I play a game

It has been a weekend of excitement. On Friday, an "art film". (I am glad I went, but will draw a veil over the rest of my response to the work.) There were Q&As afterwards; one of the overly self-aware students behind us started her question with "As a film-maker...", only to be followed five minutes later by her row-fellow introducing his question with "As an artist....". The director did not, to his enormous credit, smirk even slightly.

When the questions were over, the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist to whom I am married and I kissed goodbye to our new friends and tripped out into the ever-cooling Montreal air.  "Hello", said  the histopathologist, shaking my hand. "As a veterinary research histopathologist, I wondered where you would like to have dinner."  "Well", I said, "as an unemployed marketing and /or advertising (delete as appropriate) freelance consultant type thing, I do not mind." (We went here and had soup and salad and steak and frites, oh my.)

The next morning, I cooked for a friend's party. In the afternoon, we went to see Inception and did not drink a bottle of Vitamin Water, which cost $4 and tasted like bison wee.  Inception was extremely funny and we laughed and laughed the whole way through.  I recommend you go, but only if you get a free ticket.  (One of the best bits is where a scientist makes a sleeping draught that that somehow manages to knock you out for a week whilst "not interrupting your inner ear function". Believe me. Much much funnier than it sounds.)

After the cinema we went to the bookshop, which spent over 23 minutes trying to drive us out back out into the Montreal night with a cunning combination of awkwardly-placed Céline Dion biographies, incomprehensible gift cheeseboards and Michael Bublé, the Canadian housewives' favourite, singing "Desperado" by the Eagles through the 'soundsystem'.  I bought Daphne du Maurier novels, and the histopathologist, a book about science. 

Later that day, we went to a late Thanksgiving dinner. I entered carrying baskets of muffins and sprouts and meringues in my delicate monkey hands.  We ate the Thanksgiving food and then we played a game that we only realised was a drinking game after we'd stopped playing it called "What the F*ck" (their coy asterisks). It involved reading out questions in a book and then arguing in a lively style about important topics like whether would rather lose your right arm or your left leg.  I am, as it happens, quite a fan of this style of questioning*, but even I fell silent when confronted with these two beauties.

 Here they are, reproduced in full, for you to enjoy (and ponder!): 

Question 1

Would you rather receive a phone call from:

 a) the mayor of your local town; or 

b) Satan

Question 2

What would you rather wrestle in straw bales with?  

a) a trained and oiled Sumo wrestler; or 

b) a pony.

And with that, I say: 

Pip "Satan, obv" Pip

NWM

* "Who do you like more? Me or the cat?" "What's your favourite, bread or cheese?" "Of what you have done today, what has been your favourite bit?" "Who's your favourite?" "If you had to decide between biscuits or cake, which one would it be?" "What's more likely, ghosts or homeopathy?". Etc. 

I receive a letter from a neighbour

WARNING: I am obsessed with noisy neighbours and how fucking irritating they are. This is probably quite boring unless you also find noisy neighbours annoying and/or enjoy a poorly-written ill-focused rant.  If you do not, I would come back tomorrow, when I will be doing something else  - probably involving a biscuit and/or a Golden Eagle. Perhaps both. 



Either I am surprisingly intolerant, or I have been blessed with shite neighbours. First up there was Twat Boy in Brixton, swiftly followed by his Amsterdam twin, the clog-dancing sexyboy De Twat. The neighbours in the Quebec countryside are so far away from us that we can only just hear the tinkling of their miniature watermill water feature over the roar of passing Harley owners, so they are OK.

In Montreal, however, we are blessed with two of the most gigantic fuckwits ever to draw breath; these knob-ends live below us with two annoying dogs (bored and badly trained), and a propensity to get all their screamingly boring friends out in the "yard" to "drink beer" under our bedroom window at 4am. When they are not doing that, they are having screaming matches; he is the most boring little man, and she a screaming Mexican underwear designer, so you can imagine what that's like.

Next to us live two artistic types. They have just moved in with their daughters. The husband is nice. He is an actor and director with eyes pointing in different directions and eventful hair.  The wife lowers her eyes when we come out of the door and does not say hello; sometimes she does work for a place "where spectators become engaged citizens through the power of theatre". I do not think we would have a lot in common.  The daughters are children, and are as children are.

They have just started doing a lot of building work. If I was a normal person with a job and out all day, and not someone aimlessly waiting day after day for my Canadian residency to come through whilst 90% of my friends are skipping about on another continent (yes, I am bored, so bored in fact that I am about to slip into the Slough of Despond), I would be out all day and therefore not here to listen to:

• banging, endless banging
• knocking on the back door (only accessible if you come through the downstairs garden and up the stairs, i.e. very difficult to do unless you are a burglar), revealing a wild-eyed building contractor whose accent I do not understand asking me if he can carry his logs up our staircase;
• banging and ringing on the front door, revealing a sad-eyed young chap asking me if it is my BMW and/or truck blocking in his green van, and if it is not, would I mind knocking on the neighbour's door every 10 minutes or so to check if they are back to deliver a message on his behalf?

But I am in, and I have to listen to it, and it is a bit annoying.  But yesterday I saw the man with the eventful hair. He was charming. Apologetic.  Sympathetic. Absolutely clear that should the noise be desperately intrusive, we should phone him immediately and tell him.    It was nice and we had a friendly and understanding neighbourchat.

That was enough, as it happens. But then the letter from the wife! The lady helping people get engaged through theatre!  My.  The problem is this. The letter is absolutely correct. It is polite, it is clear, it is friendly. But I am not pre-disposed to like her, and it is affecting my ability to read her letter with reasonable eyes:

"You may have heard a bit of noise coming from our  house over the past two days.  I apologize for the dusturbance.  Al and I (and our two daughters E and B) have embarked on a renovation project that may last as long as two months."

Their daughters are about 8 and 5. I am not sure they have opinions about for e.g. the placing of joists and girders. (Talking of joists and girders, here is a joke.)  Is this not a bit fey? I am not going to be sympathetic to fucking massive amounts of noise because E and B are 'involved'.

"Our contractor, D, works from 7.30am - 4.30pm Monday to Friday. I am afraid that between now and Christmas there will be a fair amount of banging, sawing, etc ... coming from our house during those times."

Yes. It is a fair amount. 7.30 is legal in Quebec so even though it is fucking ridiculous, there isn't much I can do about it.  It is so loud, and so violent, that it makes things fall off my kitchen counter.  I have no need for an alarm clock.  Christmas? 

"Again, I apologize ro any inconvenience this may cause you and I invite you to communicate with me or with my husband A if you ever feel that the work is having a particularly negative impact on your life."

I do not know what to do with this.  It feels passive aggressive, but maybe it is not.  Maybe it is just very polite and slightly formal (and a bit la-la, but then she does engage citizens in the power of biscuits via the jizz of theatre for a living).  What I actually want to say is: "Get it, absolutely no problem, hope your new bedroom is very nice - but can you just let me know how long the REALLY loud stuff is going to go on for, 'cos then I can piss off to the country and get away from it."  But can I? I do not know.

Pip "not really a moral dilemma" Pip

NWM

I show you some things

It is raining in Montreal today. Winter's coming, even if the odd improbably-coloured leaf is still hanging on for dear life, and even though the temperature is still a reasonable 7 degrees. It'll drop to -3 tonight and that is what tells me that it is time to out MonkeyMother's "Special Cocoa", which is 60% cocoa and 40% Cognac (or rum, if you're feeling piratical).

 There will be snow soon, that much is sure, and it will soon be so cold that going outside without mittens (not gloves, mittens) would mean your hands would just snap and fall off on the floor, like that, leaving you looking like the chap on the left there.

When we were away on our grand tour (which I know so many of you followed, your loving mouths open with amazement and joy), my friend Miss Li stayed in our flat. She left it (far) more tidy than she found it, and left (amongst other things like a fully-stocked fridge, homemade biscuits, fruit and chocolate) a present so strange and so lovely that I keep looking at it and wondering if, secretly, it might be the best present I have ever been given.

So it makes sense, here is what she wrote on the card (and warning: the photo doesn't do it justice - phone rather than camera):

"From my heart to yours ... vintage watch part containers filled with a watch part and star ... in the Chinese Origami world these are lucky stars ... watch gears represent time ... three different sizes of containers represent big to small moments in your life ... all together, wishing you luck all the time and any time."

And here is another lovely thing I am happy I can look at every day.  I bought it in Hastings with my dear friends L&S.  L says he knows that the poem is without looking it up; I haven't worked it out yet - if you do, let me know, and no cheating; you can work out "roseate" which would probably be enough to find it online, but that would be cheating, deffo.  (I can't remember what these are called - L knew but I didn't write it down.) Anyway, it was made in 1842, and I particularly like the first picture of the little carriage going through the arch.

There we are then. Pretty things for a rainy day.  

In other news, I made some Apple and Banana Bread out of the very dusty, very 80s Cranks cookbook I found on my shelf last night.  It is quite amusing if you make it in a cake tin; cross between banana bread and real bread. Toasts well an' all. Yes. (I used pear instead of apple and added a chopped up pear. Nice.) Bit out focus, this, and the sugar monster is making itself known in the background, but still, you'll get the gist:

Pip "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" Pip

NWM

I observe some local attractions

You are very lucky! You know it and I know it. Why? Because I have decided to share with you (via the power of the photograph) some of the amazing attractions available to me, my husband, the inhabitants of the village in rural Quebec we call our "occasional home", and any visitors to the area.   (I am hoping to photograph the ostrich hotdog at some point over the next couple of days. And the face in the bush.)

If your French is not 'up to snuff', I am happy to reveal that this sign translates as "The Squash Interpretation Centre".

In other news, today I am 41.   Things do not appear to have changed much since 2008; I still find myself puzzled that my belly button is where it is and not where I thought it was. So far ageing is going OK, i.e. I do not care about it as am already saggy, and I've only got one grey hair (in my right eyebrow).

There are few wrinkles, but I must confess to being very troubled about one thing, and that is the apparent emergence of a crêpey bosom, esp. the skin above my enbonpoint and in the bit in the 'crevasse of pleasure', as Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen once called it (in my dreams).

It is worse in the morning when I have been sleeping on my side; I think the sheer weight of bosom sort of pulls it about a bit. Anyway, apparently Botox is good for it so although I won't be stuffing Botox in my forehead, I may be stuffing it down my cleavage - unless you, my adoring readers and/or fans, have any homegrown tips. I am already:

- putting sun block on my exposed chest (and face) when strolling around outside in the sun;
- putting moisturiser on my neck and chest now instead of just my gurning monkey face;
- wearing appropriately supportive 'underwear', costing about twelve million pounds per rigging.

Come on then! What have you got?

So. Middle age. Here it is, properly, looking at me in the face and lightly suggesting I invest in an anti-ageing eyecream. I suppose the days of chewing gum in the ladygarden are well and truly over. Instead I must turn my fading blue eyes to the future: a future full of mystifyingly thick black hair (on my face, despite over one thousand pounds spent on laser hair removal), wrinkled bosoms and teeth falling out on the floor unexpectedly.

On the other hand, I wouldn't be 20 again for all the bloody tea in China. What I have lost in elasticity and memory function I have gained in the sure knowledge that:

1. No amount of watching the phone, self-criticism, plucking hair, waxing, hairdos, new dresses, fancy sex-moves, not eating too much in front of someone else, analysis of every word said, in-depth discussion with friends for over 12 hours with 12 bottles of wine, pretending you like music you don't, pretending you like films you don't, new pants, etc makes much difference. If it's going to work it's going to work.  What you said last Wednesday isn't why he hasn't called. He hasn't called because he doesn't want to. One day someone will want to _____________(fill in the blank as appropriate) even if you are having a bad day, smell slightly of hamsters and are sitting in your pants watching "Location, Location, Location" eating fishfingers and peas.
   
2. I am not sure that this stuff about not sleeping with each other on the first date is true.  It has not, shall we say, made much difference to me and about 65% of the loved up peeps I know. Horses for courses mind you, but you get my point.
   
3. 99% of the time 99% of people are thinking about themselves, not you, so don't worry about it so much (whatever "it" is), as it is unlikely that anyone else either noticed or cares.  This is not to say the world is uncaring and awful. Anything but.
   
4. If in doubt, just ask yourself if it (whatever "it" is) makes you happy.
   
5. And finally, and most importantly: if you can stay non-working in your heart, do it.  Your life will be immeasurably better.

Pip pip!

NWM

I am still back in Canada, but am thinking about Cambridge (and a bit of Bedford) and London

I am dragging my feet.  "The only thing I really regret", I say, looking at my feet rather than at the keenos in college scarves, "is not applying to Oxford or Cambridge."

"Would it really have made such a difference to the course of your life?", says my sensibly rational uber-qualified 5-degreed research scientist husband.  "Well, I'd have had different friends, for starters. Which would have been bad, come to think of it.  And it's prettier", I say, waving my arm at King's College Chapel.  "You've seen York campus.  Hideous compared to all ... this".   "Prettier", he says, adjusting his knapsack*.  "Is that a reason to choose an academic institution?".  "Yes", I say. "I like pretty things."

My best friends from school went to Cambridge. I didn't work hard enough and only** got 2 As and 2 Bs in my A-levels, so I probably wouldn't have got in even if I'd tried. I didn't get into Durham which, to this day, remains a vast and often forgotten blessing ("Do you play hockey?" "No". "Are you happy with the idea of being in a womens' college?" "No". "Are you quoting the notes from the Arden edition?" "No"), so I ended up at York and was stupidly happy for three years. I  still remember very clearly, aged 18, picking up the phone to call home and thinking: I am miles away from everything, and everything can start again. It did and it didn't, but I made friends I still have and I do not regret a second of it and even though (yet again) I didn't work hard enough, I remember writing something about Astrophel and Stella and chewing a pen until it exploded on my chin and thinking: Oh. My brain works, how nice.

It didn't last, of course.  These days, I earn money (when I am working) doing advertising and marketing type things which, despite the  protestations of all the young people doing degrees in Communications Media Jizz and Celebrity PR at the University of the West of Arsebiscuit are not (I repeat not) 'academic' subjects.  Still, it is amusing, and it affords me enough time to lie on the floor wondering if it is too late to do an MA in Biscuit Theory at McGill.  (So saying I dislike the opinionated young, so it is probably better if I stay away.)

Anyway, Cambridge.  Pretty.  Very.  You have seen it all before a million times.  King's College Chapel quite extraordinary and very secular; more Tudor than God.  Quite small, though, is Cambridge, with a very high scarf-per-inhabitant ratio.

You may not have seen Kettle's Yard, though.  It is lovely, lovely, lovely and worth the trip to Cambridge to see.  Smallish gallery, but much more interesting (to me anyway) was the house of the chap who set it up, Jim Ede, who was a curator at the Tate in the 50s. I can't begin to describe it but do look at the site and the link; suffice to say (assume Estuarine twang) that I will never think of pebbles in the same way again.

After Cambridge, we went to Bedford to see our friends and their children, our godchildren. Puppy cake was eaten and there were not enough candles to say 'Happy Birthday', so the cake said "Yipy" instead. Much better.

The next day: to London. I drove my husband to the airport and spent a couple of days in London up to no good, making ham sandwiches in Battersea and eating preposterously nice food and watching The Inbetweeners (finally) and sleeping.  It was nice.

Then Friday came, and with it an oddly pointless Premium Economy seat behind two ghastly children who shouted and played with the lights whilst their stupid parents sat, slack-mouthed and headphoned, in front of "Sex and the City 2", oblivious to the tuts and furious stares of the successful small-to-medium-sized entrepreneurial businessmen around them.

Anyroad up, that is it. I am back in Canada and my travels are over (for the time being).  But before I go, let me ask you: have you ever noticed that people in Business Class often wear jackets a bit like this?  And have strange hair? And also: do you want to cry hot tears of rage when you see  a CHILD in business class? I know I do.

Pip "Yipy" Pip

NWM


*It had cognac and faine waine in it
** It was 1987 and I went to THAT sort of school.