How Do I Procrastinate? Let Me Count the Ways...

And oh, there are many to count! I'm having a bit of an 'off' week, a week where I just can't seem to sit still and concentrate. Since I want to treat my writing as a job, I try not to do things I wouldn't have done in my previous corporate life -- like get to work late or bunk off early. It's funny how I was so committed to my job when I was slaving away for others, but now that I'm my own boss and striving for something that's very important to me, I'm struggling.

And here are my top five enablers (to procrastinate, not to write!):

1. Looking out the window. Sounds innocuous, doesn't it? But it's amazing how much time I can waste. I live on a great street, as I've blogged about before. There are always people and buses going by, the odd police car with siren flashing, and forlorn tourists. After sitting at my desk for a year, I am intimately acquainted with the rhythm of the street. I know what time the woman from the antique shop across the way comes out to empty her rubbish (and usually, I know what coloured stockings she'll be wearing -- she seems to own only one pair in hot pink). I know it's eleven o'clock when the clothing shop 'My Favourite Thing' opens up. And unfortunately I know it's three o'clock when the group of screaming teens takes over the bus-stop directly across the street, pushing and shoving as hormones hurtle through their veins.

2. Google Reader. I love reading blogs, but they do take up a lot of time. I've tried to limit my blog-reading to either morning or evening, but once you break the rules, you're sucked in as you follow link after link. It's like being pulled into a vacuum where you can only escape by forcibly wrenching yourself away -- or in my case, turning off the Internet connection.

3. Twitter. I believe Twitter was invented to prevent writers from writing. It is the Devil's work. Enough said.

4. Food. What better way to procrastinate than by eating? After all, we need to eat to survive! Nothing wrong with grabbing a few cashew nuts in the morning. They're good for you. Hm, maybe I should just finish that bag.... you see the problem here. One handful of cashews is never just one handful of cashews. I will keep going, shamelessly, until I finish the whole bag. I figure it's better just to get the distraction out of the way. I don't buy cashew nuts anymore.

5. Online newspapers. In my case, The Guardian and The Independent -- because I need to know what's going on in the world! And maybe I'll get some good story ideas from them. What's this, Victoria Beckham has a new collection out? How interesting. And TopShop has a sale?

I'm getting annoyed at myself just writing this! I need to get some work done!

You Gotta Have Faith... and Chocolate

A lot in writing is about having faith -- in yourself, that you'll be able to finish your novel; in your writing, that it'll get better with practice; and in your ideas, that they'll come together in the end.

I am editing my third novel now and while I'm excited about it, I often ask myself if it's good enough. The answer: Who knows? Writing is such a subjective thing that while one person may love it, another may hate it. The only thing to do is to push through any self-doubt towards the feeling of accomplishment when you finally finish and you're happy with the end product -- regardless of what others may think. Easier said than done!

I've found both chocolate and wine to be of assistance in overcoming self-doubt. I'd be interested to hear what gets other writers through!

No Kissing, No Laughing -- Just General Unpleasantness

'Peak hours may necessitate that you let other people sit on your lap.'



'Penalty fare if you fail to hide your true emotions fully or make any attempt to engage with passengers.' Photo courtesy of Whatleydude.



Speaks for itself, non? Photo courtesy of The Independent.


Two of the above photos are spoofs that have appeared throughout the London Underground. But the real sign -- the bizarre depiction of two people (from the 1950s?) kissing -- is just as silly. Today, The Independent reported that this sign was posted at Warrington station the day before Valentine's. Apparently, amorous couples were blocking the station platform.

Hunh? Come on! Surely in these economically challenged times, local councils have better things to do than post such silly signs. Yes, I've pushed past my share of lip-locked couples blocking my way throughout the Underground, but I would never deem it a problem. I can't believe Warrington has such a number of highly sexed individuals that they need to resort to a ban on public affection. Who doesn't need a bit of lovin' to help them cope with the trauma of British rail?

I say, kiss away!

The Rejected

A group of seven British novelists has just launched The New Romantics to champion the genre of romantic fiction. As I drooled over the jackets of their published novels, I thought about how many groups there are for published authors, while all of us unpublished writers -- languishing away in the nosebleed section of the bleachers -- watch from the sidelines. Yes, there are lots of great books for inspiration and brilliant blogs such as Miss Snark's First Victim. The Romantic Novelists' Association even has a New Writer's Scheme for aspiring writers.

But oh, how nice would it be to meet up with other writers, also getting rejections in the daily post? To have a drink or two in the company of people who feel your pain when your year-long toil meets with the 'Sorry, but we're not enthusiastic enough' response? Sure, partners can be supportive and friends sympathetic, but only those undergoing the same plight can truly understand.

So, as a bit of self-indulgence, I propose the following.

1. The group will be named 'The Rejected'.
2. To be a member, you must have been rejected at least twenty times.
3. You must have written no fewer than two novels and remain unpublished.
4. As soon as you are published, you forfeit your membership.
5. Once a month, members will meet and set fire to all rejections received that month.
6. Any positivity will be kept to a minimum and is strictly frowned upon -- the sole purpose of the group is to wallow in the agony and pain of rejection, hopefully producing a cathartic result.

Anyone up for membership?

Fairy Cakes, Cupcakes... Whatever the Name, They're Goooood!

My first memory of cupcakes is when I baked some (with my Mum's help) for a Sunday School cooking competition. I might have been four or five at the time. They looked great until I took a tumble walking them over to the table for display and they went flying into the gravelled drive. We secretly picked out all the pebbles and I think they won some kind of ribbon, probably for the crunchiest.

Cupcakes -- or fairy cakes, as they're known on this side of the pond -- always have the power to put me in mind of birthday parties or end-of-year school celebrations, something out-of-the ordinary that gives the whole day a special tinge. So when I heard that Hummingbird Bakery was creating a special Valentine's cupcake, I couldn't resist.

Hummingbird cupcakes. Image courtesy of the Daily Mail - mine didn't last long enough for photos!

I've been a Hummingbird addict for some time now. Smack in the middle of Portobello Road, their cupcakes are so delicious it's as if they've dropped straight from the sugar god. A moist, tender cake topped with creamy, sweet frosting, I can't devour them fast enough. Apparently I'm not the only one. Every time I've been to their tiny shop, the queues stretch out the door -- even on weekdays, when the market isn't on.

Queue outside the bakery in December 2008.

As much as I love the quirkiness of the Saturday Portobello Market, I'm definitely not a big fan of the crowds. But even this was not enough to put me off my quest for Hummingbird's Valentine cupcakes. Pushing through the tourists (strangely, there always seems to be loads of Italians?) and past the stalls selling everything from rugby balls to brass door handles, I finally got to the door -- where, as expected, no fewer than 15 people were waiting. At £2.50, the cupcakes aren't cheap, but they're well worth the wait. I chose my favorites: a chocolaty cake topped with cream cheese frosting, and a vanilla sponge smothered in chocolate frosting.

Through our Valentine's dinner in Soho and Vicky Cristina Barcelona at the Curzon, all I could think about were those cupcakes awaiting us at home. Finally, the moment was upon us. Two brief gulps and it was over -- a little drop of sweetness at the end of the day.

Love in a Foreign Land

I'll try to keep the schmaltz to a minimum, but it being Valentine's Day (almost) I thought I would share my story of how a Canadian and Egyptian met in a city far away from both their homes.

The Man (the Egyptian) and I (the Canadian) first met at the Embankment Tube station a week after I arrived in London. It was a blind date, and I'd just had the day from hell. My first day supply teaching in UK classrooms, I'd been assigned to teach at a school near Edgware Road. Since I lived in North London at the time, that meant I had to take the dreaded Northern Line which more than lived up to its reputation that fateful day.

Eager to be punctual and create a good impression on my first day of work, I got up at 6 a.m. and was out the door in half an hour. All fine -- until I got to the Tube. The Northern Line was not working due to a signal failure. I had no idea what that meant; the buses were packed; I didn't know which direction to go in and I had no map. Two embattled hours later, I finally made it to the school where, needless to say, they were not impressed. My head throbbed, my muscles ached with tension and I was in no mood to meet a strange man that night.

Home late due to more transport issues, I showered and changed for our concert that evening at the Royal Festival Hall. After trying to get through station overcrowding at Camden Town due to more Tube issues, I'd pretty much had it with London. It was a rare hot, humid day in May, all my make-up had practically sweated off my face, and I was a wreck. One week -- and one day teaching -- and I was ready to call it quits.

I left the Tube station in a daze of heat and nerves, searching the waiting faces for a man who looked like the picture he'd sent me. He looked good in the photo, but as I knew from previous experience, photos could be deceiving. But in this case, the photo proved to be accurate and his friendly, smiling face was an antidote to the grim Londoners I'd come in contact with all week. As we walked across the pedestrian bridge crossing the Thames, I couldn't help but be impressed -- both by him and the city around me. The river glinted in the early evening light and in the distance, the pods of the London eye gracefully arched in the air. And The Man, well, let's just say he rivalled the city.

We entered the glass facade of the Royal Festival Hall, reveling in the heat of the first summer-like day of the season. Sipping crisp white wine, the ringing bell signalling the start of the performance could barely drag us away from our conversation. Sitting in the darkened room, I could barely believe I was in London, in a concert hall, next to a man who I'd only just met but felt like I'd known for ages (this is as schmaltzy as I'll get, I promise!).

Five years on, we are still together despite our many cultural differences. I hate the cold; he loves it. I enjoy the sun; he detests it. I am constantly closing the windows he opens, and vice versa. He piles my plate high with food, while I never cook enough to satisfy his appetite. I mock his accent; he mocks mine. Yet we have more important things in common: our love of music; theatre; art; and, of course, wine. It was him who encouraged me to pursue my dream of writing, and I was inspired by his dedication to finally become a film director -- from writing a screenplay, shooting it with a crew, and now editing.

And so, a Canadian and Egyptian found love in a foreign land.

Sore Labour's Bath

I've been unable to blog for the past two days, mostly because I've been unable to sleep. Sleep and me have never been good friends, even less so now that I have a symphonic snorer beside me each night. I toss, I turn; I kick, I poke; and if I'm lucky somewhere in there I manage to catch a few hours.

Some people say they never dream, or at the very least they can never remember their dreams when they awaken. I have a very active dream-life, and for the past few weeks I've been plagued by writing query letters; getting both good and bad agent responses; etc etc. It was the same when I worked in the corporate world -- my job always invaded my sleep. The worst was when I worked as an editor and I'd dream all night of endlessly tracking the same sentence to make it fit on one line.

But to dream, you first need to get to sleep. For me, this is where the true pain lies. I have tried everything: warm bath; hot milk (yuck); writing down my racing thoughts on a notepad by the bed; visualisation; lavender pillow spray; staying up later -- all to no avail. Sometimes my frenetic thoughts are rewarding: Last week, I came up with a new idea for my next novel. I even thought of a great title! But mostly, they are the annoying things that flood your brain as soon as your tired head hits the pillow. I can't think of any of them right now, but I'm sure that once I try to sleep I'll be able to provide a million examples!

And so I drag my tired brain to my desk each morning at 8 a.m., sucking back my coffee as I begin revisions on my next novel. And pray for a better night's sleep. Maybe tonight...

Sleep
that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.

-- Shakespeare's Macbeth

What Scares You More: Ducks or Geese?

If forced to commit, I’d say I feared geese more than ducks. Man, 47. Fears geese more than ducks.

Are you without a date for Valentine's Day? If so -- and you're looking for someone bog standard -- I don't recommend reading The London Review of Books Personals section.

I subscribed to The London Review of Books for over a year, but I never noticed it had a Personals section. I was only alerted to it today when a fellow blogger reviewed the London Review Cake Shop and mentioned it in her blog. After a quick perusal and a few laughs, the magazine has to have the quirkiest personals section I've ever seen.

A few examples:

I hate you all. I hate London. I hate books. I hate critics. I hate this magazine, I hate this column and I hate all the goons who appear in it. But if you have large breasts, are younger than 30 and don’t want to talk about the novel you’re ‘writing’ I’ll put all that aside for approximately two hours one Saturday afternoon in January. Man, 33.

My Weltanschauung informs me there are plenty of losers in this column but very few winners. It also tells me there is possibly one dentist and a smithy, neither of whom are me. I’m a lecturer in media studies. But if you are the dentist or smithy, or if you’re friends with either of them, why not write? M, 47. Mancs.

I refuse to let my sadomasochistic tendencies and love of koi define who I am, but if our relationship is to progress to any meaningful level then we will be spending an awful lot of time in the Japanese ornamental garden section of Worcester Homebase. Man, 46.

My door is always open. Mostly because I live in a barn. Farm-dwelling survivalist and rural hedge enthusiast. Man, 62.

If a break-up to you means spending most lunchtimes crying over chicken skewers at All Bar One then join me, big-boned F (37), and we can share a World Tapas bundle dish and save ourselves a fortune. Afterwards we can make love, but not before the chocolate fondant dessert. I can be found at the Henrietta Street branch, Wednesdays between 12 and 2, requesting fries with my hoi sin duck quesadilla.

My First Ever Rejection Letter: 1989

Like most people who write as adults, I started writing early on in life. My first project was entitled 'Disasters in Florida', a non-fiction narrative detailing my family's trip to Orlando when I was nine. It was fraught with troubles such as delayed airplanes and damaged rental cars. A great subject for a novel!

Hot on the heels of that success, I began my second project, fictional this time. It told the story of Angela, a girl who wanted to become a gymnast but was held back by her poor family's finances. I can't recall the title but I do remember I drew a great illustration on the cover.

When I was eleven, I decided to get serious. Inspired by Gordon Korman, a Canadian teen who published best-sellers, I was determined to write a proper book this time. My subject: a handicapped girl who wanted to become a champion diver. She would defeat all the odds -- overcome her disability -- and win the gold. Typing away on the trusty Commodore 64 during the hot summer months, the novel began to take shape. My interest dwindled when school started, though, and the project languished until a year or so later when I got a second wind and decided to finally finish it. Sixty pages later, 'Glint off the Gold' was born.

I have to laugh reading it, but it's actually quite a morbid story. Anne, my main character (named after Anne of Green Gables), loses her best friend to a drunk driver and her Grandmother for reasons I can't quite recall. And Anne herself dies of cancer at the age of 40.

Full of enthusiasm to have finished my 'fictional only' story, I was sure it would get published. I looked in the front of some of the books on my shelf and decided to send it away to Tyndale House Publishers. Tyndale House is a Christian publisher and I thought they might be nicer. So I printed out the whole thing, shoved it in an envelope and sent it off.

Time (almost a year) passed and I'd pretty much forgotten about the whole thing until I got a letter in the post turning down my offering. Disappointed, I put the whole thing aside and straight out of my mind.

It's only now, twenty years later (yikes!), when I'm querying agents to try to get published that I truly appreciate the response from the Vice-President and Editor-in-Chief (or his assistant). I didn't include a self-addressed envelope, I had no cover letter, yet someone took pity on me and decided to respond anyway.

And thus, my journey towards getting published had begun.

Onwards and Upwards: Novel Number Three!

Having spent the past few months researching agents, obsessively redrafting my cover letter and synopsis, polishing my manuscript and finally starting to send out a few queries, I'm ready to go on to my next project. I could continue with my current state of checking my email every few minutes or straining to hear the clunk of the post through our front door, but that's probably not such a productive way to move ahead. Not to mention that I'm driving myself crazy! So next Monday, I'm starting to redraft Novel Number Three.

I wrote the first draft really quickly - 80,000 words in one month. After finishing, I put it on the shelf for awhile. I like to have a bit of a break from my novels before going back to them. I find it helps clear my mind and lets me look at it with fresh eyes. It's so much easier to identify any problems or issues after a few weeks away. Even before looking at it again, I know it needs a lot of work with plot and characterization. Both are things I struggled to balance in my second novel, forcing a major rewrite of the second half. But I think I've learned a lot through the process, and hopefully this time I won't need to rewrite so much.

For me, redrafting is one of the best parts of the novel-writing process. I always feel a little bit anxious in the first-draft stage: Is this going to work? Where is this going? Will it have enough 'legs' to last 80,000 words? What are my characters doing? At the initial stages, it feels like my story is controlling me, and I'm not good at not being in control!

But once I have it all down on the page, I love feeling like I am the god of the world I've created. I can move the pieces of the puzzle to create the picture I want. It's hard work and sometimes I want to pull my hair out, but somehow it always seems to come out alright in the end.

So -- here's to Novel Number Three!

Into the Wilds... of Primark

My at-home uniform of jeans from the 1990s, tattered track bottoms and faded jumpers was sorely in need of a revamp before it all fell to pieces. Since I'm not exactly pulling in big money (rather, I'm making no money) I had to limit my extravagance to the cheapest clothing retailer in UK existence: Primark.

You need to steel yourself for shopping at Oxford Street Primark. It's two floors of bargain-hunting madness, with women going crazy over £3 shoes and £2 jumpers. Sometimes, you can barely push through the aisles. Forget about trying anything on unless you want to wait for at least thirty minutes. And the one cardinal rule to abide by: Never, ever, go on the weekend.

Even this morning -- a rainy, cold Thursday -- the place was jammed. Sales assistants were frantically trying to tidy rails of clothing, a futile pursuit as the racks were only torn apart a minute later by the next wave of shoppers. I rammed my headphones in a little bit further, turned up my music in an effort to disassociate myself from the chaos, and plunged in.

Thirty minutes later (my limit for Primark), I emerged relatively unscathed and £30 lighter. The most expensive item I bought was a pair of indigo jeans for £7. I also managed to pick up a polo-neck jumper for £1, along with tons of black socks and various other comfy, warm items (my only real criteria for at-home wear).

Surprisingly, most of the items I've bought at Primark actually last. One of my favourite pair of jeans is from almost a year go, and still going strong! And all of the my Primark t-shirts still have their seams intact.

It's not glamorous by any stretch of the imagination, but if you can stomach the Primark-madness the low prices seem to induce, it's worth it -- if you can't afford anything more, anyway.

British Jobs for British Workers?

As Britain slides further into recession (or depression, according to Brown), the war cry has begun. Actually, it began in June 2007, when Gordon Brown pledged to train British workers for the plethora of jobs to become available. Now, however, his words have come back to haunt him. Under threat with the economic crisis, and foreign contractors using foreign labour, workers all over the country have staged wildcat strikes in an effort to preserve their posts.

Although it peaked this week, it's not the first time protectionism -- or xenophobia -- has raised its head in the UK. Since Poland, Hungary, Slovakia et al jointed the EU in 2004, thousands of workers have poured into the UK. In London, you can almost be assured that your server in any given restaurant will be from one of these countries -- and in most cases, more educated than you. Many have taken low-paying jobs like cleaning or working in the fields. According to the BBC, 56% worked in factories. In short, they do the jobs that many Brits don't want to, due to low pay or poor working conditions. However, that didn't stop many people from complaining that their jobs were being taking by immigrants.

I came to the UK in 2004, as well. At the time, there was a severe shortage of teachers. The perception of state schools and the behaviour was so bad that the UK was having trouble attracting its own to teaching programs. I got a job straight away on my two-year working holiday visa and proceeded to educate the youth of Britain.

As EU workers continued to come to England, I began to hear my students grumble about all the 'foreigners' and 'immigrants coming over and stealing our jobs'. Since they weren't working themselves, I can imagine where these sentiments came from: their parents. The funny thing is, they didn't realise that I was an immigrant, too -- maybe because I come from a 'colony', I look like them and my culture is similar to theirs. To them, an immigrant is someone who is fundamentally different, and who threatens the UK culture with that difference.

I do understand that there are people worrying about their jobs in these difficult times. But I don't believe we should demonize foreigners because they may be willing to accept less money or more difficult conditions than a British-trained worker. They kept the economy buoyant in the past few years, when Britain was on a consumerist spending spree. They even helped the country rebuild after World War II. It's beyond hypocritical to invite them in when we need them, and kick them out when we don't.

I love being in the UK, and I'm thankful that, as an immigrant, I've been able to stay. But I feel for all of those who came here with high hopes of building a future, only to face such unwelcoming -- and sometimes threatening -- attitudes.

Chav-tastic!

Until moving here, I always pictured the British as posh, refined people eating cucumber sandwiches and delicately sipping their china cups of tea. That my vision applied to only about 10 per cent of the population came as a harsh reality. And nowhere was this more evident than in the British tabloids.

While North America has its share of disreputable tabloids, I've never seen a country tear itself and its people to bits like in the British tabloids. Take, for example, the News of the World, who today features reality television star Jade Goody in all her glory. Jade has cancer, and the tabloid can't wait to spill all the gory details. Or if terminal illness doesn't do it for you, you can cast your vote for the biggest chav in show business! Chav, for anyone not familiar with UK vernacular, stands for Council Housing and Violent -- or the North American equivalent, white trash.

A lesser offender is the Daily Mail -- again with the Jade Goody tale along with the prerequisite photo of Victoria Beckham. I have to confess that I do read the Femail section sometimes, although I feel a mix of resentment at the paper for forcing me into the demographic of women who read such stories and resentment at myself for reading them.

And if you can't get enough voyeurism through the papers, there's always the telly! A few weeks ago, a show called Fat Teens in Love was on ITV1. "Bobby has a decision to make – will he put butter or mayonnaise on his chicken baguette?" Or if that doesn't do it for you, how about The World's Most Enhanced Woman and Me, on tonight in Channel 4? Or Kill It, Cook It, Eat It, on BBC?

From the lofty heights of the BBC to the dark depths of Heat Magazine, Britain is certainly a nation of journalistic contrasts.

Snow Day!

As a Canadian, I should be used to snow. However, living in London has softened me considerably. When I first moved here after spending a winter in the Arctic frigidity of Ottawa, I told everyone that if I never saw snow again, it would be too soon. Five years on, though, I have to admit I do miss that unique snow-smell (if you've grown up with it, you'll know what I mean) and the quiet that falls over a city when white flakes drift through the polluted air.




Snow-covered tree on our terrace.



When the flakes started falling last night, I was sure it would all be well over by the time I awoke. But by 7 a.m. this morning, the snow was still falling and London was covered in a film of white. Perhaps because I didn't have to go anywhere, I actually felt excited -- I wanted to go explore this new world.



Street behind Notting Hill Gate.


It was strange to see this new London. Everything was bright, white and pure-looking.




Phone boxes, Kensington Church Street.


Kensington Gardens was packed with Londoners busy making snowmen, sliding down the (small) hills and throwing snowballs. There was a festive atmosphere in the air, as if we'd all been given an unexpected holiday.




Kensington Gardens.

But my favourite thing by far had to be the snowman built outside our local pub, The Churchill Arms. Smoking a cigar and with its very own beer tap, it embodied the high spirits of Londoners in the snow.

Dead or Alive?

I've been a bit lax recently with my blogging, since most of my mental energy has been taken up with obsessively editing my manuscript and synopsis. As a former editor in the medical publishing industry, it's nice to actually care about what I'm editing -- as difficult and time-consuming as it is -- especially after reading this article (see below).




I couldn't help but laugh. Although the article is indeed tragic, it put me in mind of the sheer boredom I experienced while editing medical journals for a publishing company in Montreal. It was my first job after graduating from journalism school and a far cry from what I'd envisaged when I first decided on journalism. One of the heights of excitement in the office was the debate over 'urinary tract infection'. Is there a hyphen? Is there not? Medical textbooks say no, but Canadian Press style says yes. I say: who cares?

Luckily, most of my colleagues were also young, impoverished j-school graduates and we entertained ourselves by passing around the office collection of DRE and frost-bite photos (and if you don't know what DRE stands for, you'll have to look it up yourself!).

Hours of editing dry medical text meant it was very hard to stay alert. My colleague D often used to fall asleep at her desk and we perfected the hand-on-cheek, pencil-in-hand nap, jerking awake when someone approached our desks. I can almost understand why it took someone five days to discover that poor worker's body!

(Thanks to Jen for sending me the article.)

My Dirty Little Secret

It's nothing too scandalous, really. But it is something I sometimes feel compelled to keep hidden away, out of sight from the prying eyes of food purists.

Here it is: I like McDonald's food.

Yes, you read that correctly. Of course, it's not something I would want to eat every day -- or even every month, for that matter -- but sometimes I feel the urge for a Big Mac and those salty, soggy fries. And with The Man out of town on a business trip, my time has come. I shall wait for the cover of darkness and slink up to Notting Hill Gate where my love will be consummated (or consumed).

Like any North American child, my love affair began when I was a child. McDonald's was an after-church treat sometimes, something to salivate over during the sermon. When I turned sixteen, I even got a summer job at a branch in my hometown. I hated working there, but there was one big perk -- we could eat for free. Yup, even my summer scoffing everything from McLobster's (a lobster roll, available only in the Maritimes) to McChicken's didn't turn me off the food. Nor did the rats in the garbage-composting room.


Notting Hill Gate.

London McDonald's make me laugh with their up-scale attempts. My local at Notting Hill Gate has fresh flowers on the tables, sofas in the window and Wi-Fi access. The restaurant at Edgware Road has a funkier interior design than many of the restaurant surrounding it. And Princess Diana's former McDonald's on High Street Kensington is one of the poshest ones I've ever seen.


Edgware Road

But I don't need the added accessories. My love for the Big Mac is, and shall remain, pure and unsullied.


Holborn, Central London.

One Century, Two Minutes

I must be going soft in my (relatively) old age, but I find myself getting more and more drawn into adverts like the recent one for Hovis bread. It follows a young boy through the past hundred years of British history as he picks up a loaf of bread for his mother. Simple concept, but very effective.

Rejection, Rejection, Rejection

I'm getting ready to send out queries to agents for my second novel. I've been slaving away on the query letter and synopsis for the past few weeks, all while obsessively working on polishing the final draft. And what shall I face after all that hard work? Fingers crossed, some (one! just give me one!) positive responses. One thing I know for sure: I will be rejected.

Benjamin Franklin said: 'In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.' For a writer, I'd like to add rejection to that list. It's a occupational hazard.

I read a lot of agent blogs, and I know they get no joy from sending hundreds of rejection letters each week. I also know that a lot of what they receive is ill-conceived and poorly written, and deserves to be rejected. And there is a myriad of other reasons why what you send may not be right for them. Still, it is hard to be on the receiving end of generic rejections.

With my first novel, I only pitched agents in the UK. It cost an absolute fortune, as most agents only accept snail mail and you need to include your cover letter, synopsis, first three chapters and a self-addressed envelope so they can return the whole thing back to you. In total, I sent out about twenty such packages, which means I paid around £70 for the honour of being rejected. A few even returned my package back to me with a slip of paper that they weren't taking on any new clients (and yes, I had checked their website before sending in my submission).

One rejection I received included some promotional material on books the agency was publishing. One such book was on how to write (I can't recall the exact title right now and I'm not in the mood to leaf through my rejection letters to find it!). I realise the agency was likely only trying to help, but it was like a slap in the face. No, we won't publish your book - but hey! Look at these other authors who did manage to get published! And here's one to help you write! Grr.

I know rejection is a necessary part of the process, something that 'will only make me stronger.' But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

Stay tuned as the rejections trickle in over the next few months...

Last Time, I Swear!

This is the third and final time I will mention this -- I got fired for blogging.

Since then, others have posted their tales of woe, too. And just yesterday, George Snell wrote about my firing on his website from a social-media perspective.

Thanks to everyone who weighed in on the issue! I promise never to mention it again. For now.

Liverpool Street Station Gets Down!

Oh, if only that station were always this much fun...

Two People, One Office: A Psychological Assessment

The setting: Two adults -- one male, one female, each working from home -- share a small office for ten hours a day. The male, hunched over four loud, heat-generating computers, only stirs once every few hours to stretch his dodgy knee. The female, distracted by the noise of the street and the Internet, ventures periodically into the kitchen for sustenance -- most often of the chocolate variety.

The conflict: Several factors appear to cause strife between the two. One such factor appears to be when the female collects more than five mugs on her desk, leading the male to abandon his work to fulfil his compulsion to wash said mugs. Another factor is observable when the female leaves her desk, returns with food and proceeds to eat without providing for the male. It cannot be said, however, that the male is without blame. He frequently interrupts the female's work with exclamations and interjections, and often takes long conference calls within the female's vicinity.

The resolution: As the couple reside in Central London, moving to a larger flat is not an option. It is predicted that after a period of initial irritation, both will become immune to the minor conflicts and a lengthy period of calm will descend. Alternatively, the female will crush the male's computers with force, banishing him elsewhere.

It cannot be foretold which outcome is more likely to occur.

My Own Little Piece of Heaven

I honestly couldn't think of a better place to live. Kensington Church Street is known for antiques; it even has its own Antique Dealers' Association. I've often wondered how such shops survive, and in the past few years I've seen quite a few close down as more mainstream shops take over their premises. I always feel sad when that happens, as if a little piece of our utopia has been overtaken by capitalism (which it has, I guess). But surprisingly, most seem to hang in there despite the quirkiness of their goods for sale: elaborate chandeliers; Japanese war armour; and mammoth bed frames, to name a few.

Typical antique shop on our street.

In its 1-km long stretch from Notting Hill Gate to High Street Kensington, there are three shops dedicated solely to wine; three nail bars; at least six estate agents (although there may be fewer now); and four hairdressers. Gives you a good indication of what the residents of the area are interested in -- alcohol; property and appearance. I started to feel a wee bit jaded about our neighbourhood.

But last March some of my faith in the future of the street was restored with the opening of a brand new bookshop, Persephone Books. And recently, Chegworth Valley opened their first store just beside Waterstone's bookstore.

And of course, it's hard to miss Churchill Arms, famous for its Thai food (oddly enough). In the summer with our windows open, the smell of frying garlic wafts through and it's all I can do to hold myself back from ordering a steaming plate of Pad Thai.


Churchill Arms.

Our street is on the bus route for the Big Bus Company, a tour operator whose open-top buses roar by every fifteen minutes or so. One summer, The Man and I were out on our balcony, enjoying our dewy glasses of kir on a warm evening. As the tour bus went by, several tourists raised their pretend glasses to us in a silent 'Cheers!'. As we lifted our glasses in response, contentment washed over me. For some, our street was just one more stop in the tourist merry-go-round. For us, it was home.

Roll On, Obama

Photo by Andrew Grill, spotted at Holland Park Tube Station in October 2008.

The Fall of Fashion, The Rise of Slippers

In my previous corporate jobs (reporting; PR-ing; recruiting, etc.), one of my biggest pleasures was deciding what to wear. Sounds shallow? Well, that's a good indication of why I didn't last too long in the corporate world. If that was the most enjoyment I got out of going to work, it was a pretty clear sign that the workplace wasn't for me.

I live a five-minute walk from one of the best shopping areas in London: High Street Kensington. Zara, TopShop, FCUK, Urban Outfitters all beckon, and each weekend it became a regular occurrence to go out and buy something new. Retail therapy -- literally. The excitement of donning my new shiny shoes or funky new dress gave me a reason to go to the boring, beige office world. I loved to join the well-heeled commuters at Notting Hill Gate Tube as we began the challenge of another day... at 6:40 a.m. No matter, I had on a new scarf! How invigorating!

When I left the corporate world, I was only too happy to pack up all my suits, dresses and high heels. After a year of living in slippers, old ripped jeans salvaged from God-knows-where, and tattered tops from my high school days (yes, it WAS a long time ago), a curious thing happened: I lost my will to shop.

When I had my part-time job, I still had a reason to buy clothes. We didn't have a uniform -- we only had to wear black. As the job justified my buying, I quickly had a few black items too many. But recently, I don't have any reason to buy clothes. I don't even want to buy clothes. Even the January sales can't tempt me.

I'd much rather have grubby slippers and be happy than wear trendy high-heels and feel empty. Too bad it's taken until now to realise it!

The South Bank: A Source of Inspiration

Whenever I'm in need of inspiration, I head to the South Bank. It's not just the Royal Festival Hall or the Tate Modern that prod my creativity, it's the awesome view from the Thames. Looking out from the Promenade, you can see Big Ben and the London Eye in one direction, and St Paul's, the Oxo Tower and the Millennium Bridge in the other. You really feel like you're at the heart of a major metropolis, and the history of the city never ceases to thrill me. All that, and it's where The Man and I first met almost five years ago.


Crossing the Millennium Bridge to St Paul's.

The back of the Royal Festival Hall with the London Eye.

The South Bank has always been 'our place'. On hot summer days, we go there for a dewy glass of wine at The Founder's Arms, relishing the breeze off the river. In the winter months, the Tate Modern is our refuge. We've seen great exhibits there, from Rachel Whiteread's white boxes to Frida Kahlo. And my all-time favourite: The Four Seasons, by Rothko.

Looking down on Rachel Whiteread's white boxes.

Nights on the South Bank, you almost don't feel like you're in London at all. Far from the grimy, bustling streets and hooting horns, the trees on the Promenade glow with soft blue lights and couples amble by the river. As the Royal Festival Hall fills up, you can sense the anticipation in the air. The Man and I have seen The Soweto Gospel Choir almost lift the roof there, along with the more subdued London Symphony Orchestra.


South Bank at night.

One of my favourite memories of the South Bank is the re-opening of the Royal Festival Hall in June 2007, dubbed The Overture. The Hall had been shut since 2005 for much-needed refurbishment, and a whole weekend of events had been planned to celebrate its return. Amazingly enough, every concert, event and exhibit was free -- you just needed to ring a number to book the tickets. Incredulous and giddy with excitement, we rung up and secured seats to Billy Bragg; Paco Pena; and the Antony Gormley exhibit at the Hayward Gallery. Planning to spend the whole weekend on the river, we crossed our fingers and hoped for good weather. Or at the very least, no rain (that summer was the wettest in England since records began).

We were in luck. Friday dawned bright and sunny, and that evening we made our way to the South Bank for the most memorable event of the whole weekend -- a candle-lit barge would make its way down the river with 800 singers. It would stop in front of the Royal Festival Hall, and join with a chorus on the terrace to sing a choral work composed especially for the occasion. The whole thing sounded magical, and it didn't disappoint. We hunkered on the steps leading down to the river, drinking our off-license wine and listening as the far-off voices got closer. The crowd stilled as the barge neared. Finally it was in front of us, and we were caught in the middle of a glorious symphony of sound.

The barge floats downwards towards the Hall.

Split Personality: The Boss versus Herself

I've just finished my second week in my new job: full-time writer. Since non-voluntarily retiring from my part-time job, I decided to give up the wonderful world of the service industry to focus only on my writing. I'm in a very privileged position, I realise, to have both the encouragement from The Man and the financial means to rely on one income so that I can pursue my dream.

Still, can I just say that writing from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., Monday to Friday (and sometimes on the weekend) is really, REALLY hard? And that sometimes I would give anything to sit in an office and chat with my colleagues? Sure, rolling out of bed and into the next room sounds great. But part of me actually misses the ritual of getting dressed in my gear and joining the legions as they march to work.

When you're employed by a corporation, you don't feel that guilty slacking off sometimes. But when you're employed by you, the constant tug of war between making excuses and chastising yourself can drive you mad. Even now as I'm writing this, I'm thinking about the chapter I should be editing.

It's great to have uninterrupted flow, but I have to admit I am starting to feel a bit stir-crazy! Twitter is great, but an evil you also need to guard against. Can someone tell me: How can I stay sane working from home, yet on-task at the same time?

'So What Do You Do?'

I dread when people ask me what I do for a living. It's everyone's favourite cocktail party question, enabling the 'asker' to correctly place the 'askee' into the pigeon-hole of choice.

I used to answer with no problem. 'I'm a teacher,' I'd say, kicking off a whole debate about the dangers of teaching in UK secondary schools. It was a guaranteed conversation-starter. Now, though, it's a different scenario.

'I'm a writer,' I mumble, always feeling fraudulent. Hey, I've written three novels, I say to myself to prop up my self-esteem. But the next question always brings me back to reality.

'Oh!' The 'asker' perks up, looking at me with renewed interest. 'What have you published? Anything I might have read?'

'Nope and I've been rejected by about twenty agents and counting.' I always give it to them in one go, then take a sip of the (alcoholic) drink in my hand to allow them time to formulate their response.

It can go either one of two ways:

1. The sympathic/ patronising response. 'Oh, don't worry, it'll happen. Just keep trying. It's so great you're going for your dream!' All of this will be accompanied by a pitying look in the eye that reads: Poor, naive dreamer. You'll be sitting on your arse in ten years time still slogging away.

Maybe I will. But at least I'll be enjoying it!

2. The 'I write, too!' response. I never realised so many people want to write a novel of their own. It's like confessing my own writing ambitions has opened the floodgates. It's nice to hear that my postman wants to write a book. But I have to admit, I cringe at being put into the 'general public' basket of writers. Is that wrong? After all, I'm not published either. But I am serious about my writing, unlike those who consider composing a text message taxing but still want to write a book.

I don't know how long it will take before I can proudly say 'I'm a writer.' Hopefully sooner rather than later. Until then, I'll continue to dread the deadly 'What do you do?' question.

Bye Bush! Bye Anti-Americanism?

Listening to George Galloway rubbish Bush on Channel 4 last night, I wondered whether attitudes would change across Europe now that the president everyone loved to hate has left the world stage.

For the past eight years, Europeans have revelled in their hated (OK, dislike) of Americans. Or North Americans. By virtue of our accent, Canadians are in the same basket until we can present our get-out-of-jail-free card: 'I'm not American! I'm Canadian!' How many times have I counted the seconds until I could clarify my nationality, watching relief wash over the face of my interrogator.

I am exaggerating, of course. Most Brits would likely say they have nothing against individuals, that it's only the nation in general that irks them. But I will never forget the time when The Man and I attended a theatre performance in Regent's Park. Some of his work colleagues whom I'd never met were there, and he introduced me to them as we settled into our seats.

One eyed me with suspicion. 'You're American?' she asked loudly.

'No, Canadian.' I'd only been in the country for a few months at this point and thus didn't feel my usual fear that I'd be lynched.

'Oh,' she said even louder. 'That's MUCH better!'

The couple in front of us, clearly Americans, both turned and gave us all the look of death. I flushed at our rudeness and felt sorry for them, but I still felt grateful I wasn't a pariah.

Now that Americans have a president to be proud of, I hope that the Brits will retract some of their anti-Americanism, not tar everyone with the same brush. Americans have been through enough in the past eight years. Let them detox with the full support of the nations of the world.

**Disclaimer: Canadians really have nothing to be proud of, either. Our Prime Minister Stephen Harper rivals Bush for his policy reversals and blathering remarks.**

I've probably annoyed the British, the Americans and the Canadians by this point. If you feel like having the pot stirred even more -- and you can stand to watch self-satisfied people talk a load of nonsense -- take a look:

Six Happy Things

A few days ago, Sarah tagged me on her blog to list six things that make me happy. I had to think about it for awhile. Here they are, in no particular order (that would take way too much self-examination):

1. A good sleep. I have always been a bad sleeper. I have problems falling asleep and staying asleep -- during the night. During the day, sometimes I can barely keep my eyes open. Thus, whenever I wake up feeling truly refreshed, I am very, very happy.

2. Hot bubble baths. I've blogged before about my aversion to cold. Sometimes, easing my shivering body into a hot bath is the only way to get warm. Add bubbles, and it's even better.

3. An engaging read. I don't care what it is, as long as it keeps me turning the pages. There's nothing more satisfying than being oblivious to everything except the world that's been created in your mind.

4. Perceiving something to do with sight or sound (i.e., art, music, film). I may have cheated by rolling this into one item, but I absolutely love the feeling of awakening when you understand; feel art somewhere deep inside.

5. Travelling somewhere new. The most exciting parts of my life have been lived out in foreign countries. Trying to understand different cultures; languages; find your place in that society is frustrating yet very invigorating.

6. Food. How to elaborate? I L-O-V-E food! Sometimes it's the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning: What yummy thing can I eat today?

And those are six things (among many) that make me happy!

The Day the Protest Came to My Doorstep

Recently, I blogged about the minor disruptions at the Israeli embassy. Despite the police helicopters overhead, I hadn't even known there was a protest until I saw it on the news. It was fairly easy to forget that less than 400 metres away, protesters were clashing with police.

Today, though, it was impossible to ignore. Walking back from a heavily barricaded High Street Kensington, I figured something had to be in the works. Our usually noisy street was eerily quiet -- police had closed it to traffic and were blocking off all the side streets. Wondering what on earth was happening, I checked the Internet. Just as I discovered that our street was on the proposed route, we heard the drums and shouts of approaching protesters.

Two hours went by as we watched protesters march down our street towards the embassy. There were thousands of people of every age and nationality. Even people in wheelchairs! Peacefully, they sang, shouted slogans and waved their flags as they swarmed by our window.

You either have to be truly apathetic or completely anti-humanitarian to ignore a protest that's happening, quite literally, on your doorstep. Although I'm not an expert on the issue of Gaza and Israel, I can't help but sympathise with the humanitarian plight of the Gazans. The Man and I put on our warmest clothes and headed out, slipping into the crowd. We filed down our street, past hundreds of policemen, and onto High Street Kensington where the march halted.

Although it wasn't much, walking the 400 metres down our street had never felt so important.

Separated by a Common Language

'England and America are two countries separated by a common language.'
- George Bernard Shaw

As a Canadian writer in the UK, I'm confronted every day with different spellings to words I thought I'd known how to spell. Sometimes, though, the longer you stare at a word the more unsure you become. Words like 'judgment' -- or 'judgement' as it's spelled in the UK -- plague me for hours, days sometimes (I can be a bit obsessive).

Another one that threw me for a loop was 'artefact'. Or as we North Americans know it, 'artifact'. When I first saw it on a sign, I guffawed, thinking some nitwit had spelled it wrong. But my British companion gave me a look and said archly: 'That's how we spell it here, you silly North American.' (She didn't add the last bit in but I could practically hear it in her tone.)

And of course, it's not just the spelling. One word can have two completely different meanings, depending on where you are. Take, for example, the word 'rubber'. In Canada, it's an old-school word for 'condom'. But in the UK, it just means 'eraser'.

I started out my UK life as a teacher. Straight off the plane, I was supply teaching the next day in London's classrooms. The opportunities for misunderstandings were endless.

One day, a nine-year-old brought over a piece of art-work to show me. He was so proud of what he'd done. I cooed over it for awhile and then said: 'Put it in the bin.'

For me, a 'bin' meant the plastic tray sitting beside me. For him, though, it meant the rubbish. I watched as his big eyes filled with tears, he crumpled his drawing, and put it in -- the bin. That was a lesson I learned quickly.

It's not just the meaning of the words, it's also how we say them. Words like inevitable (in-ev-it-a-ble, in the UK); and the ever-so-strange aluminum (a-lu-min-i-um). As an English teacher at a state secondary school, I was actually prevented from giving my students spelling tests for fear my accent would throw them off. I had to sit at my desk while a British teacher read off the words for them!

I thought by moving to England, I wouldn't encounter any language issues. How wrong I was.

When the Sky's Not Grey, It's... Orange?

Strange orange in London sky. Both photos taken at 3:15 p.m.

Woody Allen, who's shot a few films in London ('Match Point', Cassandra's Dream'), professes to love London's grey skies more than anything else about the city. London's grey is unlike any other I've ever experienced. I didn't think a sky could feel heavier than a mid-winter grey in Poland, but London beats it hands-down.

Today, though, the sky wasn't grey. It was a strange shade of orange -- the sun filtering through a mid-level layer of clouds. I've tried unsuccessfully to capture the colour, but you still get an idea of the odd light. The only other time I've seen light like that was in 1992, when the smoke from massive forest fires in Quebec blew across Nova Scotia.

I think I prefer grey.

The Power of Words: How My Blog Got Me Fired

I started writing this post several times, but I always stopped before finishing it. I still felt too paranoid about the events of the past month. But they say writing is cathartic, so I'll give it a go now!

Before carrying on, I want to add a disclaimer that this post is in no way meant to offend, slander or libel anyone. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

There. Now that we got that out of the way, I can continue.

About a year ago, I quit my full-time corporate job to focus on my writing. I wasn't ready to give up the working world completely, though. I decided to get a job that wouldn't involve too much mental energy, but would still let me interact with people and earn a little bit of money to help out with my household expenses (i.e., shopping and haircuts). I came across an advert for a part-time receptionist at a health spa. Everything about it seemed perfect, so I applied and got the job.

It was a good job, I have to say. The environment was relaxing, my coworkers and managers were nice and all was great -- except for one thing. The clients. Botox-starved, rail thin, neurotic... I can think of a thousand cliched adjectives to describe them. Throughout my time there, I was called stupid. I was told to shut up. I was even described as 'a clever girl' because I managed to spell a surname correctly. That surname was 'W-H-I-T-E.' I kid you not.

After nine months of this and countless hours telling tales to my friends and family, I decided to start blogging about my experiences, mainly as an outlet for my frustration at being treated like a peon by women who probably hadn't even finished their A Levels. The blog would be completely anonymous, a way for me to get my own back.

I never thought anyone connected with the spa would ever stumble across it, let alone connect it to me. But unfortunately, that's just what happened. One morning, my manager asked me to come to her office. I left the reception desk and trotted over, wondering what was up. As I entered, I saw my blog up on her computer screen. And her business partner was there as well, likely to provide back-up in case I flared up. (They had nothing to worry about - I'd never 'flared up' in my life.)

That's me done, I thought as my heart pounded in my chest. Quickly I scanned through in my mind everything I'd written. Thank God I'd never mentioned her or any of my co-workers. The blog was anonymous, so I guess I could have denied it. But as time went on, I had revealed a few too many details about myself and it was pretty obvious it was me.

After informing me that my blog was 'silly', she fired me. In retrospect, I don't blame her. Although I never thought of it that way, by bad-mouthing the clients, I was jeopardizing her business. She was a good manager, and I do feel bad at causing her upset. In my defense, however, I'd never mentioned the name of the spa; any of our clients' names; or anyone who worked there.

I'm not sure how I feel about what happened next. Before I left, they told me I had to delete my blog. In front of them, right that instant. I felt so bad about my manager's reaction to my blog, I didn't even protest. Under their gaze, my fingers were shaking so much it took several attempts to even log in to my account, prolonging the agony. Finally, I hit 'Delete' and my blog vanished from the blogosphere. I was gutted. I had what I thought were some pretty good pieces of writing on there. And now they were gone.

At home, after a few drinks and some reflection, I was angry. I'd never blogged at work or even thought about using their computers (they were antiquated, anyway). Did they even have the right to practically force me to delete my blog? What would -- could -- they have done if I said no? They'd already fired me, after all.

I could have put up a fight; resurrected the blog; but it's just not worth it for me. Freedom of speech and all that, sure, but I don't need any added complications or paranoia.

The chapter was fully closed when a week after my firing I got a letter from the spa. Nervously I opened it, skimming the contents with disbelief. I'd been banned from the premises, like a common criminal!

If ever I needed confirmation of the power of words, here it was.

Sure, It's Cold, But...

That's snow! Cars buried in Montreal, December 2005

I am the first to complain about the cold. I complain in the summer; I complain in the winter. I religiously close windows The Man has opened. In short: I have cryophobia. (Not really, but bordering on!).

The irony of this is that I am Canadian, something The Man incredulously reminds me of when I complain. Further irony is added by the fact that he is Egyptian. Average maximum temperature in Ottawa in January: -5 C. Average maximum temperature in Cairo in January: 18 C.

Still, even I was surprised by the sheer chaos any cold and/or snowy weather causes in the UK. It's like a national disaster. Batton down the hatches, there's a snow flurry on the way! Two to three centimetres of snow closes schools and causes countless accidents.

There's been a cold snap here in London over the past few days and true to measure, the papers have been all over it like white on snow.

From The Times:

Even during the day, temperatures are unlikely to stay above freezing in many places. To add to the misery, a belt of sleet and snow showers running down through East Anglia and the South East could leave 1cm (0.4in) of snow on the ground this morning. It could also wash away the grit spread by councils during the night and leave widespread ice on roads and pavements during the morning rush hour.


And the Evening Standard:

Minus 10 - it’s colder than the Antarctic


Snow! Ice! In the winter! What is this world coming to? I will never forget one day a few years ago when no more than 5 cm of snow stopped most the Tube lines, stranding me on the Northern Line in Golders Green on the way to work. Surely the Tube would be able to cope with a little bit of moisture, I thought -- before remembering that this very same antiquated transport system was often delayed in the autumn due to 'leaves on the track'.

I thought I would leave you with Ottawa's weekly forecast for a little bit of juxtaposition:

Tue-6°C -9°C
Wed-6°C -8°C
Thu-7°C -16°C
Fri-13°C -25°C

Now THAT is cold!

The George Bush of London Town

Back to routine today, and in the lull after the season's festivities I am casting about for blog topics. So, I've settled for writing about an iconic character on the London scene: our esteemed mayor, Boris Johnson.

I have a lot of faith in the intelligence and discernment of Londoners. We are a diverse population, from all corners of the globe, and one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world. My belief was shaken, however, when Boris Johnson was voted in as Mayor of London. (I'm not saying Ken Livingstone was much better -- but still!)

You only have to read a few sentences of his blog to think how bizarre it is that this blond-haired fop is the mayor of such an influential city. Here's a sample:

OK, folks, it’s Christmas Eve eve, and the question is whether I can get away with it. There they are on the top of the fridge, a great glistening phalanx of glass pots. Inside those pots is a gibbering radioactive brown mulch, and you know what I intend to do with that nameless gunk?

Do we care, Boris? You're the Mayor of London. How about doing something about the economic depression hitting our streets?

Maybe I'm being a bit unfair here. To be honest, I don't follow mayoral politics all that closely, so he might be doing something very important. But it's hard to believe he is capable of strategic moves when he's uttered such nonsense in the past. Here are some gems:

From his New Year's 2009 Speech:

"I want to quote Colonel Kilgore in Apocalypse Now when he says 'Someday captain, this war is going to end', and someday, this recession is going to end.

Other generic quotes:

'To rely on a train in Blair’s Britain is to engage in a crapshoot with the devil.'

'My chances of being PM are about as good as the chances of finding Elvis on Mars, or my being reincarnated as an olive.'

'My friends, as I have discovered myself, there are no disasters, only opportunities. And, indeed, opportunities for fresh disasters. '

'It is just flipping unbelievable. He is a mixture of Harry Houdini and a greased piglet. He is barely human in his elusiveness. Nailing Blair is like trying to pin jelly to a wall.'

'What’s my view on drugs? I’ve forgotten my view on drugs.'

On Jamie Oliver's School Dinners Initiative:

'I say let people eat what they like. Why shouldn't they push pies through the railings?'

Boris, Boris, Boris. At the very least, please comb your hair.

Our Neighbours, The Israeli Embassy

The Israeli embassy, only a five-minute walk from our flat on the way to Kensington Gardens, has always made its presence known. Concrete barriers block any access to its entrance, and it's surrounded on all sides by ominous looking policemen complete with automatic rifles (a rarity, since police in London amazingly aren't armed). Any picture taking is strictly forbidden. Jogging by it almost every day on my way to the park, I had become somewhat accustomed to the heavily guarded fortress.

But never have we been more aware of its presence than in the past week. Ever since Israel's incursion into Gaza began, there have been daily protests in and around the embassy. One night, trying to drive down High Street Kensington towards central London, we came face to face with the protesters as they marched past the embassy gates, waving signs and chanting slogans. For the most part, they seemed a calm, orderly group and while somewhat intimidating in their numbers, we didn't feel threatened.

Tonight, though, as helicopters circled overhead and sirens whined on and off for over three hours, it almost felt like our neighbourhood was under siege. Until I switched on BBC News, and the situation became somewhat laughable. A reporter from High Street Kensington, where the protest was taking place, did her best to make the demonstration seem dramatic. While there were plenty of people about, most were simply ambling about on the street -- some even sitting and resting on the curb. Small children cantered down the centre of the road. The scene seemed more in keeping with a street party than the violent protest I'd been imagining based on the sirens and helicopters.

I'm not saying the police presence wasn't necessary. I wasn't there, and I'm sure there were a few threatening moments. But for every protester, it looked like there were at least two to three policemen. And really, a police helicopter? For hours on end?

If good fences make good neighbours, the Israeli embassy need to pile up some more of those concrete barriers. I'd be happy to help.

Woman Gives Birth at London Underground

What a way to start your life: on a platform for the London Tube. In my four years as a commuter on the underground, I've seen people vomiting; peeing; snogging; spitting; screaming; fainting and even proposing marriage on the platform -- but I've never seen someone give birth!

From The Guardian:

A woman gave birth on the London underground's Jubilee line after her waters broke unexpectedly. Julia Kowalska got off the train at Kingsbury station but went into labour on the platform.

When paramedics arrived they decided there was not enough time to get her to hospital so moved her to a station supervisor's office where they delivered a healthy baby girl 35 minutes after she raised the alarm on 19 December.

The only other recorded birth on the tube was in 1924, when Marie Cordery was born at Elephant & Castle, according to Transport for London.

Read more here.

New Year's Eve London-Style

With The Man's teenage daughter down to visit,we decided to make a whole day of our New Year's Eve. We got up late and walked down Portobello Road, buzzing with tourists drifting through the market stalls, and over to The Electric, one of our favourite brunch places. Despite it officially being a working day, the restaurant was packed with locals -- some already drinking in preparation for the night ahead. Warming our hands on much-needed coffees, we ordered bacon and eggs, French toast and Eggs Benedict; ate quickly; and headed back to the flat to get ready for our next event: a matinee in the West End.

We'd booked tickets for Well, a comedy at The Apollo Theatre, a few days before, crossing our fingers that it'd be suitable for a teenager. We needn't have worried -- she loved it, as did we. It was great theatre and worth a great deal more than the £15 per ticket that we paid. We moved on to an early dinner at Balans on Old Compton Street in the heart of Soho, watching the place fill up as our gay waiters grooved to the tunes.

Not sure who the couple were, but they wouldn't get out of the way!

The Tubes were packed when we headed home. Just enough time for a quick nap (for me -- a few glasses of red does that to me), we changed yet again and headed out into the cold night to the Natural History Museum for ice skating at the rink that's set up each year in front of the terracotta building. With lights strung up on every tree and spotlights outlining the museum's facade, it was a fairytale setting. We grabbed our grungy, wet-smelling skates and headed out onto the ice.

The rink at the Natural History Museum, Cromwell Road

Here, the fairytale ended. The Man is not a skater; his daughter is marginally better. How to explain to someone the mechanics of ice skating? My wrist is still sore from holding him up! I did manage to take a few spins on my own around the rink, dodging about 90% of Londoners who clearly have never had the advantage of growing up in a country of ice and snow.

Skaters flashing by as I keep my companions from falling.

Off the ice and back in the car, we made the critical error of trying to drive to the river and watch the fireworks. Just like about a thousand other cars, also making their way through the clogged roads towards the Embankment. We watched the time tick by towards the midnight hour as the car inched slowly forward. Finally, it was 11:55 p.m. and where were we? Yup, stuck in traffic! Resigned to our fate, we cut the engine and rolled down the windows. The chimes of Big Ben rang, car horns hooted, and The Man leaned over and gave me a giant kiss -- across the gearshift. Thus, another year in London began! Happy 2009!