Gone to the dogs

Well, we haven't been to the Royal Ascot races, or even anywhere I'd need to wear a fancy hat. (Which is okay by me.) But we have been to the dog track, which as you can imagine is almost as posh. The cover of Blur's Parklife album is as close as I've come to greyhound racing in the past, and I hadn't realized it was a bit of a thing here in England. It flies under the radar as you aren't likely to find dog tracks in the sanitized touristy areas of a city, nor are you likely to encounter Prince William at one. We had to take the bus out to the part of Oxford the tourist hordes never see. We even went beyond the ring road. And there, in suburban wasteland that could have been almost anywhere in the Western world (brown 1960s and 1970s duplexes and row houses with the odd smattering of apartment blocks and parking lots), was the Oxford Greyhound Stadium. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday night they have races. You pay five pounds to get in, and they give you a programme of all the races that night, the dogs competing, and lots of complicated information about the dogs' previous races and statistics, whether they're a wide runner or middle runner (whatever that means), etc.

The place reminded me of a hockey arena, not least because it was bloody freezing outside so we stayed in the warm part behind glass as much as possible, in an area with grungy chairs and tables and a canteen suffusing the air with the odours of french fries (okay, chips) and watery hot chocolate. Except there was, of course, also a bar. So the first order of business was to pick up a beer, and then peruse the programme to plan our first bets.



Before each race, handlers would parade the dogs past the stands. For what purpose I don't know, as bets were already finished by that point so if you discovered that your dog was half the size of the others, or even lame, it was too late to change.



When the dogs went into their little chutes to start the race, we'd rush downstairs to take our places along the track. The mechanical hare would go whizzing past, followed by the pack of greyhounds, and the whole thing would be over in a few short minutes. As no flash was allowed, this was the best 'action shot' we could muster.



The betting system proved to be a challenge for someone with no tolerance for small print, calculations and statistics, and the weighing of several options (this is why I could never be bothered to choose a cell phone plan). After a cursory glance at the programme, I decided to bet on the dogs with the cutest names. Because I forgot to visit the bank machine Jeff and I placed one bet between us, taking turns to choose the winner. He was actually thinking about which dog might be likely to win based on its stats, and didn't notice that I wasn't until I bet on a dog named 'Tullyvin Laura'. Naturally that arose his suspicions. 'Tullyvin Laura' comported herself much like her namesake. She was big and ungainly and clearly aspired to nothing greater than mediocrity, placing an unremarkable fourth out of six. (You don't want to do well, because then there will be Pressure and Expectations. The coach might erroneously think you have Potential and make you work harder to realise it. I've run every race I've been in with the sole objective of being Not Last.)

Jeff kept saying he didn't understand it, he won three times at his last trip to the dog track, how could we go an entire night without success? But he hadn't been out betting with me before. I am a black hole of despair when it comes to any kind of gamble or lottery. In fact, by the end of the night people were asking me which dog I was betting on so they'd know which NOT to pick. Hmmm ... perhaps that's a power in itself. Knowing how to pick a loser is surely almost as useful as being able to pick a winner? (I am here obliged to preclude jokes by acknowledging that I have picked a winner in Jeff.)

Anyway, as I may have mentioned earlier, it's suddenly quite chilly here. The sun has been setting as I've left work the past couple of days which means the long dark winter is uncomfortably close. But in the meantime, it's an excuse to make tracks for the nearest pub, or curl up with a book and a nice hot mug of tea. Eh, to heck with books. We've got a whole new season of TV shows to get on with! If you haven't been watching Mad Men and can catch up on previous episodes, it's just swell. As is Flight of the Conchords. (We'll also be looking out for Scrubs, Heroes and My Name is Earl.)

Snapshots

A Flickr set will soon be underway as you can only reasonably fit a few photos in a blog post, but here's a few shots from our trip. We really need to sort out plans for another trip (if we can squeeze it in) and our Christmas flights. We've just had a great visit with friends from Canada, and Jeff's parents arrive in only a few short weeks. The autumn will fly by, I can already tell.


Stockholm

Gamla Stan, the old island in the city.

Sergels Torg, Stockholm.

Jeff looking over Lake Malaren, Sigtuna.

Stockholm at night.

Another fad has apparently passed me by.

Check this out. So bad it's good. Who is this band? I am intrigued.
A Cause des Garcons

The remix vid is crazy.
A Cause des Garcons 'remix tepr video tecktonic'

What is going on? Is this good dancing? Is it very bad? We found little information about 'tecktonic' other than that it seems to be a style of dance in France that started in 2000 and was 'completely ignored in the rest of Europe.' At least that's my understanding ... my French isn't so hot. So now you know. Sort of. At the very least, if you see these people on the dance floor, give them a wide berth. Do a search for 'tecktonic' on YouTube. You'll see what I mean.

In other music-related stuff, how cute are The Tough Alliance? And how cute is the song 'Anorak Christmas'? ('He Keeps Me Alive' is also cute, except for a brief misguided dalliance with the vocoder.) Why are so many of the bands I listen to Swedish? Something to do with the fact that my parents have only ever driven Volvos, almost certainly.

I have had Rihanna's 'Umbrella' in my head all day. Mostly just the dumb part where she goes 'Umbrella, Ella, Ella, Ella'. It's driving me bonkers.

My sentiments exactly.

I've been listening to lots (and lots!) of physics talk lately, as we have a houseguest from Jeff's old lab at U of T. Naturally we took him punting, and en route to the pub I gleefully spotted this graffiti. (To be honest, it's really nice to have a familiar face about - we like getting visitors.)

I plan to post some photos from Sweden, but as always I took approximately thirty million of them. This means I may never look at them again because I can't face the enormity of the task ahead - deciding which of the ten identical photos of the same scene is the best, over and over again. I don't know why I do this. No one else in my family does this. My brother took about ten photos during his entire round-Europe expedition. One day I will take one photo too many and Jeff's head will explode - at least the veins popping out in his forehead when I get too camera-crazy predict this.

But I really liked Sweden. Here are some of the reasons why:
* The taxis are all Volvos.
* There is lots of granite, trees and lakes everywhere, which reminded me of Canada.
* Hardwood floors. Even in hotel rooms!
* Double beds in hotels always come with two duvets - which is great when you are sharing with a DUVET HOG. Ahem.
* Nearly every restaurant or cafe with a patio put out blankets on the chairs so that people could curl up in them while sitting outside. This is an idea I think Canada should embrace.
* Efficient metro and commuter trains.
* Sodermalm, a neighbourhood with lots of low-key cafes and bars the likes of which we sorely miss in Oxford.
* Every cafe or restaurant had lots of open flame - candelabras in windows, on tables, even giant floor-standing ones, all lit. It is a miracle that Jeff emerged unscathed.
* They have yummy alcoholic pear cider.
* People kayak, canoe, sail and swim almost in the center of the city. (And presumably use the roughly five minutes of daylight in winter to ski and skate.)
* Ikea isn't completely uncool there.
* The people are friendly and all speak English, which always makes me feel like a meathead for not being multilingual myself.
* Jeff liked the free refills on coffee - a rarity in Britain.
* I had the best sandwich of my entire life - sundried tomato, brie, lettuce and pesto on some sort of dark malt bread that was like a slice of heaven.
* Every (or nearly every) public restroom has self-contained rooms with toilet and sink - no nasty public stalls. This saved me some humiliation when I was visited by severe food poisoning (unrelated to the above sandwich).

Yes, everything was going swimmingly. We had great weather, we got to see all the major things on our list and still had time to just walk about and window shop, and most of the restaurants we visited ended up being really nice (and suitable for a gluten-free eater and a pseudo-vegetarian). But on the last day I felt progressively weirder until, as we reached the airport to check in for our flight, I was extremely ill and would not have gotten home if it weren't for Jeff. Food poisoning is very humbling. If you've ever had it badly, I probably don't need to go into more detail. It was everything I'd ever dreamed it would be. And I think it'll be a few more weeks before I've fully recovered. (Before you say 'ate a dodgy meatball, eh? yuk yuk', I'll have you know that a vegetarian buffet restaurant remains the most likely culprit. But the views were fantastic.)

On the positive, what could be better than returning from a holiday to find that the September Vogue magazine (with all the fall fashions - the best issue of the whole year) was too big to fit through the generous mailslot at our flat? I will end up with carpal tunnel syndrome from holding it open to read it, but the pages and pages - and pages and pages! - of unwearable shoes, unaffordable handbags and inexplicable couture will all be worth it. It might not make sense, but I just adore that stuff.

Well, it's off to self-medicate and then sleep, as I've been struck down with a bad cold lovingly shared with me by Jeff. Normally his germs are no match for my superhuman immune system, but what with weeks of no sleep followed by weeks of no food, my defenses are a little low right now. I figure I'll get the whole year's illnesses - physical and psychological - out of the way in one go.