kitchen ants

hi, yeah. update.
I've been job free for almost a month, which is mostly fine because I still have leftover money and I should be working again any day now. Despite being quite a heavy user of not working --especially in the last year or so--I only recommend it for short periods of time. What is perhaps most troubling during my latest not working bender is that I've become attached to our kitchen ants, who over the last month have busily worked over anything left out on the counter. They even had a brief dalliance with the cayenne pepper, which, correct me if I'm wrong, ants aren't supposed to want to take back to the hill.
Anyway, the ants have suddenly, without warning, moved out. vacated our cupboards and baseboards with no explanation whatsoever. And, despite being sick of fishing suicidal ants out of cups of water and trying not wash them down the sink, I actually felt really bereft when John pointed out that all the ants had gone. where did they go? and why?
It seems clear I should get out more. Maybe give this work thing a shot.

shameless self promotion

Well, not so much for me, but for the publication itself. It's going hard copy in September!

I've also written a piece for this month's New Pollution, and also got to take the pictures (yay). It was much, much fun and thanks to Megan and Bryan for making everything I did look good.

the mag

John's also sneakily in one of the shots. I wonder if anyone else noticed

old news

so England lost the world cup. so very sad. so very last week.
But it was also a very good weekend despite the crushed dreams of an entire nation of flag wearing fans.
The picture to your left epitomizes the weekend. The blue card on the lower left hand side of the shot is london's answer to the metropass. Everything else should be self explanatory.
So if you've all read Patricia's blog, you'll know that Paul and Victoria dropped by for a visit as did Kate. All in all, I can't imagine a better way to celebrate Canada Day --pile tons of Canadians (and Wayne) in our tiny flat.
I hope the floor was comfortable.

I didn't actually see England lose though, because when the game went to penalty kicks I was in the dark, dank crypt of St. Pancras church watching a dance recital. Obviously.
Our friend Aiko was in a dance installation.
The audience had to follow the dancers around the crypt to see the performance and given that the crypt has lots of little rooms it was impossible to see everything. It was the first performance I'd ever seen that gave me the choice of watching it or not, but didn't allow me to leave the space. We had to work for it. The space (given not only its presence but also its physical restrictions on the dancers) was part of the performance and ultimately so was the audience; at the end, everyone--including the dancers- sat and watched an edited version of the whole thing projected on the wall.
And the crypt was so thrilling --no bodies anymore, but lots of grave stones stacked against walls. piles of dead leaves on the floor. huge metal doors blocking the entrance. really musty, cool and quiet in that oppressive way. quite creepy, but if I may be so trite, it was like by filling this powerful overwhelming space with music and people and movement it was either celebrating life and exorcising death or celebrating death in a positive cycle of life kinda way.

Part II

While in Nice I took the train to Cap D'ail where I spent a bit of time on a beautiful beach with really big and painful pebbles. it made it quite difficult to gracefully walk to the water.
Then, on recommendation, I walked along the coast into Monaco (pic left), which I hated.
To be fair I didn't spend long there, but it's just like a north american city --modern hotels, the hum of air conditioners--with none of grittiness or urban culture. I did see a really buff guy with no shirt, union jack boxers hiked up over his pants, wearing a cowboy hat and carrying two of the tiniest, fluffiest puppies I'd ever seen --one under each arm. Strange place.
On the train ride back to Nice --the hot, crowded train ride--I noticed a perfect beach just down the bank. So when the train stopped at the next station, I got off and went down to the beach. It was the best part of the whole trip. Because I had no more money on me and didn't know if I could reboard the train on the same ticket, it was a bit of gamble, but the beach was sandy and the water warm and much better than the horrible train.
(I got back to the hostel with no problems)
Life Lesson: I highly recommend getting off the train.
(oh so deep)

I got back to london late friday night. And my parents arrived on Saturdayy morning. We did lots of touristy things, like the open top bus.
Okay, so I'm being serious when I say that the weather in london isn't so bad. When it rains, it's quite light rain and the summer has been hot --like toronto summer hot. But the day my parents are in london and we decided to do the open top bus tour, it starts pissing down. Bravely, we attempted the upper deck, swathed in those free thin plastic rain ponchos. I was holding the hood closed with one hand but the painful sting of the freezing rain became too much. At the end of june!!! We must have looked like complete twats, defying the weather and gamely trying to see the buildings the tour guide was pointing out through the sheets of rain.
It hadn't even been that cold in the winter --except for the last time my parents visited.
it's possible that they should be banned from the country all together.
The next day was better and we went to the tower of london! I've wanted to go there for ages, but had been frightened away by the 15 quid cover-- which incidentally sounds quite reasonable now-- could I be acclimatized to the pound now...

Part one

London is hot and steamy today. After a month or so of rushing around, I'm fine with having lazy summer days spent in Regent's Park. I've been to Cannes and back, had my parents visiting and then moved straight into an impromptu Canada Day extravaganza. Read Patricia's blog now for full details.




bizarrely, travelling is often mostly interminable waiting. John and I waited at Victoria station for a train to take us to Canterbury--as seen in above pictures.

It's a very pretty town and after cunningly putting together a series of clues --tattoo and piercing shop, lots of young attractive people, and many 'to let' signs--I decided it must also be a university town. I was right!

Then I waited in the airport to go to Cannes. I was gone for 10 days and while I spent most of the time inside in an windowless office, I was able to take advantage of what is known amongst those who have sensible grown-up jobs as an 'expense account'. I knew you lot were lying when you said you disliked business trips. Especially business trips on the beach.
The last night I worked was also the festival's opening gala. It was laid out on the beach and included ice sculptures, free drinks, caviar and a red carpet. And because red carpets seem to attract people who think that someone famous just might happen to walk down it, there was a line of people watching everyone go into the party.

Anyway, the result of free booze coupled with many, many nights working until 3 left me in no fit state the next morning. I woke up because the phone was ringing. It was hotel reception gently reminding me that I needed to check out. I packed in about 10 minutes and was actually feeling okay. But as the day went on, getting hotter and hotter, my latent hangover sprung into diabolical action. Fine if you have a fan, a bed and maybe someone to bring you hangover friendly food. I had none of these. I also had to find the train station, drag my badly packed bag there, get a ticket to Nice and do it all in French.
I decided to lie under a tree by the beach while I tried not to throw-up. It was working until this friendly French guy who was working as a garbage man to pay for his MA in theology starting talking to me. Now, I know it sounds crazy, but it's near impossible to talk about the state of religious belief in the western world while wearing stupidly big Nicole richie-esque sunglasses, trying not to throw-up because the night before you drank to much free booze at a beach party in front of the Carlton in Cannes all in celebration of blatant consumerism. Plus my head really hurt.

Long, painful story short, I made it to Nice. somehow. I then ended up at a hostel filled with Canadians (and some Americans). I've met about 3 Canadians since moving to London and suddenly I was surrounded. So I while I was thrilled to talk about Toronto the first time, it began to lose it's rose-tinted luster. And what's with all the Canadian flags. Nobody is going to think you are American if you fail to slap 800 hundred Canadian flags to your backpack and clothing. What will happen if you do, however, is that everyone will think you're lame and other cooler Canadians will avoid you for being so lame.
My suggestion is to stick a bunch of different flags on the backpack. Mix it up a little. Keep everyone guessing.