Chicago to London

Friday afternoon I met my friend Robyn at the Manchester Picadilly train station. She was in town to see the musical Chicago with me, playing at the city's Opera House Theatre on Quay Steet. The movie version of Chicago happens to be one of my top five favourites, and so I jumped at the chance to see the story live.

Even despite soaring expectations, I was not disappointed. Of course the production had been formatted to fit live theatre, but the effect was essentially the same. Skimpy costumes, a storyline of sex, murder, fame and deceit, a live band and feather flumes and sequins --it was all there. There was also a healthy dose of corny comedy, something that is more subltle--if not nonexistent, in the movie production.

Most of the actors managed satisfactory 1930s American accents, but I am sure the two Canadians in the audience were the only ones who noticed any differently. And unfortuantely for the girl playing Thelma Kelly, Catherine Zeta-Jones absolutely owns the role in the movie production, making anyone else's portrayal of the ousted stage-baby killer pale in comparison. Otherwise, it was well done and well worth getting a taste of something extending beyond the student life culture.

It is 7:30 a.m. and I have logged a very light three hours of sleep--but I am heading to London by coach this morning for three days.

I hope everyone is well!

Think of me when...

Last night, in my prison cell and awaiting the welcome light of dawn, I found myself surfing the web: couscous recipes, Canadian news, travel sites, British news ...back to Canadian news, Canadian sports and then...

And then I found myself there.

I really cannot pretend I don't know what brought me there. I suppose the eventual onslaught of homesickness is bound to hit me eventually--particularly because I have survived thus far unscathed.

But there I was, basking in the familiar and always cheeky banter of none other than ...

Don Cherry.

Yes. Hockey Night in Canada and Coach's Corner.

It was the theme song that first hit me, triggering a similar nostalgia I experienced so many weeks ago when a wayard flock of Canadian geese triumphed their awkward cry above Castle Irwell.

Coach's Corner--a piece of Canadian culture so integral to my sense of home, identity and personal comfort that even its simple trumpet instrumental was a near catalyst for a fallen tear, streaming down my cheek.

A near catalyst. I did not cry. At least that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
Right. So, instead, I watched as a goofy smirk of comfort spread across my face.

What could be more Canadian than odd couple, tag-team Ron MacLean and Don Cherry?

Memories washed over me of countless nights where the Hockey Night in Canada theme song flooded the house as dinner simmered on the stove:

...homework in front of the tv while the third period winded down

...shouts and roars of excitement, disgust and "ahhhhh, you bum!"

...the suspense of the instant replay, one from every angle imaginable and everyone in the living room on the edge of their seats, heads cocked sideways and eyes squinting for the best vantage point

...entire dinner tables cleared out as the family stampeded into the living room because there was a goal ("He shoots, he scorrrrres!!!"), an unbelievable save, an enormous hit or simply because the play-by-play commentator raised the intensity of his voice just so...

And my favourite: the first intermission and Don Cherry's almost infallible ability to hold my attention for a handful of minutes that have become the hours in my lifetime dedicated to Hockey Night in Canada. I remembered it all; and then there it was:

Homesickness that hit me square in the nose, just about as abruptly and obnoxiously as Don Cherry's tie clashes with his jacket.

But it was wonderful. And so, I watched; and Don did not disappoint:

He cut Ron off.
He got fired up --"I really have to control myself here...but it's gutless, gutless!!"
He interrupted Ron.
He raised his voice ...he yelled.
He cut Ron off again.
He praised.
He denounced
He preached -- "If you're gonna talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk!"
He rushed to fit everything into his segment --"Hurry up! We gotta go quick...we got all this stuff and we gotta go quick!"
And he called Ron "sweetheart," repeatedly.

It was glorious, and the thought of all the Coach's Corner segments I have been missing was suddenly very troubling for me--in that moment, in my prison cell.

I think I dreamed of obnoxious plaid patterns and high-collars that night. There was the sound of trumpet instrumentals as well, and hockey clips (dizzying dekes, spectacular saves and flying fists) flashed in and out of my consciousness. And I slept soundly, or about as soundly as a Canadian girl can so far from the comforts of Hockey Night in Canada.

So for those of you who will find yourself in front of a tv watching the game: when the first period comes to a close, and when you hear that infamous instrumental--I hope you will think of me.

The Day After the Attack of the Pink

Last night I abstained from the typical Friday night activities --and damn, it feels good that the Pav did not get a hold of three of my pounds for once...

However, it seems by not painting the town red I caught myself a nice case of pink...eye, that is.

Pinkeye, or for you ER-junkies, conjunctivitis.

• an inflammation of the conjunctiva (the outermost layer of the eye and the inner surface of the eyelids). Causes redness, itching, swelling and oozing.

Lovely.

There are three common varieties of conjunctivitis, viral, allergic and bacterial. I will go ahead and state the obvious: I have obviously fallen victim to some form of bacteria. Who would have imagined, living so cozily in this little den of infestation of mine.

Student accomodation is not for the faint of heart--or immune system. It is a battle everyday. If you want to emerge somewhat unscathed and considerably healthy: suck back the OJ, invest in some multi-vitamins and cross your fingers. And even then, it is an uphill battle.

Considering that most students incorporate frequent binge-drinking escapades, late nights and inadequate (if not downright bizzare) eating habits into university life, it is a wonder more of us do not fall victim to some sort of Deplorable Conditions mortality rate.

Nevertheless, the student, particularly one living away from home, is a hearty creature. Termites come to mind:

• Both are "economically important as pests that can cause serious structural damage to buildings"
• Both "typically inhabit dark nests and tunnels"
• Both are social species, living in colonies that exemplify "decentralized, self-organized systems using swarm intelligence to exploit food sources and environments" otherwise unavailable or undesirable to the individual

...so that explains the bar phenomenon?

• Oh, and both student and termite colonies typically contain "nymphs, workers, soldiers, and reproductive individuals of both sexes, sometimes containing several egg-laying queens"

...freshers, P.I.M.Ps and floozies.

Or am I thinking of cockroaches...

• Both are generally scavengers
• Both are mainly nocturnal and will run away when exposed to light
• And both are perhaps among the hardiest species on the planet, capable of living for a month without food and remaining alive headless for up to a week.

(Okay, the last one applies only to cockroaches because I know plenty of students that have managed their entire university career despite a "headless" state of one kind or another.)

• Students and cockroaches have the ability to slow their own heart rate--students accomplish such a feat with excessive alcohol consumption--I do not know the cockroach's secret.
• Researchers have found a balance between cooperation and competition in group decision-making behavior
  example-- girls travel in packs to washrooms,
  and the ubiquitous phrase, "I'll have another if you do"

• Both depicted as vile and resilient pests in popular culture
• And both are popularly suggested to "inherit the earth" after the destruction of humanity in a nuclear war.

Well....at least it sounds like I will survive Pinkeye.

______________________________________

Helpful hints for ridding yourself of a cockroach/student infestation:

1. keep all food stored away in sealed containers
2. use garbage cans with a tight lid
3. frequently clean kitchen and regularly vacuum
4. seal off any entry points, such as holes around baseboards, pipes, doors, and windows with some steel wool and some cement or putty (Or, change the locks).

This & That & Some Pictures

I am currently boycotting Friday night, for no other real reason other than marching into Manchester city centre did not appeal to me and the Pav may have finally lost its luster.

It had any in the first place?
Okay, not really. But you have to try everything once, right?

No, not really. It never seems a logical line of reasoning to me, especially not when used as the supporting argument for why I should drink "just one drink:"

Oh, come on. How will you know until you've tried?

The same way I know I never care to become a heroine addict or a Seventh Day Adventist.

Not that I am comparing alcohol to heroine or a strict religious line. But it explains--however unduly--that, sometimes, experience is not necessary to gain knowledge. Sometimes we just know.

That is what they say about love, right?

You will just know.

And...

If I knew then what I know now, I never would have.... They say that too, right?

And, Oprah's favourite:

What is it that you know for sure?

I know that the muzzle of each lion is like a fingerprint--no pattern of whiskers is ever duplicated.
I do not know what good that fact will ever do me, aside from filling blog space.

I know that the current fashion obsession--no, infatuation, in the UK is tights.
I do not know if I can resist it much longer.
However much I know I will regret buying a pair of tights at some point in the near future, the influence is too strong. They are everywhere: on trendsetters--those girls that manage the look without looking retro-- and on everyone else too, unfortunately.

Regarding such a future: when I do blog about buying tights--it will be with all due shame, even if I deny it at the time. Trust me.

I recently covered the Agecroft Small Boats Rowing Event for the newspaper. Inbetween races, my photographer, James Lester, and I spent our down time with the swans. This picture doesn't depict it well, but the swans in the UK are very socialized. They seem almost indignant when you don't have anything to feed them--and yes, for all you non-believers--swans have teeth.

Timed-trials at the Salford Quays. Rowers raced over three kilometres in single sculls, two-man, four-main and eight-man boats.

Walks, Talks & Dances Like An American

Our second day in Dublin left Robyn and I to check out the National Museum of Ireland and wander more of the city's streets. By late afternoon, we were understandably dragging. And the previous day's sunny skies had turned to grey, drizzling rain and only helping along our growing fatigue.

We did not have a place to stay for that night because our flight was leaving at 6:30am the next morning. Being self-described adventurous, more importantly on a budget and disinclined to search out an open hostel, we decided to find something to occupy our attention late into the evening--or slum it for a few hours at the airport. Fortunately, the luck of the Irish smiled in our favour and the latter was how we spent the remainder of our time in Dublin.

The Porterhouse: a pub that was warm, dry and serving food. Paradise. It was the eve of Thanksgiving for us, and knowing we would not have eachother, let alone family, to celebrate the next day's Canadian holiday, we decided to celebrate at the Porterhouse. Turkey dinner became pizza and homemade pumpkin pie was replaced with a brownie and ice cream.

A live set, the Glen Baker Band, was playing what turned out to be covers of numerous popular North American hits: everything from Jack Johnson to Neil Diamond. Their energy was a welcome contribution to the Porterhouse atmosphere, and the exhausted morale of myself and Robyn. The dance floor was busy most of the night, occupied primarily by a certain group of people.

My first impression of this handful of individuals that walked into the Porterhouse was that they were different. And when I notice that something is different over here, it usually means I am noticing something that is actually very familiar to me--example being, the squawk of Canadian geese.

This group was different: the guys were wearing ball caps and outfitted in jeans and t-shirts. And the girls were loud. In fact, the whole group was loud. I noticed their overall demeanour was more agressive than I have typically experienced in the UK, as well as Ireland.

I turned to Robyn to point them out, saying "I don't think they're Irish--they're too obnoxious."

This group continuted to grab my attention for different reasons: camera flashes, yelling at eachother, yelling at the band, throwing things, dropping things...and then there it was:

Hollister emblazoned down a shirt sleeve.
South Beach across the front of another.
And the New England Patriot's logo branding the cap of a visor, worn backwards.
Of course. It was all beginning to make sense.

They were American.

They had struck me as different--or familiar-- since the moment they walked into the Porterhouse. And their antics throughout the night, including one liquored American girl staggering into the men's washroom and their terrible dance displays of dance. How undeniably, embarassingly, familiarly American.

One Irish patron even approached our table and said to Tom, a Dubliner we had met the night before and who had joined us at the Porterhouse:

"How many Americans can you pick out of the crowd?"
And so they did spend the next five minutes picking Americans out of the crowd--bringing to mind the phrase: Like shooting fish in a barrel.

Robyn and I helped be demonstrating some obvious Americanisms, a convenient example being the way they danced because it is so similar to the way Canadians dance. I have not felt the red crush of embarassment so strongly as I did that night: watching the spastically goofy dance moves of fellow North Americans.

Yeah, they do that.
And that too.
ooh ...yeah, that one is popular..unfortunately.

At one point I stood up to impersonate a popular North American dance move. It is predominantly a move executed by the guys, and was immortalized in the pop-culture motion picture blockbuster of the late 90s, "Night at the Roxbury":

1. while standing, raise your arms above your head
2. with a bend in the knees, gyrate hips in back and forth motion
3. and at all times, remain irritably close to the person you will be molesting with this move

For anyone still needing clarification: see Ryan Kurzac at the Thirsty Dog.

Not two minutes after I had demonstrated what is possibly the epitome of corn-dog dance moves that typify the dance floors of North America, there it was.

Bombarding through the crowd on the dance floor was Joe America. In his backwards ball cap, brand name t-shirt and Timbaland boots, he landed nearly on top of poor, unsuspecting Dancing Girl and proceeded his own self-perfected version of the Roxbury Rumba.

Oh, wait. She must be American because as the assualt continued she broke into peels of laughter, slowly collapsing under the weight of her All-American boytoy. Unfortunately, sometimes we develop acceptance for those things we cannot change--like the forever hopelessly cheesy dance moves performed night after night on dance floors across North America.

Irish Lads & Irish Jigs

It did not take long for me to notice that the British culture, at least the younger crowd, is considerably more laidback than its Canadian counterpart. The two are very similar, but one difference that never fails to strike me is the sub-culture of bar life in the UK.

A British friend of mine recently admitted that "yes, we do know how to do the pub scene." And it is true. Life within a pub, a bar, a club--and undeniably on a dance floor--is much more animated here than in Canada. I will be the first to admit that I do not have an impressive reputation for partying; however, I have enough experience to make the observation.

And Dublin--being so nearby England--did not fail to impress.

It stikes me almost as a revelation would; in the beginning, it was awe and an almost pleasantly incredulous gape:

Boys ....dance???

But now, with several nights out under my belt and two being among the Irish my reaction is like an affirmation--as though if I did not confirm it, all the boys might sit down and proceed with their too cool for you facade:

Boys ...dance. Yes, they do. Boys can dance!

And the Irish boys love to dance: it mostly consists of a lot of hopping, at least it is anything but the terrible array of dance moves that litter most North American dance floors.

The trio of Irish boys that treated us out the first night in Dublin even danced without us. They did not appear ready to sit out a song just because two Canadian girls were calling 'er quits. And I dare say they outnumbered girls on the dance floor as well.

Guys outnumbering girls on a dance floor: you will see that in a Canadian bar when hell freezes over--or when the DJ plays Tenacious D, whichever comes first.

So we left them dancing. They actually found us later, wandering the streets of Dublin--lost--much to their amusement. But the night was proof that the Irish are fun.

The next night: proof that if it looks like an American, walks like an American and dances like an American--it will be an American.

When Darkness Falls on Dublin

The most impressive thing about Dublin is its nighttime atmosphere. This is not to say that Dublin is not a welcome place during the day; but once the evening crowd takes over the streets, the city seems alive with activity that does not usually transcend sunset hours.

The hub of the city's nightlife is Temple Bar, an area of Dublin on the south bank of the River Liffey. What makes Temple so intriguing for tourists (aside from the fact that it has been completely developed to attract them), is that the area has preserved its medieval street pattern. Narrow cobbled streets lined with endless numbers of restaurants, pubs, clubs, shops, hotels , hotels and even street performers make Temple a veritable amusement park of life, especially at night. Ireland has enjoyed a considerable economic boom over the past ten years, consequently much of the city has been modernized; but Temple retains a feeling of old Irish charm, which makes wandering its streets worthwhile.

My pictures haven't been developed, but this is Temple Bar. The picture isn't an accurate representation of the area at night: the streets and sidewalks are thick with people and all the buildings are adorned with lights--so bright it seems to be dusk instead of the middle of the night. The picture does, however, do justice to the size of the area, as well as the cobbled streets.

The area really is charming, but the catch being: you will be hardpressed to meet any Irish people at Temple Bar. The streets are literally crawling with tourists. We were asked for directions more often than we asked for them ourselves. And this is how the goal of our Dublin weekend was set in stone: meet the Irish.

Fortunately with a little Canadian charm, I doubt our goal was really that far out of reach.

Robyn and I ran into three of what I think were the only Irish people at Temple, and on the outskirts of it at that. They were Simon, Will and ...I will say Fetz because it was something peculiar that escapes me now. They promised to show us where the "real Irish" people go, a spiffy-looking joint by the name of Howl at the Moon. I say spiffy looking because we never did get inside. Yours truly was turned away by the doorman for being under twenty-three.

Twenty-three!?

Yes, I had that very same reaction. The drinking age in Ireland is eighteen. However, a couple theories have developed as to why I never did make it past Howl at the Moon's velvet ropes:

1. the bouncer was a jerk (the immediate assumption)
2. I wasn't convincingly "authentic Irish" (in fact, I am unmistakingly Canadian at times)
3. (my favourite theory): fake IDs are prevelant in Ireland and it is more difficult for a 16-year old to appear twenty-three than it is for her to appear to be twenty-one

This theory was thanks to another Irish lad we met the next night--it is a great theory (bonus points for creativity), but I do not believe it for a second--it is a good example of Irish charm.

And my personal theory:

4. I was dressed like a tourist who could only bring one ten-pound carry-on bag on the flight and had been walking the streets of Dublin for twelve hours

Whatever the reason, I was shamefully denied entry. Adding insult to injury, I discovered all of my companions were over the age of twenty-five. So there I was, on the wrong side of the rope looking in, hatching plans to return to Dublin wearing my A-game and getting revenge on shallow, judgemental Irish Bouncer. Because I wil be honest--we all know the truth likes in theory number four.

Fortunately though, neither Robyn nor my newfound Irish mates decided to leave me in my poor, rejected juvenile state to the streets. We regrouped, hailed a cab and found a much less posh (but equally as Irish) part of the city to spend the night: the Palace (take my word for it, the name was ironic).

To be continued...
Irish Lads, Irish Jigs and Irish Women.

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

So it is about time I documented my trip to Dublin because the invitations for return visits have already come about. It is tempting to visit the Irish again for two reasons: now we personally know a couple Irish lads willing to extend their hospitality our way; and secondly, the Irish accent is really just that charming.

Robyn and I flew into Dublin around 9:30am on a Saturday morning without a place to stay or any definite plans for the weekend. We were putting our faith in "something coming through" and good ol' Irish luck. From the airport we took a double-decker bus into the city centre, O'Connell Street, and literally just wandered down the first street we came to. It happened to be Talbot Street, which also happened to be where we stumbled across The Pillar Bed & Breakfast.

The buildings in Dublin do not have the same architectural detail that they do in Manchester--for the most part. Of course, the city has some amazing displays of architecture, namely the National Museum of Ireland and the Irish parliament building. However, much of the city centre's buildings are not highrises and do not have a lot of fancy architectural detail on the building faces. The effect is much like the scene of an old Western film, a long road flanked by flat-faced buildings rising up either side of it.

So The Pillar was literally a pillar of a building with a doorway. Later in the day, we walked right by it once or twice once we had checked in because it was so inconspicuous. However, we did stumble upon it about ten minutes after stepping off the bus and decided--being homeless and all--that we should check it out. Inside we found what turned out to be an opportunity we could not pass up.

A young guy named Washington, of all things, welcomed us. The Pillar had two rooms vacant and promised us no luck anywhere else. We were willing to take Washington on his word because everything was booked hostel-wise. Being a bed & breakfast, we got more than we had expected from any hostel: one (entirely clean) room with a bunk bed outfitted with a blanket and pillow that put my already shameful Castle Irwell provisions to further shame. The deal also included breakfast in bed, delivered at whichever time we chose.

Once we had a place to stay for the evening, Robyn and I set off for a meal. We ended up at a small breakfast diner that obviously catered to locals more than anyone else. I think we both regretted the breakfast as soon as it was placed in front of us, but it was certainly our hunger and the spirit of a traditional Irish breakfast that drove us there in the first place.

We got two sausages, two pieces of bacon, two pieces of toast, one egg, black and white pudding and a cup of coffee. A cup of coffee in the UK is literally one cup--no refills, and often the cup is 3/4 full. Our one egg was cooked sunny-side-up and apparently we did not have a choice. And black and white pudding sounded deliciously appetizing on the menu, but turns out to be two miniature pucks of sausage-pancakes. We still do not know what they are. But one was a brownish colour and the other was most definitely black.

The rest of our first day in Dublin was spent wandering streets and browsing stores. The area of the city we were in is greatly developed for tourists, and so is particularly accssible to those travelling by foot. Much of the city of Dublin is like this--the main streets are packed with people.

The day was especially sunny, with blue and cloudless skies helping along my impression of Dublin quite well. But the city at night is what really tipped the scales in good favour for me.
More to come...

An anecdote:
I was telling my South African friend a story today that involved mentioning The Great One. In case the obvious needs to be stated: #99.
Anyway, I noticed a blank look from the South African when I mentioned Canada's golden boy, so I asked:

You do know who Wayne Gretzky is, right?

"Uhhh," a vacant glance comes my way, "... he's .... he's an ice hockey player ...right?" said Shaun, his tone drowning in uncertainty.

________________________________

Culture shock factor: Wayne Gretzky does not cause people around the globe to drop to their knees and pray "I'm not worthies" to the Great One. I never knew.

Off to Dublin

Everything About the Pav Is Cheesy, Including Its Patrons

This weekend brought a trip to Dublin, Ireland with my Canadian friend, Robyn. Robyn and I met in the journalism program at TRU last year, and Robyn took a job as an aupair in England after graduating last spring.

We live a few hours apart in England, she in a small town near Lincoln and myself in Manchester. For Brits, it is an ungodly distance apart--three hours in Canadian terms. And both being true-blue Canadians, we don't consider the distance much more than a short drive. It has been a running joke between the two of us to listen to non-Canadians discuss distances.

On Friday night, my South African friend, Shaun, was expecting his friend Joe to visit Manchester for a wedding the next day. Joe is living in Southampton, which is a three and a half hour trip by car, maybe four with traffic. When we asked Shaun what time Joe would be arriving in Manchester to join the party, his reply was typical of most Brits and generally all Europeans:

ohhhh, I don't know. Not tonight that's for sure.

If he even makes it here at all.

Journeys exceeding one hour are almost unimaginable for those not acclimitized to the expansive True North landscape. When I tell people I'm from Canada, I usually use Vancouver as a reference point of where I am actually from. Although, when I refer to my city as being "near" Vancouver, people assume I mean within the means of a municipal transit system. When they find out I can't walk to the city, let alone live nearly four hours away, they are appalled.

I thought you said you lived NEAR Vancouver!?

And it is understandable. In four hours you can drive from one end of this country to the other. In less time than that, you can drive from East to West. And if you put in a serious day of driving--ten to twelve hours by Canadian standards--you would find yourself well into France or driving off the end of Scotland.

Robyn & Me At the Pav - Pre-trip Party

However, Robyn and I exemplified Canadian travellers (particularly from small-town Canada) on Friday morning while trying to rendez-vous in Manchester. Our plans are embarassingly sparse in hindsight, but at the time knowing Robyn arrived in Manchester at the Picadilly Gardens around 9 o'clock seemed more than enough information.

So I arrived at the Picadilly Gardens around 9 o'clock Friday morning to find Robyn. I soon realized that finding Robyn in a block stretching some 100 square metres in a city that boasts a density of nearly four thousand people every single square kilometre...might be a problem. Not surprisingly, the morning turned into a few hours of Where's Waldo-esque wandering (I am without a cellphone in England, and times like this prove just how wrong I was about spending four months "disconnected"). By 2:30pm, Robyn and I were reunited, looking forward to the weekend's trip, and swearing up and down that the morning's display of mediocre communication would never be repeated.

Needless to say, Joe never did make it to Manchester that night. I suppose he dropped off somewhere between hour two and hour three.

And Robyn and I were off to Dublin the next morning...after all--it is only an hour's plane ride away.

Robyn, Shaun & Me - plenty of fun without Joe.

Get it together like your big brother, Bob

In a testament to the ghetto-ness of my neighbourhood, my house mate Hattie was mugged today on her way home from class. Hattie was walking down Wallness Lane, a road on campus that I also walk to and from university every day. It was 3:30 pm as Hattie came across two young men, she guesses, between 17 and 20-years-old. She describes them as chavs, what I would liken to the Canadian equivelent of skids. One of these punks--a most suitable word--approached Hattie on the sidewalk, asking her for the time. As she glanced down at the cell phone she was carrying in her hand, he grabbed for it.

What ensued really amounts to something that sounds like an awkward exchange between first graders. He held a tree branch, or a stick of some description, in one hand and told Hattie that she had better not force him to use it against her. Hattie eventually let go of her phone as he grabbed for the bag she had slung over her shoulder, and the two muggers took off running down the street.

Hattie said the entire incident lasted no more than a minute. She describes it calmly, and laughs when repeating the painfully unimaginative and immature threat of her mugger:

Don't make me use this.

Use what? Your twig? I won't let this digress into a diatribe about boys and their only too obvious inferiority complexes--but the temptation is there.

Of course, the situation was fortunately minor. The end result was better than other alternatives. And we are all just thankful that Hattie is safe.

But niceties aside. They don't operate with any decency, so why accord any to them--even indirectly--by being thankful that they were only amateurs?

What's most aggravating about this story is that hundreds of students walk along Wallness Lane every day. Had the situation gone on another ten seconds, I'm assured of the fact that someone would have come along the road-on foot, by car or riding a bike.

The amateur nature in which the whole thing was carried out makes the fact that useless members of society like these boys are making perfectly safe situations unsafe for thousands of students. People like these boys affect my personal safety, yes; but more frustrating for me is how people like these boys affect my personal independence, freedom and quality of life.

What is unfair about the situation is a moot point, but I'll make it anyway: How unfair and disappointing is the situation that has a paying university student preparing for a future of contributing to society giving up personal posessions to other members of society with no thought for the future, except perhaps, who to inconvenience next?

And it really is only an inconvenience. Replacing a cell phone will only inconvenience Hattie by measures of time, and possibly a small monetary value--such rationalizations our muggers today use in their defence, I'm sure. But the pettiness of the crime doesn't make it any less infuriating.

Anyone who engages in petty crimes--be it theft, vandalism or abuse--are nearly as despicable as the most violent, deranged mastermind criminals of society. If only for the sole purpose that their crimes do not require any thought; their crimes are not driven by complex or psychologically entangled motives; their crimes are without purpose, and truly even without personal gain. This is in no way a defence of serious crimes. But petty thieves: young, bored, ignorant and disrespectful criminals are wholly unworthy of any sympathy, any understanding and any reprieve for their "inconvenient" actions.

Appropriately, George Thoroughgood said it as splainly as Hattie's muggers deserve: get a haircut and get a real job.

One thing I miss from home is my car. I picture it, shiny and silver, that perfect vehicle of freedom and independence, waiting so loyally in a garage in Canada.
I rode in someone's citrus green Vauxhall today-- a make of car that is as ubiquitous in England as the Honda Civic is in North America. I told the driver that their car reminded me of my Honda Civic hatchback at home.

Oh, a Civic. Yes, nice. Quite a big car then, isn't it really?

To point out the obvious, a Honda Civic hatchback by Canadian standards is a mouse among the elephant-sized SUVs and ostentatious trucks driving on Canadian roads.

Yes, well...we drive up mountains and stuff....in Canada.

I'll apologize right now for the inaccurate stereotypes I am perpetuating during my stay in the United Kingdom; but you can't expect me to be a flawless amabassador around the clock. Usually I come up with replies that both amuse and educate--so my embarassing reply today about how Canadians "drive up mountains" can be written off.

I may long for my car but certainly not to the extent that I would ever get behind the wheel of a horse and cart over here, let alone a motor vehicle and not to mention anything with a clutch. I take my own life into my hands every day simply by trying to cross the street, I would never dream of endangering and certainly putting the breaks on someone else's life by attempting to drive.

Driving in the UK has been one of the most terrifying experiences of this trip (runs a close second to wandering the dark and scally-ridden streets of Salford). My first impression of England was on the road after leaving the airport--airports are like parallel universes that exist according to their own set of guidelines. So England didn't actually begin until I left the airport.

The culture shock that is driving begins as I approach the vehicle: on the wrong side. Passengers get in on the left-hand side, something I still haven't adjusted to. Once inside you can forget about being an annoying backseat driver because all the mirrors are turned in bizarre directions and so shoulder and blind-spot checking are lost causes. Not that I would have time do any of that in between white-knuckling the seat and ducking my head between my knees.

Driving in the UK is an experience with some semblance to what I imagine riding the luge must be like. Hold on. Tuck your head. Point your toes...okay, that last one only applies to the luge.

The vehicles are much smaller, and so they should be--the roads are mere goat trails. There is no concept of a grid system over here: roads simply wind and curve and veer off so that the road maps of England look like the varicose veins that meander across the back of your grandmother's legs (not my grandmother, of course--Don't worry Nana, your calves are lovely).

Whether it be because the roads are small and winding or every English driver is actually insane behind the wheel--everyone drives fast. I'm sure I've nearly lost my life several times on the road, twice by the same driver of some delivery truck on Ring Road (the highway-like road that is in essence, a ring encircling greater Manchester). Apparently he doesn't practice checking his blind spots--at least we got to shout things like "bugger," "sod," and "toss off" at him.

To add to the chaos:
- stop signs are an endangered species in England, I've maybe seen two.
- street signs are not where they should be: practically, at the top of a sign post at the intersection of two streets. Instead, they are sometimes found somewhere on the side of a building about two feet off the ground. I mean sometimes, because often times they are no where at all.
- stop lights flash Green-Amber-Red and then Red-Amber-Green. I can't understand the logic behind this and apparently the British can't either because it's pedal to the metal on amber.
- round-abouts are everywhere. There are rarely four-way stops, and especially not where you would think they are most needed, like a busy intersection of two main two-lane streets. Instead, drivers careen into the round-about, hugging the corner all the way and fly out (sometimes across two lanes) in order to hit their exit point. Extra laps are required when exits are missed.

Within a car occurs particular conversation as well, specifically about driving. While driving, the British talk about driving. Now that I've experienced it for a month it makes perfect sense to me: to get from point A to point B in the UK requires a team effort to decipher the roads. Often times there are five different ways to get to point B and the conversation is simply an argument over which way is the better. It's an open game for the driver, his passenger, anyone in the backseat and anyone who might be on a cell phone with anyone else actually in the vehicle.

The driving experience draws to an end as you enter a car park in search of a stall where you eagerly await falling out onto asphalt and slobbering kisses on it for the very fact that it is stationary unless subject to an earthquake. You can do that if you can get out of the car. But to do so, first slither your way inbetween the half inch the door is allowed to open before scraping against the car in the next stall. Every space is a small cars only space here.

I saw the driver of a Land Rover literally inch back and forth for minutes, desperately trying to back out of a stall and into the parking lot. After labouring at what was beginning to look like a lost cause, Land Rover finally passed its nose out of the end of the stall (by running up against a lamp post in the process). The Brit watching with me replied in conclusion:

And that is why you don't drive SUVs in England.

Extricated from the vehicle, door closed and safely five steps away from what is surely to be my coffin one day--I exhale, and decide on walking home.

Just stab me riiiiight ....there.

I'm relegated to my room tonight, which has taken on an uncanny resemblance to a prison cell to accomodate my situation. Normally, number 27 is a cozy safehaven from the social obligations of a long day. Tonight though, the cement walls and the cot reqiure more imagination than I can muster to appear as anything but institutional--not to mention, the mattresses in Castle Irwell come from Strangeways, a nearby prison that features but a few horror stories being the local execution locale up until capital punishment was ended.

Strageways has been the site of a 100 hangings since its official opening in 1868, not to mention an array of all the other wonderful events that happen within prison walls. Of course the locals have been happy to share a few stories with me, a favourite being about the Strangeways ghost:

The condemned block, which housed the prisoners awaiting execution is reputed to be haunted by the ghost of one of the hangmen who officiated there. Staff on night duty have reported seeing a mysterious man in a dark suit carrying a small briefcase. He is always seen walking along wing 'B' from just outside the condemned cell towards the central control area. When they try to follow this dark suited man, he vanishes just before the old iron staircase leading up to the main office.

The ghost apparently looks exactly like a long serving hangman of Strangeways, who also wore a dark suit and carried a small briefcase. The breifcase is said to have held his hangman's gloves and the black cloth hood he used to mask his victims with before dropping them to their death.

Cue Unsolved Mysteries theme song... and sweet dreams to me on my mattress.

On an only slightly lighter note, a handful of my house mates paid a visit to a tattoo and piercing parlour this afternoon. Results included:

One titanium barbell stabbed through a tongue,
A belly button punctured twice by another, slightly smaller, titanium barbell
One more puncture wound from a stud located in the style of a Cindy Crawford mole
And ink imbedded into the skin on a lower back, styled after a panda bear.
_______

And four ripped off house mates that didn't even get a discount from the guy who is putting his kids through university on the whims and misguided rebellions of Salford freshers

Silken Laumann anyone?

This week marked the first official week at school, which is noteworthy considering I have been in England nearly a month and on campus for over two weeks. But with all the preparation, anticipation and last-ditch effort grasps at so-called freedom, classes arrived just as uneventfully and as stalwartly as they ever do. Mine being the exception: the first lecture was cancelled and the other two got off the ground with barely a sniff at the idea of homework...blessed are my lucky stars.

My friend, on the other hand, was greeted with the news that his program was aiming to stuff three years worth of material between the very few months between September and July. And the content presented in one class was described as being so far beyond what anyone was capable of even taking notes on, the only alternative being taking in the comedy of the situation.

Blessed are my lucky stars, or did I already say that?

Repititiously or not, I do say it with complete sincerity for there will come a time when my stars will fire and fizzle and burn out in a depressing state of affairs, and school will again be the bane of my existence.

Meanwhile, I will figure out my own problem what with having to choose between rowing and soccer. Unfortunately, there isn't enough time for both, as well as writing for the newspaper and putting a worthy effort into classes.

I've been to one soccer practice and to a swim test for the rowing team. The weigh in:

Soccer practice --an old favourite. I will always love kicking a ball around and it isn't only because I look impressive in knee-high socks and Adidas shorts (sidenote to Adidas: yes, I will consider a modelling contract--but only because I believe in the company's product). Soccer seems like an obvious choice, but England isn't about doing what I normally do. Are not I supposed to return a changed person?

Rowing --so far I've only been to the social and a swim test, which consisted of jumping into a pool fully clothed to swim one length and back. Hardly a test.

Are you sure this accurately simulates flipping over an eight-man rowboat into an icy river that will drag me beneath the surface and extinguish my flame of life?
Wouldn't you like to see me swim beneath the surface? Tread water? Hold my breath?
Not even blow bubbles?

Guess not. But apparently I'm qualified.

In the spirit of this whole experience--experience being England, I think I am leaning towards the unknown--the wild blue yonder. Or the muddy Irwell River; it will work too.

I'm also banking on the fact that football, to fall in line with nation, is an obsession with the British and so I should be able to find someone to kick a ball around with if the passion strikes me. The professional footballers live just a drive away apparently--they would certainly be game for a friendly kick-around in the street before supper. Or does that only happen in the World Cup advertisements?

So Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.

Thousands of people swarmed Manchester city-centre yesterday to protest Prime Minister Tony Blair's foreign policy and to urge him to bring troops back from Iraq. I was covering the event all day for Student Direct, the university newspaper--so excuse the "newsy" tone this might have. I do think it's worth writing about though, regardless of your interest in current or political events, no one wants to read about the Pav every day.

It was the first time I had to find my way into the city without any navigational help. Considering I've been on auto-pilot every other time I made the journey to the city thanks to Shaun, my captain up until yesterday, just getting to my destination was the first task of the day. Armed with my fold-out pocket map of the city centre and a little extra time, I did just fine.

I even had enough extra time to find myself a bag. Now this is a far cry from what I imagined my first Mancurian shopping experience to be like, but I was left with little choice: I would be working all day and I had to take advantage of the extra ten minutes at my disposal.

Mission 1 completed. Mission 2: get into the first store I see and purchase the first thing that would hold the odds and ends I insist on carrying around. This is like a shopping-lover/ perfectionist's worst nightmare.

Unfortunately, the first store I came across was the big-box department store, Marks & Spencers. "Everyone" shops at Marks & Spencers, but in case the use of that shameful, all inclusive pronoun everyone wasn't enough to tip you off: Marks & Spencers is not trendy. You can almost guarantee it isn't trendy if it is referred to en masse.

I emerged with something brown and corduroy--apparently I'm still holding on to the idea that if it's the colour of chocolate it will at least appear to be rich. It is a terrible misconception of mine. Or maybe it's my sub-conscious desire for chocolate...

Regardless, the bag isn't that bad. I just resent that I had to buy it and that it has such generic origins. I know I'm not the only one to hold personal feelings against objects, particularly fashion-related ones. But I bet I am certainly the only person that will admit it.

I also hold a grudge against a pair of Puma sweatpants of mine for being irresistably comfortable and yet so hopelessly frumpy looking. But, that's another story.

Back to current events:

The city centre was alive with people. It is a major city centre and I've yet to see it quiet, let alone deserted, but I doubt even the most oblivious passerby would miss feeling the pulse of Manchester this particular Saturday. I'm not good with numbers or estimating them, but even on the safe side there were at least ten thousand people within a couple of blocks of Manchester yesterday.

The protest took place in front of the town hall in Albert's Square. A town hall sounds deceivingly undignified for a city like Manchester, and the town hall is anything but that. It is a massive stone building dating back to the late 1800s. For imagination's sake, it rises 286 feet above the square it overlooks. This square was filled yesterday with protesters from all different backgrounds; however, everyone's message was the same.

In Britain there has developed a strong anti-war sentiment and the Prime Minister is not in good favour. He has already announced his retirement and won't be running for re-election in a year. But a strong majority of the British population is calling for him to step down earlier than his scheduled departure. Similar to Canada, a lot of people are concerned about Blair's foreign policy being too closely aligned with that of the United States and the Bush administration. As well, there is a strong Muslim representation in Britain and the occupation of Iraq is a unfavourable cause that is being strongly opposed within Muslim organizations within the United Kingdom, as it is throughout the rest of the world.

Manchester was a particularly good place to have a protest on Saturday because the Labour Party was holding its conference a couple of blocks away, which included the participation of PM Blair. The preperation for this conference included bomb-detection exercises, like sealing off man-holes in the vicinity of the conference once they were detected to be bomb-free. Security was evident throughout the city what with certain streets being barricaded from public access and the noticeable police presence. It was a definite presence. There were hundreds of police officers: lining the streets, sitting in police vans, on horse, in bomb squad units, with k-9s and probably where I couldn't see them as well.

Despite the preperation on the part of the police, the protest was successful without much incidence. There was a planned "mass dying" that called for participants in the march to lie down in the street as a symbolic protest against the lives being lost in Iraq. It was supposed to work like a "wave of "dying," but it wasn't as successful as planners had hoped it to be--believe it or not, a lot of marchers weren't willing to lie down in the dirty Manchester streets.

But for the most part, the protest was impressive. The number of people alone was impactful enough, not to mention the degree to which they were organized. That being said, I don't know how effective protesting is. I doubt Tony Blair so much as glanced out the window of whichever plush boardroom he was residing in yesterday.

But as one bystander put it: "It's a great expression of freedom of speech."
And then: "...I bet they will all go home feeling better having had a good shout at Tony Blair."

I'll huff and I'll puff ...

Everyone smokes here. Of course the all inclusive pronoun everyone is bound to be false eventually, but from my estimates the percentage of people who smoke in the UK/Europe warrants describing it with that particular word. There is a legitimate and long surviving smoking culture, you can tell by the way everyone just assumes that you smoke too--and the way everyone seems to so skillfully tap their ashes into the ashtray and hold their cig at just the right angle.

The fact that smoking is permitted, excuse me--thrives--in public is also slightly telling of how ingrained tobacco is in the culture of this society. I've been told that non-smoking is being introduced to restaurants and public facilities this year, I've yet to see any evidence of this. The first time I walked into a club I had to register what exactly that grey haze was, floating dramatically above the patrons' heads. By the end of the night out in the UK, I rub my eyes as they sting and weep in reaction to the chemical assualt they have never before been exposed to. My throat is sore and my clothes smell like I've just stepped off the page of the latest Virginia Slims ad.

I've surprised myself with my own tolerance of what is so foreign to me. I estimate Canada is about five to ten years ahead of the UK and Europe as far as putting the awareness of the detrimental effects of smoking into action. Not that I think any Brit would be surprised if you told them that smoking was unhealthy for them--but the severity of smoking just wouldn't register. It is a part of the culture.

On the other side of the pond, it is very much so a social taboo to smoke in Canada. Anyone who continues to smoke is relegated outdoors and even now, supposed to keep ten feet away from the entrance. Melting heat, pelting rain or freezing temperatures...heck, come Noah and his ark...smokers endure their "punishment" for persisting with that "dirty, little habit."

"Oh.... you smoke," is a natural response to the discovery of someone lighting up, followed fittingly with a wrinkle of the nose and every facial expression of disgust imaginable.

Even smokers themselves often precede their own indulgence with an acknowledgement of their apparent misbehaviour:

"Excuse me, I have to go get some "fresh air."
"I know, I know... it is a dirty habit. I'm trying to quit."
"I'll be right back, I just need a quick suck on my cancer stick..."

The thought of anyone justifying smoking a cigarette here is unimaginable. Smokers here rarely ask if you mind their puffing in your presence, let alone excuse it. It is not because they are inconsiderate, but simply because it is so rarely they are smoking around someone who isn't delighted at the excuse to light their very own cigarette and join them. Cigarettes and cigarette boxes are passed around here like the Stanley Cup is passed around the winning team's players, family, friends and wannabes--everyone wants a piece. I even congratulated one individual for getting through a whole box from the time I started dancing to the time I needed a break--maybe six or seven songs--I truly was impressed.

Lit cigarette tips join the light effects on the dance floor, ashtrays are hopelessly full all of the time and the smell of cigarette smoke will forever remind me of my time in England. They smoke in the morning, they smoke at lunch. Never is a cigarette turned down after dinner, and I even witnessed one dedicated individual prepare a meal all the while with a cigarette dangling from her fingers. You know the Alanis Morissette song...

One hand cooking dinner and the other one is flicking a cigarette...

I picked up a pamphlet on secondhand smoke today (to appear as if I had better things to do, to be honest with you), and was surprised and slightly amused with one of the first headlines:

Let's face it, we all smoke.

So I'm obviously the anomaly here.
It's alright though; no need to set off the fire alarm. We're all getting out alive.
The irony might be a little strong on that one, but my point being that the smoking is nothing I can't handle.

It is fluff in comparison to my hair appliance situation.

Besides, according to this pamphlet, my body starts recovering from secondhand smoke just twenty minutes after becoming smokefree. After eight hours my oxygen levels return to normal; 24 hours later and I can look forward to the mucas and debris cleaing from my lungs, and (best yet), by two to twelve weeks I can look forward to running like a marathoner! That must be the explanation for why I keep putting off running--my pesky secondhand smoke habit.

I've never been a numbers person, so if anyone can work out what

my 4 months in England
+ my embarassing number of hours spent in the Pav
x the number of cigarette brands on the market
- the square root of the number of different slang terms for a cigarette and then
/ by the 21 years I spent nearly secondhand smoke free...
_________________
we should come up with my chances of surviving the next four months in smoker's heaven.

It's All Fun & Games...

Today the Activities Fair was held at the sports hall on campus. The gymnasium was cluttered with stalls from almost all of the representatives from the university's collective sports clubs and societies. There are over 50 clubs or societites at Salford for the 2006-2007 school year, and anyone can organize their own club provided they are confident anyone else would care enough to join them--some tables did look a little lonely, "Wargames and roleplaying anybody?"

Everything you can imagine from football (soccer, because there definitely is not any football over here) to scuba-diving and the Christian Union society to the rock society. There seems to be a little something for everyone. I won't list every club and society, but a few honourable mentions deserve at least this:

Most popular (two-way tie): men's football and hockey.
The first one is a given.
As for the second one: in the United Kingdom, hockey does not refer to the greatest Canadian game ever to occupy endless hours among spectators and athletes alike. No, instead, if you refer to hockey in the UK you are refering to field hockey. You must precede any reference to hockey with the word ice, and even then you aren't guaranteed to have anyone properly following the conversation.

Best suited for adrenaline junkies: skydiving.
"Hiya, are you interested in skydiving? Once you try it, you'll never go back."
I think she needs to change her hook phrase, it might be a little too prophetic for me.

The club that will never get off the ground: snowsports... unless they are flying to the Alps on weekends.

The club/society I avoided like the black plague (three-way tie):

1. Circus and Juggling. (She was painted head to toe).

2. Women's Rugby (I recognized the team captain from the bar the other night when I commented that "I think she has more testosterone than she knows what to do with").

3. And the Almost Famous society. Acting, singing and performing. They were the ones breaking into coordinated dance patterns so inspired by the Justin Timberlake and Christina Aguilera jams playing overhead.

I vote for a name change: Definitely Dillusional About Being Almost Famous

And the club I have to mention: Roller Hockey.

The rep was a veritable Wayne's World surfer dude with an English accent on rollerblades.

He asked if I like hockey: "The real thing, absolutely."

And I asked him if there were even ice rinks in England. Unfortunately, I couldn't understand a word he answered me with; but I think a rink may have opened recently. I don't think anyone is using it. It's the thought that counts though.

I asked him his favourite team: "ohhhh (confidently tapping the jersey on the table with the blade of his stick)..San Jose, defffinitely."

I asked him why: "..Because, I got NHL 05 when I was eleven and when I turned it on that was the team the game assigned to me. I've loved them ever since."

Not quite the way loyalties are decided on back home, but I suppose that will work when the nearest NHL organization is based across the Atlantic ocean.

There were political societies, a paintball club, the Respect society, religious societies representing Christians, Jews, Buddhism, and Islam, and a club for the military tactics lover in you. Each club has a low induction rate (between 3 and 10 pounds) and a year's worth of fun, socialising and a few other promises, depending on the organization. For example, go to Ghana with the RAG (raising and giving) society at Salford. It is a group of people that dedicate their free time to organizing and hosting fundraisers for other organizations and causes in need throughout the city.

And every single club rep capped of their selling speech with: "Plus, our club has the best social in the entire university."

"Oh, you do? See, I've misunderstood because I was just informed that I would find the best parties with the High Rollers gaming society."

It really didn't take much deliberation on my part to know which clubs I was interested in. I really just took it all in for entertainment.

I returned home a new member of the Women's Football Club, as well as the Salford Rowing Club. I'll keep you posted.

Sing Me A Song

Fresher's Week has offically begun and so far lived up to the hype. By day students flock to campus for registration and other bureaucratic procedures, but by night the Pav is the place to be. Fresher's Week at Castle Irwell and the Pav even holds more appeal than the great city of Manchester just twenty minutes away.

These were the three most common questions of the night, in order of popularity:

"Are you a first year too?"
"What are you studying?"
"Where are you from?"

It seems the idea of Fresher's Week is to distract first-time university students with eye-catching signs, organized gatherings and alcohol so as to ease them into their next four years at uni. The tactic is obviously successful because venues draw second, third, post-grad and even the odd non-students, as well as the hoards of wide-eyed, gung-ho and fresh-faced Fresher's. Everyone is eager to enjoy themselves before the work starts, regardless of their area of study or what year they are in.

One particular post-graduate student lamented the appeal of returning every year as a Fresher. This such student also suffers from an acute case of the Peter Pan syndrome. Then again, Fresher's Week is reminiscent of NeverNeverland, where people never want to grow up and strangely enough, tights are in.

I cannot say that I hold the ideals of Fresher's Week (party, party, party) close to my heart; but I do find the atmosphere charming. It is a genuine and valiant effort made on the part of many to simply have a good time. The night begins early and holds strong well into the morning. The muffled, and sometimes not so muffled, sounds of after hours partiers interrupt the quiet of the night that might have been. And plans for the next night prematurely develop when the weak ones call it quits.

One particular phenomenon I'm taken by is the overwhelming occurence of singing that occurs among the British. Sporadic and instantaneous chants and songs will errupt from one table and be picked up by others, sometimes spreading across the whole bar. I'm not describing lip-synching, it is full-blown, enthusiastic, hands in the air and coordinated singing.

If you're interested in hearing one such song that inspires the British to drop their conversations, throw their arms up in the air and belt out a verse or two, look up Place Your Hands by Reef. Other songs that inspired group participation are Jon Bon Jovi's Living on a Prayer and none other than Lynyrd Skynyrd's Sweet Home, Alabama. The irony of a bunch of British university students singing an iconic American song celebrating the history and culture of the Southern United States was not lost on me.

Even when the music stopped at the end of the night I noticed that the chanting continued. It wasn't long before I figured out it was coming from two opposing groups of people chanting in support of whichever football team they favoured. This particular square off was between Aresenal and Manchester United fans. Back and forth it went, one group promising the victory of their team and then pausing long enough to hear the rebuttle from across the room.

Now nearing 2 o'clock in the morning and with the party still alive outside my window (singing included), the first offical night of Fresher's Week was a success -- and to think there are still five more to go.

Butter buy another...

Riding on a bus today, I recalled making some abstract reference to national security in my last write up. Excuse its randomn nature; it was the result of many hours without sleep. Apparently sleep deprivation affects the ability to think clearly.

Business aside, I'll move on to the really important stuff:

Someone stole my butter.

I tried the first fews days here without purchasing butter, hoping I could save a small amount of money and room in the fridge. Eventually though, I realized the role butter plays in my life and couldn't deny it any longer.

I bought a small container of Flora's original butter and used it a couple of times, leaving it on my shelf in the fridge--never giving its appeal to theives a thought...until this morning when I discovered the crime. At first glance I noticed that one of the three items occupying my shelf was missing. Apples and eggs still present (I proceeded to count that all three apples and all five of my eggs were indeed still there). Paranoia sets in.

I checked behind the eggs, despite obviously being able to see clear across my sparse shelf to the back of the fridge. Not there.
I checked the shelves below, the shelves above and the shelves in the other fridge. Not there. Not there. Not there.
I even rooted through everyone else's loot--no instant, microwaveable edibles were left unturned.

"ohhh, chocolate!"
"'Pickled' what?!"
"Is that furry? I don't even have to reference the expiration date on that."

Empty-handed.
Twelve hours later and my butter is still at large.

So I considered confronting my room mates about this because if I have to start marking my milk container, keeping tallies on the outside of my egg carton and doing inventory every night I might have to engage Plan Counter-Insurgency. At least that way I wouldn't have to go grocery shopping tomorrow.

For anyone composing a mental picture: my shelf presently holds a carton with five eggs, three individually-sized yogurts, three apples and a half full jar of strawberry jam. Oh, and don't forget to include the can of spaghetti in my cupboard.

In the end, I only casually mentioned the case of the missing butter to a couple house mates--as a point of interest. It probably isn't worth crying over spilled milk, or stolen butter for that matter. And my room mates are more than likely all innocent--at least innocent until proven guilty, and I don't think I can afford a lawyer.

There is a constant flow of strays and accquaintances moving throughout the house. And you know what they say, a pound and some pence is never worth getting inbetween an addict and his next butter fix.

the good, the bad and the ugly

I had my first official experience of the rougher side of the city last night at the Pav. After recieving my fair share of bumps on the dance floor, I turned around to see who was so insistent on violating my space--of which, I realize, is very small in a club on the dance floor. Nonetheless, the third time this bafoon knocked into me almost landed me on my face.

I turned around to place a hand on his shoulder to communicate he was practically on top of me, something I've done endless times before and something to which most people respond apologetically me. However, when Ignoramus (or Iggy, as I will call him) turned around, I realized I was dealing with someone so far from "with it" he had practically come full circle to "before it."

Iggy put two hands on me and gave me a little push.
Dumbstruck, awe and incredulousness are only a few of the words that describe my initial reaciton.
But being not a wilting flower, I was quickly aware that this loser was way offside.

"What country am I in?"

I matched his push with a solid shove, one that nearly sent him off his feet. Luckily for him--and me--his friends caught him and made a concerted effort to diffuse the situation.
Though I was soon to find out that Iggy wasn't just your average drunk belligerent, I don't regret engaging in a little brutish activity.

Obviously I'll never fight my way out of any trouble. But if I'm going to get pushed, I might as well push back.

The next twenty minutes were spent watching Iggy pace back and forth through the crowd just in front of me. Eyes locked on me, unblinking and framed by a strong, furrowed brow. His gaze is most accurately described as intense. He wasn't looking for kicks, he wasn't showing off for his friends. His sole intention was intimidation.

He was succesful. I've never been more intimidated in my life. As he took a stand one foot away from me, leaning in and sucking in on his Marlboro, he carefully blew a cloud of smoke into my face--not breaking his gaze, not flinching a muscle. Again his friends arrived on the scene and attempted to corale his aggressive nature whilst he yelled incoherently in my direction.

Dealing with obnoxious drunks is child's play; putting up with persistent creeps is mostly just a cause for irritation, but being intentionally and actively intimidated is something that I've never encountered before. The demonstration of this person's respect for me as an individual and me as a female triggers alarm bells so adamant they cannot go ignored.

We cannot let ourselves be intimidated by others. On the same token, we should not expect ourselves to have to carry protection or fight off belligerent dunks. However, this seems to increasingly be the case. Our conceptions of personal space and safety are being tested often, and on more than one level.

From personal security at a club to national security and how Canadians became instrumental in the military actions in warzones across the world, the question of safety is demanding new answers that will address what seems to have developed into a complicated and diluted idea of basic human rights.

What is most angering about the situation is the chance I take simply by taking a stand for myself. Had I slipped away, or quietly taken a few more stomps from Ignoramus, I probably wouldn't be recording the situation like. But what makes it record-worthy is that standing up for yourself is worth it, in any way, shape or form.

Coming to England was about perspective. Mine needed to be changed because it had become so familiar that it was distorted. Experiences shape our perspectives, among other things, and hopefully I will see a fresh perspective of myself, my life and the world at the end of these four months.

I was thinking about perspective, mine included, after talking to the South African I met at the beginning of the week. When we met eachother and he told me he was from South Africa, my natural reaction to that particular place in the world was one of surprise and interest.

Wow. South Africa. I don't know what "Canada" sounds like to someone who has never been there. But to my ears, South Africa is one or the more exotic places I can think of. I'm aware of general South African history and I have a basic understanding of the country and its struggles, appeals and dynamics. However, I've never had the chance to spend any time with someone from the country--someone with first hand experience and a perspective that differs from my own.

The idea of perspective came about when we were walking near midnight from Manchester city centre to Salford--an area I've recieved endless warnings about from family members, locals, people who have been in the area for some time and authorities. It is common knowledge. So as we walked down the street, I wondered how dangerous a "rough" part of town really is.

I think I subscribe to the idea that if you go looking for trouble you will find it. And, if you're asking for trouble you will get it. At the same time, I had a feeling my perception of the danger Manchester/Salford poses was altogether different than the one of the person walking beside me.

At 6'3" and a former rugby player, Shaun obviously makes much more of a presence than I do walking down the street. And to state the obvious (as well as what may be his biggest advantage over me in this situation), he's a guy. Of course his reply to my question about how "rough" Manchester and Salford are was measured by how safe he felt himself, or so I assume.

He mentioned somewhat of a reputation the area has ascertained, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, simply via the mindset people will have about it. He obviously doesn't consider the area a safehaven because he has walked well out of his way several times so that I arrive at Castle Irwell without having to navigate dark streets on my own. But at the same time, the "rough" area of greater Manchester isn't the same place to me that it is to someone from South Africa.

So I asked Shaun what it was like coming from a third world country. The idea of it strikes me because my experience is entirely different. Canada has its own uneven wealth distribution issues, and its own complicated and unjust racial history, and even its own healthcare and national security issues. But Canada is not a third world country by any standards.

What someone like Shaun can tell me about growing up in a place like South Africa is interesting, but what more can he say than that it is a different place than the UK. As a native of South Africa, Shaun will undoubtedly have a different experience than my own, especially considering it was tempered by the fact that he came from a privledged background by South African standards.

Shaun's experience of South Africa and Cape Town is positive. Before the conversation about coming from a third world country he spoke of a laidback culture, the place where mates for life remain and where he would like to retire. He has mentioned body surfing and 4x4ing in places like Botswana.

Holidaying in Botswana--the country I did a group project on in a Grade Ten Social Studies class, of which I can remember tribal warfare, AIDs and extreme poverty--is not an experience I've had. Which leads me to realize of how many experiences I haven't had. How many haven't shaped my perspective of myself, my life or this world. How many different experiences have I had that a South African never has?

If I waited for experience to decide what my perspective would be, I would be waiting for a long time. It now appears so subjective and alterable, so sensitive and reactive to everything else in the world to me, that I realize I cannot award my own or any other perspective with too much importance. It is more like a work in progress, probably forever. Hopefully forever.

Perspectives are like the bananas I bought eight days ago--better when they are fresh.