The Modern Spinster

Recherche du Baklava Perdu

2010-03-04T21:38:00.003Z

I was at one of Montreal's superior patisseries today, and it got me thinking on the walk back of all the patisseries I have known. Unsurprisingly the best pastries I've ever had, the ones that haunt my dreams, came from Paris, but they were not French. They came from the legendarily trendy Algerian bakery La Bague de Kenza. Their huge array of nutty delights are displayed in tiers and stacks, entirely filling the counter space. I had no idea where to start when I walked in, everything looked so very delectable! Suffice to say I spent WAAAAY more money than I intended to, but it was worth every succulent, honeyed and perfectly spiced euro. There aren't, as far as I can tell, any Algerian patisseries in Toronto, but I've heard of a few here which I will definitely have to check out now that the weather is improving. And I think the next time I'm in Paris a return trip to the 11eme is due.

Back by Popular Demand

2010-01-21T13:03:00.002Z

I had more or less given up on my blog. After all, I am a sporadic poster at the best of times, and the last thing I want to do in my few moments of spare time is write something. But thrice this week someone has asked me about it, with a tone of disappointment as to its absence. So, voila, the modern spinster returns from the dead; now she just needs something to say...

Bienvenue à Montréal

2009-09-20T05:04:00.005+01:00

So I've been happily resident in Montreal for about three weeks now, and I have to say that so far I am loving it. I may even like it better than Toronto (Gasp!). Aside from the obvious differences between the two cities, here are a couple of things I've noticed that don't get mentioned in the guidebooks...

1.) There's a lot of puke on the streets, and not just on Saturday/Sunday morning in the club district. I guess it's fall out from the laxer liquor laws. More booze = more drunk people = more vomit.

2.) Imported beer/cider is impossible to find. Because you can get it at a dep., the SAQ doesn't bother to stock it, but the deps. won't stock it because it's too expensive and not likely to sell through. Looks like I'll be road-tripping to T.O. for my Fuller's fixes.

3.) The homeless. They're everywhere. I mean, I though Toronto was bad. Maybe it's simply that here the vagrants are more flagrant.

4.) The libraries suck. Seriously. This is the best argument in favour of amalgamation I have ever encountered. You don't realize the breadth of collection a 100-branch system has until you move to a place where each tiny municipality has its own minuscule library system of a single branch or two, and has to split that correspondingly minuscule budget between French and English resources.

5.) Montreal drivers clearly feel that the horn is there to be used. Anything is valid provocation for a honk - but 9 times out of 10 the honker is driving as crazily as the honk-ee. Makes me very happy I still don't have my license.

The 2nd Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2009-08-25T17:22:00.001+01:00

It's nearly fall, and that means it's also nearly halloween - which would hands down be my favourite holiday if only it involved substantial gift giving and turkey. To achieve the costuming excellence you all have come to expect of me, I need to start planning well ahead of time. I have several possibilies as to what I may be this year, and so I am soliciting your opinion in the handy form of a poll, located to the side of this entry. You will note that the costumes run to the short-and-sassy variety. This is not from a sudden fit of sluttyness, but rather due to the fact that, as a result of Halloween being on a Satuday this year, I will likely be spending it somewhere hot and crowded, where I am liable to have a good deal of drink spilt on me. My hand sewn reenactment dresses are thus staying firmly in my closet, unless someone invites me to a Jane Austen Halloween tea (On a side note, one of my costuming friends is taking one of her Austen dresses and going as something out of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Awesome idea, no?). Although I reserve the right to go with the option that most appeals to me, your opinion is greatly appreciated. So what are you waiting for? Vote!

Anybody fancy a Garibaldi?

2009-08-05T16:34:00.000+01:00

I had a minor epiphany the other night while I was watching Spaced for like, the zillionth time. It struck me that one of the peculiar differences between the English and north Americans, is the need to refer to biscuits/cookies by their proper names. In offering someone something to accompany their double-double you would not say “can I tempt you with an Oreo? Rainbow Chip, perhaps?” No, you would simply ask “would you like a cookie?”. The British, however, being the biscuit connoisseurs that they are, feel it is always necessary to specify which treat is on offer. Of course, with the plethora of options available at your local Tescos, this is not merely a courtesy, but a necessity. You might happily have a Jaffa cake, while scorning a bourbon. Almost no one will refuse a chocolate digestive or Hob Nob, but you’ll be hard pressed to find a taker for the manky pink wafers which are all that remain of your M&S Holiday biscuit tin. I suppose what it boils down to is that, as every English biscuit has its own distinct, individual character, it is only right that one acknowledge them by name. Jammy Dodger anyone?

The Thrilling adventures of Lovelace and Babbage.

2009-07-24T18:22:00.003+01:00

Thanks to a post on io9, I’ve been introduced to the most awesome comic EVER. Sydney Padua, an animator, was inspired to create a comic with Charles Babbage and Ada Lovelace using steam powered computing technology and lots of numerical tables to fight crime and save the world. If you do not know who Babbage and Lovelace are, then shame on you. In short, they were, respectively, the inventor of the computer and the first computer programmer. They were also AWESOME. Lovelace was the only legitimate child of Lord Byron(you know, that poet guy). Babbage invented the form, the penny post, and many other things besides.

Padua is fitting this in around her work life, so updates are sporadic at best, but the art is amazing and the plots are funny and brilliant. And it has footnotes! But you don't have to take my word for it, as LeVar Burton used to say: click the link and see the historical geekyness for yourself.

The Thrilling Adventures of Lovelace and Babbage at 2D Goggles

"It's like Hogwarts for Pikeys!"

2009-07-23T16:17:00.003+01:00

One of my most favouritest movies ever, the new adaptation of St. Trinian’s, is finally coming out on DVD in North America on August 11. Why now is a complete mystery, as the film premiered almost two years ago and was never even shown here, but I am not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I think it’s a brilliant film, but I am surprised at how much hated there is for it out there. On one hand it is being accused of messing with a classic part of English heritage (the original Ronald Searle comics and subsequent films of the 50’s and 60’s), and on the other it is being charged with rampant sexism masquerading as girl power. Now, speaking as a girl myself, I found nothing offensively sexist about it. Yes, some of the girls wander around in inappropriately short uniforms with their garters on display, but it is a statement about the power of sex rather than the objectification of women, and a good portion of the girls aren’t slutty at all. It also does a brilliant job (I think) of taking the mick out of the chick flick industry, and Colin Firth gamely allows himself to be the subject of a host of send-ups.

Overall, I think the problem is that it is really a cult film. It will appeal neither to those who are old enough to be familiar with the originals (too modern for them), nor with the teens to whom it was marketed (too smart for them). The people who do love it, and I know several, are all girls like me: educated, university age girls who know the original through their parents, and grew up in the post Pride and Prejudice era. Given its niche market, it’s not surprising the film didn’t do well, but I know I’ve already preordered my copy on Amazon.

1812 With a Side of Gossip

2009-07-07T20:56:00.003+01:00

One of the things that gets my goat about reenactors here in North America is the conviction that it is not appropriate to recreate any leisured or upper-class life. Dancing, whist and macarons had best be left to those non-historic Janeites. Well! Canada may not have a huge elite, but they did their best to live civilized English lifestyles. I just came across one of the best chroniclers of this Canadian elite, Anne Prevost, who was the daughter of the Govenor General. The social life about which she writes in her diary – when not talking about how the war of 1812 is going – would not seem out of place in Highbury were it not for the snowshoeing and sleigh rides. Only 17 when the war breaks out, Anne has a clear writing style and almost Austenesque cynicism. Here are some gems:

February 12, 1813
“Read Lord Byron's Childe Harold. What a horrible wretch Lord Byron must be.”

February 20, 1813
“Walked before breakfast and caught a severe cold. 22 at dinner. Among the company were three American Officers taken by Colonel Procter near Detroit: Brigadier General Winchester, Colonel Lewis, and Major Madison–the General seems a vulgar, good-humoured man and had much the air of an old Coachman out of place in a shabby livery. Colonel Lewis is a horrible looking fellow, and Major Madison I should think had not long left his place behind the counter.”

Oooh, snap! Forget Laura Secord; there, my friends, is a Canadian heroine we might all be proud of!

Hidden Gem

2009-06-12T21:41:00.001+01:00

Yesterday at the World’s Biggest Book Store I stumbled across an author I had plum forgotten about. Marilyn Todd wrote a great series of Roman mysteries about Claudia Seferia, a gold-digging former prostitute with a gambling problem. I really loved them when I read them back in high school, but sadly most people didn’t agree, and they disappeared from book stores after about the sixth in the series; even the library stopped buying them. I thought she just didn’t write any more, but turns out she just changed publishers. It’s still nigh impossible to find her last six books – the copy at WBB seems to have been a one-of, and the used copies floating around are ridiculously expensive – but fortunately it’s been long enough that after I finish this new one I can reread all the old ones and I won’t remember whodunnit. They really are a lot of fun, and it’s a pity they didn’t do better.

Cheap Knickers for All!

2009-06-05T16:46:00.000+01:00

I think Satan is playing hockey and there are pigs in need of aviator goggles. I was just checking the UK telly listings on the Radio Times website when I noticed the add banner at the top. I caught sight of it for just a second before it changed, and the news so shocked me that I wasn’t entirely sure I read it correctly. I went to the website in question for confirmation, and low and behold it was true; Marks and Spencer’s now delivers. To Canada. Cute coats, cozy jumpers, organic T-shirts and, most importantly, a wide range of affordable bras that fit me, are all now just a mouse click away. They do not, unfortunately, send food, but I don’t suppose Cheddar-Colcannon Mash would travel well anyway. Now, if only new look and Primark would deliver, I’d be sorted!

Good evening Moscow, Toronto calling...

2009-05-26T21:15:00.002+01:00

It’s been over a week, and I’ve had some time to cool off (or sober-up) since last weekend’s Eurovision 2009. I’ve also had a chance to really bone up on my Eurovision history courtesy of the ever entertaining Tim Moore’s book Nul Points, on the 14 people to attain that ignominious Eurovision distinction. Did you know, for instance, that Celine Dion sang – and won – for Switzerland in 1988? Or that Belgium’s 2003 entry was written in an entirely fictional language?

I was a little bitter about what I felt was a undeserved victory for Norway, but after a week of having Fairytale suck in my head, I have to concede that perhaps it’s win wasn’t entirely unmerited. I am also feeling much more sympathetic towards Norway now that I know how seriously they take their Eurovision and how many nul-or-last place finishes they’ve had.

I also found this year’s 4th-place entry from Turkey – which I felt was more a vote for the belly-dancing singer’s hips than for the song – stuck in my head from time to time. The catchiness of these songs really highlight the fact that, now that a 50/50 viewer/jury split has been introduced to the scoring in an attempt to curb political voting (fat chance!), a good song and showy performance will trump any deficiencies in the singing of a Eurovision entry. I tend to forget that, as a singer myself, I am far more critical of vocals than the average Jan Ďoè is going to be.

Speaking of lack-lustre vocal performances: Jade did try her best, bless. It wasn’t her fault she was saddled with and Andrew Lloyd-Stinker. In a year with several ballad-singing female artists, she showed quite poorly against the acts like Iceland’s 2nd place winner. Ah, where's Buck's Fizz when you need them?

Azerbaijan’s 3rd place win is still a puzzle, however. It's a Balkan thing, I guess.

Wanderlust

2009-05-22T21:24:00.001+01:00

I am getting a severe case of itchy feet. As all my friends are jetting off to foreign climes (which, of course, they couldn’t do last year when I was in said climes), I realized that I won’t be going anywhere for a year. A YEAR! Obviously it’s really tough to hear about people heading off to places I miss (Do they make an “I’d rather be in Rutland” T-shirt? They should) like the UK, Paris and Italy, but it’s more than that. I miss being able to go adventuring, to wake up on a sunny Saturday (or more often Friday) and think “I’d like to go somewhere different” and just catch a train for Bath, or Chester, or even Nottingham. I miss the convenience of having most of Europe a two hour flight away, and having the airfare for said flight cost less than a pair of shoes. Now that I can’t just pop over, I am plagued by thoughts of all the places I didn’t see, or want to go back to.

Alas, there is no know cure for the travel bug; one can only treat the symptoms. Since my next fix won’t be coming until my much anticipated return to Italy next May, I shall have to content myself with advising on the vacations of as many other people as I possibly can. So if you’re planning a holiday, the Amateur Travel Agency is open for business.

My Mama Raised Me Right...

2009-05-22T19:43:00.000+01:00

I was just nipping out to Shoppers to post a whole whack of mail, when I nearly stumbled across a shiny new BlackBerry lying in the middle of the sidewalk. I asked the people around if was theirs, and asked inside Shoppers if anyone had reported a phone missing, but to no avail. The usual tried and true method of checking people’s contacts, etc, also came up bust: there wasn’t a single number listed in the address book, and the texts were all in a foreign language. I gave Rogers a call, and they said to bring the phone into any Rogers store, and they could check to see if there was another contact number for the owner on file. Now, here’s where my moral dilemma comes in: if there is no number on file, and if it is felt that I have done what I can to find the owner, should I get to keep the phone? Or is it only right that Rogers repossess it (which seems rather a waste to me)?

Break Out the Spangly Pants!

2009-05-12T18:30:00.000+01:00

It’s that magical time of year again, when cold-war animosities flare up beneath a thin veneer of bad lyrics and synth-pop. That’s right, folks, it’s Eurovision time! Eurovision, that great pan-European contest deemed pathetically risible by any nation east of the Iron curtain, which cannot, in good conscience, be watched with a blood alcohol level of less than 1.0%. I was in France when it was on last year, so I missed my chance to see it presented by the inimitable Terry Wogan, who has bowed out over the event’s increasing politicization. We shall have to see how this year’s new host Graham Norton does.

England

won’t win, of course, but that’s not the point. The point is to get tiddly and watch people with funny accents sing atrocious songs whose lyrics make no sense, even when they aren’t being sung in Borat-style English. There is a sad lack of transvestites or Hair Metal bands this year, although there is a gypsy in a Superhero outfit and a Slavic singer named Svetlana. No matter what, this Sunday I will leave my brain at the door, hunker down in front of my computer, and enjoy some of the simultaneously best and worst music Europe has to offer.

Low-Budget Property-Porn

2009-05-06T20:08:00.001+01:00

As if ogling English country cottages wasn’t enough, I’ve found a whole new (and more accessible) way to indulge my English real-estate habit. Enter Moveflat.com; a well designed classified site for people in London looking to advertise flat-shares. Thanks to a clickable map, you can take a virtual wander around town to look at what flats are available in what areas (and what they go for), as well as sorting them by location and price. What makes Moveflat even better than the property purchase sites is that it’s a lot easier to visualize paying 400-500 pounds per month than a couple of hundred thousand for a house, and you actually learn a little about the people who live there, since people are advertising themselves as flat-mates as much as they are promoting their properties. This lends the “future life in London’ daydream a little bit of extra verisimilitude by providing ready-made wacky flat-mates a la Spaced. Plus London place-names always sound so silly and Dickensian, and just a little bit exotic – I mean, who wouldn’t want to live in Maida Vale?

Canada’s Next Top Regency Model

2009-05-06T19:41:00.000+01:00

I am giddy with excitement: I have been asked to be a model for the next JASNA Toronto talk, which is on Regency fashion. I rather suspect I was asked by virtue of my youth, and the whole thing was thrown into doubt when it was discovered I’m not as thin as I look (not that I look thin), but fortunately the forgiving draw-string nature of mid 1800’s fashion saved my career from ending before it had even begun. They also needed six models and I was the first to have phoned, so she took pity on me despite the fact that I was really too chesty and had short hair. As a plus point I do have my own regency stays, so I suppose it balances out!

Rochester: Not the total ass end of the world.

2009-05-03T01:30:00.000+01:00

After many trials and tribulations I made it safe and sound to Rochester – no mean feat. The bus arrived an hour late to Eastview mall (thanks, customs) and I only just caught the bus to downtown. It didn’t help that no one had any idea the bus even went to Eastview mall, let alone where the stop was. I would have missed it all together if the kindly pharmacist in Rite-Aid hadn’t had the presence of mind to call the mall concierge.

I’m rather sorry I didn’t have more time to spend at Eastview. The place is MASSIVE, and is so classy it makes Yorkdale look sketchy. It even has valet parking, as do many places here; forget Detroit: in Rochester, car is king.

Arrived at my hotel to find a brouhaha in the lobby: turns out the Plaza is holding a big even for the Finger lakes wineries – I can’t even get away for a weekend!

After settling in I ventured out in search of food. Had a lovely wander in the magical evening: sun shining, swallows swooping over the river. Rochester is an interesting place. There are, to paraphrase W.S. Gilbert, the remains of a fine city about it. Unlike places in the UK, however, Rochester can’t blame the luftwaffe for it’s patchy demolition and urban decay. I did, however, manage to find one of it’s few unspoilt (or rather repaired) corners. Highfalls is essentially Rochester’s answer to the Distillery district: a complex of some of the city’s original factories, with stunning views of Rochester falls and the river. Looking down from the bridge I even saw white-tailed deer and wild turkeys grazing on the riverbank. Most of the resto’s were too chichi for my budget, but did find a nice pub with pretty good grub. Had an embarrassing moment when I didn’t recognize a single beer on tap aside from Guiness; suffice to say we Ontarians aren’t missing anything in that department.

Rochester makes me sad about the depression. They just seem to be getting the hang of urban renewal, and now everything has ground to a halt, with no revival of prosperity in sight.
Now it’s back to the hotel to rest up for tomorrow; fingers crossed getting home will be easier.

Really Bad Timing...

2009-04-17T15:23:00.001+01:00

I am sooo frustrated! In my "I miss England" googling of properties for sale, I came across what is pretty much my ideal English cottage. When I first saw it, I thought it would get snapped up right away, as it is in a nice village and well priced for what it is. But I guess the market really has tanked, as, even after four months, it is STILL on the market, and now at a reduced price! So now, on top of missing out on my perfect job at Cambridge, I am missing out on my perfect house - ghaaa! If only this was all happening two years from now, when I actually had a permanent job that could support a mortgage. Mind you, I might find it a wee bit tough to find a job in the middle of a depression.

Hi, my name is...

2009-04-03T14:24:00.002+01:00

Ran across a seriously embarrassing name today - almost as bad as my friend's uncle, Drew Peacock (say it out loud. Get it?). So, this guy's name is Benjamin Dover, usually shortened to Ben. Think about it. Yeah. That's classic Bart Simpson, that is.

"The Plague Cemetery" Toronto, Canada

2009-03-18T19:55:00.002Z

Mum and I were watching a documentary the other night on Irish immigration to Toronto during the potato famine (this is the exciting kind of life I lead these days), and the typhus epidemic that followed them. It pointed out that those who died here were buried in the Catholic cemetery, which is now under the playground of St. Paul’s Catholic school at the foot of my street, right by the office. They had a sound bite from a guy saying how it was too bad that the cemetery hadn’t survived, because then there was no way to memorialize the typhus victims where they lay (completely ignoring the massive Catholic church next door or the Monument to Bishop Powel – who died nursing the sick – at the end of the block). It got me thinking, though, what a brilliant episode of Time Team it would make. It’s a well-documented, guaranteed interesting site (bodies are always interesting) without anything having been built on top of it, and out of use during the dig season. Can’t you just see Tony Robinson larking about Bright St., or Mick and Phil knocking back Pints at The Dominion (Heck, even the pub names are auspicious!)? After all, Antiques Roadshow made a few jaunts across the pond. I wouldn’t go so far as to suggests a full fledged CA version, though; There are very few places in Canada that have anything more than one or two things that might be prehistoric arrow-heads, but which are probably just rocks.

Note: I have just consulted Wikipedia, and aparently Time Team have dug in North America, at Jamestown in Virginia and St. Mary's City in Maryland. They've also gone digging for Dinosaurs in Montana and excavated at Nevis in the West Indies. Interestingly, they have only ever shot one episode in Leicestershire, and while I was in the UK no less. It allegedly features Leicester SA&AH staff, so I shall have to track it down...

Hinc Lucem et Pocula Sacra

2009-03-06T21:24:00.001Z

My perfect starter job is up for grabs – two years early. The Classics library at Cambridge is hiring a graduate trainee librarian. They want someone who has a background in classics and who is interested in becoming a librarian i.e. no formal certification necessary. Imagine: punting down the Cam to work, popping out for strawberries and champers while I’m on a break from helping the estimable Mary Beard and they guys writing the Cambridge Latin Course. And what better place, I ask, to find myself a duke? Plus it’s within an easy train-ride of Rutland. I would be a total shoe-in if I had my MLIS, and that, my friends, is the catch. Not only do I not have my MLIS, but it is during the very period over which the job runs that I will be studying to get the qualifications necessary for the position. Argh!

Despite the scheduling conflicts, I am seriously considering applying for the spot anyway. It would be interesting – and perhaps indicative of where I stand in the UK job market – to see if I got an interview, and if my current round of uni applications goes belly up (which is a distinct possibility) I would have a more than acceptable plan B.

The Hole at the Top of the Map

2009-01-29T15:04:00.002Z

Growing up in Ontario, local wines are pretty much inescapable. I think I was able to recognize a Pelee Island Riesling before I could tell my champers from my Chablis. Outside of Canada, however, no one believes we even make wine, let alone that it is any good. I actually got laughed at when I asked about Ontario wine in the Leicester Odd Bins. Canadian producers are constantly overlooked in the wine magazines, without a regular slot for short reviews like the other wine producing nations have. I just bought a book on wine for beginners which lists the nations that produce each varietal, and despite being an American book, and one which mentions the (frankly less consistent) wines of upper New York State, it doesn’t mention Canada at all. Clearly the VQA is dropping the ball. How can they protest that they aren’t selling enough wine if they don’t make any effort to sell internationally, or, indeed, inter-provincially? In my opinion, relying on Ontarians to drink everything we produce is just laziness. We need to start looking outside our boarders for a market, we need to do it in a big way, and we need to do it now.

Oh look, a Pizza Express!

2009-01-28T20:51:00.001Z

Went to go see Last Chance Harvey on Sunday with mum, and thoroughly enjoyed it. It’s a predictable movie, but sweet and engaging. The basic plot is that Harvey – a bit of a pathetic looser – travels to London for the wedding of his daughter, only to have her inform him that she wants her step-father to give her away. To add insult to injury Harvey misses his flight back and thus a very important meeting-costing him his job. He ends up drowning his sorrows with Jack Daniels in a Heathrow bar, where he starts chatting up Kate, a single forty-something who leads a lonely life constantly pestered by her bored mother. It’s a film in which nothing much happens, and it takes a while to get going, but once Emma Thompson’s Kate and Dustin Hoffman’s titular Harvey meet, it’s irresistible. In a way it’s the English answer to Before Sunrise/ Before Sunset. I am definitely going to buy it as soon as it comes out on DVD, as I can see it being a perfect down-in-the-dumps movie. I think my opening sentence pretty much sums up why I loved it so much: Emma Thompson’s character is me in twenty years. Heck, it’s me now.

Last Chance Harvey also made me realize how ridiculous my longing for England is getting. I was getting misty over Heathrow. Heathrow, people! Not good. It’s going to be a long three years…

Social Butterfly

2009-01-27T16:05:00.002Z

February is going to be nuts. My life is so quiet normally, but everything just ended up condenced into one month. Not that I'm complaining; I'm super Hyped.

For Valentine's Day Weekend (ok, Family Day) I'm off to Montreal, partly to scope out the Library school, but mostly to see Mes Filles. It's going to be strange to be visiting Montreal knowing that I'm going to be living there next year (assuming I ever manage to get references), something I never thought I would have the chance to do. Plus hopefully Montreal will sooth my travel-itchy feet; it is as close to Paris as I'll be getting for a while.

The last weekend of Feb I am going Hamilton - where I have never been - to attent the Ontario Living History Conference. It will be weired to go it alone, but I think it will be a good time anyway. I'm mostly there for the dancing, but I was impressed with how many civilian lectures there were - it's not all guns, thank heavens!

The weekend in between the O-town set are finally deigning to visit me. I've gone off in a total tizzy of event planning, trying to organize a super Friday night. I'm really excited about it, not just because I get to see my friends (which is awesome) but because I get to party in my hometown, which never happens. And so far, touch wood, things seem to be going smoothly, as everyone I invited from Nelson et. al. are able to make it - not a maybe in the lot!

So, now I'm looking forward to March, too, as then I'll finally get a rest!

The Commute

2009-01-22T20:08:00.002Z

There is nothing like working in an office full of people who live in the outer reaches of suburbia to make me appreciative of my 15 minute walk to work. I feel a definite warm glow of smugness as I listen to my coworkers panic and kevetch at the first flake of snow about what the roads will be like or the state the GO Train will be in. Not that my commute doesn't have its drawbacks. I have no option other than to walk, even when it's truly disgusting outside. There is no excuse for my tardiness in the mornings other than my inability to get out of the house on time. Perhaps the most depressing aspect of my walk to work is that it makes me feel about five years old again, to be heading out the door at quarter to nine, bundled up in layer after layer, and helped to cross at every intersection by whistle-tweeting guards.

A bit of a giggle

2009-01-08T16:19:00.003Z

I really wish friends would stop sending me funny things at work. It does not do to giggle while alone at the reception desk. It was all my friend Colin's fault. He posted a hilarious spoof of the Battlestar miniseries as told through a Facebook updates page. It proved that this had in turn been inspired by an equally amusing P&P version. It speaks, I think, to the genius of Austen and to her ability to create drama through mostly mundane and small-scale crises that Pride and Prejudice can so easily be adapted to (and here I quote Bridget Jones) "The informality of the messaging medium". And the thought of Lydia Bennet having Facebook is truly frightening!

Well Shit.

2008-10-22T14:26:00.002+01:00

So, it's official; the universe hates me. I discovered yesterday that my Classics course do not, as I had thought, count as History courses in applying to teacher's college. In fact, they don't count as anything at all. This means that I am more than 5 credits short - a whole year's worth of school - on my application, and that is without meeting all the volunteering demands. My reluctance to do all this hoop jumping has made me realize that perhaps teaching really isn't what I want to do. Surely if it really was my calling I wouldn't mind that fact that it will be two years before I can even apply for my degree, or begrudge a little volunteer work with at-risk children?

Of course, if I don't go into teaching I'm kind of at a loss as to what I will do. I have some options, but I'm worried about seizing on something precipitously just because I want to hurry up and get on with my life, and am already feeling behind on the growing-up scale. Right now the top contenders are Museum Studies so that I can run living history museums or historic houses, or Librarianship, though as a university librarian rather than a public one like mum. Her stories about TPL are enough to put anyone off.

On top of all this life crisis, I still haven't found a job and likely won't be getting a Paycheck until December. Oh, and I'm nearly $4000 in debt. Sigh. I'm amazed I don't have an ulcer from all this stress.

On the upside, I did have a lovely reunion in Ottawa with the girls this weekend. And, across the pond, season seven of Spooks (aka MI-5) starts on Monday with Richard Armitage joining the cast. I saw the season trailer on Youtube: I always forget how dishy he is. Decidedly the best thing to come out of Leicestershire since Stilton.

Ich Bin Ein Wiener

2008-09-22T14:19:00.005+01:00

I was a little hesitant about Vienna at first. My youth hostel was over by the train station, and while it was not the worst part of town, it was not the most picturesque part of it either. It did help that I had arrived after a 10 hour train trip quite hungry, only to be trapped by my chatty and more than slightly mad roommate for an hour. When I finally did escape her, I managed to get more than a little lost looking for a guidebook recommended restaurant, then I couldn't find a bank machine. In the end I was so hungry I gave up and just had a pizza, too tired to deal with deciphering a German menu.

In the morning things looked much better. I had wisely purchased an unlimited 3 day transit pass, which meant I could hop on and off the buses, trams and subway at will. The Viennese public transportation system is very comprehensive, and their tram system is even better and more fun than Toronto's. A quick 5 minute tram ride got me straight to the old city's outer ring, and I was immediately overwhelmed by the vast quantity of grandiose architechture and number of parks and gardens. Immagine Paris at its most luxurious and chich then tripple it and you have an idea of what Vienna's public buildings are like.

The first day I spent just wandering around downtown. It was packed with tourists, but there were enough quiet corners that I didn't mind. In the afternoon I visted the Hoffburg, the Hapsburg's winter palace. Each new emperor used to build a new wing for himself, so it grew into a rather pleasantly hodge-podge maze of palaces, now converted into a variety of musems. The bis sight there is not the State appartments as one would expect, but rather the Museum dedicated to the Empress Elizabeth, or Sissi. After she was assasinated by an anarchist she became this massive legendary figure, supposedly this great missunderstood free spirit who suffocated under the wheight of resposibility of ebing Empress. I my opion, she was a shelfish, conceited bitch. I was far more impressed with her husband, Emperor Franz Josef I. He took his job as Emperor very seriously, and used to get up every morning at 4 am and work until 10 at night. He was a great familly man and loved to have pictures of his children around him while he worked. Franz Josef also believed that everyone should have access to their Emperor, and held regular public audiences, and allegedly never forgot a face. I shall feel quite guilty now every time I have to discuss the WWI, as I have far more sympathy now for the Krauts.

Day Two I went to see the other imperial Palace, Shonbrunn, which I loved. You can see where Empress Maria Theresa's daughter, Marie Antoinette, got her legendary good taste. But while shonnbrunn is beautiful, it's also surprisingly homey, in a way that Versailles or even some of the grander English houses aren't. There are lots of little sitting rooms, and a lovely intimate family dinning room where the imperial family actually ate most of their meals. And the gardens a lovely, with lots of shady paths and manicures vistas, and a spectacular view of the entire city from the Glorriette, a sort of large summerhouse built on the top of a hill.

Day three was spent entirely in the Kunsthistorisches Musem. It has to be said that there are many advantages to Empire, and fabulous collections of art and antiquities are just one of them. Given that the Hapsburgs controlled Spain, North Italy and the Neitherlands at various points when they were at their art-producing best, it's not surprising that their collection of renaissance and baroque paintings are phenomenal. They also have quite a nifty collection of Egyptians and Grecco-Roman pieces. But amazing as the collection is, it is nearly eclipsted by the building which houses them, a no-expense spared neo-renaissance confection. Hard to imagine Micheal Lee-Chin or Frank Gehry doing anything as ornate or grandious as that; they just don't make them like they used to.

Of Cuckoo-Clocks and Chocolate

2008-09-22T13:53:00.002+01:00

Switzerland is pretty much as advertised. The walls of the route to customs at the airport in Geneva, for example, were lined with ads for either banks or watches. Everyone really does speak a million languages, switching merrily from French to German to English and back again without batting an eyelid. The rivers and lakes are all the shocking glacial teal of Lake Louise, and even in the height of summer the Jungfrau was still snow-capped. And it is very clean. Seriously. My washroom at home is probably dirtier than the public toilets in Bern.

Bern, the capitol of Switzerland, is very pretty, but suffers heavily from a self-satisfied smugness which, although not unwarranted, makes it rather hard to warm to the place. It’s a tiny city, about the size of Kingston, and has a historic core that dates back mostly to the 16th century. it's so small, in fact, that they have an audio guide of the entire down-town! The two most famous things about Bern are the numerous renaissance fountains topped by fanciful and colourfully painted sculptures, and the fact the all the streets of the old town are arcaded, in a way that reminded me more of Chester than Rome.

The whole point of going to Bern was to visit old family friends, and it was lovely to be staying in a proper home for a while. Although they had to work most of the time I was there, they did kindly take me to Interlaken, Switzerland’s most famous town, on my last day. Although Interlaken is horribly touristy, it’s geographic position in a little valley between two lakes and hemmed in by towering peaks is spectacular, although I found it rather hard to restrain myself from burst into “Wunderbar!” from Kiss Me Kate at the sight of the Jungfrau. And Interlaken had real Swiss Chalets, ones built in the 16th century rather than tacky modern North American imitations, and having nothing to do with BBQ chicken.

The train ride through the mountains to Austria was also dramatic and well worth the 10 hours it took to get to Vienna.

Belated Travelogue

2008-09-22T13:52:00.000+01:00

Mea Culpa. I am very much behind in recording all my travelling adventures as promised. In my defence, things have been a bit mad round here, what with having to move out right after I got back, and there being no internet at M’s (I am currently stealing the neighbour’s wireless signal). But, now that I for once have a day at my leisure, I will endeavour to correct my negligence. So, here goes...

Throwing in the Towel

2008-08-26T20:37:00.000+01:00

It’s official: I’ve quit school. I went to see my tutor today and finalised everything. It hasn’t been an easy decision to make, but the right ones never are, and I do feel that this has been the right choice. My tutor, as always, was a perfect angel about the whole thing, and pointed out that I am hardly the first to leave the program, nor will I be the last. I’m heartbroken to be coming home empty handed, and I think I’ll be bitter about the whole debacle for a long time to come, but I just have to keep remind myself that this is only a detour, not a derailment, on the road to attaining my goals.
To console myself I’m jetting off tomorrow for a brief rail-tour of central European cities. I start with a visit to Jim and Laura, old friends of my dads who live in Bern and who have often reiterated their desire to see us in Switzerland, an invitation which until now none of us has until now been in a position to accept. From the land of cuckoo clocks and strict bank secrecy laws I’m taking the train through the Alps to Vienna for a heavy dose of schnitzle and Habsburg grandeur. My last stop will be the beautiful city of Prague, a place I’ve wanted to visit since I saw the first Mission: Impossible. It’s a little intimidating to be visiting places where I don’t speak the language. I’m counting on Switzerland to break me in gently before I really have to put my smattering of traveller’s German - and even less fluent Czech - to the test. FYI, Czech is HARD. Nonetheless, it should be exactly the exciting sort of adventure to take my mind off my academic catastrophes. Auf Wiedersehen!

22? Wow, you’re, like, practically dead!

2008-07-31T15:39:00.000+01:00

I’m feeling old, which is rather a sad state of affairs given that I am still two months shy of my 23rd birthday. Let me explain by saying that tonight I went to see “Angus, Thongs, and Prefect Snogging” - the rather unsteady and disappointing adaptation of the brilliant girly tween books by Louise Rennison - tonight at the Odeon. Although I only read (and finished) the series about a months ago, when the first volume was published back before the turn of the millennium, I was the same age as the novels protagonist. Looking around the packed theatre tonight, however, I doubt any of the squealing small-fry in attendance could even read in 1999. And there was me, sitting alone amidst the chattering, top-shop clad teeny-boppers in my nice circle skirt and red jumper, and feeling about a hundred years old. It seems like only yesterday was that age: being a permanent student I tend to forget really how much time has passed. I was such a different, and might even say better, person in grade 8 - although I seem to have reverted to a frighteningly similar hair-cut - although “maturiousity” (to quote the film in question) does have its upsides. Being around that many teenage girls in their natural habitat did give me pause about whether or not I really want to be spending the rest of my life trying to cram some classical history and a smattering of Latin into their ungrateful little noggins, but, I decided, as I shall be at least twenty-five by the time I qualify, I shall be well ancient, and have the gravitas of my advance years to lend me authority. Not.

Berry Good

2008-07-28T16:21:00.001+01:00

One of the great things about England is the vast quantity of free plant-life. Roses, daises, bluebells and more can all be found free for the picking along roadsides and growing wild in parks. The current crop is blackberries, and their abundance makes cottage raspberry harvests look poor indeed. Yesterday I want and harvested a luscious crop in the scrubland at the edge of the cemetery, enough to fill a whole big bowl, and there were still plenty more. Of course, having gleaned all these fruits from the hedgerows, I then had to find something to do with them. It doesn’t help that I am not a big fan of blackberries in an unprocessed form. Dealing with these berries has been a test of my culinary skills. Attempt one was a batch of open tarts, which proved more difficult than anticipated because all the recipes I could find were for two-crust pies and tarts, and having bought pre-made piecrusts (I don’t do pastry), I didn’t have a second crust. With a little improvisation I think I have turned out a more than acceptable offering of whole fruits set in a cinnamon-blackberry jelly: they certainly look good, although I haven’t tried them yet.

The tarts, however, didn’t use up nearly enough of the fruit, however, so today I am moving onto more advanced projects, namely the very scary job of jam making. I have read about a million different instructions on the internet - oh, what I wouldn’t give for The Joy of Cooking right now - and I think I can do it. At least if I completely screw up, it isn’t as if I’m out scads of money for all the fresh fruit. And so far it seems to be going OK. The hardest part has been figuring out when the jam is set, which seems to fall into the same category as deciding when bread dough is sufficiently kneaded; not difficult if you have someone who knows what they’re doing show you once, but bally difficult when you’re trying to do it sight unseen from a book.

Personally I blame Nigella for all this. At Em’s I whiled away my morning cuppa’ by flipping through How to be a Domestic Goddess, which is always inclined to give me ideas above my station. If, however, I succeed in jam-making, I think I might at least be able to consider myself a Venerable in the domestic pantheon. There must be something in the air here in Freeman’s Common that encourages domesticity in Canadians; since my arrival I seem to have spent a more than average amount of time in the kitchen, not only cooking but, gasp!, cleaning. Tarts, jams, house-hold tips: W.I. , here I come...

The Greatest Spinster of Them All

2008-07-22T21:56:00.005+01:00

Tomorrow I am heading off to chick-lit mecca, i.e. Chawton, the home of Jane Austen. I am actually going to visit my friend M, but she just happens to live a few miles away, and also happens to be stuck working all day, so I must perforce amuse myself. The village where M lives sounds delightful, although she doesn't seem to think so. I can't blame her as, charming as it sounds, it is hardly the sort of place an energetic teenager would wish to be stuck in for the summer. M does at least have a job working in one of the two local gastro-pubs (ah, the South; ever so posh), which is quite entertaining as she is strictly religious and doesn't drink. She's been encouraging all her friends to come down for a visit, as she has been alone in her house for two weeks. Up until I called last week she hadn't had any bites, but now her weekend is packed, with myself and then two other friends arriving. Fortunately I am a low-maintenence guest. She was quite surprised when she called to talk travel arrangements that I had already figured it all out, including which bus to take from Winchester to her house and its schedule. Though, as she pointed out, she has been accustomed to directing guys.

But back to Austen. For those of you who don't know (for shame!) Austen's house in Chawton is a lovely red brick cottage which Jane shared with her widowed mother and her sister Cassandra for the last 8 years of her life. It was there that Austen wrote Mansfield Park, Emma, and (my favourite) Persuasion, and revised and published the rest of her works.

Although Chawton is a good twelve miles from where M lives, there is a rail line that runs from the town of New Alresford to Alton, a mile from Chawton. And it's not just any rail line, but a historic steam train! I luuurve steam trains, although I've only been on one, but they are just sooo romantic. Thus not only do I get to OD on Austen, but I also get to imagine myself as Margret Hale, dashing to and from Milton (the fictional industrial city in Gaskell's North and South, not the Toronto suburb, as there is nothing romantic about the Toronto suburb, and there is certainly no chance of getting snogged by John Thorton on the GO). And for once the English weather looks like it will cooperate, with lovely sunshine and warm temperatures predicted for the next three days. Huzzah!

Eeew, Eeew, and thrice-times EEEEEEW!

2008-07-19T23:13:00.002+01:00

Oh dear Gott in Himmel! Now, those of you who have lived with me can attest to the fact that I am not the neatest of people. My standards of cleanliness are not up to those of many other, more neat-freaky people. Thus it is not a good sign when I look at a room and remark, as I did with the kitchen of my new digs, “well, this could use a good tidy”. Sad to say, that was only on first impressions. The better acquainted I become with the (cell) Block G cooking facilities, the more convinced I am that they are a major health risk, and require not simply a good clean, but a hazmat team. Seriously. For example in the fridge (which is still jam-packed despite the house being half-empty) I found a container of lemonade with a best before date of the 7th of September - 2007. Yuck. Not to mention all the other nameless horrors and sentient life forms germinating in the assorted half-full jars of expired pasta-sauce. Carol, the char-woman, and I have become great buddies commiserating over the state of the kitchen. Apparently when she started cleaning for Freeman’s Common last September, a lot of the stuff that is kicking around on the counter tops and in the cupboards was already here. So before the USA decides to invade us for creating biometric weapons of mass destruction, I have hatched a cunning plan. Tomorrow I will gather all my new colocs in the kitchen - our only common space assuming you don’t count the stairwell (although it is quite a nice, airy stairwell) - ply them with freshly baked triple-chocolate cake, and then hit them with an organized list of kitchen cleaning processes, namely a) the claiming of goods; b) the putting of said goods into demarcated cupboards; and c) the chucking out of everything else. If all goes according to plan it should be as easy as invading Belgium.

Move Your Blooming Arse

2008-07-14T19:03:00.003+01:00

In all their wisdom, the residential powers that be dictated that I could not stay in my lovely, familiar room for my last two months in Leicester, but had to move to an alternative site. I was not best pleased, fond of 118 as I am, but since I could not change this fact (believe me, I tried) I resigned myself to it with good grace. The one hitch in the plan was that although we had to be out of our rooms by 10am on the 20th of July, we could not get into our new ones until 2pm. My head was filled with visions of my boxes and myself sitting on the front lawn for four hours in the pouring rain. As move-out day drew closer I decided to take my concerns to the management, who informed me most obliging me that I could, despite what all the paperwork said, move in anytime this week. In fact, they said, the sooner the better as it eases the workload for our poor porter. Thus I fixed on this Wednesday for the great migration as it is supposedly going to be rain-free, and hurried home to start packing, a process which took remarkably little time.

There is something so depressing about moving. Even if you're happy to go, it's rather sobering seeing all your earthly possessions (or in my case all my earthy possessions this side of the Atlantic), sitting in a pile in the middle of an empty, characterless room. I haven't seen my little room look so lifeless since I moved in: all my posters and photos are down, my books packed and shelves emptied. Then on top of all this esoteric angst is the practical angst of how the hell I am going to get Three suitcases, two Ikea bags, seven boxes, sundry shoppers, a desk-chair and a standing fan four blocks across campus. It's certainly doable, though will likely involve an extortionate cab ride, but it is a pain. Given that I am moving in sight (and site) unseen, I sincerely hope it is all worth it!

Meet the 21st Century Spinster

2008-07-12T19:17:00.000+01:00

At the beginning of this month there was a big long article in the Guardian about how feminism is under threat from a neo-neo-conservative blacklash. Very scary reading indeed for the daughter of a first-wave feminist, but it did get me thinking. One of the points it raised was that society has become obsessed with motherhood, and that once again it is seen as a woman's ultimate goal - if we ever stopped thinking that. What is a single girl without any maternal instincts and no real desire to for a man in her life (except for the role he might play as Ken to her Barbie in the fantasy wedding she's been planning since she was five) to do? I could simply roll over and accept the fact that I will be seen as a social pariah for the rest of my life, my solo status put down to being unable to get a man rather than conscious choice, or, like many other women of my generation, I can stand-up and reclaim my right to be single.

Adjunct to the modern feminist stance of saying "No thank you, I do not want a man" is the rehabilitation of the term spinster. Men can be bachelors without scorn, but what can you call a single woman that isn't massively insulting? Maiden is ridiculously archaic, not to mention often inaccurate, Old Maid is just rude, and you can't call someone a bachelorette without conjuring up images of Cilla Black hosting Blind Date. This leaves the term spinster, now only slightly less insulting than Old Maid. An increasing number of women, however, are trying to reclaim the word for our own, like blacks and nigger and gays and queer.

Spinster was originally added to a woman's name to denote her occupation, like Smith or Forrester, as spinning yarn was one of the few ways in which a single woman in the middle ages could earn a living. Being spinsters made these woman financially independent, and gradually the term took on a legal meaning as the title given to a woman free from coverture - the automatic ownership of her earnings and property by her father, husband, or other male guardian. Indeed, in the 17th century, as the OED tells me, spinster was " the only addition for all unmarried women, from the Viscount's Daughter downward". It was only with the Victorian era that spinster, along with table legs and sweat, came to have a derogatory meaning, a view further enhanced by the preponderance of single woman hanging around in the 50's and 60's, many toward the elderly end of the scale, as a result of the two wars.

What I hope this brief etymological history lesson shows is that there is nothing inherently derogatory in the word spinster. In fact, it describes a woman of independent, go-getter spirit who can do quite well for herself without a man, thank you very much. It is, in short, the perfect word to lead the charge for single women everywhere. As Love and the Modern Spinster puts it, we spinsters of the 21st century "do our own choosing. We embrace romance and relationship, but with a consciousness of both the joys and the costs involved. We know that it’s nice to wake up next to a warm man, but that the trade-offs are that he’ll likely leave the toilet seat up and forget to pick up his underwear." How True!