How bizarre life continues to be.

Picture the scene. It's July 1988. A 12-year old John tears home from school, throws his 'Dunlop' school bag (my family couldn't afford Adidas back then) on the kitchen floor and bolts for his bedroom, eager to get his daily fix of a little-known TV show called 'Neighbours'. A routine that was, I guess, a part of normal life for the vast majority of kids back then. After drinking his fill of Ramsey St. shenannigans on his 12" portable, he switches on the Alba stereo system (if there's no cash for Adidas, then there certainly isn't any cash for anything even approaching a quality sound system), eagerly rewinds last night's top 20 countdown on the tape player and, hairbrush in hand, proceeds to fling himself around his room, miming his little heart out to the latest hit du jour, a popular song by one of the 'Neighbours' cast. Now, young John's fondness for Kylie is no great secret, as attested by the countless 'Smash Hits!' posters that adorn his walls. It's a sad obession, in fact, that will follow him into adulthood. But it isn't Kylie that has a hold on John's heart (or stereo) this week. It's not 'I Should Be So Lucky' blasting from that poor excuse for a music centre. It's a shameful secret he can induldge in because his Aunt and Uncle are still at work and his classmates will never know... that, in fact, John is madly in (schoolboy) love with and is currently doing his best impersonation of...... Jason Donovan! He knows all the words to 'Too Many Broken Hearts' and by God, is he working it. You see, young John's developing mind knows that what he is doing (or feeling, for that matter) would not be socially acceptable, at least not for some years and probably not ever in Leyland, Lancashire. He doesn't know the word for the way he is, but he knows it's got to be kept quiet, at least for now. He's scribbled 'JB 4 JD' on his schoolbooks and then torn the page into twenty pieces in case anybody saw. He's kissed the back of his hand and had tingly thoughts about Scott Ramsey. He's seen Jason's album in the record shop but was afraid to buy it in case he got teased and bought 'Sinitta' instead because boys like girls and that's OK. He's scared and excited and ashamed.

Picture the scene. It's July 2006. Fully growed-up John (at least physically, if not mentally) sits in a giggly wine-haze on the sofa in an apartment 4,500 miles away whilst his 43-year old Canadian husband (also in a giggly wine haze) flings himself around the lounge doing a song-mime for his amusement. It seems Michael has stumbled across a CD of John's - 'The Best of Stock, Aitken and Waterman' - and despite never having experienced the whole 'Kylie/Jason/Neighbours' phenomenon and never having heard the track before today he has developed a deep love for a certain song. It has been on loop in the apartment for the last four hours and even though he hasn't grasped all the words Michael is doing his best sing-along to... 'Too Many Broken Hearts'.

It's bizarre and wonderful and makes me feel all warm and nostalgic. Anyone who's ever met me will know I have a fondness for reminiscing. I spend rather a lot of time visiting the past. And I can honestly say that if I had a time machine right now, and could only visit only one place, I'd set the dial for July 1998 and revisit that bedroom. I'd introduce myself to 12-year old me and I'd bend over and whisper in his ear.

I'd tell him it was all going to be alright.

Viva La Diva

I think what you fill your time with when you're bored says SOOOO much about you. Example: I am currently "at work" (yes, that was an intentional use of air-quotes as I'm still selflessly giving up valuable sunbathing time as a volunteer) and it's really quiet today. I have a few hours and a PC at my disposable, so what am I doing? Am I:

A) Looking for ways to make my front-desk duties more efficient?
B) Brushing up on my corporate knowledge to make me better at my job?
C) Polishing my CV ready to blanket-cover Vancouver when I finally get my work permit?
D) Looking up amusing 'drag names' online?

If you said D) - you know me so well....

So... here are some of my favourites:

• Eva Destruction
• Ida Slapter
• Ivana Cockatoo
• DeVoida Taste
• Ethel Nitrate
• DeManda Hump
• Summer Clearance
• Tanya Hide
• Charity Case

And my personal favourite.....

SoFonda Cox!!!!!!!!!!

I've even found an online name-generator and worked out how to put it on my blog. Sweet Jesus, I need to find gainful paid employment...

Enjoy!

Sugar Snatch xxx

NEW ADDRESS

Michael and I are on the move, trading the community life of the West End for some ultra-chic urban livin' (or something) in the heart of Gastown, Vancouver's historic district which was settled by and named for the infamous 'Gassy Jack' - so called because of his habit of talking constantly. Well, I'm about to move into the area and believe you me (nod to Peter Kay there), when it comes to nattering they ain't seem nothin' yet... Our new pad is right on Water Street -home of the world-famous Gastown 'Steam Clock' (no, me neither...) pictured above. Our new place is right by the tree in the background. Anyway this steam clock, right, is totally steam-powered and every 15 mins lets off this funky steam-propelled tooting sound (the same chimes as Big Ben, incidentally). Given that this is going to be taking place about 30 yards from my bedroom window, expect the noisy little bleeder to be smased to pieces by an unknown vandal sometime in the next few weeks...

Anyhoo, as of 15th July our address will be:

#301 - 345 Water Street
Vancouver, BC
V6B 1B8

Tel: 604 682 4402 (no change)

The phone will be connected on Tuesday 18th July and I won't have internet access until then either.

Right, me and Madonna have some more packing to do...

xxx

CLOSE THE BORDERS!

I seem to have spent the vast majority of the last few months bitching about Canadian Immigration to anyone who'll listen. I'm sure the guy who works at my local Deli and the Thai lady who hoovers the communal areas of our apartment building could quite happily put together a ten page report on the shortcomings of the Immigration process. I really ought to change the record; however it seems just as I'm ready to accept that my fate is squarely in the hands of a bunch of 'tards in the redneck wilds of Alberta and shut up already something else happens to set me off. But even those who are frequently overcome with the urge to gag me with anything that comes to hand (i.e. Michael, who is slowly realising - way too late - just how much I can talk...) cannot deny me the right to bitch about the latest developments in my quest to become Canadian:

I am now an ILLEGAL FRIGGING IMMIGRANT!!!

Yes, that's right. Me. The One and Only Juan (TM) - friend to the stars (well, I have met Cat Deely and I once danced with Margi Clarke at a Cream all-nighter) and former beauty queen (OK so that's not true but if my mother was a little more pushy in my childhood I'm sure it could be) am now forced to move around under the cover of darkness and work 16-hour days on building sites for $3 per hour. OK, so that's not true either but allow me to milk as much drama out of my new status as possible...

Allow me to explain... I arrived in Canada on 31st December 2005. As a UK citizen, I am allowed 6 months here without a visa. So, my passport states that I must leave by 30th June 2006. Now, despite having followed all the rules and applying for an extention of my visitor-status SIX WEEKS AGO I still haven't had my request granted. Why? Because there is a delay in the processing centre. My forms probably haven't even been opened yet, as the latest inbred at the Government Call Centre kindly explained to me. I resisted the urge to tell her that the lazy bitches were probably too busy inhaling meat and potato pies, hiding out in the smoke room or doing the 'Woman's Weekly' crossword (I've worked in call centres so I know these things) - electing instead to take the high road, accept my powerlessness and (I admit it) enjoy the drama.

I mean, come ON - how many white British illegal immigrants do YOU know?

Politicians, pub-snacks and pies

So anyway...

On Saturday I decided to give the old ball and chain a mini-break from marital hell and headed out with Shane to Steveston - a quaint little coastal town just south of Vancouver. As always with Shane, had a predictably great day; shopping, schmoozing, knocking back pitchers of beer and upsetting the waiter with we-thought-we-were-being-discreet-but-actually-you-could-hear-us-in-Toronto boy talk. Well, as we were wandering through this one-street town I almost passed out with shock. A real double-take moment. There before my Optrexed, Cliniqued and Moschino-shaded eyes stood a vision of heaven itself. No, not Clive Owen in a Speedo, but a store. A store sent down from above by the good Lord himself - 'The British Home Store'!

No dear readers, not some far-flung branch of good old 'BHS' - there was n'ery a novelty Christmas gift or a polyester-mix sweater in sight - but rather a tiny little hole in the wall packed to the rafters with gourmet treats from the Homeland. After carefully manouvering through the Princess Di plates and Loch Lomond tea-towells that stood at the front of the store - pressumably to filter out the hardcore ex-pats from the regular slew of Asian tourists and shortbread-seeking Canadians - I was rewarded with row upon row of imported artery-clogging goodies; Parma Violets, Quavers, Hula Hoops, Lancashire Mild cheese, Branston pickle, Melton Mowbray pork pies, Ambrosia custard - hell, they even carried McVitie's Jamaica Ginger Cake! I can't bring myself to even think about the prices of such homespun luxury (let's just say that a Fray Bentos pie would've left you with little change from $15). After buying out the store Shane and I celebrated with a cheeky pint of Stella - at which point I delved into my bag of goodies and whipped out a bag of Scampi Fries! If it wasn't for the abundance of Canadians, proximity of the Pacific ocean and generally better quality of life I could almost have been at 'The Railway'... 'twas a happy moment indeed. I have spent the best part of this week grooming Michael in the ways of the British food cupboard with varying degrees of success. The ginger cake was a resounding success, the scotch eggs and Soreen malt loaf were met with indifference while the Pickled Onion Monster Munch flopped badly ("They hurt your tongue!" That's the point, Michael...).

On a more significant note (more significant than McVitie's 'Ginger Nuts'? Surely not!) - I had a meeting with our local MP, Hedy Fry, this week. Hedy is our Liberal MP and the lady has her sights set on party leadership and, ultimately, Prime Minister. This woman has ambition... Anyway, after yet another fist-clenching, scream-inducing, head/wall banging phone call to Immigration re: the status of my application (this one regarding the simple question of whether or not I would be allowed to re-enter Canada if I left to go to my Godson's christening; 'Probably' was the response. PROBABLY! Like I'd asked her nothing requiring a more commited answer than 'are you going for a drink after work tonight?') I decided to vent my frustration in a proactive way and... write to my MP! How terribly sensible I'm becoming. There was a time when I'd've loaded up on cheap wine and either called for a manager, screaming hysterically or firebombed the placed, depending on level of innebriation. I guess I'm growing up... So, Hedy's office called the day after and invited me in for a chat - one cup of coffee and a brief discussion later and the potential-future-PM-of-Canada has only gone and written me a letter requesting they hurry the hell up and make me legal already! There was even a line in the letter that said '...it would be in Canada's best interests to expedite this work permit and allow a professional, capable and eager young man the rights he is entitled to'! Now,I know I'm bloody marvellous and all that but this just about takes the Jaffa Cake. 'In Canada's best interests'! ME! I am officially the queen of manipulation and bullshit.

Whilst all this political schmoozing was going on (expect the headline 'Hedy Fry in Bi-Brit sex shame!' to be appearing on the front page of a rag near you soon. Well, you can't expect a Politician to do you a favour without some form of reciprocation...) I was actually taken to one side by the Exec Director of the AIDS charity I volunteer for and offered a salaried job! I knew baking cakes for meetings and wearing tight shorts would pay off... It isn't the greatest salary in the world but I get so much out of the work I do there, not to mention the incredible learning opportunities and the fact that I have the chance to walk straight into a job in Vancouver where I have already established myself and I know everyone from the MD to the El Salvadorean cleaning lady... Just depends on whether this friggin' work permit materialises soon.

It's all falling in to place - keep everything long enough crossed that my new BFF Hedy comes through for me...