Day 550: I Pass The Time

I am waiting for my work permit. It is annoying, like waiting for an enormous bus full of monkeys who are all drinking absinthe straight from the bottle and dancing to "Relight My Fire" whilst pushing the conductor's cap off.

Whilst I wait I am filling the time with some useful activities, including shovelling snow, losing mittens and noting how the "news" in Canada is in fact what people in other countries would describe as "the weather report". I am also making bread and jam with my tiny little monkey hands.

I am now really good at making bread thanks to NPR, the second-greatest radio station in the world (after BBC Radio 4). We were driving somewhere in some 'light snow' (trans. for British readers: blizzard) and these people came on the radio talking about not kneading and leaving the dough in the fridge for three weeks and all sorts of other shit. I thought it was too good to be true. It was not. It was shit that I subsequently found out really works. It is here.

There is no excuse to make any more jam, though; there are ten jars, and two of us. I have made raspberry and apricot. (Do not leave stupid comments asking me where I got the fruit from.) The raspberry is pathetic, but the apricot is good and were it more liquid, I would be drinking it up with a straw.

I have also made marmalade to an ancient family recipe but I have not yet decided if it is any good and so, whilst I decide if it is worth labelling, do please feel free to enjoy some recent photographs: one of jam and one of bread. (Eagle-eyed Carly Simon fans will see a 'hidden joke' just for them!).





(I added seeds and shit to the recipe above. It still worked.)

Good Lord - what is that noise? It sounds exactly like a busful of monkeys listening to Take That.

Must dash.

Pip pip!

NWM

Day 550: I Was Not Aware That Ground Zero Was Famous For Its Silver Deposits

Day 545: I Receive A Mysterious Parcel

The red flag is up on the mailbox. That means there is something in it.

It is Wednesday, so it is unlikely to be the local 'freesheet', wrapped tenderly around a number of leaflets offering various configurations of our regional speciality, chips adorned with cheese curd and gravy; equally, because it is Wednesday, it is a day too late for the The Veterinary Pathologist , and a day too soon for Hot Cockwagons Weekly, my own publication of choice.

I open the mailbox and cannot see anything, despite trying to insert my entire head into its inviting interior. But what is that at the back? Good heavens! It is a tiny, tiny parcel, no bigger than my hand, weighing no more than a brace of sizeable Macadamia nuts.

I take it out and look at it. Our address is scrawled (accurately!) across the front of the envelope. Has it been written by an idiot? Probably not; they have managed to write the address in the proper style; four stamps have been affixed in a straight line; the parcel is clearly marked PRIORITY. I notice that the stamps are Dutch and that it has been sent from Amsterdam.

But this does not give me any further clues; a cursory fondle of the package tells me that it is definitely not drugs (I know this because Canada Post held up a parcel with Hula-Hoops in it for three months, so I think they will have 'sniffed out' any funny seeds!!!), but it is also definitely not cheese, clogs, bulbs, a windmill or an almond-based confection, which are the other things you might get sent from the Netherlands.

I run across the road, slipping on three inches of impacted ice; I jog up the drive, glad that I live with a chap who likes to shovel and blow. I clamber up the ice-mount that has appeared in the drive in front of the steps that lead to the front door. The steps are scaled. I am nearly there.

But what is this? I cannot open the door! That is because it is -15 and I have been outside for more than thirty seconds. My fingers are white and I cannot feel anything. They are sticking a bit to the door latch thing. I tell the front door latch it is a cunt, a strategy that has worked before; the door springs open.

I am inside. Feeling returns to my fingers; my hair begins to defrost. Finally, I open the parcel. Inside there is a mysterious note! This is not the the first time I have received a mysterious note, but this time it is different!

Dear NWM,

I'm bored of business lunches with Mark and James and to be honest they rabble on like old women. They do however like their cakes which is a plus and I hear you like yours. In fact, I'm prepared to follow the muffin mix across the Atlantic for a little 'break' at yours.

I invite myself, in fact, and take the liberty of making my return open. I too would like to experience being a non-working monkey.

xxx"

And it is different for one reason and one reason alone: the mysterious note is wrapped around a thing no bigger than a thimble. Here it is, photographed on the front lawn earlier today:



I still do not know what to say about it all, and so I am going to think about it for a bit, pausing only occasionally to scratch my monkey head under my fez and draw quietly on my small clay pipe.

Whilst I consider the miraculous appearance of a monkey in my mailbox, I offer you, my readers, a kind of 'web-blog testcard' in the form of some photographs taken this afternoon with my instamatic camera. They are photographs of the apple trees in the field down the road where the local 'farming folk' are making ice cider.

These photographs will be extra-dull if you are used to snow but perhaps less so if you are from tropical England. With my English eyes, for example, the fields look like Narnia (but with tractors).

Pip pip!

Day 543: I Narrowly Escape Death

It has been a quiet week. I am waiting for my work permit to arrive and the days are passing slowly, but not unpleasantly: the snow plops down; tiny leaves cartwheel down the highway; pathologists brush snow from Subarus; the local supermarket continues to think it is in France in 1982, and I learn to drive my mother-in-law's pale gold Mazda.

It is pleasant, this life; soon enough I will be wearing 'power suits' and using a mobile telephone; my 'partner' will look at me with his eyes of liquid green and ask, in a tiny voice, if I am in fact married to my work. Then we will fight and there will be hitting with for e.g. knitted Pierre Trudeau ragdolls, or a seven-pack of Hula-Hoops sent in an emergency parcel from London.

Regular readers will be aware that one of the results of all this 'free time' is the opportunity I have had to think about biscuits*. Indeed, a cursory glance at the comments on my last post will reveal how my many legions of adoring readers have 'risen to the challenge', as it were, by providing a sheaf of comments rich in recipes, clarification, irrelevance, pomposity, recommendations**, presumption, kindness and fuckwittery.

It is all quite good, this biscuit-chat, but it is not enough to fill up all of my time. I have, as a result, decided to test out some customer service departments. Here is the result of my survey:

Harrods

Harrods is only good if you do not live in London. If you live in London you know for a fact that it is full of tourists and ghastly people with new money buying golden taps, busts of Lady "Princess of Hearts" Di and portaits on velvet of Mohammed Al-Fayed.

On the other hand, Harrods is good for presents for people in other countries, especially if they like tea and biscuits and are over 50.

Summary of email of complaint: Price labels, when removed from products, rip off half the packaging, making the present look pikey.

Reaction from Harrods: Full refund, no questions asked.

Mark: One email was ignored for five days. An email to the press department resulted in an almost-immediate response. Had the original knobbers not ignored my email, I would have given Harrods 10/10. As it is, they get 8/10.

Jigsaw

It is OK for the high street but good for jerseys if you look like me (i.e. really beautiful, in a somewhat simian style). I like their jerseys and buy many. They are good for cold places, e.g. Canada where I now live.

Summary of email of complaint: Your jersey that I bought started pilling within three hours. I am sad. Very sad. So sad. It is rubbish.

Reaction from Jigsaw: Oh gosh, yah, awfully sorry. Am off on maternity leave on, like, Friday, but send me the serial number, yah? And if you want to send it back, we'll give you, like, a refund. Yah?

Mark: Quite quick and nice and that but a bit fucking wet. Also I said I wasn't going to send it back as live in Canada etc and can't be bothered with posting and all of that. 6/10 for Sloaniness; would have been 4/10, but she knew how to spell.

Novotel

Do not laugh!!! I was there on Saturday in Ottawa and it was really good despite smelling a bit like a hospital. (And I mean good for not much money, but we were only going to lie down there in between drinking three-litre glasses of beer and picking federally-correct bilingual fights with the locals.) I left my boots there.

Summary of telephone call: Hello. I left my boots in room 624.

Response: I am not at my desk. I will call you back in a second. (Calls back in 2 minutes.) Yes I have them. I will send them back to you tomorrow. What is your address? Let me check that. Thank you very much for choosing Novotel.

Mark: 10/10. Fucking astounding. If in the Britain they would ask you for a postal order to cover the postage and/or steal the boots to sell for fags.

Europe's Best

Let me explain for the sake of non-Canadian residents: Europe's Best is a brand of frozen food products. They advertise a lot here. They have large amounts of space in the 'chiller cabinets'. They really get on my tits as I think their name is stupid and thy are always on the telly going: yeah our fruit 'n' veg is really great, when it probably isn't.

I assumed a pseudonym, and wrote to them.


























I am still in correspondence with Europe's Best, who seem to think that the offer of a 'voucher' will distract me from the fact that they told me (in their letter) that some of their produce is grown in Peru and Mexico - neither of which are in Europe!! Do they think I am stupid or something? I jolly well hope not!!!

But all this is as nothing, for on Saturday we nearly died. I will not go into detail, but suffice to say that the following 'image' captures - in some small way - the horror we had to endure.




















When I have recovered from the shock, I will try and find the energy to write a little on what England seems like when you don't live there any more. In the meantime, I shall eat my imported oatcakes and stare, wide-eyed with horror, at Coronation Street on the CBC. Apparently Leanne is now a lady of the night!

Pip pip

NWM



* I bought to gingerbread persons from a shop in Ottawa. I ate half the lady and the head of the man and then threw them away. They were rubbish.

* Should anyone wish to send me either Prince Charles' ginger and chocolate biscuits, or the Fortnum and Mason ginger and chili biscuits, I am more than happy to furnish you with my postal address. Suffice to say the first line is "Chez Monkey"!

SPECIAL EDITION: MY FAVOURITE BISCUIT

Regular readers gasped upon reading my last excellent post. Could it really be possible that one person - and one person alone - could suggest so many fascinating future 'topics' for discussion?

The answer is yes, and I am that person. Not only are my ideas tooth-achingly good, but I am also able to 'bring them to life', or 'execute them' (as the advertising johnnies say) in a way that gets people really talking. It is quite brilliant.

OK. Here goes. To start off, I give you Topic Number 4:

"My Favourite Biscuit (And Why)"

British people know what I mean when I say 'biscuit'. Americans think they know what I mean, and Canadians don't really mind one way or another, so I had better explain before I start. (I do not want confusion, but confusion is possible, what with the fact that the metaphorical door to my web-log is not unlike the fire escape of the main United Nations building after a false fire alarm.)

In America (which is quite a strange place), when you say "give me a biscuit, cretin, and stop cocking on about your superpower status", they try and give you what we in the Old World would (loosely) describe as a 'scone'. (It's not exactly the same, but you get the gist.)

In Britain, when you say 'biscuit', you mean what the Americans might refer to as a 'cookie' or a 'cracker'. Interestingly, however, the British 'biscuit' could be any number of things (including a wafer, but not a KitKat).

Broadly, my own definition of 'biscuit' is thus: if you might find it in a selection tin (savoury or sweet), it is a biscuit. (See fig. 1, in which the area highlighted in duck-egg blue denotes the type of biscuit one might find in a mixed selection):

Fig 1





I should point out that the examples given, or indeed various sub-species of biscuit described, are by no means exhaustive and serve to illustrate the point rather than provide a dictionary-worthy description of the term 'biscuit'.

Wikipedia attempts a definition here; there is another, very amusing and clever definition here, written by someone who, I suspect, works in the advertising but really, at the end of it all: if you can see it in a tin, it's definitely a biscuit.

To further clarify, I present you with some mixed biscuit selections:



























These 'selections' come in posh, too, but their contents - despite being organic and/or personally stamped by the signet ring of Prince Charles, are, nevertheless, still biscuits.













Now that is clear, I feel able to reveal my favourite biscuit. It is the 'Ginger Nut', my favourite biscuit for the following reasons:

1. It is not fancy.
2. It is with ginger, which is a strong flavour that I like.
3. It is very crunchy and not too sweet.
4. It is possible to eat many of them without feeling sick.
5. If you put them with sherry you have the beginnings of a strange 1970s pudding.

In fact, I have a fondness for ginger biscuits, all of them. I am willing to try other ginger biscuits if people would like to send them in; if they are sufficiently good, I will 'endorse' them on my web-blog, even going so far as to produce and film a 'testimonial' that I shall distribute on YouTube and the more minor satellite channels. I also like ginger cake and ponies.

I hope that has cleared that one up.

(If you are interested in biscuits, may I suggest you go and see Smitten Kitten, who offers up a recipe that looks very good. Katy sent me there, and she was right to.)

Coming Next: What Would I Rather Do: Never Poo Again, Or Never Eat Toast?