment of Aboriginal peoples and the equalisation funding mess as two reasons why they might be depressed. He neglected to mention that the day before yesterday was National Aboriginal Day. He probably didn't realise. Most people here don't.

The reason that Canadians are self-effacing and depressed is because they elected a right wing idealogue as Prime Minister and now they can't get rid of him while he tears the country apart, pits rich provinces against poor and ignores the environmental issues that are starting to be a big problem here. He ripped up the Atlantic Accord (equalisation), the Kelowna Accord (aboriginal rights), and the Kyoto Accord because he can.

That's why they're all so self-effacing. They're bloody ashamed.

Got up early...

... to blog and got suckered into wasting half an hour on Facebook!

DAMN!

But I found Yoichi.

WOW!

Robbie Williams is hiding in my basement

This blog is older than I am.

In blog years anyway.

I wonder will people study blogs in the future, the way they study diaries nowadays when they find them in dusty libraries.

I hope they do. I keep meaning to read more blogs, to see if there are many good ones out there, but I don't want to spend that much time on the computer every day. It wears me out. I am suffering from ICT fatigue I think. I cannot concentrate on computer work for long periods of time anymore. I flick over and back between mails and other programs.

Tis very annoying.

Anyways, I don't want to think about work tomorrow. I want to think about the weekend. Which was great.

We eventually got up today and lay around for a few hours. Man, it was the first time I had done that in sooooo looooong. Just lay around. And then go back to bed for a nap. And then when I got up again the sun was out, so we went down and sat in the yard for a couple of hours and chatted to Sean, who wouldn't come into the garden last night because he had to work the next day, and his friend Neville, who used to be the drummer in a punk rock band.

Sean is a Cape Breton version of Robbie Williams. In fact, I think the real Robbie Williams is not in a rehab centre at all, he's actually given up the fame game and is now living in my house and training to be a hotel junior manager.

So Himself has his guitar jamming buddies now. Which he has been seeking out for some time. And they're going to set up the PA system in the yard and jam in the evenings.

We'll be getting ducks next.

Himself used to have ducks in his pond on the island and when he and his buddy would play guitar in the evening by the pond, the ducks used to line up and sway to the music. And sometimes they would waddle over and gently pluck the guitar strings with their bills.

We'll have to get punk ducks.

That's what they can call the band: The Ducks. A seventies-retro-post-punk three piece with Robbie Williams on vocals.

And so at last, the summer begins to widen out before us.....

Barbeque leftovers

Just Himself and Queenie and a few bits of chicken. That's all that's left of the barbeque.

The sun came out and blazed down just in time yesterday for us to set out the barbeque and all the food and plates and cutlery before people started to arrive. That meant everyone could relax outside and enjoy the heat, go for a swim in the lake and watch the kids get to know each other. The teenagers even deigned to join us for a minute.

Himself and I managed to feed everyone with the minimum of fuss. I do like entertaining with him, he's so laid back about everything and just gets on with the grilling. We only ever argue about his compulsion to cover everything in hickory smoke BBQ sauce - not everyone on the planet likes the taste of hickory smoke BBQ sauce, I explain. He just looks at me like I'm insane when I do. I think he doesn't believe me. I even caught him putting it on the potato wedges!! But he's great - he cleaned up everything and had the dishwasher on before I could stir myself, so there was nothing to do today but pick up the glasses and bottles left out overnight.

After a stint of cooking and chopping, we fed everyone eventually, who happily all got on with each other, and then when it got dark and a little chilly we built a fire in the old cast iron stove in the garden and sat round watching the kids toast marshmallows and Himself rummage around in the woods for more fuel.

All dead wood obviously.

Eventually our neighbours got up to leave, picked up the comforter that the children had fallen asleep on and carried them home without a murmur. I hadn't even realised they were there, they were so soundly asleep.

Superfun night was had by all. There were three left when I went to bed, arguing about whether to wait for the sun to come up or not.

Our garden is really a small piece of heaven... where else would we have a lovely green space surrounded by trees, a lake just beyond for that country feel, nice neighbours to hang out with and our apartment just upstairs when it's time for bed.

I wish I was in this photo! Or, how to age gracefully...

So there wasn't a peep out of anyone from Ireland for a few days and I couldn't figure out what it was until I clicked on accentmonkey's blog this morning and saw the pictures from the wedding.

Ah yes, of course.. Portumna will never be the same, I'm sure.

So I looked through all the pictures. And then I looked through them all again. All those familiar faces. Familiar faces that are gradually changing.

Mixed feelings...

Two years away from all those faces. Yet I still feel very strongly connected. Even though all the experiences are second hand for me now. Still, they are part of every day thanks to the wonders of technology.

Christ we're all starting to look a teensy bit middle-aged but!

In a perverse way I was glad to see it, as I had spent part of the morning panicking about getting old, it coming up on my thirty seventh birthday (what kind of an effing birthday is thirty seven!! Other than depressing!). Plus we had spent the previous evening in the company of Himself's work colleagues, who are all about twelve years old and MARRIED. Well, actually some of them are already divorced, which is even scarier.

We were celebrating my second anniversary in Canada. Well, what was really going on was that after almost six months of responsible living and parenting and with a night off due to Kitty staying with a friend, Himself announced we were going to go out and get liquored up. So I created a hook to hang the liquor on, not being able to face a night out without a reason anymore.

So I scored six tickets to the Nova Scotia Liquor Corporation Annual Summer Drinks party and off we went. Queenie, Himself, Alex and Tristan, and Eric and Gillian.

The NSLC parties are amazing concepts. Three hours of free samples of everything they sell in their stores. With food and a band. It's like a big wedding. They have three a year - summer, a new wines fling in the spring, and a winter whiskey party.

I went to the whiskey one in my first year here. I remember watching everyone standing around sipping slowly and chatting and thinking that if they had these parties in Ireland, there would be a triage unit set up in the middle of the room.

A very sedate affair.

The Summer Beach party is a whole different kettle of fish.

And I realised finally that I am getting middle-aged.

There was so much skin on view. Oceans and oceans of pale skin, bad fake tan jobs, leathery wizened tan jobs. Mostly with long, bleached, straightened, sprayed fake blond hair.

Alex and Tristan spent the first half an hour running around in pointless alcohol and women free circles, shouting 'girls', 'liquor', 'ohmygod thankyou Queenie', until Himself pointed out that there was liquor to be had. Himself had worked his way up the wine stalls and was introducing himself to the Captain (Captain Morgan's rum - staple drink of Cape Breton) at that point.

I was stupified with shock. As well as the flesh and the hair, there were arses everywhere. Acres of arses. Whole prairie-widths full of them, poured into leggings atop stiletto mules.

I saw Paris Hilton from behind. It was definitely her. A little see through baby doll dress and long legs (mahogany) slipped into little pink slipper mules. A dog under her arm. Long silvery blonde hair. Then she turned round.

Fifty. At least fifty. Life lines etched into her mahogany face like runes on a granite pillar.

Whatthefuck?

All the men looked the same; khakis or shorts with a polo shirt and sandals or flip flops. Standard Canadian summer wear no matter what you're doing. Or what age you are.

All the women looked the same too; leggings or skinny jeans with a little strappy top and wobbly mules. Standard Canadian party wear no matter what age you are.

Except it does of course.

Why does wearing clothes designed for a twenty year old not work when you're an ageing woman and work just fine when you're an ageing male?

Because the frigging women's clothes are so ludicrous in the first place.

Queenie was wearing her jeans and her green long-sleeved top that she's had for seven years and her black zip up biker jacket that she's had for six and her flat pumps. You could see nothing but my face and hands.

Less is more after twenty five, ladies, less is more.

So it struck me how great everyone looked in the photos of the wedding. How all the men and women looked so confident and attractive and comfortable in their skins and how all their smiles were so relaxed and happy. Not a stiletto mule in sight, so no grimaces of pain, see.

There's a lot to be said for an uncertain climate!! And a lifetime of partying in a field.

And then I immediately felt better about getting older. Because all the people I will be getting old with are so cool.

And as Himself said this morning as we peeled our eyes open to survey the events of the night before, we may be getting old but we are the coolest old farts in Halifax according to Alex and Tristan.

Hmmm, he didn't look too cool when he was getting thrown out of Cheers pub at one am this morning.

His crime?

He asked where the bathroom was.

Apparently, if you don't know where the bathroom is then you shouldn't be there in the first place. They are lucky I wasn't with him when it happened. Although, I got thrown out of there once before for refusing to let them put my ID card in a scanning device unless they told me where the data went.

The bouncers of course don't have a clue where the data goes, or why data going somewhere would be a bad idea in a country that pretends to be free, so they barred me for life for having a bad attitude.

Anyways, Himself is barred now as well for wanting to have a pee in the bathroom. The official reason is that he was intoxicated.

Ehm, yes.. we paid six dollars to get in to a place that serves alcohol, and patiently allowed our bags and persons to be searched by a gimp, and then paid over-priced prices for drinks so yes... he was slightly intoxicated.

We weren't off our heads on drugs like everyone else in the place appeared to be but.

Anyways, we headed down to Gingers with Hotspurr to have a drink in a bar that 'spects you to get liquered up'....

... yes dear...

As we were leaving, Tristan and Alex came running out. Well, Tristan was trying to stand up and run at the same time. They were outraged at the treatment Himself had endured, so Himself suggested they all go back in and take on the bouncers. He's such a provocateur sometimes.

They were horrified!!

Young fellas... they had spent the entire evening telling me about this guy and that guy they were going to smash his head in yadda yadda. But a trio of bouncers with scanning devices? Nosireebob.

So Himself pretended to leave in a huff.

We were relieved really. Gingers is so much more enjoyable than a heaving throb of twenty something pheromes. Even if it doesn't have a seventies dinosaur guitar band doing Duran Duran covers in the back bar.

Hungry like the wolf.... time for breakfast... we are supposed to be having a barbeque today, but Mr. Sun has not appeared yet.