In this, my first full-length feature, I have brought to life an episode based entirely on my own experience. Telling the shocking true-life story of a traumatic visit to a headhunter in 2006, this smash-hit movie is set to be a favourite amongst adults and children alike.
.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I offer you another guided tour of Monkey Towers
Right then. Here we bloody go then. Today's part of the tour of Monkey Towers (following on from yesterday's magnificent visions of my kitchen) is part of the sitting room (known, I believe, as "the lounge" in some circles), featuring some books.
In the kitchen looking down the other way
You will see one of the two things of shelves. (NB: Do not get floating shelves from IKEA for books. They are not strong enough and you will need a pathologist, extra screws and even, if your walls are soft like tofu, some brackets.)
You will also be able to see with your eyes the fancy-dan windows that open up onto a balcony, currently populated by bird plops, 2 window boxes of dead herbs and a box that should have box hedge in it full of dead lettuce. Other than that, it looks fucking ace. (The lights in the corridor are still available for anyone who wants them, if you pick them up. The picture on the right I will not dwell on - it is an OK drawing of a nudey lady. On the other side are some photographs of trees and whatnot.)
The desk that in my head I am writing things at in manner of Anne Eliot with a pen and inkwell, when in truth I am on the sofa in front of "Location Location Location" on BBC Canada with a knackered 5-year-old PowerBook G4 on my knee
Chair, desk etc all from the England, given by Monkeymother and Monkeyfather. The print is astonishing - a wedding present from my brother, 17th century I think, of Amsterdam canal engineering. The books are on the desk because they look nice, and are mainly my grandmother's. The postcard is David Shrigley, but not this one. On the right of the desk, homeless pictures; left foreground, one of the bookshelves.
Books and that
Book disclaimer: In the year before I moved to Canada, I got rid of about 400 books. The wonderful Bookseller Crow even gave me advice on where to sell them - in the end 400 fucked-up paperbacks weren't worth anything, so I released them into the community. But there are still boxes full of the fuckers in the cellar because there wasn't enough shelf room, and another 200(ish) in the country.
Anyway, I brought with me books that:
- I loved and would read again*
- I hadn't read
- Were useful
For the purposes of this vitally important contribution to the internets, I look 3 photographs. They are unedited, not all arranged and taken where it was light enough to see stuff.
In other news, I am secretly working on another web-blog which is different to this one and more about work. It is very 'with-it' and I think the young people will like it a lot. If anyone wants a sneak preview let me know - it is not privit, but I am not releasing it into the community until it is tip-top 100% ace (according to at least 2 people that I am related to and/or are in my pay.)
Coming tomorrow: a photograph of my bed and some recipes. It is very relaxing, having nothing at all in your head apart from old buttons, custard creams and fog.
Pip pip!
NWM
P.S. Still no news of the badges, but do not give up hope yet; if they are not here by the end of the week, I will "kick up a fuss".
* at least a week's worth of screamingly boring posts. Bref (as they say in some French-speaking countries), I only really like Nancy Mitford, Jilly Cooper, Anthony Trollope, A S Byatt and the Pullein-Thompson sisters. I hate Thomas Hardy. He's an idiot.
In the kitchen looking down the other way
You will see one of the two things of shelves. (NB: Do not get floating shelves from IKEA for books. They are not strong enough and you will need a pathologist, extra screws and even, if your walls are soft like tofu, some brackets.)
You will also be able to see with your eyes the fancy-dan windows that open up onto a balcony, currently populated by bird plops, 2 window boxes of dead herbs and a box that should have box hedge in it full of dead lettuce. Other than that, it looks fucking ace. (The lights in the corridor are still available for anyone who wants them, if you pick them up. The picture on the right I will not dwell on - it is an OK drawing of a nudey lady. On the other side are some photographs of trees and whatnot.)
The desk that in my head I am writing things at in manner of Anne Eliot with a pen and inkwell, when in truth I am on the sofa in front of "Location Location Location" on BBC Canada with a knackered 5-year-old PowerBook G4 on my knee
Chair, desk etc all from the England, given by Monkeymother and Monkeyfather. The print is astonishing - a wedding present from my brother, 17th century I think, of Amsterdam canal engineering. The books are on the desk because they look nice, and are mainly my grandmother's. The postcard is David Shrigley, but not this one. On the right of the desk, homeless pictures; left foreground, one of the bookshelves.
Books and that
Book disclaimer: In the year before I moved to Canada, I got rid of about 400 books. The wonderful Bookseller Crow even gave me advice on where to sell them - in the end 400 fucked-up paperbacks weren't worth anything, so I released them into the community. But there are still boxes full of the fuckers in the cellar because there wasn't enough shelf room, and another 200(ish) in the country.
Anyway, I brought with me books that:
- I loved and would read again*
- I hadn't read
- Were useful
For the purposes of this vitally important contribution to the internets, I look 3 photographs. They are unedited, not all arranged and taken where it was light enough to see stuff.
In other news, I am secretly working on another web-blog which is different to this one and more about work. It is very 'with-it' and I think the young people will like it a lot. If anyone wants a sneak preview let me know - it is not privit, but I am not releasing it into the community until it is tip-top 100% ace (according to at least 2 people that I am related to and/or are in my pay.)
Coming tomorrow: a photograph of my bed and some recipes. It is very relaxing, having nothing at all in your head apart from old buttons, custard creams and fog.
Pip pip!
NWM
P.S. Still no news of the badges, but do not give up hope yet; if they are not here by the end of the week, I will "kick up a fuss".
* at least a week's worth of screamingly boring posts. Bref (as they say in some French-speaking countries), I only really like Nancy Mitford, Jilly Cooper, Anthony Trollope, A S Byatt and the Pullein-Thompson sisters. I hate Thomas Hardy. He's an idiot.
Monday, April 12, 2010
I offer you a guided tour of Monkey Towers
"What shall I write about?", I asked you, my adoring readers and fans, some weeks ago. The usual replies came: "sausages", "hats, biscuits, crisps", "Schopenhauer's The World as Will and Representation", "cocks you have known", "something as funny as the things you wrote when you were funny, you know, like the Greek statue thing. That sort of funny".
Some of these topicks may come up again in the coming weeks (not Schopenhauer, he's an idiot, and I doubt anything as good as the Greek statue will ever happen to me again), but one idea in particular called to me across the internet and the miles between Montreal and Brussels: Belgian Waffling's suggestion that I take you, my loyal supporters and advocates, on a guided tour of Monkey Towers.
Two things:
1. There are two Monkey Towers: one in Montreal, one in the country. Monkey Towers Montreal is 'mine', Monkey Towers Country is the house the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist to whom I am married bought before I moved here. I will therefore be showing you round Monkey Towers Montreal.
2. It is the perfect suggestion for right now in the situation of time and space in which I find myself, i.e. two weeks after I left my job. We have been away and I have had visitors (of which more another time; it is enough to say the visitor was of extremely high quality and left no trace of herself when she left), and so today is the first real opportunity (if you can call it that) that I have had to have a think, and unfortunately I have just discovered that my brain is empty, apart from a few biscuit crumbs and a copy of Woman's Own from 1972.
Bref (as they still say in some French-speaking countries), I liked the idea and I thought it was good, so here goes.
Today: the kitchen.
Disclaimer: I didn't move or rearrange anything, and it is only vaguely tidy because of visitors, etc.
The kitchen from afar
With your eyes, you will see the door to the back balcony and the $13 IKEA table that is as much use as a sheet of soggy cardboard. The thing for hanging is however OK, as are the shelves (thanks to the pathologist and his massive drill). If anyone wants the hall lights, they're yours if you come and pick them up.
The kitchen from a bit closer
"Your refrigerator is a bit small", said a Canadian friend. I did not have the heart to tell her that in the Britain my North American refrigerator would probably attract puzzled glances and hushed questions about whether I had re-trained as a butcher.
The sink
Not much to say really. The tap is mis-plumbed, i.e. the hot side is cold and the cold side is hot. To the left of the shelf is a frame containing a bean picked from a tree in Shoreditch with my friend Louis about five years ago. I should probably finish the washing up.
Shelf close-up
From left to right: Greek jug bequeathed by friend Rachel upon leaving York University in 1991; old coffee tin, present from friend Emma; leaf tile from Heal's c. 1994 (present from Sophie); tin of sardines from Waitrose; card of a frog that says "The frog has a skin that is smooth and moist" (from dear Louis, see above); three Bournvita mugs, also from dear Louis.
Stovetop
The stovetop is not gas (grrr), and is from 1972 (approx). British readers may be interested to note the grill on the left. Surprisingly handy, but not that handy. The shelves above contain a combination of tat and useful things, e.g. salt (various).
I do not like the bloody whistling kettle, but I do like the big Bialetti coffee pot and I love with a fury the Finnish cast-iron pot, which was a present from our lovely friend Max who carried it across Montreal (it weighs a ton) the day before our wedding.
Things in jars on a shelf
I am not very tidy naturally but I like the way things look in jars. I also like small ceramic pigs bought in Chile. The soap says "Lucy" and was a present from my mother-in-law.
Cookbooks
Lots of my favourite cookbooks are in the country. This is about half of them. ($1 for the person who spots which book I most certainly did not buy for myself.) NB: I do not have any fucking Delia Smith either here or in the country. (In the scales, you will see a year's worth of payslips.)
Astonishing art
Below with your eyes you will see a picture of the Beatles done by my splendid god-daughter (and/or her mother), and a very excellent postcard sent by my friend Polly (is it just me, or does Marmite icecream sound OK?).
I am willing to show you the inside of my cupboards if you would like a look, although I must warn you that they contain mainly Marmite, Rio Mare tuna and almost completely empty packets of Bulghur wheat (various).
Tomorrow: somewhere else in the flat.
Pip pip!
NWM
PS. I have not forgotten the badges. They just haven't arrived yet. I will let you know when they have a) arrived; b) been released into the community.
Some of these topicks may come up again in the coming weeks (not Schopenhauer, he's an idiot, and I doubt anything as good as the Greek statue will ever happen to me again), but one idea in particular called to me across the internet and the miles between Montreal and Brussels: Belgian Waffling's suggestion that I take you, my loyal supporters and advocates, on a guided tour of Monkey Towers.
Two things:
1. There are two Monkey Towers: one in Montreal, one in the country. Monkey Towers Montreal is 'mine', Monkey Towers Country is the house the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist to whom I am married bought before I moved here. I will therefore be showing you round Monkey Towers Montreal.
2. It is the perfect suggestion for right now in the situation of time and space in which I find myself, i.e. two weeks after I left my job. We have been away and I have had visitors (of which more another time; it is enough to say the visitor was of extremely high quality and left no trace of herself when she left), and so today is the first real opportunity (if you can call it that) that I have had to have a think, and unfortunately I have just discovered that my brain is empty, apart from a few biscuit crumbs and a copy of Woman's Own from 1972.
Bref (as they still say in some French-speaking countries), I liked the idea and I thought it was good, so here goes.
Today: the kitchen.
Disclaimer: I didn't move or rearrange anything, and it is only vaguely tidy because of visitors, etc.
The kitchen from afar
With your eyes, you will see the door to the back balcony and the $13 IKEA table that is as much use as a sheet of soggy cardboard. The thing for hanging is however OK, as are the shelves (thanks to the pathologist and his massive drill). If anyone wants the hall lights, they're yours if you come and pick them up.
The kitchen from a bit closer
"Your refrigerator is a bit small", said a Canadian friend. I did not have the heart to tell her that in the Britain my North American refrigerator would probably attract puzzled glances and hushed questions about whether I had re-trained as a butcher.
The sink
Not much to say really. The tap is mis-plumbed, i.e. the hot side is cold and the cold side is hot. To the left of the shelf is a frame containing a bean picked from a tree in Shoreditch with my friend Louis about five years ago. I should probably finish the washing up.
Shelf close-up
From left to right: Greek jug bequeathed by friend Rachel upon leaving York University in 1991; old coffee tin, present from friend Emma; leaf tile from Heal's c. 1994 (present from Sophie); tin of sardines from Waitrose; card of a frog that says "The frog has a skin that is smooth and moist" (from dear Louis, see above); three Bournvita mugs, also from dear Louis.
Stovetop
The stovetop is not gas (grrr), and is from 1972 (approx). British readers may be interested to note the grill on the left. Surprisingly handy, but not that handy. The shelves above contain a combination of tat and useful things, e.g. salt (various).
I do not like the bloody whistling kettle, but I do like the big Bialetti coffee pot and I love with a fury the Finnish cast-iron pot, which was a present from our lovely friend Max who carried it across Montreal (it weighs a ton) the day before our wedding.
Things in jars on a shelf
I am not very tidy naturally but I like the way things look in jars. I also like small ceramic pigs bought in Chile. The soap says "Lucy" and was a present from my mother-in-law.
Cookbooks
Lots of my favourite cookbooks are in the country. This is about half of them. ($1 for the person who spots which book I most certainly did not buy for myself.) NB: I do not have any fucking Delia Smith either here or in the country. (In the scales, you will see a year's worth of payslips.)
Astonishing art
Below with your eyes you will see a picture of the Beatles done by my splendid god-daughter (and/or her mother), and a very excellent postcard sent by my friend Polly (is it just me, or does Marmite icecream sound OK?).
I am willing to show you the inside of my cupboards if you would like a look, although I must warn you that they contain mainly Marmite, Rio Mare tuna and almost completely empty packets of Bulghur wheat (various).
Tomorrow: somewhere else in the flat.
Pip pip!
NWM
PS. I have not forgotten the badges. They just haven't arrived yet. I will let you know when they have a) arrived; b) been released into the community.
Monday, April 05, 2010
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
"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
Saturday, April 03, 2010
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!!!
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!!!
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