Merry Christmas & Happy New Year

Hurragh for the last day of work.

No blogging for 10 days now, unless santa brings me a compluter.

I wish you all a merry one filled with friends, family and fun - or a day of luxurious self indulgence in your own happy place.

Whatever fits your bag.

XX

DBO Tune

I have been trying to remember the "other" song on a tape from days gone by.

It came to me whilst I sat on a ski lift on Saturday.

"Your beauty makes me feel all wrong,
I look inside but no-one's home,

Screw that, forget about that,
I don't wanna know about anything like that.

Screw that, forget about that,
I don't wanna know about anything like that."

What comes next?
Remember?

40 lengths (1km) swim in 30 minutes

Such a waterbaby. So tired.

A Special Big Shout with Cuddles

To Bx. Who managed to flip her fiesta last week.

I have only one thing to say...

Welcome to the flip'n'ditch-club babe. I'm glad you're OK and back on the horse, focus-shaped as it is.

Just because Zo is not in the car, doesn't mean you can go rally driving y'know.

Where was your digital camera when you needed it?











It's an old photo but it never fails to amuse.

Music… Makes the people… come together… yeah.

Emu hangs out with the natives.

Now I’m in Canada I miss people that I could’ve made a better effort for in the past –mostly friends who live in the south who I regularly dragged up to my parties but never actually got around to visiting them. It was the traffic you see, I hate traffic. But one of those friends lived a long way from the grizzly metropolis that is Lond….well, the South East. Emu spent many of her days in Cornwall, eventually moving on to the bright lights of Brighton. Even when I was working on yonder Sout coast, I never made it across to see her. Nor did she come up Nort. So I can’t really say I miss her – so much – but I used to write and frequently make her feel guilty about not writing back. Then, all of a sudden outta the blue I’d get this humongous book of a letter because she’d finally set herself aside half a day. It continues today with e-mail as she is in Australia and email is way more convenient than waiting for two colonial postal services to get-it-together.

Emu sings. She’s got the voice of an angel – one that’s smoked 20-a-day for 15 years, it’s husky gravely voice that she does amazing things with. It has the depths of Alana Miles and the zenith of Bjork. Add to that the fact that she’s a sassy redhead with the temperament of a clawless, toothless kitten on speed. There’s no fiery to her, she’s all cuddles and fluffy love. The only child I’ve ever known who wouldn’t stand on a fly, though she’s probably spitting feathers at me for disclosing her redheadedness since she’s now a simmering blonde.

She is another of my proxy siblings – being my god-sister, I guess. Her mum is my godmother. In 2002 she came and sang at my wedding and crushed the hearts of all my single male friends when she left for Australia to find fun, sun, work and eventually true love in the form of Steve, who she’ll be marrying in 2007 – that’ll be another trip back to the old country then.

Footnote: Not Steve Astley

Prior to that, the last time I actually saw Emu in the flesh was when I was 18. We went to visit her, her mum, Gill, and big Steve, her step-dad who is a lovely man. The Cornish sense of fun and humour is overwhelming chez eux and with countless dogs, cats, ducks and other wildlife from various RSPCA rescue escapades there’s ne’er a dull moment. On one of the last nights of our visit we all traipsed down to a seedy pub / club to watch Emu sing with Ted and Dave (not people from the kids TV show “Rainbow”, I promise).

That night was probably the best night out I’ve ever had with my parents. They got drunk, I got drunk, Emu sang like a diva, we danced, we sneaked smokes into the toilets and hoped our parents wouldn’t come in. IT WASN’T ME MUM, HONEST. I didn’t even pull but we laughed and laughed. At the end of the night, my mum grabbed Emu’s face in her hands and with tear in her eyes cried, “You’re beautiful and you’re wonderful. Do you know that? Fabulous, fabulous.” We all giggled. Sandwiched between my mum and dad on the drive home through country lanes, sit-dancing to “Tiger Feet” on the car stereo, we could’ve crashed had it not been for someone – big-Steve I think – being sober. We went to bed, in Emu’s attic room, our ears pounding and whistling from the volume of the music, brains swimming in Cornish bitter and Guiness, staring at the clear Cornish night sky full of stars through the roof-window.

I seem to remember spending a part of the night sitting on the bathroom floor, which is always a sign of a good night out.

This weekend, two cassettes appeared on the coffee table. Somewhere, Hubby had found a little black cassette with “Emu” written on it and another cassette with pictures of tractors and farmers drawn on the spine of the cover and two words written on the back in neat green and black AGGS handwriting, “The Levellers”.

This has caused me much excitement. I have so far half played Emu through in my car, as Ted screwed up the recording, gave me one song of Emu, 4 from another girl (fast forward), two songs of Emu then on side B, one song of Emu and an annoyingly dull section of fast forwarding through accompaniment tracks that I can’t even recognise so I can’t fill in the words. But how it makes me smile! There’s an archipelago version of “Stand by me”, three of Dave’s songs – which are pretty good – and all sung with no more accompaniment than his acoustic guitar and Emu’s tambourine. Then there’s Black Velvet, exclusively devoted to me and my black corduroy shirt that I was sporting and then, the cream of the crop, Bohemian Rhapsody – yes it was a silly kinda night. Which, thinking back now involved me moshing whilst dancing with my dad! Ahhh the days of VERY long hair.

Once I have got through Emu’s version of Bohemian Rhapsody again tonight I will play the Levellers a few times. That will remind me of Tanya, who kindly organised tickets for me to see them in Leeds and then, also very kindly, posted me a copy of the album when I was working in Paris, having a whale of a time but, again, missing my friends and things familiar to me. It will make me think of the concert and it will make me think about how I laughed when I saw her little doodles of farmers on the tape, when I was stuck in the big city, missing the countryside. The big black Martiniquais, Pierrot, that I was working with, kindly found a cassette player and we all listened to the Levellers for the rest of the working day.

Well, a day on since I started this post and I have been through the whole of the Emu tape including a LOL moment when I discovered it was recorded on new years eve in 1995. I was 22 – not 18! It was 10 years ago! It also had a small snippet of a little girl singing “Happy birthday to me” on it, which I’m not convinced was Emu. She then continued to murmur to herself, which sounded like she was trying to stop the cassette recording, reading the manual. Cute! Some parent would probably love to have this tape back.

The Levellers are now juicing up my drive to work with their own folk rock style, making for much jumping around and bouncing off walls at work. It doesn’t matter how depressing their lyrics are, I can’t help but dance. All together a very happy week.

4

Freezing Rain

Nothing says "The Abyss of Canadian Weather" like it.

In the Style of Silver Lining

It was a training day today. At 11am – lunchtime - I was fired up. I fancied a swim but the pool doesn’t open till 11:30 and it’s only a 5 minute drive so I grabbed my bag, hoping the right stuff was in it for a thrashing run in the gym instead. I didn’t want to risk waiting for the pool then finding I was no longer motivated. When I picked the bag up this morning there were running shoes inside, which is a good start. I could at worst run in my tightfitting lycra-ish black jeans and top I was wearing to work.

My new feet however, were still frozen to the bottoms of my ski boots in Hubby’s car 60kms away so I had to pound through my run without them for the first time since I took possession of them in the summer. The run was a 20 minute one which I told myself I WOULD complete – I usually get bored and move on. I did complete it by shutting off my brain and concentrating on the music on the radio, so no doubt my legs will be very achey tomorrow from doing the run without the new feet. Not sure we all appreciated the christmas tunes since most of us were there to forget christmas.

I also had no sports bra so I had to watch my boobs bob up and down in the mirror – and it was a little nippy in there too! At least I had an M&S Comfortable bra with me so I didn’t loose any body-parts out of the push-up bra I put on for work.

Apart from these two omissions in my wardrobe, the rest of the session went well with clean knickers, bra, top and a towel in tow so I am back at work, clean, energised and further rejuvenated (at this rate I’ll be 2 by the end of the week).

I got back to find everyone in a sulk because I took my contracted 1 hour lunchbreak instead of the measly half hour everyone else gets. They weren’t working in the right places when I returned and wander into my office to complain that after 25 years here they don’t know what they’re doing but once I set them straight I don’t care. This my new start developing nicely – more “me-time” less “crappy-time” and my! It’s working well.

A good biffday

When I think of the biffdays that have been great in my life, my 18th always comes to mind – because that is when I got my first pair of skis and boots from my ma and pa. Only once have I used my skis on dry slope surface – because at the age of 18 you can’t possibly wait for the next ski trip. I took the day off work, I drove to Rossendale, I paid 40 quid for two hours skiing but it was a Wednesday and no-one was checking so I spent the entire day going up and down the same 60 metres of carpet on a small windy hill on the edge of Lancashire. At closing time, I threw my gear in the “little s**t” aka Gustav-Sylvester-the-fiesta and drove back to Manc probably to get drunk with Tanya who had returned from Leeds Uni for the Christmas holidays – though that part of the story is obviously not so memorable because we were really drunk at the time. It was probably 42nd Street or the Roxy... or was that Sheffield? Iiiiii dunno.

The point being I don’t think I’ve had such a good day’s ski birthdaying since. Not until this year. Last year we skied but I think we had to wait until the next day at work to get a shower afterwards. The year before I went car shopping for a new Canadian automobile.

This year my day started with a bar of chocolate (not yet eaten) a gorgeous free-trade jewellery box hand carved to look like a book and a pair of very expensive sheepskin slippers. YES they are old lady slippers but hell, old ladies know their stuff when it comes to slippers and my feet are ALWAYS cold – correction WERE always cold.

After breakfast in my favourite coffee shop (provided free by the wonderful staff – thanks for the birthday treat girls!) hubby and I picked up a friend (K) at the base and drove up in jovial chatty state. K got ticketed-up and we skied and skied and skied from 10 am till 1pm and did a different run each time. The snow was not so great, but that made for exciting skiing, dodging the rocks and following the signs at the top of blind summits – the “mind the dirt” signs.

Slightly tired and getting a little cold, we skied to the lodge where we ate very yummy Chicken Ceasar salad (there’s something about fresh air makes me all healthy and their CCS is SOOOOOooooo good with finely cut, crispy hot bacon and GOOD sauce). Lunch was satisfyingly expensive – the joys of having a proper job.

In the “Hog on the Hill” caf we bumped into S and his family. They’re from North Yorks originally and have the cutest little kiddies. His daughter was embarking on her second ski season – though she only had one lesson last year at the tender age of 3 ¾. So when hubby and K were done skiing and getting cold, I went and got warm by doing what’s best for warming one up – helping little people learn something new. I think I provided a welcome reprieve for mum who was on free-heel skis and struggling with the logistics of juggling those and a 4 ¾ -year old. We touched toes, stretched like a cat and squished cherries in our boots and we managed many a big pizza, played red-light-green-light and did lots of high-fives. These all, of course, are Canadian ski instructor association approved techniques and should not be tried unsupervised at home.

After we returned K to her car, we drove home, drank tea, ate sticky buns, cooked ourselves at 40 degrees C in the tub for 20 minutes then went to the Inn for venison and apple and peach crumble and just the one glass of wine because I drank myself impressively into my birthday and I didn’t want to feel any older coming out the other end of it – though I felt much younger during my birthday than any other time in the last two months.

And that is my kinda birthday – a rejuvenating one.

Birthday - tomorrow - me

Please send gushing messages for me to read on Monday morning.

Thanks.

So much fun, I did it twice. I thought Grac could do his horoscopes with it... like this.

See, see the busy sky
Marvel at its big turquoise depths.
Tell me, Graculus do you
Wonder why the hairless cat ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel reluctant.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your Spreckles facial growth
That looks like
A goat's cheese.
What's more, it knows
Your ***** potting shed
Smells of pistacchio nut.
Everything under the big busy sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm Macdonalds burgers.

Except the BBC Starred out my pussy.

Vogon Poetry

See, see the Clean freak sky
Marvel at its big Orange depths.
Tell me, Daniel do you
Wonder why the bald dog ignores you?
Why its foobly staremakes you feel Dark.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your sluttony facial growth
That looks like
A mould. What's more, it knows
Your High visibility vest potting shed
Smells of Cacti.
Everything under the big Clean freak sky
Asks why,
why do you even bother?
You only charm The lovely reps.--

Stolen partly from Skier BC magazine.

The best of 100 great things about the ski season (with translations for non-skiers)

The regulars: Beer, Powder snow, Tunes, Big scary naked mountains, the word “Woo!”

The singles lane – where individual skiers make up the gooseberry on a chair lift, making faster progress down the lift line than nimpys who only want to ride the lift with their partner / buddy / foxy instructor.

Free Tissues at the lift line – A toadally Canadian phenomenon

The Under-Rater – The member of any possee who inspires the others to scare the living shit out of themselves. (You know who you are).

Flapping jackets – Forget your fancy heart rate monitor and altimeter, this is the undeniable indicator of how much it’s gonna hurt when you wipe out.

Tree skiing – shelter from the weather and the hoards, a natural line of gates, great crashes, impressive injuries.

#44 is Europe. Leading me to dream of a resort Shangri-La where the mountains are massive and European and the culture is… well, you know… but the lifties are all Canadian and Australian or at least have Canadian and Australian guest-service skills. Of course, all my friends would be able to get there easily too. Heaven. Sigh.

Ski Patrol – Ski, uniform, life-saver. What more can you ask for in a man?

Threadbare piste maps – 6’ Tall boards with trail maps on. They tend to get worn by people pointing with the tip of their ski pole. Who needs a “You are here” sticker?

Spring skiing – Nothing says “party” like it.

Corduroy runs – Where the piste groomer has prepped the snow surface leaving long downhill ridges in the snow about 1” deep. No matter how crap you are at skiing, corduroy runs are like speaking French after half a bottle of wine. Instant expertise.

Racoon tan – The facial version of tan-lines. Incurred by wearing ski goggles on a sunny day. In Europe it’s known as Panda-eyes because you don’t have racoons.

Ibuprofen

Good goggles – oh the envy of being the only person in a group who can see.

Coffee shop staff who see you’re still in your ski boots and ask how your day was. This only happens in Canada because we generally don’t live in the ski resort and because in Europe they just wouldn’t ask.

Friends who scout landings for you – avoids hospital time. Cuzzes take note.

#72 was GIRLS

Roofs – for jumping off.

Hot springs. Hot tubs

Packet food – for when there’s no muscles left to keep you standing in the kitchen.

Vistas – 360 degree views that remind you why you’ve not slit your wrists yet.

Spread eagles – star-jumps on skis. Because nothing says, “I’m here, I’m in the air and I’m invincible!” like a spread-eagle. (you know who you are)

Scratching your head after taking your hat off. mMmmmMMmmmm.

New socks.

Camper trucks and sleeping bags.

Summer – makes it worth the wait. Because nothing makes you appreciate -40 like +40.

#96 was BC. What more can I say?

There was a letter in the magazine from a girlie who last year wrapped herself around a tree. Her friends (who had goaded her into running this particular line) waited patiently by her side, telling her not to move as she waited for the ski patrol to come and peel her off the snow and take her safely to hospital. She drifted in and out of conciousness with concussion. Finally, a smiling ski patroller she’d been talking to in the bar the night before looked into her eyes and said, “Hi sweetie, do you know your name?”.

She smiled back at him and said, “No, but I know yours”.

Respec! Nearly dead, but still flirtin’.

On last night's news.

Sheena Richardson of Arkensaw appeared on TV last night for the first time since her 3000m fall from an aeroplane. Sheena was doing her first solo skydive when both her chutes failed to open properly and she plunged at terminal velocity into an ashphalt parking lot and survived. Not so terminal then. In her words, “I just sat up, spat my teeth out and asked if I was still alive”. Video footage from her instructor was the worst, with him screaming in desperation to her as she spiralled downwards faster and faster on the end of a piece of silk no bigger than a duvet cover. There was nothing he could do to help, his chute was open.

Sheena’s face was eggshelled – her words again – and her pelvis broken. The most remarkable thing? She didn’t know it at the time but she was pregnant – and the baby seems to be fine! Now THERE’S one helluva, “When you were little we dropped you on your head” story.

In related news: The American ambassador to Canada is upset at the Liberals for slating George Bush as a tool in the election campaigns now underway. His words were somewhere along the lines of, “How would you feel if one of your closest friends and allies stood up and slated you on a public front for his own gains”? My response, “How would you feel if your friend taxed you every time you went out for a beer together.” This referring to George’s reluctance to listen to North American Free Trade Associations ruling that the softwood lumber duty imposed on Canadian Lumber entering the US is illegal. Ring any bells rest of the world?

How is this related to Sheena’s story? Well, I think you can figure that out for yourselves.

Got the planks wet at the weekend

I forgot to take my damn camera.

I skied like a demon, including the slalom gates.

I wiped out twice - once doing drills, once attempting to ski paralell backwards. Hubby took air mid-turn and, needless to say, wiped out. I laughed because he thought he was passing me but actually, I slowed up for the jump I saw coming at us.

Today I hurt big time. Tomorrow I will go to the gym. I have something to train for.

The perfect frock

It was 5 quid from the Oxfam on West Street, Sheffield in 1996. I bought it for Lucy's birthday party. It's was originally cheap before I paid 5 quid for it because it's from Topshop. When I put it on it feels all weird, like the seam is different from one side to the other.

When I put it on, it looks FANTASTIC.

It shows off my legs. The hem line flirts when I walk. I don't GIVE a damn if it's 10-below.

I WORE MY DRESS.

Power to the people.

When I started this job and moved into this office, there were a certain number of pin-up ladies on the wall next door. I am not offended by these ladies. They are all very pretty. They are all wearing clothes – not very many – but their dignity is preserved to a certain extent. The fact that they are holding chainsaws between their legs just makes me laugh. Poor ladies must be cold out there in the forest with so little clothing on and need to be careful they don’t nick their nice shiny legs with that big piece of machinery. I’m a little jealous that they look way better in a hard hat than I do, though if I wore make-up to work I might look that nice too.

Yesterday I went to heat up my lunch in the microwave and to my dismay, I found the collection had been added to. Some girls who had no right to be here. For a start they weren’t carrying any forest industry equipment and they definitely weren’t here to work. Nor were they here to encourage my employees to work. Later, there was a crescendo of voracious laughter and what can only be described as leering, though that’s not a strong enough word. I can’t think of one.

I am not a shrinking violet. I am not normally one to be intimidated, no matter how burly a cretin I am squaring off to. Problem is: the man I expected to be responsible for the increased sluttony was off sick. I had no-one left to gripe at and suspect that the men left in my department were probably as embarrassed by the combination of pornography and intelligent stroppy but sensitive female boss as I was, but were succumbing royally to pack-behaviour peer pressure alpha male type under-evolution. I really can’t imagine that the grandad in our midst approved of the pictures being around whilst someone his daughter’s age was in the room.

It took me 24 hours of deliberation to decide what to do. I ran through many scenarios and even ran some of them by the respected company accountant. Should I rant and rave? Should I accuse them of being disrespectful and inconsiderate? “Should I pin pictures of erect penises all over my office walls?” she suggested. No, it would only encourage them. Should I take a black marker pen and draw panties on them? The accountant suggested I black in their teeth and draw glasses on them. “You think they’re smiling?” I ask. “You think I can see their faces?” I ask, thinking of the picture that reminds me of my least favourite view of the cat.

At 4pm last night, I decide that if I am going to have this discussion with any of the men, I’m going to have it once, with the man responsible. So I steal his porn when they’ve all gone home and stick it in a file in my drawer. A woman who looks like she’s fresh from the 80s with afro frizz and golden eyeshaddow and a name that looks like Sharron keeps staring at me with her big brown nipples. I put an upside down file over her head. Poor Sharron, she should’ve finished high-school.

This morning no-one has had the balls to come and ask me for their pornography back. They must know it was me that took it, as we have no cleaning ladies to be offended. Just Stan, and though he has long hair, he’s not a lady. SO why leave something lying around for me to see, that you’re too embarrassed to fight for?

I think he was looking for a reaction, a good fight. There’s little friction down in this department anymore. I believe in quiet oversight, not confrontational management and it’s left them feeling duty-bound to do a good job and get along. In that relationship there’s no space for smoking dope at lunchtime, being late, rebelling and having a good fight. They’re frustrated, bored and getting far too much achieved. They wanted to tip the scales and piss me off. I’m glad I didn’t rise to it.

I am just enjoying my new-found superiority when the phone rings. It’s the BFOB*. He wants me to sell his Rotary club raffle tickets in the plant. He wants me to go around asking men who earn less money than me (and way less money than him) to donate to a society largely consisting of other BFOBs who need to be in a club to find friends to eat lunch with on a Friday afternoon whilst the rest of us work on. A club that makes them feel better about themselves because they otherwise struggle with the concept of compassion and giving, unless it’s organised and handed down to them on a plate and they can bully people with their power into giving money.

Why did I just say yes? Because I felt bullied into it. I go to get my coffee. I slam down my cup onto the table. It isn’t in my upbringing to go around begging from people (especially those less fortunate). I’ve done, like, one sponsored run, ever. I go to the washroom and throw my radio and coat on to the countertop. I don’t even believe in the rotary club. I slam my hard hat down on the toilet roll box and sit down. “Fuck” I shout, fast, deep, vicious, so no-one will know it was me. I am not a tin-rattler. Did I mention I am having anger management issues right now?

I go to see little boss who I like. Wassup? BFOB wants me to sell his Rotary raffle tickets and I don’t want to, I don’t believe in it. I am ranting.

I don’t blame you.

He stops me. OK. It’s not just me being unsociable. I don’t want to come over all un-Canadian at Christmas time. All I have to do now is figure out how to tell BFOB.

I ask my friend Duanne. How do you tell BFOB No?

Duanne draws himself up and says, “Like this”… he gets uncomfortably close, puts the lip of his hard hat to mine and shouts, “NO!”. He suggests I go tell him to tread sand. I tell my office-mate I might be back in a while, to pack up my things at my desk.

I go into BFOB’s office, a thing I try to avoid doing more than once a week. “I’m afraid it’s not in my nature to solicit money from people,” I say, “I’m going to have to say No”. He’s shocked, I’ve sent him sideways, he’s talking in a high pitch but he can’t argue the case because I’ve stated my point. He’s part way through telling me to take them to little boss when little boss appears and says, “No way, it’s not in my job description”.

Er Errrrr. XXX. Pass me the red rag, the bull is in the room.

BFOB starts to reach for the Job descriptions file where the last line of every page basically says, “Do anything you’re goddamn asked to do”.

I’m going out the door, I’m saying “I’m hanging up now…” It’s his favourite line at the end of an uncomfortable phone conversation, the type where you’re trying to make the point you’ve done everything you were goddamn asked to do.

I walk down the road laughing. I can say no to the fat man but I feel bad that little boss has a handful of raffle tickets. He obviously doesn’t feel quite so strongly as I do.

The prize was crap. I didn’t buy one.

*Big, fat, obnoxious boss.

Having read everyone's Miss World blogs for today, I'd just like to point out I'm not a party pooper, I like looking at beautiful women as much as the next person, there's just parts of them they should keep to themselves when I'm around. What I'm trying to say is, "my asshole's probably just as pretty as yours dear, put it away".

Europe's not so bad sometimes I guess.

Snnnnnn.

(c) Keith and Ste. in Alpe d'Huez.

Here: Wind. Southerly. 9km. Cloudy, but clearing

Today we saw the sky. Yessssss.

There was a gushing pink hue to the thin clouds this morning as the sun blossomed over the hilltop like nature's orgasm.

(Like that?)

I thought it was the reflection of the wooden wall on the window in my office but it was real pink clouds. In the morning, shepherds warning but there was nothing to be scared of. Daytime temps soared to -2 and it's only going to be -11 overnight. I tell myself it's preferable to -4 in Manchester where it's oh so damp and gets into your bones. I have no ice to scrape off my windscreen here, just the occasional snowfall to brush away but don't breathe on the windscreen - oh no - because your breath goes hard then it starts to grow!.

After the sun came up, the skies cleared even more. I hadn't realised just how bad the valley claustrophobia is. We complain and complain when we can't see the sky here. Because there's no moisture there's no funky frost or fog creeping across the fields. It just gets grey. The Cheshire Plain could be quite awe inspiring on a grey day but here you feel like you're stuck in a cupboard with the mountains folding in on you from all directions.

I don't know how Rob survived in Winterpeg. The dark nights, huddling up indoors. Oh yeah, Interweb, that's how. Alas, all motherboards in our house are dead so my computer-build has come to an end. I'm hoping Santa will bring me a sexy Mac for christmas... and that has nothing to do with flashers. Instead I revert to writing christmas cards and letters.

I should get back to excercising and I think I will. I'll go home tonight and pack my gym kit for tomorrow. The only problem with that is the terrible pain in my shoulder. I have no idea what I did but my guess is, I hawked the kitten over my shoulder in the middle of the night when she was purring at my water glass. Either that or I hurt it hulking around all santa's presents for him because he couldn't make it to Canada Post at lunchtime.

Lucky Dawn

Dawn came in to work on Friday to wish everyone Merry Christmas. She left in the summer and the place has been in pandemonium ever since. I saw her as I was walking along the road eating my breakfast with one hand and carrying paperwork with the other.

I waved my muffin at her.

With windchill

Minus effing fff.fff...ffff...fifteen.

Needless to say, I didn't bike to work today.

I didn't have my camera ready when four deer walked across the crosswalk like the Beatles Abbey Road cover (except the deer had no flares and four legs / no arms that kind of thing). I need a dash-mounted digital camera for christmas.

New habits die easy

I forgot that when it snows really hard, I have to wipe the snow out of my bug's eyes before I set off for work in the morning, otherwise the headlights don't penetrate.

Then I forgot to brush the snow off both sides of the back window. Just did one side. I felt all unballanced all the way to work.

Have a great weekend everyone.

A great memory jogger

I was riding home last night past the cemetary and I noticed a candle burning. One candle glowing in the darkness that's silenced even deeper than usual by snowfall.

It's a candle sitting on a gravestone. I remembered reading a story about the family who lights the candle. The boy died suddenly at age 18 from a hole in the heart and every night his father goes to the cemetary and places a candle on his grave, covers it with a glass shield and leaves it to burn out. It's his way of remembering his son and greiving.

Then he was told by the city to stop, because the rules say that you're only allowed to leave organic matter - flowers etc. that will rot away and not be a nuisance to the grounds keepers. The poor man was told not to continue his ritual that had kept him close to his son for two years since he died.

Obviously the council backed down eventually and as I passed the candle, flickering in the snowfall it made me feel a little warmer and I thought of the handsome boy and his loving dad and I thought, what a great memorial.

Going home now because I just looked out of the window and there's been a secret snow storm going on.

Too much working

Too much watching TV and vegging out to recover. Not enough energy. No gossip, no news, no spectacular photographs.

Life's dull. If it weren't for cats I don't know what I'd do.