The week in review

Greetings from Oxfordshire! It sure has been a dramatic week in these parts. The waters are high, so you can't rely on taking your ordinary route home.


And you realise it would have been a wise idea to invest in a pair of good ol' knee-high English Wellies. That way you might have made it across the meadow to the pub, the pub with the roaring fire and cider on tap, rather than standing mournfully in your suddenly woefully inadequate hiking shoes. (Not pictured: the Mudpit of Doom.)


Also this past week: Oxfordshire's snow of the season! It happened overnight and was almost gone by noon, of course. This paltry dusting - shown here just before sunrise - caused many to call into work saying they were 'snowed in'. (Photo from here.)


Allow me a moment to snort in disbelief. Sure, call in and say the roads are slippery and you'd rather not risk hitting black ice. Fair enough; cars don't have snow tires - sorry, tyres - here. But two centimetres of wet snow doesn't make you 'snowed in'. 'Snowed in' means having to dig your car out. And having to climb into your house through a second-story window. I don't know about you, but that's what I tell foreigners about winter in Canada. Besides, it's obviously what they want to hear. In a recent Guardian article about expat Brits, their single, solitary example of a Brit who had emigrated to Canada was some guy who became a Mountie in Nunavet (sic).

In other exciting developments, we've acquired a dehumidifier. Since moving into this flat I've had a pair of hiking boots and a knapsack grow mold. We were fighting a losing battle against black mildew on the window frames, but the discovery of fuzzy white stuff growing on the inside of our side door was the final straw. When we first plugged in the dehumidifier and allowed it to calibrate, it got a humidity reading of 89 (out of a possible 100!). This is one damp country. On the positive side, static cling, the curse of winter in Canada, is but a distant memory.

We've also inherited a powerful vacuum cleaner (to replace the old, useless one). The amount of dust it just took out of the carpets has increased my resolve to abolish wall-to-wall carpeting. Not to mention all the hair it picked up - anyone who lives with a long-locked person can guess the horror show that results from the combination of carpeting and an ineffective vacuum. I know I'm obsessed. But many people here genuinely believe carpeting is superior, that hardwood floors are cold and sterile, and my conscience won't let me rest until I make them understand how much better their lives could be.

Anyway, no need to worry: we've survived Snowstorm '07. Today it was 10 degrees and we flung all the windows open to clean. Laundry is hanging on the line, surfaces are sparkling, curtains are waving merrily in the breeze. Feels like spring!

Warms the heart, it does

Saturday morning, well before daylight, which arrives at approximately noon in these northern climes, I hauled myself out of bed and down to the train station for a four-hour journey involving four different trains. One of which apparently never existed - thanks for the accurate trip itinerary, Virgin Rail!

Remarkably, I managed to make it to Liverpool, each consecutive train carrying even more fans in red, so that it seemed the entire surrounding countryside was flooding in for the game. In the environs of Anfield Stadium, the streets were filled with people coming from all directions on foot, wrapped in coats that hid their full regalia until they reached the stadium.


I was there through the efforts of a good friend, Julie, card-carrying member of the Liverpool FC Fan Club, Toronto Branch, who scored tickets and then came across the ocean for the match (and to visit old friends). My affection for Liverpool FC is largely due to her enthusiasm and encyclopedic knowledge. And Steven Gerrard. But it would have melted anyone's heart to hear the entire stadium singing 'You'll Never Walk Alone' at the start and end of the match. Against predictions and a very uninspiring Chelsea side, Liverpool went up two goals early and held on, making it truly the perfect day. Well, actually, fighting for a cab with two Chelsea fans and winning was the final icing on the cake. Though it's become just too easy to hate Chelsea FC, hasn't it? Almost boring.


Seeing just how consumed the city was by the match cast into stark relief the delusions of those who think Beckham will make soccer big in the States. The people at the game - the outfits, the non-stop cheers (each player has his own), and the passion was crazy. These people are hard on their boys! Liverpool were up by two goals, playing rather well, and I'm all 'oh, good try!' and 'it was a good thought' and 'that's okay, get back into position' and 'oooh, unlucky!'. But these Liverpool fans, they were yelling 'ya bunch of f'n pansies!' and 'let's see some football for a change!' and 'that's right, give the ball away, ya #$@*s!' Affectionately, I'm sure. It surprised me how human the players appeared when seen in person rather than on television. They were suddenly so obviously life-sized (well, except Peter Crouch, visible at the center of the photo below), and vulnerable. You could see them mess up and get out of breath. You realise they're all just young men, none too bright, many not long out of high school. And suddenly I understood the attitude of the fans a bit better. We were the parents, cheering on our kids with a hockey-dad-and-soccer-mum mixture of frantic pride, embarrassed annoyance and sympathetic resignation (tho' spicier language than I'd normally use). On Saturday the pride won out, and the entire stadium got warmer and fuzzier as it became obvious the Reds would hang on.




I borrowed Jeff's camera for the day, as it's lighter-weight and less expensive to replace had I been embroiled in any hooliganism. But the zoom isn't as good and the shutter kept getting stuck because there's jam in it. A story which almost certainly deserves its own entry - though it's really Jeff's to tell. Anyway, I didn't get the best of photos, but it was the best of days, so Julie, thanks a bunch and here's to a Reds winning streak! One can dream.

Adventures in text messaging

Today is a momentous occasion - I've just sent my very first text message! And my god, it took forever. I'll have you know that, while I couldn't figure out how to make capital letters, my punctuation and spelling was otherwise impeccable. I'm still awaiting confirmation that it actually arrived, but if hell freezes over tonight, it's probably my fault.

Tomorrow I'm voluntarily getting up at 6:00 am. On a Saturday. So if you see creatures of the porcine variety flying, that's probably also my fault. Here's a not-so-subtle hint as to my destination:

Something must be afoot ...

I've been coveting a pair of Trippen shoes for ages. They're weird, architectural, and really groovy. I finally bought a pair today - on sale, but still expensive, and the closest things to designer shoes I've ever had. So I was wearing them around the flat happily.


I decided out of boredom to glance at what else was in the shoe box: a little package of talc in case the insoles squeaked in the shoes, and two full A4 pages full of tiny type, containing, among many other salient points, the following nuggets of information (suffering a bit for the translation from German). Read on - they get better and better:

'Please be aware of sharp objects and edges and please avoid dirt, moisture and direct sunlight as this can damage the shoes.'

'When buying your shoes please make sure that they are neither too loose or too tight and only wear the shoes with socks of the same thickness.'

'Do not wear light coloured socks in dark or coloured shoes and take extra care with your clothing. If you have worn the shoes barefoot the dye can usually be removed with soap. If the dye has stained your feet permanently, your skin type is not suitable for our dark or coloured leather. In this case please choose a leather in a light colour like nature, white or perla.'

'All chrome-tanned leather are unsuitable for people with chrome allergies. In case of a chrome allergy please only take shoes made from vegetable-tanned leather into consideration.'

'Please avoid any surfaces with sharp edges like stone beaches or mountain paths, and also avoid metal grids or hot tarmac as it will destroy the rubber soles. Avoid any activities such as kneeling as otherwise the rim can be damaged and parts of the sole may come off.'

'Please keep in mind that all our soles are made from rubber and might become electrical charged.'

'Please take extra care on wet, icy or badly soiled surfaces as well as on sandy ground or wet tiles and be aware of any objects you could slip on like wet leaves, banana peel, garbage, oil, etc.'

[They briefly interject to warn that the soles of their 'Penna' line, which I did not buy, are 'usable structures that should be treated this way - any misapplication can harm you and damage the soles.' Uh, are we still talking about shoes?]

'All Trippen shoes are designed for European 'norm feet' with average width and people with an average body weight.'

'Our shoes cannot be recommended for people with strong foot perspiration or aggressive sweat, as sweat can dissolve dye from the leather, which can shorten the life span of the shoes as a whole drastically.'

'Zips are nice and practical, but when buying a style with zips please make sure that the shoes are not too tight. No tension must be applied to the zips as otherwise they might break.'

'Please be patient and open any fastenings on your shoes completely before putting them on and be careful with zips, laces or buckles. Please note that with too much tension applied the zips, laces or eyelets might snap.

And the grand finale:

'As much as you love your shoes, it is best not to wear them every day, but rather only every third day, so in between the leather can dry completely. Constant use can reduce the life span of your shoes drastically!'

What the hell??? It's utterly absurd - it's an anti-sales-pitch. I have no recourse if anything goes wrong as they've basically absolved themselves of any responsibility for the quality of their shoes. I almost wonder if the company is having a joke - do I just lack a sense of humour? Cause this has pretty much made me decide to return them. What would you do ... take a chance and risk an expensive mistake, or take 'em back and move on?

Dreams Burn Down

Alright, enough with the artsy-fartsy photos. It’s just so drearily, unrelentingly damp here that I’m unmotivated to think about anything. Everything in our flat feels slightly damp. In resignation I’ve just hung out the washing in a light rain, which is perhaps the most British thing I’ve ever done. Because even when it’s not raining here it’s still raining, in the sense that the ground and air are wet. I miss the dry cold of winter in Ontario. (Then I complained about my desiccated skin peeling off in large sheets, now I complain about it mildewing through excessive moisture. Clearly I will never be satisfied.)

We listen to a lot of internet radio here. They play a lot of Ride; this morning it was Like a Daydream, one of my 16-year-old anthems. The band was four very cute English boys from Oxford and I was madly in love. Now that I’m living in Oxford I’m looking for some extra meaning or excitement but it’s not really there. Back then I wanted nothing more than to live in England, like any number of teenaged Anglophiles who were deeply wounded by the demise of Select magazine. Now I think I’m too old to appreciate it in that sense.

I just read an article in the Guardian about the closing of a famous London club, Trash, that for years was the hub of the indie scene and from which emerged Bloc Party and the Klaxons, among other bands. The manager started it when he was 22, and the revelers in the photos looked like teenagers. It occurred to me, with horror, that I am old enough to be the mother of a teenager. I’d be a colossal disappointment to my sixteen-year-old self, since I have failed to frequent any London clubs, but on a day-to-day basis I’m more concerned with my job, my finances, keeping the flat clean and making it to the gym. In other words, I'm a crashing bore.

And anyway, living here means I don’t get to be romantic about it anymore. I think visitors can find the England they want to – the country is very canny about providing what tourists want and you can find potted experiences easily enough. There’s certainly an awful lot to be seen and appreciated. But some days all it means to me is that I can’t get my laundry dry, I can’t run hot and cold water out of one tap, I can’t find a place to buy stamps, and the banks are so unapologetically irrational that I have to laugh (and then cry). The country’s history is criss-crossed with powerlines, there's a Starbucks on Carnaby Street, and people love their cars here just as much as anywhere else. I’m both disappointed to see 'big box' stores and excited that I can find Kiehl’s products – a contradiction that pretty much sums it up. When not living here I want it to be that idealized, unrealistic England, when living here I just want all the mod cons I’m used to. That’s not to say there haven’t been great moments – just not at this time of year. When the land dries and the sun is out, there’s nothing better than a stroll in London or exploring country lanes, which really are as beautiful as the postcards.

I have to start planning some adventures for the new year. Need I remind you that I have 30 days of holiday this year? Ah, the bright side emerges.

Winter sun

One more photo from home. Not snowy, but still pretty.

Holy cow it's 2007

Remembering to write '2006' on stuff still took effort! Now I got worries.

I am back in England and the forecast is rain for the next four days. Sigh. At least I survived my first day back at work. Survived it by avoiding all the urgent stuff (that will, once I reacquaint myself with it, reduce me to semi-hysterical panic) and sorting through my inbox, taking down Christmas tinsel, putting books in alphabetical order, setting up my 2007 day planner, and making my desk area immaculate. I am tempted to leave the out-of-office assistant on for the next two weeks while I wade through everything I had hoped to get done before the holidays. Oh well. Stress ... keeps you young, you know?

The holidays went by far too fast, and yet they were escapist, almost as though the intervening year never happened. I had some great visits with much-missed friends and family, but didn't see nearly enough of anyone, didn't even see everyone I wanted to, and tragically failed to make it to Sephora. (They have stores in Paris, so that's my next goal.) I did fit some shopping in, though. It's much more fun to spend British pounds in Canada than to watch your Canadian savings vaporize while unemployed in Britain. Since I can't gloat about having had a nice white Christmas, I am instead reveling in the fact that I bought jeans and a skirt for the equivalent of nine pounds total. The last jeans I bought here cost forty pounds, and the last skirt fifty pounds, for comparison. (I love Monsoon, but it's expensive!)

Some highlights of the trip home:

Discovering that the last house we lived in is, against all odds, still standing;

Feeling Canadian in my hometown (skating, hot apple cider, and toques!);

And experiencing two days of winter before it melted away again.