I am returned from Austin

I am coming round to North America.  People are (on the whole) very polite, and when they ask you how you are, they are actually interested. Also, when they say that they think something is "awesome", they probably mean it.  I like the enthusiasm, even if I can do without the whooping.  Oh, I know there are cockmonkeys here, as there are everywhere (e.g. people on the telly shouting "Go USA!!!" in bars the night Bin Laden was killed), but I am now a non-subscriber to the supercilious condencension of the Europeans who believe that "America" is all the same, in the same way that some Americans believe that "Europe" is all the same. 

Anyhoo.  Austin's good. I was there for a week. Within ten minutes of arriving, I had been offered a beer, a squeeze of a Lakeland Terrier and a gypsy cab. Brilliant. I had to travel back to Montreal via Vermont, but what I thought would be a womantic weunion with my husband turned sour when we were woken at 7am by a man (apparently organising some sort of local history grouping) shouting in reception. Sourness turned to disappointment when the "delicious breakfast sourced from locally sourced ingredients" (fuck's sake) was replaced by a "Flapjack Buffet".  

In another amusing linguistic twist, it turns out that Flapjacks in Vermont are not biscuits involving oats and syrup, but pancakes. Pancakes served by ladies the same group as Shouting Man. Ladies who told us that there were no eggs.  Ladies who looked like they were shouted at a lot by Shouting Man, and were tired of it, tired to their very bones.  I did not like it, the lack of breakfast.  I did not like being charged all the money for our room, despite the rubbishness of the early morning alarm and the breakfast that was not there, and despite the one-eyed Labrador. The girl with the stupid face was apologetic enough, but it was a matter of principle, that $165, and matters of principle are things I find myself talking more and more about as I get older. In five years' time I will be insufferable. 

Here are some pictures. The beginning is Austin sorts of things, then there are photos of the floods in Vermont. The floods that did not excuse the lack of eggs and the Shouting Man. 

 

Beautiful tea bought by the English ladies I was sitting next to on the flight from Newark to Austin.  Seven British pounds, apparently.

Riff Randall Panty Explosion

On the Cinco di Mayo, I drank too much beer and wine with my esteemed colleagues and, weaving back home down South Congress, walked past a bar. I heard some good music. I paid $6. I went in. It was worth all the money in the world because in it was a band called Greyhounds. They are in London this week, I think. You should go and see them if you can.

Pip "I have ordered some cowboy boots" pip

NWM

I am a Permanent Resident

"They call you in", said my friend Mary, "and a man says something in French, then the same thing in English, then they play the national anthem. Then you get your card."

There was no national anthem, and I did not get my card. The appointment was at 8.15am; we sat for a few minutes, and then we were called in. "Do you still wish to sponsor Non-Workingmonkey?", said the lady. "Yes", said the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist with whom I share my life (and fleas). I signed something; he signed something.

The lady gave me a bit of paper , congratulated us, and told me that I cannot travel until I get the actual Permanent Residents' Card. "Four to six weeks", she said, "but you can drive over the American border with that paper. Just don't try and fly. You won't be able to come back in."

Still puzzled, we left to celebrate, and by 9.23am we were drinking coffee in a shopping mall and eating un-festive, faintly tubular muffins. "Thanks for moving here", said the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist. "That's OK", I said, and then I went to work.

I have a job, but couldn't even say the word "job" until I was legal, otherwise I would have been posted back to England.  For my new job, I must travel to Austin tomorrow.  There will be photographs, and perhaps stories about BBQ and hats.

These are strange times, my friends. Strange times indeed. But most definitely not unpleasant times.

Pip "ya'll" pip

NWM

I do some Easter baking

I am not religious, although sometimes I have a sharp desire to go to a non-fluffy, guitar-free Church of England service (the Advent Parade at York Minster, for e.g.).  I do however like to celebrate the Baby Jesus (dead, alive, about to rise or risen) by baking: I like the stories that are in all the cakes and buns; the spices and the fruits and the ancient-ness of it all.

There was nothing particularly mystical about my hot cross buns, apart from the fact that they tasted ancient about 10 minutes after coming out of the oven. They were lukewarm and faintly irritated rather than hot and cross, and are destined to become the bread in a bread and butter pudding. (If you have never made them and wondered what that white stuff is that makes the cross, it is - most of the time - just flour and water.)  Here is a picture:

I was also grasped by a desperate desire to make a Simnel Cake, but couldn't find the bottom of my 20ins cake tin. Instead, I made these Simnel Cakelets (O how I hate that stupid "...lets" thing)  out of the Guardian, ignored the icing/marzipan animals/chocolate eggs thing and stole the marzipan balls thing off the original Simnel Cake recipe. Result: we have 11 small cakes to take chez the mother-in-law tomorrow.  (There were 12, but we ate Judas Iscariot.) Here they are:

It only remains for me to wish you a delightful long weekend, whether or not you will be exposed to marzipan balls.

Pip "Saffron in that?" Pip

NWM

I try to find a cleaning lady (or man)

I have just written the following email:  

"Our apt is like a dust bowl with 100 year old floorboards in which animals live. No joke. Husband put on shoes, went to work, was in car, thought O my shoe is a bit uncomfortable, took off his shoe, put it on the seat next to him and a mouse popped out. (He set it free.) Anyway I was looking for a cleaner and one of them used the attached picture to advertise her services. Basically if I hire her I get to wear a turban and get massaged by a cat. Massive WIN."

In other news, my series of Royal Looky-Likeys is going pretty well, even though I only have one. Here it is:

Cat in Melon Hat

HRH Queen Elizabeth II at the investiture of the Prince of Wales

Pip "That 11am start date isn't much use to the peoples of the Commonwealth on GMT -5!!" Pip

NWM

I will (officially) exist again some time after 8.15am next Thursday

I am ready for my questions. Here are the answers. You can play Jeopardy with them:

1. Ontario, Quebec, Newfoundland & Labrador, Prince Edward Island, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Alberta, British Columbia, Novia Scotia and New Brunswick (which I always forget). 
2. Northwest Territories, Nunavut, Yukon.
3. Michael Ignatieff!! Ha ha ha ha
4. 75%
5. 26,500,000 litres.
6. Constitution Act, 1967
7. Stephen Harper's massive crusted head-wig
8. Maman Dion
9. Joni Mitchell
10. Neil Young
11. Rush 
12. Bicameral.

Coming soon: I work and travel like a normal person.