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.