No longer being served

It's already been a grim few weeks for celebrities, and it was with sadness that I read yesterday of the death, at the grand old age of 97, of Karl Malden, the bulbous-nosed star of, amongst other things, The Streets Of San Francisco, although I must admit that Mr Malden did fit into the 'I didn't realise he was still alive in the first place' category. TSOSF was one of the first 'grown-up' shows that I can remember watching, and today I learned that one of the stars of another favourite show of my youth had also gone to the great studio in the sky.

Mollie Sugden was an iconic figure on British TV back in the seventies and eighties, and for Brits of a certain age she will always be remembered as Mrs Slocombe from Are You Being Served?, a true gem of British television comedy. I know that the show managed to achieve something of a cult status over here - hi, Vikki! - and it is actually still shown from time to time on Canadian television, but nowadays you have to search the more obscure cable channels at even more obscure times of the day - or, more usually, the night - if you want to watch it.

Are You Being Served? was a wonderful show, stacked full of double entendres that I never understood as a child, and when you watch it today you wonder how they got away with a lot of it in a show that was always broadcast in an early evening timeslot. There was always something up with Mrs Slocombe's pussy - Mollie Sugden's indignant, deadpan delivery of her lines always made the situations even more comical - and it is with great fondness that I present to you now this wonderful tribute to Mrs Slocombe (and her cat!):



Mollie and Karl, you will both be sadly missed.

Grey day

It's rained all day, Manchester United have just lost the Champions League final and I have a hole in my sock.

I don't like Wednesdays any more.

And now the end is near...

This could be my last week in the North.

It is almost certainly my last week in Inukjuak.

As I have mentioned before, our school year ends this Friday, and I am still none the wiser as to my future employment prospects. I've worked for three years in Inukjuak now, and since moving out to Canada in 2005 this small town is where I've spent most of my time. Consequently, I've become somewhat attached to the place - its people, its routines, even its weather - and I have very mixed feelings about the possibility of having to say goodbye.

I think that most of us are, deep down, creatures of habit, and the prospect of having to break the habits I have spent three years developing is not one that I'm looking forward to, if I'm honest. After such a period of time in a small community one is able to find a place, a niche if you like, both in a professional and a personal sense, and although there are many problems and inconveniences that have to to be surmounted, you can't put a price on that sense of 'worth.'

In the meantime, I continue to (put off) packing my boxes and to tie up what loose ends I can. There are many goodbyes that have to be made this week, an onerous task at the best of times, and one that is made all the more problematic by the fact that I might be saying 'hello' again in September. It's a bit like when you bump into someone you haven't seen for ages whilst you're out shopping; after you've spent time catching up you then bid your fond farewells, only to run into them again two minutes later in the next aisle, causing you to go through the whole awkward process all over again.

So, whether Friday will indeed prove to be the final curtain, or whether there will be a Sinatra-esque comeback to be made, only time will tell. What is for sure though is that I now have only four days left to pack, so I really ought to make a start...

But Emily loved him

Another Brits only post

Oliver Postgate died today, and part of many a childhood, including mine, died with him.

Oliver Postgate was the creator of Bagpuss, The Clangers, Ivor The Engine and Noggin The Nog, some of the most beloved of all children's characters ever to grace our TV screens. In fact, forget the word children's; these are cross-generational, truly iconic characters.

I was fortunate enough to meet Oliver Postgate at a book signing event a few years ago, and for over an hour he enraptured all of those present with tales of saggy old cloth cats, Welsh steam trains and the swanee-whistling inhabitants of the Moon. He had such a mellifluous voice (go on, look it up if you have to), and one felt instantly safe and secure in his company, much as one did when settling down to watch his creations on television. Melanie even got to hold Bagpuss - the real Bagpuss - and although I was saddled with photography duty that day, it was still a privilege just to be near Mr Postgate and his baggy, loose-at-the-seams cat.

It might seem strange to some for me to talk of it being a privilege to be near a stuffed toy and its owner; surely such an homage should be reserved for the likes of Nelson Mandela, The Queen or Scarlett Johansson? However, such is the affection afforded to Bagpuss and his friends, at least from this quarter, I think it's appropriate.

Bagpuss gave a big yawn, and settled down to sleep.
And of course when Bagpuss goes to sleep, all his friends go to sleep too.
The mice were ornaments on the mouse-organ.
Gabriel and Madeleine were just dolls.
And Professor Yaffle was a carved wooden bookend in the shape of a woodpecker.
Even Bagpuss himself once he was asleep was just an old, saggy cloth cat.
Baggy, and a bit loose at the seams,
But Emily loved him.

A sad day

I heard some very sad news earlier this week. Last Sunday, a boy I used to teach in the UK, named Sam, collapsed and died during a soccer match in which he was playing. He was only 16. I received an email from a parent at the school to tell me the news, and I had to read it three or four times to take it in. Sam's father was watching his son play, as he always did, and another former pupil of mine was playing on the opposite team.

The term 'tragedy' is over-used in life, especially in sport, but I can't think of a better word to describe what happened here. Sam's family were the most friendly, caring and supportive people you could wish to meet, and his father was, and still is, someone for whom I have huge respect. He always came to support our school teams, whether his sons were playing or not, and he was always positive, never negative; "did you have fun?" was always his first question after each match.

I'm sure his boy was having fun last Sunday. He was such a committed, competitive and talented young man, and it is extraordinarily difficult to comprehend that he has gone. I would love to be back in England at this time so that I could pay my respects in person, and it's at times like this that I wonder what I'm actually doing in Canada, let alone the sub-Arctic. I've called this country 'home' for the last three and a bit years and I enjoy living and working here, but such tragedies bring into focus the very notion of 'home'. Where is it, precisely? Is it where the heart is? Or wherever you lay your hat? Or even on the range? I've done more travelling in the last five years than in the rest of my life put together, and I think my vision of home has become increasingly blurred during that time...

That's quite enough navel-gazing for now though. I have nothing but fond memories of Sam, and it is intolerably unfair that he has been taken from his family so suddenly and so unexpectedly. On tonight's CSI: NY, Detective Mac Taylor commented that we should make the most of the time that we spend with the ones we care about, and that rings especially true today. Godspeed to you, Sam.