New beginnings

Well, it’s been a while folks, and the last few months have flown by.

November saw me briefly returning to the Motherland to see family and friends, and to collect a pretty blue biscuit tin containing the last of the ashes from my poor old dad.

In true Spencer O’Rourke style, he’s ended up scattered here there and everywhere (at last count, it was the TT course in the Isle of Man, two different places in Ireland, Hatfield in the UK, and eventually somewhere in Canada).

I’m not sure where I’m going to put him yet but a couple of places spring to mind, and I might even do both. I would share, however I understand it’s not entirely legal to just go dispersing cremated relatives wherever you want, but suffice to say it will be somewhere peaceful and picturesque.

In life, my dad was a modern day Caine who spent much of his adult life just walking the earth (albeit designing cars and without the spiritual outlook and Kung Fu skills… but you catch my drift?), so it feels appropriate not to confine Grasshopper to one place in the afterlife.

Old chums

But that was two months ago, and now it’s January, and after a hectic family Christmas and a wonderful visit from old Brit friends, 2013 feels like it’s going to be a good one.

17 months after we moved here, living in Canada still feels like we’ve arrived in the Promised Land. I actually can’t think of a time of year here that I don’t enjoy (except Black Friday in Walmart, which is hell on earth). And this month is going to herald our inaugural trip to the ski slopes, en famille!

I’ve decked out the children with the appropriate attire, and after much nagging, the old man finally took himself off to Ripcurl and invested in a bright and trendy outfit that will ensure he never gets lost in a blizzard.

We are now very much a family with all the gear, and no idea!

Actually that’s not strictly true since I can ski and have done sporadically since I was a child, but Rob hasn’t put on a pair of skis in 30 odd years so it’ll be particularly interesting to see how his 42 year old carcass holds up on the slopes…

Bad news

But if one thing does cheese me off about Canada, it’s the boring news coverage and restrictive access to online newspapers.

As an online news junkie I now find myself in limbo-land with regards to current affairs, feeling very much stuck half way between English and Canadian newspapers.

While no longer interested in much of the daily news in the UK, at least stories are written in an engaging (often tongue-in-cheek) style that makes you want to read more – even if it is complete dross about the latest p*rn star Charlie Sheen’s been seen snogging in Mexico.

But I just can’t get excited about the content and layout of the Vancouver Sun and the Globe and Mail.

Case in point, the lead story in today’s Sun was about Canada losing to Russia in the World Junior Hockey Championships.

I mean, really? I know Canadians pride themselves on being hockey-mad, but shouldn’t the massive earthquake in Alaska that sparked tsunami warnings along a lengthy part of the BC coastline today, come before a story about a bunch of feisty young men who chase a little back dot around the ice before frequently stopping to punch each other?!

As a Brit I clearly don’t quite get it yet, but just sayin…

Amateur film critic

But it has meant that I’ve started spending a bit less time in front of the computer, and more time catching up on some good movies, now that I’ve finally worked out how Netflix works using the Wii.

So I’ll finish with some recommendations (and a few self-indulgent opinions):

Smokin’ Aces – Uber violent but very stylish gangster flick, with some big names. Not for kids, and don’t eat while you watch it, it’ll put you off your dinner.

Dear John – Romantic tosh with the lovely Channing Tatum. Forget what it’s about, just watch it to oggle the eye candy before he became Magic Mike.

Hunger Games – I thought this was going to be about something else entirely but it’s Running Man vs Lord of the Flies – for kids? Good. But I’m not entirely sure it’s suitable for children…

The Notebook - How on earth did I only hear about this film recently? A fantastic romp (literally) about star-crossed lovers. Bittersweet and fabulous, with the swoonsome Ryan Gosling.

Big ‘n’ Chunky Sweet 16

Cuddly

This, ladies and gentleman, is what can happen to your carcass if you work in a chocolate factory.

Or, if you suddenly give up a childhood full of sport, to enjoy a Bacchanalian youth on the English Riviera (a.k.a. Southend-on-sea).

Worryingly, this is what could happen to me (again), now that all my children are in full-time education, if I don’t start pounding the streets more often.

I won’t blame my children if I get fat of course, but for the first time in 9 years, five whole hours during the day actually belongs to ME; and this means learning how to eat properly again during daylight hours.

Lunchtime, for almost a decade has been relegated to eating small quantities of something simple, scoffed on the hoof, while being constantly interrupted and summoned by midget drill sergeants with stereo calls for more drinks, or a shouted demand to wipe a bum.

Yucky

I mean seriously, is there any better way to ensure you don’t gorge yourself on peanut butter sandwiches, than peering at a child’s deposits in the bottom of a toilet bowl?

It’s as though my children instinctively knew that they could help me to stay slim.

With Halloween around the corner and the knowledge that in just over 3 weeks, the house will be filled with candy again for at least another 6 months, I’ve taken a pre-emptive stance and increased my exercise regime.

This means going to the gym and running four times a week, and thanks to a hill-running workout with the Peninsula Runners on Tuesday night – which was surely designed for mountain goats (?) – my butt cheeks have been singing to me for two days now.

But with Saturday looming, and the need to slip into my favourite leopard print trousers for a party, I’m determined to spend all of tomorrow resisting the box of Tim Horton donuts that Rob brought home from work today…

Other than that it’s been a lovely week. Beautiful weather, some gorgeous views of the surrounding mountains, and pretty industrious now that I actually have time to work during the day.

Blundering abroad

And this week heralds the publication of Forced to Fly, a collection of stories by expat women about their foreign humiliations, one of which is written by yours truly!

An anthology that’s previously found its way into corporate goodie bags for relocating employees, Forced to Fly is a humorous introduction to the inevitable cultural gaffes and embarrassing incidents that most of us face when living abroad.

First day at school

Indian Summer

I’ve decided that September is my favorite month in BC.

I love the deep cornflower blue sky and the breathtaking mountain vistas over Mount Baker and the North Shore. I absolutely adore the gorgeous Canadian maples that are beginning to turn red; and I love the crisp clear autumn mornings that turn into warm sunny days.

But more than anything, I love it when the children return to school after nine exhausting, relentless, and utterly mind-frazzling weeks of school summer vacation.

And this September is particularly momentous for yours truly, because all four children are now at school!

I have dreamed of this day for years, and seeing backpacked number four trot off excitedly on his first day was a wonderful feeling. Because not only was my happy and confident little man thrilled to be starting school, but after nearly 10 years of breeding, nurturing and slaving, I really felt like I was due some time off.

Back in 2003 at the start of our intensive breeding program, I thought my life was mapped out for the next fifty years:

1)   Grow peppers in England

2)   Have four kids and continue working

3)   Employ a nanny to help out

Then real life intervened halfway through the final pregnancy with number four, the grand plan changed, and we had to follow the pepper-growing jobs overseas, and without our much-loved nanny.

Throw into the mix: a complete absence of grandparental support; substituting my professional life for fulltime motherhood and houswifedom; and then moving to a third country in as many years, and I’m sure you can imagine how desperately I was looking forward to some peace, quiet and solitude for a few hours a day.

And now that I have it, it is as sweet as I imagined. Indeed I am writing this blog IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY! Surrounded by nothing more than the tranquil, calming sound of running water in the nearby creek and birds tweeting merrily in the garden.

It would be almost completely perfect, if it weren’t for bloody Donald the Jack Russell tip-tapping manically around the wooden floors…

But seeing as it could be at least another seven years until we can have Donald stuffed and wall-mounted, then I guess we’re finally going to have to learn to get along.

Sgt O’Neill: the day after he’s moved house; just as his wife tells him she’s going back to work tomorrow, leaving him in charge of their four young children, and unpacked boxes.

Moving hell

Moving house is one of the most stressful, exhausting, time-consuming, and totally un-fun activities, that consenting adults can indulge in.

FACT.

But in our case, it feels like a fetish we’ve become almost powerless to resist.

Last week we moved for the sixth time, into our seventh house, in three countries, spanning two continents. In five years.

The latest move was conducted with four children aged between three to eight years old, without a grandparent in sight, and with only the wonderful help of some really super new Canadian (and one Brit) chums to help us with the heavier items.

We actually had quite a few generous offers to palm off the kids during said move, but having done this so many times, we’re now a) sad experts, and b) it’s actually easier to just keep them around rather than have to drop off and collect them while trying to lug boxes around, and conduct errands.

Anyway, I’m now absolutely shattered and feeling REALLY bad-tempered and very unsociable (and a bit fat), and desperately trying to hang onto some thread of my sanity that is usually only salvaged after a jolly good run.

Except that I haven’t had time to run for a whole week – which is not good for my frazzled marbles.

Rob (husband), took off three days for the whole house move (generous or what?!), then went back to peaceful, ordered work, abandoning me to the company of our four demanding children, whining Donald (the family Jack Russell); sh*tloads of boxes, and a feeling akin to that of Sgt. O’Neill in Platoon, who looks on in abject desperation as Charlie Sheen is airlifted out of Vietnam….

Running on empty

Note to South Surrey residents. If you see a deranged woman (in a dark pink running top) – with loads of young children cheering her on from the bank as though she’s winning the Olympic 10K – just running round and around South Surrey Athletic Track, on any given morning; then it’s probably me.

It’s also worth mentioning that my husband and I have had some of our finest arguments in the last few days and there’s been an ungodly amount of swearing going on – enough to make a seasoned sailor blush.

And just to top off a very unpleasant week, I managed to embarrass myself in the bank on Friday, when a very nice lady came up to me and quietly whispered in my ear that the zip on the back of my skirt was undone.

Doesn’t sound too bad you might think. Except this particular skirt is prone to unzipping itself unless I secure a little button at the top (which I generally always do), and without it, anyone standing behind me must have got an eyeful of thonged bum cleavage. Classy.

But thankfully it’s not just me, and a few days later at the beach, Rob stood up to drop his shorts, only to reveal a not-very-flattering pair of boxer shorts as it dawned on him (and anyone else who might have seen him), that he’d forgotten to put his swimming trunks on underneath…

Humiliations aside, we’re now moved, fairly unpacked, and normality is beginning to return, and with it, the feeling of longing for the school holidays to end sooner than the 28 days, 14 hours and 39 minutes that have yet to pass.

Rob sent me a link the other day that pretty much summed up what (I assume) many stay-at-home parents probably feel – even if they don’t say it out loud, with this advert from a few years ago:

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year”

Our house: week two of the summer vacation.

…to cope with School Holidays

It’s that time of year again and I’ve been hunting for my box of horse sedatives. Anything to numb the stress, tedium and mental exhaustion of being surrounded by squabbling children all day, every day.

Is it just my children I wonder, who are equipped with an inexhaustible capacity for requests, demands, daft questions and flashes of inter-sibling violence, or are they all like that? As this is my first and last litter of children, and my only stab at motherhood, I have no idea if mine are any worse than other people’s.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my children more than anything. But nine weeks of school vacation is enough to test the most dedicated earth mother, and it was only after we began breeding, that I discovered that I most definitely do not fall into this category.

Rather naively, I just assumed that a mother’s love would also somehow magically spawn the capacity to enjoy the constant company of one’s own children for weeks and weeks and weeks on end…

Downtrodden

To give you an example of how feeble-minded I have become in two short weeks of school holiday, last week I found myself inexplicably sucked into one of those ridiculous discussions that only children can have.

We have a little friend of nearly three who we were due to meet at the park, and on the way there, No. 2 (who’s seven) wanted to know, “can Everett run faster than a chihuahua?”

Now I should have used some kind of diversionary tactic to avoid getting involved in this kind of dopey conversation, but stupidly I replied, that it was unlikely that Everett (even though he is bigger), could outrun a speedy little chihuahua.

What felt like an eternity later – and after all four passengers in the back of the car had vigorously put in their two cents worth – I was declared resoundingly wrong by a majority of four to one, and it was only at this point that I came to my senses and swiftly changed the subject to something a little less contentious. Like what to have for dinner that evening.

God, what I crave more than anything at the moment is to be locked up in a quiet and peaceful padded cell, all by myself, but instead (just to spice things up a bit) we’re moving house again in two weeks… Although this time thankfully, just up the road.

This will be our 7th house in five years (and three countries) so I’m quite good at moving these days (as everyone keeps complimenting me), but it’s still a huge logistical pain in the ass trying to pack boxes with at least 2 out of 4 of my four-strong sabotage squad under foot and trying to ‘help’ me.

Not only that, but because I’m so good at the whole process, my husband has decided he will only be taking three days off work; the day before the move, the day of the move, and the day after. And in that time, he is of the opinion that we can start, and finish packing up the whole house (he hasn’t noticed the Packing Fairy who’s been quietly emptying cupboards and drawers, and cleaning everything for the last two weeks).

Now I don’t want to sound like I’m ungrateful for his assistance or anything, but is it me???

First Anniversary

But it could always be worse, and we could still be living in the boondocks of North Holland as we were almost a year ago. Yes, our first anniversary of moving to Canada is looming large and I cannot believe we’ve been here for that long. Despite all my whinging, it’s been the best year I can remember in a very long time, and even 12 months on, it still often feels like we’re on holiday.

With some lovely new friends and some ancient English friends living close by, and with so much to do summer or winter, there’s little to get homesick about, even as the Motherland is about to host the 2012 Olympics, which is splashed across the British media constantly at the moment. Fingers crossed that Dave, Nick, Boris et al will have sorted out the security debacle, London traffic congestion, Heathrow delays, tube strikes and the British weather in time for the opening ceremony!

But my favourite Olympic story to emerge so far, was the article about a streaker (a beloved, and not unusual British pastime that generally results from too much sun – and alcohol – at English sporting events) who disrupted the 53rd leg of the Olympic torch relay in Henley-on-Thames last week:

Naked man carrying a fake Olympic torch outwits police 

The result of too much wine at a botox party…

End of the rainy season..?

Well, I think spring has finally sprung in White Rock.

The birds are now chirping merrily in the mornings, the trees have sprouted their annual lush green mist and it’s getting a bit warmer. But it’s ONLY JUST stopped raining!

I’m used to drizzle. Hell, I’m English – I don’t mind it all, but not forever and ever. Honestly, I’m deadly serious, is this proper spring now? Please put me out of my misery. Anyone… ANYONE…?

I still love Canada ten months on, but the rose-tinted glasses can sometimes get a bit scratched and blurry I have to admit. Continual monsoon aside, a few things that started off as quirky and amusing have now begun to get on my nerves.

The first thing is the Canadian obsession with driving, and their unspoken refusal to walk anywhere unless they’re specifically going for a leg-stretcher in the woods (and is it law that everyone must hike in lululemon spandex?).

I’m not moralizing about the environmental aspect (our big shiny red truck is my pride and joy), it’s the fact that no one would dream of strolling to the shops or walking to the beach unless they were shot full of crack, dressed in grubby rags and pushing a garbage-laden shopping cart.

Need a quick caffeine fix from Tim Horton’s 200 metres down the road? Then why not jump into a gas-guzzling Dodge Ram truck (the meaty 3500 model) and add a whopping-great carbon footprint to the cost of a bucket-sized French Vanilla Cappuccino Supreme (which is quite delicious by the way)?

Courteous Canadians

But that’s not the worst bit, and firstly I’d just like to establish that Canadians, in my opinion, are possibly THE most polite, friendly and outwardly pleasant race of people I’ve ever come across. The British have nothing on them when it comes to modern good manners and general courtesy to the people around them, that is, until you put a Canadian behind the wheel of a car…

All of a sudden, these well-mannered North Americans – that most of the time remind us foreigners why they are SOOO much nicer than their brash neighbours across the border – vanish, and in comes a speeding lunatic with a penchant for horn-honking and psychotic tailgating.

Despite being no stranger to a spot of road rage in just about every European country I’ve ever driven in, I must confess to a feeling a little bit intimidated every day when I set off on the school run.

But ho hum. I’m getting the hang of it slowly and gradually learning to resist my compulsion to let someone in before me (just to be polite), and more embarrassingly, I’ve stopped winding down the window and loudly shouting out a sarcastic ‘THANK YOU!’ every time I stop for some old cretin as they shuffle across the road without acknowledging my courtesy.

So that’s not bad for nearly a whole year in a new country and considering I hated Deliverance (the rural Dutch village we lived in before BC) on the first day we arrived, we’re doing okay.

And I’ve made some lovely new friends who have just invited me to my first Botox Party!

Pillow face

A BOTOX PARTY?! Seriously! No one does these in England or Holland so I can’t wait to see what it’s all about. Obviously the title speaks for itself, but thanks to my virginal state when it comes to cosmetic fillers, I’m just going to go and spectate on this occasion, but I am very excited.

It’s not that I’ve got anything against cosmetic surgery, as everyone who knows me knows I’d love a good boob job to restore my rack to its former Vegas Showgirl glory (if only…), but on this occasion I’m going to be sensible and resist the urge to quaff too much wine, lest I throw caution to the wind and end up looking like the Bride of Wildenstein.

But before I pen off to continue my weekly battle on the domestic frontline, a couple of interesting links I stumbled across recently:

Firstly a subject that affects any expat, but not the English these days it would seem.

Too happy to be homesick

And finally, something the North Americans do better than any other continent on earth. Junk Food!

The weirdest most fattening foods.

The wonderfully unique Baldwin Spencer O’Rourke 1947 – 2012

Grief

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II once said that: ‘Grief, is the price we pay for love.’

I’d never really thought about the words carefully, but this poignant and beautiful quote popped into my head a few days ago when my father died, thousands of miles away in the Isle of Man.

His death wasn’t unexpected because he’d been unwell for some time but the end came swiftly and despite the inevitability, it’s impossible to completely prepare for the death of someone you have loved.

The sense of gut-wrenching sadness in the last few days has at times, been overwhelming.

My father and I had been estranged for some years, but we’d made peace in the last few weeks and thanks to my lovely sister and my wonderful aunty and uncle, he went to his maker knowing that he was deeply loved.

And although his passing brought him the release that he had long-craved, his departure has left a chasm that can never be filled.

Growing up amidst the bogs of Shinrone, County Offaly, he was an Irishman to the very core. He could be wonderful and yet impossible all at the same time and few who knew him would ever disagree.

Fearless nature

Clever, gregarious and enormous fun, he could be stubbornly unforgiving and possessed an explosive temper that only failed to intimidate the people who knew him well. Others were not so fortunate, and in the face of a perceived injustice, he could send other bold and confident mortals scuttling off in a daze with his fearless nature and hilarious put-downs.

This intimidating combination was only matched by the speed at which his fury could disperse as if nothing had happened, and it made him the stuff of legends. Everyone who ever called him a friend has a favourite story, or three.

As a youngster growing up in rural Ireland and then emigrating to London with his family in the post-war years, his early life hadn’t been easy.

With his broad Irish accent, bumpkin ways, and state-issued voucher boots, he and his brothers were bullied mercilessly in the unforgiving playgrounds of North London and I remember him saying there was a time when he rarely went home without a black eye and holes in his trousers.

It toughened him up considerably and as a teenager and young adult, he and his brothers were well known for being able to look after themselves.

Characteristically, my father channeled this aggression into educating himself and after starting out as a sheet metal worker, he eventually became a design engineer and found himself in demand by car firms in the US and all over Europe.

Marvelous career

It was this roving lifestyle that sowed the seeds of the expat in me, and it was of course thanks to his marvelous career that he was able to send my sister and I to good schools and give us the opportunities he never had for himself.

He was also the only person I’ve ever known who actually liked the taste of gooseberries.

This is but a snippet of the fantastic character he was, but perhaps his greatest legacy was the choice he made at the end of his life to leave his cancer-ridden body to medical science.

A few weeks ago, he accepted a last meeting with a priest where he respectfully listened to what he had to say, but the combination of being a ‘man of science’ and his life-long career as a wayward and lapsed Catholic, my father felt the world of medicine a far more worthy beneficiary of his flesh and bones.

As soon as he died, my heartbroken sister faithfully fulfilled his final wishes and arranged for his body to be donated to the study of Molecular Science at Leeds University in the UK.

The Pope wouldn’t have been at all impressed…

Unconventional, proud, and tenacious to the very end, it was exactly what he had wanted.

Fashion accessory of the week.

I’m going to just launch into my diatribe today because it’s nearly bedtime, there’s a lot to get through and I could be on a clock, but more on that later.

February has been eventful and some might say, ‘trying’, but I like to look on the bright side and therefore I’ll describe it as a perfect month – for blog fodder.

Now let me begin:

• A couple of weeks ago and for the second time in two weeks (that’s three times in 6 months), the children managed to drain the car battery by leaving all the lights on in the back seat, yet again.

And then as my Italian friend and neighbour was kindly restarting the battery, no. 4 managed to lock himself in the car with the engine running. A stressful few minutes ensued as the lovely Mr Campani tried unsuccessfully to explain to my dopey 3 year old how to unlock the door, while I frantically stripped the contents from a kitchen cupboard trying to locate the spare keys.

Consequently, nos. 1 & 2 were comically late for school (that’s a pink slip, with bells on) and if that wasn’t enough trouble and strife for one morning, when we got home no. 4 promptly spilt a big glass of milk all over the kitchen floor and into the narrow gap under the dishwasher.

By this point I was sharpening a razor blade and trying to locate my biggest vein, until I reasoned that I’d only end up having to clean up that mess as well.

But moving on, because that was just a taster of what February had in store for me.

• A few days later and another embarrassing incident at the grocery store when some filthy creature-of-Walmart (i.e. a fellow shopper) unselfconsciously belched out loud at the milk counter – much to the intense amusement of nos. 3 & 4 who then felt the need to shout out what he’d done, to me and our fellow shoppers. I walked away at speed, desperately trying to bat down small arms in vigorous ‘point’ position.

You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but alas, every hot humiliation still feels like the first.

• Last week, discovering much to my horror that no. 4 has been scoffing the sugar lumps from the coffee and tea cupboard and horror of horror, snacking on frozen chicken nuggets straight from the freezer.

I’d wondered what the mysterious bright orange crumbs were that I kept finding on the kitchen floor when my back was turned, but it never occurred to me what the source might be. These nasty little morsels are my emergency stash for swift, non-nutritious dinners, not some illicit and ghastly canapé. Thank heavens they are pre-cooked before frozen or what you’re about to read could have been ten times worse…

• And then five days ago, the world literally fell out of no. 2’s bottom… and whatever bug was to blame, swiftly worked its way through the rest of the tribe resulting in mountains of puke-covered bedding, clothes and a projectile vomit all over the back seat of my car.

I’m hoping this mini cholera epidemic may have peaked today as the laundry pile is finally beginning to subside, but if it hadn’t I was seriously considering doing a runner in the middle of the night.

These last few days I’ve felt like a prisoner on permanent slopping-out duty, except in jail I bet you only have to deal with your own slurry, and there’s someone else to do all your cooking and laundry.

Anyway, I’m sure you’ve got the picture by now so I won’t go on, but thanks to all the above I missed out on my run with the Peninsula Runners this week so took myself out yesterday and ran as if my very life depended on it.

God knows how many times I legged it around the South Surrey athletics track but by the time I got home, I could barely stand and my lungs were on fire.

None of which sounds healthy except that this manic wave of negative energy bubbling away inside me needed a good purge and a jolly good run salvaged my sanity – for one more day.

My husband pointed out over breakfast at the weekend that he thinks my blog could be turning my life into a self-fulfilling prophecy, and I really think he may have a point.

Life does somehow seem to be more eventful now that I force myself to recollect the high (and low) points of parenting four children and then committing them to print.

But I like to think of it more as a lazy mother’s gift to her children for when they’re older. Lazy, because I have to do very little except make a note of what they get up to and then merely document the very real effect it has on my long-suffering marbles. A sort of cause and effect report if you like, but passed off as a lovingly-created family biography!

And before I venture to bed with a mixture of fear and trepidation at what may be in store tonight thanks to my midget firing squad (but firing chunder, as opposed to bullets), here are a couple of funny/ shocking stories I’ve read in the news recently:

I thought I was a bad mother, until I read about this woman sending her child to school with a Smartie sandwich…

A Willy Wonka-inspired packed lunch

But my favourite article has to be this one which had me cringing in sympathy for this poor emotionally-traumatized teenager who’s probably been praying for a dose of amnesia ever since!

Teenager sees ‘swinger’ parents doing the wild thing on TV

Before January kicked-in...

Well, with Christmas just a distant memory and with one 12^th of 2012 almost completed, I am busily focusing on the next decent thing to look forward to. Spring.

I’m full of enthusiasm that a BC spring will commence in earnest at the beginning of March and bring with it a significant rise in temperatures, some blazing sunshine and an end to this continual chilly monsoon and occasional deep-freeze.

That’s not an invitation by the way for readers and proper Canadians (as opposed to newbies like myself), to correct me on my naivety. It’s merely a (self-delusional?) ploy to get me through February without reaching for the vodka and a big bowl of chips.

I thought that being a Brit I’d get used to this much rain, but I have to admit that even I’m feeling a bit sodden at the moment.

But apart from the weather I’m feeling quite chipper, thanks to reducing my horrific calorie intake after a shocking bout of over-indulgence throughout December.

Despite normally eating sensibly (barring weekends…), I completely took the brakes off over the silly season and overloaded my poor carcass with copious amounts of stodgy food and what felt like gallons of fermented grape juice.

In fact I would cheerfully admit to going two whole weeks without ever once feeling a genuine hunger pang, purely because I’d strap on the next supersized nosebag before fully digesting the contents of the previous one.

And anyway as soon as January 2nd kicked in (because January 1^st is for serious contemplation of one’s resolutions – and to recuperate from the previous night’s excesses), I took stock once again and began the New Year purge with gusto.

Still I really do hope that we’ve seen the last of the freeze because God knows I can’t stomach another running session in minus 8 as I did last Tuesday night with the Penninsula Runners.

Having joined the group in September last year, I’ve attended nearly every weekly training session and now that I’ve signed up for the Vancouver Sun Run on April 15^th, I’m determined to complete the race without needing the kiss of life and/ or some vigorous defibrillation half-way through it.

And my running comrades are a jolly decent bunch of people so once I’d managed to convince myself to don the spandex and a pair of thick gloves (and because it meant I could get out of putting the children to bed), it was well worth it.

Speaking of children, nos. 3 and 4 managed to comprehensively embarrass me in public on two separate occasions in the last few days which I suppose I should share for two reasons:

1)   I can’t believe I’m the only person with children skilled in the art of parental humiliation and

2)   You might have been one of the legions of shoppers standing behind me as I paid for my groceries last week who heard no. 3 say in her ‘outside’ voice: ‘Mmmmmm, Mumma, your coat smells of alcohol…!’

I could actually feel my face start to burn as I tried desperately to think of some breezy retort that could explain why my coat might smell of booze (at any time) but particularly at 10am on a Thursday morning. But I couldn’t think of anything to say so I just stood there blushing and hoped the people behind me were either deaf or dumb.

For the record: my coat smelt of perfume – Coco Mademoiselle to be exact – but last week I’d made the mistake of lazily answering no.2′s question of: ‘what’s in perfume?’ with, ‘lots of things and probably some alcohol.’ But who was going to care once the immortal words had been bellowed out into the public ether by my little foghorn of a daughter?

And if that wasn’t enough for one week, a trip to the T&T supermarket a few days later was almost as bad when no.4 noticed a little person going about their shopping, and stopped dead in his tracks, stared in utter amazement as he pointed and said very loudly: ‘look at that little man!’

I should mention that it was obviously the first time my three-year-old had ever clapped eyes on a little person, but honestly, why did this have to happen to me twice in one week?

And finally, I’ll pen off with a couple of interesting articles I read this week for anyone still with me:

Firstly, a link to a great website I stumbled across called Parenting.com (the new school years edition), that published a list of utterly useless and over-priced gadgets aimed at parting neurotic/ gullible parents with their hard earned cash!

Ridiculous Parenting Products

And my favourite story of the last few days that if you’re familiar with English comedy show, Little Britain, then you’ll probably chortle at this real-life Vicky Pollard (and mother-of-four) who contacted the national press in the UK after she was banned from all her local nightclubs for being too old to wear her favourite skimpy dresses. It’s hilarious and well worth reading the whole article…

A contemporary English Rose, in the style of Little Britain…

Well, it’s only day four of the Christmas holidays and already I’ve had more than enough.

Of children that is.

I absolutely dread any school vacation and as always, this one is living up to my expectations.

In fact, if I could write a letter to my pre-child self then I’d describe what it’s like to be surrounded by children from dawn ‘til dusk during the school holidays.

The continuous playful scrummages that inevitably end in tears, the endless squabbling interspersed with fleeting, teasing moments of tranquility, and the near constant demands for drinks, snacks and food that if you were to capitulate every time, would easily result in a 200lb child.

Yes, it’s quite possible that the 27 year-old me, equipped with the knowledge I have now, might have thought twice before reproducing and instead bought another Jack Russell.

But hindsight is a wonderful thing and without this wisdom to guide us we began an intensive breeding program that resulted in four children in less than five years…

What on earth was I thinking?!

But children are a joy (at most other times, just not during the school breaks), and I love some of the obscure questions they throw at you such as, “what’s taller than a mountain?” (yesterday) and, “how big is Justin Bieber?” (today).

And children are a blessing. But more importantly they are an insurance policy in old age and I’m hoping that at least one of mine might feel guilty enough to look after me when I start losing my marbles, or when the time comes, get me locked up in a nice home.

The thought of shuffling aimlessly around Semiahmoo Mall with the rest of the ancient folk of White Rock is just too terrifying to contemplate.

But moving on…

This year the whole family has been eagerly anticipating our first Canadian Christmas and what better way to begin the festivities than to cut down your own tree?

It’s a fabulous idea. And one that has yet to catch on in the UK (and Holland) so H was particularly excited at the prospect of taking his chopper to the local woodland so he could erect his handiwork in the living room.

But not everyone is so easily impressed, and when he mentioned our festive wood cutting junket to his uber-Londonite, Knightsbridge dwelling brother, said chap retorted: ‘My God man, you’ve only been in Canada for four months and already you’re turning into the Griswolds!’

Which we took as a compliment.

And I love the music that comes out at Christmas, so much so that I felt compelled this year to compile a medley of my favourite tunes, having been inflicted with some dreadful offerings by trendy young things over the last few weeks – Taylor Swift, how dare you defile the wonderful Last Christmas (by Wham!) with your lousy cover version!

So if I may be so bold as to suggest the best ever Christmas song, in my humble opinion, then this is my absolute favourite:

Fairytale of New York

But with the big day almost upon us, I’ve got a million things to do and not enough time to do them in, particularly with a husband who decides to plant 250,000 pepper saplings at this time of year (to ensure that North Americans don’t run out of fresh produce all year round), so I’ll pen off with some of the highlights over the last few weeks:

1) Nos. 3 and 4 drinking ¾ of a bottle of Aunt Jemima’s pancake syrup while my back was turned for a few minutes last week. You wouldn’t believe the buzz that ensued. For hours.

And this, which I read about in an online UK tabloid, that made me laugh out loud, for ages:

2) A pooh tattoo

And on that rather unsavoury note, I bid you, my glorious new compatriots, a wonderful Christmas and a very merry new year!