I'm Still Here.

Beloved MacBook has been out of commission for some weeks now, and thus, my blogging has ground to a halt. It's driving me nuts that the extent of my ability to update my site has been confined to tweets sent from my iPhone, because as we all know, I like to say a little more than what I can fit into 140 characters. In fact, I find it impossible to say anything in 140 characters. Sigh.

So, this one illicit blog for now and then I'll go back to waiting for Apple to fix MacBook.

Life is slowly settling into a routine. The construction at Woodwards continues apace, which means, whether I like it or not, I'm awake at 6 when the generators start and the construction team arrives outside my window. They tend to go like stink until 11 pm at night, but the progress seems, well, glacial. I'm not sure why everything is taking so long, in terms of construction at the SFU School of Contemporary Arts and the Community Arts Space.

It's a bit disorienting to suddenly have, well, a life. I go to work, I come home at a reasonable hour, and still have time in the evenings to spend time with friends and family. And, um, I don't work on the weekends. I feel guilty about it. But, I don't actually have to. So...hopefully the guilt will abate soon.

Filling my suddenly deliciously free evenings and weekends has not been hard. I've painted two walls in my house, haunted second hand and vintage stores to pick out just the right, 60's era, Don-Draperesque furnishings, baked (!), cooked, visited with family, gone to movies (see Fantastic Mr. Fox, it's delightful), met friends at Muzi for tea, read books (finally got my limited edition copy of Robert J. Wiersema's The World More Full of Weeping, which I highly recommend), and gone for wanders around downtown, to see what's changed and what hasn't. I bought a Christmas tree and decorated it with my mom and my aunties. I have had some crazy nights out as well, to the Eastside Culture Crawl, to see Lady Gaga's Monster Ball tour, and to the good ol' Freequeency Top 40 drag show at the Odyssey (which was, now that I think of it, uncannily similar to the Monster Ball)...

Keeping busy has staved off the worst of the inevitable homesickness I knew I would feel for London once the euphoria of being home wore off, despite how challenging and unhappy the recent months (well, year and a half) there were. I know, without a doubt, that it is healthiest for me to be here, in Vancouver. That doesn't mean that I don't miss London, or miss the best parts of it, anyway. Of course I don't miss the stress of the work, the loneliness of being so far from friends and family, and the day-to-day grind of living and working in London. But I miss flirting with Billy on the Thamesclipper on my way to work, I miss slipping out for coffee at Taylor Street Baristas with Tony, I miss being part of a team of brilliant, hilarious, caring associates who I looked forward to seeing every day, I miss starting to chatter at my office-mate David at 10 am and not stopping until I left in the evenings, I miss seeing trashy movies at Piccadilly with Ben, meeting Mike and Dorota for dinner and a good gossip in Mayfair, scouring the Internet for cheap theatre tickets, and visiting my beloved markets. So, despite knowing that I've made the right decision, I still dream of London, waking up in the morning and feeling its loss.

On the few nights when I'm not headed out to see someone or do something, I've settled into the routine of coming home, cooking dinner, doing laundry, and watching Ghost Whisperer. I know, I know. It's trash. It's horrible. It's Jennifer Love Hewitt. My mind knows all these things, and yet, every night, I flick it on while I bang the pots and pans together, while the laundry swirls around, machine humming happily in the background, and every night, inevitably, I cry my eyes out at the conclusion where somebody goes into the light. Every. Time. It's ridiculous. I told my aunt this last week, when I went to her house for a family dinner. She said, "That's a pretty sad comment on your life, that you go home and cry all night." Maybe it is. I think it's great that I get to go home, period. And the crying, well, it's cathartic. Maybe I'm crying out all the frustration and loneliness of the past 18 months, the anger at myself for going in the first place, and the anger at myself for not making it work. All I know is, right now, today, I'm happy. And if I needed to have a good Melinda Gordon-induced cry to get here, well, that's fine by me.

What Makes a Home.

All of my possessions were packed up in mid-September and sent on their merry way, I thought, by slow boat to Canada. However, for whatever reason, the moving company we paid more than enough money to transport things hasn't even bothered to put them on a boat yet, which I found out when I called Friday morning to check on their status, as they should be arriving any day. I was upset, but also unsettled. I want my things. I'm home now, I want to feel at home. I want my books, I want my pictures on the wall. I want my SHOES!

Anyway, I sulked for most of the weekend about it. It stresses me out to no end, but there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

Tonight I had a couple of girlfriends over for dinner and Gossip Girl after we finished work. I baked a veggie lasagna. We scarfed homemade Caesar salad while commenting bitchily on all of the questionable wardrobe choices on the show, mainly wondering aloud why Serena was working in a senator's office looking like a ho. We watched Currie play soccer with her kitty-ball. We put on Justin Timberlake and danced around. We drank wine out of jars. We talked about boys while I puttered in the kitchen. After the girls left, and I had finished loading the dishwasher, I realized, what else do I need? I am home and at home, whether that stuff makes it across the Atlantic or not.

Transport Stories.

While I don't perhaps fit the stereotype of the British Columbia hemp-wearing, tree-hugging environmentalist, I have always been very passionate about the environment. In elementary school I helped launch a green schools initiative that saw the school nationally recognized as a "Green School" a year after I left. At Pearson College I was one of the school's "recyclers," who dragged a red wagon from house to house and building to building once a week, picking up recyclable materials to be sorted. As part of the Environmental Law Centre at UVic's Faculty of Law, I participated in a number of pro-bono environmental cases.

Sure, I make bad decisions along the way. I love shoes, like, alot, and books, and consumerism in general. But I try to buy my clothes from local designers and valiantly attempt to eat seasonally as well as locally. London knocked alot of the shopaholic out of me, as 1) I was too busy working to shop and 2) I had no money to shop, and I've since made a conscious decision to be a bit more, well, conscientious about when and how I consume: India Knight of the Times has written a great little book called "The Thrift Book: Live Well and Spend Less" which offered some great ideas on how to reduce my urges to buy, buy, buy, and as it becomes, well, trendy, to care about these things, it becomes easier. Most importantly, I think, I have always made a big effort to live a car-free life, to live and work in one area, so that I can walk everywhere and hopefully reduce my carbon footprint a little bit more.

Living car free certainly wasn't easy growing up in Victoria. Transit was (and presumably still is) infrequent and unreliable, and while I made attempts to bike ride, rollerblade and walk, it wasn't always a feasible option and in 2001 I bought my first (and only) car, an orange 1986 Hyundai Excel that was affectionately referred to by family and friends as "The Drama Queen" (Note: my brother drove the Drama Queen in 2002 and 2003 when I was living in Montreal and was understandably mocked for it). I sadly sold the DQ in 2004 before I left for England, for $50 more than I had paid for her, and to this day, she has still been seen put-putting around town.

In Montreal I got my first taste of urban life and was hooked. I loved having every sort of shop within walking distance of my front door. I loved taking the Metro. I loved urban greenspaces. I loved living "downtown." I traded in my high heels for flats and walked everywhere. I was a converted City Girl and that has never changed. In London, while I took busses, boats and Tubes, more often I walked. I visited local markets on Saturdays and Sundays. It felt healthier somehow, although admittedly less convenient than driving down to my local Thrifty's and stocking up. When I moved to Vancouver for the first time in September 2005, I thought my City Girl ways would be able to continue without a hitch. There's Skytrain, I thought. And busses. I'd be fine.

Wrong. I stuck it out a year without a car, living in the West End, and walking to work downtown, but it wasn't easy. I could never go to IKEA for cheap kitchen goodies, or even Wal-Mart to pick up reasonably priced necessities like toilet paper and shampoo. I was relegated to downtown grocery stores like Urban Fare and IGA, which weren't always cheap. And I got drenched, every day, for 100 days or more, walking to and from work in the pouring rain, umbrella being wrenched inside-out by the wind. I sang with a choir that required me to travel the entire Millennium line every Monday night to get to rehearsals, which often meant I spent the return trip home, around 10:00 pm, avoiding scarily aggressive panhandlers and, sadly, mentally ill people, on Skytrain. It felt so unsafe that I began to dread it and I dropped out of the choir.

When I got called to the bar, as a present to myself I joined Cooperative Auto Network, a non-profit carshare, and life became infinitely easier. I had a car when I wanted it, for going out to the suburbs to visit family (as visiting me downtown often appeared to be too inconvenient), and for the all-important IKEA runs. I could easily get to rehearsals without leaving two hours ahead of schedule (two hours which I didn't often have, due to work). I wasn't exactly living a car-free life, though. So, when I moved home this time, I thought, "Let's give it a go again." I am living an 8 minute walk from my office, which even in the rain I thought I'd be able to tolerate. I'd heard great things about the Canada Line, so maybe transit was a viable option in Vancouver again? I decided November would be my "test month." Could I get by just on a monthly buss pass?

The first experiment went well. I got myself to Main Street to meet friends taking the Canada Line to King Ed, then bussing down King Ed to Main. The new Canada Line was clean, I liked the perky "attendants" in Green gor-tex jackets who checked my tickets. It was certainly speedy. Alright, so the bus doesn't come every 2 minutes as in London, it took 12 minutes to arrive, but that was alright, it wasn't raining too badly. Waterfront station is within spitting distance of my front door, so I was home lickety-split. I thought it was great.

I'm not so sure after today. I had to return a piece of computer equipment to a shop on Broadway and Burrard. It's been bugging me all week that I need to return it, so I checked Translink's website to see how long it would take me to get there by bus from my office at Waterfront Centre. 20 minutes: I could either take a 17 bus, or take the Canada Line to Broadway-City Hall, and then a 99 B-Line down Broadway.

It all started out fine. The Canada Line really is great. I had no wait for the train, it was exceptionally clean, and I had somewhere to sit down. When I arrived at the station, I crossed the street and hopped on a passing B-Line. Unfortunately, Translink had steered me wrong: as my bus sped past my destination, across Burrard, I approached the female bus driver. "Excuse me," I asked. "Are you going to be stopping anytime soon, as I've just overshot my stop." "Nope," she barked at me. "Next stop is Macdonald" (translation: really really far out of my way). "Oh," I said, a bit confused. "Translink told me I should take this bus." "Well then you should have got off at Granville," she said (translation 2: walk the 8 blocks to the store). No customer service here. No hope that she would take pity on me and facilitate a "red light exit" for me (where the driver flashes open the doors as a red light so you can flee before the night stop. Forbidden, but nice when it happens). I got off at Macdonald, sighed, crossed the road, and waited for another bus to take me back to my location. After 10 minutes or so, a 17 bus came, so I hopped on it (after checking with this driver that I could get where I needed to go). All in all, including the 10 minutes that I spent in the store making my return, my trip, from office chair to office chair, was 96 minutes. This included walking to and from Waterfront Centre (6 minutes), waiting time for Canada Line trains to arrive (0 minutes), travelling time on Canada Line (14 minutes) waiting time for busses to arrive (36 minutes), time actually spent on busses (30 minutes). Not good enough. It's a distance of 3.7 kilometres. Google Maps says I could have walked one way in 48 minutes, ie, I could have walked there and back in the 96 minutes it took me to take transit.

This had me muttering all kinds of things under my breath. Vancouver is apparently the most "livable" city in the world, according to a number of surveys, but if transit, and other kinds of green transportation were included in this study, and if people who can't afford (or like me, choose not) to have a car were surveyed, I find it very hard to believe. Every tourist coming for the Olympics would need a rental car, I thought. There is no way this transit system, which in BAU (that's lawyer-speak for "business as usual," sorry, I couldn't help myself) cannot get me, a person who *kind of* knows where she's going 3.7 kilometres in under an hour, there was no way it was going to be user-friendly for people with no working knowledge of the city's streets. On my return bus ride, I found myself calculating monthly car payments. I was prepared to throw out my green principles for the sake of convenience: it seemed ridiculous that I not be able to use transit on my lunch breaks to run errands and, uh, live my life. I don't get to take hour and a half long lunches, I get the normal hour. I don't have time to leave at 5 pm to meet someone for 7. Vancouver is a world-class, cosmopolitan city, I thought to myself. Why is its transit system still in the dark ages?

In attempting to answer that question, I thought about my fellow passengers: on the first bus I took, there were two people in wheelchairs, several very very very elderly people with varying degrees of mobility, two people who had some kind of mental disability, a gaggle of students, and more than one person (not identifiable) with a personal hygiene issue. This is a marked difference from London, where a) people with disabilities are hardly ever seen, and b) the average cross-section of riders yields much more of a variety of people, in terms of demographics. In London, transit really is for everyone (only the really ridiculously super wealthy don't take it; even super wealthy people I knew in London got everywhere by Oyster card). On this bus today, I was reminded that transit here really does seem to be used, generally speaking, by people in the lower economic classes (Note: I'm not making a judgment here, I'm just observing). I can't speak for commuter transit, as I don't take it, but even on my return bus through the core of Vancouver, it was just old people, sick people, and poor people: more wheelchairs, more people with disabilities, and more old people barely able to climb onto the bus.

So why aren't more people like me, who can afford cars but live in the city, not taking transit? Sure, it was lunch hour, so my rough ethnography may be skewed, but I've taken the bus in the past on weekday mornings and it's the same type of people. Nary a yuppie in sight. The norm seems to be, if you can afford a car, you drive. You drive to avoid the inconvenience and hassle of taking transit in Vancouver, like I experienced today. As a result, the people who are left to use transit and who should be demanding more user-friendly trip-planning interfaces, more frequent stops, and more busses on the road (not to mention another Skytrain line or two) are those who don't really have the resources (and in some cases, the capacity) to make their voices heard.

What's the solution? I think it's to force people onto transit. I know it's been hugely unpopular, but the congestion charge in London got people out of their cars and onto transit. Make it cost to drive in the city. We've already got the Westcoast Express and express commuter buses from Tsawassen and Delta for the people who would have to drive *really* far, but the focus shouldn't just be on long-haul commuters. You need to get people from Marpole and Kerrisdale and Commercial Drive and other parts of East Van taking transit, and not just into the downtown core for work. Anywhere. Anything north of Broadway, anything west of Main, to, say, Macdonald, there should be a congestion charge. Public parking should be prohibitively expensive. Throw in more of a tax incentive for transit passes (there is already a rebate available, but it's not much). Get more workplaces offering transit passes as benefits. Get more people taking transit and Translink will have to throw more resources at it. In short, they'll have to build a system worthy of Vancouver's reputation.

Neighbourhood Watch #1

Living in Gastown means there are alot of colourful folk around who are not exactly neighbours, as technically, they don't really live anywhere, they simply haunt the streets. None are scary, some are sad, and some are just plain amusing.

Tonight I was walking home from my new office after my first day of work, and passed a guy wearing a threadbare Canucks jersey on top of a hooded sweatshirt, holding out an empty Starbucks cup for change, and singing an improvised song about "The No-Money Blues." He interrupted a riff to ask me for change.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't have any." (I didn't.)

"Oooh," he sang, shuffling away from me. "You got the No-Money Blues, tooooo....me and you....the No-Money Blues....she got the No-Money Blues..."

It's true, I thought, smiling to myself. I do have the No-Money Blues, too. I wonder if he's up for a double act.

Left Coast Revisited.

Well.

Last Friday I went to work. On Saturday, I woke up, and life, as I had known it, was over. I left London in fog of drizzle, and landed 10 hours later in sunny Vancouver, to be welcomed by my parents, my best friend, and of course, the mountains and ocean, and a new life began.

It feels new, rather than just returning to an old life. I have a new home, which I love (although it's still a construction site in many ways and noisy as hell during the day-Currie hates it), a new neighbourhood, and a new job. But there has also been the comfort of familiar faces of family and friends, and they, more than unpacking or building the 18,000 pieces of IKEA furniture I need to build, have been my priority. It's been a whirlwind: lunches with girlfriends, trips to the dog park with my god-doggy, pub nights with the pals, and family visits, not to mention meeting my new bosses and co-workers. I feel like I haven't sat down since I arrived. It's one way to get over jet lag.

But is it good to be home? Hell yes. As much as I agonized over the decision and wondered if I was doing the right thing, right up until the time I boarded the plane, I have zero regrets. The past five days have been stressful, yes, but full of joy. Having too many people to see is an abundance of riches, in my books. I'm so grateful for all these people who are once again a part of my life.

Proud Heart.

I hate to play Polly Anna but gosh darn it, sometimes the world is too full of happy things to ignore. I feel like good things are happening to all of the people I love at the moment and it makes me wanna shooout. So here goes. Congratulations to...

...my dear friends James and Betta on the birth of their first son, Graeme. He's a handsome lil' devil and I can't wait to meet him when I get home next week...

...to my brother on becoming "The Godfather." No, not a mafia head, but to the lovely Leah Venier. Now, I happen to be Godmother to Leah's sister Sidney...so Alex, let's not let sibling rivalry get in the way of our (god)parenting duties...

...to my friends Christopher and Tea, Annie, and Catalina, who have all (separately) taken the big plunge and bought new homes this month! Christopher and Tea are surrounded by boxes as we speak, Annie is still, I think, without a couch (correct me if I'm wrong darling but I believe you prioritised a PVR over furniture), and Catalina moves into the W to be my neighbour this weekend. Here's to many rooftop hot tub rendezvous (in a completely neighbourly way of course)...

...to my dear Pearson roomie Nicole whose debut CD, Nyko Maca and Playground was just released...you've come along way from when we used to sing at the top of our lungs in Calgary House Room 6.

...to my first year buddy Darragh for submitting his PhD 4 days ago. Now get back to what you do best, D, which is blogging in your cool, snarky yet endearing Irish way that makes me laugh.

...and to the rest of you loved ones (and you know who you are) who are embarking on new secret adventures, both near and far, that I don't dare blog about for fear of stealing your thunder.

Gold stars for everyone. Thanks for letting me be a part of your successes-it makes me very
proud to be your cheerleader.

The Farewell Tour Begins.

The weather this weekend was about as perfect as London gets in October: crisp, but dry. The perfect climate for wandering around London as the final countdown begins.

The weekend started early on Friday, with lunch with friends in Spitalfields Market...boozy for them, but not me, as I have trapped a nerve in my back and am taking many a narcotic to deal with the pain. Lunch turned into wandering around the market, saying hello and so long to some of my favorite local designers who display their wares on Friday afternoons. Market wandering turned into meeting friends at a wine bar for more drinking (sigh) later Friday evening.

Given my non-hungover status, I was up and fresh as a daisy quite early on Saturday morning. As letting agents are still trooping through the flat, I decided it was best to get gone as soon as I could. I took the boat to London Bridge, and as it was early enough to avoid the crowds, nipped into Borough Market (any doubts yet that it's my favorite place in London? How much do I talk about it?). I bought breakfast and plunked myself on a rock on Winchester Walk, a side street that runs behind the market, from which one can view the hustle and bustle, and gaze at Southwark Cathedral, relatively uninterrupted. The only people that passed by were a few uniformed traffic wardens, and a butcher from the Ginger Pig, in his striped red and white apron, white shirt, and black trousers.

I tried to get into Monmouth for a flat white but the lineup was by this time snaking out the door and around the corner, and so I nipped instead into Konditor & Cook, the famous pastry shop, which happens to be next door to Monmouth, and doesn't make a bad cappucino. To my surprise, the chalkboard listing the day's specials proudly proclaimed, "Pumpkin pie! Delicious and spicy!" I immediately told the cashier I needed a piece, as it had been Canadian Thanksgiving the week before. He rolled his eyes. "I know," he said. "Four of our staff are Canadian, why do you think we're even selling this?" "Oh," I said, a bit deflated. "Well, it makes me very happy to see it so please box up a piece for me anyway." I popped the box into my extra large handbag and was off again.

I continued to wander along the south side of the river, on the Thames Path. I passed a large group on a walking tour, standing in a semi-circle around their tour guide, near the Clink Prison. I stumbled upon a family standing on some stone steps leading from the Globe Theatre down into the Thames, who were holding each other tightly while someone read from a piece of paper. They were obviously grieving; I had stumbled upon some memorial for a loved one. I hurried past, not wanting to intrude on a private moment.

My next destination was Tate Modern. There is currently an interactive installation in the vast Turbine Hall called, "How It Is," by the Polish artist Miroslaw Balka. He has constructed an immense metal shipping container several stories tall, which visitors are encouraged to enter via an enormous ramp. I stood at the foot of the ramp and looked into the container, which is as wide as it is tall: all I could see was a yawning blackness that seemed much larger than the dimensions of the container, which I had walked around. Don't get me wrong, it's mammoth, but it ain't infinite. Still, the darkness seemed to continue forever and somehow, I began to believe that it did go on forever, that it stretched beyond the confines of the box. I strode up the ramp and into the container, towards the blackness. After a few steps, when I was out of range of the faint light at the entrance, I began to feel somewhat nervous and claustrophobic, afraid I would bump into someone, or a wall. I couldn't see more than a foot in front of me. I tentatively edged to the right side of the container, and placed my hand on the wall to guide myself. It was covered in black velvet. Using my hand as a guide, I confidently moved forward, until I unexpectedly hit a wall in front of me. Startled, I put my hands out. The infinite abyss? Well, it was only more black velvet. I felt disappointed that it was over, that I hadn't reached whatever imaginary destination on the black horizon I had felt I was moving towards. At once, the reality of the container and its dimensions returned and I felt silly for not having anticipated the wall. I turned and made my way out of the container feeling a bit like I had been had.

I continued to skulk around Tate Modern, and of course paid a visit to their store, which I think it one of the best museum stores around. Then it was out again into the fall air, and down to Royal Festival Hall, to peruse the acres of card tables holding used books for sale, trailing my fingers over the book spines as I leaned down (painfully) to read their titles. A bit of lunch, and then it was time to head to the Young Vic to see Jane Horrocks in "Annie Get Your Gun."

The production was delightful. The "orchestra" was four pianists, in western gear, playing at upright pianos built into the stage. The MD was wearing a sheriff's badge, which any musical theatre bunny can tell you is oh-so-appropriate. Jane Horrocks was, as usual, amazing as Annie. The ensemble was fantastic, and it was kitschy and glitzy and tassled and fringed and everything you expect this classic to be. It was so great that I found myself tearing up, when there is *nothing* to cry at in "Annie." I immediately phoned my mother when I got home and said, "I have to do that. Enough of this lawyering business, I need to do that." She agreed, but until the student loans are paid there will be more lawyering than theatre-ing, and that is just my reality. Still, I was singing "There's No Business Like Show Business" for the rest of the night.

Sunday morning was another early start. My friend Ben and I argued over text message about where we would meet for brunch, I was eventually persuaded to meet him on Marylebone High Street, where he lives, so I once again boarded the early boat and found myself wandering through Covent Garden by 10:30 am. Covent Garden is always subdued on a Sunday, as the theatres are dark, and especially at 10:30 on a Sunday, as shops aren't open and the tourists have not yet arrived; for this reason it is one of my favorite times to visit its cobblestoned streets. I stopped in Neal's Yard for a coffee and to read the paper, and then was off walking up Tottenham Court Road, through Fitzroy Square, to Marylebone. Ben and I sat outside in the fall sunshine at Le Pain Quotidien, nursing coffees in cups large enough to be soup bowls, and then popped in and out of shops along the street before heading to Selfridge's as Ben needed wine for a dinner party that evening. Selfridges' Food Hall is always an experience; not as extravagant as Harrods' but a treat nonetheless. It was already festooned with Christmas trees, garlands and red and green lights.

A slight flaw in the perfect London weekend when I entered Bond Street tube station, on my way to Waterloo and the Old Vic to see Kevin Spacey in "Inherit the Wind." Bond Street and Waterloo are both on the Jubilee Line, so this should have been an easy jaunt. However, Transport for London had once again shut the Jubilee Line for construction work and so I was forced to squeeze onto a Central Line train to Oxford Circus where I could switch to the Bakerloo Line. The platforms and the trains at both stations were absolutely packed, which always puts me in a bad mood: I hate it when people stand directly in front of you on the platform so they can push onto a train first, I hate it when people try to stand on the same step as you on the escalator, I hate it when people are in such a rush they feel it absolutely necessary to almost knock you down to get to the "Way Out" before you. Anyways, the journey was somewhat longer than anticipated and I was afraid I'd be late, but I still made it in time for curtain. Anything with My Kevin in it is fantastic, so no more needs to be said about the play.

By the time the play ended, I was tuckered out from a weekend of walking, and felt a wave of exhaustion hit me as I walked onto the pier at Waterloo only to see my boat pulling away without me. I sighed, and sat down on the dock. As anxious as I was to get home, I had to admit that this was the perfect place to rest for a minute and be still: the London Eye towered above me, but the dock was empty and silent. I stared across the water at Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, illuminated. I watched party boats cruise up and down the river. All alone, I silently contemplated London, stretched out before me. To be alone and to feel this view is a display just for you, is a rare gift in this city. Sometimes missing your boat can be a blessing. I felt echoes of that old London excitement as I sat there, excitement that had mellowed into fondness, and a quiet appreciation.

So, now there are 11 days left for me in London. I have to admit that now I am anxious to go. I just want to be home and start this next chapter.

Currie is Ready to Go Home.

Currie is Ready to Go Home.

Animal websites advise that you get your pets ready for travel by putting

their carriers out where they can sniff them, explore them, get used to

them. Currie has always hated her Sky Kennel, but I dragged it out when

Orange Kitty was here and haven't put it back yet...and Currie is spending

alot of quality time inside. Last night I walked by and she had shut

herself in there with the door shut. At first I thought that maybe I had

knocked the door closed when I walked by, so I bent down to undo the

door-she batted me with her claws and told me to leave her alone. I felt

like the mother of a teenager barricaded in her room. Currie might as well

have put a sign on the door that said "No parents allowed!"

Teary TV

When I lived in Canada I used to have a secret shameful addiction to Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Ugh, I know. It's so contrived. The "meeting" with the team in their motorhome as they choose the lucky family to greet, the sappy soundtrack as the family come gleefully out of their shack to be informed that a 17 room house with pool, tennis court and approximately 30 plasma screen TVs will be built for them in 3 days...and I never ever failed to cry. I knew how fake it was and I would still sit there sobbing and shaking my fist: "Damn you, Ty Pennington!"

Anyways. I rarely watch TV here in the UK, but as I no longer have: a) books or b) a fast internet connection (damn you Sky! Damn you stupid wireless internet dongle!), I found myself flicking through the channels tonight and came across the "Pride of Britain" awards. Sponsored by the Daily Mirror and ITV, they basically find the saddest/most inspirational stories, film 2 minute profiles on them, then bring them up on stage to be presented with a trophy while celebrities give them standing ovations and Coldplay's Viva la Vida plays in the background ("Whooaaaaaaaaa, whooooaaaa").

The first one I saw was mildly entertaining. It was an award presented to a 95 year old absailing granny by James Corden, who jokingly noted that absailing is normally an activity people take up at 19 or 20, and so, what was she going to do now: go drink cider in the park with her mates, or backpack around Thailand? Warm laughs, granny gets her trophy, and off she goes.

Next one: the Prince's Trust award, presented to an ex-convict and teenage bully who had turned his life around, overcome an addiction to heroin, and now ran a hugely successful non-profit helping other at risk young men. Cue inspirational clip narrated by Prince Charles, cue stagestruck award winner being presented with his trophy by Naomi Campbell...then the zinger: the host, Carol Vorderman, says, "Now, Mr. Ex-Con, you once said, the judge who sent you down for 4 years saved your life and you wanted to thank him. Well, here he is, His Honour Justice Ian McIntosh." Ooooh, lord. Cue the waterworks from Mr. Ex-Con...I held it together, until His Honour started crying as well, and then I was done. "It's not very often people thank me for sending them down," snorfled His Honour. Oh, that was it. Cue the Kleenex.

OK, it's time to turn this OFF...

UPDATE: Oh, lordy, the Nepalese Gurkhas just presented Joanna Lumley with an award for campaigning on their behalf to win their rights to settle in the UK...in fact, they just wheeled up the 90-something year old Gurkha veteran who saved her Dad's life in 1944...oh, gosh, here I go again...