Dyve's Dyary

Cove FM 94.3, The Voice Of St. Margaret's Bay

2010-08-31T17:50:00.000-07:00

I suppose I should have posted about this 8 weeks ago when the station went on the air but at least now I have an experience to report.

Cove FM is the brainchild and passion of JD, a friend here, and is a community radio station project.

For the months of July and August, it had "Special Event Licenses", allowing it to broadcast over a low power transmitter - 50 watts. That's all the technical stuff you'll see here 'cos I'd only get it wrong. If you want more, see http://www.covefm.com/ . (Go there anyway, there's pictures and all sorts).

For eight weeks, we've had a truly local radio station here. Mostly music, with sponsorship spots (NOT commercials, that's a no no), information on local events and happenings, weather, interviews with local folks of interest including musicians, vendors and customers at the farmers' market and sundry interesting people and, uniquely in my experience, tide information (thanks Kevin).

Now, many years ago (from 1978 to 1991) I was involved in another radio station - Radio Netherne. It was not really radio at all - no broadcasting involved. It was based in a psychiatric hospital in Surrey, England, and was hardwired to speakers in the day-rooms of the hospital's wards.

For 13 years, I had a Sunday afternoon music show there and enjoyed it immensely most of the time. Apart from the constant scrapping for money to run it (it was a registered charity but try raising money for a psychiatric hospital while competing with those working for sick kids, animals, what have you - it's not easy), the biggest drawback was audience response. We were constantly told that we were, in some never quite explained way, therapeutic, but mostly, all we got were the same handful of requests from the same small group of the "better" patients.

Many will have heard my stories down the years of "Dickie" who kept asking us to play "Fleetwood Mac" by Albert Ross, when what he wanted was "Albatross", by Fleetwood Mac; of Peggy insisting that I play Frankie Laine's "Gunfight At OK Corral" every week for years, until the track on the old vinyl album was visibly worn; of Arthur, who carried around the plastic casing of a miniature transistor radio (no radio, just the casing), holding it up to his ear and repeating "I wish somebody'd mend my radio. When our station engineer DID fix it (by putting a complete new radio in the case), the next week it was just a casing again and the mantra went on.

Maybe all this played into my thoughts as I contemplated my "return" to radio on Cove FM, maybe it didn't, but I certainly didn't expect what actually happened. I was on the air on the first morning of Cove FM - just playing music offered up by the computer system and some CD's by local artists, chatting in between, pressing buttons and sliding sliders that didn't need to pressed or slid while, simultaneously NOT pressing or sliding those that did (this is actually surprisingly easy). There was a party atmosphere, food and drink outside our superb little studio in the mall in "downtown" Hubbards, sundry folks dropping by and all the volunteers meeting up, many for the first time.

There was a great sense of occasion but, even then, I think I thought, "yeah, but really, who's gonna change the car radio? Who's gonna be listening from 9 to 11pm on a Wednesday night, in Hubbards, in Summer?"

Well, they listened. Lots of them - and not just in St. Margaret's Bay. My first scheduled show went out the following Wednesday at 9pm, entitled "Aardvark Archives Presents....A Transport Of Delight".

"Aardvark Archives" is a name I, rather pompously I suppose, gave to my record collection sometime in the late 60s, and it stuck. "A Transport Of Delight" is the title of a song about a London Transport bus and is the opening number in Michael Flanders and Donald Swann's musical review "At The Drop Of A Hat", from about 1960. The show was an assortment of songs about moving around; walking, driving, flying, sailing, orbiting, you name it. It was, as were the 7 shows that followed, a deliberately silly couple of hours. If I can remember them all, I'll list the themes at the end so I'll have somewhere to look when I', in danger of repeating myself.

I bungled and fluffed my way through it, blissfully unaware until the end that the connection to the transmitter had failed about half way through - I talked and played music to myself for an hour, just like at Radio Netherne all those years before.

Even so, at work the next day (remember the liquor store?) I found out people HAD been listening. Some, naturally I suppose, had done so because they knew me but a good few others had been listening anyway and had recognised my voice (I'm one of few in town without an accent!). They were gracious and complimentary. I was encouraged.

I had been listening to the station while driving - mostly to and from work, 5 minutes at a time, 4 times a day, but found myself going out of my way to hear the "manned" shows (much of the output was computer generated, as, I am told, much modern radio is) and getting wrapped up in it.

The presenters are an eclectic bunch. A school age lad with a fascination with (and extensive knowledge of) 60s music, two older gents with a very warm, homey feeling country/bluegrass show, a Celtic Woman and Korn fan, a local rock musician who bantered and jammed with other local musicians in between recorded tracks, a master of outside-broadcast co-ordination who seemlessly linked back and forth between the studio and (variously) the farmers' market, the World Tuna Flat Races and Chester Race Week from which other unflappable volunteers reported, interviewed and quipped.
It was darned good radio.

Being available on the internet, the audience quickly widened. There were, I'm told, listeners in Australia that first morning. I know of friends of mine who listened in Toronto, Vancouver, England (where my show ran from 1 to 3AM!, on a week-night!) and Texas. The positive feedback was relentless, varied, surprising and, most of all welcome (thank you, all).

Then suddenly, due to the vaguaries of the licensing process, last Saturday, at midnight, once again with JD and I at the switch, it all stopped. We have to wait now and apply for a permanent license for a community station - next spring if we're lucky.

As I type, our fabulous little studio (which I just felt I'd got the hang of - the technology's changed a bit since 1991) is being dismantled, the premises vacated. We've had our "last night cast party" and there's now't but a gap . It was evident at the great party we had (thanks again G & J) on Sunday and it's been evident in the conversations I've had with customers the last two days. We all, volunteers and listeners alike, miss our little radio station. We want it back. I want to be on it, yes, but mostly, I want to HEAR it.

I'm not alone. Signatures on our letter of support that goes (I understand) with the license application are still rolling in and the momentum is not lost. I have a few months to boost and organise the music database so that, when we start up again, there'll be less mucking about with CD's and, therefore, less manual logging of content. A big job, but right up my alley and I'm looking forward to getting started.

So, to the other CoveFMers, I say, thanks for the opportunity, the effort, the support, the fun. To the listeners I say, thank you, for listening, for the kind and morale boosting words. To everybody else who reads this - thank you too and "stay tuned", we'll be back.

Aardvark Archives Presents...

A Transport Of Delight - anything and everything to do with getting around.

Let's Sing The Beatles - all and sundry covering Beatles Songs.

Food For Thought - songs about food, eating and (occasionally) drinking.

Music By Numbers - songs with numbers in the titles.

Let's Dance (Or Not) - songs about dancing, dances, wanting to dance (or not), being able to dance (or not) etc.

Career Guidance For Dummies - songs about jobs and working (or not)

Favourite Odds And Ends - the 2 part finale, all my favourite thises and thats.

(There's one I've forgotten - I'll add it when it comes back to me).

UPDATE:
It's now October and it HAS come back to me. It was one of my favourites.
AARDVARK ARCHIVES PRESENTS - Before They Were Famous.
Two hours of music by people who didn't know that, weeks or years after recording, they would be famous. Thanks are due to Mr. Reg Dwight who provided much of the content back in 1969 by singing anonymous covers of the pop hits of the day for cheap party albums.

The interest in still keen in bringing back Cove FM next year. I did a couple hours behind the bar at an "Oktoberfest" fundraising event last weekend and it's clear this place wants its radio station back.

Matthew's Question

2010-01-06T12:35:00.000-08:00

So, if you've read the last post, you'll know that this one concerns an internet conversation I had in 2007 with a young man called (here, at least) Matthew. He did not take part in the debates and arguments I referred to, but was obviously following along closely.

The first I knew of him was a private Facebook message he sent me. Here is that message in its entirety, except for some personal info (removed or changed for privacy's sake) and some minor grammatical editing.

From: Matthew Young. August 8th. 2007 at 11:33am.

Hi Dave, I happen to be a Christian and have been following the posts about atheism. I was very impressed by what you have been saying. While I have been studying many religions and beliefs/non-beliefs, I am still in the dark about some things.

Am I reading it right? You are, for sure, an atheist? If so, then I have a question for you. As such, you are claiming that you know everything. To say that there is no God is to say that you know everything there is to know. So, my question is how many grains of sand are there on the beach nearest your home?

My point is that, as far as I know so far, there is no such thing as an atheist because it is impossible for a man to know everything there is to know. It is in those things that we don't know or accept that I believe we find God. Not just a God who sits up in the sky, looking down and judging us but a very real, present and intimate God who cares for the lives of every last person on Earth.

Deep inside, we all have the desire to know God. How else can you explain how and why the very IDEA of God exists? Everyone, at some time, wants to know just where they came from and how all this got started. I'm sure there is still more proof but without God; without a sense of knowing that what you do here on Earth matters eternally, then what's the point of life? Why do we have things that we consider wrong? Without God there can be no absolute truth when, in fact, absolute truth is all around us (2+2+4!). Absolute!

How is a watch made? A man assembles all these little parts. So what does a watch do then? It glorifies its creator by doing what it was created to do. So then, how do we glorify OUR creator? By living in the center of his will for our lives. That will is specific to each and every individual and you can find that will y studying God's Holy Word.

All that is just to say this; I believe that people choose (there we are again, Ed.) not to believe in God because they never get to know God. If you're up for a challenge, then, I want to challenge you to see if God is actually real. Read some Bible. If you like, I'd be happy to suggest some places to start. Just ask God to show himself to you.

I hope I haven't taken up too much of your time or caused you any grief but you seemed like one of the few who actually believed what they were saying as far as atheism is concerned. I appreciate you reading this if you get this far.

END QUOTE.

Much of this was the standard circular reasoning one gets used to on this subject; what boils down to "the Bible must be true because it says so in the Bible" and its close cousins, but there was one point - the futility argument - that I can never let pass and one other that I'd never heard before; the contention that an atheist, by definition it seems, claims knowledge of everything. Where did this come from?

Dyve: August 8th. 2008 at 2:18pm.

Thanks for that Matthew. I DID make it all the way to the end although the point, as far as I'm concerned, is right at the top.

The assumption that if I don't believe in God, I must know (or think I know) everything there is to know is completely unfounded.

There are knowable things, (Where is the beach nearest my home?) THEORETICALLY knowable things (like how many grains of sand are on the beach. That real number exists, it is a large positive integer, but it is not practical to count them and KNOW that number) and there are completely unknowable things (how many grains will there be in March 2012) but this says nothing whatsoever about God or whether or not "he" is a real being or a man-made concept.

Here's how I would use your analogy to express how I think about such things.

I do NOT know everything. Among the literally infinite number of things I do not know is the exact number of grains of sand on the beach. That does not mean I know NOTHING about the sand on the beach, though. I may not know the exact number of grains but I DO know that it's not 27. There are many other numbers I know it's not. This kind of thinking is (I presume) why atheists are often accused of being negative - because of all the things they know are NOT, without necessarily knowing what IS. There is no conflict in this, we all do it all the time. You do not know how much oranges cost in my local supermarket, but you know it's not $5,000 each. God or no God, these "knowables" are the same.

I could, if I cared enough, do some measuring of the beach, measure individual grains of sand, take depth samples and the like and come up with an estimate. It would not be the "right" number but, if I was careful and detailed, I should get the order of magnitude right. I'd be able to say something like "it's in the tens of billions, probably around 40 billion" or whatever. I do not need to do any of that to know the the answer is not 27.

So, by extension, I do not know the entire history of the universe. I cannot speak with any authority on the likelihood that, out there somewhere, there might be beings more knowledgeable than us, more advanced (whatever that might mean to them). Some of these hypothetical beings may have created life somewhere. They may be regarded, with some justification, as gods by the beings they created. But I CAN know (in the way that I KNOW 27 is the wrong answer to the beach question) that they did NOT create heaven and earth in a week, do NOT take an active role in the lives of humans, do not demand that we live a certain way with regards to birth control, Sundays, etc. They do not care who wins the World's Series or Superbowl, have no opinion about pork or head coverings and had nothing whatever to do with writing the Bible, Koran, Torah or anything else we've heard of because THOSE things (like 27 grains making a beach) are not possible.

The foregoing doesn't "prove" that, any more than I have "proved" that there are more than 27 grains on the beach (I haven't even BEEN to the beach today), but it's just as certain.

The "proof" is all around us - on Earth and off it.We can SEE how life developed, how stars were (and still are) formed, how the Earth came to be and even how gods were created. There are mysteries in the detail. Every time we learn something, new questions are raised. That's life in a huge universe. We don't know everything and we never will. That doesn't mean (or even suggest) that God does. I don't even see how you make that connection.

As for needing God to give us purpose, I read your reasoning as "I cannot believe that life has no ultimate purpose, that would be unbearable, so God must know what the purpose is". See the problem? Why are we so arrogant as to assume that, because we WANT a purpose, there must BE one? We have limited purposes made from our own intellects which are, in turn, the product of our long evolutionary history but ULTIMATE purpose is a nonce concept. Such a thing just cannot be. If we think God provides it, we are intellectually obliged to go on to ask what the purpose of God is? US? Surely not? If that's the answer, it's circular logic again, leads nowhere; certainly nothing "ultimate" about it. His own glorification? Seems a little shallow doesn't it? No, get used to the idea, no matter how unpalatable it may seem at first glance, ultimately, if you stretch the mind and the concept far enough, there is NO ultimate purpose. Wishing that there was does not make God spring spontaneously into existence, and it would not help if he did.

I've read some Bible, as you put it. Sorry, lots of history (and very bloody and "unchristian" much of it is too if I may say so - though that's not my point), a lot of fable, a lot of blatant historic and scientific inaccuracy, a lot of superstition, a few bits of wonderful mistranslation and some downright fabrications. In short, just what we would expect from a huge assortment of ancients from different cultures and centuries with different backgrounds, beliefs, agendas, perspectives and loyalties but NOT what we would expect from an omniscient creator. That's it, that's all, and YES there are atheists and I AM one. If I haven't convinced you of that, I don't know how to and I would have to refer you to an expert - Richard Dawkins would be my choice - try "The God Delusion".
Thanks for your interest, I hope at least some of this makes sense.
END QUOTE
Well, that's quite long - hope you're still with me. There's more. Matthew's reply next time. Stay tuned.

Matthew's Question - The preamble.

2010-01-04T06:03:00.000-08:00

As I start to type this, it's been germinating for a long time - at least three years - but a few recent events, minor of themselves, have given me the drive to try and write it. It comes in two parts, just for convenience; this preamble or prologue, then "Matthew's Question".

Way back when Facebook was but a pup and I had just signed up, I got involved in a "questions" board (I can't find it anymore, but it's probably there somewhere) where people could post any question they liked and others who thought they knew the answer could post it. Discussions ensued, debates, outright rows sometimes. It was interesting.

The first time I "played" was when someone asked "What is an atheist?".

I toyed with various tired, flippant answers like "Someone who believes in one less god than you do" but, before I had decided just how to reply, others had beaten me to it.

My first surprise was that whenever anyone gave a "straight" answer (like "it's someone who doesn't believe in God"), an argument broke out as to whether such a thing was possible. The theists in the mix argued along the lines that one could not "not believe" in the ultimate creator - it just was not an option, there's no box for that. What had happened, they claimed, was that the self-proclaimed atheists had (and this IS a quote from one, there were other ways expressing the same idea) "chosen to deny God". One theist answering even defined an atheist as one who "claims" not to believe in God.

This made my jaw drop. I weighed into the discussion and learned something interesting. Bear in mind, please, that many (though not all) of the most vocal theists in this forum were, by now, some stripe of Southern US fundamentalists. The something that I learned was this:-

"These people believe that one can choose what to believe."

Conversely, all the atheists on the board, me included, just accepted that belief is not a choice. They didn't even raise the issue - it just WAS that way. It's actually, I would say, a "linguistic fact"; that is, it's what the word MEANS. "Choosing to believe" is a nonce concept, by definition.

I was familiar, from previous reading, with "Pascal's Wager"; a philosophical argument that says it's a "good idea" to believe in God because you have nothing to lose by being wrong and everything to gain by being right. I had never taken this "reasoning" seriously - and hadn't really thought anyone else did (I gather even Pascal had his tongue firmly in his cheek) - for two reasons.

Firstly, and less relevantly here, surely, any deity worth praying to would KNOW if we were only "believing" so as to hedge our bets and wouldn't grant the benefits we were looking for (or our "Get Out Of Hell Free" card). Secondly, and more pertinently, the idea of a god - any god - either makes sense to an individual or it doesn't. Whether through indoctrination, cultural background, divine revelation or pure thought and reasoning, each of us, surely, believes what we do because, on some level, it makes sense to us, not because we somehow CHOOSE to?

Is Santa Claus real because a child believes he is? In some fiction maybe, but surely not in the real world?

Then another logical penny dropped in my head. What do they mean by "believe IN"?

I "believe IN" free education, no-pay health care, etc. But that means I SUPPORT these things, I think they are right and necessary. It has nothing to do with their existence or otherwise.

That's not what someone is saying when they say they "believe in" some deity, though, is it? They're not just saying "I think God is a good thing" are they?. It had never really bothered me before because the simple fact is that, whatever they mean, I think they're wrong. In just the same way that it doesn't matter to me which god, which religion, which denomination is under discussion. They are all, fundamentally (pun intended) and (almost) equally, wrong.

Now, it is not my purpose here to go into all the reasons why I "believe" what I do. I will do that on request but suffice it to say, for now, in case it's not already obvious, that I am an atheist. That word itself is problematic.

It comes firmly from the other camp. Completing a form that asks my religion, I can easily put "none", since this is, while perhaps unhelpful, undoubtedly true. But "atheist" does not work. A friend recently put this quote on his Facebook page - I don't know where he got it, but I've stolen, and paraphrased it:-

"Atheism is a religion to the same extent that not collecting stamps is a hobby"

Perfect! I wish I'd thought of it. Thinking about it again, it has Douglas Adams's feel to it, perhaps it's his.

So, I am only an atheist in the context of a discussion on the existence or otherwise of deities. I am no more an atheist the rest of the time than a non-stamp collector is an "aphilatelist" while he's washing his car - though, were he to attend a stamp auction, he might well describe himself that way. This is, incidentally, the beginning of my standard response to comments like "But that's so negative", or "Then what DO you believe in?". I only "have" to be an atheist because "you" are superstitious, t'ain't negative, just real.

See where I'm going with this? LANGUAGE. The languages of the world have all evolved (yes, they did! Just like us) in an environment dominated by religious thinking. It is only necessary for the word "atheist" to exist because subscribing to ancient organized superstitions is still considered normal - it's even still expected, even demanded in many places.

So before any discourse can lead to real understanding between these two camps, we have to get very picky about words and what we mean by them.

About 25 years ago, for about 6 weeks, I had a "pet Jehovah's Witness". He came to my door one Saturday morning and when, some three hours later, he left, he promised to come back the next week to continue our conversation because, he said, I was a seeker after truth. He came, week after week, until I told him that one reason I talked to him was that while he was with me, he was not finding more gullible people. He vanished. I enjoyed the mental exercise but only now do I realise how far apart we actually were. When he says "truth", he doesn't mean the same thing as me. I was looking (seeking, if you insist) for insight into the human mind, the social issues surrounding "belief", the rights and wrongs of indoctrination, and so on. He thinks he can open a book and long dead writers will save him from having to think at all. (That's unfair, I know, and deliberately provocative, but I think my point is made).

During the Facebook discussion I was referring to earlier, a young man (I'm calling him Matthew) sent me a private message. Our subsequent discussion was fascinating, enlightening and, in the end, to me anyway, quite sad. I plan to quote from that discussion at length in the next update (which I will start right after I post this one). For reasons that will become clear, I cannot ask Matthew's permission to do this. He may be watching. If so, he will recognise himself and hopefully tell me if he objects. I'm sure he won't/wouldn't and I will not reveal any personal details, but I want to give him what chance I can to comment.

That'll do for this chapter. Next: Matthew's question.

Happy New Year - and delayed posting.

2009-12-29T06:45:00.000-08:00

A very Happy 2010 to all who pass through here. Once again, sorry about the lack of updates. I have had one buzzing in my head for a while now and will get it done early in the new year.
I don't seem to be able to paste text into a posting - and that's something of a problem because a large part of my planned update is a series of quotes from a discussion I had in another forum. It's a lot of typing if I can't find a way to do it so, if anyone has any ideas, please whistle.
Meanwhile, it's off to the NSLC!

The Story Of Mum

2009-10-28T07:19:00.000-07:00

The story of my mother, now over 85 years long, has had some major plot turns recently and I thought it was time I shared some of them here.
First, a potted early history of, say, the first 80 of those years.
She was born in Clapham, London SW8, in 1924, second and last child in her family. Leaving school at 14, she took a job in the office of a local company that made precision optical lenses for cameras, telescopes and the like.
My father, recently returned with his mother from Italy, where he grew up, also worked there and they struck up some sort of friendship. This was 1938. War broke out in 1939. My father turned 18 in 1940, was called up for military service and was consequently absent for most of the next 5 years, ending up as one of a small group of a sort of informal POWs being marched around Greece by a lost platoon of german infantry.
On his return, he must have resumed his friendship with my mother because, in 1951, they married.
The following year, they bought a small house in Mitcham (then Surrey, now the London Borough Of Merton) and I popped out.
I grew up in that small house, my father died there in 1992 and my mother continued to live there until the events of 2004 overtook her.
Her parents were both dead by the early 1980s; her brother pre-deceased my father by a few months and his wife followed shortly thereafter. Her only relatives by this time were, therefore, me - by then 3000 miles away in Ontario and visiting once a year at best, and a recently married nephew with a small son. He lived a few miles away and visited from time to time but her most frequent visitor was my first wife who lived not far away and called in when able.
On one such occasiion, early in '04, she found my mother's state quite severely worsened. There were milk bottles, mostly opened and half consumed, all over the place. Her recently deceased, geriatric and oft-times incontinent cat could still be strongly smelled in the house. Her legs were full of ulcers; her hair long, lank and unwashed. She was, in short, going downhill fast.
We arranged to go over and see her as fast as we could and were horrified by the state of her and the house. My wife, youngest daughter "M" (qv) and I spent three weeks there and, in the end, brought her back to Ontario with us. We'd cleared out the house, sold it, packed up the salvage-worthy items and just "did" it. Sort out the details afterwards; no option.
We brought her to Canada as a visitor, 6 month visa, 6 months health insurance, and started immigration paperwork. Our family doctor went to work on her medical conditions, my wife, quitting work to look after her, went to work on her general well-being and we all went to work on adapting to a new reality.
Immigration, we were told by the lawyers, would take 18 months to 2 years so we would need to apply for an extended visitor permit so Mum could stay with us while we waited out the process. We did, and got it.
That Christmas, though, the world was shaken - quite literally - by the Tsunami in the Pacific that destroyed large chunks of the Philippines, Thailand and elsewhere. The Canadian government was urged to "do something" about the resulting refugee problem. It's name for what it did was "fast-tracking"; a process whereby those who fit the criteria effectively jump the queue and government resources are diverted to processing them. I make no complaint about that, they DID have to do something. I only resent lack of information given everone else and, particularly, the euphemism "fast tracking".
The guys who pushed in front of us while we were lining up in costume in the rain to get into the Shore Club Halloween party last Saturday were "fast-tracking" in exactly the same way but with much less justification and much milder consequences. Let's call queue jumping, officially sanctioned or not, justified or not, just that; QUEUE JUMPING". To call it "fast-tracking" is to tell only half the story. The other half is the bit my mother and whole family were stuck in; that's what we should call SLOW-TRACKING, I suppose, but you never hear that. Well, gradually, 18-24 months became 2-3 years. It's now over FIVE years, and we're still waiting, though I sincerely hope there are no Filipino families still sleeping on the beach waiting to be fast-tracked.
Meanwhile, we realised a few things in a rather unfortunate order.
First, our living arrangements were inadequate; too many stairs, not enough space - particularly for the girls, two of whom were at home full-time and being squeezed.
We moved. Found a huge bungalow with ample room for everybody on the main level but a full basement with a small apartment in it where the girls could get some privacy.
Would've been great, except for two things:-
1. It was a money pit. We were lied to. There's no getting away from that. The previous owner KNEW there were issues with the weeping tiles, at the very least but, long story short (for once!) this and all the other issues became our problem.
2. When the second 6 months' worth of health insurance ran out, we were told that, not only could we not renew it but, we should never have been sold the LAST one. The man who had sold it to us was "no longer with the company" (a euphemism I think we all understand) and, had we tried to claim on it, we would have been refused. The only way to get more insurance was for Mum to leave the country and re-enter as a "new" visitor. That way, she would qualify for travel insurance - good for another 6 months and, supposedly, the process could be repeated.
Oughta work, right? Nope. The extended visa that the government gives in these cases SPECIFICALLY PROHIBITS leaving the country and coming back in. It's a crime! Hmmmm, you'd almost think they knew, wooncha?
So we now had a very difficult situation in a number of ways. First, we had an 80 year old woman with no health insurance. One operation and we all go broke!
Now, of course, in 2009, we know that the solution to this is to move to the USA and join the Republican Party who have miraculously managed to work it so that millions of people living in fear of illness or injury that they can't pay for is a GOOD thing, representing "choice", "freedom" and "The American Way" while anyone trying to get "Big Insurance"* off the gravy train called "Health Insurance" (another one-side-only euphemism) like it is in any civilized country (as different from one that is merely "free" as in "free-to-get-shot", "free-to-die-on-the-hospital-steps, "free-to-vote-for-either-of-two-multimillionaires-as-long-as-I-don't-need-the-vote-counted) must be a "Socialist" which, as we know, is only one small step better than being a terrorist!
Having checked with the immigration lawyers that there was no sign of any useful progress and that relocating Mum back to the UK would not jeopardize the process (really, how could get any worse than completely stagnated, but we were understandably paranoid by this time), we set about fiding her somewhere to live.
I have to add at this point that my mother, while moody and erratic, still had most of her marbles at this stage. She knew what was going on and, although she didn't understand all of it (hell, WE didn't!), or like the bits she did understand, she did contribute to all these decisions. She was, in fact, much better, physically and mentally, than when we first brought her over.
My wife, always something of a "Google Wizard" started researching "Care Homes", refering to me on points of geography, what areas were like etc. but generally running with the project of finding Mum a nice place to live. She succeeded.
Early in 2006, 18 months after Mum came to Canada, we took her back. Disillusioned, upset and angry, we went to Dorking, Surrey. Mum's new home was to be (and was, for the next 3 and a half years), Nower Care, a small (55 residents when full) Care Home in two old houses, nicely refurbished and joined by a modern annex. She was happy there most of the time although, towards the end of her stay, it's hard to imagine her liking anything much. If any of you chance upon this epistle, Nower Care people, thank you. I've thanked you already but, here, I do it more publicly (well, a BIT more).
At the age of 84, while still at Nower, Mum developped breast cancer! Supposed to be to old for it. Should've picked a more age-appropriate illness. Got it, got treated, got a bit sore for a while, got fixed. No problem (so far, but that was 2 years ago) but it does highlight the wisdom of the decision we made in 2006 to take her back to the UK. I don't know what a foreign national with no insurance would have to pay to be treated for breast cancer in Ontario but I'm betting the number has lots of zeros on the end.
Fast forward to 2009.
Suddenly, Mum wants to take the stairs down to meals instead of the lift. She doesn't remember whether she's had visitors this week, what she had for lunch. Then, she falls. The doctor comes by, does some tests and discovers that, apart from the obvious, but not dangerous, injuries from the fall, she has other problems. Kidney function, liver function, cognitive ability, all severly impaired. Hospital. Tests.
For bout 12 weeks, I would phone the hospital to be told by a nurse that she was "comfortable" (find a new word please, ladies, it gets dull), that they were still waiting for test results, etc. When I could get a doctor, he told of concerns over liver function, urinary tract infections and unwillingness to co-operate with attempts to get her mobile again.
Eventually, "they" (they refer to themselves as the "care team") decided that a) there was no clinical reason to keep Mum in hospital any more and b) she couldn't go back to Nower because she wasn't mobile enough (which means "at all") so she would be assigned a Social Services Case Worker who would contact me to arrange and choose a nursing home.
The "Discharge Co-Ordinator" whose job it is to free up the hospital bed said this could all be done in two weeks. That was optimistic and probably driven more by budget-myopia (one main symptom being the inabilty to see anything that prevents others from doing what YOUR budget says they should do) than anything else but I have to say that things did move fairly quickly after that - about 5 weeks, I think it was. Once again, thanks are due to all involved in that process - if you stumble here you will know who you are and you all helped along a potentially nasty process (Special nod to "Sue", a League Of Friends volunteer at the information desk at the East Surrey Hospital)
We went over again. We moved her again. Less stuff, a LOT less marbles - three days after we left her, I wasn't sure she knew we'd even been, or even who we were - but, again, a nice place, still in Dorking, with a view of the Downs from her window. She's still immobile - being ably hoisted from chair to chair to bath to bed to chair by a procession of ever-smiling nurses, has consistently said she likes the food (although she often says she prepared it herself), still wonders why I'm (whoever the "I" refers to) playing football "outside" - something I've always done too much of, it seems. People who know me will tell you how funny that is - trust me, just laugh!
Immigration Canada are still doing whatever it is they do - 5.5 years on. The probably marginal 80 year old "Family Class" applicant whose file first landed in an in-tray late in 2004 is now a nowhere-near-marginal 85 year old applicant. If I told them, they'd just throw her application right out (probably only take a couple of years) but I'm inclined not to do that. Let's just see how long this takes; what the answer is. It's all paid for now anyway. Hell, they ignored us for long enough - boot's on the other foot now. Do government types realise how damaging stuff like this is? In my early years in Canada I had swallowed the CBC standard description of Canada and its government as caring, fair, a bit wacky sometimes, certainly slow, perhaps a bit dull (but hey, look who lives next door) but basically harmless. Now, I see it (the government) as arrogant, evasive, tricky, incompetent and to be avoided at all costs. You did that, Immigration Department, by doing nothing, very slowly. I would have felt much better about them (and, frankly, not too surprised) if they'd just laughed in our faces right at the beginning. "You want to bring WHO?" We could've saved my mother and ourselves a lot of grief, saved her, us and (ironically) the government a lot of money (because all the money they would have been able to tax has now been spent on very expensive care in a foreign country and NONE of us will ever see it again) and devoted all of our resources to something else, like the twilight years of my Mum's life, maybe.
* How come it's "Big Tobacco", "Big Oil" etc. but not "Big Insurance", the biggest leeches yet invented - but wait!

Happier Animal Story

2009-09-13T04:25:00.000-07:00

I begin to write this on September 13th. I can't post it till the 24th. That's because there are surprises to protect. Youngest daughter "M" is coming home for a visit and we have decided not to tell her what's been going on here for the last week. That's why YOU don't know about it either - until I post this. I have to tell a very recent story

Yoda is, of course, still missing in inaction. When this story begins, he has been gone about 9 days.

The acting manager at the NSLC (the real one retired in May and has not been replaced yet) has a son, who has a boss, who knew somebody who was going to drown some kittens. At that remove, of course, the story gets a bit fuzzy around the edges but, basically, Son, being that sorta guy, utters the maritime equivalent of "No way, Jose", acquires aforementioned kittens (undrowned) and takes them home to Mum. Mother and son say "but...." to each other for a while until she, being that sort of Mum, takes the kittens and the box they came in to the local farmers' market, tries to give them away, succeeds only partially, brings the last three to the NSLC (for verily, t'was her weekend off) and suggests to me that, since she can't keep them all, one or more might help ease the pain of Yoda's loss, and they were going to be drowned and who could do that and what else could I do and damn that son of mine and aren't they cute and I like that one best and whaddya think, good idea eh?

I replied that yes, it might help, and yes, they were SERIOUSLY cute but my wife, broken up over Yoda, had categorically said NO MORE CATS. You can't keep them in, she said, it's not right. You can't let them out, she continued, it's too dangerous. We shouldn't have them at all, she concluded. it's just not fair, either way, to anybody, cats included, and that's final. I had agreed but suggested to"Mum" (just to keep the naming simple for the confused reader. I trust you understand she's not MY Mum, of whom more at a later time) that she should take them round to our place at her leisure, just so my wife could SEE them, and, who knows, maybe she'll change her mind.

We have two of them.

They were VERY young, probably five ananarf weeks, and should still be with THEIR mum but they are doing really well. They've been here a week as I write this and are already noticeably bigger. I won't attempt to describe them - pictures will be added - but they are, as advertized, seriously cute.

ENGAGE TIME WARP!

It's now October 1st, youngest daughter went home today, so the cat, so to speak, can come out of the bag now.

The day after the kittens arrived (they were named, incidentally, "Rez" & "Q" (RezQ, geddit?) by my wife who has a talent for such things) was Labour Day (or "Labor Day" if you live in the land that still discriminates against U).

On that day, our neighbo(u)r told us that mutual friends had a problem with a dog. The mother of a friend of theirs was suffering from Alzheimer's, one of the lesser known symptoms of which is a complete inability to look after dogs. For many, this is not a problem. Some do not even notice. But this particular lady HAD a dog and researchers have found that that drastically increases the chances that this particular symptom will present, so it was. Her daughter had tried to take the dog but couldn't keep it in her apartment so she put him in a kennel so she would have sufficient free hands to scratch her head and think about what else to do.

Some while later, she met our mutual friends and explained all this. They offered to try and take the dog (let's call him "Teddy", if only because it's his name) but THEIR dog, a young boxer who, by similar logic, we shall refer to as "Lucy", was having none of it. So little of it was she having, in fact, that she DID have some of Teddy; a small piece of his head, to be precise.

And so it was that, on Labo(u)r Day afternoon, Teddy came to visit to see how he got on with our existing canine residents, Bu & Mokey (see previous posts). He's still here. He's family now. He's a stone deaf, 12 year old Corgi/Jack Russell cross (possibly blended with other genetic material of unknown provenance) and he's an absolute delight. The poodles accepted him with nary a second glance and he follows everybody around, presumably waiting for them to say something (which, of course, they never seem to do on account of the whole stone deaf thing). He barks when he thinks it's appropriate so to do, but he's almost always wrong.

So, we are still missing Yoda, but Rez & Q are twice the size they were when I started this post and developing quite distict little characters, Teddy has settled in and all seems well.

Astute readers will have worked out the reason for the delay in posting this. We shocked the pants off hono(u)rable #3 daughter when she got here. Introduced her to Teddy and told her the story. Warned her that Ricardo (who is really HER cat, after all) had "lost weight lately" and promptly handed her Q (who, apart from the fact that he was about 0.03% of the size of Ricardo, at least shares his black and white colo(u)ring). Waited till she was all cooey over him and then casually produced Rez (GREY and white) and asked her which was cuter. We await, still, the answer.

Off to add pictures, enjoy.

Next time, probably, The Saga Of Mum. Stay tuned.

More Bad News

2009-09-11T06:03:00.000-07:00

I've waited two weeks but now feel I have no choice but to inform my readers of another animal tragedy.

The wonderful Yoda, ragdoll extraordinaire, best natured (and arguably best looking) cat I have ever known, didn't come home two Thursdays ago after one of the nights-on-the-tiles that he was prone to enjoy.

Maybe somebody has him and is looking after him; we have a friend whose cat came home after two YEARS gone, but, at this point, we have to figure something, animal or mineral, got him.

He arrived with us, quite three inches long, on the same magical day as the already obituarized L'Uther. Originally, he was only supposed to stay a week or so before starting a new life out West (Go West young cat!!) but his life and ours took a turn when I was offered the chance to buy him and present him to my wife for her upcoming birthday. We put him in a little box and put it in front of her at the dinner table. The box walked. Great moment.

He grew into a huge fluffball, throwing off huge gobs of fur with every step. The chair I am sitting in - a LazyBoy (TM) style recliner, was his favourite - if I sat here for more than 20 seconds, Yoda would be on my lap immediately.

We are not supposed to have favourites, are we? It's not fair on the others. Well, dammit, I don't care who knows, Yoda was my favourite. I love them all, L'Uther will always be a special memory, but there was only one Yoda.....ever.

I am not one to hold any delusions about an afterlife - in fact, I am planning an entry here soon on that and realated topics - watch this space. The concept is ridiculous to me; for cats, doubly so. But I DO understand the urge to WISH such a thing could be. Yoda's gone. Misadventure, probably. Unpleasant, almost certainly. Very very sad. I'll try to put up a picture.

There will be a happier follow-up to this story. No, I don't expect a miraculous return (though I'd surely like one), something else. Related, but "else". Can't talk about it yet - all will be revealed in a couple of weeks.

On a lighter and separate note, I am told you can find this blog ACCIDENTALLY!!!! Just stumble on it in Google. WOW. It happened, I gather, when one of my NSLC customers (yes, thank you, still lovin' it) wanted to know the store's hours. Type "NSLC Hubbards", or something like that, to Google and third item down was "Dyve's Dyary". They read it. They bookmarked it. They told me. Does that mean I'm famous?

Thomas Cook Dublin

2009-08-26T06:22:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I was directed to a story in the Irish Times and elsewhere about the sad end of the Thomas Cook branch in Grafton Street, Dublin. Actually, from what I can gather,it was he end of that company in that country completely, but it was that main branch closure that was of particular interest to me.

Recent economic difficulties had pushed the company to bring forward the already planned closure. They just shut the place down with virtually no notice. The staff, understandably, were not amused and locked themselves in. The dispute seems to have mostly boiled down to one over redundancy payments - how much they should get for each year of service. They put video clips up on Yoochoob and were eventually arrested by the Garda (Irish police) who turned up in seemingly excessive numbers to evict the staff.

None of that is what this post is about.

I'm not going to try to go into the rights and wrongs; I'm too far removed and it's really none of my business. I just wish them all well.

I just found the whole episode extremely sad. You see (many may already know), I had some of the best, and some of the toughest, days of my working life in that office.

This is the story of the 1976 Irish Bank Strike.

I had heard stories of the previous bank strike in Ireland six years earlier but by the time of the 1976 one, I was working in London as part of a small group of Foreign Exchange Cashiers who, in between developing and installing primitive (though, then, state of the art) computer systems, were sometimes made available as "emergency reliefs". We'd covered a flu epidemic in Glasgow, a mass suspension of staff at the London flagship branch (all but one later vindicated), and so on.

When the bank staff went home in Ireland, early in the Summer, they caused enormous disruption to everyday life; no way to get money out, nobody would take a check, nowhere for people like the bus company to get or deposit the vast amounts of small change they handled, no way to pay wages.....you can imagine, I'm sure.

One of the, truth be told, minor disruptions was that, at the start of the summer vacation season, there was nowhere, nowhere in the whole country, to change money. Well, there was ONE place. Under the law at the time, only the banks were allowed to sell foreign currency. There was ONE exception. You've guessed; the FE Dept of Thomas Cook, Grafton Street, Dublin.

If you were visiting Ireland and needed to change money, there were, in theory, a few other places you could go. Trouble was, there was nowhere THEY could go. This handful of jewellers shops,exchange bureaux etc. were in the habit of taking all the currency they bought to their bank. Oops. We got all that too.

Well, the four staff in the little FE cage were, as you can imagine, swamped. Two more staff from the Traveller's Cheque distribution centre upstairs were available to help (their customers were all banks!) and three of us Brits from London went over to try and help out.

7 to 9 people in a box built for 4, in Summer with no air conditioning. Sacks of money on the floor behind us because there was nowhere else to put them. Customers started arriving early in the morning and lining up outside. When the manager's wife Maeve (bless her) let the first ones in at 9am, the queue was already 4 hours long and never got any shorter.

Maeve would manage the queue all day, spelled from time to time by one of the travel agency staff whose customers couldn't get to them anyway. We could hope to serve the last one about 9.30pm, having blocked the end of the queue at 5pm. More business transacted in August alone than in the whole of the previous year - and that had been a record.

Besides the "real" FE stuff, we had to do other things just to "oil the wheels" - ours and everybody elses. CIE, the bus company, would send trucks round with all the change they had taken in bus fares - 100 Pounds per bag, mixed silver. We needed that for the tills but somebody needed to break it down into manageable bags and count it all. Bring on the travel staff again - they'd do this all evening. In exchange for the coin, we would pay the wages to the bus drivers and conductors. They would come in with their pay slips, we'd stamp them and pay them out of all the money people were spending on Spanish Pesetas et al.

Farmers and all sorts from the other end of the country would send their family members to Dublin on the train - an overnight trip for many - just to line up at Cook's all day, change the money for their family trip and go back again. For some, it was their first ever trip to Dublin.

It went on for about 10 weeks. I was lucky; I rotated in and out, doing three spells of two weeks, then back home to London to recuperate. The "regulars" were just stuck there. But for all the sweat and crazy conditions, I remember it as one of the happiest times of my working life - a real high spot.

I went back to Dublin to work, in more regular circumstances, several times and always loved it. From 1979 to the mid 80's, I considered it my second home. I doubt it would have been the same were it not for the experiences and friends made through adversity of the '76 bank strike.

So it was sad to see the old place shut down in such an ugly fashion.I could have just said that. I suppose, but then I like to tell stories.

If anyone knows where any of the following folks are - please let me know, or point them at this blog. I always think dedications are a bit hokey, but this entry is dedicated to:
Tommy Tobin (deceased),Maeve Tobin,Dave Adams,David Lalor, Paul O'Malley, Bob Beatty, Richard Brennan, Pat Byrne, Brian Latham and Malcolm Wing. Oh yes, and to Derry Troddyn (deceased) who sent me.

OK, OK, I know I'm VERY late this time.

2009-08-09T18:20:00.000-07:00

It's been over a year and I've just read my last post - amazing what can happen in 14 months.

I'm going to try to pick up the threads of the last posts and update my ever-smaller gaggle of readers on developments since.

First , the DOGS. When last I wrote, we were excited about the arrival of Mokey, then 8 months old. She DID arrive on time, dressed up to the nines by the joker-breeder with ribbons and pearls. She was nervous after the flight but took an immediate liking to Bu (who is, after all, her half-brother) and, after a quick pee on the grass at the cargo terminal, came back to Hubbards with us.

She's been here 14 months now and is a delight. Smaller and MUCH lighter on her feet than Bu, I call her the VTD. Some of my ex-colleagues will immediately say "Virtual Trading Desk?????" but no. This time, it stands for "Vertical Take-Off Dog".

She has many indiosyncracies which I'm sure will come up in future posts. For now, let's just say she's an expert bed and couch hog, VERY attached to all of us, especially Bu, plays well with the cats. She currently has one of my old socks (of which there is no shortage) bandaged to her foot after getting a toe nail clipped a bit too close this afternoon but, otherwise, she's fine.

I'm back - thanks to Kevin O who links to here from his site. When I can remember how, I'll return the favour.

More soon (yeah, I know, you don't believe me).

Mokey Pending

2008-06-17T13:10:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know, it never rains but it pours.

A month between updates, now here I am back on two concecutive days!

This time, a brief word about the impending excitement in our household. There's quite a lot really; a few big things in the works, any one of which would normally dominate.

Tonight, we are expecting Unicyclists. There is a big world-wide event passing through Hubbards today. 34 teams of Unicyclists, from 13 countries are taking part in the "Ride the Lobster 800k International Unicycle Race" and the time trial phase brings them right through our little town. It's the first event of it's kind anywhere anywhen and they are spending the night RIGHT HERE! Two of them are even going to sleep in OUR HOUSE! How exciting is THAT? Pretty cool huh? Major excitement what? Yep.

Then there's Friday night/Saturday morning. We are booked to play at the "Relay For Life" event in nearby Chester - at three in the morning. That's exciting too - only our second real gig here and part of a seriously cool event that should be a lot of fun. (Shame I have to work all day Saturday but hey, see previous post for why I hope that'll be OK, the guys'll keep me awake). Enough excitement for one week right? Wrong!

It is all overshadowed by what's supposed to be happening on Thursday afternoon. Regular readers will know that we lost our beloved L'Uther to bone cancer back in February. That left us with one dog (B'U the Standard Poodle, L'Uther's uncle and nephew (don't try, trust me, it works)) and two cats, Ricardo (aka Tardo) and Yoda The Ragdoll (aka Yoyo). We always knew this mix was uneven. Bu misses Lu, tries to get the cats to play all his giraffe-dog games which they really don't get and generally has a lonely time of it.

We also always knew there would be another dog in the house at some point but were not ready. THEN, last week, the breeder and friend from whom both dogs came, told us she had three 8 month old apricot bitches who had not been sold when they should have been because of other stuff that was going on at the time and, if we wanted one, she was ours.

We deliberated for about 1.07 nanoseconds and said yes. So, WestJet permitting, she arrives on Thursday afternoon. There was much hilarity for a couple of days - including all through wife's birthday/Fathers' Day dinner with daughters - trying to name said pup.

At one point, we had a less-than-original comedy sketch worked out around the line "Hi, this is my dog Bu and this is my OTHER dog Bu". We even wrote a song called "Me And You And Two Dogs Named Bu" but apparently something very similar has already been done!

Finally, we did what all serious minded people do when they have a serious problem of this sort. We reverted to childhood and mined the caverns of kids' TV. I never saw "Fraggle Rock" - wrong age, wrong continent - but it seems there was a hippy-like, female Fraggle (not even really sure what a Fraggle is/was, truth be told) called "Mokey". Suddenly, there was unanimity, consensus, agreement and a modicum of regret that the naming hilarity was over.

So, "Mokey" it is. She'll be a handful, no doubt, but cute as a button and a playmate for Bu and she might just even up the feline/canine balance a bit. Today was "Buying Of Stuff", a huge tug rope that Bu has already claimed and a couple of harnessy things that make it easy (sayth the label) to walk two dogs that a) can't agree on which way to drag you or b) CAN agree on which way to drag you or c) don't want to go ANYWHERE, even though you need to AND d) weigh more than you do. Not bad for $8.99 each if they work.

Don't forget to tune in for next week's exciting episode.

Good Thing I Said Nice Things About Them!

2008-06-16T11:09:00.000-07:00

No famous people this time, just what this blog is SUPPOSED to be all about, a sorta kinda dyary thing.

Lots has happened since my last update so I hope there'll be a few in quick succession now.

Back when this whole blog idea was new and shiny, I did a brief series on "Shopping In Hubbards", one of the main parts of which was about my experiences in and impressions of the local liquor store, the NSLC (Nova Scotia Liquor Corporation) (see the entry on on December 13th 2007).

It's there for rereading by anyone who feels so inclined but, in a nutshell, I expressed the opinion that it was probably the nicest retail outlet in this small town and waxed lyrical about how impressed I was by the service, the selection and, incidentally, Nova Scotian wine.

I have also mentioned at least once that I have been job-hunting, albeit half-heartedly most of the time because of all the distractions and upheavals we've had since arriving here.

Well, here's the thing see. About a month ago, I went in the NSLC and noticed a sign on the door advertizing for a "Casual Clerk". I asked what that meant and came away with an application form. A very nice (unstressful) interview a week later and, Abracadabra, I now work there!

I've done a few short training stints, some on-line courses and, last Saturday, did my first full day. One of the training modules quite naturally and understandably goes into the need for confidentiality and so on and, since I only read it a few days ago and have no grounds whatsoever for claiming to have forgotten, I can't say too much about the details. I don't think anyone's going to mind, though, if I say a few nice things about the place an the people in general terms.

Before I do, I'd like to point out that I would not be doing this if it were not genuinely felt; I'd just shut up! This is not a place where I want to slag people. Neither is it a place for "brown-nosing". I work by the principle of "If ye cannot say owt good, say nowt".

So, although it's busy (very busy sometimes), sometimes strenuous (when the new stock comes in) and, frankly, highly repetitive, it has not ceased to be fun and neither do I expect it to. I've worked in enough different environments to be able to tell the difference between the novelty factor and a genuinely good place to be, and this is the latter.

As with every job I've ever had, from the most modest egg-delivery round to the biggest management responsibilities, the thing that makes the difference between enthusiasm and drudgery has ALWAYS been the people. If the job is "retail" in nature and involves the public, then they will naturally figure large in that equation. I've said before that this is a very frendly town with some of the nicest, straightest and most genuine folks it's ever been my pleasure to meet so there's no problem there. In any job where you have co-workers (A horrible word, try it without the hyphen for full effect. Brits should read "colleagues" or "work-mates" instead, much nicer), they, of course, make up the rest of it.

I've already commented on the staff's service skills and general professionalism but I now have a much deeper respect for them. The way they have accepted me, my idiosyncracies (I can see many readers nodding sagely about now!) and my too frequent confusions has been beyond any expectation I might have had. I feel at home there already and look forward to going in to work (I go in about 30 minutes for a four hour evening stint today).

They work hard, they work together, they help each other (especially me!) and they have fun. They crack jokes with the customers and each other, they do it right, but not "stiffly right", they know their stuff and are not backwards in sharing their experience. There are the usual grumbles about the sillyness (usually, as elsewhere, directed at the systems which, I have to say, are pretty good but have the usual nonsensical bits) but none of the cynicism I've grown used to in recent years. It really is a breath of fresh air.

OK, I have 30 minutes to proof-read this (you reading this, folks who write the training modules?), post it, get changed into my brand-new, freshly laundered NSLC uniform and
drive the six minutes to work.

So, to close, I say thank you, NSLC Hubbards people, all of you, good bunch one-and-all, for taking this Old World dinosaur into your midst and for all your help in getting me started. I'm Lovin' It, and it ain't even McDonald's.

After a long absence, MORE FAMOUS PEOPLE

2008-04-20T15:32:00.000-07:00

The apologies for my long neglect of this blog are, I know, wearing thin. I am therefore not going to make any more - so there.

Before the two posts about poor L'Uther, I was boring everyone with my encounters with famous people as suggested (sort of) by Nellie Of Vancouver.

We were in 1967, I believe, and had just met Tony Blackburn. Oh wow, how could you all have waited so long to see who's next???

Wait no longer, gentle readers, for, with a new simplified format, here is the continuation.

1968. Les Gray and the rest of MUD. "Who?" I hear the non Brits in the audience asking. Well, some years later, about 1971, I think, Mud became quite the pop sensation. They were part of the same Chinn & Chapman stable that gave the world The Sweet, to name but three. Hits like "Tiger Feet", "The Cat Crept In", "Lonely This Christmas" and "L'L'L'Lucy" abounded for several years. Back in '67, though, they were a struggling local group, playing, among other things, school dances. That's how I met them. They were a wannabe psychedelic group back then; they ALL were. Their first single for CBS was even called "Flower Power" ! It was pretty poor and sold both its copies at Thorpe's Record Bar (qv). I was a wannabe too at the time (we all were), but I was a wannabe drummer. I had the sense of rhythm (still do) but not the dexterity (still don't). Anyway, one sad, best forgotten night, I actually got to play their kit for a while, in front of about 20 people in our school hall. We were the "support" act (mostly to make them feel important I think, for we served no other purpose). Our school dances were odd affairs, mostly because we were a boys only school and, although the girls' school were invited, only about six usually showed up and the whole point was to hear the band (note the singular) and get to the pub before it closed. The only converstation I remember was with the drummer (natch, although his name escapes me) and it wasn't so much a conversation as it was a warning concerning what would happen to me if I hurt his drums. I didn't. That was the only success that night.

There are probably more in between but the next one that comes to mind is......

1976. Rolf Harris. This is one of the biggies. Both because Rolf is genuinely famous just about everywhere and because I actually did meet meet the man, FOUR times, and had a conversation with him each time. Wow, so close to greatness.
I was staying in a hotel in Newcastle-Upon Tyne where I was working for the week. Rolf and his TV crew were staying there too, while shooting an episode of a TV show where Rolf went to primary schools and sang and painted with/for the kids. I never got to see the Geordie episode, though I deliberately watched the show when I could in the hope that I would.
Our meetings took place over breakfast. The first morning, Monday, I went into the restaurant of the hotel to see that a long table had been put together down he middle of it and about 16 or so people were all having brekkie together. I paid no real attention. The waitress warned me, though, in her best Geordie, that my "Full English" might "tek a mite langer" because they were "Jest afta tekkin a big orda y'see pet",and she pointed knowingly at the big table. When I looked where she pointed, I saw a very familiar face - Rolf - smiling back at me, presumably having heard the waitress. I smiled back, like you do, and stuck my head in my book.
Some while later, the crowd at the big table had thinned to just Rolf and a couple of producer types, everybody esle having gone off to set up the day's shoot. I could hear the jokes passing back and forth and laughed at something I'd heard. Rolf shouted over something like, "Bring yer coffee over'ere sport, no good sittin' over there on y'r own". So I did. Sat there with them for another 20 minutes or so before we all trotted off to work. Same thing the next three days.
Now, Rolf has taken some flak down the years for things like "Two Little Boys", "Stairway To Heaven" (yes, he covered it) et al but let me go on record as saying he was the nicest, funniest, humblest and definitely friendliest celebrity I could ever wish to meet. I'm sure he doesn't remember me from Jan '76 in Newcastle but, if I should ever run into him again, he's the ONLY one on all this list whose memory I would feel comfortable enough to jog. Fair play to you Rolf, you're a true star.

More soon
Dyve out.

L'Uther

2008-02-28T09:44:00.000-08:00

Very quick today. No wisdom, no stories.
L'Uther, as I type, has about 75 minutes.
He has an appointment at 3pm, and it will be his last.
Back to happy stuff next time, promise.
Won't even see February out, damn leap years!

There ain't no justice

2008-02-13T10:31:00.000-08:00

Just a quick, diary type, note today.
Just a year to the day since my wife's father died of bone cancer, we have just come back from the vet having learned, as near to surely as makes no difference, that our beloved L'Uther, the less-than-two-year-old red standard poodle who has been in charge of everything since the day we got him, has bone cancer too.

He's been limping, losing weight, resting and generally not being quite right for a while now and we've been waiting for the radiology lab to catch up after yet another series of bad weather days and give us their thoughts on the Xrays taken early last week. It's not QUITE conclusive but, in part because there's nothing else that could plausibly cause his problems, we are told to expect the worst. Morphine and a few months (if we're lucky) of being spoiled rottten. That's all there is for him.

He deserves a whole lot better. My wife, who loves him more than anybody BUT him deserves, also deserves better; our girls, who love him much too much too, deserve better; his uncle/nephew (yes, both!) Bu deserves better too. He's losing his playmate, allbeit slowly, and won't even know why. That shouldn't happen to a dog. Come to that, "I" deserve better too. I love him too, damn it. Much as I always curse when he has to inspect ALL the new snow before performing his ballet entitled (if I'm translating this right from the original poodle) "L'Uther Poohs In The Snow Very Slowly But With Great Style", when he just stares at me from the couch when he knows full well what's needed of him. Oh he can be a pain sometimes but we ALL love him and, for the last time I say, he deserves MUCH better.

Well, my role in all this now, I suppose, is to not get too morose; stiff upper lip and all that bull. Hold the fort, be there (wherever the hell that might be) and just DO whatever it is that has to be done.

So this is my little rant about injustice, and it stops right here. I'll keep my loyal (and frustrated) readers, many of whom are L'Uther's friends too, updated as time goes on but you won't hear THIS theme again. Done. Just dealing with reality after this. Good luck L'Uther. As I put in my Facebook profile a few minutes ago, I hope you have some good times coming. You're a trooper, a star, a very special dog (I know they all say that but even other dog owners admit, this guy's unique) and you deserve SO MUCH more than this (Oh OK, so it wasn't QUITE the last time just now, but THIS is).
Thanks for reading, folks, typing this has helped.
I'm glad I have a blog. I ignore it most of the time but, today, I'm very glad it's here.

Famous People

2008-01-22T17:06:00.000-08:00

Nellie of Vancouver suggested rather strongly that I should put the text of an email reply that I sent her on my blog. I looked at it and thought, "no, wouldn't read right without the rest of our conversation as background" so, instead, here is an amended version. The original was all about "Famous People From Mitcham", that's where I grew up. This version will include most of those people, because I met, or probably met, most of them at some stage. This is about famous people I have met. Well, in some cases, as you'll see, I didn't actually MEET them, but had some other contact over and above just, say, seeing them on stage somewhere.

1. 1964. Chas Chandler - Famous because: Bass player of the Animals, later manager of Slade and others. Place: Mitcham Carnival. Nature of Encouter: Getting sworn at. How: A friend and I had gone to the carnival because.....well, because that's what you do when you're 12 and there's a carnival. The Animals had gone there because, although they were now famous with "House Of The Rising Sun" blaring from every tranny for miles, they were, I guess, still playing gigs that were booked before anyone had heard of them. We had heard of them, liked them, but they weren't the reason we were there. I'm not even sure we knew they were going to be. Anyway, sneaking across the front of the little stage they were playing on, I happened to catch my foot in the the cable that connected (I can now reason) Chas's bass to the monitor. It came out. The bass went quiet. Chas got loud. This is a family blog so I can't tell you what he said. It was in Geordie, anyway, a language I didn't learn until much later, so I don't even really KNOW exactly what he yelled. Such was his eloquence, however, that the sense was perfectly clear, even to my 12 year old ears. Whatever he wished on me has not happened yet so there's not even a clue there either.

2. 1965 (ish). Ken Barrington. Famous because: Cricketer, Surrey and England. Place: Mitcham Cricket Green. Nature of encounter: Actually I think this happened more than once. Ken was a local lad, by now in the later stages of his career and he used to come back to Mitcham annually (I think) for testimonial and other fund raising cricket matches at his old club. Like most cricket watchers, he could not sit still for a whole game and neither could I or the friends I was with. So we'd all walk aroud the rope that acts as a boundary to the playing field. Someone always spotted Ken and wanted his autograph. I never got one; not that much of a cricket, or autograph, fan, but several friends did.

3. Eary 1960s. John Rostill. Famous because: Another bass player, this time with the Shadows. He was their third, from about 1963 on and was another local lad. For those that don't know (that would be the non-brits), the Shadows were, among other things, Cliff Richard's backing group. Cliff was the biggest pop sensation Britain ever saw until the Beatles came along (and he's STILL big!) so that made the Shadows quite a big thing, even BEFORE allowing that they were, in their own right, the biggest, and best, instrumental group to come out of the UK, like, EVER. Nature of Encounter: He probably sold me lightbulbs or something. How: Actually, I don't KNOW that I met him (I warned you this would happen, remember?). I only know that it was widely believed in Mitchamian circles for many years that John Rostill, before finding fame and fortune, had worked in Mitcham Woolworth's. This would have been in the late 1950s and/or very early 60s; roughly between the ages of 6 and 10 for me. I was in Woolworth's at least once a week through those years, either with my mother, buying lightbulbs or the U.P.O.'s* for which Woollies were famous, or on my own or with friends buying toys, caps for our guns, cheap birthday presents for relatives or just getting out of the rain. I reckon John MUST have sold me something, loads of times probably, but since his name badge didn't say "Future Famous Dude", I totally failed to notice.
*U.P.O's are Unnecessary Plastic Objects. The phrase belongs to singer Nancy Griffiths, I turned it into an acronym some years back and find it very useful. Be my guest.

4. 1967. Tony Blackburn. Famous because: A disc jockey, formerly on the Radio Caroline pirate station but, by the Summer of '67, absorbed into the warm innards of the Beeb Beeb Ceeb, Radio 1 where he achieved much wider fame. The butt of many jokes down the years for his lameness and uncoolitude, he was, for a time and very incongruously, something of a heart-throb with the young girls of the age. Where: Tooting & Mitcham Football Club, Sandy Lane, Mitcham. Nature of encounter: There was a charity 6-a-side tournament held every year at T&M, where I was a regular supporter. Some friends and I had gone and, because Tony was going to be there as a ribbon-cutting, fund-raising-celeb, a girl of our acquaintance who later acquired some claim to the title "My First Girlfriend" (there are other contenders, it depends on your criteria) had come along too; not for the football, you understand, for Tony. Well, Tony was on one side of the field, under cover in the stand (the "VIP box") and we were opposite, on the terraces. At a certain point (have I mentioned it was raining tigers and wolves?) it became clear that Tony was signing autographs. The girl in question produced a very pink autograph book and started to explain what a shame it was that there were no chivalrous gentlemen around who would go and stand in the rain holding a pink autograph book waiting for Tony Blackburn's autograph so that her life could be made complete. Well, she was right, no chivalrous gentlemen around. There WAS, however, one besotted muggins. And that's how I "met" Tony Blackburn.

I have a problem with the power cable on my lap-top and the battery's almost kaputt so that's gonna haveta be all for tonight. I'll try to finish this soon. By the way, I applied for a job today. Next time.

At last, a waeguk answers a question!

2008-01-04T09:49:00.000-08:00

It's taken more time than there is any excuse for but, here finally, is my attempt at an answer to the first question this blogger received. Simon, late of England, now in New York, has a professional background similar to mine; a career in foreign exchange which includes vault work in multiple countries, a variety retail operations at a variety of levels. The main difference between us is that Simon is substantially younger than I so, while I look back on 37 years finished, he is still doing it and looking as much forward as back. His question, reflects that. He asks:-

"I was wondering how you would cope with being who you are now, but back in Berkeley St (our mutual company's HQ in London until the 90s, D) in the 70's, and having to do your job of that time, but with the knowledge and experience you have now? Do you think you would fall back into the old routines or would your 21st century experience change your views and methods? Would you try and move things forward for them or let them work it out for themselves? Would you take advantage of your advanced knowledge and aim for promotions and praise or sit back and have an easy life?

In an attempt to prevent this from being either a) as dry as old bones to any unfortunate reader not versed in all the same things we are or b) turning in to an old dinosaur's rant about the good old/bad new days, I will try to couch the answer in the most general terms possible.

A number of things changed in the 37 years I was in that business and most of them seem to have changed elsewhere too

1. Systems. In 1970, the word never came up. There was one computer and only the white-coated specialists were allowed in its hermetically sealed room. It took up most of a floor of the building and only did two things. For about half the time, it processed the serial numbers of traveller's cheques, changing their status from "ordered" to "printed", "shipped", "in central stock", "in transit to agent", "in agent's stock", "issued", "lost or stolen", "paid" and, the demon of the bunch "PWA" (Paid Without Advice). The other half of the time, it processed payroll. It was not connected to anything anywhere, got it's data from punch cards and huge rolls of tape and churned out huge reports on "music paper". In contrast, the desk I just retired from housed four computers, each many times more powerful than the 1970 mainframe and connected, quite literally, to the entire world. Each could run several applications at once, even the simplest of which - a dinosaur VAX system some 20 years old - would have been beyond the grasp of any system, except possibly one run by NASA, in 1970.

2. Promotion/Recruitment policy. In 1970, and for some years after, in order to be promoted to a higher position, even at very lofty levels, you were expected to understand EVERYTHING your underlings did. You didn't need any fancy qualifications. There were a handful of chartered accountants in the Finance department, a few engineers in "EDP" (that's Electronic Data Processing, or IT as we know it today) and possibly some other professionals I didn't know about but, in general, you came in with "O" levels, occasionally an "A" level, started as a trainee cashier and went as far as you could or wanted, learning as you went. Progressively, down the years, the MBA's, PHD's and various stripes of accountants took hold and made most of the senior positions their own. Never mind that they couldn't tell a Franc from a Dong, thought a "hedge" was something you clipped at the weekend and "forward" was a position in football. They knew BUSINESS! "Business is business", they had been taught. "Don't get bogged down in the detail", they had learned. And boy did they know how to mess things up.

3. The 80/20 rule. I first heard this described sometime in the late 1970's by a new kind of professional called a "business analyst". I became one for a time and, as callings go, it's fun. What the 80/20 rule says, in a nutshell, is that, in any project, 80% of the job is completed with 20% of the resources (time, money, equipment, whatever). It's the other 20%, that messy list of exceptions, oddities, manual bits of awkwardness, that swallow up the big bucks/hours/kit. As an observation, this was wonderful and right on the money; I've seen it proven 100 times over. BUT, the fussbudgets got hold of it and tried to argue that we should therefore only do 80% of the project, thereby saving 80% of the money. At this stage, nobody had really caught on (and many still haven't) to the downside of #2 above; to wit, in a labour market dominated by qualified professionals, they can all work anywhere. Under the old regime, my experience and knowledge might be of some use to a handful of companies similar to my own but no oil company, drug store chain or truck manufacturer was going to want me. I was most valuable where I was so I had a vested interest in making sure that any new systems would work, even in the messy 20% bits, even if I myself moved on in the organization. These new guys, though, the pros, were like elected politicians. As long as they could look good long enough to get the next job, which would be elsewhere, they really cared not a jot if the whole house of cards collapsed after they'd gone. "Stay Within The Budget" was all that mattered. The result has been a succession of iterations of the 80/20 rule, each one doing 80% of what the last one did so that, eventually, the LATEST system only does 80% of 80% of 80% of 80%........ of the whole job (that's "not very much" in old money). I shouldn't complain, that's what kept me valuable through the last years - I was the guy who knew how it all REALLY worked.

So, what's the answer to Simon's question?

I would NOT use my knowledge to climb the ladder and take an easy life - I don't like rarified atmospheres and don't think it would work anyway.

I WOULD have a lot to say about systems. How not to paint yourself into corners, get stuck with non standard formats, etc.

I would know the trends of the future, of course, and many of them I would be powerless against. I would therefore just have to be prepared, recognise the demons at the gate when they appeared and do my best for myself and my colleagues.

I would buy more of the rare and odd notes and coins that came my way and live off them now. Better than any pension. I would also keep my savings in Swiss Francs.

I would be better able to "not sweat the small stuff". Many of the crises I and others faced down the years felt, at the time, as if they were the end of everything. Clearly, they weren't. The Sun still rose, the paycheck still came, the lunatics still took over the asylum and, guess what, I'm still here.

Otherwise (and I've had lots of time to think about this), I wouldn't do it very differently. I would know better who to trust and who not, and that would lead to some changes but, by and large, I'd do it all again. I would get different breaks, I guess. Probably would not end up in Canada this time because that was a fluke that isn't likely to happen twice. But I would travel, take all the relief jobs, the overseas assignments, experience life as it came along.

People don't tend to think of "Foreign Exchange Cashier", if they think of it at all, as a career that lets you see the world. It took me all over the UK and Ireland and to France, Spain, Luxembourg, Germany, Switzerland, the Netherlands, Belgium, Portugal, Italy, Greece, Egypt, Hong Kong, Singapore, Macao, Australia, lots of bits of the USA, Canada, Mexico, and I've probably missed a few. If I tried to change the past by reliving it, I think I'd fail. I would use what widom I could, but, mostly, I like how it went the first time.

Simon, I don't suppose that's the kind of answer you expected, or possibly even wanted, but I had more time to think about it than I should have and, really, that's it. When I was happy in my working life, it was because I was being ME. When I tried to live in someone else's world (like my brief trip into "upper management", I wasn't me and I wasn't happy. So, I'd be me, and that hasn't changed much (sepfer the grey and the wrinkles).

So that was Christmas, and what did you do?

2008-01-03T11:26:00.000-08:00

Well, that was quite a ride - literally for much of the time. Here's an abridged version of what I've been doing instead of updating here.

I mentioned last time, a family party in Moncton NB that went on till the wee small hours. Well, after a few hours of couch-kip, we picked up "Grandma", my mother-in law and brought her back here for the holidays. The plan was that my sister-in-law would follow down on Xmas day with her two sons and dog, stay for OUR big party on the 27th, then head back, probably taking Grandma (let's call her "G" for short) back with her, on the 28th.

"G" has had a rough year by anybody's standards. She lost her husband of 50 odd years last February and, although they were, by then, already in separate nursing homes, it was quite traumatic for her and all the extended family. But this lady has, let me tell you, spunk by the bucketload. No one who knows her has seen her brighter, happier, more active, than these last months. Then, back in the summer, following a long tradition that goes back to the dawn of the aged, she fell out of bed and broke herself quite badly. Wrists (1), hips (1), egos (1) confidence (0). She was in the hospital for a spell and everybody thought that, at the very least, the good times were over.

Not a bit of it! The "G" that toured our new house and lot, made jokes and told stories was, if anything, even brighter than the one I had last seen, before the fall.

So, of course, someone else had to get in some trouble. Sis-in-law (let's call her "D") had brand new winter tyres on her Honda when she set off from Riverview NB loaded up with family and Xmas stuff around lunch time on Christmas Day. On the highway, just before Truro NS (that's about half way, 90 minutes to go), BANG, a blow out.

Now for those of non-North American persuasion, I will have to explain the "donut". No, it's nothing to do with the Simpsons. It's what passes for a spare wheel in these parts. As long as I've been here, I have failed to understand why in Europe, where cars are traditionally small, roads of mixed quality and space at a premium, all cars have always come with 5 identical wheels, 4 on the road and one in the boot (trunk) just in case while here, where cars are traditionally huge, trunks spacious and roads (especially in Canada) generally pretty smooth, you get 4 wheels and an apology. The apology for a spare wheel is known "affectionately" as the "donut". It's much smaller than the others, has the advantage of taking up much less room but the DISadvantage of being all but useless as a means of keeping your vehicle off the ground, let alone mobile. You are supposed to put on the donut and limp no further than necessary to the nearest service area and buy a new REAL tyre. On Christmas Day. In rural Nova Scotia. Right.

What you ACTUALLY do is (unless you want to brave 150 km of highway followed by our bobsleigh run of a street with now't but a Boston Cream betwixt you and the tarmac) limp to the nearest service station (they're called "Irving's" here, like saying "Hoover" for "vacuum"), park inconspicuously at the back and call your destination on your trusty (and suddenly worth its weight in gold) cellphone.

So it was that I spent Christmas afternoon driving to Truro and back. That was OK though, roads were quiet, I had a new CD to play on the way and chats to have on the way back; I enjoyed it.

So we had a late Christmas dinner for (I think) 10, played "Wii" bowling, boxing and golf for a few hours, allocated sleeping spaces and turned out the lights. Boxing Day continued in like vein but with some serious garage-arranging thrown in. Have I mentioned, we have a HUGE garage. It's a garage in the same sense that London is a village; that is to say, no sense at all.

To us, it's party room, sound studio, extra bed room if needed AND a place to keep the lawnmower but definitely NOT the garage. I've said before that this is a small town but, even so, when you go around, as my wife had been, inviting everybody you meet (or even pass) to "come over on the 27th., the door's open", you just better be ready.

More family arrived, brother-in-law "E", his girlfriend, his son and his son's friend (invited at the party in Moncton the week before) some in a TOYota Yaris that made it up the road better than some snow ploughs I've seen. The weather, an ever present factor in all this, kept most of the others away. A few neighbours ventured out to join us but anyone who had to drive thought better of it.

The party was, if I say so myself as shouldn't, magnificent. Live (real) garage band playing almost constantly with revolving line-up of family, friends and friends of family. So good was the party, in fact, that Friday was officially cancelled. Cancelled, that is for everyone except "E" and the Yaris party who, making the mistake of watching the weather channel, saw that another storm was coming in and decided to race it home. They won, but this was still the WRONG CHOICE. They should have stayed and helped us revive the party because, the storm, the tyre (remember the three and a half wheeler? It's still out back at the Truro Irving even as I write this) and some other logistics had conspired to keep everybody else here until the weather and the holiday hours conjoined to make a window of escape.

We (that is, my wife & I) had a show to do on Sunday. We were booked to play at a Xmas party for a drugstore chain on Dec16th but, weather again, it was postponed to the 30th. So now, with all the extra people around, we expanded the band. Eldest daughter was drafted as an extra voice and friend of son of departed "E" as and allrounder - guitar, bass, vocals. My old "Snail" taiwanese Gibson copy of a " 6 & 4" double neck, known around here as "THOR" even came out of retirement. So more rehearsals were in order. In two days, Friday & Saturday, we knocked a set list into shape and prepared for the big day.

More weather! All the while we were doing this, we were also waiting for the call saying "sorry, postponed again" but no - Sunday evening, two cars, loads of gear, four folks, of we trot to Oak Island (famous buried treasure place, by the way) to entertain the PharmaTroops.

We go there, convinced we'd never get back, did the show (and have been hearing good things ever since, that's nice), DID get back OK, but WIRED. Two hours or so of garage based decompression time and we were ready to cancel Monday.

New Year's Eve, as you can imagine was anticlimactic. The weather prognosis was getting even worse so a 2am squad set off for Moncton leaving only 5 (I think) left.

A low-key game of (would you believe) Scrabble (TM) and that was that. More driving to get everybody back home over the next two days and here it is Thursday, Jan 3rd 2008 already.

In the interest of speed, I'm not even going to proof read this yet - just get it out there.

Tomorrow, I hope to get on with other matters; questions and the like
Oh, the weather? Cold, clear, no storms for at least a week and a THAW at the weekend. Hoodathunkit?

Happy Christmas to all my readers!

2007-12-23T07:15:00.000-08:00

With yet more apologies for the infrequency of the updates here, I wish everyone out there a wonderful Christmas and, in case I get distracted again, a happy new year.

I plead distraction yet again - a family party in Moncton NB on Friday night, apart from being 3 hours away, carried on well into Saturday and was everything we expected it to be - wild.

Four guitars, sometimes playing the same song, strumming and picking away in the basement, a constant revolving darts marathon a few feet away and a traditional Maritime style (Brits think Jona Lewie) kitchen party going on upstairs. Dozens of cousins, nephews, nieces, spouses, girl/boyfriends, friends, you name it, in various degrees on inebritude but all partying down like there was no tomorrow (which, in a very real sense, there WASN'T, just a continuation of today).

Now we're all back home with Grandma (my mother-in-law but none of the traditional jokes apply, she really IS a sweet little old lady who has spent part of this morning learning to use Facebook!) here for a stay. Party season breaks out here for Christmas and kicks up to open-house-crazy-season on Thursday when all and sundry descend on our house and garage and stay till.......stay tilll.....well.......till they leave, I guess.

I know I still have a lot of serious business to do here - in no particular order - answer "questions to the Waeguk" (and, Simon, I have given yours some considerable thought while driving and have the mental version of the answer ready - just gotta type it out), finish the shopping series, work out how to put pictures one here, take some, do it; describe life here in other terms and generally make this into the dyary it was supposed to be.

Be patient, please, gentle readers, I have no routine whatsoever. A pretty darn good life alright, but no routine whatsoever. But then, I suppose that's Chrisrmas everywhere, innit? Enjoy!

Nova Scotia Makes Wine - Who Knew?

2007-12-13T09:31:00.000-08:00

Well, it's been over a week and at least two of my loyal readers (out of at LEAST two!) were worried that I'd lost interest in this burgeoning project.

No such luck, O faithful ones, I'm here, just been busy - gathering material, among other things.

So, to go back to the shopping theme, today, a brief commentary on my visit to the NSLC. I presume that stands for Nova Scotia Liquor Commission. (Note, added June 2008. No, it's CORPORATION, not COMMISSION).

I need to explain that term for two different audiences I know are out there. To Ontarians, I only need to say that it's the local equivalent of the LCBO. Only difference is, there's no "Beer Store" equivalent here so it's where ALL the booze comes from except, again as in Ontario, if you go to a specialist wine store or a vinyard - but more of that later.

To the Brits out there who are no more familiar with the LCBO than they are with the NSLC, they are equivalent of "Off Licences" but are run by the provincial government and have, with the previously noted exceptions, a monopoly on the retailing of alcohol. Even restauratnts buy their wine etc. there most of the time. Bars and restaurants are not allowed to sell "take out"; it's the government way or the dryway.

In recent years, during my time in Ontario, the LCBO, under threat of privatization, has transformed from a pretty basic and quite unpleasant place into something which would compare favourably with any privately run "offy" in the UK or elsewhere and is MILES nicer than any american liquor store I've ever been in.

I can't speak for the history of the NSLC but its present seems to stack up pretty well too. I say again that this is a small town of under 1,000 folks with only a few stores of any description. Among them, the NSLC is quite possibly the nicest. It's bright, its staff are friendly (though that's nothing unusual round here), knowledgable and, from my handful of visits, seem to have found the point where attentiveness and helpfulness can peak without straying over the line into intrusiveness.

Last week, we went in for some beer and a bottle of wine to take to a dinner party. We had been invited by a new friend who is also new to the area, from Ontario, and thought that a bottle of something local might be just the ticlket. We had tried a couple of Nova Scotia wines already, having been first surprised to find such a thing AT ALL, and further surprised at the quality. As a wine region, it is, of course, small and fairly new. This newness is evidenced, as it was in Ontario only a few years ago, by a preponderance of fruit or fruit flavoured wines, sweet whites and "novelty" type wines. Among them, though, there are some gems.

How to tell? Well, you stand there, in front of the display that says "NOVA SCOTIA WINES" like it was the most natural thing on earth and stare vaguely at the bottles. This is the sign for the staff to come over and share their experiences with you. Salesmanship around here is often like that - not really salesmanship at all, more a sharing of experiences. I know this is a digression (but it's MY digression, so that's OK) but only yesterday, having lunch in a local restaurant, my wife asked the waitress what the fish cakes were like. She said she remembered "nasty" processed ones from childhood but knew that, made fresh, they are a local delicacy. The waitress made no bones about telling us that this was NOT the place to have your first taste of Nova Scotia fish cakes. THESE are the ones you remember. THESE you should avoid, at least today. Have this, have that, try these, but DON'T have your first maritime fish cakes here.

So with the NSLC staff. They had just had a delivery of a range from a new local winery; first time at the NSLC (which means first time anywhere except at the winery itself) but it had won a gold star, the man said, and they'd got it in just yesterday. He'd only tried one kind but had liked it, told us about it without mentioning the words "bouquet", "presumtuous" or "precocious" even once. An excellent piece of service and, guess what, we bought it.

They make cranberry wine (thumbs up from the ladies though I haven't tried it yet), rhubarb wine (OK, but nothing to blog about) and, and this really threw me, PORT. Yes, Nova Scotian PORT. We tried it and it's pretty darn good. Many years ago, an old Thomas Cook branch manager of my long acquaintance would take his staff to "Balls Brothers", a wine bar in the City Of London when he wanted a "private chat"; a sort of 1970's style performance review, most often. The drink de rigeur was PORT, always from a wooden barrel, recommended by one of the Balls brothers ludicrously expensive (though I wasn't paying!) and described and discussed in excrutiating detail. So, while I would never claim expertise, I have tried more than a few ports (I worked for and with Jim Russell - the manager in question, for 5 years!) and can make some discrimination. Obviously, Nova Scotian port has not been oak cask conditioned for decades (an hour or two maybe) - they haven't been making it long enough - so it's young and light. But here's the thing, two things actually, it tastes good and it's pretty cheap. We're on our second bottle. More power to ya, Nova Scotia wine industry, says I, long may you inovate while you inebriate.

Still on the subject of drinks, while out to dinner with the same friend a couple of weeks ago, I got to try "Propeller Bitter" in a local restaurant. It is one of a range from a micro-brewery in Halifax (called, you guessed it, the Propeller brewery at www.drinkpropeller.ca/beer ) and it was the best beer I've had in North America since the Starfish Oyster Bar in Toronto pulled out its real ale pumps (shame on you Starfish!, after all the thirsty Brits I sent you!). It's kegged, so it's a bit too cold and gassy to be TRULY great, but it's WAY better than anything else around. They have a jam session there on Sundays so I may get to taste the others.

This waeguk has been asked a question (thank you Simon) - more on that next time, and it WON'T be a week.
Thanks for reading.

Grocery shopping in Nova Scotia

2007-12-06T08:38:00.000-08:00

Wherever I've been in the world, one of the fascinating things to do has always been to go to a grocery store or supermarket and just look at what's there, what's NOT there, what people buy, what seems to be treated as commonplace and what's thought of as exotic.

Now this is a very small (not to mention friendly) town. The dot on my map puts it at below 1000 people, and that's as small as dots come so it's probably only a few hundred. It's also an odd shape; about two miles long and one house thick, I like to say, though that's just what it feels like. There's a little plaza where most of the shopping seems to get done. Yes, there are other places; one off stores and businesses scattered along the road, a few hairdressers, restaurants, insurance and real estate agents, a graphic design shop, but most of the SERIOUS shopping seems to get done either elsewhere entirely, in larger, neighbouring metropoli, or in the plaza.

Over the next few days, I'll put some observations on my shopping experiences. Not to criticize or praise, you understand, just to note the things that strike me.

Today, No.1. SuperSave.
This is the local supermarket and is therefore the best indication of what people eat at home. Mostly, it's what you'd expect but there a few oddities.

1a. Seafood.
Nicest, I would say, is the little shelf of fresh local seafood. No great surprise this close to the ocean, I suppose, but to be able to buy scallops (World Famous Digby Scallops*, no less) covered in cellophane on a wee styrofoam tray, as if they were so many pork chops, is quite a treat. Remember, this is no downtown Loblaws or Tescos with its real fishmonger section. They just sit there, with the mussels and haddock fillets, next to the chicken pieces and sausages. We tried the scallops last week. I had no clue what to do with them. The internet was full of wonderful recipes calling for raspberry sauces, honey glazes and the like, but I was already home with them and NOT going out again for all that stuff. The lady at the check-out, when I asked her for the easy way to do them, said to coat them in breadcrumbs. Everybody, internet and real, says the big thing is not to overcook them. They go rubbery, all agree. My tactic was to quick fry them with a little lemon juice, just for a few minutes. I certainly didn't overcook them. "Underdone"doesn't quite say it. The term my wife came up with, and I think it fits the facts, was "raw". So, back in the pan, fry them some more and they were lovely, and only slightly more expensive than their former neighbours, the pork chops.

1b. Tobacco.
I've never really adapted to the whole "federal" thing. I expect countries to behave like countries. That is, to agree, with some minor variations like how often the garbage is picked up and what colour the buses are, on how life is regulated, wherever in the country you may be. Since my first days in Canada when I got my first eye-openers on federalism at work while living briefly on the Ontario/Quebec border, I have remained almost constantly in Ontario, so I have not had much exposure to the differences between the Canadian provinces in the way they do things. Here, it's true, I am not aware of the differences most of the time. Sure, the license plates are nicer ("Canada's Ocean Playground" is MUCH more inviting than "Yours To Discover" and I never quite grasped "Je Me Souviens" at all), things have different initials, usually putting "NS" at the beginning where I would expect to see an "O" at the end, but most of the changes seem to be cultural and environmental rather legislative.

I am also aware that, just about everywhere, governments are coming up with new and diverse ways to control the sale and use of tobacco. I had heard in Ontario, some time back, plans to prevent tobacco retailers from having displays advertizing the various brands or promoting discounts and so on and had wondered casually what such a store would look like; a bit "soviet", I presumed.

Well now I know. I first noticed something was odd in the local gas station a few days ago. There were signs everywhere about the evils of tobacco, how dire the penalties were for selling/giving cigarettes to minors (which, for this purpose, as in Ontario, means 19) but NO CIGARETTES! My first guess was that this place had decided not to sell them because they had read all the notices. That wasn't why I was there. though, so I paid for my gas and thought no more about it. Then yesterday, I discovered that, to buy cigarettes at the supermarket, you have to go in a DIFFERENT DOOR to everybody else. When you're in there, you still can't see anything for sale except a few lighters. There's just some locked cabinets and a cash register. A staff member comes through a door from the store-proper and serves, from the locked drawers. Most odd.

I now know that something similar is happening at the gas station. The smokes are in the closed cupboard behind the counter.

1c. Christmas.
I know it's December and Christmas has started everywhere but, here, it's in full swing. On my first day in Nova Scotia (it was mid November and I wasn't even home yet), driving on the piece of toll highway that leads South from New Brunswick, I stopped to pay the $4 toll. The man in the booth, the first Nova Scotian I had seen face to face since July, gave me change and wished me a Happy Christmas. That was November 18th and I guess he's still doing it. If he does that about 6 times a minute, eight hours a day, 5 days a week, for OVER SIX WEEKS, that's 86,400 Happy Christmases and he hasn't even been to the supermarket yet (read on)! Gotta really love Christmas.

It does seem to be the thing here though. Supersave (to get back to the point) is awash with people wishing each other a Merry Christmas. Nothing wrong with that, I hear you cry, and I agree. It just seems a little odd that here, where people meet each other far more often than in larger places, they start this so early. In Toronto, for instance, if I met someone on the street or in a store in early December, there would often be a real chance that I would not see them again this year. Happy Christmas, we'd both say, figuring we might not get another chance. Here, though, the same folks seem to greet the same folks the same way, several times a day in some cases.
At this stage, I have to put it down to the fact that these are just lovely folks who like to have something to celebrate and share.

As with all the foregoing, and what will follow, I am quite prepared to admit that the "oddity" is in me, nowhere else. But that's what this is all about, isn't it?

* World Famous Digby Scallops are from Digby, Nova Scotia. They are truly wonderful but NOT, I can say with confidence, World Famous. I've BEEN to the world and I'd never heard of them until I came here for the first time last year. I'm glad they're not. I like the idea of living somewhere that has a kind of food that SHOULD be World Famous. The world would only spoil them and that kind of thing doesn't travel well anyway so they'd only disappoint elsewhere.

First Correction Leads To First Story.

2007-12-04T07:20:00.000-08:00

Well, I guess that's a lesson learned. My first comment is in and it points out an error. Jeff (qv) reminds me (and, yes, I HAD known this at one point) that a "Waeguk" is not, as I said, a question; it's a FOREIGNER. He beseeches people to ask a foreigner (himself) a question.

Trying, as ever, to turn an upset into a positive, I thought "Hmm, well I'm a foreigner, aren't I?"
I stand humbly corrected but, with Jeff's permission, I will continue to use "Waeguk" until someone comes up with an even more obscure translation of either "question" or "foreigner". Answers on a postcard please, to dyveatqq@hotmail.com.

This all leads me to ponder the precise nature of being foreign; when are we and when are we not? This first became a question to me on my arrival in Canada, in 1991. Before that, I was always either in England, where I was never a foreigner, or I was not, in which case I was. The only time it would have been debateable was if I happened to be in Scotland or Wales which were part of my nation, but not my country - confusing even, sometimes, to the locals.

But, wherever I went, in England or out of it, I was acutely aware that, to people of the "old world" at least, you are what you sound like. I could be treated as a foreigner just a few miles from home if my accent didn't fit. Now, I don't want to invalidate anyone who, as part of a "visible minority" in my homeland, has experienced discrimination because of their appearance. I know it happens and I abhore it. But it has always seemed to me that, regardless of what you LOOK like, if you SOUND like you belong, then you probably do. A visitor to the UK from, say, Germany, might look as English as cricket and real ale but, when he opens his mouth, he clearly identifies himself as "other" and is then prey to any curiosity or prejudice (good or bad) that his listener may carry.

Similarly, second and subsequent generation immigrants sound as Anglo Saxon as I do and, regardless of appearance, when they open their mouths to say, for instance "pint o'bitter an' a bag o' cheese 'n' onion please mate, ta", they tell the listener almost EXACTLY where they are from, and it's not Bangalore! This has become even more evident in the years since my departure, as I notice on my occasional visits and when meeting British visitors to Canada.

So, in my head, I'm a limey. I always will be, because I will always SOUND like a limey. It's not a choice I make, it's just what I am, like being male. I could (and probably will, one day soon) get Canadian citizenship and will live here the rest of my days. I would then be entitled to call myself "Canadian" and would gladly do so with pride. But I will never FEEL Canadian, not really. I yam what I yam and that's all sweet potatoes.

In the New World, Canada especially, Toronto even more especially, things can be different. Almost everyone is hyphenated. Many, for example, "Portuguese-Canadians" will live in "Little Portugal" and are proud hyphenated-Canadians. Some have portuguese accents, some don't. Some speak fluent Portuguese but little English, some the reverse. Some are Canadian citizens, some are Portuguese citizens, some are both, others are neither; being Brazilian, Angolan, or whatever. Makes no never mind. The are part of Toronto's "vibrant Portuguese Community" AND proudly Canadian. Come the World Cup, they will gladly cheer for Portugal, Brazil or, given a chance, Canada; all at once if necessary.

To me, though, this has nothing at all to do with patriotism or loyalty. I am not, by nature, a patriot, of anywhere. I AM, I like to think intensely loyal but I don't see that as being connected to what it feels like to be me. So, a Waeguk I am, and a Waeguk shall I remain. Ask a Waeguk!

Question to self: Where did I feel the MOST foreign?
Answer: Strangely, it was one of the places I was also made to feel most at home. Tanzania. I was TRULY a visible minority - usually a minority of one. An odd, sometimes scary, but memorable experience. But that's for another day.

So now what?

2007-12-03T08:33:00.000-08:00

So I now have a blog called "Dyve's Dyary". What to do now?
First, I guess I thank Kevin Oliveira for the idea and Jeff Cooper for the pointers.
Jeff said it's best to have a theme for a blog and I agree.
He's probably right. But, see, here's the thing...... I haven't got one.
So, what do I intend to do here? What will the throngs of people who will completely fail to notice that Dyve's Dyary exists be missing?
Well, I don't know, but here are some guesses.

1. I'm a talker; a teller of stories. Some folks are entertained by them, others bored or frustrated; most are both at times. So, I intend to tell my stories on here, to give them a permanent home, entertain the entertainable without boring the disinterested. That's a good start in my book (and this IS, after all, my book).

2. I'm going through an interesting phase of life. Things have changed a lot lately. Whether you take that to mean the last few years or the last few days, it's still true. So the "Dyary" part will be, I expect, my musings on and observations of a new life in Maritime Canada; beautiful Nova Scotia to be precise. After 39 years in England, 16 in Ontario, 37 working for the same company, I live here now (since last week!) with my lovely wife of 5 years, two wonderful dogs, two cats and a blog. It's fun so far, if strange, and I'll use this space to write about it.

3. The aforementioned Jeff Cooper writes his blog ( http://uncanadienerrant.blogspot.com/ ) in South Korea and has introduced the word "Waeguk" to my lexicon. I understand that it's Korean for "question" and Jeff invites his readers to "Ask A Waeguk". He answers unerringly (try it!), informatively and entertainingly, no matter how dry the waeguk (and I've asked a couple of DRY ones). This completely justified flattery will hopefully serve to prevent Jeff from suing for stealing his idea and his word. So, if you're reading this and you have a question, just call it a waeguk and send it in. Of course, I'm not sure yet how you do that (I'm just typing on a page that blogger told me to type on) but, until I work it out, send your waeguk's to dyveatqq@hotmail.com and I, faithful reader, will do the rest. No rules for questions - anything goes. If I can't or don't want to answer, I will at least say so.

If you got here by invitation, you know who I am and may know some of the other people who crop up from time to time. If you stumbled on the place, you probably don't. That's fine - welcome aboard - but I won't be naming people here, except generically. So, if you know me and DON'T want your name on here, fear not, it won't be. People you already know might work out who you are from context but that's all.