Elsinore

A few days of sun and warm enough temperatures for things to finally start growing a little, hovering around the 11° mark, today it has been up to 13°. For some reason, this spring-like weather in the actual spring has gone unanticipated by Canadian Tire. I went there today to try and get some potting compost. Their garden centre is shut whilst it is being remodelled. Last time I went, before going to England, it was shut whilst being remodelled. 'There's going to be a grand re-opening when it's finished,' the enthusiastic shop assistant assured me, 'but I need supplies now, and not only that, but I can see the bags of those supplies in your closed off area.' He gave me an 'I'm sure you understand,' type of look.
Thus, Home Depot got my custom.

Sleepy has got us hooked on the Danish detective serial, 'The Killing', or 'Forbrydelsen'. According to Google translator, this actually means 'Crime'. I like that it's sub-titled, it's nice to hear the original language. Danish sounds as though it is gargled, I can't imagine how they communicate with one another, I find it difficult to pick out individual words. I only know a few words of Danish, but what I do know has all been used in this, or almost all.

When I was fourteen, we went to stay with my parents' friends in Copenhagen, or rather København, during the summer holidays. We came back and immediately bought duvets, yoghurts and with a new appreciation for Danish pastries, known as Vienna bread to the Danes. We also brought a massive and extremely smelly Havarti cheese that didn't increase our enjoyment of the ferry crossing and long drive home.

In the serial, one of the characters is called Vagn, as was my parents' friend, and I remember the youngest son of the family, quite a large boy, and older than my sister and myself, constantly yelling something that sounded like 'Mooah!' (Mum and actually spelt 'mor'), and the children say that a lot.
The friends had a sommerhus and we went there, and learnt to be polite after a meal and say, 'tak for mal!' To my (now) embarrassment, we also learnt to say 'nej til EF', no to the common market. For some reason too, we were allowed to drink Schnapps, which burnt the lining off the back of your throat.

One of the noticeable things on the TV programme is the prevalence of smoking, even inside the house, and when we were in Denmark, my mother, a fairly committed smoker herself, was somewhat put out by the habit of our hosts of stopping after each course and smoking at the table. Of course, the average British table at that time really only ever saw two courses, the main one, and pud.

We were also taken to Hamlet's Elsinore - Kronborg Castle, although neither of us had studied Hamlet at the time, so it wasn't the enriching experience it should have been.
Our Danish obsession will end this weekend, whether we want it to or not, and I won't be buying the jumper, in spite of their apparent popularity.

Vernal Equinox

It's rather worrying when the Weather Laws as passed down from generation to generation, go awry.
I wish, I wish, I wish, that I had been able to take a picture of this, but, you know, driving, the sky coming back from Washington yesterday evening was bewitching. It was as though the whole sky to the west was on fire, and a deep, coral-coloured fire at that. The mountains to the north were tinged with pink and then further round, sparkled with snow and lights. So, Shepherds absolutely delighted or what? But this morning, do we wake up to the most glorious spring-like day EVER? No! We wake up to rain.
Well, all I can say is, the rain on the Static on Friday night was brilliant, followed by a lovely, clear, sunny day on Saturday, and that incredible, luminous moon on Saturday night. Then, of course, the sky on Sunday.

Anyhoo, I had completely forgotten that the hummingbirds come back around Saint Patrick's day and lo! They had certainly arrived at the Static. I hurried to put their feeder out, and was rewarded with the low hum of wings not long afterwards. Today I have put the one at the Schloss out. Visitors to it were infrequent last year, and yet they did come. This year, the Salmonberry doesn't seem to be showing any willing at all, and that is the only real possibility of nectar for them, so who knows, maybe we'll get more.

Amateurs

On the one hand, some people criticise the Nanny State that wants to interfere in the lives of its citizens, on the other, they want that same Nanny State to come and rescue them from the Middle East, Japan, Mexico, whichever human-made or natural disaster they find themselves stranded in the midst of. Get on the planes that are still flying, people.

Earning the title of complete bunch of amateurs, Harper's government are currently having to distance themselves from Minister Bev Oda who has stopped Canadian funding to the international aid group, Kairos. She did this by having the two other people needed to authorise payment, sign the document that gave that authorisation, then getting her aide to insert the word 'not' in it. I mean adolescent or what? Not only that, but instead of falling on her own sword in a welter of shame, she is trying to defend this outrage.

To add insult to injury, well not really, but still, adding to the whole rank amateur feel of the thing, Canada's most prestigious and publicly owned news channel, CBC, can't even speak or spell the Queen's English when reporting on it.
"...she is in contempt of Parliament over her earlier explaination for the defunding Kairos"
Wtf?

Yesterday, I was expounding the theory that if you're good at something, nobody notices, or it just looks easy. It's not easy to teach a class of 30 adolescents, but it can look like it is with an experienced teacher. Likewise, you go into a fairly ordinary restaurant in France, the sort that seems like it's in someone's back or living room, and the service just happens without your noticing, quite a pleasant contrast to what you often find in North America, where you are oh so aware of the server because they're in your face every ten minutes whining about wanting to know how you're liking your meal.
Our music director at church is a fabulous musician, but you don't notice necessarily, because it just all sounds perfect, nothing off key or out of synch, it just dovetails with everything else.

Ok, but these blokes are amateurs in the original meaning of the word, and that is a good way. Kevin showed me this the other day, and while I was watching, I couldn't help thinking that Kev could be in this group. Maybe it's just the West Coast garb, but maybe it's because he is quite the singer.

Milko

The great British tradition of having pint bottles of milk delivered to the doorstep before you get up every morning, has long been the subject of humour. If you were up early enough in the morning, you could see the little electric milk floats keeping Britain healthy and ensuring that there was at least always milk for the breakfast cereal and tea or coffee. I'm sure there was even a time when the vehicle was horse drawn.

Looking for a picture of a milk float, I found this article, by a Canadian.

I received an e-mail today that was a collection of notes that had been left out in the milk bottles, for this was indeed the way we used to communicate about our milk needs. They made me laugh and I can absolutely believe them to be real notes.

Dear milkman:

I've just had a baby, please leave another one.

Please leave an extra pint of paralysed milk.

Cancel one pint after the day after today.

Please don't leave any more milk. All they do is drink it.

Milkman, please close the gate behind you because the birds keep pecking the tops off the milk.

Milkman, please could I have a loaf but not bread today.

Please cancel milk. I have nothing coming into the house but two sons on the dole.

Sorry not to have paid your bill before, but my wife had a baby and I've been carrying it around in my pocket for weeks.

Sorry about yesterday's note. I didn't mean one egg and a dozen pints, but the other way round.

When you leave my milk knock on my bedroom window and wake me because I want you to give me a hand to turn the mattress.

Please knock. My TV's broken down and I missed last night's Coronation Street. If you saw it, will you tell me what happened over a cup of tea?

My daughter says she wants a milkshake. Do you do it before you deliver or do I have to shake the bottle?

Please send me a form for cheap milk, for I have a baby two months old and did not know about it until a neighbour told me.

Please send me details about cheap milk as I am stagnant.

Milk is needed for the baby. Father is unable to supply it.

From now on please leave two pints every other day and one pint on the days in between, except Wednesdays and Saturdays when I don't want any milk.

My back door is open. Please put milk in 'fridge, get money out of cup in drawer and leave change on kitchen table in pence, because we want to play bingo tonight.

Please leave no milk today. When I say today, I mean tomorrow, for I wrote this note yesterday.

When you leave the milk please put the coal on the boiler, let dog out and put newspaper inside the screen door. P.S. Don't leave any milk.

No milk. Please do not leave milk at No. 14 either as he is dead until further notice.

Ofwat and Broccoli

A fine day! A FINE day I tell you. I was able to open the windows - pretty important as it happens, since I'd blanched and frozen a load of broccoli, and the smell was hovering up in the bedroom. I was able to go outside and start tidying my balcony boxes. I have seeds germinating indoors, I have seeds refusing to germinate indoors. We're forecast another partially sunny day tomorrow, so I'm hopeful of more outside time.

In spite of that, we are still not seeing much in the way of flowers. March is halfway through and there is nary a daff. A few crocuses here and there but that's about the extent of it. Ergo, I offer some snowdrops from Winchester. Ah, Winchester, beautiful, beautiful town.

This evening is my meeting-free evening. Divine.
However, I have spent my day and evening firstly visiting my friend in hospital and then by doing paperwork. My last letter of the evening has been sent to Southern Water, who have tried sending me a bill, for a flat I moved out of seven years ago and which I in any case, paid monthly by direct debit. It also found its way to Austen's address, at which I have never lived. Quite a mystery. My first thought was to simply contact the water industry's watchdog, Ofwat. This was also my second thought when, after the most basic google search, Kevin discovered that Ofwat had fined Southern Water 20 million pounds in 2006, for fraud relating to customer service. However, Ofwat tell you to try contacting the water company first, so I have done so.
Watch this space, as indeed, shall I.

Euphemistically Speaking

Friday's border crossing was golden, in that all the people we spoke to or who dealt with us, spoke to us respectfully and they were efficient.

The weather god seems to have much rain in stock that she is trying to get rid of. I understand that of course. I went swimming anyway, you can never be too wet. Or at least, my skin hadn't osmosisised and crinkled, so up to that point I wasn't.

I'm always interested in which things we pay attention to and why, and in some ways, more importantly, which we don't. Japan has us all riveted. Here, anyone is quite likely to have a number of friends and acquaintances who have family there, but then if you compare that with the apathy that seems to be shown to anything that happens in Pakistan, that alone can't be the answer. Everyone in Britain is likely to have any number of friends with family in Pakistan, and thus everyone really knows that the average Pakistani family doesn't harbour terrorists and are in fact just ordinary British people.

No, I think we here, at the very least, are looking so keenly towards Japan, and having such empathy, is that we fear it could be us next. Just as in Japan, our buildings are constructed with earthquakes in mind. Our city councils have departments whose reason for being is ever-readiness for that or some other disaster. We live with the knowledge that 'the big one' is not an if, but a when.

But enough about global crises, let's talk about toilets. Now, I would generally argue that Brits talk about their bodily functions more than most, but not, I am beginning to believe, more than Canadians.
Last night, at my writers' group, someone asked about the meaning of the word 'ablutions'. This now gives me three words that Canadians use to mean toilet related, that actually have a much wider meaning.
The first I cam across was 'constitutional'.
The OED gives us this definition and this is indeed the way I would use it,
"noun, a walk taken regularly to maintain or restore good health."
Apparently here it means having your morning poo.
The second one, 'outhouse'
OED
"noun a building such as a shed or barn that is built on to or in the grounds of a house. "
Apparently here it means an outside lavvy.
And finally, 'ablutions'
OED?
"noun
(usually ablutions) formal or humorous

*
an act of washing oneself:the women performed their ablutions "
Apparently here it means going to the toilet.

So what's occurring? Well, I think it's down to euphemism. I think at some point, all of these expressions in their actual meaning, have been used euphemistically to talk about the lavatorial, and then the euphemistic meaning has been used more than the actual one.
When we were little, our parents would sometimes ask if we needed to 'wash our hands', meaning go to the toilet. Fortunately, the euphemism never became common parlance, because that would have been most unfortunate in the way that nowadays, if monkeys misbehave, you can't actually spank them, euphemistically speaking that is.

Driving Rain

It was a dark and stormy night, and the Captain said to the Mate, 'give us a tale,' she said and the tale she told was this, 'it was a dark and stormy night....,'

Well, cor blimey, love-a-duck, there has been an awful lot of weather about today. And as well as weather, there has been a fair amount of things-not-going-according-to-plan.
The plan was this.
Cross the border and get the old visa waiver renewed, since today was the day it ran out. What could possibly go wrong? The guard screwed up his eyes and said, 'I wouldn't go in there, it's up to you of course, but it's all backed up and we're short staffed,'then he sort of squinted sideways at Whisky, who was making a lot of very irritating noise in the back.
'Ok,' I said, and drove off to the Static, promising to come back tonight, and lo, I did.

It was a constant bloody battle to keep the car going in a straight line, it was so blustery, and the sky was full of birds, just playing at being birds buffeted by the wind and enjoying every minute of it.

I went to the first of three supermarkets and slipped in the mud.

Back at the Static, I took Whisky for a walk, and we were almost knocked off our feet by a loud bang that sounded like gunfire. A man popped out of his RV and asked me what it was.
'Dunno, trailer just pulled away, maybe it was a backfire,' said I, and he seemed willing to take my word for it, although I didn't really know.
Another man pulled up in his truck and asked me what the noise had been. I repeated my theory.
'Oh, thought so,' he said, not looking at all like someone who thought a vehicle had just backfired.

I'll have to get my visa waiver tomorrow. At least if they let me back in, we'll have plenty of food.

International Women's and Pancake Day

I have always loved pancake day, although I don't love it so much when I have to make the pancakes, and even less when I can't just pop down the Co-op and buy a big stack of ready-to-heat ones for a couple of bob. Oh alright then, a couple of quid.
I have of course, consulted Delia. I have done everything she has told me. It's not that I've never made them before, just that I only do it once a year as a general rule.

In the garden, things don't seem to be anywhere near as growy here as back in England. There, daffodils and violets abound, here, bulbs are pushing scared greenery through the soil.

The jetlag is in play. I fell asleep last night, sitting on the sofa watching telly, and well before nine o'clock. This morning however, I wasn't wide awake until around half past five, it had been three the previous night.

So, International Women's Day. Well played Dame Judi Dench (genuflect) and Daniel Craig, for using their roles in the James Bond films, for good.

From the Feministing website, I shamelessly repost the link to the Jane Austen drinking game, one drink for, 'Conceited Independence' and another for 'Small Dog'. Sadly, at my womanly time of life, that's about all I can manage. I'd love to be able to get as far as the 'chug' section, and I daren't enter the 'Womanly Skills' part, for fear of being the last to raise my little finger whilst holding the glass.

On the theme of the moment, how Feminism makes life better for men, writer Taylor, on Gender Focus, takes the so-called author of the so-called humorous, and completely blank book, 'What Men Think About Apart From Sex', quite firmly to task for portraying men as just that shallow and feckless.

Penultimately, 'The Rise of 'Enlightened Sexism' ' by Susan Douglas who quite rightly burns the part of the establishment who try to get us to buy into the 'you can have it all and you have arrived' myth.

And finally, although I have already written about it, the DVD of 'Made in Dagenham' isn't out until the 28th March, but however you do it, see it, it is beyond brilliant. My favourite speech by Miranda Richardson as Barbara Castle, in response to her lackeys trying to dissuade her from meeting the machinists, on the grounds that it would give their cause credence, goes thusly,'

"Credence? I will give credence to their cause. My god! Their cause already has credence. It is equal pay. Equal pay is common justice, and if you two weren't such a pair of egotistical, chauvinistic, bigoted dunderheads, you would realise that. Oh, my office is run by incompetents and I am sick of being patronised, spoken down to, and generally treated as if I was the May Queen. Set up the meeting! "

Until Next Time

Yesterday we bid farewell to England, this is what I wrote at the fantastic new Terminal 5. Not so state-of-the-art that it has free wi-fi however. Pull your finger out BAA, there's absolutely no excuse for not having free wi-fi, especially as you keep people hanging around with no explanations.

"Great Britain, the Island of the Mighty, it changes, it morphs, it welcomes and it spits out. Here we are on the way back to Vancouver. We have planned plenty of wiggle room into the various stages of our journey.

We eschew breakfast, choosing to fast before flying. Fast, pshaw, we’ve eaten enough ‘British Tapas’ (buy a ridiculously mis-matched selection of the Co-op’s ready meals and then share) and pudding tapas, (same but with puds) to keep the peristalsis going all night. Downstairs, Holly is confidently reading poems from ‘When We Were Very Young’, a well-used and loved book from the look of it. I notice that it’s the copy that Karen and Steve gave to Edward at his christening.

There is an earlier-than-planned train at the platform at Havant station, but we miss it by fewer than thirty seconds.
When we do get the train, the planned-on one, both toilets are out of service, thus, arriving at Woking, I have to make for the ladies’. Both cubicles are taken. From one, I can hear a woman having a loud conversation, I presume on her mobile phone, about visiting someone in gaol. I try to make my presence known by shuffling about and eventually the door opens. Two women come out. Neither washes their hands. This causes us to miss the bus, again by fewer than thirty seconds, but we still have plenty of time to spare.

As we pull out of Woking, the Mosque is letting out. Several men dressed like Baber Siddiqi, make me realise that Little Mosque on the Prairie has replaced apprehension with affection.
At the airport I notice that the disabled toilets no longer have big signs proclaiming them as such. What joined up thinking, those signs simply aren't necessary.

We wait and wait at the Departures gate, boarding time comes and goes, departure time comes and goes and not until twenty minutes after the time we should have left, do we get any information. The aircraft has had to be changed because of a freak food trolley accident. It doesn't seem very likely."

The flight was more tolerable, the seats better than before, the entertainment system is on Video on Demand, so we were able to watch as many films as we liked. We saw 'The King's Speech', Helena Bonham-Carter was beyond brilliant, 'Black Swan', - engaging, and 'Made in Dagenham'. This is a must-see, in fact, I will watch it again. Fecking supreme. And Miranda Richardson as Barbara Castle was inspired casting.
But it was still unbearably hot.

Whisky had been brought to meet us by Kevin's parents. Both Laurence and Whisky were happy to see us. Now there's just the reverse jet-lag to deal with.

Overnighter

Yesterday afternoon, I went to Woking to visit Ben. All good. We had lovely food from Sainsburys and an 'It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia' marathon.

This afternoon, I attempted to get back. Not so good. I arrived at Woking station to discover that all the trains from Waterloo were either cancelled or delayed owing to a 'police incident'.
In the case of any incident that involves inconvenience to gathered Brits, the Dunkirk spirit immediately comes into play.
Of course, I don't mean that civilians turn up in small cars to ferry you wherever you need to go, rather that the camaraderie rolls out.

A man told me not to take his word for it, but, that the police at Waterloo had been chasing a man who ran onto the tracks. An oncoming train's brakes failed and thus the man was fatally injured. He then gave me an alternative version that he'd also heard, but was mostly the same as the first. In any case, his story was corroborated by a British Rail employee and a woman whose daughter had found it online and then phoned her.
I walked back to Ben's flat and sent an e-mail to Kevin.

When I arrived back at the station an hour later, the body of stranded passengers had reached critical mass. It was like a solid form that moved forward as one when a train finally arrived on a different platform. The beast rolled up the stairs, across the bridge and down again.

On the train I soon discovered that on one side of me was a young woman from Toronto, who had been travelling around Europe for a while and was excited to talk to someone about Canada.
On the other side was a man who was visiting for just two days, from Israel. He thought Bibi's government were in dire straits due to the Foreign Minister's indictment and that they'd be gone within six months. He was still gloomy about the prospect of Israel getting anything but yet another right wing government.

The temperature tonight is supposed to drop to zero, and it certainly feels like it could.

This is England 2011

Ee, by gum. Where do the time go?

Bizarre though it may seem, I wanted to visit not just my parents' graves, where a geranium my sister had planted, that had come originally from their garden, had grown into a good approximation of a heart shape that linked the two, but also, the Canadian part of the military section of Brookwood cemetery.

We went at first through the wrong entrance, and toured the Muslim, Zoroastrian and Italian graves. Exit stage left and re-enter at the war grave end; the Canadian section is the first one.
They are still kept well, some still newly planted. The French headstones had, as you might expect, and yet somehow not, the dates and rank of the deceased, in their own language.

Then we went up to town in a mini. I was allowed to sit in the front on account of my extreme claustrophobia, indeed, just the thought of getting in the back brought on the first symptoms of a panic attack.
But we arrived at my sister's flat in Wapping, in one piece.

On Thursday, we toured Borough Market, and then got on the tube to Waterloo, then down to Sleepy Mansions whence to Château Crisp-e.
Meanwhile, back at the Schloss, the fire alarm was going off, apparently, it had been going off for twelve hours. Crisp-e kindly allowed us to phone home and talk Laurence through disconnecting the thing.

Friday, we were up at first light, to get a lift with the Tame Pharmacist back to Locks Heath.
The journey reminded me that although BC is beautiful, England has its own beauty, the water and the woods, even the buildings, shrouded in fog and gently lit by an early, watery sun.

We have had a quiet weekend, partly because I was banned from going to Ben's band, 'The Brompton Mix' 's first gig last night, but the early reports are that it was pretty sensational, and the band have already booked another.

Old Peculiar

Turns out that the Marmite flavoured chocolate is exactly as it says on the packet - very peculiar. I wouldn't say I'll become addicted to it, but nor does it make me want to throw it back up.

Yesterday, we went to Winchester and then hammered up to Woking to get Ben.
Today we took the kids to the New Forest, then a little pub in the country in a nearby village. This evening, dinner in Café Rouge at Gunwharf. Tomorrow, Pirbright and Brookwood to visit graves and then up to London to stay with my sister.
Making the most of half term and the location that Sue and Austen have moved to.

En Route and Onwards

Back in the land of Boudica..
The flight was uncomfortable, more-squashed-than usual seats on an old 747. Sleep largely eluded even me from the discomfort. The heat was insane.
The woman the other side of me complained about the heat too, she was nice, but a talker.

The grandkids are taller, their speech more advanced. Holly correctly used the word 'polysyllabic' to Kevin's surprise, but not mine.

We've had fish n' chips. We've had Indian takeaway. We've had back bacon. I've been given Marmite chocolate. Awesome. Haven't tried it yet.
The supermarkets are full of different things, I want to try everything, but realise that's ridiculous thinking.

We've been to Sleepy mansions and met Ozzie, walked Ozzie, communed with Ozzie. Sleepy Mansions is the perfect temperature.

There's a borrowed dog at Sue and Austen's, small but well-behaved.

Loving the weather.

Onwards, ever onwards.

YVR

The most brilliant thing, and bear in mind that there were many, to come out of the airport's overhaul for the Olympics, is the provision of free Wi-fi. This, surely, more than anything else will keep the campers happy, it certainly makes the time go more quickly. That, coupled with numerous living room style arrangements of really comfie sets around a telly screen, makes for a happier wait. My only whinge is the bloody heat setting. It must be about 25° and I feel as though my face might spontaneously combust.
Oh, I do have one other complaint. All this unpleasantness in the Middle East on the BBC World News is rather worrying.

Whisky is staying with Kevin's parents. I was so relieved that I was taking him over to them today, and not just handing him over to some kennels.
It was odd though, in the short time I was back home before our friend arrived to take us to the airport, I realised I was still aware of his presence in what I was doing, and then of course, his absence.

Collateral Damage

It would be fair to say that the packing is not going well. Were I Mary Poppins and could fit any quantity into a normal-sized carpet bag, then it wouldn't be a problem, but I'm not, so it is. In fact, somewhere in the mix, is the anti-Mary Poppins effect. When Alex and Seth arrived last year, they brought their luggage allowance, and when each in turn left, they left with their luggage allowance. Yet somehow, Alex's room is still completely full. We won't be able to take a fraction of the contents.
Ah well.
To add insult to injury, snow is forecast for here, for Thursday.
Bugger.

So, radical feminism, how goes it? you are wondering.
Sweden's Chief Prosecutor has been accused by (in the words of Liz Lemon) 'the folk hero who nobody likes anymore' 's lawyers of being a radical feminist, and a malicious one at that.
Well, in a superb article in the Graun, Jonathan Dean asks what the hell a radical feminist is. The term is loaded. We are supposed to sharply draw in our breath and shake our heads, but he points out that radical simply means grass roots. He says,

"Historically, radical feminism was a specific strand of the feminist movement that emerged in Europe and North America in the late 1960s. Distinctive to this strand was its emphasis on the role of male violence against women in the creation and maintenance of gender inequality"

He goes on to point out that

"in Britain at least, radical feminism has never been particularly dominant, partly because – in the eyes of many socialist and postcolonial feminists – it has been insufficiently attentive to the intersections between gender inequality and other categories, such as race and class. So Rod Liddle's peddling of the tiresome rightwing idea that radical feminism has destroyed the family, along with Dominic Raab's assault on "feminist bigotry" and the Vatican's efforts to address "distortions" caused by radical feminism, rest on at least two implausible assumptions. First, they reduce feminism to a horrifying caricature that never really existed and second, they make the frankly bizarre suggestion that radical feminism is the dominant ideology of our times. It would seem that not only do these radical feminists commit the outrage of not wearing makeup, but they use the time this frees up to consolidate their world domination. Or an alternative explanation might be that these are the paranoid anxieties of fearful anti-feminists. "

So, another way of discrediting a woman in authority.
Since Feminism in any case, is concerned with gender equality, I would argue that it should be a necessary condition for anyone, either woman or man who is involved at any stage in the process of Justice.

A grey area for me in the whole issue of gender equality, is that of positive discrimination whereby if you have two equally qualified and experienced candidates for a job, you would pick a woman over a man.
The hypothetical has always worried me, because what you always want is the BEST candidate for a job, except that the scenario always posits two equals. The writer of the article, which I cannot now find, points out that in actual fact, in real life, the man is far more likely to get the job simply because he is a man, which is in and of itself discrimination, just that it's in favour of the man.
But. But. If I test this out, it becomes more complicated still.

I am a teacher. For many years, teaching has been dominated in numbers by women, but in management positions by men. I honestly believe that this is changing.
Kevin is an engineer. Engineering has always been dominated by men.
Now my own situation is that because of my immigrant status, ie, being one, I not only cannot practise my profession, but if I went back and did those pesky courses that I'm qualified to teach, I would still be in a position, research shows, to be discriminated against because of my immigrant status.
Take this a step further, and if Kevin, who is the one of us who is able to make a living, was discriminated against in favour of a woman with whom he was competing for a promotion or job, and next to whom he was equally qualified, there would still be a woman in the equation, and one who is already being discriminated against quite soundly on other grounds,me, who would lose.

Out on the spiral arm of Feminism are those women who literally dislike men as a result of the negative impact on women, of inequality. One of my favourite Feminist websites has recently become to all intents and purposes a women-only site. And that, of course, is the prerogative of the owner.
There has been much discussion about this.
I will continue to read it, because of the insight and sheer bloody amazing writing of the author.
But my own view is that men count a great deal in the slog towards gender equality. No equality has ever been won by the disenfranchised alone.
Racial equality has advanced because a significant part of the privileged class, in most cases white people, have woken up to the evil of discrimination.
Likewise men had to 'do the paperwork' to give women the vote, at a time when many women were still against it. A paradigm shift as huge as gender or racial equality, requires action on all levels. Yes, we need strong, affirmative leaders. We need loud-voiced, articulate writers, we need activists to turn out to marches and demonstrations, but we also need people who challenge the disease of inequality every day and on every level.
There's always a cost. I've said it before and I'll say it again and again and again. There's a cost to Kevin, and by extension to me, that he refuses to join in the institutionalised sexism he encounters at work. There is a cost to me when I challenge sexist language. There is a cost to every person who refuses to simper and flirt to get their own way. But without those women AND men paying that price, the gender or race gap will not only never be closed, but it will widen again.

Collateral damage. That's what it is.

Rites of Passage

My boy. His band's most recent track - I think.

My boy who lives here - Kev and I have just rescued from a bathroom floor in Point Grey. He'll be a sorry mess tomorrow, hangover and permanent marker. Rites of Passage.

Yesterday, Vancouver was luminous. The sun was shining, the mountains were snow capped, the trees were in bud. Today, rain. The mountains are, of course, still snow-capped, presumably more so since the rain falls as snow up there, and the trees are still in bud. The birds seem a bit hacked off though.

In Britain, as a general rule, it's difficult to find parking, and particularly in cities. There are never enough car parks, side streets either have double yellow lines (no parking) or are full of cars that have found a space and are guarding it for dear life.
Also, as a general rule, you're aware of this and don't drive anywhere you can't be sure of finding a parking space. This works most places, but I remember visiting my sister when she was living outside of Norwich. You had to drive into the main city, but on this occasion, we could not find parking anywhere, we drove around and around and eventually went home.

Now when I moved here, I discovered that people DO drive into cities, that there is parking along side streets, main streets, that there are normally adequate car parks, but people here don't think they should have to pay for parking and so there is generally plenty of space in them.

Until Wednesday.
Wednesday.
Having driven out to visit my friend in hospital, I arrived to find that yet another swathe of the hospital car park was fenced off. I tried every part of the grounds, every hospital parking lot and visited every side street I could get to. This is so not one of the areas where I wish Canada would emulate Britain, so not.

But I have found another thing that could happily go the other way. I love the pot luck. That needs to be happening properly in Britain - where pot luck just means 'you'll get whatever's in the cupboard/fridge'. But now, I want to introduce the 'Toonie Party'.
Gail told me about this today, and it's a real example of joined-up thinking.

So, kids' parties.
And the 'toonie'.
The toonie is our highest denomination coin, being a two-dollar piece.
When kids go to the toonie party, instead of bringing a gift, they bring three coins, any coins, but obviously can't be more than a toonie. One goes into a jar for the birthday girl or boy to use to buy something they actually want. The second goes into a jar that will go into the kid's savings account, and the third goes into a jar for charity.
Impressive.

Outside the Zone

At the weekend, we watched the film, 'Social Network'. I had no expectations of it. None. I put it on, partly expecting to return to reading my book. In fact, I found it very engaging. The story was about the rise and rise of Facebook and its founders and the subsequent law suits brought against the central pillock.
The strength of the film for me was that you could understand every point of view, you could see how they got there, how relationships get shipwrecked. How ideas morph and how people don't see that happening.

I've been mulling over a couple of things. On Monday, one of my friends, and someone whose thoughts I'm normally in line with, said that every woman likes a bad boy. Even leaving aside the sexual aspect of that statement, my first thought was, er...no. And upon deeper reflection, I still feel, er....NO. And not even in a dominatrix way. No, no, no. So why do I not feel even vaguely drawn to the bad boys?

I wondered if it were because I have three sons (the eldest pictured above at the front of 'the classroom of the future'). My friend has daughters. But that explanation didn't ring true to me.
So maybe it's because, as a secondary school teacher, everything I had to do and achieve in my job, was continually being sabotaged by bad boys.
The girls who were bad tended to either blow up quickly and so could be dealt with, or not turn up. The boys who were badly behaved had a much more far-reaching impact. Their destruction was like a constant jackhammer thudding away, and a thudding which was rewarded by the girls and women who 'liked the bad boys'.
I just can't be doing with them, just cannot be arsed. Give me the intelligent, thoughtful ones any day.

The other thing on my mind is the edge between comfort zones and standards. In my department at Mayhem, there were people who could not be moved outside of their comfort zones. Now this was quite a feat, to be honest. The government had an entire department monitoring and disseminating all recent research in every area of education. It was like having a large dog standing behind you the whole time, biting your bum if you even started to get complacent. It was challenging, but edifying. And it was that pushing beyond the comfort zone that allowed standards to rise. Ironically, my comfort-zone clinging colleagues, would always claim that they were just trying to keep up standards.
So now why, when I see examples of the dumbing down of the language, do I think that standards are slipping, rather than that I'm scared of stepping out of my comfort zone and embracing them? Here's an example. At the U.S. border, there is a correct sign for 'oversized vehicles'. When we return to Canada, we see an incorrect one for 'oversize vehicles'.
I have heard people describe something as 'cliché' rather than clichéd, the first is a noun, the second an adjective.

My answer is that keeping up standards is really not very comfortable. I have to personally step outside of my comfort zone every time I challenge the dumbing down.

Another film we watched at the weekend, because recommended by Sleepy, was 'The Last Hangman'. Provocative. A film that takes you well out of your comfort zone not just for the subject matter, but because it is so exceptionally well acted. I swear that Juliet Stevenson can sometimes suggest an entire internal conversation by a slight movement of one eyelid. But as with the book, 'The Hangman's Daughter', the hangman does his job as well as he possibly can, never taking the fact that his job is taking lives for granted, and always, always, Timothy Spall shows us a man so far outside of his comfort zone that he has to mentally and emotionally ringfence it and never visit it until the next time. And the next time, and every time, he strives to be the human face of inhumanity.

One of Those Days

Some days you wake up and have a feeling that it will be 'one of those days', and it is. Today, for example. But I'd like to know whether it's a self-fulfilling prophecy or whether it's a real premonition, because one you can change, the other you just have to weather.

It's blustery. Anyone who has ever worked in a school knows that the wind affects the behaviour of children. Probably animals too, and who knows, maybe everything and everyone.

I went to the hospital to visit my friend. The first thing I was confronted with was the absence of any parking space. Some kind of building work is going on and the car parks were all fenced off.
I'd like to go by public transport, which would in fact be cheaper and more ethical, but it would also take an extra two hours out of my day.

As I arrive, since I know my friend has moved wards since Friday, I have to pick up the telephone on the front desk to ask what ward she's in.
You can't go ten paces in this hospital without hand sanitiser, but here I am confronted by a phone, one of the most unsanitary pieces of equipment in any home, let alone hospital. The man at the desk has some wipes.

'Could I have one of those wet wipes please?'
'No,'
'Why not?'
'You have to use latex gloves with the wipes,'
'Why?'
'I don't know,'
'Could I have a latex glove then?'
'I'm not allowed to give them out,'
'Right,' so I take some hand sanitiser and smear it on the phone with a tissue.

Across a crowded lobby, I am singled out by an elderly Sikh couple who speak only three words of English. I finally ascertain that they are trying to visit a relative who has given birth, and thanks to the colour coded wall charts, I was able to send them in the right direction.

Upstairs, my friend wants me to find a priest for her who visited last week. I know from previous experience that this is like finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

I go to the desk.

'My friend would like a visit from the hospital chaplain please, he visited her last week on the other ward. All I know about him is that he's the hospital chaplain and he's Iraqi,'
'Does he wear glasses?'
'I don't know,'
'Is his name Ian?'
'Sorry, I don't know, all I know is that he's the hospital chaplain and he's Iraqi,'
'Is he Muslim?'
'No, he's a priest,'
'I see, but he's Iranian?'
'No, Iraqi,'
'Right, Iraqi, well, I think you mean Ian. He only comes on certain days,'[answers phone]
'Well, could we get in touch with him?'
'I think he might come on a Monday,'
'Good, good, if he does turn up, could he see my friend?'
'I'm not sure if today is one of his days though,'
'Ok, well, if it is....'

When I get outside again, two women stop me and ask if I know where they might have parked their car. By a process of illuminating elimination, I point out that the hospital is bounded on two sides by major highways, so work out in which direction their car must be. They want to know how they get there. I make some suggestions.

As the day goes, it's only half time.

On 'Harry's Law' this week, her first client brings her a priest who wants to talk to a lawyer.
'I've brought you a priest,' he says, 'in case you need spiritual guidance,'
'That's OK,' says Harriet, 'I self-medicate.'

Ribbet, Rabbit

Ah, Thursday, and not, as my photo would have anyone believe, frosty, but raining again.
Chinese New Year - the Rabbit, not good for us Roosters apparently.
Teenagers were letting off fire-crackers over in the park before sundown yesterday. One of the dogwalkers met me as I was returning, her dog had been seriously terrorised the day before by the dog that looks like a meercat, she didn't like the sound of the firecrackers and scuttled away.
I had left it until the last moment to go to a meeting which was due to start at 17.30, bad move, there had been a big accident on the main road and everything was at a standstill.

A propos of very little, I've been trying to persevere with British Sea Power today - it's not doing it for me, I had to have a blast of Stone Roses as an antidote.

Yesterday, there was a most excellent post on Figleaf's blog, about male rape in prisons.
I had never thought about this as a serious issue, I must admit. The only time it is talked about is as a threat on TV shows, so it's easy to think it's just a fiction.
The U.S. Justice System is now taking it seriously and has produced a draft paper on reform. We wouldn't and don't tolerate other abuses in the corrections system, so why the hell would be tolerate this? It is the absolute anathema to human dignity. Figleaf himself makes some interesting points about this issue. For one, he sometimes sees comments on feminist posts about rape, complaining that men get raped too. He says that if each one of those commentators had at the same time complained to their congressperson, reform might have happened sooner. In fact, it is from a feminist initiative that this has now come to pass.
Even so, one of the commentators on the post itself, spews the usual vitriol. Feminists would not take on this issue if they didn't gain more out of it than men.
Well duh, almost by definition. Since women are the disadvantaged sex, it's virtually impossible to find an area where equality wouldn't improve things more for women than for men.
And this person is also over-looking the fact that, since feminist theory is based quite significantly on the terms 'feminine' and 'masculine' being culturally created and not referring to any natural phenomenon in the way that 'female' and 'male' are, men are benefited in general by feminists challenging these stereotypes. Many men suffer greatly from a culturally imposed ideal of what it means to be masculine.

Kevin sent me an article by a woman who highlights that sometimes, feminists seem to have a very white-middle-class-ableist-cis centred focus. And I have seen this criticism before, clearly if this is the experience of some, then it is going on and needs to be addressed. This particular writer calls us out over the 'forgotten' areas of Inclusive Language. I must admit, I hadn't thought about the expression 'to step up...' It is a very thorough look at the issues and the problems when people are exclusionary in their use of language. She also gives a list of all the nonsense people come out with when challenged.
She's spot on. Heard them all.

Opium

As promised, here is NOT a picture of a returned sock. After five days, the sock was returned not via the pooposphere, but barfed back intact. Thank-you Di for reassuring me with the tale of the Tesco's bag that took a week to pass through a hound. And I've learnt to always put my boots away when I've stuffed my socks in them.

I've been to the hairdresser's and had more than my share of the day-to-day lives of people who exist purely for magazines. In fact there was one that had pictures entitled, 'Celebs do the same things we do!' or some such tosh, and pictures of well-known people actually doing things like shopping, breathing and walking. What is wrong with me that I even opened the stupid thing and thus know that?

I find it utterly bizarre that people have complained to the British Advertising Standards Authority about an ad for Yves Saint Laurent's perfume, 'Belle d'Opium' on the grounds that the advert suggests drug use. YSL has had a perfume called Opium for donkey's years, have none of them ever noticed it had the name of a drug? Or....is it alright to name your perfume after a drug, but not ok to point it out?
Also, showing the model doing something that suggests drug use, does this render the perfume a gateway drug? Like, you've never done any drug taking before, but when you see the TV ad with the model being all languid and druggy, do you think,
'Blimey, I'd never thought of taking drugs before, I'd better get off my backside and go down the chemist's,' ? (This person wouldn't know the diff between Boots the Chemist and a drug dealer, natch).

To some, no doubt, religion is their opium, to others, opium is their religion, to yet more, opium is just a perfume.