Drains and radiators

We all do it. You've probably done it at least once today already; much to my shame, I know I have. Gordon Brown (texture like sun) did it earlier this week and it might end up costing him the UK election. No, I'm not referring to talking in a Scottish accent. I am instead talking about the noble art of back-biting, gossip or just plain old bitching. Talking about other people behind their backs, the kind of talk that usually takes the form of derogatory slander, must be one of the most universally popular pastimes known to man.

I read an article today on just this topic, an article inspired by Gordon Brown's pre-election gaffe of calling a Labour Party supporter a bigot once he thought he was out of range of the microphone. In it, the writer espoused a number of theories as to why we indulge in such behaviour, my favourite being the one in which our lives are viewed as dramatic productions. We play out the roles given to us and we have a centre stage where we assume that we are being observed and a backstage area which we think is hidden from public view. When engaged in formal social interaction we have to remain 'in character' for the benefit of the audience (everybody else), but Mr Brown's 'bigot' remark or your slagging off of your boss to your colleague at the water cooler are examples of backstage personas.

Every workplace is, to a greater or lesser extent, afflicted with this type of behaviour, and in a small school like the one here in Kangiqsujuaq it's hard to avoid it and even harder to avoid being sucked in by it. Jacob and I were discussing this issue along with the article I read, and we came up with the idea that perhaps schools should have two staffrooms: a bitching staffroom and a non-bitching staffroom. This idea also has an added benefit, in that staff might be so self-conscious about entering the room with the sign above the door marked 'bitching' that they would have to enter the non-bitching one instead, thus diminishing the problem with the minimum of effort.

Even in such a multi-staffroomed school though, back-biting would not disappear; human nature dictates otherwise. I remember a prize-giving speech at my old school in the UK in which the guest speaker declared that most people in life fit into one of two categories: they are either drains or radiators. Radiators bring light and joy into a room whilst drains suck the life out of everybody in it. That speech has stuck with me over the years and I think the speaker was spot on; think of everyone you work with, and I bet you could draw up a list of drains and radiators pretty quickly.

The speaker concluded his speech by urging all present to go forth and be life's radiators rather than life's drains, and it's advice I've always tried to follow. As I alluded to earlier though, sometimes it's hard to stay on such a righteous path, and I'm very aware that I've been all too easily led astray of late, so much so that I now avoid our staffroom unless I really have to go there. We only have one, you see...

But there I go, straying off that road again. I told you the path of righteousness was a difficult route to follow.

Sound judgment

We are most definitely into the realm of 'lasts' now. Today was my last ever Wednesday in Kangiqsujuaq, and this time next week I shall be, weather permitting, well and truly back in the south. Just how much of me will remain in the North? Only time will tell on that one; as I've said before, the North has very much become 'my Canada' over the past four years, and I guess we will have to wait until we get to the end of August and I haven't crammed myself into a Dash-8 or a Twin Otter before we can start to make a judgment.

For the moment I'm still here though, and today we marked International Noise Awareness Day with a number of highly interesting (honestly) in-class activities. Hearing loss is a big issue in these parts, with iPod-induced deafness exacerbated by the roar of skidoos and ATVs (or Hondas, as they're universally referred to here), and I suppose the occasional use of hunting rifles and carving tools doesn't help either.

I was somewhat shocked to witness my students' genuine amazement when they learned that listening to music through headphones at full volume will undoubtedly damage your hearing, but at least their eyes (and ears) have now been opened, and maybe they will now take steps to rectify the situation. Or maybe they'll pay no heed whatsoever; you can take a horse to water...

On a semi-related note, my research for Noise Awareness Day led me to the discovery of a rather fascinating series of recordings. They were made by a man named Édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville around 150 years ago, and are now regarded as the earliest known recordings of the human voice. Now, it would seem that Scott was only interested in studying the visual properties of sound waves and never intended for these recordings to be played back, which is a bit like studying ice cream by looking at it rather than eating it, but thanks to modern scientific advances we can now finally hear the results of Scott's experiments whilst at the same time enjoying over a thousand flavours of ice cream. You can hear the recordings here.

Oh, and lest I forget, I must report that my students unanimously rejected the lone gunman theory after their investigation into the assassination of JFK. Instead, they believe that there was a conspiracy involving the FBI and Secret Service that possibly went up as high as Vice-President Lyndon Johnson; Oliver Stone and Kevin Costner would be proud. Maybe we'll discuss the Moon landings tomorrow...

The Persistence of Memory

It's now the time of year when everything is starting to melt. The landscape is still covered with a snowy white shroud, but rocks, roads and patches of soil are now starting to poke through, much like the way in which the hairs on the legs of an East German women's shot-putter from the 1980s would have poked through her stockings should (s)he have tried to wear any.

Time is also melting away, like the clocks in Dali's famous painting, and it's melting just as slowly, if not slower, than the snow and ice. For both myself and my students we are now at the stage where nobody wants to be here any more and, if truth be told, nobody really needs to be either. For the students, their exams are now long over, and consequently their academic fate is effectively already sealed. Quite why they have to sit their exam a full two months before the end of the course I never managed to fathom out but, just like the Light Brigade, mine is not to reason why.

From my point of view it's just a matter of keeping my class occupied for one more week and trying to maintain the mutual motivation of both students and teacher. To that end I always fill this time of year with projects which at the very least interest me and hopefully manage to pique the interest of my students as well. Last week I taught my class some German - they can now count to ten, ask for directions to the railway station and order two large beers, please - and tomorrow we're going to examine the conspiracy theories surrounding the assassination of President Kennedy. I'll let you know whether my students subscribe to the theory of the lone gunman in the next post.

In the meantime I shall continue to stare out of the window, wishing myself away as I watch the snow melt, and as I do it's rather opportune that the Dave Matthews Band's Dive In should come up on my iPod:

Wake up sleepy head,

I think the sun's a little brighter today.

Smile and watch the icicles melt away and see the water rising.

Summer's here to stay and all those summer games will last forever.

Go down to the shore, kick off your shoes, dive in the empty ocean.

Nine more days...

Eleven days

Eleven days to go now, and my thoughts are most certainly starting to turn to the summer and all the changes that are on what is an ever-nearing horizon. Now that my imminent departure is official I've been able to talk more openly about my plans with friends and colleagues here, and the more I talk the more excited I'm actually becoming about the future.

Those of you that know me well will know that I'm normally a very phlegmatic person, perhaps too phlegmatic, but for once I really am feeling genuinely excited and I don't think that the next eleven days are going to pass anywhere near quickly enough. My students are on a trip to the Pingualuit Crater this weekend and don't return until Monday afternoon, so consequently I will be starting my week with a personal ped day, which means that just six of those eleven days will be spent teaching before my flight on Wednesday week. Whether this will make the time pass more quickly or not remains to be seen.

The only blot on the landscape is the need to pack which, thankfully, is not too pressing at the moment. However, by this time next week I think I will be in full-on packing mode, and whilst this shouldn't prove to be an overly arduous task it's never one that I look forward to. I arrived in Kangiqsujuaq with only 18 boxes, and as I haven't really accumulated any extra possessions in my time here there shouldn't be any more than 18 boxes coming back down with me. Quite when they'll make it back is anyone's guess - as I've said before, things tend to happen very slowly in the North - but as long as they actually do, that's all that matters.

Eleven days...

Nothing to crow about

I read a news report today headlined 'Clever New Caledonian crows can use three tools.' It was all about the way in which crows have been studied for their apparent intelligence and how scientists in New Zealand have observed crows using three tools in succession to reach some food.

Well, I don't find that especially clever at all. I can use four, sometimes five tools in succession to reach food, and on occasions I can actually use two tools - namely a knife and fork - simultaneously. Beat that, Mr Crow.

The article then goes on to describe how one of the birds, named Casper - quite how the scientists knew his name was not explained - completed a task involving food on a string on his first try, although he was 'initially puzzled by the string.' Well excuse me scientists, but I've seen a lot of string in my time and not once have I ever been puzzled or even remotely perplexed. And do you hear me bragging about it? No you do not.

In all honesty, I don't think these crows sound particularly clever at all.

Simpleton birds.

Two weeks notice

It's official; I'm leaving the North.

I have my ticket, and in two weeks' time I will be back home in the south.

Permanently.

As I mentioned a few posts ago, this moment has been coming for a while now, but yesterday I finally confirmed my intentions with the powers that be and today I received my travel itinerary. Most things happen very slowly in the North, but in my life events are now moving on apace. The number of teaching days that remain are in single digits - so even I can count them on my fingers - and just two weekends sit between me and my final flight.

I know I'm going to be feeling some mixed emotions over the coming days - in fact I'm already feeling them - but I'm glad to have finally made an irrevocable decision and I know in my heart that it's the right one. I've said before in these pages that my time in the North has changed my outlook on life, and whilst I really do believe that my experience has been largely positive, I also feel that the misanthrope inside me is edging ever nearer the surface, especially this year, and that can't be a good thing.

Consequently, my repatriation to the south, and to Melanie in particular, is coming just at the right time I think, and as much as I'm going to be looking back over the next few weeks, now is really a time to be looking forward. There will be many changes ahead and all the routines I've established will need to be broken, but it's all for the greater good.

The countdown has begun...

Don't try this at home

Ben, who teaches math and science to my class, took his lesson outdoors today - it was a balmy -1 degrees outside - and aside from the temperature I was impressed by two things in particular. Firstly, his audience swelled dramatically as a result, which says something about the ratio of students who are actually in the school building when they are meant to be compared with those whose aren't, and secondly...well, there can't be many science lessons that take place with a backdrop like this one!

Oh, and in case you were wondering, in light of the fact that we don't have a cloud of volcanic ash lingering over our part of the world at the moment, Ben was trying to create our own alternative version by dropping increasingly large chunks of sodium into a bowl of water. The end result was pretty impressive and one was left with the thought: just how many outdoor science lessons take place in Iceland?

Juno who that is?

As I write I've just finished watching the Juno Awards - for those of you outside Canada, the Junos are the Canadian equivalent of the Grammies or the Brit Awards - and I've come to a conclusion. Either: a) I'm getting old, b) my finger is not on the pulse of Canadian music culture or c) Canadian music culture has no pulse. I say this because I've spent most of the last couple of hours repeating the same word: who?

In reality the situation is most probably a combination of (a) and (b), and this is most certainly the case if anyone from Immigration Canada is reading. I guess gradually losing touch with youth culture is all a natural part of the ageing process and is consequently nothing to really worry about, and to be honest I'm more than happy with my generational orientation in terms of music, given what I saw and heard on stage tonight.

I think that the process of being out of touch works in both directions though. Young whippersnapper Alexandre Bilodeau, who won Canada's first gold medal at the recent Winter Olympics, presented the final award of the evening, and whilst the eventual winner was not that old, the generation gap was evident when Bilodeau opened the envelope and proclaimed, "and the winner is...Michael Bubble."

To his credit, Michael Bublé graciously collected his award without so much as a flicker of indignation although maybe, given his role in the closing ceremony of Bilodeau's Olympics, that was only right and proper...

A clash of cultures?

Warning: this post may contain images that might cause distress amongst animal lovers and devotees of Fox's Glacier Mints

It is not without a sense of irony that as I write a post about the school's culture day, Jacob and I are currently watching 'Family Jewels with Gene Simmons' on TV, having earlier sat through 'Sober House with Dr Drew.' There's more culture on the mouldy piece of cheese in my fridge than in either of those programmes. They're not shows that either of us would normally watch, but neither of us could be bothered to reach for the remote so, consequently, we were sucked into the sad , lonely and sometimes grotesque lives of others for the best part of two hours. Come to think of it, that pretty much sums up your experience when reading this blog...

But I digest.

As I was saying before I interrupted myself, it was culture day at the school today, the one day in the year that's set aside to celebrate the traditional ways of life in a Northern town. I always enjoy days like this, but I'm not sure how I view the fact that just one day is devoted to celebrating and promoting a culture that is being swamped and overrun by southern mores...I'll leave you to decide your own opinion on that one. I think that's a debate for another time.

Culture day here was very different to the one I experienced in Inukjuak. Here, all the action took place outside, and after two or three hours of milling around everyone had gone their separate ways. In that time though we were able to examine an igloo that had been built by Mark Tertiluk, the centre director at the school, and a second igloo was constructed during the course of the morning. Many of the children - and some of the staff - went sliding, either on plastic sleds, their bottoms or even on sealskins (or any combination of the three), there was some impromptu throat singing and, of course, there was the requisite smörgåsbord of country food, Arctic Char and walrus on this occasion.

If indeed these are to be my final couple of weeks in the North then I guess this will be the last time I get to experience Inuit culture in such a way, and I feel privileged to have the chance to be involved in such an intimate way. I only hope that the incessant march of western 'culture', Gene Simmons, Dr Drew and all, doesn't mean that future generations, both Inuit and quallunaat alike, are denied that chance.

Taking the plunge

Compared to some, I've not fared too badly in the water stakes during my time in the North. Yes, there were my recent water truck woes, and back in Inukjuak I suffered at the hands of some vindictive sewage trucks, but by and large I haven't done too badly; remind me one day to tell you about my brown water shower though...

In the house where I am now the bathroom sink never has drained too quickly, but until last night at least it has always drained eventually; however, maybe through the strain of accommodating both Jacob and I, it finally stopped trying last night. Jacob managed to procure a plunger at school today, and this evening the Super Mario Brothers tried to unblock the blockage.

A good amount of tag team plunging ensued, and although we didn't totally cure the problem, we certainly revealed the cause; our sink was blocked by copious amounts of sand. No, we had no idea why either - maybe it was some of the ash from the volcano in Iceland. Whatever the reason though, our puny plunger wasn't up to the task, so we had to call in the professionals. Papigatuk, the school's maintenance man, came round with a dalek-worthy, industrial strength plunger, and in a short while our sink was draining merrily once again.

What a fascinating life I lead.

A close call

My students were back in class today, and this morning I asked if they had been up to anything exciting or had had any interesting experiences during their break. There was the usual collective shrugging of shoulders and shaking of heads so we moved on, but at break time I found out, from a student in another class, that one of my students had been involved in a car accident yesterday evening; in my book that's interesting!

The road from the airport here is long and winding, but unlike Lennon and McCartney's it's also very narrow. When you add into that mix the icy conditions and the fact that the snowbanks piled up on each side make seeing round corners almost impossible, negotiating it successfully is a tricky business. Annie-Claude, who runs the residence with Roland, picked up some of the returning students from the airport yesterday, and on the way back there was a slight altercation with a van coming in the opposite direction.

Air bags deployed, crumple zones crumpled and everyone was OK in the end, but it was a bit of a shocking return for both the students and Annie-Claude, who had only just returned from holiday herself. Never had this kind of trouble when it was all dog teams up here you know.

The odd couple

Most of the teachers who went south for Easter returned yesterday - I say most, because there are still one or two who, for various reasons, are not back yet - and with James and Sophie already having returned my house sharing adventure with Jacob has now begun.

As I have said before I am ostensibly a private person, preferring my socializing to be done on my own terms, but when one considers that my reintegration into society is now less than a month away, a little company is probably not such a bad thing. I used to love watching The Odd Couple when I was growing up, and over the course of the next few weeks we'll be finding out which one of us is Felix and which one of us is Oscar.

On the work front, most of my students don't return until tomorrow so I had myself a personal ped day today, and with this Friday being Culture Day I only have a three day teaching week this week. Nice. So, bearing in mind the possibility that I might actually be leaving a few days earlier than planned - more on that later in the week (maybe) - I make it that I have just thirteen, perhaps fourteen, teaching days left in the North. It's the beginning of the end...

The final furlong

Horse racing has little or no profile in Canada, but back in the UK it was Grand National day yesterday, and whilst I have never been the greatest of gamblers I always enjoyed a bet on the National. Some years I would study the form and make the whole thing a very scientific process, some years I would just go by the horses' names; I even dreamt the winner one year and yes, it won! As you may have guessed though, I didn't put much money on that year - I always went by the adage of 'never gamble more than you can afford to lose', which kind of defeats the whole purpose of gambling really, but there you go - and consequently here I am, still eking out an honest living.

The way I make that living, and where I make it, is all about to change though. Although nothing is signed, sealed and delivered just yet, it would seem that a new career at King's Town School beckons, and consequently, after four years in the North, I've now entered what looks like being my final four weeks here. There are going to be many instances of 'doing something for the last time syndrome' over the coming month and, who knows, I may well have done some things for the last time already.

Whilst working in the North has brought with it many frustrations, I have by and large enjoyed my experience. I have seen and done things that I would not have seen and done otherwise, and I have met people the like of who I would never have had the chance to meet in my normal walk of life. Since leaving the UK some five years ago the North has very much become 'my Canada', and I know that my outlook on many things in this life of ours has been changed as a result. Without wishing to sound pretentious I think I am a better person for it all or, at the very least, a different person; perhaps it's best left up to others to decide on whether different is actually better.

For everything there is a season though - it's normally winter up here - and, for a number of reasons, I think the time is now right for change. A full five years after moving to Canada it would seem that enough dues have now been paid to have earned Melanie and I the opportunity to be living and, hopefully, working together again, and whilst I have always been very much aware of my 'geographical impotence' up here, a series of recent, unfortunate events in the lives of my friends and family has done much to bring that awareness into even sharper focus. As I said at the start of this post, I have never been much of a gambler. Any move, be it career or physical, is always going to be something of a gamble, and I am about to do both. On this occasion I'm happy to roll the dice though, and I'm prepared to deal with the outcome, whatever it may be.

It ain't half hot mum

It's been uncommonly warm here this week - I'm not sure exactly, but I think it must have only been something like -4 or -5 today - and whilst that may sound cold, in relative terms it feels decidedly tropical. Today was truly gorgeous, and even though I've been here for some eight months now I'm still struck by the town's beauty, especially on days like today.

However, such mild weather does have a downside. During the winter months there are few, if any, problems with insects and bugs - Little Miss Muffet could have eaten her curds and whey without fear of interruption had she come to work in the North - but when winter starts to give way to spring the flies return with a vengeance, and it's then that you wish that there actually were a few spiders in town.

When I left to go on my walk today I was confronted by a business of flies - did you know that 'business' is the accepted collective noun for flies? - on the inside of my outside door (if that makes sense), and when I returned later in the afternoon I had to swat two intruders that had had the temerity to take up residence in my kitchen. Not as bad as my experience of a couple of years ago though; when I came back North after the summer holidays I entered my house and found the blinds on the dining room window literally covered with flies. We're talking dozens and dozens and dozens. Traditional swatting was never going to work, so I plugged in the vacuum cleaner and simply sucked away the problem. Genius!

Emptying the bag was interesting though.

Weekend at Curt's

You just couldn't write this (although, in actual fact, someone already did, sort of). Do you remember the film Weekend At Bernie's? If not, it was about two young guys who, for reasons I won't go into now, carry their dead boss around with them for the weekend in an effort to convince everyone else that he's still alive.

Well, it would seem that two women in Liverpool have tried to recreate said movie with the deceased husband of one of them as the reluctant star. The widow and step-daughter of 91-year-old Curt Jarant tried to take poor Curt onto a flight to Berlin with them last weekend, and when they were questioned about his somewhat limp demeanour they claimed that Curt, who was wearing sunglasses and was in a wheelchair, was merely 'asleep.'

"A dead person you cannot carry to Germany, there are too many people checking and security. How can you bring a dead person to Germany?" claimed Ms Anke Anusic, Curt's step-daughter. She then went on to add: "They would think that for 24 hours we would carry a dead person? This is ridiculous. He was moving, he was breathing. Eight people saw him."

Eight people. Not seven, or nine, but eight. And, as Ms Anusic quite rightly points out, the absurdity of taking a dead person to Germany; unbelievable! Austria maybe, perhaps the Republic of Macedonia or maybe even France on a Friday afternoon but Germany? Who would try such a thing?

The case continues, and in the meantime Curt remains unclaimed on the baggage carousel along with a Gola sports bag and a purple suitcase with a yellow ribbon attached to the handle.

Kitchen nightmares

As I mentioned yesterday, I celebrated my houses's rehydration with a bout of baking, and I think it's fair to say that I did a half good job. Without it being an exaggeration, I've done more baking over the course of the last year or so than in the rest of my life put together, and whilst my historical lack of culinary prowess doesn't exactly make that a difficult feat, it's still been something of a personal revelation.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not putting myself in the Gordon Ramsay league as packets and instructions still largely dictate my cooking technique, but I've been branching out and yesterday I made my first ever quiche which, even if I say so myself, came out rather well. It was a bacon and broccoli affair, and whilst Chef Ramsay would most likely have taken a forkful and declared it to be bland, I was very pleased.

I said at the beginning of this post that I did a half good job though, and there was indeed a downside to my relative success with the quiche. I also made a couple of apple pies, which should have been in the oven for around an hour, but they ended up baking for considerably longer. When I spoke to Melanie on the phone in the evening I proudly told her all about my adventures in baking, but as I was doing so I remembered the apple pies, and the fact that they were still in the oven.

It wasn't as bad as my spoon-based misadventures from earlier in the year, but after three and a half hours I don't think the pies were as moist as they could have been; apple crisp is a popular dish in these parts, but these were more like apple burnt-to-a-crisp. I probably do myself an injustice there as I think what emerged is still going to be edible, but a large amount of apple filling remained in the oven having burst through the pie crusts, and is now charcoaled in lumps at the bottom in a small-scale recreation of the last day of Pompeii.

I'm currently debating as to whether I should clean up the mess since it could eventually be of archaeological interest to future generations, but as I'm still going to be here for the next month I think history is going to have to lose out on this occasion. I'm going to make a cake at the weekend though...

Deliverance

After another round of fruitless phone calls to the Water Plant this morning, I packed up all my dirty washing (as opposed to my clean washing) and my shower kit and headed off once again to the residence. The weather was very clear today so at least there was no blizzard to struggle through, and after a couple of hours of washing both myself and my clothes I made my way back home, ever in hope that one of the water trucks might have brought deliverance whilst I was out.

And, lo and behold, as I rounded the corner towards my house, what did I see coming up the road towards me? The truck hadn't got as far as my house yet, so I took it upon myself to make a final stand. I determined in my mind that I would stand in the road, much like a cross between Gandalf and the Chinese student who stood in front of the tank in Tiananmen Square, and I would not let the truck go by without it first stopping to fill up my water tank.

YOU...SHALL...NOT...PASS!

Whether as a result of my bravery or just because it was going to do so anyway, the truck dutifully stopped outside my house just as I made it down the slope that leads to my front door, and in a mixture of elation and trepidation - they had quite literally made a dry run yesterday, remember - I watched as the hose was attached to my water outlet. The water began pumping, and I dashed inside to check the supply before they left.

After an initial brown surge the water began flowing clearly once again, and my three day drought was finally over. It was all in the nick of time too, because James and Sophie, along with Noah and Evie (and Igakk the dog) arrived a couple of hours later, and as my house and theirs share a common water tank, it was not a moment too soon. All is now back to normal, and I have celebrated by baking up a storm in the kitchen (results tomorrow), and washing up without having to leave the house. Oh happy day.

Water torture

The water and sewage trucks were impressively still in service today despite the fact that it was Easter, and one of the water trucks duly paid a visit to my house. However, it didn't stop for long, which either means that my tank was already full and that consequently there must be a problem with the plumbing, or that it had no water on board and merely stopped to mock me. Either way I still had no running water, and I had to make another trip to the residence as a result. My sink was now full of washing up, so I transferred it all into a couple of bags and made my way into the frozen yonder.

There was a blizzard outside (best place for it if you ask me) but I had to go, and I must have cut a very absurd figure as I struggled through the snow and wind with my bags of dirty cups, plates and cutlery. Had I succumbed to the elements en route, goodness knows what people would have thought when they eventually discovered my body, but fortunately I made it there and back. Hopefully things will change tomorrow, but if not I might consider moving into the residence on a semi-permanent basis until my water supply is restored. I know that there are many worse problems in the world, but this is one aspect of life in a Northern town that I won't miss once I've left.

Oh, happy Easter by the way.

Water, water, every where...

My holiday has not got off to the best of starts.

I woke up this morning to find that I don't have any water. As I have mentioned before, trucks deliver all the water to the houses here and then take away all the sewage - in a different truck, thankfully - so if the trucks don't run or for some reason miss you out then you have a problem. The service in Kangiqsujuaq is actually pretty good - my warning lights have only come on twice in the whole year, whereas in Inukjuak it was a far more regular occurrence - but I'm now in a totally dry house.

It's at times like these that you fully appreciate just how much water you use in a day and what you use it for, and whilst I'm in no way likening my plight to that of the Ethiopians, the whole situation is most inconvenient. I fully appreciate the irony of being surrounded by snow and ice but not having a drop of potable water in the house, and I know I most certainly would not have made a good Inuk in the times when they still lived off the land.

I have been playing phone tag for most of the day trying to get a water delivery, but so far my efforts have been in vain. I walked up to the residence and filled up a couple of water jugs there so at least I have some modest rations to see me by in the short term, but with this being the Easter long weekend I'm not entirely sure when I'm next going to see the 'truck of life.' So be thinking of me as you unwrap your Easter eggs, and raise a glass to me at your dinner table; if it's full of water though, would you mind just keeping it to one side...

The Long Good Friday

The Ivakkak crossed the finish line yesterday, and it would seem that I spoke too soon about Noah Annahatak's chances of victory. As I was writing Wednesday's post poor Noah and his team tumbled down a hill and off the trail in whiteout conditions; everyone was okay, but the time lost as a result put Noah behind Willie Cain from Tasiujaq, and he was unable to bridge the gap before the race finished in Kuujjuaq. You can see the final results here.

On the home front I'm now officially on holiday, and I'm looking forward to a week of doing absolutely nothing. Some of the teachers are staying in town but most have left for the week, and I now have ten days to relax before what is likely to be my final four weeks in the North. James and Sophie, my erstwhile neighbours, will be returning after the Easter break as they have now finished their paternity/maternity leaves, and as a result Jacob, my current neighbour (who has been working as a replacement teacher but is now staying on until the end of the year), will be moving in with me when he gets back from holiday next weekend.

I enjoy my own space and I'm basically a private person at heart, so I'm not sure how I feel about house sharing, but Jacob is a good guy - I have to say that in case he's reading - and it's only for four weeks so I'm sure we'll both cope. Good job that whole thing with the igloos isn't going to happen after all; something about the date, apparently.

A moving story

Climate change has long been affecting the way of life in the North, and this was further evidenced by the news that we all received this morning. It would seem that the permafrost has now melted to such an extent that most of the housing here will have to be condemned as the foundations are now too unstable, and as a result we are going to have to be housed in igloos until the problem can be resolved.

This is obviously a most inconvenient situation and could well affect my ability to update the blog as getting a reliable electricity supply in an igloo is not always possible, but I will do my best to keep you all informed of any developments. For now though I will just have to start packing and hope that I am given an igloo big enough for all my things.

Not the best start to the month, eh?