I review the past week through the medium of photograph

Item One: Hipsters seen near where we live in Montreal. On the left, a pleasant hipster, who kept himself to himself and drank his beer through his beard. On the right, the kind of hipster that makes the purchase of my Super Soaker water pistol - with which I will crouch on the dark balcony at night, squirting water at the yelping English-speaking students in the alley behind our flat - ever more imminent.

I should like to point out that the day this photograph was taken, it was about 20 degrees. Stupid hipster and his girlfriend, Not As Pretty As You Think, forced themselves and their asinine chitchat on a nice chap who was having a quiet pint at a small table by himself. He must have felt blessed to such people in his orbit.





Item 2: Sinister house on the way into our village (from the other side).  Oddly, from far away it is even more sinister, crouching malevolently in scratchy grass.  We are not sure who lives inside it, but it is equally likely to be Satanists or fundamentalist Christians. Or blind people who pissed off their house painters.

Item 3: I was in the stationery shop (the like of which I had not seen before I moved to North America: in it are magical things, and fifteen different types of business card holder), buying a business card holder, desk lamp, my favourite pens and a packet of mixed highlighters when I saw this.  It is clear. There is literally no way that you can be a manager unless you have this EXACT chair.

























Item 4: I often look up in hope of seeing a unicorn. Instead I see things like booties hanging off flag poles.























Items 5, 6 & 7: During a short walk in Montreal yesterday I saw a number of things within one "block".

First of all, people made of butter looking at nothing in particular:






Some tulips (heads only) left on top of a pedestrian crossing button thing:

My favourite graffiti, which is everywhere in Montreal and makes my fez spin with glee every time:

I reluctantly admit that I find something quite funny

In Canada, this weekend is a long weekend. English Canada calls Monday Victoria Day, "a federal Canadian statutory holiday celebrated on the last Monday before or on 24 May, in honour of both Queen Victoria's birthday and the current reigning Canadian sovereign's official birthday"; French Canada calls Monday the Journée nationale des patriotes "to underline the importance of the struggle of the patriots of 1837– 1838 for the national recognition of our people, for its political liberty and to obtain a democratic system of government."

I will draw a polite veil over Canadian colonial history, the Quiet Revolution, tensions between French and English Canada, etc (I was European-sneery at the idea of Canadian history; now I find it more than moderately interesting, surprisingly), but suffice to say that the fact that Queenie's fizzogg is on the Canadian $20 dollar bill and all its change (what with it being a Commonwealth country an' all) makes little enough sense (to me) in English Canada; in French Canada it is entirely bonkers, like having Charles Aznavour smirking on a five pound note.  (I can't imagine that a Golden Jubilee commemorative tankard graces the display cabinets of many French Canadian 'homes', let's put it that way.)

Anyroad up, I was having a bit of a walk today, what with the weather here being very lovely an' all, and what with my leg being stronger after a visit to the tiny physiotherapist who puts electric pulses on my swollen bits, when I saw a crowd gathered outside a bit of McGill. McGill is a (very fine) English-speaking university in a Francophone city, and images of Canada's British Colonial past sneak in here and there, including the moderately-sized statue of Queen Victoria outside McGill's music school.* The crowd was looking at this:

Whatever blah blah about Sex and the City, but taking the piss out of Queen Victoria in Montreal on Victoria Day? I laughed my little monkey face off.


* The only time anyone ever talks about the Canadian citizenship ceremony amongst my group of Canadian friends is to relate yet another story about French people who have moved to Quebec having to swear allegiance to the Queen of England. To be fair, it is quite funny.

I would like you to help me write the next blockbuster

Regular readers will be aware of my most recent Bad Boss Blockbuster, in which the Bad Boss talks impenetrable business bullshit. Was there enough time to include everything? No there was not. What does that mean? I will tell you what it means: it means a sequel must be made. But this time, I would like you (i.e., my adoring readers and/or fans) to submit wanky boss-isms that you think should feature, and I will try with all my might to incorporate them.

For example, longtime reader and/or adoring fan LutraLutra made the following comment on the post to which I refer above:

"My boss’s boss enjoys saying things like ‘we’re transitioning from a hub and spoke model towards the hub and rim ideal’. And also ‘as you’ll be needed the duration of this project we’ve acquired the funding to backfill you’. Both of which made me laugh so much I had to fake a coughing fit."

MonkeyFather - short on words at the best of times, poor love - managed to squeeze out, tears choking in his throat:

"But Boss didn't ask to push the envelope, why not?"

Why not indeed, MonkeyFather! This, and any other (real) ones that you can spurt into the comments box below will be incorporated in the next Blockbuster. There will be no prize for the ones selected; simply appearing in one of my masterpieces will be reward enough.

Come on then! Show me what you've got!

I have a new diet

Obviously it is not that one. No. It is called "eating things out of the garden".

So far it is going OK: from this lot, I made an asparagus and teeny tiny baby garlic tart and some stewed rhubarb, which was super. (Rhubarb in your porridge is quite delicious, I think.)

Last night, our gaping maws chewed upon salad out of seeds we bought in  San Fransisco; I have thinned it since this photograph where you can see it when it was a tiny baby (it grows about 2 inches a day).  If I let it get too dense, ear-wigs grow in it and make me scream. I hate ear-wigs. 

We also had more asparagus last night, which also seems to grow about a foot a day.  My wee smells like the very devil. 

There are also flowers, including some strangely-coloured tulips smuggled in from Amsterdam, and a great deal of lovely Lily of the Valley, which makes me feel like a dusty old Yardley lady.


















It is all awfully nice, I must admit, and there is a great deal more to come, coaxed from the earth by the animal-friendly hands of the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist with whom I live - runner beans, peas, green beans, endamame beans, two types of beetroot, tomatoes (of which more another day; I ordered heirloom tomato seeds from some people with beards in California and I am growing them with my tiny little monkey hands), carrots, garlic, apples, plums, pears, apricots, raspberries, redcurrants, gooseberries, blueberries, rhubarb, peonies and many, many strawberries. (NB: this is all dependent on the birds and slugs not getting there first with their greedy mouths).

At the moment, the vegetable patch looks like this, but not for long.  Yes. After 6 months of -25 and snow, the Canadian earth (and climate) bestows magic properties upon the things that grow, and they shoot up at a rate that is quite alarming.

















That is all for today. I am up to no good, but cannot talk about it - a sentence that, I realise, is one of the most irritating in the world, other than "I was going to ... no, forget it, it's not important".

Pip pip!

NWM

I confirm my film-making genius with the release of my latest Bad Boss Blockbuster

Regular readers will know that although my career as cinematographer, scriptwriter, director, editor and producer launched only a few short weeks ago, my body of work already puts me "up there" with some of the greats.  As time passes,  I am beginning to see myself as a sort of cross between Gerald Thomas, Steven Spielberg, Michaelangelo Antonioni and Ingmar Bergman, producing the kind of work that manages to entertain, amuse, enthral and disgust at one and the same time.

In this, my latest masterpiece, I turn the cracked fluorescent light of scrutiny upon the silliness that is corporate chit-chat.  So great is the amount of nonsense talked in offices nowadays that the original film was over three days long, and although most of my energy went into sifting through hours of masterful footage to produce the three-minute delight you are about to view below,  I would not be surprised if a sequel might not be in the offing.

Yet again, I remain confident when I say: I know you will like it a lot.



(Should you wish to compare this to my earlier work, you may see them all here.)