The 12 Days of Christmas

We read an interesting article in The Times this weekend about being ‘merry’ over the holidays. Apparently, the phrase Merry Christmas comes from the middle ages when being merry was part of the cultural mentality. During this time, Christmas lasted for 12 days. These days were for doing nothing whatsoever except eating, drinking, dancing, singing and playing the lute. In fact one was not allowed to do any work. So when we say Merry Christmas we are embracing this spirit. Interestingly, the author describes how the medieval peoples valued community rather than individualism and considered that having a good time led to the smooth functioning of the village. Sadly, all of this was attacked during the mid 1600s by the Puritans. They attacked everything enjoyable. In fact, they actually cancelled Christmas! Believe it or not, Christmas was officially illegal for fifteen years between 1645-1660. Luckily this didn’t stop the British merry-makers. It became a social duty and a rebellious act to indulge in merriment!

This year we are going to indulge in a little merriment of our own. We will embrace the full twelve days of Christmas and the accompanying merriment. It is our revolutionary duty! Plus, we have both had previous Christmases fall victim to a somewhat Puritan sentiment and we refuse to let it take over this year! We will take some artistic license in which actual 12 days we will use for our merry-making. For us the twelve days of Christmas will be from Dec 23rd until Jan 3rd. Perhaps our twelve days of Christmas will sound a little something like this:

Twelve masterpieces admired at the Louvre
Eleven historical artefacts viewed at the British museum,
Ten hours of shopping,
Nine attempts for Brent to speak French,
Eight rides on the tube/metro,
Seven times around the London Eye,
Six French pastries devoured,
Five pubs attended,
Four £15 martinis savoured,
Three nights stay at the Dukes,
Two West End shows,
And the trip of a lifetime!

Sadly, all this merriment will leave little time for blogging. We will have to get caught up when we return home in 2007. If you want to check out a few links to see what we will be up to check out these:
www.dukeshotel.com
www.avonmorehotel.co.uk
www.hotel-langlois.com
www.londontown.com/London/Christmas_in_London_2006
www.eatinparis.com
www.laduree.fr (just for Patti)

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!!

Winter Solstice

Today is the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. This takes on a whole new meaning living in England. Thanks to K&C we now know that the latitude of our cozy home in Hamilton is 43˚ 15’ North, while Leeds is at 53˚ 48’ North. It may not seem like much, but this difference has a profound effect on the amount of sunlight each day. For example, at noon Leeds time, the sun is so low in the sky it can be obscured by a three story building. The sun dips just below the horizon at 3:30pm each day, and it is fully dark by 4:30pm. Literally, children are coming home from school in the dark! As for sunrise, it officially occurs at 8:30am. So from sunrise to sundown there are seven hours of sunshine. It actually just feels a lot like 10am all day long. It is a good thing the weather is pretty mild, because if it was -10 and dark at 4:30pm one might potentially lose the will to live!! Instead it seems most people just lose the will to stay awake beyond 7:30pm and to eat healthy food. It is full hibernation mode. However, on a more positive note, apparently the winter solstice also marks the middle of winter in England. Technically their winter goes from November 1st until February 1st. Sounds pretty good to me! In fact a colleague informed me yesterday that on her birthday (March 2nd) it will be spring - with flowers in bloom and blossoms on trees. I guess that makes up for all the darkness.

Advent Calendar

We have our very own ‘Made in Canada Advent Calendar.’ After several mailings from the Murray family we now have a unique, little item to open for everyday of Advent. We’ve had samplings of Canadian music, local Hamilton bits and bobs (brit saying), reminders of Canterbury Hills, and even some Canadian food delicacies like Kraft Dinner! Even a chocoholic like myself might actually prefer this new version of an old classic. Oh Canada!!

Gastrorubbish

We have learned a lot about British culture by watching a food TV show called, Rick Stein’s Food Heroes. He travels all around the UK sampling local food. I think we enjoy watching it for its insight into the culture and not for the recipes as there have been perhaps two things I have seen in 30 episodes that I would actually contemplate making. The other insight we have gained through this show is a glimpse into just how terrible some British food can be. It gives ‘shock and awe’ a whole new meaning. Just so you can share in how unbelievably bad this stuff is here are some sample dishes…..

For Breakfast apparently Rick Stein from time to time likes to indulge in a tasty meal of mushrooms and lamb kidneys on toast. Mmmm…the breakfast of champions.
For dinner many of the following seem to be delicacies:
-Pork stuffed with parsley and boiled in a bag. This is called Lincolnshire Chine. The neck or chine of a pig from between the shoulder blades, is salted for up to ten months and stuffed with parsley. Served cold, it's considered by many in the county to be an acquired taste. Acquired following lobotomy?
-Classic pork pie is apparently made with proper jelly from boiling pork trotter. Who knew? And what the hell is pork trotter?! The ‘this little piggy’ rhyme comes to mind.
-Pork trotter must be pretty damn good because they also use it to help make brawn, which is perhaps the worst of the bunch. Brawn is terrine of meat, or fancy meatloaf. It is made from the head and face of a pig, including the neck and other odd bits like the lungs and heart. The pork trotter is again used to make a gelatin to hold all these bits together. It is usually eaten cold or at room temperature as a luncheon meat.
-Tripe (cow’s stomach) and jellied eels seem to be favorites as well though I have no comprehension as to why.
-Black pudding has to be included on this list. It is a favorite among many Scots. The episode that showed the making of black pudding by a local Scot may have in fact traumatized me for life. The big vats of dark red blood, poured over oats and then stuffed into sausage casing. Who ever thought that would be a good idea? I can say that I have tried it, but luckily before I saw this episode. The taste is almost as frightening as the visual of it being made.

This country is hard for a former vegetarian to endure. I am scared of all the meat and even a simple steak pie may without my knowing have kidneys lurking in it! Despite my trepidation, I can understand where these foods came from. Much British cuisine (I use that term loosely) seems to come from wanting to use every bit of an animal. They don’t waste anything – pig face, cow’s blood, everything is made into food somehow. This would make the food go further to feed more people. I have also heard of this in other European cultures such as pig roasts in Spain. I can respect this food production for its minimal wasting, (contrary to our obsession with chicken breasts and forgetting about the whole rest of the bird), but I am not sure I am brave enough to be the one who eats most of this stuff!

Lord of the Suits

Enough time has probably passed that I can tell this story. It’s a story with Christmas overtones but, at its heart, it’s a story of the struggle between good and evil. Recent events have suggested to me that its time to tell what I know and what I did. Perhaps it might help certain people to find the bravery within themselves that is needed when evil rises ... It’s the story about my first Christmas at work…

Much that once was is lost, for none now are employed who remember it.

It began with the forging of the Great Suits.

Three were given to the Corporate Lawyers, immortal, wisest...fairest of all beings.

Five to the Litigators, great orators and craftsmen of the court room.

Nine suits were gifted to the race of articling students who, above all else, desire power.

For within these suits was bound the strength and will to govern each race.

But they were all of them deceived...for another suit was made.

In the land of Mordor, in the fires of his corner office, the Dark Lord MP forged in secret a Master Suit – the Santa Suit - to control all others...

...and into this Suit he poured his cruelty, his malice and his will to dominate all life.

One Suit to rule them all...

One by one the newest lawyers wore the Santa Suit at the firm Christmas party and, inevitably, the Free Will of the lawyers in the lands of Middle Earth fell to the power of the Suit.

But there were some...who resisted.

A last alliance of Solicitors and Barristers marched against the armies of Mordor. On the slopes of Mount Doom they fought to end the dominance of the Santa Suit.

Victory was near!

But the power of the Suit could not be undone.

It was in this moment…when all hope had faded, that I, son of Clint, disposed of the Santa Suit in the weekly trash.

MP, the enemy of the Lawyers of Middle Earth, had been defeated.

But the hearts of Men are easily corrupted.

And the Suit of Power has a will of its own.

The One Suit had not been destroyed. And some things that should not have been forgotten...were lost. History became legend...legend became myth.

And for four and a half years the Suit passed out of all knowledge.

Until, when chance came, it ensnared a new bearer!

Regrettably, I have passed beyond the Great Ocean and can no longer put my mark upon the events of Middle Earth. The Second Chapter must be written by those who remain. They face a choice - to do what is right, or what is entertaining.

I have little confidence in their decision-making abilities.

Christmas Heart Strings

The saddest commercial was on 'tele' last night. The ad contains pictures of people waiting for arrivals at the airport. As the pictures are going by there are destinations and prices written at the bottom of the screen. It began with: Toronto £299, then Rome £399, Bejing £1099, Los Angles £899 and so on. But at the end it has pictures of families hugging in the airport after their plane has arrived and it says “Spending Christmas together….Priceless.” Saddest commercial ever. Especially for those of us not going home for Christmas. Although we are excited about our little adventure over Christmas to London and Paris, it will still feel pretty strange not to be with our families on Christmas. Hopefully this time next year our life will be more similar to the ones featured in the commercial. Even the thought of that is priceless.

Yuletide York

We had a fantastic weekend in York. It will go down in history as the most successful Christmas shopping trip ever. And, it was even enjoyable – contrary to most Christmas shopping experiences!

York is an amazing city. It is a must-see destination for anyone who comes to England. The history, architecture and culture are fabulous. Walking down the Shambles – an old medieval street – you cannot help but picture yourself carried back in time to the 1400s. I can’t tell you how many times Brent accused someone of being a witch or carrying the Black Death.

This was our second trip to York, so we skipped the Minster (except for sneaking a quick peak by escaping through the gift shop and therefore bypassing the entrance fee), a sight which took us all afternoon the last time we were in town, and opted to partake in some shopping and eating! Two great pastimes. After arriving on the train we made a beeline to Betty’s, the famous tea shop: www.bettys.co.uk. We managed to beat the line up, excuse me, the queue, which is normally outside and around the block! We had the most delicious high tea lunch of sandwiches, scones and squares. This place is a serious operation with a mail order catalogue and a ‘fresh from the oven’ service where during the month of December within a certain radius you can have fresh mince tarts delivered hot to your door in time for the weekend. They also have a large selection of ‘Christmas Hampers,’ a truly English idea where you get a big basket full of food and festive goodies. All the big stores like M&S, Fortnum & Mason and Harrods sell them.

Our shopping took us to all the usual ‘high street’ shops and also to the Christmas market which had arts, crafts, and local food. We resisted buying a pork pie which seems to be the specialty of all the local food makers. It was even harder to resist buying a hot chocolate with Baileys, but we thought it best to shop sober.

The second day in York we experienced a proper English rain. Not drizzle and not the ‘fresh’ damp day that usually happens here. This was a full on, non-stop pouring. We did not let it dampen our spirits. We walked the city wall despite the rain. When we needed some warming up we wandered into a local pub, the Royal Oak. We had the best pub lunch ever with local bitters and steak and ale pie.

It was a great weekend away and a nice start to the festive season. And one cannot under- estimate how good it feels to have all Christmas shopping done before the beginning of December. If only we could shop in York every year!

Homebodies

We haven’t been anywhere for a few weekends now. We have been hanging out in Leeds, going to the movies, reading books. A regular yawn fest for the old blog (this may be abundantly evident given the recent high number of sporting posts and flagrant use of Wikipedia). I guess we needed some time to recuperate from our excitement overload of the England football game one weekend, Edinburgh the next weekend, English Thanksgiving the weekend after that. The only one of these weekend adventures which has not already been discussed here is our trip to Edinburgh. So with out further delay….

We had decided that Edinburgh would be our first big weekend ‘mini break’. The trip was even longer than a weekend because we found ourselves in Newcastle for the few days leading up to our trip as one of us partook in a conference for work. Although Newcastle looked pretty nice through the taxi window, our hotel for the conference was on the edge of town, so we didn’t get to do much sight seeing. However, we did benefit from Newcastle being our starting point as it meant a shorter train ride to Edinburgh.

The trip to Edinburgh was to be our mutual birthday gifts to each other (At least one of us can say we have been to Edinburgh before 30, although just barely!). We stayed at a very nice hotel right in the heart of the Old town, just around the corner from the Houses of Parliament and the Holyrood Palace. The hotel was so posh we had our beds turned down every night with chocolates on the pillow. No more staying in hostels for us.

Scotland has a great feel about it. I immediately felt at home. One of the first things I noticed when we got off the train was that I looked like everyone else. In England I don’t particularly resemble the people (too much in-breeding?). But in Scotland, I found that everyone looks like me (finally somewhere where the Murray gene pool seems normal). Plus, the Scottish people are very friendly and welcoming. There are no double-takes as people try to place our accent. Edinburgh people seem to have heard them all before. This definitely added to the feeling of being at home.

We tried to see all the sights of the old town, but it is a lot to pack into one weekend. We made it a priority to see Edinburgh Castle and we were not disappointed. It is amazing. One highlight for me was seeing the room where Mary Queen of Scots gave birth. A little reminder about how common homebirth used to be. Another highlight was the War Memorial for all the fallen Scottish soldiers. We are pretty sure we found some of our ancestors names in the books of Canadian soldiers in Scottish regiments during WWII.

After that it was time for a Scottish lunch. The greatest Scottish lunch ever. There is one true way to tell if someone’s a Scot. It’s not whether they’ve eaten haggis, enjoy Robbie Burns or can tell a glass of Dalwhinnie from Lagavulin (although sure as hell I can). Its whether you like smoked salmon. In the Edinburgh lunch places, smoked salmon sandwiches were everywhere – and were properly enjoyed by true Scots that day.

Luckily, the Old Town slopes down from the Castle so, after lunch, we just let gravity do its work. After exhausting ourselves in the Old Town and fighting our way through black pudding at dinner, we finished the night in a friendly pub which was heavily populated with lively Australians.

And after our little sabbatical from traveling, we are back at it this weekend. We are going to York for the St. Nicolas Christmas Fayre. Maybe it will even snow?!

The Ashes

Tonight starts the Ashes.

I’ll let Wikipedia take it from here:

The Ashes is a Test cricket series, played between England and Australia - it is international cricket's oldest and most celebrated rivalry dating back to 1882. It is currently played approximately biennially, alternately in England and Australia. The Ashes are "held" by the country which last won a series and to "regain" them the other country must win more Test matches in a series than the country that "holds" them. If a series is "drawn" then the country holding the Ashes retains them. The last Ashes series was played in England in 2005 when England regained The Ashes after a gap of 16 years by winning the series 2-1. The next Ashes series will be in Australia in 2006-07 and the next series in England will be in 2009.

The series is named after a satirical obituary published in The Sporting Times in 1882 following the match at The Oval, in which Australia beat England in England for the first time. The obituary stated that English cricket had died, and the body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia. The English media dubbed the next English tour, to Australia (1882-83) as the quest to regain The Ashes.

A small terracotta urn was presented to the England captain Ivo Bligh by a group of Melbourne women at some point during the 1882-83 tour. The contents of the urn are reputed to be the ashes of an item of cricket equipment, possibly a bail, ball or stump. The urn is not used as a trophy for the Ashes series, and whichever side "holds" the Ashes, the urn normally remains in the MCC Museum at Lord's because of its age and fragility. Since the 1998-99 Ashes series, a Waterford crystal trophy has been presented to the winners.

The urn was presented to Captain Bligh! Incidentally, Fletcher Christian was the spinner bowler on that tour. Too funny. Well, sometimes you have to make your own funny.

Anyway, among a certain segment of the population here, the Ashes are Christmas, the World Cup and Bonfire Day all rolled into one. As indicated above, the Ashes is a “Test” series. Each team bats twice which takes five days. Eight hours of play over Five. Days. Moreover, the Ashes take place this year in Australia. Games conveniently start at 11:30 pm GMT and wrap up at 8:00 am GMT. I am a much bigger fan of the highlights which start at 7:00 p.m. GMT and condense five days into fifteen minutes.

I am trying to gain some sort of appreciation for cricket, but they don’t make it easy. Any sport which includes breaks for tea and lunch shouldn’t be trusted.

The Grey Cup

We’re going to miss the Grey Cup this year. I’ve watched the Grey Cup every year since I can remember. Being a Hamilton Tiger-Cat fan, one is pretty confident of enjoying a Grey Cup victory every 7 to 10 years. A long time to wait, but far from being a futile endeavor. The most enjoyable Grey Cup I can recall was the Tiger Cat victory in 1999. I was in law school and was invited to my good friend David’s Grey Cup party. It was just the two of us and we probably should have been finishing our work, but there was Sleeman to drink and it was just going to go bad without our attention. Hamilton won that year thanks in no small part to our heroic consumption of Sleemans. That particular Grey Cup was the perfect combination of pizza, beer and victory.

Another memorable Grey Cup event took place last year and will be forever known as The Great Chili Ambush. As everyone knows, Chili is a Grey Cup necessity. Admittedly, while a student, Chili didn’t play a large role in Grey Cup festivities because no one we knew owned a pot big enough to make Chili. But, regrettably in this instance, one of our father’s did own such a pot and he made authentic Texas Style Chili. You know the kind – uses cubes of beef not ground beef. And not a tomato to be found in the sauce - just a careful blend of spices and slow cooking. To make a long story short, the Chili Assassin spiced the Chili that day to dangerous proportions. No amount of sour crème or cheese could blunt its effects. Although I could appreciate its depth of flavour, some others thought it was overdone. Regardless, I hope the Chili Assassin is back at it again this year.

Alas, no one has invited us to a Grey Cup party this year. The game won’t even start until 11:30pm here and is watchable only if you get the proper channel. Notwithstanding this cruel turn of events, I’ll be thinking of Chili, and Sleeman, the Tiger-Cats, the giant jar of bottle caps on Dave’s coffee table and of Grey Cups past. Hopefully, there will be snow in the air in Winnipeg and for one night most of the TV sets in Canada will be tuned to the CBC.

Just for the record – BC 41; Montreal 37.

PS – Anyone (Stephen) who would have any kind of ceremony, say by way of example an induction ceremony (his induction ceremony), at a time (4:00 pm) that would prevent others from enjoying the Grey Cup (Grey Cup Sunday) should be dragged into the street and shot. I mean really … it’s the Grey freakin’ Cup.

Graduation

Yesterday at 6pm I was scheduled to receive my MA from University of Toronto. Obviously, I was not in attendance. So it appears I’ve done it again. I have deprived my parents of attending one of my graduations. Let’s be serious though, no one actually enjoys attending these drawn out, boring ceremonies anyway. How many times do we need to hear an honorary degree recipient talk about their life’s work as a wind engineer or an alpaca farmer. Besides, it’s not as if there is any shortage of these events to go to! Sure I didn’t attend the ceremony at University of Guelph when I got my BA, but I was on to bigger and better things and was in full swing at McMaster in the Midwifery programme. The ceremony to mark the completion of that program was much more meaningful. All the hard work, sacrifice, and sleepless nights needed to be celebrated. As for the MA, again it has set the stage for the next step; the next step being our wee adventure over here so I can do further study. After all that we have already done for my PhD including uprooting our life and moving here, never mind the bit that lies ahead like my dissertation, you can bet your sweet ass I will be going to that ceremony! Plus, that’s when I will get to wear all the fancy gear. Apparently, a PhD graduate from the University of Sheffield can be seen sporting a black velvet mortar board, a red gown (with bell sleeves) edged in green, and a red hood lined in green. Not too shabby. So mum and dad, you can mark it on your calendars now….December 2009, we will be making a trip back to good old Sheffield to celebrate in style. In the mean time, I’ve included a photo of my midwifery graduation so we can all pretend that it was my MA ceremony last night. Oh, and if you really feel the need to experience the ceremony, I understand a web cast is available through University of Toronto’s website: www.utoronto.ca/convocation

England v. Macedonia - Oct. 9th, 2006 5:00pm, Old Trafford, Manchester

June 22nd, 1986 was a day that forever cursed my life[1]. But let me start from the beginning. I was twelve years old and had just moved to Ancaster with my family. Tears for Fears were making their way up the charts and Rock Lobster was making its way down. The end of the school year was approaching and the teachers devised what to them, no doubt, seemed a brilliant make-work project for the last month of school[2]. (If the world could somehow harness for the service of good the mental energy primary school teachers devote to creating busy projects for students in the last month of term, all global ills would be eradicated in a second). The World Cup provided the perfect opportunity, according to these teachers, to learn about different countries and cultures. There were 32 kids in my class and 32 teams in the World Cup. Perfect. Except for me. I had the 31st pick and, faced with the inhuman choice between Paraguay and Uruguay (and already receiving an unwelcome reply to my query: “Do we really have to do this?”), I selected Paraguay.

I see now that the fateful turn of the tide in this story occurred when I thought it might be a good idea to watch the games my country played. Paraguay was alright and made it though the first round. But there was another team that caught my eye. The games were played at school whenever they were on and I was fortunate enough to catch the demolition of the hated Poles at the hands of the English 3 – nil. That was it. Thank you Gary Lineker for ruining my life. From that point on, I was an England fan[3]. On June 18th, I saw England demolish my adopted Paraguay also by a 3-nil score. Obviously, this England side was unstoppable. Surely, it would take divine intervention to deny us. A few days later I bore witness to the “Hand of God”[4] and, with it, experienced true sporting rage, bitterness and, yes, tragedy. That World Cup left scars that will never heal. My inability to deal with these scars in any adult or mature way is the reason why today I refer to any other footballing nation (except Scotland, Ireland, Wales and N. Ireland) with the prefix “the hated”[5].

Since England’s brutal exit from the 1986 World Cup, I have made it my life’s work to see them play live. In all their God-Save-the-Queen, loutish, foot-stomping, public-beer-swilling, inappropriate-swearing-in-the-presence-of-ladies-and-children glory. That dream was realized on the above-noted date. Not only that, but the game was played at the theatre of dreams, the Maple Leaf Gardens / Montreal Forum of football – Old Trafford. The pictures here and on our Flickr site will record for posterity the sights of that day. What they won’t show you is Steven Gerrard cowering on the bus, the massive Man U merchandizing operations, the police set up along the route from the train station to Old Trafford like lights on a runway, or the hour and a half wait after the game to get the train back to Manchester City centre.

The pictures also won’t provide an adequate sense of the occasion which is present when England plays at home: the buzz outside the stadium, the national anthem both before the game and after half-time, the English fan chants and the sound of 70,000 screaming Roo-na-AY as he zings a shot by the bar. These were all good things. Unfortunately, there was the one bad thing that marred the day. England drew nil-nil with the hated Macedonia. The closest England came to scoring was Gary Neville’s missed open net and Gerrard’s shot off the cross-bar.

So, the fulfillment of one life’s goal leads to another - to see England actually score a goal at home. Wait. Let me be more specific - to see England win a game at home. I guess one always needs something to aspire to. Damn you Gary Lineker.

[1] I guess things could be worse. It was the same day Napoleon invaded Russia in 1812. It has subsequently been salvaged as it is now known as the day my wife and I had our first date.
[2] I also seem to recall taking crayon rubbings of historical plaques in and around Ancaster in another end of school project. Where is the quality control in education?
[3] It will be forever debatable who is the more pathetic creature: the England fan or the Toronto Maple Leaf fan. Of course, the distinction is wasted on me. I suffer from both afflictions.
[4] In his 2002 autobiography, Maradona did admit that the ball came off his hand:
"Now I feel I am able to say what I couldn't then. At the time I called it "the hand of God". What hand of God? It was the hand of Diego! And it felt a little bit like pickpocketing the English."
In 2005, on his television talk show, Maradona attempted to justify the goal as a response to the UK's victory in the Falklands War, quoting the popular Spanish saying: 'Whoever robs a thief gets a 100-year pardon.'
[5] I could never refer to Scotland, Ireland, Wales or N. Ireland with the prefix “the hated” as I have ancestors from each of these nations. Of course, I also have an ancestor from France but I make a special exception for the hated French. [Note: special thanks to my esteemed editor for the corrections to this footnote.]

All Hallows Eve and Fawkes, Guy

In supplement to our ongoing efforts to chronicle daily life in England, we turn our attention to Hallowe’en. Based on interviews with several authentic English persons, we have assembled the following principles regarding English Hallowe’en:

1. At best, English people don’t like Hallowe’en; at worst, English people convey outright hostility. This may or may not have to do with the fact that, instead of carving pumpkins, the English traditionally carve turnips. That, I figure, is enough to make anyone cranky.

2. The Teenaged English seem to be very aware of the original pagan purpose of Hallowe’en, that is, to bribe evil spirits into leaving one alone. In practice, what seems to happen is that unsuspecting villagers find a large group of young people on their door-step demanding cash (that is, dosh) and, failing to receive a proper bribe, proceed to rough up one's house, car, dog, garden, baby, shire, etc.

3. Far more appealing to the English is Guy Fawkes’ Night (November 5th). According to Wikipedia:

Guy Fawkes Night, also known as Bonfire Night, Fireworks Night and Plot Night, is an annual celebration (but not a public holiday[1]) on the evening of the 5th of November primarily in the United Kingdom, but also in New Zealand, South Africa, the province of Newfoundland and Labrador (Canada), parts of the British Caribbean, and to some extent by their nationals abroad. Bonfire night was common in Australia until the 1980s. It celebrates the failure of the Gunpowder Plot, in which a group of Catholic conspirators allegedly attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament in London on the evening of 5 November 1605, when the Protestant King James I (James VI of Scotland) was within its walls.

The celebrations, which in the United Kingdom take place in towns and villages across the country, involve fireworks displays and the building of bonfires, traditionally on which "guys", or dummies, representing Guy Fawkes, the most famous of the conspirators are burnt. Before the fifth, children use the dummies to beg for money with the chant "Penny for the guy".

In the United Kingdom, there are several other regional traditions that accompany Guy Fawkes/Bonfire night: the eating of bonfire toffee, a dark type of toffee made with black treacle; parkin, a cake made with the same black treacle[2]; toffee apples, the traditional 'apple lollipop', which consists of an apple coated in toffee on top of a stick; and baked potatoes[3], which are wrapped in foil and cooked in the bonfire or its embers.

Of course, the best part of Guy Fawkes Day is the rhyme:

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.

The full rhyme, rarely used, continues:
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent
to blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow:
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!

The following verses, though originally part of the rhyme, are usually left out of modern day recitations for the inflammatory anti-Catholic remarks:
A penny loaf to feed the Pope.
A farthing o' cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!

Who says religious intolerance can’t be fun? Remember, remember the fifth of November.

[1] Presumably because of the strong anti-Catholic connotations behind the “celebration”. Who cares, I say; a day of is a day off.
[2] I have been “fortunate” enough to sample some Parkin. It tastes like gingerbread cake soaked in Guinness. Frankly, I’d rather just have the Guinness.
[3] I anticipate that those Bonfire Night revelers whose main treat consists of a baked potato are going to be mightily upset.

Briefcase bartender

Since we are on a drinking theme of late, let me take a moment to discuss a new phenomenon we have discovered: train drinking. As we both commute to work on the train we have many opportunities for observation of this phenomenon. The first time this occurred was on a Tuesday afternoon during the commute from Sheffield to Leeds. I sat beside a a middle aged man who told me he was a construction worker. I was slightly suspicious that he may be a bit of a drinker when I sat down and was greeted with a waft of alcohol, but decided not to think too much about it. When he managed to drink four tall boy cans of Carling during our 50 minute ride my suspicions were confirmed. I have also on another occasion seen a man in a suit pull out a mini bottle of wine and a wine glass from his briefcase. This seemed somewhat charming compared to the Carling incident. But this week Brent witnessed a whole new level of briefcase bartender. During his end of day commute from Bradford to Leeds he observed a middle-aged suit pull out his wine glass, drain half a full size bottle of wine, and then open a second bottle for a third glass. Let's remember for a moment that this train ride takes a total of 20 mintues. Three glasses of wine in 20 minutes and from two different bottles no less. Now that's some briefcase.

The First Few Days in Leeds

Although we have been here for almost two months now, we thought we might recap some of our earlier days here to provide insight into our settling in process. So the next few blogs may be recapping events that took place a little while ago. For instance, here is the story of our first few adventures….

Everybody should have a driver meet them at the airport after a long flight. Going home, this is not a problem. Family are always gracious and giving enough to attend at the airport and meet us. In England, it costs 70 GBP to have someone stand in for family and drive us to our “flat”. In any event, after a long drive from Manchester Airport to Leeds, fighting Monday morning traffic and five times around the block because our crazy taxi driver could not figure out the one way streets outside out apartment (sorry, “flat”) building, we finally arrived. Much to our delight, the place is great. Really pretty swanky or posh or Beckham or whatever you want to call it. Everything we needed was here. As for location, our flat is beside the river, so we get to walk along beside it whenever we leave the house. The only down side to the location is it is right in the heart of the city center. This means it can be pretty noisy at night and there are usually remnants of other people’s nights of drinking on the sidewalk the next morning. I think a good rule for future housing searches is to avoid places where you can walk from the train or bus station within 10 minutes. This is something we probably could have thought of before selecting our place when one considers housing options within 10 minutes of the Hamilton bus station.

Thanks to our taxi tour of Leeds while trying to find our flat on the first day, we spotted a Costco just around the corner from our place. Can you believe it? Costco – in Leeds?! It was one of the first places we went when we woke up from our jet lagged slumber. Luckily for us our Canadian membership card worked, so we were good to go. We strolled the aisles at Costco for a while, finding that as one would imagine it is basically the same as Costco in Hamilton, until that is…..we came across the best aisle ever…..the booze aisle!! Here is a sampling of their inventory: cases of 24 tall boy cans of every beer you can imagine, two litre pop bottles of Strongbow, giant bottles of vermouth for martinis. The Davis family could buy cases of their Lindemans Chardonnay for super cheap. Also much to our delight they also sold giant bottles of Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry and a selection of fine single malt scotch. It reminded me of my favourite book when I was a kid: Charlie and the Vodka Factory. This remains perhaps the greatest gift England has to offer—super cheap, super giant alcohol right around the corner from our flat! No wonder teenagers are vomiting on the streets at 3pm.

With our priorities now clearly centered on drinking, our next challenge in a new city was to set out to find our local watering hole. We approached this task methodically. We went in every pub within walking distance of our home. We sampled drinks, we talked to locals, we read the Itchy Leeds guide to pubs. As a result, we have come up with our own categorizing system for the selection of pubs we discovered here in Leeds. First, there is the dance bar. This place plays loud obnoxious music, regardless of whether it is 3pm or 3am, and is frequented by scantily clad girls and boys with too much product in their hair. There seems to be a great number of these pubs in Leeds. In fact, on our Sunday morning constitutional to retrieve The Times, the revellers frequenting such places are just having their last throw-up before finding a cab home. The second type of pub we encountered is what we call an Old School Local. It is so old school that the men (and women!) inside are really, really old and have probably not set foot outside the pub for many years. This is immediately obvious when one enters the pub. After the thick haze of cigarette smoke clears all the old men locals turn around to see what the outside world has dragged in. When it is clear that the person who has entered is not a local, there is sneering and silence. Coupled with the sticky tables, dirty carpet and a bad selection of beer (Carling anyone?) it is a hostile assault on the senses. Fortunately, amid these bleak choices there is the third type of pub. This pub is warm and welcoming with beguiling architecture, people and beers on draft. We have been fortunate enough to find three such gems. One is even stumbling distance from home and most importantly, serves Sleeman.

So as you can probably surmise, we managed to drink our way through the first few weeks. We went from jet lagged haze to alcohol induced haze. It was simply part of the cultural adjustment. If there is one thing the British do well, it’s drink.

English Thanksgiving

The Heathen English don’t celebrate Thanksgiving but, if they did, it would be on October 21^st because that’s when we were finally able to get around to cooking ourselves a feast. This morning we went to Morrison’s to pick up all the fixings. Our trip was on the, wait for it, bus.

Now let me stop right here to say that this was my first trip on the bus (excluding tourist related bus rides) since April 18, 2001. How do I know the day? Because on that day, the day of my last ever law school exam, I vowed to never take the bus again. Why should I? Fancy corporate lawyer and such. I’ll always have a car. Nice one too. But there I was shamefacedly back on the bus. So much for making vows.

Back to Morrison’s. Morrison’s is an English grocery store but really is subpar by any standards. By way of example, Morrison’s failed to stock any turkeys. No turkeys on English Thanksgiving. The mind reels. So that is story behind the fact that English Thanksgiving is celebrated with roast chicken.

This brings us to one of the most important matters of Thanksgiving: Pie. To my knowledge, the English fail to engage in the delights of Pumpkin Pie. Or if they do, they call it something else, like Wikki-stick Pie or Bumjam Pie meaning that, if I’m looking for Pumpkin Pie, I can’t find it. Besides even if they did have pumpkin pie here they would probably do something crazy like put 'treacle' in it. Either way, all the bakers are wankers, clearly. Luckily, we outsmarted them by sending ourselves pumpkin puree from Canada before we left.

So the Thanksgiving menu is as follows: Roast Chicken with gravy, stuffing with mushrooms, Davis family world famous mashed potatoes, broccoli with cheese sauce, green beans and Pumpkin Pie with whipped cream. Not bad at all.

This now brings us to the part where I outline those things for which I am thankful. Apart from the obvious, I am most thankful that today, out of the blue, the North American Sports Network has started to appear on our Sky Cable. I have watched the Saskatchewan Roughriders play the Toronto Argonauts and now the St. Louis Blues are home to Vancouver Canucks. I’d blog more but I’m Canadian and have gone 126 days without watching a hockey game. Hockey is more important. Let me just say that I can’t wait to watch Hockey Night in Canada tomorrow.

Happy Thanksgiving to all and to all a good night.

There is a god....and it's name is British Telecom!

British Telecom may in fact be a god, not the God, but a god none the less. It seems that British Telecom makes the world go around here in England. They finally fit us into their busy schedule to arrange for our home connection for phone and internet. We tried everything under the sun to get this done sooner as we were feeling quite desperate to stay connected to everyone back home, but you can't get any other internet suppliers until you have a phone line or a BT internet connection. Argh! But at last, we finally have email and a phone at home which feels like a gift from god!

We realize we have a lot of blogging to do to get caught up on the events of the last month or so. Some people (mostly just Stephen) have been heckling us for our lack of posting, but it really didn't seem appropriate to blog at work. But now there is nothing holding us back! We will keep adding posts over the next few days and we will try to blog in order of events that have occurred, so stay tuned.....

Bon Voyage

This is the first official blog entry from England. Why, you may ask, is it that we have been in England for two weeks and have not yet posted anything to the blog, or the flickr site? Well, let's just say that the superiority of the British is not readily apparent when it comes to household technology. What's with the washing machine and dryer being in the kitchen? Aside from that, we are also without telephone, internet and cable at home and will be until approximately October!! So for now I sit in the public library in Leeds, and it will have to suffice.

It was a little scary to pack up our whole life into suitcases and boxes (as indicated in a previous post as well). We are still waiting for the boxes to arrive! Regardless, we are settling in slowly, but surely to life in the UK. Although we already miss all of you back home. It was great to see so many of you at various gatherings before we left. Hopefully that tides us over until some of you come for a visit!!

Pager Free!

Today is a monumental day in the process of preparing to move to England. It's not the day we moved out of our house. Nor is it the day we packed all of our belongings into suitcases. Likewise, it is not even the day on which we fly across the pond. Similar to these other events today carries with it the same anticipation and relief. Today is the day I get rid of my pager!!

For better or for worse the pager has been a part of my life since I started the midwifery education program in 1999. The volume and intensity of pages received has varied over that time, but the impact on one's life remains constant. I have a love-hate relationship with the pager.

I do appreciate the freedom of having a pager as it means that one can leave their house and carry on with life without sitting by the phone waiting for someone to call. I also appreciate how it contributes to the kind of care midwives in Ontario provide. I think continuity of care is essential for clients and for midwives. I have always found that when my pager goes off in the middle of the night and I am instantly thrust into top performance mode that I am glad it is for the care of a client that I have come to know over months of being with them in preparation and anticipation of their birth. I think it would be a much harder wake up call if the bell tolls for some random person off the street with whom you have no connection.

The disadvantages of the pager are obvious, and many friends and family who may be reading this have experienced some of these consequences--having to stay within a certain radius of Hamilton at all times when on call, missing social events of various significance, being a friend of questionable dependency. The presence of the pager even alters personal habits. For example, bedtime was strictly adhered to so that I could be well rested in the event of a middle of the night birth.

Today I bid farewell to this long time companion. It will no doubt haunt me for a few weeks. I will jump at every ringing sound, thinking that it is my pager going off, and I will continuously check my purse and my right hip to ensure that I have my pager before leaving the house. When it finally sinks in that this new phase of life will be pager free, what will life be like?

The anticipation of the freedom of living a life without a pager is one of the thoughts that excites me about our little adventure abroad. Imagine being able to make plans for every single weekend, instead of cramming all our fun into every other weekend. Imagine going to bed whenever I want and not having to weigh the pros and cons of my responsibility. Imagine being able to procrastinate on my school work without fear of the lack of future time available because of pending births. The fun, carefree, worry-free, relaxed Beth might just reappear. I will let you know if I find her.

Who Invited the Packing Nazi?

Our apologies regarding the lack of postings. It has been very busy. What? Fine. It wasn't busy for a very long while and then all these empty boxes showed up and someone said they needed to be filled with all our stuff. Whatever. I starting filling the boxes. Then someone (known only as the Packing Nazi) indicated that my free-form packing methods (ie. kitchen stuff mixed with books mixed with food) wouldn't work. Food had to be given or thrown away. Kitchen stuff had to be packed with kitchen stuff and so on. I gave in but only because I had heroically attempted to consume our remaining liquor the previous evening and was a little under the weather and in no mood for arguing.

A big thank you to 1800 GOT JUNK for taking away a garage full of stuff. It wasn't really junk, I was just sick of packing. My apologies to anyone whose stuff was carted away by the GOT JUNK guys. Itemize your losses and send me a bill. I'll see its given the attention it deserves.

So, we are now firmly ensconced in Guelph and enjoying a relaxing last few days before departing. Thanks to all who have been in touch to say goodbye. We'll post pictures from the party and various get togethers when we have more time.

Top 10 Things About the Hammer We Will Miss

From the Home Office in Hamilton, Ontario....
these are the 'Top 10 things about the Hammer we will miss when living in Leeds':

10. Bad coffee and stale timbits at the Tim Horton's on every corner
9. Mmmmm yellow air--Morning drives to work through thick, smoggy Hamilton air
8. Delivering babies in the middle of the night and waving at the drunks on the way home
7. Kickin' some trivia ass at BP. Shaft RULES!
6. Favorite eateries--Room for Desert, Amuse Bouche
5. The Davis family gathering last Sunday, and the Sunday before that, and the Sunday before that, and the Sunday before that......
4. Laundry moochers who shall remain nameless, but it starts with S and ends with tephen
3. The delicate local ecosystem--Dead fish floaters, rabid squirrels, west nile biting mosquitos
2. Our wedding tree at Canterbury Hills
1. The NHL team....doh!

First Things First

What's with the name? We made it up. Or stole it from somewhere. We can't remember.

Odyssey n. An extended, adventurous wandering.

Idiocy n. 1. A condition of subnormal intellectual ability in the lowest measurable range. 2. Something extremely foolish or stupid.

Why would two people leave their loving families, fun friends, excellent careers, nice house, comfortable lives, familiar surroundings and the greatest country in the world to move to a city Charles Dickens referred to as the most disagreeable in England?

I direct you to the definition of Idiocy above.

But its not that simple. There were opportunities in England which were not available in The New World which we were compelled to pursue. So we did. Now we'll make every effort to see the best and worst of the lands of our ancestors while we also attempt to take the most advantage of the aforementioned opportunities.

I direct you to the definition of Odyssey above.

We hope that this blog will be a chronicle of our Idiossey and allow us stay close to those of you who will be missed by us.