Monday, January 11th, 2010
I don’t know if you heard, but it snowed in England. If you didn’t hear, kindly tell me where you’ve been hiding so I can join you and escape this endless yapping about it. See, in England, it’s not just snow, it’s the apocalypse. The entire country has ground to a halt and I swear if I have to have one more conversation about how there’s no gritters, I think I may just rip my ears off.
I get it. Yes, England’s not used to snow, we don’t get it that often, so getting this much of it comes as quite a surprise blah blah blah. But for the love of God, barely two inches of snow had settled before all the schools closed, buses stopped running and people were talking about being ‘snowed in’. Bitch please!
Look, I hate to be all ‘I was born in Canada and just moved back here after spending the last three winters over there’, but that’s what I’m gonna do for a second. In Toronto in the winter, I experienced temperatures anywhere between minus 20 and minus 35 centigrade. That, my friends, is cold. I remember one of the first days I had to venture out in those temps, it was so cold, I just wanted to cry, but I was scared the tears would freeze to my face.
Over there, people just get on with it. You throw on some thermals, shovel your driveway and get on with your life. Here, every single news channel has extensive ‘snow updates’. Newcasters talk about the snow, then they cut to roving reporters in various cities around the country and they always make those poor buggers stand outside. What is the purpose of this kind of coverage? We’re all capable of looking out the window and seeing snow. We don’t need news reporters to go ‘on location’ and point the snow out in every city. We get it!
News reports are saying if you must go out, make sure you wear warm clothes, take a flask, a shovel, a flashlight etc, you know, in case you get stuck or something. Are you serious?! For God’s sake, it’s embarrassing. I get that we’re not usually prepared for it but within a few days, most places seem to have run out of salt or grit which then sends everyone into a flying tizzy and trust me when I say, British people don’t need much of an excuse to complain. It’s an olympic sport over here.
Enough with the hysteria! Just put more layers on and bloody well get on with your day. It’s really not that bad. It’s not even that cold! If it’s still in the plus temperatures, consider it a good day. My nipples froze off in Toronto – there’s still a search party out there looking for them.
Tuesday, January 6th, 2009
Well, it’s come to an end. My vacation, that is, not my life (though you may be forgiven for thinking so, due to my lack of posts the past few weeks). As you read this, I am on a plane headed back to Toronto (probably desperately trying to resist the urge to put some screaming infant in a choke hold).
- For those that are wondering, no, I did not go see this guy.
- Christmas really is the most wonderful time of the year, ain’t it?
- Packing is a mother bitch. Seriously, I hate it. I’m having to leave two of my coats in England because I just can’t fit them in. No doubt my mother will adopt them and make sure they are cared for by wearing them at every available opportunity – I see you Mama!
- My British boys know how to dress. It’s so refreshing to see guys who give a crap about their appearance. Turn it out fellas. I ain’t mad at ya!
- To all my friends and of course, my fabulous family, thank you for showing me such a wonderful time. I miss you all desperately and I won’t leave it three years the next time, I promise. Love you long time.
Sunday, December 21st, 2008
Last Thursday morning, I arrived back in England at the ass crack of dawn. This is the first time I’ve been home in three years. I had a great weekend catching up with my family and trying to overcome my jetlag-induced coma. England has that same-only-different feel about it now. Some observations:
Growing up here for 18 years, I never really noticed, but England really is grey. It’s like a cloud of impending doom hangs over the place at all times. And fog. For weeks, my friends here had been telling me to pack warm, because it was so cold over here. Bitches, please, I live in Canada, you don’t know cold until you’ve stuck out a winter there. When I got here on Thursday it was 11 degrees celsius, which would be positively spring-like in Canada. I felt like throwing on a bikini and parading around town.
I lost my house
I’m going to preface this by saying that my parents have moved house since I was last here and I’m not familiar with the area they moved to. The following act of stupidity, is not necessarily a representation of my true self.
Thursday night, after dinner with my parents, my brother and I hit up a couple of bars. Around 11pm, my jetlag was kicking in pretty hardcore, so I decided to call it a night. I hopped in a cab and gave my parents address. We arrived and I got out of the cab. When the cab pulled away, I looked around and didn’t recognise anything. I looked at the sign again – I was definitely on the right street. I walked up and down the street a couple of times. It was dark, there were hardly any lights and I didn’t have my glasses on (pretty much a recipe for disaster). Plus, I hadn’t hooked myself up with a UK cell phone yet, so couldn’t call anyone.
After about 10 minutes, I started to get a bit panicky, thinking my parents had uprooted the whole bloody house while I had been out. I trekked up and down the street again and still could not figure out where the hell their house was (and this is not a long street). They live at number three. I saw that number four still had lights on, so I went to knock on their door for assistance. By this time it was about 11.25pm and the owner didn’t want to open the door. I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to phrase my predicament, but I thought it not wise to say ‘I’m looking for my house,’ as men in white coats would surely arrive shortly after. From behind the closed door a lady asked if she could help me. ‘I’m terribly sorry to bother you this late,’ I say. ‘But I’m looking for number three.’ She tells me it’s across the street. I make my way back down her path, muttering to myself that this woman is a damn liar because I’ve already canvassed that side of the street a good fifteen times to no avail.
By this point, I am close to tears, thinking I’m going to have to rip off a piece of someone’s hedge and bed down in the street for the night. I figure I’ll just ask at another house. I go across the street, open the gate and make my way up the pathway. As I get closer to the door, I see a rather large number three on it.
Funny how houses are always in the same place you left them.
My parents have turned gangsta
After driving to various petrol stations to find me a sim card to put in a UK cell phone, I find one and as I get back in the car, my mother says ‘I feel like I’m on The Wire!’ Later, my dad gives me his old phone to put the sim card in and points out that ‘it’s the same model as Stringer Bell’s.’ I’m not entirely sure what’s happened since I’ve been away, but apparently, my parents think they live in Baltimore and work for Marlo Stanfield.
Ahh, it’s good to be home.