The Visit

In case anyone is wondering - the eagle has landed. And was allowed to disembark without an armed escort, reclaim her luggage and was out into the Arrivals hall in less than half an hour.

I felt as though I was the only person who was collecting an actual friend, everyone else seemed to be squinting at someone with a board and going, 'Jennifer?' I'm not sure everyone was called Jennifer but you get my drift.

Outside, in the bit behind a screen of trees, sort of the place where people go to smoke when they get off the 'plane and before they go into the car park, was a bunch of people circling with placards. We watched for the length of time it took Sleepy to smoke a cigarette, but we couldn't work out what they were protesting about. Whatever it was - they wanted it now.

Sleepy is now happily willing ice dancers to fall over. And it's working.

Pancake Day

Delia comes up trumps again.

I do love me some pancakes. Not the ones they make in International House of Pancakes though. Them is too thick. Read into that what you will.

The Canadian media have been upset by the British media. Well, not really, they've been upset by the sodding Daily Nasty. I really don't think many in Britain think of that as the British Press, it's more....a little bit of England that will be forever prejudiced and right wing, and we like to keep an eye on them so that we know if they're about to get out of control.
Unfortunately the Graun and the Thunderer have joined in too.
Vancouver's mayor, a man, Gregor Robertson, slammed them all right back with his wickedly sharp wit.
'The 2010 games are the best ever organised,' so there you have it.

I love that the Church of England is simply ignoring the squealing of the Anglo-Catholics and steam-rollering on with plans to promote women as Bishops. It couldn't offend a more pointless bunch of people.

Tiger

It's the year of the tiger, metal tiger, and I don't think this is particualrly propitious for us roosters, a time of struggle and ...well, a bit like when Saturn is in your sun sign. You know the kind of thing....so far as I understand it that is.

Ikealand need a different colour scheme. I don't understand why they big up the yellow and not the blue, for the most part, Ikealandians are of a colouring themselves that isn't flattered by bright yellow.

The Premier of Québec and the Minister for Heritage are not happy with the amount/tone of French at the opening ceremony. Or...something about the French.
It's funny, French here is like the woman. It's treated as though it's the second language, even though lip service is paid to its equality with English. Signs were put up without French and had to be taken down and altered, like building a venue without a women's toilet and then having it pointed out. And then to show that really, we don't think like that, we have the French spoken before the English. A woman speaks the French and a man speaks the English. When we are forced to speak French, we do it badly, so it's like, we import a proper, card-carrying woman to do the woman bit, but most of the time we get a man to pretend to be a woman, and not even one who believes in what he's doing.
We have to include a woman...er I mean a French person in the singing. Now the French French are not noted for their musical prowess. The Québecois on the other hand, really have it going on. So.....hmmm...well, let's get someone who sings like the French French. Yea, let's not spend too much time finding someone outstanding from the wealth of talent in Québec, no, let's just find someone we've heard of, he'll do. Box ticked.
BUT.....when a French person wins a gold medal, then they're Canadian.Pats on the back all round.
'Nother box ticked.

Shivers

The face they wouldn't show.

Waiting for dogs to arrive and alcohol. Hmmm...waiting for alcohol and dogs to arrive. I'm expecting exuberance from our own poochie.

I have replayed the section of the opening ceremony with kd lang four times. Every time it sends shivers down my spine, especially that last intense 'Hallelujah' where her voice seems to chase the lights of birds away from the podium.
Reports have it that the NBC coverage didn't show her face at all. BUT...they didn't hang back from showing the full and uncut death of the Georgian athlete.

Our own TV coverage left a lot to be desired however. Oh the camera angles were good, but the commentator was embarrassing. He not only sounded like the Reverend Lovejoy from the Simpsons, but he wouldn't stop talking, and he what he said was largely just waffle. If you have a silly voice, best to keep it short I say.

And the Canadian National Anthem is a fecking national disgrace. Even the most dyed-in-the-wool retarded conservative can't justify the line, 'of all thy sons command,' how difficult would it be to simply replace it with, 'all of us command,'? or just sing the French at that point.
It's not even as though it's in some way sacrosanct. Kevin remembers that when he was at school, the words changed about three times.

I was amazed at the spectacle of the ceremony, it couldn't have been more Canadian. This place, right here, is one huge crucible of creativity and all was reflected in that staging.

So the dogs came and went. Whisky barked furiously at the intrusion. I was given about seven different points of view about what to do about this, including getting some kind of so-called dog experts in to deal with what? The one time he has other dogs in his house he barks. What actually worked, and worked consistently, was what I did intuitively, it seemed to me he was spooked, so when I sat on the floor with him and calmed him - he quietened down.

Opening

Oh.My.God. Holy smoke. Did you SEE that? I mean wow!
And K.D.Lang.Un-fecking-believable, I mean, I really cannot find words to describe that.
Gobsmacked.
And a really, really sterling effort at inclusivity, which was about 75% successful. Amazing.

Torch

The Olympic Torch arrives in Richmond today. On the News at breakfast time we saw them fart-arsing around with it at the border crossing at Peace Arch. On the City of Richmond's website, they give its itinerary, and a list of things you may not take onto the 'Celebration Site', animals, alcohol, weapons and things that could be used as weapons. Examples they give of things that could be used as weapons are guns, knives, brollies and signs attached to poles. I had no idea that a gun wasn't primarily a weapon. And why aren't Zimmer frames in that list? I mean a senior with a walker can do a fair amount of harm.

And....now it's evening and Alex and Seth are going to go down to see if they can see it as it arrives. There have been helicopters and fighter planes overhead all day long.

Yesterday evening, we drove into Vancouver and went past a church with a sign outside that read 'Welcome Visitors, Come and meet our God!' I dunno, it sort of made me think they were expecting visitors from another planet.
Maybe they were.

The atmosphere here is incredible. Even I am aware of it.

Vile Bodies

I wonder if this is what it feels like for people of other faiths as Christmas approaches. There is this feeling of excitement, that something really BIG is about to happen, but yet the something big that's about to happen is fully outside of my sphere of interest.

Anyhoo, back to the matter in hand.
It seems that if you are a woman with an idea for a business, you have the same level of motivation as a man and possibly a higher level of expertise, but you will be unlikely to get any Venture Capital to start up your business - because you are a woman.

There's some kind of weird, creepy Christian group in the States, who hold a National Prayer Breakfast. Hillary Clinton and Obambi went along, supported by out-and-proud gay Bishop Gene Robinson, and they took to task supporters of the Ugandan Bill to sentence gay people to death. (Or just life imprisonment for less serious gay people).
Secretary of State Clinton made it clear that should the bill pass into law, there would be consequences.

Johnny Depp, beloved icon of many, has angered many by supporting rapist Roman Polanski. There is a great article here about his treachery, and the comments are equally insightful, unlike Comment-is-free on the Graun's website, where, whenever an article appears supporting women and homosexuals, the trolls come out in full force.

Also via Feministing, I came to an article that expands a question I asked in a previous post, do men read women writers? Well, it seems that in general they don't. But eighty per cent of fiction readers are women, yet men are more likely, as writers, to receive the glittering prizes. The woman writing this piece concludes that yet again, women are simply not noticed.

Argh...I read somewhere this week that one in six American women will suffer rape or sexual violence at some point in her life, but now I can't find where I read it. That figure seems astounding considering how many imbeciles think that women have now achieved total equality.

Tail Chasing

Gaagh, what a frustrating, tail-chasing kind of week. Running to stand still and in some cases, go backwards.

There simply HAS to be some kind of force that makes things go like this sometimes, the same kinds of things seem to all go wrong at the same time.

TV. Kevin had installed a new Hard Drive, but it has been stop, start, stop start, he deals with the problem and then it behaves for a while, lulls you into a false sense of security and then wham, it happens again, and of course, when he has gone to lie down because he hasn't been feeling too clever this week.

Telephone. Waiting for three or four different phone calls. Phone rings. It's Ipsos-Reid, a firm that does surveys, not now, I'm waiting for calls. Phone rings again. Laurence, phoning because I phoned him, except I didn't, his sister has my cell phone, because I'M WAITING FOR A CALL FROM HER, but instead of phoning the cell phone, he calls the landline. Still waiting for calls, Ipsos-Reid again, I do their surveys when it's an honest survey, because otherwise I can't complain that I didn't get asked when they come out with some completely rubbish result, but not now, I'm waiting for someone else to phone.

Post. Everyone is waiting for something. Normally, no-one expects anything from the post, but this week, Alex has been promised a letter, I'm waiting for a book, Laurence is...well, he IS always waiting for something, but all that's delivered is junk and stuff that tells you that something you thought was long since sorted, isn't.

E-mail. Why does it take twelve hours to deliver an e-mail when you are waiting for that information? And then the internet sites I normally use are all like, 'are you SURE you've typed in the right address?'

And there's been this odd feeling all week that things are going on behind my back. I know I have a tenuous hold on what's going in in the field of sports, but everywhere I go there are winter sports on the big screen TVs. I met my friend for lunch. The TV in the diner that normally shows silent pop stars, now shows silent hockey. It has started, clearly. When I take Whisky for his tea-time walks at twilight, two houses who don't seem to close their curtains have big TVs on the wall opposite the window, so, more hockey. And then it clicks, duh, hockey just carries on, the Canucks don't stop for the Olympics.

But then, in the midst of the annoyance and frustration of the week, a friend from way back made contact. And Kevin has a back up system for recording TV, so I saw what I wanted to see. And everyone I expected to call, called, and I did the survey and there wasn't a meeting I'd missed as a result of the late e-mail, and...well, pretty much everything except the book and the letter.
Maybe I'll check the post.
Aha!

Mount Olympus

Couple of posers.

When the French had the Franc as their currency, the first word on it was 'Egalité'. It's kind of the way the French brand themselves, their bywords for what it means to be French (to them, not us),'Equality, Fellowship, Freedom'. So, if you are the kind of dickhead who is lucky enough to have a woman prepared to share any kind of planetary space with you, and then you force her to wear coverings that indicate her inferiority vis-à-vis yourself, don't be surprised when France, the champion of equality, doesn't want to number you among the ranks of their citizens.

Not all is going according to plan on Mount Olympics.
Snow is being loaded onto lorries in Manning Park, and driven two hours to Mount Cyprus.
The David Suzuki foundation has awarded a Bronze medal to VANOC for environmental responsibility.
A cruise ship that was supposed to dock in Vancouver and accommodate over two thousand people is now not going to, leaving hotels scrambling to find space for those who have booked, 13 of whom are disabled kids with the 'Make a Wish Foundation'. (All now alternatively accommodated). Others seem to include pissed off British people.
The downtown Eastside still hasn't been cleaned up and an influx of foreign journos has drawn attention to it. It's as though, somewhere, someone had said, 'if we pretend it's not there, they won't be able to see it,' like a child deciding it is invisible.
But...the police have been out and about today and have made 14 arrests and laid 125 charges. Good work lasses and lads. Except.....Transport Canada at YVR have been complaining that you haven't been turning up for your security shifts there.

When you're giving birth and suffering labour pains, you can't believe a human body can go through so much pain. The only thing that keeps you sane, because the drugs sure as hell don't do much, is the thought that your own mother went through it and survived.
It's like, maybe we're just not grown up enough to host the Olympics, perhaps we just aren't quite ready to take the training wheels off.
Except, China did it.

Aquarius

Aquarius, ack, messes with your head. Can't wait until the sun moves out of random Aquarius and into reliable Pisces, which by coincidence, it does this year on the 18th of February.

Light drizzle. What kind of weather is that? Neither good, sweeping rain, nor soft, fluffy snow, nor is it mysterious fog, just light drizzle. Another shade of grey I suppose. Bloody Water Carrier.

I received an e-mail from a Facebook group that apparently I'm part of, 'BORIS : NOT IN MY NAME'. I can't for the life of me remember having joined this group, and yet it sounds like a good one to join. Sadly, I've missed the Ken Livingstone hosted event, well of course I would since the whole thing is about poking my nose into the politics of a city I don't live in and never have.

Yesterday, we were treated to Obambi's full budgetary speech on our morning news. Not that it wasn't interesting, it's just that it wasn't...well, ours.

The Olympic torch will be here this time next week - if anyone's bothered, which of course we are because it'll hold up traffic.

I was a little concerned to see from the BBC headlines yesterday, that the British government wants to halve smokers. I mean, I have friends and rellies who are smokers, and this just seems harsh.

In an unprecedented turn of events, there's a scandal in a German Catholic school, involving children being abused by priests. What?!?! Never. I mean for pity's sake, someone'll be suggesting next that it's celibacy and patriarchal attitudes that turn people...well, mainly men really, into paedophiles, not homosexuality at all! Who knew?

Apparently, there is more to tattoos than meets the eye, even when they don't meet the eye.

Picture it....

....YVR, the 18th February 2010, around 15.00 ish...maybe a bit later...me, standing in International Arrivals with my medium cup of Tim Horton's coffee, double milk. I finish my coffee and move seamlessly through the multi-cultural crowd to throw my empty cup into the 'garbage only' side of the recycling bin.

Suddenly, I spot a familiar figure, I try to start a Mexican wave amongst the assembled throng, but they think I'm just a bit loony, so I shout something loudly in French to confirm it.

'Sleepy!' I shout, in slow motion, 'SLEEEPEEEY'.
I run forward, but then I trip over and end up full length on the arrivals carpet of shame. (Clearly my coffee has been spiked).

Anyhoo, hopefully minus the eejit bit, this'll be roughly the scenario next month.
Fabelhaft!
As Sleepy would say, 'I've got my grin on!'

Speaking the Lingo

Seth and the dog-child.

Fed up with hearing about inclusive language? Of course not,obviously.

Firstly, thinking back to the whole 'Ms' controversy, it seems that French women don't have an equivalent, and this doesn't make some of them happy. The only redeeming aspect is that the title, 'Madame' is generally used to all women after their mid-twenties, so why not just use it and nothing else ? Frankly, I think I'm tending ever more towards the, 'let's just get rid of titles' point of view.

Secundo, we've got the different levels. The 'in-yer-face' sexist lingo. 'You guys' falls into this category.
A term that is specific to one gender (I'm not a guy, guys don't breastfeed, a guys night out means women don't go), applied to both genders, straightforwardly sexist, - 101.
Then there are the made up feminised forms that have lesser status. Actor - gender free, actress, different, lower status meaning. (Which is why most women actors now don't use the term 'actress').
But there are some terms, like 'master' and 'fellow', that have come to have a male meaning attached to them, but in their original form, were gender-free.
'Fellow' - ORIGIN Old English, "a person who lays down money in a joint enterprise", from Old Norse, ‘property, money’.
And 'master' comes from the Latin, 'magister', meaning teacher. 'Salvete puellae!' our Latin teacher used to say, to which we would reply, in unison, 'Salve Magister!'.
The problem with 'Master' is twofold. Firstly, Latin was a gendered language in that gender was attached to words rather than the meanings of words. Thus, 'Nauta' and 'Poeta' (sailor and poet) were words in a feminine declension without having any particularly feminine meaning.
Magister was in a masculine declension, but had no masculine meaning attached.
But since 'Master' has had not just a male connotation, but a very dominant, patriarchal one, it is going to be difficult to reclaim.

Ok, had to get that out.

And sometimes, there's more than language. The other evening, I had to go to Shopper's Drug Mart late. So...late-night rush to the shops, what would you be wearing? And so was I - baggy jumper, jammie trousers, slippery shoes. Now recently, I have had the opportunity to observe a friend who is a pharmacist at work, and this isn't what she wears, thus I was surprised, and yet not, when a woman, whose sartorial choice made me believe she was a Muslim, came up to me and asked me where the aspirin was. We were standing fairly near the painkillers, to I looked along the shelf and pointed to it. But no, she wanted it for her child. I told her that I was pretty sure you weren't supposed to give aspirin to small children, and showed her the children's options, but tried to persuade her that at this point, she really needed to talk to the pharmacist.

Always happens, I must just have an aura of shop assistant about me.

Busy, Busy

I keep thnking it's Tuesday, and it turns out that it is.

Saturday, Anglican women's retreat, which may sound dull to some, but to me it's pure gold. Safe amongst the Feministi.

Sunday evening, Kevin's best friend, who, with his partner have become good friends of mine too, came to dinner and announced that they would be moving back to Ontario in the Spring. They're excited, we're pretty down about it. We want to be excited for them, but in fact, we feel dismal for ourselves.

Monday, Whisky's stitches came out, cone came off, and he had a bath. We have our happy little hound back.

Monday also was writers' group. An interesting conversation. The men in our group are ALL men I respect, and have a great deal of time for.
One of the women is writing a story about a woman in, I think, the fifties, who leaves her baby and husband and walks along the ice road until she arrives somewhere she isn't known.
Last night we were divided, men v women, the men all thought it completely unbelievable what the character had done, the women all thought it completely believable. Their reaction really made me think. On the way out, it occurred to me to wonder whether men in general, read books written by women. I mean, I have certainly borrowed a book written by a woman from one of the men in the group, but is this unusual? In the normal course of things would they read women writers?

Today, the church was open all day, a vigil to pray for Haiti. In the evening, a service, and I was asked to read a prayer in French, and in fact, to translate it. I would say that I 'interpreted' more than translated. When something is in poetic language, it's really all you can do, interpret the thoughts and images rather than render the exact words into the other language. But I like being in the church at night, and I like being there with candles and a small group of people.
It's odd.
My friend spoke about the people and places she visited in Haiti in November, and that made it real, but in general, even though, because of Canada's close ties with Haiti, it's on the TV all the time, I don't feel a great empathy. I don't want it to have happened, and I want the suffering of those people to be alleviated, but it doesn't touch my soul.
And yet one of the pieces of music that was played this evening was from Schindler's List, and even thinking very briefly about the Holocaust has me in tears, and thinking about it more than briefly is utterly unbearable, it can sink me into absolute despair.
So my prayers and my tears were for different things. I'm not sure it matters. I don't think either my tears or my prayers are of any great import.

And tomorrow's Wodin's day. Perhaps it'll bring some interesting-in-a-good-way news.

Spawn

The eagles have landed. Ahead of time even - impressive. The dog is beside himself with canine energy - which is a definite improvement, but isn't enamouring him to Alex.

Today is 'Blog for Choice' day in the blogosphere. U.S. American bloggers are commemorating the landmark Roe v Wade case, decided on 22nd January 1973, which decision allowed American women the right to have an abortion for any reason up to the point where the foetus is viable.
Thirty seven years later, people are still trying to take reproductive rights away from individual women.
It is also the first day of the trial of the man who has confessed to murdering Dr. George Tiller, a doctor who upheld women's rights and improved their lives by providing legal, safe abortions.

And women have even fewer rights in Saudi Arabia - well, as we all know. But the case, reported by Feministing, of the Philippina woman who has been sentenced to 100 lashes for being raped, surely has to make the jaws of even the most hard line bigots drop. She couldn't be lashed whilst she was pregnant - which she was at the time of the rape and her subsequent imprisonment for being raped, but after miscarrying, she can now receive her punishment. Just to restate - FOR BEING RAPED.

My support for Choice, however, goes awry on reading the news story about the two young boys who tortured and humiliated two other young boys in the North of England. It doesn't bear thinking about, it is just so horrific and disgusting. No-one seems to ever challenge the right of every piece of human detritus to spawn.
My god.

Stolen Pic

Yes, this one, I shamelessly stole it from Facebook. What's she gonna do? Sue her own mother?
If all goes according to plan, she arrives in fourteen hours.

Whisky is making progress. Slow progress. It turns out his underbelly pain was not all caused by his....underbelly. The main part of it was caused by an extremely red raw rump. Which was caused by the squits, which were caused by the original painkillers. Fortunately, the fake morphine causes the opposite, so hopefully his little doggy bum will get better now.

Cam, in Modern Family and his spontaneously combusting flowers. I cried, and my ribs hurt.

Curling

I keep thinking it's Tuesday. And it is.
Tuesday.

At writers' group last night, my friend had written a piece about how the meaning of the word 'fuck' has changed, it has lost its impact, its currency and its meaning. She did it well.
Another friend wanted our input on her story outline. This was quite an interesting exercise because instead of taking it in turns to critique, we all just word-stormed her with thoughts, ideas, whatever came into our heads.
Free form.
I've a feeling there's a sani-towel called that.

My son tells me that not only is there a Wii game of Curling, but that they have it. I find the idea of Curling amusing, I find the idea of taking it seriously as funny. And yet, people do and so I should just shut up and giggle nervously in my own corner. I did like the film about it though. "Men with Brooms'.

On a not-at-all amusing note, this post, which I came to via Feministing, was a fantastic read and made some from-the-heart points about rape and other violence against individuals.

Another article which I came to via the same route, but which is something I have been banging on about for some time, is about how few women there are on late night TV. And she doesn't even mention the ads, but if you do watch with a critical eye, you will see the tokenism there too.

And tonight I have another meeting, less fun I imagine. No food, no wine, no joking about.

Pain

Snow has fallen on the mountains. I'll settle for that. I'm not personally interested in the Olympics, but I'm glad they're happening. The idea of them being compromised through lack of snow doesn't sit well.

Whisky has been very out of sorts since his surgery on Friday. He is in pain from the stitches and site of the wound, and he is understandably unhappy with the cone collar he has to wear to stop him from biting his stitches. We had little sleep on Friday night, so on Saturday morning, we went back to the vet.
She gave us some extra painkillers.
'They are a like morphine, but not morphine, synthetic,' she said, 'but they're ok for him, in fact I've taken them myself,' rrrriiiiight.
He's making progress, but he's far from his own little self yet and won't have his stitches out for another week.

A series that we are watching is 'Ancients behaving badly'. It's badly presented to be honest, stylised cartoons suggesting horrific torture really doesn't do it justice. Plus, one of the presenters is good, really good, the other can't even pronounce 'Genghis Khan'. BUT...the subject matter is fascinating. Last week was Caligula. Thanks to Robert Graves and the BBC, most of us are pretty au fait with Gaius Caligula. But THIS week - Attila the Hun. Now there's a name we know, but I didn't know much about him. Now I do.
Dear God.

Four days until Alex arrives.

Blame

It's hard to watch others suffer. It's even harder to watch someone who love in pain, even when that little someone is a pet. And it's hard to deal with the knowledge that you are responsible for that pain.

No-one is to blame for the earthquake that hit Haiti, even global warming doesn't account for earthquakes.
A group of teenagers, a school group from BC are there, and have been found alive. Their parents have asked that they should be put on the priority list for re-patriation. And of course they should, they're kids. But the parents' argument is that the kids have seen things that no human being should have to. Now this, to me, is downright insulting, The things that people are suffering and have suffered in Haiti are awful, truly awful, but the idea that no-one should see those things is just wrong. Those teenagers could gain so much from getting a real understanding of other people's suffering, that selfish feelings of entitlement have no currency when natural disasters happen.

On the radio yesterday, one of the Muslim leaders who issued a fatwa against the terrorists who attack westerners, was talking to a journo about why they had decided to issue it now. Then a second Muslim man came on, saying that there was no need to make these statements about Islam being peaceful because it was obvious.
The journo pointed out that someone wasn't getting it, since there were still terrorist attacks perpetrated by Muslims, then number two says that Islam has been peaceful for fifteen hundred years. Journo pointed out that this wasn't the case....
Jeez.
(Peace be upon him).

Here's someone I blame. The BC court have just over-ruled a local court who closed down a safe injection site in Vancouver. Seriously. What possible, POSSIBLE reason could anyone have for closing down a safe injection site? Utterly irresponsible behaviour by city officials, so it's a damn good thing that the BC court have overturned that tosspot ruling.

My friend is seriously pissed off with BA. Don't blame her. Not only are they more expensive than other airlines, and have made themselves even less attract a prospect by threatening strike action, but they now charge twenty squids for pre-booking a seat - free on Air Canada - AND...while my friend was away, they changed the number of bags you are allowed to have in the hold. So, you go with two bags, what the hell are you supposed to do with the other one when you return? Well, pat an additional forty squids for that it seems.
Someone needs their bottom smacked.

The Surgeon's Knife

However often I refresh the Environment Canada website, it will not deliver me up any snow in the foreseeable future. Or promise me any.

I love that the Israeli police have actually arrested this nutjob, Goel Ratzon, self-styled messiah. He considers himself to be perfect and to have everything a woman wants.
Oh really.
Because we're all the same of course, all women want the same thing.
Whilst I am prepared to believe there must be some women who want what he has to offer, unkempt appearance, staring eyes, messiah complex, clinical insanity, sharing of sexual favours with other women, domination and squalor, I can't think of anyone I know who would be lining up.

Unsurprisingly, Haiti has been on the news all day, and all day yesterday. And equally unsurprisingly, you don't have to look far to find miserable gits who think the Haitians undeserving. Some, indeed, think they asked for it, probably the same wankers who considered AIDS to be a 'gay plague'.
At one and the same time, the psycho-pathology of these people is fascinating in the way that a cobra is fascinating, and provokes a horror that makes you want to back off sharply in case they have some way of sucking you inside their twisted, barbaric brains.

On the subject of twisted, barbaric, psychotic brains, although I have now finished Hilary Mantel's Booker prize winning novel, 'Wolf Hall', I still keep thinking about it. I admire the way she showed the horror that was the man, Thomas More, whilst also painting him as a man, for whom, even whilst despising for his barbarism, Cromwell couldn't bring himself to wish the worst kind of death.
The worst kind of death at the time for a woman was being burned alive, for a man, being hung, drawn, and quartered. Somehow More managed to make even the worst worse for his victims.

Intolerably sad, profound,
St. Giles's bells are ringing round,
Swing up and bring me hope of life,
Swing down, and plunge the surgeon's knife.....

From, 'Before the Anaesthetic' by Sir John Betjeman

Tomorrow, my little puppy gets his own surgery. I think I anthropomorphise more than I should, but I don't like the idea of him being away all day and anaesthetised.
In general, and in spite of the fact that the surgery will quite literally be done by women, I don't buy into the myth that women castrate men, it's more often men who castrate other men,
But in the case of Mr. Ratzon, I'd make an exception.

Daly

Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. But in fact, of course they do - or did, otherwise it wouldn't be funny. Everyone expected the Spanish Inquisition, anyone at all within the gravity well of Spain.
Bizarre behaviour really, rather horrid too.

Last week, a woman I'd never heard of died. But I don't know why I'd never heard of her, she seems like quite an incredible human being to me.
But I have heard a lot about her since she died.

Mary Daly.

Here is Sister Joan Chittister's blog post about her from the National Catholic Reporter.
Sr. Joan says that Mary Daly posed two questions that are at the heart of contemporary Christianity, hell they were at the heart of it even in the days of the Inquisition, but no-one would have dreamt of acknowledging it then, and most wouldn't now.

The idea of a male God, is that consistent with the idea of God as pure spirit?
A church which is patriarchal and therefore inauthentic, can it survive in its present form?

Sr. Joan goes on to say,
"Women need to thank Daly for bearing the rejection that too often comes to those who say a new insight first and say it consistently and say it in the face of the very system in which they themselves have been raised." Amen to that, oh yes, those of us who challenge and challenge consistently know that only too well.

And she says,
"In later years, Daly refused to accept men in some of her classes, forcing men to experience the exclusion that women had endured for centuries. As a result, she lost her tenured position at a Catholic college for allegedly failing to offer equal service to all students, both men and women. But at the same time, no one else in Catholic colleges — or elsewhere — lost their jobs for excluding women from access to theology degrees or various medical specialities, among others, on the grounds that women, as women, were unfit for such programs."
Amen again.

May she rest in peace, or, if it turns out that things need changing, may she continue to rage. I tend to think that others are finding out she was right.

And by the by, Simone de Beauvoir is stellar.

Stockpile

Creepy tree, right?

Can't you artificially create a shortage of something by stockpiling? Well on the North Shore mountains, specifically Cypress Bowl, it seems they're rather short of snow - somewhat worrying since the Nordic ski events are supposed to be taking place there, but they, 'they' say it's ok, because they have some snow stockpiled. Imagine that, stockpiling snow.

I was amused to read, via Feministing, that States in the USA that have actual bans on same-sex marriage, have higher divorce rates. It's like - I know this means something, something that makes me want to guffaw, but...I can't quite get it, like something I can almost see out of the corner of my eye.
Oh, I've just found a good post on that.

Yesterday evening, I took the new skytrain line to downtown and it was brilliant! Considering all the freaking hassle of driving down there and finding and paying for parking, it was seriously stress-free, didn't cost much more than what I normally pay for parking and you got to walk to and from the station.

Mysteries and Mistakes

Thank-you BBC via Kev for this astounding picture.

Ok, so it turns out last night was NOT the new moon - it's actually next week. That explains a lot.

You say, 'not having eagle-enough eyes,' I say, 'translocation.'
Mystery or mistake?

Thursday, just before twilight, twig-light, Twiglet, er anyway, I was throwing the ball for Whisky, on the tennis courts, when it suddenly disappeared, er, the ball that is, not the tennis court. I threw it, he ran after it, but he couldn't find it. I went over to where I`d thrown it and nor could I. The fencing around the tennis courts are too high to throw the ball over. It hadn`t gone underneath the fencing, and it`s bright pink, so very visible. I let us out and we walked round the outside, no sign. No other dogs or even people had gone past, complete mystery.
When I took him for his walk yesterday morning, I expected to find it, but no sign. We walked across the park, outside of the courts, quartering it, still no sign.
At lunchtime, I took another ball with us, but then walking back across the park, the same way we`d gone earlier, there it was, and accompanied by a golf ball. Mistake or mystery? I prefer mystery.

Definitely a mistake - I went to the dentist, expecting to come out with my tooth fully repaired, but what I have is a temporary crown and a very sore mouth. I mean VERY sore, couldn't concentrate on anything but the pain as soon as the injection started to fade. Luckily, I had some useful pink pills that someone gave me for a different pain, they have come in seriously handuy.

So maybe that was the message from the moon - thought it would be resolved today, won't be until next week.

The Vortex

Two of my lads, last month. Breaking their mother's heart.

Tomorrow is the new moon, but it doesn't look the way you expect it to.

My days and evenings are now taken up with the trivia of my life. The lists - micro-cleaning, watering - yes watering, in spite of the recent rain, the balcony boxes remain bone dry, the bulbs will not sprout; listen to the news in French, in German, read something in Spanish, improve the shining hour, walk the dog.
Time somehow fills itself.

The BIG questions need to be answered.
Why, when Graham Norton has Hollywood stars on, are they like corpses? They sit there, hardly joining in, letting Graham do all the work.
'You're great,' says Mickey Rourke, 'you make us feel so relaxed.
Too relaxed bozo.
I loved you in 'The Wrestler', superb performance, professional, skilful, well-crafted, but why is your hair hanging in greasy strands across your face? And just get inflamed by Jessica Biel from the other end of the sofa, if you must at all, don't keep pawing her.
And that other woman, the one who couldn't pronounce 'Greenland', she didn't want to sit on your lap.
Oh Mickey.

I sit down to watch TV5 while eating my lunch, and nearly get sucked in to Maury. Maury has a psychic detective, how can I resist a psychic detective? But I stay strong, I've been here before, your whole life can disappear into the telly before you can say, 'Anne Robinson.'

The dog walking has a gentle etiquette. The Chinese people always observe the etiquette, allow the dogs to approach, sniff, each owner reminds their own dog of their expectations, then the socialising is over and the dogs, through their owners' mouths, say goodbye. It works even if one of you doesn't speak English.
The Anglos are a bit more random, they may or may not do the dog dance.

God save the Queen.

Rossi and Rossie

Portia di Rossi - awesome in 'Better off Ted'.

Decs came down yesterday - natch, although even had it not been twelfth night, I'd have done it to spite Vanoc.
VANOC. They told us we should all leave our Christmas lights up until after the Olympics. What? And provoke the ire of the Celtic gods? I don't think so.

My Epiphany? Since Epiphany it is. Na, still working on it. Sometimes an epiphany doesn't come along just like that, sometimes it has to mull and brew and stew and then mature a while.

So, the Jonathon Ross show is on a short cycle and we were back to the one with Tom Cruise and Stephen Fry last night. Tom Cruise's sheer, utter 'wtf?' expression when Rossie asks him whether he wafts the duvet or locks it down when he farts in bed. Classic. Fecking classic.

I am SO jealous of the snow in the UK. Still, on the other hand, I wouldn't have been able to get out of the country, and then I'd have missed ...er...something. Food probably, from the sound of the news reports on telly.
Of course, as ever, the reportage is all south-centric.
'They don't have many snow ploughs in the UK,' no, wrong, we don't have many in the south, just a lad on the back of a truck, sitting on a pile of sand. But up north - oh, they have 'em. Well, more than one anyway, oh yes, they have snow ploughs.

I am reading the Booker prize winner for 2009, 'Wolf Hall' by Hilary Mantel.It is INCREDIBLE. I am having to ration myself so that it lasts as long as possible.

Delia and David

The leader of the British Tory party, David Cameron, who will most likely be Britain's next premier, wants to have all-women short lists for the next elections. The party faithful are not on board with this it seems. Women, can be SUCH an embarrassment.
Recently, they tried to de-select a candidate because she had had an extra-marital affair. I know! I did too! Thought that was a pre-requisite for being a Tory MP that is.

Now positive discrimination along the lines that Cameron wants, is a hot potato, even amongst feminists, but in this case, I'd have to go with Cameron. The Daily Mirror, have produced a calendar of Tory racist, sexist, homophobic and generally shocking-taste indiscretions of 2009, and guess what? Apart from the one where a Tory MP resigns after suffering sexual discrimination for three years, they're ALL committed by Tory men! Oh, I suppose if you think about it, in all likelihood, that one was committed by men too.

Now another British icon is Delia Smith. I've never seen her on TV here, so she may not be well known this side of the pond. And to be fair, watching her on TV is like watching paint dry. As TV chefs go, she lacks charisma, even if you are not a fan of the charms of Jamie and Nigella. But in terms of cooking, hers are the recipes everyone turns to.
Delia's Christmas Book is the Christmas Bible it seems, and I admit, that on the rare occasions that I want to cook something, I look up Delia online, as in fact I did last weekend, and discovered that I was making something from...her Christmas Book.
And whilst I am always singing the praises of reading electronically, the fact is, if you are a slow, clumsy cook like me, you bloody well need a book, the laptop keeps going to screensaver whilst you fiddle-faddle about.

Then there is the 'NotDelia' website, another useful site for finding out tips like - how to make self raising flour if the country you live in doesn't sell it.

Oh, and Delia owns or part owns or something, Norwich football team - hence the footie scarf. I dunno, I just thought such sartorial...quirkiness, needed explaining.

Almost Done

..in that we celebrated Epiphany in church today, so Christmas must be almost over.

Yesterday was the 80th birthday of a good friend, Anne, and there was a party for her at her son's house. A very nice event at the beginning of the new year and to celebrate our friend's life so far.

And then we have that age old problem. Are we in a new decade or does that really start next year? Since the counting of time, unlike the birth of my friend Anne, well and my other friend, the Tame Pharmacist - not turning eighty, but fifty - didn't commence with year zero, ten really ends the decade. But we're all anxious for new beginnings, so I think most people would go for it being a new decade.

So..the Irish blasphemy law. WHAT? How, I ask, can you possibly judge this? Because I'm fairly sure that my idea of what is blasphemous would not match up with theirs. And then, why should blasphemy be illegal anyway? Well, according to Irish law makers, because their constitution only protects Christians. That makes no sense to me...unless somewhere, someone is confusing blasphemy with religious hatred, and I would think that THAT is pretty much covered under the law.

But an Irish atheist organisation, known, oddly, as 'Atheist Ireland', are contesting it, as well they might.
The law was passed in July, and became law on the first of January. I feel the timing on this one is very poor, given the recent massive exeunt from the Catholic church, although to be fair, it's more like 400 years out of date.

When Rushdie published 'Satanic Verses', a fatwa was issued. So, is the Christian equivalent of a fatwa €25K? Interesting, since in history, Popes and papish representatives have sold pardons and prayers for filthy lucre, not to mention that just attending the burning of a heretic could get your time in purgatory reduced by up to 40 days. All fairly dodgy renditions of the Deity's intentions.

Oh, the picture? A bit of papal bull.

First of January

The first of January two thousand and ten. Or twenty ten, depending on which you decide sounds better.

Resolutions? None yet.

Highlights ? The spring, the summer, the autumn, the winter, my family, my friends.

The future ? I'm looking forward to Alex arriving and to going to Alaska with Dawn and to the wedding of two very dear friends later in the year.

Advice? Watch 'Better off Ted'. It's funny.
Oh, and if you're travelling to Ireland, don't blaspheme, or you'll be fined 25,000 Euros.
Priceless.

Sylvester Abend

Last day of the year - went to Ikea, it had to be done. Ikea have now installed some self-service checkouts. I love the self-service checkout, of which Superstore is the ruler. However, although I tried to stand in another queue, the screens and scanners called to me with their siren .... scanneriness. But then, standing in that queue, I became annoyed at the slowness of the people using them. 'For goodness sake,' I said, using entirely my inner voice, 'it's not rocket science people.'
But it turned out that it was. Spoilt by Superstore and Home Depot, the Ikea system has its own little quirks. Fortunately, I go there often enough to be able to get the knack quite quickly.

Last night we watched 'Revolutionary Road.' I loved this film, I love to watch characters being painted, ordinary situations being explored. And I was absolutely awed by Kate Winslet's performance, the sheer skill of her portrayal of any-woman of the mid nineteen fifties. Sometimes, you can see a picture that makes you 'get' art. And sometimes you see a performance that makes you get acting.

Today, there has been some interminable programme on TV of 'one hit wonders of the 80s'. At first, I was unfamiliar with most of them, but as we got up near the top, I was recognising more and more. Now I would certainly never argue that Haircut One Hundred were not a one-hit-wonder group, but then it gets weird. Big Country? What? And Dexy's Midnight Runners? And the 'one hit' of Dexy's wasn't even their biggest one. And then Soft Cell. Pardonnez-moi? Soft Cell?
Of course, as Kev pointed out, it was a US American show, many of the bands mentioned weren't even one-hit wonders in Canada, let along in the UK.

Ah well.

I have as yet no New Year's resolutions. I'm not sure I even see the first of January as the new year anymore. But officially it is, so to one and all, I wish a Very Happy New Year and may it bring us all clarity and peace and may our gods walk among us.

Am Sechsten Tag

...erschuf Gott den Menschen. But, to be fair, it wasn't the sixth day of Christmas, just...the sixth day.
On the sixth day, God created people, women and men and fashioned them in God's image.

Odd really, this need to see ourselves as a reflection of God, or, more accurately, God as a reflection of us, in all our bigoted, greedy, uncaring vileness.

And while we're at it....we women, humourless harridans that we are, are supposed to accept being called men, and just suck it up. 'Man', we are told by the terminally stupid, means men and women, humans, it's the species.
So why does my male dog get called a man then? 'Little man', 'wee man', well, duh! It is because he's male. Species : dog, canis familiaris; gender : male, man, boy.

On the news, an RCMP officer who was suspended, has stabbed and killed another officer. Now that he is in custody, they have put him on suicide watch. Why? Oh yes, we must stop him killing himself because that's our prerogative, not that we have execution in any civilised country, but his life belongs to us now, the people, Jo and Joe Public, to do with what we will, and I'm not saying that bit is wrong, just the idea that he must be stopped from killing himself.
In the days when civilised countries did kill criminals, then we made suicide a crime, and one that meant the victim/criminal, could not be buried in consecrated ground. I dunno, maybe the ground would vomit them back up or something, because it seems to me that God wouldn't be too fussed either way.

And on a reserve, a 12 year-old boy has murdered a 14 year-old girl. Everyone on the reserve is shocked. I mean male violence against women, that hardly ever happens.

The new security measures for flying from Holland to the States are going to compromise privacy. How? Because the new scanners allow the security staff to see your naked form, well, more shadow really, plus any bomb-making equipment you might have strapped to your body. AND....don't let us forget that the machines come with software that DOESN'T in fact allow the screeners to see your naked shadow, just anything that shouldn't be there. FAR more intrusive than lubed-up latex fingers probing your various orifices.

I am reading 'Wolf Hall', winner of the 2009 Booker prize. It's one huge tome. But it is fascinating, following the lives of Thomases Wolsey and Cromwell as they try to give King Henry VIIIth what he wants. And although, obviously, to go into the day-to-day detail and dialogue, the author is clearly fictionalising, as least the historical events are fact, well, accepted fact. I'm glad, something must be done to redress the damage done by the poisonous TV series, 'The Tudors'.

On the sixth day, God created humans. God shortened, quite considerably, the jaw muscle that was stopping our skull from expanding, and thus our brain from developing, and then God did a slight readjustment on that thumb, so that it was opposable.
Splendid.

Day Five

This former abbey is near where Austen and Sue live, in Titchfield. It was built in the 13th Century, but was later converted to a Tudor mansion, and Shakespeare staged plays there.

Am I being picky? No of course not, but the neighbour's tacky lights detract from our more tasteful ones. I wonder if I could ask them to move on these grounds.

A couple of days ago, we experienced a drive-by Whisky Worship. A large, white car slowed down and drew up alongside of us. Slowly, the window went down and a cheery man leant out, calling, 'Whisky!!!!' Beside him in the car I could see Toby the Schnauzer.

More snow in England, Wales and Scotland...well, that's Britain then....has caused a surge in cat litter sales. Not because the inclement weather makes the cats pee and poo more, just that people are using it instead of salt on the icy paths and so forth. Probably their cars too. I imagine a lot of folks are driving around with cat litter on their bonnets.

At the hairdresser's this avo, were the most horrific little brats and their stupid enabling mother(s). The brats in question were aged around four. They were having tantrums and the mothers kept whining and promising them sugar filled crap if only they'd let the nice lady cut their hair. One of the mothers at some point told one of the boys to, 'go and look at the hot girls in the magazines.' There is SO much wrong with that I don't know where to start, and nor do I need to, since tis obvious.
I wanted to get up, with my hair all clowny, and slap all four of them, but I thought of how my hair would fall out when the RCMP came and arrested me before the hairdresser had finished, so I got a grip and settled down to seethe until they had gone.

On the Fourth Day

The Christmas Season is upon us, the turkey is being eaten little by little. Sadly, the sprouts have run out. I do like a nice Brussels sprout, me.

And of course, airline security has been stepped up. The thing is, the security measures that were already in place were probably enough, were they being followed. How can a syringe needle not set off the metal detectors? And chummie was on the UK's terrorist watch list, why wasn't that information shared, or if it were, why was no action taken?

A British man faces execution in China, for allegedly smuggling heroin. The heroin, we are told by the Chinese, 'could kill 26,800 people'. How does it do that I wonder? I mean, it's not like Anthrax is it? You have to take it, and then, some people maintain a habit over a lifetime and don't ever die. I'm on shaky ground here, because I'm getting my information from Soaps, and I haven't watched one for about fifteen years, but I'm pretty sure heroin doesn't just kill people.

Basically, the man may or may not have smuggled four kilos of a drug that you have to actually take for it to do you any harm, and he is facing the same sentence as Saddam Hussein who oversaw mass torture and slaying of his own people and an attempted genocide of the Kurdish people, none of whom, agreed to any of it.

Meanwhile, the fourth day of Christmas at the Schloss has been spent tidying things, my desk, the wardrobe. I have been listening to a lot of Bowie, and whilst some of his work has more Zeitgeist than the Zeit itself, he did have a rubbish period as well.
I have also been catching up on missed tellie.
Dexter, series ender.
Oh my.
The next series could be....well, quite the series.
I have finished all my downloads of Beautiful People, sadly. The more I saw, the more hooked I became.

And now that I'm back in Canada, I realise what a relaxing break I've had from sexist language, (church service notwithstanding), although I did have to complain to the management of the Co-op for using the word 'manned' instead of 'staffed' in one of their notices, bloody peasants. British Rail's notice said, 'staffed'. Quality.

I also note that Whisky is attuned to Dean Martin. My friend send me a Power Point e-mail of snowy scenes with 'Let it Snow' playing in the background. Whisky ignored the intro music, but pulled his head whence it was buried, deep underneath the cushions, as soon as the old crooner's voice started up. Maybe channelling my mum.

Peace At Christmas

We have awoken to a white world this Christmas Day, not that it has snowed, but the frost is so thick that the world is truly white and sparkly at and around the Schloss.
Yesterday's journey back was uneventful, in spite of my fears of travel disruption, hardly unfounded since there had in general been travel chaos whilst I was over in the UK, people had been stranded in the tunnel, stranded on either side of the tunnel, runways closed, trains not running and people snowed and iced into cars.

I had been prepared for extra security and extra security there was, certainly at Heathrow, resplendent in its Christian holiday madness. But extra security in the most British way possible. Yes, every step was monitored and checked, and believe you me, I am not criticising that, but the ACTUAL security queue at Terminal three was knee deep in uniformed staff, pre-trained in officiousness, which was slightly marred for me by the young woman standing at the place where your checked hand luggage comes through, whining at a colleague,
'Oi, you gotta come and take over from me 'ere, I need to wee, I really need to wee,' ah yes, don't we all at all times and in all places.

YVR has become even more awesome. Previously, the ONLY thing Heathrow had over YVR, was that on arrival, EU and other passport holders were channelled into different queues and so entry through immigration was relatively smooth.
Now, YVR has actual machines for holders of Canadian passports or Permanent Resident cards. The card or passport is scanned, your customs declaration is scanned, and lo! You passeth through with no further ado. Much too early for your luggage to have arrived of course, but so efficient, and it must make the lines for non-residents shorter too.

At the Schloss, all is ready for the great feast of Christmas. Kev has been planning and preparing for days, anything that could be done in advance has been. The lights are up, the fridge and the liquor cabinet are full, everwhere is tidy.

So, at this time of Christmas for Christians, and for those who wish to celebrate it, I feel very blessed. I have been able to spend the last fortnight of Advent with part of my family, I have returned uneventfully to the rest of my family here, I have celebrated the Eucharist with others that I hold dear, and the world, for just this moment as I write, is still.

This Peace, the Peace that passes all understanding, isn't just a Christian ideal, it crosses the Faiths and beyond. At Christmas, I wish Peace for all my friends and family, for those I know and those I don't, for the living and those who have gone before. For all women and men and whoever else may be out there,
Peace, Salaam, Shalom.

Sin and Blasphemy

Sunday took me back in time. Funny how soon I have forgotten how much I have, surrounded as I am in the church where I usually worship, by like-minded women and the odd troll. No, seriously, there are a couple of odd trolls there. But the time machine took me back to a church where God is an Englishman.
He, him, his, king, Lord, father.
Bollocks.
A book I am reading by Brian Wren, describes such language as blasphemous and sinful - speaking of God as male, not the bollocks bit.

Today, blasphemy and general bad language could well have abounded, were it not for the well-known Dunkirk spirit.
I had organised, no, to be fair, Alex had organised to see her Godfather, a long-time friend of mine. We were to catch a train from the local station to Chichester, there to swan around, meet Julian, dine in the Café Rouge and return at our leisure.
Oh fickle and cruel fate. Well, British Rail really.
We were given a lift to the station at midday.
So far so good.
But wait, what is this gaggle of disaffected youths hanging around looking seriously pissed off? Yes, yes, I know that is tautology. Disaffected youths always look seriously pissed off.
We waited for the ticket window, or guichet in French.
I know, I don't know, just...I must be missing French labelling.
'We want to go to Chichester,' said Alex.
The man leant forward and said in an ohmygod-I-feel-so-sorry-for-you kind of way,
'I wouldn't travel today if I were you.'
'Oh,'
'There haven't been any trains yet today,'
'Ah,'
We phoned the Godfather, who consulted the interwebs.
'There's one at 13.50 that ISN'T cancelled.'
We went for coffee.
We came back nearer to 13.50. The train still wasn't cancelled, but the ticket window was, it was closed.
We bought tickets from the machine and went across to the platform.
A lady in red came out and hailed us across the rails,
'Where are you ladies hoping to travel to?'
'Chichester,'
'I can't guarantee that train'll run,'
'Oh.'
And it didn't, but by the time we knew it wasn't coming, there it was, the Dunkirk spirit breaking out all over the platform.

And the time we had had our tickets refunded and rung Austen for a lift, we were drizzled into submission. We found a pub and watched as the rain became torrential, then turned to sleet, then to snow and then became blizzard-like.
Such fun. And we were very pleased to get back in the warm.

Breathe

Have finally fallen ill. Yesterday, after an exciting overnight snowfall, and whilst it was still snowing, I managed to help Alex take the children to school (she-does-everything-and-I-tag-along sort of help) and then more or less collapsed, slept all afternoon, felt like crap and then collapsed again on the sofa. I was supposed to go up to London to meet my sister, but when I rang her to tell her that any movement was impossible, it seemed as though she was in the same boat, croaking, creaking and generally crook.

BBC i-player rocks. Sadly, we can't access it in Canada, so whilst I'm here, I can watch all kinds of great stuff, Miranda, Gavin and Stacey, Life, but in Canada, where BBC Canada can be quite tardy and rather random about these things, they won't let me view them. And frankly, I'd be happy to pay the BBC money to be able to do so. Why don't they offer poor ex-pats this service?

Then there's the question of heating. Why does the same room temperature, heated via radiators, feel so much more comfortable than when heated by forced air? I can't even begin to see the logic in it, and yet......

This morning, I could happily have stayed in bed for an extra, ooh, two days to be honest, but Alex brought me coffee, prodded me back to life and got me out shopping. By the end of it I felt like death (barely) warmed up, and yet after another rest, I was able to get going again, and do feel a great deal better now.
At least, I was able to drink alcohol again, which is the same thing really.

Overnighter

Ah, tis Thursday. Spent the night at Sleepy Mansions, was wined, dined and entertained in the time-honoured Sleepy Mansions fashion.
Rue Albert seems, in my opinion, to be tastefully dressed for the Yuletide season, and in comparison to the environs of Schloss Schneewittchen, so was Aliens Strasse.

Today we had flurries, followed by hail, which filled the cat's bowls in the garden and edged the lawn. Tomorrow we may or may not be forecast snow-dumpage. Hampshire doesn't appear to get a mention in Met Office dispatches, but on the BBC map, we're coloured orange. Orange for 'Be Prepared'.
At the very least, it sounds windy out there tonight.

Yesterday was my friend British Karen's birthday, retro-active Happy Returns Karen, I hope it was enjoyable.

Nearly Winter.

Ms.

Jetlag and perimenopause have something in common. Both have you waking up full-on at 3.00. This isn't funny. And then just as suddenly, as though your clock had wound down, just as you hear the alarm, you fall off again, into a deep sleep.

Austen and Sue have moved from central Southsea into rural Titchfield, far from the madding crowd. And it is indeed very pleasant here, and yet so far from the madding crowd that it's difficult to get anywhere without a car. Even the ubiquitous railways station is far enough away to make it awkward to get anywhere.

Yesterday was Ellie's second birthday. She's bright and is talking clearly and well. One of her birthday presents was an angel costume from Tesco's 'Nativity' range. I was quite surprised to see that this range includes a blue fairy outfit, complete with wings. I could only surmise that Mary has been supernaturalised.

In the Hampshire branch of the Schnee family, an interesting discussion has been taking place. Austen wondered about the mystery of the title 'Ms.' He feels it has not been accepted here, and in fact has negative connotations. In my job, where I see a procession of different teachers, it is the most common, overwhelmingly common title, that is used, often by female parents as well.

I find the most worrying thing that apparently, here, it is often associated with 'Feminist' or 'lesbian' and more to the point, that these are seen as negative.

'Ms.' was supposed to get round the discrimination associated with a title that referred not just to your gender, but to your marital status. I know a couple of people who avoid this altogether by refusing to use any title. I never give a title, but when pushed, certainly choose 'Ms.' I am married, but I do not choose to use my partner's surname. So I'm neither a Miss nor a Mrs. And then, is there a negative connotation associated with those too? At my age, is it better to be a Miss or a Mrs.? I'll stick with Ms. or nothing at all.

But the whole thing could be avoided completely, AND your earnings be increased, by adopting a man's name.

Makes you think.

A Tale of Two Airports

Thursday saw Ben's return to the UK, head-scratchingly uneventful, but for the fact that he didn't let anyone know that he had arrived. Then Friday, after my final performance as Mother Nature, during which the real Mother Nature played along by squeezing out a few flakes of snow, I was taken to the airport.

Since the last time I flew out of there, which must have been January, YVR, already probably one of the most attractive airports in the world (bearing in mind that I haven't by any means flown around the whole world) has been upgraded to state-of-the-art readiness for the Olympics. It, quite simply, took my breath away. I feel it is not only ready for showing Vancouver off to the best possible advantage this February, but well into the future. And the staff all greeted me in French, followed by English. I was beyond impressed.

And this contrasted most starkly with Terminal three at Heathrow. What a complete shambles. Immigration - as usual there, smooth, well-oiled (not in the alcoholic sense mind) and efficient. Luggage.....-ish. But once through customs, things start to deteriorate. No ladies toilet unless you schlepp all the way over to departures, then back and the endless, ENDLESS trek to the central bus terminus. Once there, you have to deal with polite inefficiency in order to buy a ticket, although what I would commend is that anyone who ISN'T polite gets short shrift. That, I like.

But realistically, the world is going to be coming through Heathrow in two years time for London's Olympics. I'm sure that Terminal Five is burnished brightly, but all of the terminals need attention and the service of the people peripheral to operations there, is not up to snuff.

My 'plane was at the gate by 13.00, I was not on a coach out of Heathrow until 14.30. That really is a poor show. But things were about to get worse. The trains down to Portsmouth were also delayed since the legendary 'engineering works' were going on on the line, so you had to get out at Petersfield, get on a bus to Havant, then back on a train to the Portsmouth stations. Austen chose instead to come and collect me from Petersfield.

Arrival

Ok, it's Sunday and I am en Angleterre. More to follow, but just letting everyone know.

Join the Dots

So...let's join the dots.

Last year, a research study from University College London, showed that although there was no overall difference between the intelligence of men and women, both women and men perceive men to be more intelligent than women. They perceive their father to be more intelligent than their mothers, their grandfathers more intelligent than their grandmothers and their sons to be more intelligent than their daughters.
Huh.

Then women are marginalised and made invisible by the use of male gender language to stand for both genders.
Huh.

Then when people do that, we find that they actually associate male words with maleness.
Huh.

I see more than just a pattern emerging.

Meanwhile, if the patriarchal Catholic church is losing its sheen for you, oh, and you happen to be Irish, you can asked to be excused by filling in the forms on this website. You will be joining almost 5,000 others who have already done so.

Laurence and Nick

And Ben and Whisky.

Oh my.
Now that my voice is almost restored, I am starting to feel a little crook, especially in the mornings after I've had a good cough. I don't have any clearly definable symptoms, just feel a little...under the weather.

My sweet tooth has been almost completely replaced by a salty one. A salty tooth, sounds like something a sailor might have, before she sailed into Iranian waters with or without evil intentions that is.
Whisky, on the other hand, has a cardboard tooth. He is both tortured and fascinated by the Christmas decs box.

The Roumanian dentistry has been going well. For the first time ever in my personal relationship with teeth, the dentist's chair has been relaxing. And I've even been spared the horrors of the unfreezing face, where your flesh itches so much you want to scratch it off.
Ironically, the original reason for abandoning the Aussie and South African practitioners of the British National Health Service in favour of a local fix, the broken tooth, remains broken, but the front part of my mouth has been restored to a semblance of pearliness.
However, I do not scorn the NHS, far from it. Utilitarian it may be - a large amalgam filling where the more market driven Canadian system will put a white one, for example, but it provides affordable dentistry for young families, for students, pensioners and the unemployed.
Oh, and presumably work experience for Antipodians.

Today is Laurence's birthday. We have feasted at the Memphis diner. More meat than is necessary in a year.
And it is St. Nicholas's day.
And it is the 20th anniversary of the Montréal Massacre of women engineering students at the Université de Montréal, Ecole Polytechnique.
A vicious atrocity committed by a vile excuse for a man.

Camels and Needles

Someone please explain to me, why, after thousands upon thousands of good women and men gave their lives to defeat Hitler, we are still living in world where a sector of our society are demonised. I don't mean paedophiles, no, quite fair that they should be demonised, same for rapists, spouse beaters, murderers.

Over the past week, a complete tosspot and Cardinal of the Roman Catholic church, has announced that homo and transsexuals will not enter the kingdom of heaven. How does he know this? Because St. Paul says so apparently. Clearly not emphatically enough however, since even the Vatican has distanced itself from this nutter.
Not only that, but how, pray, does St. Paul have such arcane knowledge? No, right, he can't do, he was just a chap who never even met the person whose teaching he was spreading. And not only that, but St. Paul has to be the most mis-represented and interpreted writer of all time. He must be up there beside himself with frustration at what (mostly) MEN have twisted his words into.
Then there is the rather I feel, pertinent point that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Heaven. Oh who was it that said that? Ah yes, of course, Jesus of Nazareth. Clearly he wasn't too specific about how rich you had to be, nor whether it applied to women as well, but I haven't noticed any Cardinals banging on about rich bastards being denied entry recently.

Then we have the Ugandans. Not only should they be so bloody relieved that they're no longer having their testicles attached to electrodes by Idi Amin, not to mention being hung by their own flesh on meathooks, that they would love everyone. Yet no. They want to make homosexuality a crime punishable by execution. Why? Seriously, what is it they fear? That it's catching? Most of the African countries are being desolated by AIDs, and it isn't being spread by rampaging gangs of homosexuals forcing their unwanted attentions on an unsuspecting population, no, it's being spread by MEN with misogynistic attitudes. Oh yes, yet again, where we find homophobia, we find misogyny.

And then there's New York State. For pity's sake, WHY is this allowed to happen under the United States constitution? In the 21st century, many parts of the USA seem to be travelling backwards in time, un-progressing. How can this be allowed to happen, how CAN it happen? What is wrong with these people? Why does it even matter to anyone whether two people of the same sex want to get married? How does it affect anyone else? It's no argument to say that marriage is for the procreation of children, because then we wouldn't let anyone past the menopause get married. Or that in some way, same sex marriage interferes with the sanctity of marriage, because many of the celebs they worship do just that with their in-your-face shenanigans. We allow child molesters and rapists to get married - so long as it's to someone of the opposite gender, we let convicted criminals get married, people of different cultures, colours, ages, religions, so WHY NOT TWO PEOPLE OF THE SAME GENDER WHO WANT TO?????
Well they can in Canada.

Frankly, I'm aiming higher now. I don't just want to see a woman as next President of the USA, I want to see a lesbian in the White House, but long before that happens, I want to see Obambi putting an end to all this hate crime.

Cats or Rats

Alright, so this morning we woke up to a heavy frost, absolutely beautiful, and way up high in the clear blue sky, were a pair of eagles, circling slowly, enjoying the their own being.

My voice was sufficient to the task of Mother Nature yesterday, and today I could even sing. I thought it was good to have a croaking Mother Nature - sends a message.

A frosty morning is so not the morning for anyone to have their pavement drenching sprinklers still going. The pavement turns quite quickly into an ice-rink. I'd say idiots, but in fact, I would have to find something stronger, because people can get seriously injured by these jerks. Why the hell anyone's sprinklers are on when we've had the sort of rainfall we have had is beyond comprehension.

And this I find on the way to taking Whisky for his walk, after the impromptu skating, I have to keep removing chicken bones from his mouth. Some other jerk has spread them around the park. The other dog walkers point to a house and indicate that the culprit, a teenaged boy, lives there. He has pushed over the post box last week.
Now I know from dogs past that dogs mustn't have chicken bones - they are for cats, and it occurred to me how rarely one sees cats here. Really,almost never. Back home we would just put chicken bones out for 'the cats' - neighbourhood cats, here, you daren't do that for fear of rats. I imagine if your neighbourhood has enough cats, it doesn't have too many rats.

Ouch

Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.

Canada's environmental reputation has been well and truly trashed by George Monbiot, environmental writer of great note. He has actually broken his self-imposed ban on air travel, in order to fly to Toronto to fight the environmental corner against such thundering losers as Nigel Lawson.
Monbiot's article is long, but incredibly well-written and I found that as I read...and read...and read...my jaw dropped ever lower.