I am returned from my weekend break

"Do you know what this means?", says someone, pointedly encouraging me to repeat a splendid Quebec expression that means something along the lines of "being a woman that lives off her husband because she has single-handedly undone all the hard work done by the previous generation, thereby being not only tantamount to a whore, but also a betrayer of the sisterhood".

"No", I whimper, wishing it were lunchtime or suppertime and not a fucking brunch, a meal occasion at which it is, apparently, inappropriate to drink heavily. My 'husband', the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist, magnificent enough to get me to move from London (in England) to Montreal (in Canada), stares at the table. I do something that I think is described in bad novels as 'knitting your brow'; either way, I am getting a headache.

It is a family (fucking) brunch and, like the family dinner the night before, it contains people who are not in my husband's family. Some of them have Quebec accents that are a little more dense those that I am used to; some of them have enormous moustaches and tell jokes that I do not understand. Everyone laughs. I do not, because I don't understand: my very-much-second language, in an accent I am still not used to, cock-full of cultural references and gags I may get if I live here for 100 years. It would be like sending a French person who had learnt English in London to a party in Newcastle. It is also, I realise as I look at a dumpling in potato juice, the worst thing about living in the abroad.

It goes on, this time with an added soupçon of distain. "So what you're saying is you couldn't just put up with the situation? You had to resign? Without a work permit?", as if I am, as well as being entirely irresponsible, a traitor to the sisterhood and a money-sucking whore, a complete fuckwit. "It was to do with preserving my self-respect", I reply. For a while there is silence; I get a "that is a good enough reason", and then, as if by magic, it starts again. "Maybe you can use some of this time off to improve your French - it really does need a lot of work."

I am well brought up and have very good manners (on occasion), so I laugh (ha ha ha), and suggest that I could perhaps wear a sandwich board and parade up and down St-Catherine with the words "Virtually illiterate unemployed immigrant needs free French lessons" sprayed across my chest. The new cat is brought in; someone brings in a maple cone; the subject is changed.

Some time later, we are driving along the road and I cheer up. Why? Because first of all, there is a person who is selling a car which, I think, comes with a free plastic horse:





















Further down the road is a person offering for sale both leeches and hub-caps, a business idea that I intend to replicate in a series of franchises across North America:



After that, things up cheer up considerably and we go and look at what Canada is really good at (nature, landscapes that make you think no human has ever been there before, sky, vastness, houses spaced out a lot, gigantic roadside fruit, etc). Here are some pictures for you to look at - in red is my 'husband', who does not normally wear red - unless he has seen a shop that sells leeches and hub-caps (at the same time).




Pip pip!

NWM

I am on a weekend break

Yes it is true. Before I was officially non-working, it was decided that we would drive north for a 'long weekend' to visit a place called Rivière-du-Loup (a.k.a. River of the Wolf). Yesterday we drove, and now we are here. Why are we here? Because tonight, we must celebrate the 50th birthday of my 'husband's' brother with the rest of his family. I shall draw a veil over the whole affair for the moment, but suffice to say that I am afraid that a guitar may be brought out and some soulful singing may take place, accompanied by some over-intrusive eye-contact and concentrated staring at the salt cellar.

In Montreal today it is 24 degrees, which is very hot for this time of year. In the River of the Wolf, which is 450km north of Montreal, it is 16 degrees and there is still a bit of snow hanging around, i.e. it is is still "off season" and everything is shut. River of the Wolf itself is apparently a bit shit (we are about to go and look at it; I shall take photographs), but there are pretty things about the place, e.g. Kamouraska which is old (for Canada) and pretty (for Canada) and some bone shows that we will try and go and look at; I am also crossing my fingers for the Accordion Museum. ("Recognized as a musical museum in 2001, it has the museum boutique that offers an impressive music collection (DVD, CDs, Cassette) for the music lovers."*)

But all this is as nothing, for in the 'cottage' we have rented, there are more than enough distractions to keep us busy.

Cutting bread
It is fairly typical of holiday cottages to have bad (i.e. blunt) knives, although most offer a wide selection, bought on special offer from the Dollarama down the road. In this cottage, however, there are only 3 knives that are not eating-knives, and they are all small, bendy and blunt. Cutting the bread this morning to make our toast(s) with took over three hours, and we needed a shower afterwards.

Sugar
There is none, but there is a small bottle of sesame oil and half a packet of butter in the fridge.

Furniture
It is all a bit the wrong size. To get to the bed you have to bend down so you don't bash your head on the ceiling, and the lamp cord is 10 inches too short for the plug, so you have to move the bedside table. In the other room, the chest-of-drawers is positioned in such a way as to make it impossible to get to the far side of the room unless you vault over the bed.

TV
It is gigantic - at least 5ft across. But there are only 12 stations on it, most of them featuring local ads ("Le fromage qui fait Kwik Kwik!!") and local bowling competitions, featuring portly gentlemen in polo shirts and moustaches being watched by their streaked-and-tanned wives. (The exception is Eric Paradis - shown in the third photograph below - astonishingly described as a "plumbing consultant", despite being only 16 years old.)
















































Lighting

Two choices: all overhead lights on so can read in hospital-like conditions, or one side light on so cannot see own feet.

But all this is as nothing compared to the art. Rendered by the same artist, "Nine", it adorns the walls at every turn. I must leave you now to prepare for my trip to the River of the Wolf, but I will leave you with some of the haunting images we have the pleasure of sharing our living quarters with for the next three days. If anyone can explain what is going on in the one with the man in the hat and the three kidz, there may be a prize of some kind. (As if the badges were not prizes enough!!!)

























* This is taken verbatim from the museum's website, and is a pretty good example of the fuck-awful level of French-to-English translation that you come across almost every day in Quebec, particularly on websites. What's especially ridiculous is that to be a 'translator' here, you apparently have to have a formal qualification of some kind - so you will often find Francophones with a qualification translating into English, without an Anglophone having a look at the final result. So even if it's (technically) accurate, it doesn't often read that well. Hold on: there's a job that would be like not working (because it would involve writing things down): I could take translations and re-write them, including words like "whilst" and "hitherto" to fox the locals. Amazing!!!

I design badges instead of doing more useful things (e.g. designing a quiz that will help you work out if people at work like you or not)

Often, I 'interact' with you - my loyal and adoring readers - and am amazed. You are few (between 4 and 7 a day, depending on how many times I look at this blog myself), but you are of the highest quality - interesting looking, literate, and able to provide things in the comments boxes (kindnesses, encouragements, jokes, recipes etc) that often make me scream with joy.

Sometimes my joy is so enormous that I want to thank you by giving you something; sending you things, perhaps - things you can touch and/or feel and manipulate, and that will remind you of me.

But is that right? Should I be thanking you by reminding you of me (i.e., me, NWM), or should I be reminding you to be non-working (in your hearts) by providing you with a small and subtle item that you can secrete about your person and finger gently when you are having a bad day in the office?

I was going to make a sort of necklace with my head on that you could wear (a bit like this, but much better looking, i.e. more like me), but my tiny little monkey hands aren't that nimble. Instead, I spent over five (5) minutes designing a badge (or "pin" in North America) that I think is a triumph of its genre. Here it is:














































Why is this badge nice? Here is why.

1. It is available in both the official languages of Canada: English and French.
2. You can wear it outside if you want to make a 'statement', or inside (inside your pants for e.g.) if you want to talk to yourself.

You can buy it if you like (in English here and in French here - don't forget to look at my other magnificent branded merchandise, including my new Logo for Toronto tie and shopping bag), but I am better than that. I would like to give some badges away and put them in an envelope and post them myself. I am not even going to do a competition. I am just going to send 10 of these badges (RRP $1.45) to the first 10 readers to give me an OK reason for wanting one. Not "good". Just "OK".

Come on then!!!



* Like those Japanese t-shirts that have a picture of a kitten on with strange words, e.g. "kitty says flower pring prang triumph!"

I am having quite a good time

So good, in fact, that I have time to photograph other peoples' banana splits* and superimpose cats on top of them using the power of CatPaint, "the premier cat-based image editor for the iPhone and iPod Touch".



I am still calming down. What to do next? The excellent quiz called "How To Tell If You Are A Good Boss Or Not"? "Challenge NWM" in which loyal fans and readers send in 'challenges' that I must do, as long as it doesn't involve eating insects? Who can tell.

Pip pip!

NWM


* Last time I looked a Banana Split was long and in a long dish thing, not chopped up and stuffed into a sundae cup by a taciturn McGill biology student.

I am free like a bird

Someone sent me a tiny email. "What happened, NWM? Why are you (literally) non-working once again?". I cannot really answer the question in detail, not because I am gagged by the law*, but because the details don't matter.

All that's important is that I didn't sleep properly for about 8 months, put on about 25lbs and spent quite a lot of time having conversations like this with my husband, the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist - a man famous for his world-class ability to analyse all situations (even if about 'emotions', cakes, puppies etc) with forensically objective precision.

Me: This (insert incident) happened today. I am annoyed. Is it reasonable that I am annoyed?
Husband: Yes it is. You are not mad.
Me: That is a relief.

I am not one of those ghastly drippy people who are always complaining and needing a little lie down if they have to work more than 5 hours in one day. I get on well with about 95% of people I have worked with ever. I can do quite a lot at the same time, and I do not mind making decisions about things that might be quite important, standing up in rooms full of people and talking about things to them, taking responsibility for stuff, having difficult conversations, etc etc. Bref (as they say in some French-speaking nations), I am not a bloody wetsy and am quite resilient in a work-based situation. But this particular work situation got to me, and got to me good and proper.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, when I realised that the whole hoo-ha wasn't likely to change, I thought it might be better to get the cock out. So I resigned without a job to go to and (even better and/or worse, depending on how you see it), can't work until I get my Canadian residency through my husband**, which could take 3 months, or 6 months, or a bit longer.

But it is not so bad. I'm very, very fucking lucky that I have a "wonderfully supportive partner" (this set of words is worse than Sting and Trudie talking about their house in Tuscany, i.e. they are really really bad, but I can't think of a better expression) who can support me financially ("I will pay for your bus fare, but not your shoes"), and who had no question in his mind that I should get the cock out (not literally - I am a ladymonkey, so do not have a cock i.e. knob).

In fact, it's more than "not so bad". The first time I was non-working (nearly five years ago!!) I had a big wodge of cash to pay for sweets, crisps, the mortgage etc. This time, I do not have a wodge of cash, but someone else is there to cover the bills if and when my own money runs out (let alone all the hot love and/or support I'm getting from friends, family etc), so I have the freedom that most people don't have: the freedom of being able to walk away from a well-paid, not difficult (physically or practically) job that was making me unhappy.

Someone called me "brave". There is nothing brave about this because there's no real risk involved, and no-one's dependent on me (so at least it's not selfish, I suppose). I took the decision to stop doing something that wasn't doing me much good. Instead, I have dusted off my fez, taken the absinthe out of the back of the cupboard, and tapped out my small clay pipe. It is Spring, my friends, and in Spring all kinds of things happen, including one-eyed 94 year-old Montreal taxi drivers shouting: "New York hasn't got Jack Shit Dick Malone on London, lady".

Pip pip!

NWM

Coming soon: I am less serious, and speculate on possible activities and/or hobbies to take part in over this spring/summer season in Montreal. I urge you to make suggestions, and may well open up a sort of "Challenge NWM" type affair.


* Well I might be, but I haven't checked my contract for, oh, 2 years. And anyway, I'm not that important and it wasn't that exciting.

** long and boring story: but my work permit was linked to my job, so without my job, I have no work permit and therefore cannot work. Yes.