Yikes.

I have been forced to commemorate my thirtieth birthday by making a very adult decision (though calling my parents several times in tears means I haven't yet learned to make adult decisions in an adult fashion). I have just done the first pro-active thing EVER in my career, and possibly my life. I've turned down a job.

Big deal, right? Well, it IS, since I've never done it before. I've always floated along, taking whatever comes my way. I've been lucky in the opportunities that HAVE come my way. But this round of job-hunting is the first prolonged career-related challenge I've ever had. (Other than that one dreadful summer in high school during which both Tim Horton's and Value Village had to let me down gently. Possibly because of my baseball analogies.) It's the first time things haven't come relatively easily, and the first time I've had to think hard about what I want to do long-term, since I'm no longer fresh out of school.

So when, after having been turned down for a couple of positions, I interview with a good company, with nice people and a location that means I can walk to work, and those people really like me, my bruised ego just wants to go where the love is, even though the job is kind of entry-level and involves the parts of my last job that I liked the least. I'm a cautious and insecure person. It's hard for me turn down the sure thing in hopes of getting something I feel more passionate about. Something that allows more hands-on involvement with the material, more creative opportunities. Something that is closer to, or more likely to lead to, a dream job.

But I took a risk. I turned down what could well be the only job I'll get in the next six months. I thought it would be a fast and straightforward phone call, but they tried to change my mind. Once I'd opened the door, though, I had to keep my resolve and back out or I would only look more like a flake. So I did. And now I feel ill. I don't know if I've taken a step toward becoming an adult with a sense of direction, or whether I've made an enormous mistake.

Evening on the river

PSA

There are 100 days until the UN conference on small arms, and there's a campaign going on through Amnesty International, Oxfam, and the International Action Network on Small Arms to push for an international Arms Trade Treaty. Go on over and take a look, and if you're so inclined, add your face. They only need 100,000 more to reach their goal of 1,000,000. (My ugly mug is in there somewhere.)

Million Faces

Further on the subject of guns:
I've been reading about the psycho weapon-stockpiling guy who shot and killed six people (and ultimately himself) at a party in Seattle this past weekend. The shotgun he used, designed to cause maximum damage to victims, is apparently the weapon of choice for "home protection" in the States. A gun shop owner quoted in the Seattle Times argued that the availability of guns had nothing to do with the shootings: "If I kill you with this calculator, is Office Depot going to be responsible for killing you?" he asked. "I think not." The abuse of logic and willful ignorance is breathtaking. And, frankly, enraging.

When endorphins are not enough

Last night I went out for soccer training with a local club. It was quite scary, and not just the dark alley I walked down when trying to find the field. As the “newbie” I had all the same insecurities of going to a party at which I knew nobody, and I felt great pressure to prove myself. I needn’t have worried, however, as I distinguished myself right away by nearly passing out in the warm-up run. Then, to my horror, some extremely fit and enthusiastic guy ran up and announced we’d be starting the drills. DRILLS? I haven’t run soccer drills since I was nineteen! Nobody mentioned drills! To me, “soccer training” means going out for an easy scrimmage followed by lots of beer, as everybody on my Toronto team can confirm. But there’s nowhere to hide in a soccer drill. You can’t stop to walk, you can’t sub off, you can’t lie down on the field.

The first drill involved everyone running around continuously (!), half the group with a ball and half without, and if you didn’t have a ball you had to call for a pass every time a whistle was blown. I didn’t know anyone’s name, and quickly discovered that “you in the shorts!” and “you with the ponytail!” caused nothing but confusion. People took off layers as they got warmer, so suddenly the bright orange fleece I’d learned to associate with “Katie” or the navy sweatpants that meant “Leslie” disappeared, sending me back to square one. And if you stopped running, you got yelled at! Everyone learned MY name pretty fast.

For drill number two – practicing getting away from a defender and looking for a pass – the trainer made the mistake of using me in the demo. On the fourth attempt to show everyone how it was done (yes, it took that many before I began to get the hang of it), I completely wiped out in the kind of position that elicits involuntary “ouches” from bystanders. I wanted to be swallowed up by the Astroturf. I eventually discovered that the best way to get away from the trainer dude (he was the defender marking me) was to step on his foot really hard, deliver a hip-check while he was immobilized, and then flee to the open space. What, this isn’t hockey?

By the time the drills finished I was practically coughing up blood. We were allowed some water, and I thought to myself, “Right, it’s finally over, I’ve survived, and I’ll never ever do this again.” THEN the scrimmage started. I managed to ignore the ominous pains in my knees, ankles, lower back, feet, shoulders, hell, EVERYWHERE, and actually made some good plays. I was feeling pretty chuffed when the practice ended, having redeemed myself somewhat. But then, when my brain was starved of oxygen and everything was a blur, a woman shoved a piece of paper and a pen at me and forced my frostbitten fingers to clumsily sign, and I realized too late that my showing-off in the scrimmage had the heinous result of convincing them I should join the team and do this EVERY WEEK.

Today I hurt all over. And they’d better finish those bathroom tiles SOON because I really need a shower!

-------------------------
This past weekend we went for a walk on the Port Meadow. It was windy, and people were sailing on the Thames River. It looked odd from a distance …

In praise of endorphins

Since I’m still in job-hunting purgatory, my days lack the structure I need in order to use my time productively. I don’t like scheduling every minute of the day, and I need more down-time than some people. But I get less done when I’m less busy. And if I don’t have an urgent reason to get going in the morning, it takes me hours of partial lucidity before I’m ready to tackle my to-do list. I need the jolting shock that comes from groggily peeking at my alarm clock and realizing I should have been out of bed half an hour ago. That was pretty much how every day of my working life began. It created the necessary momentum to career through the day’s tasks in panic mode. I know it’s not healthy, but with me it’s either that or a state of marginal consciousness and minimal activity. No in-between.

The one thing that has given me a shred of normalcy is the gym. I’ve joined one that’s only a five-minute walk from our flat. It doesn’t measure up to my last couple of gyms, but it’s not too bad. I never thought I’d get into weight training, being more of a team-sports person, but, inspired by my friend Natasha’s remarkable shoulders and the fact that once you figure out the equipment it’s very escapist, I’m a total convert. It’s nice just to focus on your body, and not worry about the problems running around in your mind. And do you ever see results! (Wow, I sound like an infomercial for BowFlex or something.) Gosh darn it, if I can’t be thin, I may as well be strong. I got the first incredulous look in a while from a man surprised at how much weight I can lift/press. I'm back in form! If only I could find a palatable protein bar in this country.

Maybe increased muscle mass is interfering with my thinking, though. All of a sudden I seem to be using a lot of jock-talk in the interviews I’ve had with recruiters and prospective employers. Like “pinch-hit” or “keeping my eye on the ball” or “out of the ballpark” (though not, thankfully, “giving 110%” – yet), and (North) Americanisms such as “the buck stops here.” I don’t normally talk like that, at least not when I'm trying to impress somebody. It’s as if encountering proper Britishness brings out the colonial roughneck in me. Things just fly out of my mouth and I have a sort of out-of-body experience, wondering, in horrified awe, “What am I SAYING?” I’m also currently in the perplexing position of hearing from recruiters that I should be applying for higher-up jobs (the kind where “the ideal candidate will have a law degree, a medical degree, and two years of teaching experience” – I exaggerate only slightly) when I haven’t yet been deemed worthy of the lower-down jobs I’ve already applied for. Probably because of my baseball analogies.

Anyway, we’ve had some good news. The success in our household has won a much-deserved research scholarship. It’s refreshing when talent and hard work are justly rewarded, and I’m very proud of him.

Things got even more exciting today when the tiles in the bath buckled with a loud crack while I was enjoying a nice warm shower. Flashback to Roxton Road! In some small way I’ve missed the regular calamity of living in an apartment which could collapse with the next rainfall, with pipes that quiver and groan ominously above your head and neighbours who may or may not be certifiably insane. Makes you feel alive, you know?

But we still had to scrape our plates

We had dinner at Balliol College t'other night. Anyone else who regularly attended the Leonard cafeteria at Queen's will share my awe. The place was done up in mood lighting, the tables and floorboards bore the patina of centuries, portly dead white men stared down at you disapprovingly from portraits (except for a rather rakish young toff, the only one with hair that wasn't white, who looked a bit like a young Mordecai Richler from where I was sitting), and a giant stained-glass window faced a majestic pipe organ on the opposite wall. And this was only the junior dining hall. At the end of the room you can see the high table, where the chosen few are apparently served a far better meal than that available to the serfs below. I'd worry about being pelted with mushy peas, if I were them. Especially those with their backs to the floor.



I have to share my dad's response to the post in his honour:
"Nice to know that by chipping away at it, the pun would find a plaice in our hearts. Cod it be any batter? (I bet you smelt that coming, huh?)"
I have learned from a master.
(Mom, I'm sorry for yet again offending your refined sensibilities ...)

We're in the city

We took the train into London on Saturday. The only hassle was getting to the station in Oxford, since the transit system here is bafflingly incomplete. The closest we can get to the train station is a ten-minute walk away. Anyway, it's otherwise a short and easy trip for weekend jaunts. (I should acknowledge that it would NOT feel like a short and easy trip every weekday morning and evening, Christina!)

We've suddenly started missing the big city atmosphere ... things like markets, varieties of inexpensive restaurants, streets full of people, tall buildings. Oxford is lovely, but kind of slow. And now, after only one day, I have fallen head over heels in love with London again. It is reportedly the largest city in Europe, which means it's pretty much impossible to explore it all. You can walk for miles and miles and miles, and absorb the subtle and not-so-subtle differences between the various neighborhoods. Like experiencing several cities in a day. We got off the train at Paddington, and had great Indian food in Bayswater. Then we walked through Hyde Park, past Marble Arch, along Oxford Street, past the posh shops on Bond Street and Molton Street, down Carnaby Street, through Soho, Chinatown, Leicester Square, Covent Garden (we had dinner nearby in perhaps the tiniest Thai restaurant ever), and ended at Charing Cross, where we hopped onto the Tube to return to Paddington. We didn't shop, we didn't go to museums, we just walked. That was all I wanted to do, and even though it was incredibly cold it was a great day. The city didn't feel nearly as touristy as I expected even in the most touristy of areas (and yes, I was a tourist myself, I admit it). At Covent Garden, there were bachelorette parties and families and couples on dates and people reading the newspaper ... just like any other bustling city on a Saturday. The main thoroughfares were packed with people, but then you turned a corner and found a quiet side street. I felt particularly at home among the street vendors, dingy used record stores and chip shops in parts of Soho, because it reminded me a bit of Kensington Market in spirit. Gentrified Kensington Market, anyway. But we only covered a minute fraction of London, and there are really cool neighborhoods all over the city. Those who have lived or spent time in London, what are your favorite off-the-beaten-track areas? (Or on-the-beaten-track ... I'm not a snob!)

Perhaps if I lived there, in a shoebox-sized flat a lengthy tube ride away from where I had to go to work every day, I'd feel a little less romantic about London. But right now I'm looking forward to going back.

Anyway, here are some photos.





Yes, that was an intentional Saint Etienne reference in the title (they are always my soundtrack to London). Lucky Soul are being touted as their successors to the London pop crown. I can think of a few people who probably heard them months ago and already have tickets to their show at Lee's! Heh heh. Just kidding ... I don't think they're touring yet.

This one's for my dad

I found a sole mate in London!



(you might need to click on the photo to enlarge it so you can read the smaller print)

Retirement's just around the corner

First, I have to tell you about my bizarre experience yesterday at the post office. I’ve been told I have an indeterminate, “soft” accent, and I’ve been asked if I’m Australian twice, as well as whether I’m from New Zealand, Ireland, or South Africa. Anyway, the postal employee asked if I'm Scottish (!). I said no, that I am in fact Canadian. The otherwise prim and proper-looking woman burst into alarming laughter. She said, “Canada! Ah, love it, great stuff, West Coast, great vibe …” etc. etc. while miming what I, in my innocence, can only assume to be the smoking of a joint, and nodding at me excitedly in a “wink, wink, nudge, nudge” way. In front of a long line of people waiting to post letters. I laughed nervously, agreed that, yes, the West Coast is great, and then apologetically explained that I’m actually from Ontario. She dropped her hand, grimaced, and said, “Oh. I don’t like Toronto.” And then she stamped my TV license and told me to have a nice day. It was surreal.

I don’t know what it is about school uniforms, but they make primary-aged children so darned adorable. I think it must be the juxtaposition between ties, crisply pleated skirts and pressed slacks, and the cowlicks, missing teeth and mischievous grins. When I came home today I heard someone shouting at me and looked up to see two boys leaning out of the skylight of the next house. Normally when children shout at me I assume they’re making fun and become paralyzed with self-consciousness. For all their cuteness, kids are a bit scary. But today was a good hair day, so I spiritedly yelled hello right back. They responded, endearingly, “This is MTV Europe coming at you! Taking your requests!” I tried to think of the most boring, middle-aged, repulsive-to-preteens song imaginable. Correctly, I guessed something by James Blunt, and was rewarded by a duet of fake vomiting noises. It made my day.

Last night I attended a talk on careers in publishing. I hadn’t realized that it was intended for Oxford undergraduates until the third or fourth incidence of someone saying, “I mean, by the time you’re THIRTY,” followed by snickers and knowing glances among my fellow attendees. Apparently by the time you’re thirty you need to have had at least three publishing jobs, to have worked for at least one large “blue chip” publisher to prove you know “best practice,” and to have established your exact area of specialization. So, yeah, I’ve pretty much done everything wrong. And now I’m over the hill! Hah. I enjoyed the look of astonished pity on the face of the nineteen-year-old undergraduate I befriended when I announced I would be thirty in two weeks. At least I must not outwardly have appeared to be TEN YEARS OLDER (ouch!) than everyone else in the room. This is the secret of eternal youth: wear Converse sneakers.

I wanted to justify my advanced years by explaining that I didn’t enter university until nineteen (not uncommon in Ontario back in the day), and that undergraduate degrees are four years in Canada, not three, and that I did a master’s degree so I didn’t even START work until I was nearly twenty-five … but what’s the point. Some of my long-suffering law-student friends will gnash their teeth upon hearing that there are twenty-three-year-old lawyers here. And yet, Oxford undergrads seem to be under a lot of pressure. That second-year student I met told me she was stressed because she had been told by her college to start figuring out when she wanted to get married, when she wanted to have kids and how many, and how she would incorporate that into the career she should be choosing right now.* At not even twenty years old! How can you even begin to know those things? I STILL don’t. And, my god, I’m practically THIRTY!



*Do they tell male students to consider marriage and children, I wonder?

Whine and roses

Today was a tough one, and I had my semi-annual fit of "I'm giving it all up and running away to harvest vegetables on an organic farm." (It used to be the circus until my pre-arthritic knees ended any future as an acrobat.) But Jeff knows that flowers and food rarely fail to lift my mood, so he brought home some begonias to brighten our monochromatic flat and later achieved perfection with a glorious chunk of seared tuna. I'm a lucky girl.



Ignore the indifferent plating and terrible food photography, and just admire the colour (and imagine the melt-in-your-mouth texture and spicy sauce) of that tuna. I know of a few restaurant chefs who could use a lesson!

In happier news, it's International Women's Day! Commemorated by the United Nations on March 8 of every year. Worth celebrating, I'd say.

T'would be a cold night should you forget your PIN

Last fall, when I told acquaintances that I'd be moving to England, many recalled the phenomenon of coin-operated electricity and heating, and remarked, jokingly, that they hoped it was no longer the norm. Well, you'll be pleased to know that you can now put money on a microchipped "key" at your local Co-op, which you then insert into the electrical unit. Perhaps this is the reason one British bank recently considered destroying a mountain of 50 p coins that were regarded as surplus.

Thanks for the comments, by the way. I like the sense of still being in touch (and it makes it look like I have lots of friends!). If anyone else is starting a blog, or has been keeping one under the radar, I'd be happy to add a link. Anyway, is everybody watching the Oscars tonight? I've never been particularly keen on them, but now that we don't get the broadcast I feel the absence acutely. What's the gossip, folks?

It's been a while since I've nearly died from laughter, but revisiting McSweeney's lists on this Oscar-less evening just shaved a few years off my life. (Click on the link and scroll down for endless fun, if you've got some time to waste. An off-kilter sense of humour will help.)

Poisoned Meringue.
(See "Methods other than song by which one can be killed softly")

Then again, Jeff didn't think they were that funny, so maybe I'm just giddy from all this grammar cramming (gramming? That sounds like a drug reference) in preparation for a job interview involving a copy-editing test. Yikes. Some concluding thoughts, apropos my recent studies:

"Devotees of grammatical studies have not been distinguished for any very remarkable felicities of expression."
--Amos Bronson Alcott

"Would you convey my compliments to the purist who reads your proofs and tell him or her that I write a sort of broken-down patois which is something like the way a Swiss waiter talks, and that when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will stay split and when I interrupt the velvety smoothness of my more or less literate syntax with a few sudden words of bar-room vernacular, that is done with the eyes wide open and the mind relaxed and attentive."
--Raymond Chandler (to his publisher)

Celebrity encounter

I've just bought "sunflower spread." I sure hope that means margarine.

Upon arriving home, I glanced at my receipt only to discover that I had apparently been served by Draco Malfoy. What can this mean?

The neighborhood, Friday afternoon, 4:30 pm.