ENJOYING

There is something inherently delightful about lazily waking up on a Saturday morning in springtime, snacking on a breakfast of croissants and tea, and then plopping oneself down on one's comfortable couch, under a cozy blanket, for a pre-prandial nap. And then having a leisurely shower (I repeat: a SHOWER!!), dressing in whatever one pleases, and heading downtown to stroll about the market in the sunshine. And then finally returning to one's beautiful home, to sit in the garden beneath the blooming apple tree, surrounded by flowers in which bumble bees lazily drone, reading a fine book and sipping an afternoon drink.

Such is the making of a near-perfect Cambridge day. If only you were all here with me!

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

British people are a true dichotomy. Take my experiences last Saturday, for example:

Experience One - "Keep Away! Far, Far Away!"
I think I already mentioned that we hosted not one but two parties last weekend. Before the first party, I ran into our next-door neighbours in their garden (i.e., over our back gate) and let them know that we would be having a few people over, but they needn't worry about noise or rowdiness (good neighbours that we are!). I also invited the neighbours over to join our party, as a gesture of being friendly and getting to know them better - remember, I was raised in a small Canadian town where street parties are not uncommon. My assurances of good behaviour resulted in relieved smiles; my invitation to join us in looks of consternation and confusion. "Us over for the party? But we don't even know you!!??" the looks said. The looks also said, "You are invading my space, Earthling - er, Canadian - don't you realize that city-dwelling Britains don't just pop over and invite strangers to their parties?" Needless to say, they didn't come over that night.

Experience Two - "I'm British and I'm terribly sorry to inconvenience you, and really hoping I'm not invading your closely-guarded personal space, and by the way you look very friendly, but I was wondering if you could help me, maybe?"
Within hours of scaring off my neighbours I was wandering among the vendor stalls of the market when a middle-aged lady, looking a bit bewildered by a myriad of clothing choices, pulled me aside and asked if I could give her an opinion on what she should purchase. I happily ended up spending over five minutes assessing colours, suitability of certain tops for wearing out, and helping her decide if a particular item "was really her". Guess my Gap skills will haunt me forever. In any case, the lady soon decided on an outfit and after thanking me continued on her way; I suggested to the stall owner that perhaps a commission was in order but no such luck.

Coming as close together as they did, these incidents just happened to stand out as examples of how British people can be both relatively uptight and friendly/welcoming. I'm sure Canadians can be perceived in a similar manner but it seems so much more pronounced here. I'm equally sure that this post has failed to adequately capture the dichotomy concept I introduced above, but there you have it - it's Friday night and I'm off to bed.

UPS AND DOWNS

Cobblestones:
Up - look very cool and give Cambridge that "authentically old" feeling
Down - hurt one's butt when one cycles over them; additional risk involved when one cycles over them carrying some sort of carbonated beverage and then stores said beverage in the fridge forgetting that it has been jounced over cobblestones

Working Overtime:
Up - rack up tons of extra days off
Down - enjoy my new job so much that I actually would be happy to work instead of taking my entitled time off

Falling Down the Stairs:
Up - my cool-looking bruise (it's been years since I've experienced the joys of watching a bruise change from purple, to blue, to green and finally yellow)
Down - well, the pain involved in acquiring such a cool bruise

Habbing a Cold:
Up - being stuffed up so that I don't notice when things smell icky
Down - being stuffed up makes me sound very ridiculous

That about sums up today.

JESUS STICKS IT TO US WITH THE BAD SEATS

One of the many advantages of having a blog is that even non-funny incidents, such as falling down the stairs, can be turned comical if I take the frame of mind that "this would make a great blog entry!". It helps me to keep things in perspective to think about how I can put a humorous spin on events that would otherwise really tick me off.

Take tonight: our friend Claire is really into musicals and she was able to get tickets for a group of us to attend "Jesus Christ, Superstar" at the local theatre. Before I go much further, I would like to note that the local theatre is called the Corn Exchange and was, in fact, used as a building to exchange corn and other goods way back in the old days. Pretty cool, huh? But back to the musical - Claire had booked us really great seats: partway back and dead centre to the stage. When we arrived at the Corn Exchange, however, we were informed that our row had been moved "closer to the stage". Sounds great, right? Except that "closer to the stage" meant front row, off the the extreme right, behind a tower of speakers. I am not joking.

Turns out the sound equipment was larger than anticipated and took up the exact place our seats SHOULD have been, so they moved us to the only available spot left in the theatre - in temporary folding chairs, no less. Adding to the indignity was the fact that the people behind us, who ended up having a better view of the stage, were in the "less desirable" seats and had paid less than we had for what were supposed to be great seats.

As the lights came up and the music swelled to impressive volume - we WERE only six feet away from the speakers - I noticed that what side view we did have of the stage would be through the plexiglass screen separating the drummer (sitting all of ten feet from us) from the audience. Sigh. At least the performers were great and the musical was a lot of fun - the story of Jesus and disco do go so well together. And...I had an interesting tale to relate in my blog.

AN ELECTION PRIMER

As passed on by Saffron...this is absolutely fantastic: Election Propaganda

Background, for those of you not in Britain: elections are occuring next week and one of the major issues, unsurprisingly, is Tony Blair's affinity for the Boob Otherwise Known As George Bush. Other references in this clip are to a former minister's (David Blunkett) affair with a high-profile lady and subsequent paternity dispute, and the whole WMD debable. It's good fun!

I am actually being very apathetic and will not vote in the elections - even though I am entitled to, as a Commonwealth citizen living in Britain - but not all is lost as I am avidly following the circus that is the Canadian political scene these days and awaiting a forced election at any time. I am ashamed to admit that I voted Liberal last time - largely over fear of Stephen Harper leading the country - and despite not being smote in the voter's box have felt guilty ever since; this time it's Green all the way, baby.

PARTY LIKE IT'S 1999

I'm hungover, but not in the traditional sense. You see, we hosted not one but TWO parties this past weekend, and I overindulged...in food.

Saturday night saw us hosting an after-dinner event where I, with my horror of sending guests home underfed, covered our table with offerings of crips, crackers, homemade salsa, guacamole and hot artichoke dip, brushetta, brownies...you get the picture. Add an assortment of goodies supplied by guests and the prerequisite pop and alcoholic beverages, and you can imagine how it might be easy to chow down on too much rich stuff. And since I've yet to meet a snackeral that I'm not happy to devour, overinduldge I did.

One night of such gluttony wouldn't have been so bad. Trouble is, a second group of friends came over for a dinner party on Sunday (they had thought that the party was on Sunday evening instead of Saturday, so Ray and I thought, "heck, let's do it all again!") and again we feasted on all kinds of treats including hot, homemade bread, cakes and perhaps the best store-bought cookies I've ever tasted. Did I mention that restraint, when it comes to the good things in life, is not my middle name?

So here I sit, feeling a wee bit on the bloated and greasy side of things, craving salad and fresh fruit. Apples and strawberries, beware!

OUCH

The trouble with stairs is that they involve vertical travel and sometimes that travel involves rapid downward involuntary movement.

This morning I was diligently cleaning our house and attempted to walk down the stairs carrying the vacuum. I say attempted because as I reached the fourth stair from the bottom, my feet slipped on the carpet and down I went. Normally I would have grabbed the railing to steady myself but of course at the time it seemed to make more sense to hold onto the vacuum (I'd like to know how that instinct would translate into my survival in the wild: "Girl gets eaten by lions, but area around her freshly cleaned and cleaning implements safely stored!"). Adding to the fun of falling out of control, I slipped just above the landing where the stairs make a 90 degree turn to the left; two toes on my right foot bore the brunt of the impact with the wall and kindly deflected my body around the corner so I could fall the rest of the way, coming to rest on my back on the wooden floor. Funny how the carpet on the stairs was friendly and soft before I slipped on it and the floor was charmingly rustic before I made abrupt, unintended contact with it.

Imagine our house this morning: Ray quietly mucking about upstairs, me calmly heading downstairs, when what is heard but a WHUMP, followed by ka-thump, ka-boom (that one was the wall), ka-thump, ka-thump, THUMP (the wooden floor). Silence. And then a split second later more thumping as Ray comes running and I swear and curse and fight the urge to cry like a girl. All good fun for a Sunday morning, let me tell you.

I am glad to report that despite the drama I am okay. My toes are still sore but unbroken, and I have a funky bruise on my lower back, but really it's only my pride that's hurt. But you can bet your buttons that the next time I have to vacuum upstairs I'll get Ray to move the appliance between the stories...

TIME EXPLAINED (OR PERHAPS NOT)

I've had some TIME to think about my post of a few days ago, in which I expounded on TIME and how it seems to be flying by, how my increasing age is rushing up on me, and how living in a country with such a visible history is giving me a new perspective on this issue. I don't think I'll be able to be any more coherent in this post than my last, but I'll give it a shot.

Point One: As I get older, I truly am amazed at how fast the days go by. For example, it seems like it was Christmas only a few weeks ago (and I'm talking about Christmas 2002!). In my younger days, I couldn't comprehend how my parents and grandparents could talk about past events with such clarity. In particular, my dad's dad was born on a farm on the prairies and grew up living a pretty pioneer lifestyle - and that separation from the "modern" world had always made me feel like he was born SSSOOO LLLLOOONNNGGG AAAGGGOOO. But now that I am getting a few years under my belt myself, and I can clearly remember events that occurred one or perhaps even two decades ago, I have a new perspective on aging and how it can be possible for one's body to be eighty years old but their mind to still feel like they are in their 20's.

Point Two: TIME is relative. I know that some famous academic has already beaten me to the punch on that one, but it's an important enough point that I felt it necessary to repeat here. As in, my grandparents are "old" - but not in their memories; see Point One - but they, and even Canada itself, are awfully young compared to the history that abounds in England. I still have trouble getting my head around all the history here; that famous kings and academics have stood right where I have stood, and the medieval and older settlement history of this area. Combining a tangible history with the feeling that TIME is moving very quickly, in summary, has served to contract my sense of TIME (think Big Bang theory, now moving to the universe-is-contracting stage).

Point Three: It is not productive to obsess about TIME. Sometimes I am genuinely concerned that I am frittering away my TIME and that before I know it I'll be turning 30 and 40 and, and, and...and perhaps I still won't know how to fix my hair. But panic, of course, is never useful. Additionally, I have spent considerable TIME in the last few days thinking about how I would phrase today's entry, but as you can see I've not spent nearly enough TIME because I am still rambling.

Point Four: I've reached the end of today's blog entry and I am worried that perhaps I've confused you even further. Perhaps TIME is a subject for discussion rather than monologue...

NOTHING EXCITING TO REPORT

And that makes me very happy. Our lives are settling back into a pattern once again and I have to say that it feels great. I love our new home, I love my new job, and I love the people that I am so fortunate to have in my life. What a difference from a few months ago when I felt lonely and dissatisfied!

It's amazing how much difference a few shifts in living and working arrangements make. Perhaps the most important change is the shift to regular working hours; if nothing else, my experience working unsteady hours at Gap really made me realize how wonderful it is to work Monday to Friday and know what time I'll be home from work. Finally hope for a social life, and time to garden and spend the evenings with Ray.

I AM THE CHAMPION!

In defiance of my advanced years, I cycled into and back from work today, without the aid of any mechanical devices, stopping to walk, or cheating and calling a cab. I feel like Jean Cretien when he sprinted up the steps of Parliament on his 65th (or 70th? Hard to tell the man's age as he's always looked old; then again he may just not be aging well. It's tough being a billionaire and running a lovely country like Canada. But I digress) birthday to prove that he was still fit enough to be the boss. Today was proof that I am not crumbling willy-nilly into old age, and that perhaps even increased fitness is possible (and moreover, a pleasant prospect).

Cambridge and the surrounding area is pretty flat, but on the way to Madingley (the neighbouring village where my lab is located) one encounters a lot of suprisingly energy-sapping mini-hills. At least I can coast down one and rest before starting up the next! The weather was perfect - a gorgeous spring day, and the side of the windy country road was covered with rabbit warrens full of baby bunnies. I sure saw more wildlife - the bunnies, some pheasants, numerous songbirds and one squirrel than I do while zipping along in a car.

Once the weather turns foul again the ride won't be nearly so pleasant but Ray has gifted me with a lovely set of waterproof trousers and cycling jacket, so I'll be all set. Not that it ever rains in England. And in the meantime, I'm looking forward to enjoying many lovely cycles to and from work over the summer.

THE OLD GAL

Crikey, I'm old today. It's the big two-six. I am now officially in the last third of my mid-twenties, and so will be blaming any glaring deficiencies in future blog entries on my senility (heck, beats blaming it on my inherent flaws)!

As I get older, I grow more and more appreciative of how time really does fly by, and how my grandparents can talk about their own youths as "not being all that long ago". I used to think they were - ahem, full of it - because after all, sixty years ago IS a long time, but I can clearly remember doing things in my teens and now it's like, "that was TEN years ago??!!" I feel that I've learned an awful lot in the last decade or so, but I still don't know how to fix my hair so I'm really not that far ahead.

Living in England also helps to put time into perspective. In Canadian Years, 26 is actually a rather long time (being that I was born not many years after Canada's first centennial); however, 26 in English Years doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of history. I live in a house that was built around the time of Canada's confederation and in a town that has been around for over 800 years - my puny timescale is irrelevant in those terms.

Sleepiness from my wonderful birthday is setting in - then again, it could be that senility - so I will keep this short and hope that my ramblings on time make some sort of sense.

PS. Actually, when I read this entry over before hitting "Publish" I realized I am not making any cohesive or coherent points, but am too tired to do anything about it and will have to file this entry under "Random Musings On The Nature Of Time". I will return to this point in a day or so and try to clarify things.

HOUSE-IN-A-BAG

I finally got around to taking some photos of our new place today; I won't comment much beyond saying that renting a house in England is much like buying a complete bedding set. You get the "bag" - the house itself - and all the "bedding" - i.e. furniture and decorations. So much simpler than moving back in Canada, although you have to hope that your taste matches that of the previous occupants or landlord. We did pretty well, with the exception of the red-themed bathroom and dining room (see Thursday's post).

So without further ado, working from the front to the back, and then upstairs:


Us from the street; we are as wide as the white-painted brick (about 16 feet on a good day)


Looking from the front door through to the back of the house; in order we have the living room, dining room, kitchen, sunroom and back garden


Living room


Living room again


We have a fireplace! (Mostly ornamental)


Last shot of this room


Dining room, looking from the doorway to the living room


The "left" side of the kitchen


The "right" side of the kitchen


My sink and lovely kitchen window, where I plan to grow a little herb garden


This little sunroom is a great place to sit and watch one's spouse cook for them


Very, very handy little downstairs bathroom, opening off the sunroom


Our garden, with the daffodils feeling the effects of last week's snow


Looking from the sunroom through to the living room and front door


Ray loves tossing stuff down the stairs - I have learned to get out of the way


The main bedroom


Another shot of the bedroom


Ray's office that can quickly be converted to a guest bedroom


And a quick reminder of the Bram Stoker bathroom

We love our new place and are so grateful to be here. Finally a place we can really make our own - as we are allowed to put up artwork (not allowed in our former student accomodation) and plan to be here for the duration of our time in Cambridge. Finally room to host a proper party. Finally a garden in which to BBQ and, well, garden. And, finally space for our friends to sleep when they come to visit!

DAYTRIP: ELY CATHEDRAL

Our friend Warren (he of Elphinstone Secondary past and teaching in Scotland Hell present) was visiting us in Cambridge this week and we took the opportunity to take a daytrip to the neighbouring village of Ely. Ely has the distinction of being one of the only settlements on any sort of a hill in the entire fen area of East Anglia (in which Cambridge is located); it also has a cool name and a famous cathedral. More on the cathedral in a moment, first let's talk about the name.

I may have mentioned in the past how nifty I think British names are: how can anyone dislike Smithy's Fen, Ducksford, or Diss? Like most settlements on this island, Ely came by its name honestly - derived from "Island of Eels" because the higher ground on which the village was built used to be an island (pre-1000 AD), and the surrounding waters (which were eventually drained to created the fens) were full of eels. Apparently fried eels are still a local delicacy, although we declined to taste this morsel.

Back to the cathedral. Ely Cathedral is the seat of the Ely Diocese (which inlcudes Cambridge) and it has been a religious site since 673 AD. Originally a Benedictine monastery, the cathedral and surrounding grounds have a fascinating history that is far too complex for me to go into here - the hour and a half tour we took of the building barely touched on all the details - but the most interesting information, to me, was what happened to the cathedral and its sculptures during the Dissolution (1500s at the behest of Henry VIII and the formation of the Church of England, if I recall correctly). So much history destroyed during that period and they've been trying to recover it ever since.

It's impossible to capture the magnificance of the building on (digital!) film, but here's a few shots to give you an idea of what it was like:


Outside the cathedral


The cathedral from the side


Leading up to the altar, as seen from the transept


The altar


One of over a hundred stained glass windows


The organ, two stories high


The nave with painted wooden ceiling

The nave is one of the longest in England and has a very unusual painted wooden ceiling; the tower at the transept is unique and the structure is so heavy that the cathedral is unable to maintain a proper belfry because it would cause the entire section to collapse. The organ has over 5000 pipes and we heard a few notes as the boy's choir was preparing for Evensong; what an amazing sound.

The cathedral is surrounded by grounds that used to be the monastery; of prime interest to me was this field with two beautiful draft horse and their foals (took a lot of photos of the foals but I'll keep them to a minimum here!):







And no trip to Ely is complete without a trip to Oliver Cromwell's (of the English Revolution and Protectorate) house:



What a great day!

BRAM STOKER'S BATHROOM

As a teaser for the rest of the photos to come in a few days, let me present the bathroom that Bram Stoker (of the Dracula movie) might have chosen as being his taste:



It would be safe to say that this decor scheme is going to change in somewhat of a hurry. While most of our home is very tastefully decorated, the previous occupants (well, the wife half of the previous occupants) loved the colour red and used it generously throughout the house. The upstairs bathroom and dining room were the main targets; these are now the most empty, decoration-wise, rooms in the house. The red remains for now in the bathroom because we are hoping to burn down all the candles - at least the flames won't be red - and the alternative to the red curtain is an equally putrid purple pull-shade.

The room's redeeming features include a large skylight, warm flooring, and - TA DA!! - the finest shower in the British Isles. Seems as though I can never get Ray out of the thing:



(Note the squeegie for keeping the shower clean: Ray loves to sqeegie, I love the shower to be clean...works out well for us!)

FIFI THE EARRING GOES ON THE LAM

It all went down like this.

My most favorite earrings, a gift from Ray, have never been far from my lobes since I received them slightly over two years ago. I travel with them, I wear them casually, I wear them with my little black dress. Safe to say that the only time they won't be securely nestled in my ears is during the night because they are studs and they dig into my skull when I lie on my pillow.

And therein lies the problem. One morning last week, as I picked up my earrings from their position on my nightstand and prepared to put them into my ears, I managed to drop one. This normally wouldn't be a problem except that the majority of the flooring in our new house is natural pine boards about 6-8 inches wide, with convenient cracks between the boards. Gives the whole place a decidedly rustic feel and most of the time I love it (slippery wood floors make great for "figure skating" around the house and pretending that oneself is Elvis Stojko). But that morning, as I searched the floor in vain and finally came to the realization that the only place the earring could be was UNDER the charmingly rustic floorboards, I was not amused. Double the amount of un-amusement if you are Ray, because your wife then informs you that "the floorboards must be pulled up" to find the favourite earring. Ray charitably suggested that perhaps it would be simpler to buy me another pair of earrings, rather than track down the old.

This tale does have a happy ending; when the weekend rolled around Ray gamely moved the bed and removed the floorboard to locate my earring in a small pile of dust about 6 inches below the floor's surface. Good thing that the board the earring was beneath just happened to be the only board in the entire room that could be unscrewed; the rest are nailed down! And I'm happy to report that I am now much more cautious about removing and putting in my earrings.

Here's the offending floor:


And a close-up of the cracks:


I would have taken a photo of the earring perched precariously on the edge of a crack to allow you to appreciate the full situation, but I fear had it rolled back under the floorboards it would be a while before Ray forgave me...

OUR NEIGHBOUR ROY

Kate has kindly pointed out that "tea", in England, can also be used to describe an entire meal and not just the beverage that bears the same name. As in, "Would you like to come over for tea?" could mean either

a) The Canadian Meaning: would you like to come over for a cup - well, mug - of tea, and would you like milk, sugar or lemon in your beverage, and oh by the way would you like orange pekoe, chai, chamomile, green, earl grey, or berry blend?"
or
b) The British Meaning: would you like to come over for a cup of tea, or perhaps a complete evening meal with all the fixings, depending on my tone of voice and the context in which I've just made my offer? If the former, I'm assuming you take milk and sugar; if the latter, how many potatoes would you like?"

The whole contextual issue can get pretty dicey when dealing with the older British set. By way of example, I'd like to present the case of our new neighbour Roy. Roy is a lovely elderly gentleman who lives a few doors down and he has taken Ray and I under his wing as the clearly clueless young couple in the neighbourhood. Roy comes by every few days after dinner - or "tea" - (scary that he already knows about what time we leave for work and arrive home in the evenings) to ensure that we know the following day is garbage day, to see if we'd like to borrow a gogglebox to watch the royal wedding, and other such kind gestures. We enjoy his visits both because it is nice to know someone in the neighbourhood and because each encounter can be summed up as an "Official English Experience" (if you ever get the opportunity to meet Roy, you'll understand what I'm talking about).

However, the other evening we almost got into serious trouble: after glancing through our front window to see if we were home (yes, Roy, we can see you there! Hee hee!), he rang our bell and so commenced a conversation about what was happening in the neighbourhood, etc. Not wanting to appear unsociable, I invited him in to tea, only to have him politely decline as he'd "already had his". It was only the next day that Ray pointed out to me that I had effectively invited the man over for dinner. Good thing he'd already eaten, because I didn't actually have dinner available at the time - and if I'd had, I fear that Roy might have turned up his nose at a spicy stirfry.

So be ye warned: Tea is the same as dinner, except when dinner is the same as supper, at which time tea can be served instead of supper, or before or after supper. Tea may also be served at any, or at several, time(s) during the day, unlike dinner and supper which occur once each except when they are used to describe the same meal. Thankfully, the terms "lunch" and "breakfast" still appear to be safe to use (until Robin comes on here and tells me that "lunch" actually refers to a meal taken at exactly 10:02am on Sundays only...)

BECAUSE IT WOULD BE CRUEL NOT TO SHARE THIS WITH YOU

You may only follow this link if you promise not to fall more in love with this blog than my own.

Make sure not to read when mouth is full of hot beverage which could be spewed onto computer screen, or when in a quiet office where mirthful chuckles might arouse the suspicions of coworkers that you may in fact not be typing up your reports.

FEELING GUILTY - PART II

For falling asleep on the couch when we had friends over for after dinner drinks this weekend. The fact that I now have two comfortable couches is not an excuse for dozing off mid-conversation.

Am resolving to spend less time staying up late blogging, so I'm not so sleep deprived when we have actual people - as opposed to a computer - to interact with. We'll see how long that lasts.

FEELING GUILTY - PART I

For not having photos of our new place posted yet, but that's just the way it goes. I promise to have them up soon!

As my excuse, I will blame the snow and hail which pelted my lovely daffodil garden to a pulp and have rendered it much less asthetically pleasing than it was two mornings ago. Truly, I had planned to take pictures this weekend but the sight of that poor garden was too sad to be flashed around to the rest of the world.

Once my inner happy homemaker/garden mistress optimism resurfaces, I will go nuts with that camera. There is so much to show you!

THEY FINALLY WED!

I have to hand it to Charles and Camilla: still in love 30+ years after they met and now they finally get to be married (to each other). Despite experiencing more - ahem - adverse circumstances than is typical, they've been together a lot longer than many marriages last these days. They've certainly been patient.

I feel like I should comment more on this UK happening, as it's probably the only royal wedding that will take place while we're over here (barring any tabloid-frenzy-inducing elopement by either of the junior princes), but it's all been said before (in the tabloid-frenzied press). I would like to note, however, that more people attended the Grand National (England's most gruelling horse steeplechase), at roughly 70 000, than lined the Windsor streets to wave to the wedding party (roughly 20 000). This ratio is roughly equivalent to my interest in either of these events, though I must admit that the Grand National made me cringe much more than any photos of the royals putting on happy faces today.

In any case, I'd like to take the opportunity that today's blog entry provides me with to wish Chuck and Cammy the best of luck on their marriage and here's to many years of wedded bliss.

APRIL SNOW

I can't believe I'm writing this, but it SNOWED here today. Don't the weather gods realize that it is April?? I mean, if I wanted the white stuff at this time of year I'd have moved to Edmonton like my sister did.

Woke up this morning to dark and stormy skies, but still didn't believe the forecasts for snow. That is, until I was cycling through town on my way to run some errands and began to be pelted in the face by copious amounts slush. Truly bad luck as today was the day that I was on my way to have my photo taken for the department's personnel board. Now everyone important (read: those well-known academics whose books I've read cover to cover) who happens to glance at my photo will think that I always look a woolly beast who's been taken out of the dryer about 15 minutes too early. If that makes any sense whatsoever.

Throughout the day we experienced authentic snow, slush, hail and a major dose of Northerly wind thrown in for good measure. What was it that I was posting a week or two ago, about Spring having made her arrival in Cambridge? Perhaps it's time to hold that thought...

ANY TIME IS TEA TIME

I used to be envious of Ray's multiple daily tea times. Whenever I tried to call him at the office, he seemed to be mysteriously "out"; after a while I came to understand that "out" between 10 - 11 and 3-5 means "tea". Not to be confused with "out" between 11 - 3 which means "lunch". You see, my old employer, being an American company, did not believe in the sanctity of British tea time (note: British retailer Marks & Spencer does allow their employees tea time).

Luckily I now work for the university, a decidely British institution if there ever was one. And with that privilege comes my own tea time - multiple tea times per day, in fact - now presenting Ray with some serious competition for the title of Chief Consumer Of Copious Quantities Of Tea in our household. I try to limit myself to tea with breakfast (caffeinated, thankyouverymuch), tea at the morning tea break (caffeine optional, depending on how the morning is progressing), and tea after dinner/before bed (definitely no caffeine). My inner health nut busts out and proclaims that lunchtime and afternoon tea time belongs to the nectar known as water, just to prevent my kidneys from going into overdrive and keep my teeth from turning tea-brown.

And with that, I'm off to brew myself a pre-bedtime cuppa...

YUMMY YUMMY

Mmmm...must remember that the following dinner: spinach salad with strawberries and almonds, followed by french bread and roasted peppers and basil on angelhair pasta, washed down with a light cabernet-shiraz, is more conducive to sleeping than blogging.

On that note, I'm off to loaf on the couch (an especially attractive pasttime now that we have comfortable couches!) and then to bed.

Anyone who wants a recipe for the above, feel free to give me a shout. Guaranteed results!

OH, I FORGOT...

...to add yesterday (see, it's that brain drain taking effect) that working at a stimulating job sure makes time fly. I'd lost touch with that nifty little aspect of keeping oneself busy mentally during the day. No longer am I found checking my watch repeatedly ("What!? I can't believe only 10 minutes have passed!") and calculating just how many minutes are left until my lunch break/end of shift. Quite the opposite: my direct supervisor (a post-doc) is always having to remind me that it's tea time, lunch time, or tea time again. I am always surprised at how the hours have flown by - guess the old saying really is true.

One other advantage of my new job: regular working hours. I can't describe the simple pleasure of heading to and from work at about the same time each day. No more getting home at 9:30pm and just sitting down to dinner at 10! No more missing Ray in the evenings! And best of all, no more work on weekends! Bliss.

BRAIN DRAIN

I am so, so excited to be back in a job where I get to use my brain on a regular basis. I've so much to learn about this new (to me) area of research that it's overwhelming and fascinating at the same time. The only trouble is, I've been so busy at work that I've not had time to think of an original blog entry for today...and I fear that this may become a rather common experience. No kooky customers to relate in this position, either! But I will persevere.

I have a funny entry planned for tomorrow, but for tonight - I'm off to bed!

MOVING ON

The funny thing about moving is just how much stuff one finds when one is packing, which makes one think either a) "There you are! I'd wondered where I'd put you!" or b) "What in the sam heck are you? Did I actually spend some of my hard-earned cash on you?". Oddly enough, because we'd just moved to England less than six months ago and therefore should not have had the time to accumlate objects belonging to Category b, I did find several items whose acquisition I couldn't place. I'm going to blame that on Ray(!!), and if that excuse falls through, then on the fact that we packed in sort of a haze back last September and it's entirely possible I may have brought a few odd items with me.

Why the dirty brown running shoes? Why didn't I even deem them worthy of being clean, and yet they were allowed precious space in my suitcase? I hadn't worn them for years anyway, and meanwhile a whole bunch of my current shoes are languishing in Mom and Dad's front hall closet in Gibsons. Why the Art Deco shirt (and why/when did I buy that sucker in the first place)? The frumpy dress? Hair appliances I never use? The list continues...

At the other end of the spectrum are items that I thought we had in our flat but failed to materialize in the move. I had always figured these items were at the back of the cupboards' top shelves and I, being short, couldn't see the magic treasures hiding up there. No such luck, though - it appears that I really did leave many of my doodads in Canada. The one item I really can't figure out is a box of band-aids (plasters for you British folk): Ray and I were both convinced that we'd bought a box upon our arrival in the UK (the be-prepared boy/girl scouts in us rearing their heads) but each time we cut ourselves we couldn't seem to find them. We always went by the "stuck in the back of the closet" theory, but it appears that we truly are not in possession of band-aids, and I must add them to this week's shopping list.