A Canadian in England.

It’s CHRISTMAS TIME!!!!!!! And as it is Christmas time and the season to erect Christmas trees, I thought I would comment on a common misconception about artificial Christmas trees being environmentally friendly. Here’s why you should buy a real tree, if it is at all in your budget:

Artificial trees are not in any way, shape, or form environmentally friendly. In fact, if you are concerned about the environment, you should avoid artificial Christmas trees like the plague!!

Apart from the pollution spilled out by the factories to make them and the pollution from transporting them (usually all the way from China, on a boat burning diesel fuel), once their life ends, after a few seasons in your living room, they remain in landfill for years. As in, 100 years. They do not decompose.

Real Christmas trees on the other hand, are planted as a crop, designed specifically for the purpose of being harvested as a crop. Typically, for every tree havested each year, two are planted.

Additionally, while this crop is growing, it contributes to clean air by absorbing pollutants and CO2 from the air we breath. They aren’t shipped all the way from China. A real Christmas tree in your living room brings the outdoors in with its glorious evergreen scent. Another plus is that it isn’t dusty from being packed in the attic. And once Christmas is over? They decompose beautifully.

If it snows where you are, you may not have a green Christmas - but you can still go green by buying a real Christmas tree!

Merry Christmas everyone!

The phone rang the other day.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is that Mrs Boy then?” Thick accent. Uh ohhhh.
“Yes it is, how may I help you?”
“Well, I’m eck-chally looooking for yee hoosbund – is he a power tool?”
I pause. “Um . . . pardon me?
“Your hoosbund – is he a power tool???”

Okie dokie then. Either this is a trick question or the difficulty I have been having understanding accents of late is channelling Groundhog Day.

Time to pull out my new lifeline:

“I’m very sorry – I am just getting used to the accents in England – did you want to speak with my husband?” (You can ask HIM if he’s a power tool!)

“Yes please!” She was obviously exasperated with me. I, on the other hand, was not about to reveal any marital secrets about the power tool!!

I handed the phone to my husband. He understood everything and booked the appointment she was calling about.

When he got off the phone, I ran the conversation by him, duplicating as best I could the phraseology and accent.

“Ah,” he laughed “Sounds like she asked “Is he aboot at all?”

Bawahaha. Nice try.

“Nah. She definitely asked if you were a power tool.” I could see from the silly grin on his face that he was quite taken with this new name.

So. Another one under the belt: Power tool = aboot a tool = about at all.

Got it. Next time someone calls and asks if my husband is a power tool I shall respond with confidence:

“He most certainly is! One moment please – let me fetch the electrifying young man for you!”

Maybe it’s the fact that I couldn’t bring my breadmaker with me to England because the electrictity here is different.

Maybe it was destined to happen.

I don’t know.

All I do know is that I found myself today, standing at the counter in my kitchen, in camouflage pants, bare feet in Birkenstocks, Sarah McLachlan yowling in the background . . . kneading a loaf of Portuguese Cornbread.

By hand.

Yes really. I even videotaped it. I can’t explain this sudden urge to do things the old-fashioned way. I haven’t made bread from scratch by hand in years. But I am really enjoying this return to the 1950’s kitchen time warp I have entered.

I could really scare you and tell you that I am investigating cooking rice and soups in a hay box. Or that baking the loaf of bread at the gazillion cents per kilowatt that electricity costs in England, probably means that one loaf of bread will cost about $79 to bake. Bawahahaha. Now we’re talkin’ gourmet bread my friends. “Here you are - 10 bucks a slice!”

Probably not that dire. Close though.

I should also confess at this point that I have made pumpkin soup from scratch. As in, I bought a pumpkin the size of my head, roasted it, pureed it and mixed it with all sorts of delicious other things and it is SO good it would make my socks roll up and down.

If I were wearing socks.

Well. What a new adventure this is! I am the immigrant. (I would do “I am Legend” but alas, it’s been taken.)

I don’t know if I can possibly describe how absolutely intriguing this is - being the IMMIGRANT.

Keep in mind that I am not living in London (like so many of your Canadian fantasies) but in a small town in the East Midlands. It isn’t like London, with its many colours of people and myriad of accents. Nope. Where I live it is almost all caucasian and, from the sounds of it, they all grew up here. I am an anomaly here.

In London, when I open my mouth, no one bats an eye. Here, their eyes bug wide and they gape at me open-mouthed. I am not kidding. The other day The Boy and I were in the grocery store and I said something to him and this guy in front of us whipped his head around and stared at me. I could almost see a question mark twirling around his head! I felt special. LOL.

I am guessing that there are very few if any Canadians here. I am a novelty. Which is excellent. And here’s why.

I look like a complete idiot when I am out. I look the wrong way when crossing the street. This is dangerous. But the Canadian accent is working for me people! Example: I haven’t a clue what the change is. The big things that look like quarters are actually worth less than the little hexagon shaped things which are worth four times what the little dime-sized things are. I have studied these coins. Committed them to memory. This way, when I go to the store, I won’t look like a total ‘tard. Wrong.

This evening I went to the store to buy milk, some cereal cream for my pumpkin soup and some bread. The cream is a whole other story. Suffice it to say that if you take a double double at Timmies you are sh-t out of luck in England. They put milk in their coffee and you can’t get coffee cream anywhere. No. They sell stuff called “single cream”, “double cream” “clotted (arteries) cream” and other stuff. You have to read the labels to figure out what’s what per gram of fat per glop or something. I don’t know. It’s confusing. But not as confusing as the change.

I get up to the cash and she says “Are you alright?” Which apparently around here (England?) means “Good evening, how are you.” I keep telling them I am FINE and they look at me like I am weird. Well I am. Both fine and weird. But evidently that’s besides the point.

Then she adds it all up and says “five wha wha pfswar please”. Oh good lord not again. The accent. English please! I look around. No one is staring. Yet. I can’t understand a word she is saying to me except five and please. I try to take a furtive glance at the screen - maybe I can SEE the price. No luck. “Sorry” I say, “How much?” She smiles. I am obviously senile. She has detected the accent. Frozen brain Canadian. “five wha wha pfswar please”. ” I start to sweat. “What’s the change, what’s the change, what does she want??!” I give up. I give her £5 and hold my hand out like a three year old and she picks the change from my hand. 47p. Ah yes, of course. I nod knowingly. Forty-seven pence. I smile sheepishly. “Sorry,” I say (we Canadians are so good at sorry thank goodness!!) “I am still getting used to the money here.) (And the accent and the way you guys drive on the wrong side of the road which makes a mere walk to the store like an obstacle course through the Indy 500). “No worries!” she say, smiling!

At least that’s what I think she said. She sounded like Snoopy on crack. “Are you American?” she asked. (Innocent, so innocent, I shan’t slay her.) I had an out here people. I could haved blamed my dingbattedness on our American neighbours. Nah. I can’t do it. I am too proud. “No,” I respond sweetly, “I AM CANADIAN!”

“Wow! Brilliant!” she said.

I thought so too.

Britishy. No it’s not a typo. It’s my newest word.

When one moves to a new place it is a challenge (for most people I believe) to not continually compare things to where you hail from. I try not to. Really I do. But some things just send me over the edge into verbal diarrhea. As in, “OMG I can’t believe they want £5.99 for Rimmel mascara in England - I can get it at Walmart in Moncton for $5.99 - that’s like DOUBLE the price over here and the bloody stuff is MADE here - man the poor Brits get ripped off!!!”

And blabbity blabbity blahhhhhhhh.

Until I catch sight of The Boy’s face.

Giving me a withering expression.

To his credit, he doesn’t say a peep, dear man. “Ah yes,” I say, “There I go again, pointless comparing.” “Sorry sorry sorry it’s just that the cost of living over here is so unreal!!” Oi. Don’t even get me started on the price of gasoline or electricty (OMG!!!!!!!!!!).

I have come to realise that most of my shock at living over here has to do with the cost of things, rather than the quality. Keep in mind I have only been permanently transplanted now since mid-September. Prior to moving here, I had been back and forth a lot with The Boy. So before landing on this ancient soil, I was well aware that things cost more. It is only in organising the purchase of major household appliances, getting electricty, gas (the natural stuff that makes the stove go “GO” - not the stuff that makes the car go “GO” - that’s called “petrol” here), cell phones, etc., hooked up, however, that it really came home to roost in my little brain just how exorbitantly priced most things are here.

Anyhow, rather than WHINE about the cost of living in England I thought I would shut up about that and talk about my new favourite things over here. So here goes:

1. Cherry Bakewell Tarts. Being a foodie, it is only fitting that the first thing I fell in love with in England is edible. Cherry Bakewell Tarts are decadent little concoctions of pastry, almond flavoured filling, a little blob of raspberry something nestled in the centre, topped with sweet white icing and then crowned with half a cherry. OMG. I once bought a bought of six and ate four before you could say “a gazillion grams of fat and calories”. And I would have gobbled down the last two if shame hadn’t overtaken me. Mr Kiplings are my favourite. Don’t get me wrong - being a true penny pincher, I HAVE tried the store brands and knock-offs. No dice baby. Mr Kipling is worth the splurge. He does make exceedingly good cakes. The bastard. I now find myself in an addictive situation. Addictive as in “I may need to slap a Cherry Bakewell Tart Patch on my arm in order to get this monkey off my back.” Dear God. Who knew drugs came in six packs with half a maraschino cherry on top?

2. Doner Kebabs. First off, might I say I only tried one of these as I was desperately craving a Greco Donair. With its gobs of gooey white garlicky sauce, chopped onions and shards of spicy mystery meat. No matter, I have discovered the UK’s DONER KEBAB - and it is delicious!!!

Traditionally it is made from lamb (I believe), although mixed meat, chicken, and other varieties are often found. It is a HUGE messy concoction. It comes wrapped in pita bread and the sauce I have had it with is vinaigrette-style rather than creamy. It has copious amounts of shredded cabbage in it and comes with a treasure trove of hot peppers on the side. Whole ones. Stems still attached. Heavenly.

3. Cheese!! Cheese is CHEAP IN ENGLAND!!!!!!!!! Glory Hallelujah! Something is cheaper to buy over here!! Not only that but the selection is formidable my friends. If you love cheese then you should come to England and check it out! YEOW!! My new favourite is Shropshire Blue. It tastes somewhattish like blue cheese but - dare I say it - BETTER!? Also, getting my usual favourite stinky cheeses (Gorgonzola, Cambozola) is easier and the Swiss cheeses don’t seem to be as dry as they are in Canada.

4. Old buildings. Old things in general. The history here is unbelievable. When I was studying for my English-major degree in university, almost all of my studies were of English writers. And now, here I am, in the land where it all began. The place where many of my favourite authors were born, raised, wrote, died. If you think I am being facetious, you are wrong. I am here and my wee brain is boggled and I feel very blessed to have this opportunity. Many Canadians never make it further afield than an all-inclusive resort in the Dominican Republic. I am living in England.

5. Concerts. As in phenomenal concerts. Even though I live a couple of hours outside of London, the fact that I can hop in the car and actually see world class acts like U2, Coldplay, and the Weasel Kickers, is quite a thrill for me. Apart from these three, there are a myriad of small, smaller and smallest acts EVERYWHERE in clubs and pubs across this land. Which spurs me on to my next new favourite things:

6. Real pubs!!!!!!!!! And I do mean real pubs - not Canadian ones TRYING to capture the ambiance, feel, and look of British pubs. These are pubs that don’t have to imitate because they are the real deal. And lest you think it is the alcohol that is the attraction, the food is as much an attraction as what’s on tap. So it isn’t (solely) the vast selection of local on-tap liquid gold that thrills me to bits. Nah. It’s the food, the atmosphere, the ceilings with their ancient beams, the chipped plaster walls and the wide plank floors that have seen thousands of feet come in over the years. For a pint or two. Magic. Incidentally, should you be in the East Midlands and looking for a great pub, check out the Tollemarche in Harrington, or for other suggestions, the Good Pub Guide website where you can plug in your postal code (or the name of the town/area you are interested in) and find a place to eat/imbibe. Happy trails pub lovers!

7. The weather. Yes. Really. I don’t know why people complain about the weather here. It is mid-October now and as long as the sun shines for a couple of hours – as it has since I arrived in September, my conservatory gets up to about 22C each day - even if outside it’s only hitting 10 or 12. It rains less here than it does in many places in Canada. There are PALM trees here people - so it certainly isn’t as cold as Canada - and from my many visits over here and keeping an eye on the weather, English weather isn’t nearly as dismal as the Brits would have you believe. In fact, it has recently occurred to me that the whole “British weather is crappy” line may well be a ploy to slow the tide of immigrants or something. Whatever it is, until you have spent a winter in New Brunswick or Quebec with snow up to your armpits for months on end, and then compared that to the weather across the pond, there shall be no snide comments about British weather.
8. Mosquitos. THERE ARE NONE HERE! One of The Boy’s friends claims there are. Pshaw! If there are I certainly haven’t seen any and I certainly haven’t been ravaged by swarms of the little biting monsters that make Canadian summers hellish on a regular basis. Imagine being able to eat outside on a warm summer’s evening, go camping, or on a hike, WITHOUT having to pack insect repellent. Mosquito-less land. It almost makes the price of electricity worth it

I am the owner of a rare commodity in England:  I have a basement (“cellar”).

From what I have been told, a house with one of these little beauties is really quite rare over here. In fact, when we were shopping for a home over here, we looked at over 40 houses, and only two had a basement. Two. One was in a Victorian mid-terrace house (think narrow three- or four-storey townhouse sandwiched between two other equally narrow three- or four- storey townhouses) and was about 8×8 and 5 feet ceiling height. A real croucher.

OUR basement is a marvel (well, in England anyways!) The ceiling is a good six and a half feet from the floor (I know this because The Boy is 6′1 and he can stand up and walk around and not whack his head on the rafters) and is dry and really quite impressive as far as English basements go!

When I first inquired as to why so few homes in England have basements, I was told that it was because “England was very damp and cellars flood”. I have learned to no longer ask the question, as my response was seen as a tad combative: “Oh. I lived in Canada and it is very damp in many places there as well - and the cellars don’t flood - at least not if they have been built properly to begin with. In fact the last place I lived in Canada my house was built on a really swampy piece of land - and the basement didn’t flood.”

That was a little too feisty of me. Too agressive. Almost American really. Ergo, I must learn to chill in the English way. Just smile and nod in agreement and say “Oh I see.”  Inside I may think to myself “What a load of crap” - but I mustn’t say it aloud.

Basements in Canada are the traditional location for the water heater, the washer and dryer, the laundry room, the cold room for preserves, and the ever-popular “rec room” where you can send the children and their annoying little ankle-biting friends. It is also common to locate a guest bedroom - or a home office/computer room - in the basement. 

It is odd that UK builders don’t capitalize on the additional space that a basement provides! Storage space is such a problem in most homes in the UK -  why haven’t the new home builders drawn the connection between additional square footage in a home and a basement? I can understand it in the older neighbourhoods - it would be very tough to get large equipment down most  streets. But despite the wider streets and easy access in new building development sites,  I don’t think I have seen an excavator or backhoe yet. Bizarre.

In the older neighbourhoods, the streets are very narrow. I like it. It makes for dicey driving as you have to frequently pull over to let oncoming cars pass, but the narrow streets are charming nonetheless. I suspect that outdoor cats in most neighbourhoods live longer. Not like you can get up any speed on the side streets. Probably boosts their longevity to 18 lives or something. But I digress. 

So yes. My basement. I am rather chuffed actually to have one. So chuffed I may even post a photo in the near future. Stay tuned. It will be positively thrilling.

So here I am. England. I have discovered I need to learn to speak English.

All over again.

Brilliant.

Here are a few words and catch phrases I have learned thus far, followed by their translation into Canadian English:

→  In the UK: No Fly-Tipping!

¬  What I thought it meant: Actually, I hadn’t a clue what it meant. It was posted on a fence near a golf course. In Canada we have cow-tipping, but who would bother tipping a fly?? Seriously.

→  In Canada: Don’t dump your trash here!

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→  In the UK:  Hire a skip.

¬  What I thought it meant:  Hire someone to steer the boat or be on our curling team. I couldn’t figure out why The Boy would want to hire a skip - we don’t own a boat and we don’t curl.

→  In Canada: Rent a dumpster.
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¬  What I thought it meant: Chips. As in potato chips. The fries here are . . . thick and not paticularly crispy. Pale. Come to think of it, even though it is against my religion to frequent the den of iniquity that is McDonald’s, I shall have to do so at some point, to see if their fries are as - um - thick, pale and limp as what we get at the local “chippy” (place where they sell fish and chips). I bet they aren’t. I bet McDonald’s fries here are skinny and crispy like they are in Canada. Who knows. I may really step over the line and spring for a 1/4 pounder while I am at it.

A note on the British fries (chips),  The Boy says he is confident I will “grow to love these monstrosities masquerading as french fries as much as the locals”.  I remain skeptical.

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→  In the UK: Garden
→  In Canada: Backyard

¬  What I thought it meant:  A place where you plant vegetables. Or flowers. Turns out that even if it is all grass it is still called the “garden”.  A backyard or yard in England, on the other hand, is used to denote a place where you have equipment or vehicles. And for the record, most backyards in England are the size of a postage stamp. Scary. Mine isn’t though. Mine is actually quite big

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