An analog life

Still partying like it's 1999

2006-04-26

Brain cells rotting ...

I miss all my books that are back in Canada! I haven’t really read for weeks. I’ve been dabbling in newspapers and magazines, but I normally have a stack of books by my bed (as well as shelves of them in every room of the apartment), and I’m usually reading anywhere from four to six at a time. Depending on my mood I’ll pick up whichever appeals to me at that exact moment. If I’m settling on the couch for an extended loafing session, I’ll bring at least five different things to read. I really like being spoiled for choice. I am also the kind of reader who doesn’t bother with the ending of a book if I’ve already got the gist of it, and I will skim (or skip!) entire chapters. I think the habit was formed as a result of having to plough through so many unsolicited manuscripts and drafts of books-in-progress at my old job … when you read all day at work, you become very choosy about your recreational reading matter.*

I spent two hours browsing in Borders today. I couldn’t find the particular books I wanted, but my goodness, the whole “chick lit” phenomenon seems to be even bigger here than in North America. There were entire shelves of pastel books by authors I’d never heard of, between which cowered comparatively muted Penguin Classics and literary fiction. A good fifty percent of the entire fiction section appeared to be light pink, mint green, sunshine yellow, or lavender, with curlicued typefaces and kitschy “fabulous girl” artwork of women in sunglasses and stilettos applying lipstick at a café table. I’ve read The Devil Wears Prada, and I’ll probably read The Nanny Diaries in a moment of weakness. But most of those pink books are probably crap. (Those with titles including the words “Yummy” and “Mummy,” for example.) I did eventually choose a book, largely because Ian Rankin appears as a character. I’ll let you know how it is. Has anyone read anything lately that they really loved?

The reason I was looking for reading material is that I’m embarking on a short trip. I’d tell you more but given my recent propensity for mishap, I’m going to wait until I successfully navigate the planes, trains and automobiles involved. Be back soon!

* I felt guilty about this until I came across Daniel Pennac’s “Reader’s Bill of Rights” from Better Than Life, a short but inspiring book.

2006-04-24

Happy 35th! (wink, wink, nudge, nudge)

It’s my mom’s birthday today and I wish I were there to celebrate it with her. She has been unfailingly positive about this overseas move, and no matter how many worst-case scenarios I concoct she talks me down from the ledge. In fact, she has managed to find enthusiasm for just about everything I’ve ever done (with the possible exception of body piercing). I used to take this for granted, as kids do. But now I admire her energy and patience.

She has always been a pretty amazing woman. A few months ago a family friend went through his old slides and scanned them. Here’s one of my mom, demonstrating the effortless natural beauty I’ve always envied AND the ability to wear yellow, which I most certainly did not inherit. I’m not sure she has ever realized it (her shyness about being photographed is evident) but she could have been a model. Instead she was busy with a career as a pioneering computer programmer. She had to fight to get hired, because employers would sneer that, as a young woman, she’d just leave to have kids in a few years and it wasn’t worth training her. She always played squash against men because she wanted tougher competition. She was a fantastic sailor and skier and can still more or less match me on the weights at the gym. A few years ago she left me in the dust when we climbed a mountain in Quebec (though she did come back to make sure I was still alive). She used to make her own clothes, and if I were small enough to fit into them I’d be wearing them myself. After she took an auto mechanics course my dad came home from work to find her in the car with only her combat-boot-clad feet visible as she checked out the wiring under the dashboard. She still has hysterical fits of laughter and is great fun to share a bottle of wine with.

I’m getting to know my mom as a fellow adult rather than just as a parent. I love to hear about what she thought or did when she was my age, and she would have been exactly the kind of person I’d have wanted to hang out with. So I’m lucky that she has forgiven me for the teenage years and become one of my best friends.

Happy birthday, Mom!





(Also, happy birthday to Gaby, an inspiring woman whom I miss dearly, and Marvelous Marv, who looks better in a Hawaiian shirt than anyone else I know.)

2006-04-21

Hell's Bells!

I don’t think I’m a complete idiot, yet through a combination of cultural differences (yes, even here), lack of familiarity with the city, and perhaps OCCASIONALLY my own absentmindedness, I keep getting myself into situations where I want to be swallowed up by the earth. I could tell you about my humiliating stint as the world’s worst soccer linesperson, during which I tried to wear the flag and missed the most critical offside call of the game. Instead, I’ll regale you with last night’s adventures in bellringing.

Bellringing? Why, yes. I thought it might be a fun activity to try while living in Britain. So last night I arrived at a city-centre church for a beginner’s session, smiling in anticipation as I heard bells from above. A woman was just closing the main part of the church for the day. She pointed me to a door in one wall, and as I opened it she cut the lights and catapulted me into near darkness. The heavy door swung shut behind me and I was in the tiniest, narrowest, dankest little winding stone stairwell I’d ever been in, with midget-sized steps that could barely accommodate my aforementioned size-10 Converse sneakers, and I experienced momentary terror due to claustrophobia and vertigo. Talking to myself to calm my nerves I climbed and climbed and climbed, until I reached a landing and a door and … walked right into a surprised and annoyed group of seasoned ringers! I was at the wrong church! Saint this, Saint that, how many churches named after saints can there BE? I hustled down the stairs again as quickly as I dared, only to discover that I was LOCKED IN. I considered huddling at the door to wait until the group had finished ringing, and wondered whether that would be more pathetic or less pathetic than doing a walk of shame back up to interrupt them AGAIN and request that someone let me out. I chose the latter, since I had no idea how long they would be and the church was really creepy at night. It was about as mortifying an experience as you’d expect.

Finally liberated from a church in which I will never set foot again, I raced up the street to the right church, beet red in the face and cursing myself. There were no sounds of bellringing here, because, as I was told when met at the door, they muffle them for learners. Duh. When I reached the ringing room I was sent up a narrow, creaky aluminum ladder into the belfry to see how the bells work, with instructions like “now in order to get onto the next ladder you have to grab that piece of wood, edge along that precipice, swing from one arm while getting your leg up onto that plank NO DON’T LOOK DOWN!” Okay, of course I’m exaggerating, but while I was clinging a few storeys up a flimsy and completely vertical ladder I was told to reach out behind me to grab the clapper on an enormous bell and pull it towards me. I did so rather too vigorously, assuming ALL the bells were muted, and nearly dropped like a stone when an enormous DONGGGGGGGG! rang forth inches from my ears (and was surely heard in London). I could feel the ladder reverberating with the noise, and the faint sounds of yelling from down below. I edged back down the ladder with my teeth still rattling and was relieved to see they were laughing. However, the woman then told me that at first she thought I was a Laura, and she was so glad I was in fact a Moira because they already had so many Lauras it was becoming a pain. While I hesitated in confusion my chance to correct her passed, and when asked I muttered my name unintelligibly for the rest of the evening. Except for once when I forgot and spoke it clearly. I got a fishy stare from across the room, as if I had suddenly and obnoxiously decided to complicate the roster.

Bellringing is harder than I imagined. Kind of like learning to drive a manual transmission, it takes time to get the feeling of it, to know what needs to happen and when. And there are all kinds of possibilities for ridiculous accidents, like an errant length of rope getting caught on someone and hauling them up to the ceiling (you always sit with feet flat on ground and arms close to body when you’re not ringing), or the wooden part that keeps the bell from going around 360 degrees snapping and sending YOU hurtling upwards. I was told not to worry, that if it happens you just let go of the rope. But if waterskiing has taught me anything, it’s that my grip seizes up when disaster strikes (even as I’m being dragged along on my belly and inhaling half the lake). I stayed to watch as the experienced members arrived and did some proper ringing. They were nice people, and it sounded joyful. But as for the ringing itself, I’m not sure I quite get the appeal. (Ah ha ha ha! ApPEAL! Oh, I kill myself.)

2006-04-18

What goes with wine and conversation?

Cheese! I can't believe how much I love Stilton cheese! It all started with a heavenly pear and Stilton salad, and I just keep thinking of more things to put it on. I'm a fussy eater, meticulously mindful of expiration dates, and therefore generally repulsed by the idea of wilfully consuming mold. But somehow that odd, slightly metallic flavour has overcome my inhibitions. The only thing better than a fine Stilton? Oxford Blue, a local variant we've just discovered. Yum.

I hope everyone had a great Easter weekend. We wandered around the Magdalen College deer park (they still raise them to serve at High Table) and Christ Church meadow on an absolutely gorgeous afternoon. We did housework. We played squash. Sunday night we were invited to dinner chez Christina and Mike, fellow Canadians who are living in Oxford until early June. They made a fantastic meal, complemented by plenty of red wine from their recent weekend in Lisbon. It was so nice to spend hours chatting with old friends - we've known Christina since our year in Edinburgh. (I've been experiencing friend withdrawal symptoms such as talking to myself and making jokes that noone here gets because they haven't known me since the 1980s or grown up watching The Beachcombers.)

One of the cardinal rules of blogging is, of course, that you don't talk about your job. So I won't go into specifics, but I'm going to be a Senior Editor (woo-hoo!) in educational publishing. I'm excited and nervous, and dreading having to wake up early again. If you want more detail, you'll have to email me! In the meantime I have two weeks to perfect the art of idleness, achieve an immaculate floor, and build a professional wardrobe in a country where my shoe size and pant length exceed all bounds of normalcy.

2006-04-14

Manchester Passion

Oh my goodness, if I hadn't seen press about it all week I'd have thought I was dreaming. An hour-long Easter procession through the streets of Manchester, with Madchester music and featuring Bez from Happy Mondays and Tim Booth from James ... could it be anything other than a bizarre spectacle? It's the sort of wacky mix of ancient history and modern pop culture that seems uniquely British. You can bet I'll be watching.

Link here

And Happy Easter! If you haven't already discovered what the Easter Bunny does the other 364 days of the year, here's a clip to fill you in. (Warning: Some violence)

The Easter Bunny Hates You.

2006-04-13

The neurotic perfectionist cleans house

I’ve just spent forty-five minutes searching online for a way to purchase a particular kind of scouring sponge I grew attached to while in Toronto. And, as six (six!) light bulbs in our flat have blown over the last month, a place to buy them in bulk. Since Jeff is working and I’m not, I feel pressure to keep a good house. And today I will make the concession that my parents have been gleefully waiting to hear for thirty years: it’s hard work to run a home. And it really eats into my web surfing time!

Once I start cleaning I become obsessive and lose all perspective. It quickly snowballs into hours of emotional trauma. Today I got back spasms after affecting my hunched-over vacuuming posture (the better to inspect the floor for missed particles of lint or dirt) and had to lie flat until it calmed down. As I stared at the ceiling I reflected that it's kind of a luxury to fixate on that last little dirt speck, since without mod cons you'd never have the time or energy. And also, that I need to get out more.

We’re still living without a dishwasher, and it depresses me. The moment I get through a pile of dishes a whole new stack is created. If I ever stick my head in an oven, it will be caused by the ultimate futility of keeping a kitchen clean. I have only a flat to look after, not a whole house. I have only a boyfriend to clean up after (whose culinary skills, technology know-how and general joie de vivre more than compensate for his relaxed dishwashing standards), not a horde of children. How do people do it?

I think my coping strategy will be to get a job, work late, and come home too tired to care. Good thing I’ve just been offered one!

2006-04-11

Thoughts turn homeward

Photos of apple blossoms are appearing on North American blogs as their authors emerge from the malaise of winter. And though spring here is undeniably beautiful, I miss the more dramatic contrast and excitement of springtime in Canada. I miss that first time you get warm enough while walking to tie your sweatshirt around your waist even though there’s still slush on the ground. I miss being outside in a t-shirt and Wellies breaking up the ice in the backyard so the melting snow drains. I miss the combined effect of a crisp north wind and warm sunlight on your face. I miss the dilemma over when to tempt fate and put away snow boots, shovels, winter coats. I miss stretching out legs that have been hibernating under an office desk and feeling the vitamin D seeping into your bones.



(Though I am always cheered by the incredible cuteness of Chelsea's cat.)

2006-04-10

In place of any real news

I’m an overachiever in personality (though not practice), so I feel pressure to take advantage of living here and plan all sorts of trips and activities. Jeff is more realistic and, working five days a week, perfectly happy to stay home and relax on the weekends. But we did get out to Blenheim Palace on Saturday. We wandered around the extensive and lovely grounds and toured the palace, full of portraits of past Churchills all looking eerily alike (either the first Duke of Marlborough married his twin sister or everyone in the early 1700s was painted with long noses, slightly bulbous blue eyes, large foreheads and small mouths). Winston Churchill once said he made two important decisions at Blenheim: to be born and to propose to his future wife, Clementine. We saw the places where both events occurred, and while touring the small exhibit about his life I was astonished to discover that he was not unattractive in his youth. We closed the day at the Marlborough Arms as we waited for the bus back to Oxford. We’ve certainly visited some wonderful pubs, and with the weather still blustery and damp, their cosy fireplaces are a little slice of heaven.



I recently saw my first "Bookcrossing" book in the flesh. It's a really great idea I first learned of a few years ago from Utne Reader. People read books, register them online, and then leave them in public places for someone else to find. When everyone participates you can track books around the world through the Bookcrossing website. Since I've always loved finding marginalia or inscriptions from a book's previous owners, I think it's another way to create kinship among readers. I didn't pick up the book because I knew I wouldn't have time to read it for a few months (I have quite a backlog). But I took a picture. Here is the website if you want to know more: Bookcrossing


Speaking of the book world, The Guardian reported this weekend that the Canadian government suddenly seems to have lost faith in its cultural exports. Statistically speaking, authors and artists don’t tend to support Harper. They may be paying for that now.

2006-04-07

It was a slow day in Britain

The were-rabbit of Mouldshaugh Lane

And while I can't get tickets to see Morrissey at Oxford's New Theatre, there are still seats available for The Meat Loaf Story. Bah.

2006-04-06

Spring!



My goodness, the weather has been gorgeous over the past couple of days. And the city is so beautiful in the sunlight. The yellow stone of the old colleges glows warmly and the grass is vivid green. Apple and cherry trees are in bloom everywhere, daffodils are out in abundance, and people are planting their gardens. You catch the fragrance of all the flowers and blossoms everywhere you walk, as opposed to the usual city smells of exhaust and fried food. I could live with a few more weeks of unemployment in this kind of weather! (I am still in the process of applying and interviewing for positions, but will say no more until something is pinned down.) I’m itching to get out to the countryside, though it’s not the easiest thing to do without a car.

Having lived in comparatively litigious North America, I find there is a refreshing disregard for public safety in Oxford. Sharply sloped bridges over rivers become impossibly slippery in the rain and the railings only come up to mid-thigh. Small, deep potholes on public footpaths threaten to break your leg off at the knee. Bike paths come perilously close to rivers and canals where erosion has worn away the bank (since I’m a wobbly cyclist, this is most worrisome). Cars and bikes come at you out of nowhere at unfathomable intersections with strange (to my foreign eyes) signaling systems. Below-eye-level and therefore easily missed tripwires surround patches of grass or keep you back from paintings in galleries. If you’re handed a plate in a restaurant, you’re unlikely to be warned that it’s hot. I can’t count the number of times I’ve stumbled down unmarked steps or concussed myself on low-hanging ceiling beams, stairways, doorways, bus rails, luggage racks, signs, etc. etc. etc. Sidewalks are either bumpy cobbles (how does anyone walk around in heels here?) or large, ancient flagstones, which occasionally sink a foot or so when you step onto them, sending up a geyser of muddy water and launching the startled (and inevitably smaller and lighter) person ahead of you into the air. On rainy days I’ve seen two people slip and fall on the sloped red tiles that lead down to the road at pedestrian crossings (which begs the question of why you’d want to hasten a person’s passage into traffic). This all suggests that people here are more likely to accept some degree of personal responsibility for their wellbeing. Or that they secretly enjoy an element of danger in their lives. Either way, it’s keeping me on my toes!

So it’s been a pleasant week, and an uneventful one. We’ve been watching a lot of Veronica Mars (why have I heard nary a twitter about this show before?), in my case enjoying the proliferation of mysteries on TV, and learning to deal without a 24-hour grocery store or pharmacy. We managed to make decent fajitas a few nights ago, though good Mexican ingredients are hard to find. (An American who used to work in Jeff’s lab actually ordered peppers by mail because you can’t get any variety in the stores!) I am sadly unable to gloat about being in England while Morrissey is boycotting Canada, since his UK shows sold out long before I had heard of them. But apparently Tim Burton has moved into the area with Helena Bonham Carter, so I’m looking forward to bumping into him at Sainsbury's.

2006-04-03

Bringing my "A" game, part two

I’m sure you’re all wondering how my career as a semi-professional soccer player is going, now that I’ve somewhat inadvertently signed with a club. (I still say "soccer" here, because when I say "football" people don’t know what game I’m referring to as a North American.)

It has become painfully obvious that here there are two levels of women's soccer: hardcore and nonexistent. I set out for my first game with considerable trepidation, given that after my inaugural training session it took five days to rise from a chair without groaning. In the changeroom I was assigned a uniform, consisting of long-sleeved shirt, shorts and socks. (I eyed the ostensibly one-size-fits-all shorts and wondered if the same size of shorts could possibly fit both myself and the 100-pounds-soaking-wet right-winger.) The captain passed around plays while lecturing us on the weaknesses of the opposing team. Riiiiiiiiiiiiight. I don’t know the names of my own teammates, and I’m supposed to remember diagrams with arrows every which way?

We got out to the field, ankle-deep in mud and buffeted by gale-force winds, and were put through a half-hour of drills that had me swearing mutiny before the game even began. Then a head-count revealed the awful truth: we had no subs. I would have to play the whole hour and a half, on a full-sized field. In this league anything goes, referee notwithstanding. Including slide-tackling. But, further proving I’m in over my head, I just don’t care enough about the score to fling myself to the ground and risk someone’s boot taking my teeth out. (Teeth of a pearly perfection that cost my parents approximately five years’ salary.) By half time my new cleats were turning my feet into hamburger (through three pairs of socks and pre-emptive band-aids!) and I felt like I’d been subjected to the medieval torture of having my chest crushed with heavy rocks. I’d tell you about the second half but I can’t remember it. I was too delirious from pain and exhaustion. I will say that my bright orange team shirt (yes, orange again!) was increasingly appropriate as I contributed about as much as a pylon would have. Afterwards my teammates propped me up in the University Club bar and plied me with drinks while I delicately picked the mud from my hair. During the game I had decided I would bow out. The older I get the stronger my instinct for self-preservation becomes. But they were so nice off the field that I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. So I’m not sure what I’ll do.

We watched the Oxford-Cambridge boat race at the University Club yesterday, and cheered as Oxford clobbered Cambridge, whose boat had apparently taken on 30 or 40 kg of water due to choppy conditions. Apparently for every stroke these crews complete in the 4-mile race, they’ve done four hours of training. They take rowing rather seriously here! Then again, the series of races between Oxford’s colleges, which takes place in February, is charmingly called the "Torpids."

We also biked downtown and explored New College (despite the name, it was founded in 1379 to replenish the supply of trained clergy that had been decimated during the Black Death, and was built on land vacated when all its inhabitants succumbed to the plague). It’s just inside the thirteenth-century city wall, which is still visible in the gardens, and was really peaceful now that the students are gone. (Oxford University undergrads really only study for about six months of the year … nice deal, eh?) And it wouldn’t be Britain if we didn’t experience ridiculously contradictory weather along the way.




(By the way, you can click on any of the photos I've been posting to enlarge them.)