The Country Diary of a Virus Avoiding Monkey

It is LOCKDOWN in the village!!! 70% of people in the village are over 70 (some have dodgy chests etc), and the remaining 30% are either children or adults of other ages.

Things I didn't expect to say, ever: 

"How are you for onions?"

"I'm 17,542 in the queue and it says 4 hours, so you've got time to check."

"But I only ordered one kilo, so why are there carrots in both drawers?"
"Please don't argue - I must insist - these carrots are yours."

"I have left the curry in the greenhouse."

"The starter is called St Francis. He is well-tempered, fed, and by the back door. 100% hydration."

"I haven't stockpiled as such, but I will confess to emergency basmati"

"I'm doing a stock-check tomorrow."

"Is it OK to drink in the week now?"

"I'll meet you for a virtual campachoochoo at 11"

"No, don't worry about the pouch - it's the turmeric"

"Do say if you need spices or anything. No? I'm sure you're not a hoarder... Oh! 12 packets of nutmeg? 1988?!"

"I'm not sure that a ... well no, I wouldn't call that a clinical trial as such ... well no, it's organisational psychology, not virology..."

"Well I could definitely do you a carrot cake, but didn't you say walnuts make him puff up?"

Possible future village crimes:

• Murder of between 3 and 4 armchair scientists (by their wives)
• Punch-up between the 3 different vulnerable-people-support networks (probably on the village green) as they struggle to be the MOST helpful* and the MOST caring
• Midnight destruction/removal of the trampolines, etc, that lead to rambunctious children in gardens across the village beginning to shriek JUST as all staff conference/video calls begin

Desired future roles as noble member of Volunteer Army (if they approve my application)

• Setting up and running temporary village shop from the village hall (I dream of it), including co-ordinating deliveries, doing stock-take, rationing carrots etc.
• Meals on wheels 2020 ("well there's that chicken with honey from the first Ottolenghi cookbook - yes, that's it, the hazelnut one - or shepherd's pie, but you know, a sort of IRONIC one - or that wonderful Jamie Oliver chicken in milk ... yes yes, like the River Cafe pork, but CHICKEN!!!")
• Walking all the nice dogs 
• Literally doing anything the NHS ask me to do, anything at all.

Also kids, don't forget

Only go out if you REALLY REALLY NEED TO.

Pip pip

NWM

* In a cunning pre-emptive move, we have already offered to help our favourite neighbours so that we can get shopping, phone up, do dog walking etc for people we really like, rather than having to pick up teabags for the woman up the other end of the village whose dog left a massive poo outside our front door WHILE WE WERE LOOKING AT HER OUT OF THE WINDOW

Computer science

I say, what a time it's been. This blog - repository of exquisitely honed observations about SOCIETY and the individuals (inc. dogs) within it, cooking experiments, opinions about work etc - briefly vanished. Malware? Phishing? Who knows. To make it visible again I had to get down and dirty (not at the same time) with Ashkar (GoDaddy) and Adam (Google Platinum Member):

Me: Help, no worky, no worky, help me
Them: Computer thing computer thing
Me: Aaaaaargh
Them: DNS??????
Me: I have heard of this thing of which you speak. I am at the forefront of computer science.
Them: Computer thing computer thing coding?? Computer thing computer thing
Me: No comprende
Them: IP? Pointy Pointy?
Me: YES!! (Thinks: anoint my head, anointy nointy)
Them: DNS, IP, pointy pointy, copy paste....
Me: ...that bit? ...
Them: ...NO by all that is holy DO NOT TOUCH THAT!!!
Me: OK this bit?
Them: Yes yes that bit SLOWLY NOW
Me: Like that
Them: YES congratulations
Me: I wonder what happened
Them: Computer thing computer thing computer thing
Me: Oh yes I see anyway it is working now Thank you Ashkar (GoDaddy) and Adam (Google Platinum Member)

The NET RESULT of this is that I am now back.  Subjects on my mind include batch cooking and 'sheet pan meals' (barf), but before I do a whole post on said subjects let me know if you are interested in knowing about anything else, including:

1. Exploding Christmas Tooth
2. Weeping Because An Essay Was Too Hard
3. Alan The Dog
4. The Vicar Who Said Father Christmas Was Not In The Bible
5. Shenanigans At The Pub
6. Marmalade
7. That Programme on ITV With People Dressed Up As Massive Singing Lizards and Trees
8. Mature Student Latest

Pip pip!

NWM

A Guide To Country Dog Owners And Their Dogs, Part 1

My adoring readers and/or fans will be aware that I am now the adjunct of Cairn terrier called Alan.  Alan is keen on walks and gets a couple a day. This means that I have, for the least year, been exposed to the wide range of dog owners (and dogs) in this particular part of Britain (Cambs/Herts/Essex border).  Here is my guide (Part 1).

"Well, Poppy is a WORKING dog"

Poppy is a spaniel with dead eyes. She constantly looks anxiously up at her owner as owner marches along, eyes peeled for unruly behaviour in other dogs. "Well THAT won't work", she says, snatching the lead out of a fellow walker's hand and tugging at their dog unbidden.  "You need a CHOKE CHAIN. Pull her back sharply every time she walks in front and she will heel within the hour".  Poppy sighs sadly and tries to yawn, but she cannot; her head is encased in harness that holds her mouth closed. "Did you go to puppy training?", she asks, watching Alan eat some badger poo. "Yes". "Who?" I tell her about Miranda, dog handler, actor, writer, ex-bouncer, the love of Alan's life. "I have never heard of her", she says, and marches off with Poppy.  "You're going to live with her if you don't behave", I say to Alan. Alan yawns.

"We've ALWAYS had Labradors"

Fall into 3 broad types (pls. inform me if there is another I have missed): 

1. Yer classic Sloane Ranger of the old school who really HAVE always had Labradors. They have framed, faded photographs of dogs past and present on the piano that have equal weighting as pics of grandchildren (wearing scruffy ski suits), Mummie sailing in 1963, Ollie on his gap year in India and headshots of blonde daughters. "Ben was a wonderful dog", says the usually reticent husband of the dog owner sadly, looking at the headshot of a broad-faced, open-mouthed black lab with the wind in his ears. "So much easier than ... people." 
2. Social climbers in Range Rovers ("I just feel so much SAFER"); park across two spaces in the station car park; wear brand new Barbours; get two Labrador puppies who are never trained and spend most of the day at home alone chewing things (including the Barbour dog bed and pristine Aigle boots) next to the brand new 5-oven Aga. Blame 'the breeder' or 'the trainer' or 'the stupid dog' if anything goes wrong.  
3. Proper country people who just get on with it and whose dogs are very well behaved, sleeping perfectly contentedly on an old blanket, rewarding any attention with slow but very loud tail thumps.

"He's just pleased to see you!"

Owners of absolute fucking lunatic, gigantic, pulling, jumping, out of control dogs (usually golden Retrievers) who, if they hit you at full pelt, would knock you on your arse and/or break your leg. Known for jumping up when covered in mud. "He's just being friendly!", says the owner, as you brush unknowable brown stuff off every part of your body and remember the washing machine is on the blink.

"She's NEVER done that before"
But she has, hasn't she. Your dog is a known terrorist with a particular penchant for the ears of ancient spaniels and old lady terriers and a fondness for yapping endlessly, all day and all night. You can apologise all you like, and you can try and tell us she's never done it before, but The Walkers Of The Big Field talk, and we know the truth.

Coming next week: small dogs, terriers, rehomed dogs, rare breeds, the dog that licks its own wee, and more!

Pip pip!

NWM

I am 50

Word up, homies. The three magic words that say: I may be fifty, but I am still very much 'with it'. In celebration of this most recent of birthdays, I am going to share some of the things that give me pleasure. I am not sure if they say anything about my age, but I will let you (my adoring readers and/or fans) be the judges of that.

Electric blanket
Chill in the air? Autumnal nippy nip snapping at your cheeks? Pop yourself upstairs and put that blanky on half an hour before you go to bed (10pm latest) for ultimate comfort. Fall asleep listing to "You and Yours". Wake up on fire 30 minutes later. Menopause? Blanky turned up to 11? Who can tell.

"GOOD NEWS! Your delivery is on its way!"email re:

• new slippers (with orthopaedic support soles)
• any smock-type garment "that looks great with jeans or leggings" (usually from the Seasalt sale)
• support socks for my insertional achilles tendinopathy*
• multi-pack of jam jar lids
• mouse traps
• special pencils 
• more beans for the beanbag
• this magical garment that makes me look like a potato trying to smuggle itself into a hot water bottle convention

Glasses on strings
It is life-changing (never lose glasses, can read at all times); it is also very ageing, in a particularly Brexit-y "back of The Telegraph Sunday Magazine" way. I do not wear them in public. I have other glasses for 'going up to London', a.k.a. going to work, going to parties that aren't in the village, etc.

Sleeveless puffa jacket
Bought from the garden centre, 25 quid.  Does not do up. Has large pockets.

Both of the these items look good with...

...Any sort of dress/tunic thing with patch pockets on the front
I am by no means alone in this, I realise, but the sweet and everlasting joy of being able to skip about the place with your phone/old tissues/dog poo bag/broken pencil/weird bit of cellophane picked up off floor/Bendick's Bittermint wrapper within easy reach is one that cannot be matched.

Doing the online grocery shopping
Doing it, receiving it, giving the bags back to Errin in the Onion Van, then unpacking it and not remembering having ordered 3 different types of beetroot and some tweezers.

Being out for a walk with the dog and seeing someone you like (and their dog that your dog likes)
I will write another post on the Dogs In Villages scenario (complex socio-political forces at work), but the pleasure I get from seeing a cheerful person who walks at the same speed as you and can talk about (for e.g.) dog biscuits for 40 minutes while your dogs leap about is a rare pleasure. Most of the time you are ducking behind hedges to avoid Jennie, her endless drivel about damsons and her wet spaniel that "doesn't like to play" (i.e. is a canine psychopath).

I am pretty sure I am going to think of more things to add, but in the meantime I am 100% interested in hearing what your versions are of these.  I do realise that commenting in web-logs etc is a bit 2007, but then I am a bit 1969, so who cares?

Pip pip!

NWM





* has anyone got any tips on this? It is fucking agony and I am fed up with it.

I am a mature student

Sometimes a tiny voice calls to me through the void. "Where are you, NWM?". "I am here, my dear", I reply, brushing tears from the tiny face of the tiny person who has called to me through the void. "Do not be afraid".  Yes, loyal readers and fans, there is no need to be afraid: I am here.  Here is what I have been doing in the year since my last post:

1. Having a dog (called Alan)
2. Doing an MSc in Organisational Psychology.

I will address each subject separately.

1. Dog (Alan)

I have wanted a dog for as long as I can remember. Because I am completely freelance and part-time (a.k.a. a virtually unemployed part-time student), Alan (who is a Cairn terrier) moved in last November and I can honestly say that now I understand why people say MY DOG IS MY HEART and DOGS ARE PART OF THE FAMILY and suchlike while crying into their dog's neck (while the dog is thinking, HAVE YOU HAM UNDERNEATH THOSE TEARS?).

He is a merry little soul who likes a lie-in, and I am completely unashamed to tell you that he has an Instagram account and I love him. Because of him I walk 2 hours a day and have someone to lie on my feet when my husband (a French-Canadian veterinary histopathologist) refuses. He has markedly improved our physical and mental health, despite the farts and inability to bring the fucking ball back or stop chewing the logs.  In return for his general merriness, he is allowed to sleep on the sofa (but not the bed), is fed medium-range dog food, and is allowed to run amok in the mud with his village pals, including Shadow (lithe Labrador), Louis (gigantic Retriever) and Fudge (small unruly Jack Russell and escapalogist).  ("SUCH fun to have dogs with fun names!")

The picture you see above is of him watching me writing this post. His nose whiskers are wonky because he got a thistle stuck on the right hand side and we had to cut it out.  

2. MSc in Organisational Psychology

Organisational Psychology is basically about how people behave at work. I told my friend Liz I was thinking of doing it and she said, "why didn't we think of that before?". She was right. It is my Calling, as perceptive readers may have deduced from the title of this web-log, and as loyal readers will have observed from my Previous Work-Related Content. 

I really like it but I am not going to be an academic because from what I can see, being an academic nowadays mainly involves:

• students behaving like customers and saying things like "this is an expensive degree - the quality of the sound recording is a disgrace, I expect more of the content", and "does the title count in the wordcount for my research proposal?"
• not getting paid much and being really busy and tired (etc) while people who are not academics still say things like "yes but in the REAL world and in REAL jobs..." , like writing lectures and giving lectures and having idiots like me go "what does that mean?" and marking exams and doing research and supervising research and trying to get published in journals no-one actually reads, not even your mum, and TRYING to make sense of things like for e.g. WORK is not a real job
• being misquoted on the telly/media etc
• being dissed by Michael fucking Gove

none of  which I would like. Equally, I am not that way inclined which, I have realised, is nothing to do with being clever or not: either you like academic shizzle or you don't, and either you want it to be your life or you don't.  Also, no-one has suggested it and/or said (in hushed tones) "monkeys can do PhDs, you know", while suggesting 'special meetings' with supervisors at a certain college of the University of London.

Anyway, now I am at the beginning of my second year (I am doing it part-time so I can also work in order to pay the fees) so am an expert on everything to do with work and people at work. If you like you can send me your work-related questions and we can see if I come up with better answers than I would have done 10 years ago.  Either way, I will throw in the odd ref. to for e.g. Foucault and Bourdieu and say things like "sorry no I cannot come to your party, I am having my ontology removed", or throw in chit-chat about for e.g. mimetic isomorphism like it is not something that it has just taken me a week to understand, while praying that the dog will eat the book called "Philosophies of Organizational Change" that I keep looking at but have not opened.

Pip pip!

NWM

I offer guidance on Village Social Event Food

After 18 long months, I have finally been permitted to contribute some "nibbles" for a village fundraising event.  "At the back, and if they're warm, put them on top of the radiator"*, instructs the Controller of Village Events (COVE) when we get to the church.  "Made those, did you? How GRAND."

Things involving plates of food are commonplace in our village and because we have Incomer's Fear, we go to almost all of them. The result of all this event-going is that I am now a 100% Top Expert on Village Social Event Food. The even better news is that I am prepared to share my considerable expertise with you, my adoring readers and/or fans, ensuring that anyone about to make their debut as a provider of "Village party nibbles" will seamlessly integrate alongside Jean and her cheese straws. 



I will, first of all, delineate my Village Context. From this, you will be able to extrapolate how relevant my Village Social Event Food will be in your own Village Context.

Village Context

Average age: 69
Average name: Tony, Jean, Bob
Average occupation: Historian, head of OFWAT, Architect to the Queen's Lavatories, thermo-nuclear physicist, biochemist, home visitor
Best description of village so far: "650 alcoholics clinging to a hill"
Chance of:
- seeing someone dressed as an elf being pulled on a trailer anytime in December: 100%
- donkey falling down storm drain having escaped from the Living Nativity: 100%
- spending over £10 on raffle tickets at village event: 100%
- there being a prize in the raffle that is not alcohol OR a 'basket of goodies' featuring old apples and jar of jam: 0%
- winning prize in raffle:  0% (if you are me)
Numbers of things to fundraise for: approx. 10, including church tower, church loo, church kitchen, vicar's gym membership, rehabilitation for donkey (see above)

Village Event Context
Setting: Church 1 (Anglican); Church 2 (United Reform); Village Hall; Open Gardens; Cricket pavilion; playing fields
Drink: Warm white white; red wine (non-specific); Cava (Prosecco = infra dig); Peter's Punch (inexplicable); Hamish's Pimms (90% Pimms, 5% lemonade, 5% gin)

A Beginner's Guide To Suitable Village "Nibbles"

Vol-au-vents: Full size but half-risen, containing Mystery Chicken in Undiluted Chicken Soup

Jenny's Famous Sausages: Cocktail sausages in mustard and honey so sticky that your fingers are glued together for the rest of the evening, thereby making it impossible to get your paws into ...

...Curry Puffs:  overcooked choux filled with sweet chicken curry

Paste on a Disc: Chicken liver pâté applied in a perfect circle on a perfect circle of bread, left out just long enough to crust up at the edges before being garnished with a small slice of green olive, enclosed in cling film and left to sweat for up to (and including) 3 hours (N.B. there is always half a plate of these left at the end and surreptitiously scraped into the vestry bin "so as not to hurt Jean's feelings")

"That looks Interesting, Peter!":  Concoction created by recognised local 'epicure and gourmand' (i.e., man over 70 with a Robert Carrier cookbook) involving aspic, a small fish-shaped mould and something orange

"A moment on the hips!": Joyless rye cracker with a squirt of Primula chive spread, topped with a single defrosted prawn and some curly parsley

"How GRAND": smoked salmon on blini that everyone stuffs down, pushing each other out of the way to get to the biggest one whilst sneering at vulgarity of having something delicious to eat

"Not for me, thanks": anything involving either feta cheese OR cumin

Brown Thing: "Malt loafy-thing that flops down when you hold it with chicken liver paste and a bit of tiny gherkin that fell off when you lifted it."**

Sausage roll. Variations required are as follows. Unfortunately it is almost impossible to tell which is which using your eyes alone, which invariably means the heart-stopping, roller-coaster ride that is Sausage Roll Russian Roulette:

1. Home made: warm, slightly too big, always delicious, crumbs stuck to face that no-one tells you about. Later that evening, you realise that you talked to at least 12 people between sausage roll ingestion and seeing crumb-encrusted face in mirror at home
2. Supermarket Special (Everyday Brand): were half-heated up but not quite enough, and are now cold; strange paste-y texture; often sprinkled with sesame seeds; perfect 1 inch width; favourite of portly gentlemen 
3. Waitrose Poshest Chorizo and Ptarmigan Rolls:  See smoked salmon on blinis, above. Seen to be slightly vulgar and showy-offy, which doesn't stop the sneeriest clambering over each other to stuff them in their gaping maws.

I will be surprised if you tell me that this guide is not useful. I will be even more surprised if you don't have contributions of your own to make (I direct you to the comments section below), and I am interested in hearing them.  

Pip "Touch my cocktail sausage if you dare" Pip

NWM

* Do not do this. Last night, at the opening of the new church loo, a towel keeping some sausage rolls warm on top of a radiator caught fire
** Live review from my 'husband' who, as regular readers will be aware, is a French-Canadian veterinary histopathologist

The Draft Diary of a Country Non-Working Something Or Other

There is much to relate, except I can't, because I live in a village and it is insane and I don't know where to begin (donkeys stuck in storm drains, windmills, sloe gin competitions, a trumpeting minister at the chapel, choir stuck in a snowstorm, owning a nouveau riche Aga). 

In desperation, I have started going through old drafts seeing if, perhaps, there is something I can revive for the sake of you, my adoring readers and/or fans.  Here is (almost the full) list of draft titles. (Sadly, there is no Christian Nudist colony in the village, otherwise I'd be right there - without my apron.)

"Cottaging, Pt 2"
"The Country Diary of A Non-Working Monkey"
"A Good Day, Middle-Aged Stylee"
"When A Monkey Is Tired Of Cauliflower"
"What Is A Millennial?"(i) 
"Kale"
"Lost Weekend"
"Bryan Adams"
"Grey's Anatomy" (ii)
"Seattle"
"Still Not Much Happening"
"I Am In London (And Hastings)"
"I Am In Austin Again"
"Too Many Hotels"
"Hullo!!!" (iii)
"I Am Tied Up"
"I Am Invited To A Christian Nudist Brownie Bake-Off (No Aprons)"
"I Reveal My Celebrity Pals, 2000-2005" (iv)
"I Am In Texas"
"I Will Not Touch Your Lobster"
"I Suffer From Post-Traumatic Prog Rock Syndrome"
"Je Suis Dépaysé"
"I Find A New Use For Boris Johnson"
"I Receive A Radish From A Pathologist"

I'm going to try very hard to revive "The Country Diary of a Non-Working Monkey". With an eye on the future (i.e., we would like to stay here for a long time and I like my neighbours), I will be taking some 'poetic licence'.

Wish me well, dear readers and/or fans.  Wish me well. And if there are any aspects of country life you would like to hear more about, just say the word.

Pip pip!

NWM



(i) Some early promise here: "Please write a short exposition on the meaning of millennial", writes MonkeyMother, frantically puffing on her pipe. "Our friend Jane will keep calling them milleniums (sic)."

(ii) "I have started watching Grey's Anatomy. This is because I am" And there it stops dead.

(iii) "Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring. Who is there? Yes. It is me.  I phoned myself yesterday from my office phone.  "Why is the office calling me?", I asked myself, mobile in one hand and landline receiver in the other.  These are strange days, my friends; days that, as they pass, build and fold into a possible screenplay that no-one would believe, not even a person 'tripping' on LSD c. 1968."

(iv) This is VERY FUNNY in places, but also VERY RUDE in places about some 'living celebrities', which is probably why it's a draft (although it is highly unlikely that anyone would drag me, a monkey, through a court of Law).   Includes accidentally seeing the manstick of Nick Bateman from Big Brother c. 1987,  an encounter with Lisa Riley and a flying harness, home decoration tips from the (genuinely fabulous) Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen and a physics lesson in a Winnebago from none other than Johnny Ball.

We are buying a house in England

"Hold your nerve", I say to my husband, the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist with whom I share my life (and fleas).  "Buying a house is not easy in this country".   I use both of my tiny little monkey hands to lift the 3L bottle of Co-Op London Gin up onto the kitchen table, and get the winch out.  I realise he is only partially aware of what 'Grade 2 Listed' means, and I am not in any hurry to get into any sort of deep chit-chat about the ramifications of living in a house with a thatched roof.   The winch is winched; the bottle tips; the drink is 73% gin.

In Canada (where we have been), buying a house is sort of like it is in Scotland: you say you want to buy it, you sign a thing, you do some surveys and that and then - assuming you haven't got cold-resistant termites or bodies in the converted basement - 5,000 square metres of fine Canadian real estate is yours for the price of a one bedroom flat in Shepherd's Bush.   There isn't any of this 'gazumping' nonsense; agents don't seem to be massive cocks and people tend to do what they say they will.

In the England, it is different. Our offer has been accepted and the house is "Sold STC",  but someone could pop up offering 30p more than us and - in theory - the owners could take the offer and we would be back where we are, i.e. living in nice but leaky rented house with carpets like those you would find in an office just outside Coventry,  surrounded by sinister people who live in bungalows, drive top-of-the-range Audis and shout 'THIS IS A PRIVATE ROAD' after you, the suspension on your 2007 Ford Fusion Zetec audibly snapping as you speed away, bouncing over potholes on the way to the Co-op.

But. But.  I think it will be OK.  The owners (Scottish, very nice, fine taste in gardens and basins) seem excellent, and want to get back to Scotland.   While we wait, we wake up at odd hours in a cold sweat trying mentally to fit our enormous Canadian furniture into a house built by toothless Tudor cordwainers; even if we grease it up good and proper it's going to be a struggle worth buying tickets for, and some things will have to go, or go into storage (e.g. collection of fezzes, furniture built purely to hold your television set, The Complete Ant and Bee, etc).    I have spent 23 minutes looking up "How to cook on an electric Aga", an hour being put on hold by various 'mortgage providers' and 15 minutes talking to a solicitor who tells me there is nothing she likes more than 'dicey permissions'.

I will not go on more.  We will have to see what happens. It is too soon to show interest in the fact that the Parish Council have had to buy a new Dog Poo Bin themselves because Cambridgeshire County Council simply REFUSE to pay for it themselves.  I also have ZERO interest in the fact that pub (6 minutes' walk from our front door) has a Pie Night every Wednesday. Of even less interest are the quality of our cricket teas, and whether we will be featured in the monthly village newsletter, which makes a point of welcoming new people to the village. "Please welcome the new arrivals to Monkey Cottage at 1 Bingbong Lane.  They have just moved back to the UK from Canada. Say hello to NWM, JM and their cat, Steve".


Talking of Steve, this was the picture on his cage at the rehoming centre.  We got him two weeks ago. He is excellent but now gigantic, and chews on our toes in the night.



Pip pip!

NWM

Cottaging

We have put an offer in on a house. The house is in fact a cottage with a thatched roof in a village with a cricket club, the WI, two pubs and a very low threat of flooding.  It is what North Americans think most houses in England are like (if they are not Downton Abbey or Buckingham Castle). 

I realised tonight that if this thing (that we weren't planning) happens, there's a very high chance I may 'take to my blog' again. Why? Because I know that you - my adoring readers and/or fans - will want to know every detail of the WI talk about "Swedish Customs, Cakes and Coffee" that I plan to attend in late November, and I want to tell you every detail about 'Fruits de Mar Panini' on the menu at Pub 2. 

Are you in?  I know I am by Christmas, if all goes according to plan. 

Pip pip!

NWM

English Items (Various)

An update for you, my adoring readers and/or fans (should you still exist).

I Now Live In The Almost-Country
More precisely, a village that is technically in Cambridgeshire, but has a Royston postcode ERGO is not 'real' country (i.e., you don't need wellies and Ocado offer a number of convenient delivery slots).

Good things about the village:

1. I live in a (rented)  Georgian house with 3 bedrooms, a garden full of gigantically fat pigeons and a leaking conservatory (that's big enough, should the village hall burn down, to host the Am Dram Soc's peformance of Pirates of the Penzance, inc audience). The entire house costs the same to rent as a 1 bed flat above a chipshop in Shepherd's Bush (actual fact). It is very pretty and very wonky and after 8 years in Canada,  it is just the ticket. My husband, a Canadian, keeps bashing his head on the doors which, bearing in mind the Georgians weren't THAT stubby, tells you something about his extraordinary manliness.
2. There is a very good butcher that also sells a) 'loave cakes' and b) 'home fashioned fruit pies'
3. There are 2 other shops, notably a corner shop they call "Dips' Shop", a magical emporium that sells a range of items including sausages (of high quality), dustpans (and brushes should you need them), firelighters, 3 types of crumpet, papers, broccoli, discounted Valentine Chocs and party hats.
4. It is a 15 minute walk across a field to train to London that takes an hour, and you can always get a seat.
5. There is a really good GP full of excellent doctors and receptionists and people who are complaining. To these people I say: leave the UK for 8 years. (Try living in Canada, even, which allegedly has a health service of its own.) Then come back, experience the NHS again for 5 minutes and weep hot tears of gratitude. 
6. There is a kebab van in the car park (6-10pm every night inc. Sundays) that has the mystery meat on a pole, but also has meat on a stick.
7. We are not in London. I am from London. Born there, went to school there, lived there most of my life. But I do not want to live there anymore. 

Bad things about the village

We have 3 pubs and they are all shit.

1. Parvenu Hotel Resstrunt Bar. High gloss textured wallpaper, does weddings. Rolls-Royces parked outside. Slacks. Slippery 'Chesterfield style suites', Chef's Snack Platter. No. 
2. Pub of Danger.  It is where you go if you want some crack cocaine. Driving past it you would take one look and shriek "Oh this MUST be in The Sunday Times' 50 Best Pubs Within Commuting Distance of London 2012 Guide!!!". It is all wattle & daub glory and creaking signs. Then you park up and cross the road, feel your way through teenagers with tiny eyes sucking hard on cheap cigarettes, and find that the pub is full of people that would probably kill you and put you in the ham sandwiches given half the chance. "How charming!", you shriek, necking your pint in record time as you leg it out the back through the car park.  
3. Pub of Laminate. Is the pub that you think, well if nothing else we'll go to there, for it is managed by a reputable - nay, celebrated - nearly local brewery,  surely it'll be OK. But it is not. It is over-lit and full of laminated menus and you feel genuinely indignant that you don't qualify for the Pensioners' Weekend Meal Deal.  There are fake fires and people in their late 20s silently eating a Sunday Roast Meal Deal (your choice of chicken, beef, pork or lamb with an alcoholic beverage of your choosing) with their parents. Everyone is on high stools, and no-one is comfortable. 

I am now a headhunter
The irony of this is not lost on me and yet. And yet.   In this job, the idea of work is an abstract. There are headhunters that headhunt headhunters to go and work for other headhunters.  We don't earn commission (no no, we are not THAT kind of headhunter) and I am paid a salary to sit and talk in the abstract about work all day long. It is probably the perfect employment for a Non-working Monkey.

It is fucking ace to be back
So great, in fact, that I have not been able to write it down. I keep wanting to start and then don't know where to, because there's so much.  But I have been inspired to get to it again because ....

....A great person has written a great book

It is Emma Beddington, AKA Belgian Waffle, and her book is really, really good. I read half of it in one day and I am wanting to chomp more of it down.

I told her it was a relief it was good, like when your pal has a baby that doesn't look like a potato with marshmallow eyes so that when you say "oh isn't he/she LOVELY', you actually mean it.  Have a look. (I also found out within the first 10 pages that she lived next door to the man who let me in to the University of York, where I got a Desmond and got up to no glorious good for 3 years).




I find Faceswap 3 years too late and laugh until I can laugh no more

Here I am as a dog, for example:





















I wrote a post about a Barbour when I got back that was a bit odd, so I've got rid of it but there were some very good questions in the comments that I will go back to and try and answer. In the meantime, if you have any items you wish to discuss with me I encourage you to fill the comments box(es) with your topicks.

Pip pip!

NWM

Home

The original version of this post contained a strange transcript of an email I wrote to Simon at work asking for advice about Barbours. I was going to bin the post but the comments were lovley so I have cut the boring bit out and put the end bit in, which will explain the comments. Please and thank you. 

___

I have so much to say on the subject of being back in Blighty after 8 long, long, unremarkable years in Canada that I don't know where to start. If you, my adoring readers and/or fans, have any 'questions' or 'topics', insert them forcefully into the comments box below and I will do my utmost best to answer them.

Pip "Mince Fucking Pies Everywhere and Permanently Drunk - Isn't Life Grand!!" Pip

NWM

Things I Will Miss About Canada, Pt 2: Relationship With The Weather

As they are with distance, the people of Canada are as hard as fucking nails when it comes to the weather.

For e.g., here is a Canadian train dealing with snow:

And here is an English train dealing with snow:

"Snow is nothing but trouble", he moaned.  Precisely.

In case the point is not clear enough, I have taken some time out of my "busy schedule" (pronounced "skedjooll", rhymes with "Medjool") to build a simple chart  that will demonstrate exactly what I mean. In it, I compare reactions to various temperature levels, England* vs. Canada**.

UPDATE: An eagle-eyed reader points out that the scale below should be C not F.   And now we may begin:

In the winter in England, all you would have to do to get out of the house would be put on a coat, scarf and gloves and grumble a bit (maybe scrape a bit of frost off the windscreen), and get on your way. In Canada, you have to get special snow tyres put on and stock up on 100L of de-icer - then every day, you:

1. Check weather the night before
2. Wake up, see if car is still visible under 15ins of snow, realise it is not
3. Drink coffee, get dressed quickly
4. Put on large coat, big boots, insulated gloves, hat, scarf etc
5. Pick up snow shovel, sigh
6. Dig car out of snow
7. Dig drive out of snow
8. Sweat
9. Take off large coat, big boots, gloves, hat, scarf etc
10. Steam
11. Have breakfast, have shower, put on clothes
12. Put on large coat, big boots, insulated gloves, hat, scarf etc
13. Make way to car already under another 4 ins of snow 
14. Turn on car, hope it starts
15. Wait for heating to take temperature inside car from -25 to -10
16. Drive off
17. Hope to fuck the snowplough has been.

I will miss this very much, and am already preparing myself not to shout CALL THIS COLD? TRY SAYING THAT TO A CANADIAN!!! at the first English person who moans about the cold when I get back.   Still, at least I'll only need one coat. 

Pip "a few degrees off thermals!" Pip

NWM


* When I say 'England', I probably mean lily-livered Southerners, of which I am one. As any fule kno, the Scottish and Northerners are as hard as fucking nails and should not be messed with in any circumstances. I cannot speak for the Welsh.
** When I say 'Canada', I mean East Coast Canada, or more specifically Quebec, where I live. As we all know Toronto has semi-tropical climate compared to that of Quebec, and Vancouver's climate is like that of Swansea. I have never been to the prairies, Alberta, the Northern Territories, etc. 

Things I Will Miss About Canada, Part 1: Relationship With Distance

English Person 1: I am going to York on Friday.
English Person 2: Gosh that IS a long way from London!
English Person 1: Approx 200 miles according to this AA Map of Great Britain.  Look, there's Sheffield look, caught in the fold.  (Points at page 52.)
English Person 2: How are you going to get there?
English Person 1: I am definitely not going to drive!! It is just under four hours.
English Person 2: WOWEE that IS a long way isn't it.  I mean where would you store the provisions for a journey that long?
English Person 1: The roofrack. That or stop at the 'services' five times for sausages.
English Person 2: What a conundrum.


Me: Do you want to come for Thanksgiving? It will be a 2-night jaunt.
Friends in Toronto: Sure!
Me: Will you fly?
Friends in Toronto: No no, we'll drive, it won't take long.
Me: Are you bringing the kids?
Friends in Toronto: Sure!
Me: How long's the journey again?
Friends in Toronto: Oh, it's nothing. 6,7 hours. A bit longer if we stop for gas.

List Of Things I Have Learnt While Clearing Out My Desk And Filing Cabinet In Readiness For Transatlantic Move

1. Penhaligon's 'gift fragrance oils' (3 pack) do not improve with age.
2. You can't do much with miniature postcards of Czech saints, even WITH their English names scribbled in pencil across the back. 
3. I am never going to use:
   - the matching crystal envelope opener and magnifying glass in padded blue silken box
   - the packet of Barbapapa stickers
   - the family of finger puppet rabbits
   - a brooch (approx. 6 x 3 cms) of a lopsided monkey in a fez with the face of Coluche
4. Some pens last forever: Bic Crystal, Staedler Permanent Felt Tip.
5. I could, tomorrow morning (stamps permitting), send:
   -  25 birthday cards,
   - 30 blank cards feat. 17th century tulips, etc
   - c. 100 postcards of EITHER art OR kittens and puppies.
6. I have enough loose change to buy an egg and cress sandwich in the early 90s.
7. I have 7 padlocks.
8. According to an unpaid bill from 2005, I owe my therapist 300 quid.
9. I really like a) paperclips; b) tiny clothespegs; c) staples; d) old cheque books.
10. The inside of my head looks like this: 

List Of Things To Do Before Moving

1. Give giant pot to translator
2. Unlock phone I finished paying for in May 2014
3. Give unlocked phone (iPhone 4) to husband
4. Explain to husband how a 'smartphone' works
5. Check exchange rate
6. Cry
7. Find tax accountant and financial advisor, pref. called 'Alan' or 'Bryan'
8. Plan leaving party. Order gin and sausages
9. Empty cupboard x 5
10. Empty chest of drawers x 3
11. Listen to Tutti Frutti by New Order 14 times in a row while folding socks
12. Remember have promised husband and Moving Man Robin that will reduce books by c. 25%
13. Stare at Ulysses, Clarissa and In Parenthesis and remind self again how much loathe them
14. Keep them anyway 
15. Reduce books by 10% but tell husband is 20% and say IS BOOKS glaring and tutting
16. Celebrate 46th birthday and note that a) still as fat as ever; b) next stop 50
17. Look for houses "within 3 miles of" Royston with room for chairlift
18. Go through photos. Throw away pics of places or people I cannot name. Reduce pics by 90%
19. Go through emails/letters, 2000-2006. Throw away ones that remind self of poor taste in men
20. Go through emails/letters that remind self that took self too seriously. Reduce pile by 100%
21. Count cake tins. Reduce from c. 18 to 4
22. Count vegetable peelers. Reduce from c. 5 to 1
23. Sit on floor reading Nancy Mitford on top of emptied contents of filing cabinet & desk
24. Check date of flight (7th November) seven times, but tell everyone is 8th November
25. Eat cookies made for husband straight from freezer while folding pants
26. Pick crumbs out of ladyparts.

The Date Approaches

Yes, adoring readers and/or fans, I will be leaving Montreal forever* on the 8th November. On the 16th November I start what is known in some circles as "a new job" doing something completely new (but related), which I will draw a veil over for the moment (hem hem).  In the meantime, progress is as follows:

We have found a removal company.

Referred by friends with exacting standards and a lot of books, Robin the Removal Man is 71 and follows me around with a clipboard saying things like: 

• That box?

• The cat?
• Wine cellar?  (Answer: NO, I DRANK IT.)
• Are you sure?
• I wouldn’t if I were you.
• Forty cubic metres, probably.

He doesn't eat biscuits when you offer them to him, but he DOES put them in his pocket 'for later' when he goes.

I have learnt how to fold clothes.

I spent c. $13 on a book having read an article about the author, a lady called Marie who likes folding socks.  The book was a bit of a let-down as it contains lot of chat about socks having feelings and thanking your t-shirts but not many pictures.  

She has her own version of "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful" (which we all know because we are not idiots), suggesting that you only keep things that "spark joy". By this definition I'd be surrounded by bottles of Viejos Robles cornershop wine (c. $10), the veterinary pathologist to whom I am married, and back issues of Which? Magazine so I’ve ignored that bit o’ wisdom, but I have paid attention to the following:

Tidy up by category not by room.   For e.g.,  get all your clothes/books/hats/photos/letters etc out at a time, don’t do it by room.  It works.  Incidentally, here is some of my own advice on clothes culling. Get rid of things if:

• you look like a twat in it

• you haven't worn it since you last moved continents in 2006

• it has cat wee on it.

Folding is fun!! No. Really. I am serious. T-shirt video here. Do it. Fold your socks. It makes room in drawers and makes you feel like an adult.

Do not categorize clothes that are a bit shit as 'loungewear' and keep them.  Hers is a more ladylike version of: "girlfriend, self-respect starts with not spending your life in baggy track pants and gigantic stained t-shirts with holes in - get some fucking pyjamas!".   Following this advice has freed up approximately 80% of storage space in my house. True.

Avoid 'storage solutions'.  'Storage solutions' are just expensive boxes for you to put your crap in.  Deal with the crap.

I have rented a flat (for a bit)

You do not need me to tell you that renting in London is a fucking joke. If you do not want to live in a flat full of depressed cockroaches with bloodstained sofas, you have to spend the equivalent of  $5,000 a month and commute for 2 hours.  I have gone all AirBnB and rented a flat in Brook Green for 3 months from a psychotherapist called Stephen until the veterinary pathologist with whom I share my life (and fleas) gets his visa and moves over. Then we'll move to the country and I will do a real commute, and a part of me will die inside, and I will make brave noises about "really switching off!" and "doing tons of reading on the train!". 

That is the update for now. If you have any informations to share I am ready for them. Until then, I remain over-excited and unfocused, as if left alone in a Hula-Hoop factory overnight. 

Pip pip ! 

NWM

Things I Think About When I Think About Moving Back To England

Yes, adoring readers and/or fans, the moment is fast approaching.  Our multiple residences are for sale.  I have resigned and now work part-time, where my days divide up in the following ways:

Also, I have a cold - or is it a dust allergy, stirred up by moving piles of stuff in cupboards that have lain untouched for 7 years?  We may never know. In the meantime, I watch the Canadian dollar become weaker by the second (something to do with OPEC and the sands), the size of the house we can afford to live in shrink to 4 square feet, and the list of urgent matters in need of resolution grow.  For e.g.:

1. Will my friends realise - when they are forced to see me more than once a year - that I am a crashing bore? 
2. Has Canada - The Most Reasonable And Non-judgmental Country In The World - made me boring, or was I boring all along? Will anyone tell me if I am a bore? (This was Nancy Mitford's greatest fear so I am in OK company.)
3. Where can I get some Dutch friends? Dutch people will always tell you the truth. A Dutch friend would tell me if I were boring.   (There is much to commend the Dutch.  A passion for the truth is one thing, along with great height, cycling proficiency, magnificent art, very good taste in lighting and excellent architecture. And also bitterballen.)
4. What am I, an "ambitious lady" with a desire to have A REALLY GOOD POP AT IT and wear businesslike spectacles before becoming an overpaid consultant, or someone who seeks a simpler life involving entire afternoons on the sofa eating Hula-Hoops and watching Escape To The Country, interspersed with the odd bit of freelance for design agencies in the smaller centres of Hertfordshire?  
5. Where does all the dust come from?
6. Are those clothes moths or food moths? Both are fucking arseholes, but there's an outside chance they're neither.
7. Will the cat survive the flight over? What if the heating breaks and the pilot doesn't turn round, as he did for this bulldog the other day? 
8. Is Waitrose really that good? 
9. Is it OK to say you really like Which? magazine? 
10. Is it normal to lie in bed at night and think of marketing strategy for Which? magazine? 
11. Is it OK to want to be  marketing director of Which? magazine? 
12. How will I sort out my gas/heating/telephone/internet/TV/bank/mobile phone? 

It is very complicated. If there is anything else I should be worrying about - or if you have any answers to my questions - I would be grateful for all the words you can cram into the comments boxes with your tiny little fingers.  (Also, I have lost the header on my web-blog which is very vexing, as it featured a beautiful drawing of me at my desk drawn by Mr Dave Shelton. Keep an eye out. If you see it, let me know.)

Pip pip!

NWM

Brush Up Your French with The Daily Mail (Revised 2015)

Regular readers may be aware of my first brush with this book, published in 1931 (4th Edition 1937).  It has been very useful to me in the seven years  since I found it in a 'bazar' run by nuns, and many has been the time that have I been heard telling the greengrocer in almost perfect French that "I have a big order", or telling myself that I am "becoming stoutish". Why, only yesterday I asked my husband if he was "ending his toilet with a good brushing".  

But times change, and with that change comes the need to update the conversations that would be of  use to today's Daily Mail reader.    Therefore, armed with no more than a good look through the comments section of Mail Online* (and a perfectly bilingual husband), I give you: 

Essential Conversation Starters : taken from Brush Up Your French with The Daily Mail (2015 Version)

Anyone who thinks skateboarding in a city centre is acceptable needs psychological assessment.

Quelqu'un qui croit qu'il est acceptable de faire du skateboard dans un centre-ville aurait besoin d'un examen psychiatrique.

I would like a huge refund for all the years my BBC licence fee has been used to fill the bank accounts of numerous sex predators.

Je voudrais avoir un remboursement pour toutes les années ou ma contribution à la BBC a servi à remplir les comptes en banque de prédateurs sexuels.

This is what happened when labour opened floodgates to the world and European masses, 4 million and climbing.

Voilà ce qui c'est passé quand le parti travailliste a ouvert les vannes au monde et aux masses européennes, 4 millions et ça monte toujours.

That is why you should never listen to a liberal: no morals, no ethics and all politics.
Voilà pourquoi il ne faut jamais écouter un libéral: aucune morale, aucune éthique, c'est tout de la politique.

Is it me or does Kate always seem to wear that outfit (striped top, jeans and those shoes) when dressed casually?
Est-ce que je me trompe ou est-ce que Kate semble toujours porter cet ensemble (un dessus rayé, des jeans, et ces souliers) lorsqu'elle s'habille en décontracté ?

Soya products and things like Quorn and tofu aren't actually good for people and THAT needs exposing too.
Les produits du soja et des choses comme le Quorn et le tofu ne sont en fait pas bons pour la santé, et ceci aussi doit être rendu public.

Why don't she get a proper job like the rest of us have to.
Pourquoi ne se trouve-t-elle pas un vrai emploi, comme le reste du monde doit faire ?

We can only be grateful no same sex weddings to be endured - Downton is nice I think !
Nous ne pouvons qu'être reconnaissants qu'il n'y avait aucun marriage gai à subir - Downton est bien je crois !

Useful, non?

Pipe Pipe!

NWM

* I didn't put SIC throughout but you will see where I would have done.

I accidentally insult a Canadian

It is 5pm on the 8th May, and I am on the ferry that takes you to Toronto Island Airport.

Next to me is a man who looks like Bryan Adams. Scars, reddish hair, quite short. It can't be him because his suitcase is properly crap. Not "Tumi, darling, I've had it for YEARS"; more "I bought this at Birmingham airport because the other one broke on the bus". 

The ferry makes it across 10 feet of duck-infested water.  

Man (pleasantly Canadian):  Well, that was exciting. 

Me: I know. Do you need a little sit down? 

Man: I think I need to after that.  What did you think of the election result? 

Me (startled. Am I that obviously English?): Horrifying. 

Man: Wasn't it. 

We walk off the ferry and into the terminal. The man chats very knowledgeably about for e.g. UK foreign policy, death of NHS, fucking Tories, etc.  

Me: You know more about it than me. I've been here 8 years. 

Man: Well, I've lived in London for 25 years.

Me: Ooh! Where? 

Man: Chelsea. You know World's End? There. Anyway... bedroom tax ... hitting the people that need it the most ...  I don't know what to do about it... George Osborne ... awful ... 

This goes on for 4 minutes.  It is not Bryan Adams because there is NO WAY Bryan Adams would a) have a suitcase bought in an emergency situation in Birmingham Airport; b) be talking about bedroom tax to a stranger on a ferry.

I start impersonating George Osborne in order to join in. It is the best I can do. I am planning to make a topical joke, which I have been rehearsing in my head.

Me (in George Osborne voice): Well, speaking as a multi-billionaire ... 

Man (face falls, looks hurt): Well, I'm not sure what THAT has to do with it. 

We get to customs, and say goodbye. He waves. 

I Google Bryan Adams.   He has homes in Chelsea, London and Paris, France. 

Sorry, Bryan Adams.

Crash Bang Wallop

A very strange weekend last weekend. We walked past the old hospital on the way back from dinner, muttering about it being turned into "Flats for Twats (TM)", and the time we got lost in the corridors underneath it trying to find a cashpoint to pay the nuns.  Neither of us could remember the last time we'd been in hospital (me: wisdom teeth, 1991; him: thumb operation, 2003 or 4).

Two minutes later, JM twists his ankle in a pothole, falls over and swears a lot while clutching his leg and not crying. It isn't broken, but it is fucked. He drags it up the stairs home, is iced and raised and strapped and drugged, and goes to bed miserable. 

The next morning, I go to the shop to buy him a comic, a bun and a bandage.  Two minutes later, I am on my face, having twisted my ankle in a pothole.  Someone asks me if I am OK. I am, except there is blood coming out of my trousers and I feel a bit hot. 

I get back.  JM is now in the armchair looking at his laptop.  He has had an allergic reaction to his drugs, and his eye is swollen up. He cannot take any more painkillers. His leg is wrapped in ice in a leaky sandwich bag. The cat sits on his laptop. It is pitiful. 

Then I start puking.  I go very cold, then very hot, and it all shoots out.   It is quite exciting because I am genuinely incapacitated and can't stand up.   I drift in and out of sleep all day having a weird dream about Channing Tatum. 

Channing Tatum (wrapping his arms around me from behind): I'm putting my arms around you because I love you so much. 

Me: But Channing Tatum, you can't, I'm so old and so fat and I've got a thing that needs cutting off. I am not showing you that.  Or that come to think of it.  And definitely not that. 

Channing Tatum: I do not care. I know you don't believe me. But I am going to show you with my slow steady love that I love you. And your thing that needs cutting off. I would like to squidge it. 

Me (really wishing Channing Tatum would give over): Channing Tatum stop it.  

When I am not dreaming about Channing Tatum, I watch 2 episodes of Pappano's Classical Voices* and weep at story of Fritz Wunderlich falling off the stairs at a hunting lodge and dying.  I drink water and throw it up, drink water and sleep. JM limps about. We are still in our pyjamas, and stay in them until we go to work on Monday morning. 

We are OK now, apart from my scabs, my lack of 7lbs, and JM's bruises. In fact, we are so incredibly well that we spent the weekend shoving things in cupboards and making the house look like normal people live in it, because THE PHOTOGRAPHER IS COMING and it is going on the market.   (If anyone wants it, let me know. It will be perfect for you if you are looking for a house 45 minutes outside Montreal with a replica 16th French bread oven and a cellar big enough for 2 kayaks.)   

Yes. We really are moving - and to a place without potholes, too! I am so excited I am going to throw up.

(If anyone has any 'how to move from Canada to the UK or France' tips, do send them in. I did UK to Canada, and JM did US to Canada (twice), but we haven't been the other way yet.  If the tips are things like "drink some gin" and "relax it'll be fine", I'm in.)

Pip pip!

NWM

* I really love this programme. I don't know anything about opera or singing and now I know enough to go and find out more.  I'm going to write to Sir Antonio Pappano tomorrow to thank him and I'm pretty sure - judging by my relationship with C Tatum - that he'll write back.