I cannot blog

... Even though I would like to, because for some reason I have booked cottages and B&Bs without the internets for our holiday. iPhones are nice and that but not good for stuff with many words. And I making no comment about how many books I have read, etc.

I will try and post some photosnaps or something.

Pip pip!

NWM

I am back (briefly)

Hullo. I am not dead. I am just working.  It is quite fun but there is an awful lot of it, so I do it most of the time, e.g. at 6am in the morning and 10pm at night. On Monday, I am training some Chinese people via conference call at 9pm and at 7.30am on Wednesday, I am talking to a lady in "EMEA" (i.e. Europe, Middle East & Africa - all of which are very similar, I am sure you will agree.)

When I am not doing work, I am thinking about Ron Swanson, and really, that is all that matters.  When I am not thinking about Ron Swanson or work, I think about how on Wednesday night (10.45pm, Air Canada) we are leaving for London.

For one day I will yet again 'hang out' at the Canadian High Commission waiting for 4 hours for a temporary visa (because despite being a resident since 27 April 2011, the Canadian government are fuckwits and cannot send me the bit of plastic that allows me to fly in and out of Canada freely, like a free citizen of the world).  Last time I went it was pouring with rain, but they kept us all outside, me stuffed under my tiny lady umbrella like an elephant hiding under frisbee, and the man in front of me un-protected but for his quiff, which started to collapse after 23 minutes of drizzle.  They let us in, removed our computers and phones and left us in a waiting room with no clock and bars on the window with nothing to do but watch BBC1 on mute and wonder if we would ever get our passports back again.  We did, of course, and then I went to Montpellier where I stayed in a hotel that smelled of despair and drank lukewarm water out of a paper cup.

I am going to London because I am going on holiday.  Here is what we are doing:

Thursday: Canadian High Commission. Then a B&B. A nice one. That does not smell of despair.
Friday: Meet best friend for ladychitchat.
Saturday: Wedding. (Not mine.)
Sunday: Hangover. Dinner.
Monday: Pick up car in Kennington. Drive to North Wales.
Thursday: Go to Brecon Beacons.
Friday: Go to Bath.
Sunday: Go to Devon.
Monday: Go to Cornwall. Cycle about. Lost Gardens of Heligan. That sort of thing.
Thursday: Go to somewhere else.
Friday: Ditto.
Saturday: Not sure either.
Sunday: 10.50am. Fly back to Canada.

I am very fucking tired.  I hope I will sleep a lot. The other day, someone asked me where I was born and I couldn't remember.

What is going on out there in the world, apart from Cheryl Cole?

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Pip pip!

NWM

I think about accidents I have been in

1. Ripped the back off my heel jumping out of a camp bed whilst pretending to be a chicken. Unpleasant scarring, makes foot size larger  (age c.14)

2. Had fingers slammed in car door by little brother.  Faint scar on 4th finger of left hand. (c. 7)

3. Had bit of wood with old nail in accidentally whacked in face by little brother. Faint scar on top lip. (c. 5)

4. Made eardrum bleed by picking up telephone at the same time as clearing out ear with ear-bud. Sudden movement of arm/shoulder pushed ear-bud into ear. Blood came out.  Continuing oddness; suspect partially deaf. (22)

5. Horse rolled over Triumph Herald on Knightsbridge. Car write-off, horse fine, rider fine. (c. 7)

6. Fell off a horse onto my head. Hospital overnight. There were strawberries. No external damange. (c. 17)

7. Fell off a horse onto my arse. Bruised/cracked coccyx. Couldn't sit down for weeks. (c. 13)

8. Locked in a communal garden in Notting Hill, I climbed over wall (approx 12 feet high) and jumped off, landing on my right ankle. Could not walk for weeks. Should probably have had a cast and/or surgery.  Am missing a ligament in right foot. (17)

9. Balanced too much shopping on the already-crooked handlebars of my bike in Amsterdam and fell off, twisting right foot the other way. Could not walk for weeks. Even the physiotherapist gasped.  (37)

10. Burns on forearms and back of hands from years and years of thinking my hands are made of asbestos.  Many amusing pale, browny-pink scars from wrists to elbows.

11. Stabbed my hand with a pencil.  Faint grey dot embedded deep in palm of left hand. (7)

12. Cut same finger in same place three times. Now have wonky left index finger. (21 - present)


I am sure I will remember the rest in the morning. Until then:

Pip "OW" pip

NWM

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