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.

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.

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.

High, wide and anthem

Parliament reopened this week - did anyone notice that it had been closed? - and one of Stephen Harper's first moves was to propose a change to the wording of the national anthem. For those of you not in the know, O Canada begins with the lines:

O Canada! Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command

According to the government, the anthem should be gender neutral, so the proposition was to replace the second line with 'True patriot love in thou dost us command', a line which comes from the 1908 poem on which the anthem is based.

There has been a huge public outcry against such a change though, and the government has now admitted that its policy was wide of the mark and has backed down, which is a good job as it's taken me almost five years to learn the words as they currently stand; and besides, for an upwardly mobile and forward looking country such as Canada - we own our own podium now, you know - incorporating the words thou and dost into the anthem is so, well, last century.

Speaking of anthems, I've always thought that the UK should ditch God Save The Queen in favour of one that actually refers to the country rather than an individual person. Land Of Hope And Glory would seem to be the obvious choice, but it would have to be the version that gets played at the Last Night of the Proms, which incorporates the whole of Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance March No 1. Just imagine the scenes at the 2012 Olympics if this were to become reality; every time a Brit won a gold the medal ceremony would become a riotous celebration replete with streamers, party poppers, silly hats and a full choir. Unbeatable...



...unless, of course, Canada adopted I'm a Lumberjack and I'm OK as its anthem. Now, that would be a medal ceremony worth watching.

Going for gold

So, the Olympic Winter Games are now well and truly under way, and Canada has its first gold in the shape of Alexandre Bilodeau in the moguls, the skiing event that requires compulsory knee replacement surgery every alternate year. Bilodeau is the first Canadian ever to win a gold medal on home soil (or snow, or ice for that matter), but for most Canucks the real action gets going tonight when the Canadian men's hockey team takes the ice for the first time. Canada's women have already got their hockey campaign off to a good start, but the men are the real focus of attention, and the public's obsession with, and expectations of, the team is every bit as intense as it gets in England when the soccer team are playing in the World Cup, with one major difference.

The Canadian hockey team actually have a chance of winning!

Standing on ceremony

It can't have escaped your notice, especially if you live in this part of the world, that there's an Olympic Games on - the Olympic Winter Games, to be exact; it always used to be the plain old Winter Olympics when I was growing up, but there seems to have been a law passed without my knowledge that the word Olympic now has to come first.

The Winter Olympics - sorry, Olympic Winter Games - have never had that high a profile in the UK, save for Torvill and Dean and Eddie the Eagle (I've met him, by the way), but now I'm living in Canada I feel I ought to make the effort to get more involved, at least as a spectator. Yesterday's opening ceremony was overshadowed by the tragic death of Georgian Nodar Kumaritashvili - I was quite shocked that his horrific luge accident was shown ad nauseam on the news over here, initially without prior warning of the distressing nature of the footage - but the Games had to go on, and Vancouver would get its chance to showcase Canada before the rest of the world with a well organized, sleek and to-the-point opening ceremony.

Didn't quite work out like that though, did it?

The evening got off to a shambolic start when the late arrival of the four first nations chiefs left the half-empty VIP box in disarray - the chairs were still being rearranged as Michaelle Jean made her entrance - and Nikki Yanofsky then proceeded to assault the national anthem with a performance that was more a celebration of her and her record company than the country to whom the anthem belongs; had Simon Cowell been in attendance, I'm sure the word 'indulgent' would have been used at least once. Ms Yanofsky is undoubtedly a supremely talented young girl but I'm sorry, you don't mess with your country's national anthem on a stage like this.

The parade of athletes was as enjoyable as ever (it's always fun to rank the uniforms of the various nations; way to go Czech Republic, by the way!), but we were then treated to the 'cultural component' of the evening, which didn't half drag. There were some highlights, don't get me wrong - I liked the giant white bear, the big guy who read the poem, the spouting whales and KD Lang's rendition of Hallelujah - but the whole thing seemed unnecessarily long. I do hope London has the courage to deliver a streamlined ceremony in 2012: anthem, parade, quick song from Status Quo, oaths and Queenie cutting a red ribbon to let the Games begin.

Back to Vancouver though, for the best was yet to come. After the diva with the mad hair and the cat up her dress had finished breaking most of the glass in the stadium with her interpretation of the Olympic Hymn, we finally got to the lighting of the Olympic flame, the moment that should have been the crowning glory of the evening and Vancouver's chance to plant an indelible, iconic image into the collective mind of the watching world.

Umm, yeah...about that...

The hydraulic system that was meant to raise the the ceremonial cauldron failed, halting the ceremony and leaving one of the official torch bearers unable to carry out his duty as his part of the apparatus had failed to emerge from beneath the stadium floor, and then Wayne Gretzky had to leave the stadium and take a ten minute drive through town in the pouring rain so that he could light the 'official' flame down on Vancouver's waterfront. The temptation to stop for a Tims on the way must have been immense.

Three and a half hours after it had started the ceremony was finally over, and the Games could now begin, Vancouver weather permitting of course. Hopefully there will be plenty of golden moments for Canada over the next couple of weeks (and, who knows, maybe for Team GB too), but I think the first medals of the Games should go to all those who managed to sit through the opening ceremony without losing consciousness. Go on London, do the right thing...

Back to work

I'm now back in Kangiqsujuaq, where it's only marginally colder than in the UK (-26 at the time of writing) and although my journey was relatively uneventful, especially compared to the one I made before Christmas, First Air managed to leave my suitcase in Montreal, along with the baggage of many of the other passengers on my flight. It's often a case of cargo or passengers in the North, as opposed to cargo and, but at least I didn't have too many essentials in my case and I can get by until it arrives.

Seeing as half my students haven't yet returned I made today into an unofficial ped day for myself, but it should be back to business as usual tomorrow, or at least as usual as you can expect in these parts. It's always interesting to see just who does and who doesn't return after the Christmas break, both in terms of students and staff, and I know that the school is at least one teacher down due to the fact that the chap who was meant to be replacing my erstwhile neighbour James, who is now on paternity leave, has not shown up.

So, if anyone fancies coming up to teach some Social Studies and Math for the next two or three months, there's a classroom waiting for you...

The last farewell?

Well, I endured my trip to the dentists with manful dignity, and compared to last year's marathon it was actually a breeze. I was only in the chair for ninety minutes this time round and, courtesy of the TV precariously bolted to the wall, I had the Weather Channel for company as the dentist and his assistant attacked my mouth with gay abandon. Many of the reports came from the UK, where temperatures have been rivalling ours of late, and whilst I have somewhat ridiculed the mother country's inability to deal with the cold in the past, I must admit that this year Britain's winter really has been one for the ages. This recent satellite picture looks like it could have been generated for a scene in The Day After Tomorrow, but I assure you it's for real:

On Monday I will be experiencing English-like temperatures as I head back North, but if Melanie can find me a job at King's Town School next year this could be the last time I make the trip. I enjoy what I do in Nunavik but it doesn't get any easier leaving Melanie behind each time I go back, and I really don't know if I could manage another year after this one. We don't own the future though, only the now, so for the time being I shall simply pack my bags and do what has to be done. Next stop: Kangiqsujuaq.

Christmas top 10 (part three)

Well, I've just completed my last day of teaching before the holiday, and in 48 hours time I shall be in the middle of my flight back home (or at least to Montreal). I let my students watch a movie today, but in retrospect 'Alive' probably wasn't the best choice. At least we now all know what to do if the plane goes down en route on Thursday. We just need to find a Uruguayan rugby team to help us and all will be fine.

Now back to the serious matter of our Christmas top 10. When last we looked in the countdown had reached number 7, so today I present to you numbers 6 and 5:

6. Slade - Merry Xmas Everybody (1973)
The only time I will ever write 'Xmas' rather than 'Christmas' because that's how it's spelt in the title (although I realise that I've now written Xmas twice...damn - now it's three; this could go on for some time if we're not careful). I always think of my first Christmas teaching at MK Prep back in the UK when I hear this song. The music teacher (not you Barry, it was the one before you and Mr G!) got the choir to sing it at the big Christmas concert, and I have this abiding memory of a mass of angelic little faces singing the lines:

Does he ride a red nosed reindeer?
Does a ton-up on his sleigh
Do the fairies keep him sober for a day?

Everybody now: IT'S CHRIIIIIIIISTMAAAAAAAAAS!




5. Chris Rea - Driving Home For Christmas (1988)
A tune that always reminds me of the times when I actually did drive home for Christmas: Bedford to Corfe Mullen via Milton Keynes, Buckingham, Bicester, Oxford, Newbury, Winchester and Ringwood. Now I travel from Kangiqsujuaq to Gananoque with stops in Quaqtaq, Kangirsuk, Kuujjuaq, Montreal and Kingston. How times change. For the better? Probably, but at this time of year I wish I could be making the former journey rather than the latter. Maybe next year...

It's the most wonderful time of the year

I like December 1st.

It's my mum's birthday - happy birthday mater! - and it's also the day when I allow myself to start playing Christmas music. Now, I know most Christmas hits are full of throwaway cheesiness, but I've loved them ever since I was small; when I was much younger I probably liked them simply because they were associated with holidays and presents, but nowadays I find they help evoke happy memories of the days of Christmas past.

It's around Christmas time that I most miss my family back in the UK, and I guess that wrapping myself in my festive music helps create a sort of mental pathway back to the Christmases we used to have together. It's also easier and more practical than wrapping myself in actual wrapping paper, which would be messy, difficult, wasteful and just plain bizarre.

If I get around to it I might give you a rundown of my 'Festive Top 10' or something like that over the next few posts, but in the meantime I shall bid you adieu and wish you, dear reader, an early and nostalgia-filled Happy Christmas.

But there's a flag on the play...

The Grey Cup final yesterday was an exciting affair, and it was heartbreak for Saskatchewan when Montreal stole victory with literally the last kick of the game. The Roughriders had never been behind until that final, fateful play, and the Alouettes actually missed their first attempt at kicking what would have been the winning field goal, sparking off what turned out to be scenes of premature celebration within the Rider Nation.

There was a flag on the play though - red flags in the CFL, as opposed to the yellow dusters used in the States - and the Alouettes would be given a second chance at the kick, a second chance which we now know won them the cup. And just what was the Roughriders' indiscretion that cost them the championship? Having too many players on the field. Of all the things! You just know somebody's going to lose their job over this.

And speaking of flags on the play, I'm reminded of my one and only attempt at refereeing a game of American football. It was in my college days back in the late 80s, when 'gridiron' was all the rage in the UK thanks to Channel 4's coverage - these were the days before the Premier League and Sky Sports combined to make soccer the uberbeast that it is today. Some fellow students had organized a game for some charity or another and they asked me to referee as I, apparently, knew more about the rules than anyone else. Looking back this was probably just a polite way of telling me that I wasn't good enough to play, but suitably flattered I agreed to their request, and I even borrowed a Newcastle United shirt so that I looked the part.

Not long after my first whistle it was readily apparent that I was the only participant who was going to take the game anything like seriously, but I maintained my standards, and a few plays into the game I noticed a flag-worthy misdemeanor by one of the teams and diligently threw my yellow duster onto the field to mark the offence. The play continued, but instead of the teams then waiting to hear my verdict before restarting, one of the players came over to me in order to point that that I'd 'dropped my hankie' before getting on with the game.

Needless to say, I didn't bother picking it up.

I (don't) come from a land down under

I don't know why, but ever since our move to Canada I regularly get mistaken for an Australian.

It happened again twice today; well, it was once really, because on the second occasion I was asked if I was from New Zealand, which if I actually had been Australian is probably worse than an Englishman being asked if he's really from Australia or a Canadian being confused with an American.

Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I really don't detect any similarity between my accent and those of our Antipodean cousins, and for a cricket-loving Englishman to be mistaken for an Australian is not exactly a complement (no offence Tarni and Dave, but who holds the Ashes at the moment?). Maybe the lack of exposure to shows like Neighbours and Home And Away means that your average Canadian can't quite distinguish the Australian the accent the way we Brits can, but one would have thought that the likes of Crocodiles Dundee and Hunter would have provided enough of a reference point.

If I ever end up moving to teach in a different Northern community I think I will put on my best Australian accent from the moment I get off the plane just to see what happens. Maybe then I'll be asked what part of England I'm from. Or not.

Pass the Vegemite.

Trick or treat?

Huge blizzard here this weekend (why do they always happen at weekends?), and as a result Halloween was moved to Friday night instead of Saturday. The whole Halloween experience is very well organised here, with the town's municipality deciding precisely when trick or treating will take place; it was going to be between the hours of 6 and 8 pm on Saturday, but the blizzard forecast meant that proceedings were moved to Friday instead.

Halloween was never that big a deal when I was growing up - we had Guy Fawkes instead - and trick or treating was always regarded as an American thing that we only ever saw in reruns of It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. However, as with all things American it slowly pervaded British society, and I think it's safe to say that trick or treating has long since replaced 'penny for the Guy' as the preferred form of institutionalised begging back in the UK.

My supplies of candy did not last long on Friday night, and consequently an empty-handed latecomer played the trick of disconnecting my cable TV by uncoupling the connection that feeds my house. Needless to say I was not best pleased but the problem was soon resolved, and if I am still here next year I will make sure that I am more prepared, either by having more candy or by hiring somebody to stand guard over my cable box.

Enjoy your November!

Chillin' and illin'

I've made my feelings about swine flu quite clear in previous posts, and although I still firmly believe that the panic and paranoia surrounding the outbreak is mostly due to a mixture of hype and ignorance, I can't deny the fact that I've been quite ill for the past three days and feeling quite sorry for myself. Whether I have swine flu, regular flu or just a very heavy cold is a matter for debate, but I spent most of the weekend curled up on the sofa flicking through the TV channels in a vain hope of finding something to watch other than infomercials.

Weekend television was never a highlight on the schedules in the UK (other than the sport) and it's just the same in Canada. Many stations don't even bother broadcasting actual shows for large parts of the day, opting instead to expose us to the virtues of the Magic Bullet, Slap Chop and Sham Wow (notice how all these products have two word titles?).

At least I have the option of TV I guess, now that my boxes have arrived, and if I continue to feel as bad then I might be sampling the delights of weekday daytime TV tomorrow. I struggled through today at school, but I don't know if I'll be able to manage tomorrow. It might have to be Regis & Kelly and Martha Stewart instead, with a trip to the nursing station sandwiched somewhere in between. Assuming I survive, I'll let you know what happens; if there aren't any new posts by Friday, send out the search parties...

The genie-us of the BBC

It's been a very wet summer in these parts thus far, and as I look out of my window it's raining once again. Hopefully some of our rain will eventually make it across the Atlantic to save England's cricket team, who are kicking off the Ashes series in traditional fashion by struggling alarmingly against the Australians. I've been invited over by my Aussie friends, Dave and Tarni, tonight, so that rain better get there quickly if I'm going to be able to enjoy a mockery-free evening.

Speaking of mockery, I read an interesting story on the BBC website today, but I wasn't originally going to comment on it for fear of appearing offensive or mocking. Apparently, a family in Saudi Arabia is trying to take a genie to court, accusing it of theft and harassment, amongst other things. Now, I was going to avoid remarking that, by the sounds of it, this family might have issues with different kinds of spirits in bottles, as this might be seen as being disrespectful to the Islamic religion. However, it would seem that the BBC have no such issues; this will probably only mean something to our British readership, but take a look at this screenshot of the BBC home page, and focus your eyes on the 'Weird and Wonderful' section in the bottom right:

(click on image to enlarge)

Sheer 'genie-us', eh? (see what I did there?). Oh, and have a read of the 'fact of the day' piece too; I knew Tim Hortons was good for you!

Happy Birthday Canada

It's Canada Day today, the day that the nation celebrates its birthday. Everybody gets a day off, and there are parades, fireworks and beer, although not necessarily in that order; indeed, if the beer comes first then the other two may not materialise at all or, if they do, the results may well be interesting and possibly life threatening to boot.

I've been celebrating by being even more lazy than usual, and I've been embracing my Canadian-ness by watching the all-day Corner Gas marathon on the Comedy Channel, although I will probably peel myself off the couch to go and see the fireworks in town this evening; I hope that the beer hasn't come first in this instance.

Most people here are surprised when I explain that there is no equivalent of a 'national day' in the UK, and that surprise turns to disbelief when I regale them with stories of Brits who are banned from flying the Cross of St George or the Union Jack for fear of offending immigrants or because they might constitute a health hazard. That would simply never happen here; Canadian flags are proudly flown all year round - gladly without the gung-ho approach that you so often see in the States - and the national anthem is sung every morning in the nation's schools.

Despite what I said recently about Canada being a 'collection of thirteen independent nations', the notion of being Canadian still binds its population together - well, maybe not in Quebec - with a closeness that is fast disappearing in the UK, and that's one of the reasons that I like living in Canada. Patriotism is not a dirty word here, so happy Canada Day to you all, and to all a good night!

Say what you see

Clearing out the storage unit is proving to be a long and arduous task, and consequently I've been looking for other things to do in the hope that the storage unit fairies will do my bidding for me in the interim. However, every time I return there, nothing more has been done, leading me to draw the conclusion that either the fairies don't exist or that they are just as lazy as me. I'll leave you to make up your own mind on that one.

One of my favourite exercises in procrastination has been spending countless hours surfing the web (does anyone use that phrase any more?....oh, I guess I just did), and in doing so I came across the clip that I now present to you here. It certainly falls into the 'oldie but goodie' category, and most of our UK readership will probably know it well already, but I still fall apart laughing every time I see it, so it deserves to be shared.

The clip involves the UK TV game show Catchphrase. For those of you unfamiliar with the show, it was a very popular early evening family game show, and was a sort of animated version of Pictionary. Contestants had to guess the well known phrase from the animation on screen - Roy Walker, the host, would often prompt the contestants to 'say what you see' - and if they did they got to have a go at answering the ongoing catchphrase question, which was revealed one square at a time. Anyway, without further ado, I present to you....Catchphrase. Enjoy!

Camping it up

Today was Camp Day at Tim Hortons.

For those of you who are reading this anywhere other than in the UK, that statement will have seemed perfectly regular and normal. However, I would wager that our British readership is now having a quiet titter to itself or is possibly rolling around on the floor, depending on disposition and available floorspace.

Let me explain.

Camp Day is actually a day when Tim Hortons donates all its takings from every coffee sold that day to a fund whose aim is to send needy kids to summer camp. It's a very worthy cause, and last year over $9 million was raised; you can read more about it by clicking here.

However, in Britain, the word 'camp' can have an entirely different connotation. Granted, its primary meaning is related to tents, but the word is also widely used to describe someone who behaves in a very exaggerated, theatrical, gay manner. So you can imagine my reaction when, some three or four years ago, I first became aware of Tim Hortons' Camp Day. I was expecting all their staff to be acting in the manner of Frankie Howerd or Larry Grayson, and exclaiming 'I'm free!' when they were available to serve. I was all prepared for a day of hysterical tomfoolery, only to be brought back down to earth when I learnt what was really going on.

You see, here in Canada, this alternative meaning of the word camp doesn't seem to exist, so much so that there is also an organization called Camp Kids. I remember when we first visited Canada, some six years ago, seeing a line of children in bright yellow T-shirts emblazoned with the Camp Kids logo being led down the main street in Kingston; Melanie and I struggled to keep our composure as we tried to spot which of the children was mincing the best, and the people around us are probably still wondering to this day just what on earth we found so funny.

Anyway, they say little things please little minds, and my little mind always enjoys this time of year at Tim Hortons. Oh, and as coincidence (not irony, Alanis) would have it, I'm going camping with my old school tomorrow - tent camping, not the other type - and assuming we don't get eaten by bears, I shall give you the full lowdown on the trip at the weekend.

Now, what do I need to take with me? It's only for one night, but I simply haven't got a thing to wear...

The demise of Angus

After bemoaning the fact that we needed a change to liven things up, I've been struck down by the Arctic equivalent of Delhi Belly - 'Tundra Tummy' maybe? - and am currently enjoying, or should that be enduring, an unscheduled day at home. To compound matters, I also received some sad news from the UK.

You may remember, a couple of posts ago, that I wrote about the terrible winter that the home country is enduring, and I posted a picture of Angus the snowman in my mum's back garden. Well, it would seem that winter has now released its icy grip, and it is my sad duty to inform you that Angus is no more:

May he rest in peace.

Now is the winter of our discontent

As I mentioned in the last post and in this one back in January, the folks back in the UK are currently enduring their worst winter for many a year. Melanie has just had her third snow day in quick succession and my friend Barry's school was closed for four days last week; to put the severity of the motherland's plight into context, up here in the sub-Arctic we've only had one half day off due to the weather all school year.

Now, for the benefit of those of you living outside of the British Isles, I thought I'd post a couple of pictures, courtesy of Melanie and my mum, to show you the type of conditions that have brought a nation of sixty million to its knees:

Just keep going, Britain. Stay strong, and very soon there will be light at the end of the tunnel. Our thoughts are with you.