No news is good news

I know, I know - lame ass alert! I haven't updated this is the longest time because... well... I haven't really had anything to update with! Unless of course you consider the day-to-day coffee shop activities of an unemployed Brit in Canada as newsworthy...

Actually, I lie. The last two months has been extremely busy. My husband and I (will I ever get tired of using that phrase? To quote Alicia Silverstone in 'Clueless' - "I don't think so!") continue to learn PLENTY about each other. For example, Michael gleans many hours of amusement (and a fair amount of exasperation) at the expense of the colourful variations in my accent and dialect. He marvels at the way I promounce 'Tuna'; i.e with a 'ch' sound ('CHEW-na'). He is even more amused at the way the Northern English drop their T's in words such as 'bottle' and 'kettle'. Example - 'do you want a peanut butter butty?' or 'Shall I put kettle on?', with the complete absence of pronunciation of any of the T's, are the source of much delight. Even more mystifying to him are the phrases I use. 'Have a ganders at that!' and 'It's a bit parky' are met with baffled-but-bemused stares and sometimes I swear to God he doesn't understand a word I say but nods politely anyway. I pity the poor bugger when he has to endure a night in the pub with a whole group of us. I have noticed he has started peppering his speech with such choice phrases as 'That's doing my head in!" and "it's getting on my tits, that is..."

My volunteer jobs have also taken off in a pretty big way. I am now writing and delivering a 12 week Presentation Skills course for all new volunteers at one of my jobs, and continue to file my nails as 'front desk dolly' at my other position.

Also worthy of note is our recent trip to Edmonton to meet the German mother-in-law. At this point I guess you are expecting me to relay some horror story about how I made an utter fool of myself; shockingly enough, it went off without a hitch and I think Ingrid Gutsche actually liked - neigh, approved of - me! We took her to the hospital for an appointment and she told the nurse we were 'her boys', which was very sweet. Lets hope old Ma Britton shows similar approval later this year...

Speaking of which, all being well my husband and I (there I go again) should be gracing the likes of 'Funny Girls' and 'Th'owd Chippy' with our presence in November. That all depends on Canadian Immigration making a decision on my legal status by that point but fingers crossed I'll be sharing the delights of a chippy tea and Greg's pastys with Michael very soon...

Immigration Blues

BeJAYsus! The trauma of becoming legal! The last few weeks have become consumed almost entirely with the quest of progressing my case to become a permanent resident. I guess I have become deluded over the years by my UK-based perceptions of what it is to be an immigrant; you know - Government-assisted housing, welfare cheques, talk-show deals... OK, so I didn't expect to queue up with a number, deli counter-style, at the Immigration office and be handed a Green Card and a 3 bedroomed terraced house in the suburbs. But neither did I expect the sheer depth of detail (and, dare I say it, utter LUNACY) that goes along with an application to become a 'Landed Immigrant' (I know - I think I, of all people, deserve a title that doesn't make me sound like I floated up to the harbour with 25 of my family members after crossing the Pacific in a makeshift raft).

So, where to begin? How about the fact that I cannot work until my residency is granted, despite the fact that I am married to a Canadian and quite obviously in pursuit of a life here? Or the fact that when I entered the country in December, I couldn't tell the man at the booth my REAL reason for coming to Canada - instead I had to lie through my teeth and tell him I was 'backpacking' despite having two mobile home-sized cases filled with such backpacking essentials as an ipod sound station and Jasper Conran bedlinen. Best of all is the fact that now I am here and I have started the application process, I can't leave Canada until it's approved. Which could be up to one year. Like, WHY??? Basically if I leave, I am not guaranteed re-entry. In the 'guidelines', it's OK to leave on 'Family Business'. OK, great - my nephew is being christened in June and I am Godfather. So I call the CIC call-centre and ask if this is OK. 'I can't advise you of that, Mr Britton', I am told. 'It's up to the Immigration Official when you return as to whether they feel you left Canada for a valid reason'. When I RETURN? So, let me get this straight - if I want to go to my Godson's christening, I do so at my own risk and hope to God that the Immigration Official I get when I come back is some right-wing family values nut who understands why I left? 'I'm sorry Mr Britton, that's all I am able to advise you at this point'. It's amazing that the concept of a call-centre as a barrier between the consumer and the real decision-makers exists at government-level as well.

That brings me to the application form itself, which makes an Irvine Welsh novel read like 'See Spot Run'. Some of the questions in here beggar belief; why oh why oh WHY do Canadian officials need to know the colour of my mothers EYES? And as for the 'guidance notes', which are there 'to assist you in completing your application'... well, it seems to ME that there is something FAR more complex going with these purportedly 'helpful' pages of evil. From what I can gather, the entire application is a test. You see, Canada isn't daft - they want good quality, top-drawer immigrants, and good quality, top-drawer only. It seems to me that that Canada wants you if you are either

A) Rich or
B) Intelligent

I guess BOTH is preferable - maybe there's a deli counter line-up for those kinds of applications - but one or the other will do. If you are rich, it stands to reason that you are welcome. If you are intelligent, then you are probably more likely to find gainful employment. How to ensure that you are either one or the other? Well, you need to be friggin' Steven Hawkins to complete the application on your own, and if there is anything wrong with it when it's processed (and I mean anything, from a badly-correlated address history to a misplaced apostrophe) then the whole caboodle is returned to you. So when an application lands on 'The Desk of God' that is complete and legible, I guess you're in. Like a degree, it doesn't matter what subject it is in, it guarantees a certain level of intelligence. How to guarantee wealth, or at least means to survive? Well, let's imagine for one second that you're as dumb as a sack of hammers. How on EARTH do you complete this monolithic beast when you can't even do joined up handwriting and you think 'grammar' is an affectionate name for your Mother's Mother? Easy - you pay an immigration lawyer to do it for you. $10,000 dollars later and you are the proud owner of a shiny laminated PR card.

So, it seems in order to get into Canada you can be clever-yet-poor or dim-but-rich. But Allah help you if you are skint and stupid...

One bottle of 'Bombay Sapphire' + Big Bird's costume + blue dye + a dash of 'aren't I FABULOUS?' MINUS any hint of actually giving a shit = ...

...what is quite possibly my favourite picture, like, EVER. Ms. Beverly Hills - coming soon to a town near you. RUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

War Brides Unite!

I was having my morning coffee at Delaney's, reading the paper ('tis a hard life, I know) and I came across an article about a woman named Marguerite Turner. Marguerite is a Rochdale lass - I'm guessing even back then fad names were all the rage on council estates; maybe 'Marguerite' was the 30's version of 'Chelsea'. She met her Canadian husband during WW2, whilst he was serving in the UK. Quite what he was doing in Rochdale, which to my knowledge was spared any kind of Blitz activity (more's the pity) wasn't really revealed. But after just a few short months together they married and were then seperated whilst hubby helped to bring down the Fuhrer. After the war, she packed her nylons and headed west to start her new life with her dreamy Canadian hunk o'love (my words, not Marguerite's). The article was really quite touching, and detailed Marguerite's (and a thousand others') journey and the hardships she faced in moving to a new country where she knew noone and had no identity.

I feel an affinity with Marguerite. OK, so she may have crossed the atlantic on a tramp steamer and not at 35,000 feet wearing flight socks and drinking gin and tonics but still... I took great comfort in her story, and the fact that her and her husband lived happily for 59 years. Who said there's no longevity in holiday romances?

Life is a rollercoaster - you've just got to ride it

On July 31st 2005 I was sitting in an internet cafe (we'll use the term lightly) in a hick town in Utah. I was three months into a round the world trip, I had a brief spell in Canada planned for Pammie's wedding then on to SE Asia and the Antipodes which would strecth into the summer of 2006... and probably beyond. The fact that exactly six months later, to the DAY, I am sitting at the PC in MY APARTMENT on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, overlooking the WEST END OF DOWNTOWN VANCOUVER, idly fidgeting with my WEDDING RING whilst my HUSBAND

works on an assignment for his nursing course is precisely the reason I have decided to carry on my journal. Life is just too fucking bizarre to be taken for granted and I need to keep track of the crazy curveball my little jaunt has thrown me.

Michael and I were married at 4pm on Saturday 28th January 2006, and the day could only have been more perfect if my friends and family were there. Wendy, Joanne and Paul, John and Dave, Pete and Kirsty, Ged and Julie, Anita and Glenn, Greg and Linda, Robert, Mum, Stella and John, Pammie and Martin, Helen, Faye, Rich, James and Britney and oh God, a cast of thousands who I don't want to embarrass myself by not mentioning... I missed you on Saturday, and I will continue to miss you. You were all there in my heart :-)

So, the nuptuals... unbeleivably for an event involving me, the day was flawless! Nothing went wrong. Nothing. The hotel suite was beautiful, with endless views from the 27th floor across what is surely the most fantastic city in the world - the glittering expanse of English Bay, the early evening lights of the West End, the deep-green firs trees of Stanley Park shrouded in mist, the North Shore mountains... The flowers were perfect, Michael looked stunning in his tux, hell even I looked good. We were surrounded by people we loved, and who loved us and supported us (aforementioned excepted). Our chaplain was superb, we said our own special vows which we had written together, I cried, champagne flowed, dinner was sensational, I cried some more, we danced until 4am... Even the one thing that didn't go according to plan was priceless. Michael and I said our own words to each other before the vows. I must digress here to say that my husband (!) touched my heart with his words like noone ever has. He really is the most incredible man and I am blessed to have him in my life. But before you all throw up, let's move on. So, it was now time for my words. At a particularly crucial and emotionally-charged point in my speech there was a loud knock at the door and an enthusiastic cry of 'Room Service!' Procedings were halted as a non-plussed bellboy walzed in with a little gift from the hotel - a cellophane-wrapped plate containing a miniature bottle of Grand Marnier and.... FERRERO FRIGGIN' ROCHER! The most intense moment of the most intense day of my life was interuppted by low-end chocolates with delusions of grandeur... It really was all I could do to stop myself from muttering the immortal line 'Ambassador, you're really spoiling us!'

I had the time of my life, and I'm deperately clinging on to the day and trying to burn it into my memory because already it seems like a dream. The ceremony was so special and intimate and it will be a day that Michael and I will never, ever forget. I am collating wedding pictures from several different sources and I'll edit an album together soon so I don't end up bombarding you with a file of 500 photos that crash your system. In the meantime, here's a l'il pic of me and my husband... and the city we call home.

More soon.

John xxx