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?
Friday, July 07, 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
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...
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...
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Friends Like These
HERE IS MY NEW BABY - ETIN!!!
Well, Thirty has come and gone. A weird week, hasn't felt like my birthday at all what with Mikey's Grandma passing away and having to travel to Kelowna to deal with the funeral, amongst other things.
I feel truly blessed, however, to have such amazing friends. Thanks so much for the squillions of cards, emails, pressies and phone calls. It wasn't the best birthday emotionally, but I really do feel loved. ALL of my pressies and messages and cards were just wonderful; I feel priviledged to count amongst my haul:
1) A gift of an adopted baby Orangutan called 'Etin'; who lives at the centre I visted in Borneo last year!
2) A pink feather from Australia. It has meaning, trust me...
3) A badge that says '21! on this day in 1997...'
4) A Chicken and Mushroom Pot Noodle (!)
4) A birthday card reading 'FYI: You're a filthy, rancid old slag'
5) A unique version of Britney's 'Oops! I Did It Again' which had been specially learned and performed just for me on a freakin' UKELELEE
You are all fucking nuts, and I love it!
Big mwahs as always, and I love and miss you all so, so much
Johnny xxx
Sunday, May 28, 2006
30. Rhymes with 'flirty'. Doesn't rhyme with 'oh fuck'. Odd.
I guess posting an 'oh holy mother of God I'm nearly 30!' discourse would be tedious and predictable? Well tough - for someone who leaps on every opportunity to obssess and fret and worry, the lure is just too great.
I was looking forward to turning 30 in that weird, sick way. You know, the way you look forward to getting a bad stomach bug because of the effort-free weight loss, or a big operation because of all the attention and presents. The odd thing is, although I feel compelled to have the obligatory crisis I just can't seem to muster up the requisite hysteria. It's quite annoying really; this is the man that spent the two months before turning 25 in a tear-streaked diva-strop and STILL gets emotional when the poor, white trash contestant on 'Wheel of Fortune' wins the jackpot. Hell, I even shed a tear when 'Steps' broke up. So surely turning 30 should be a perfect excuse to exercise my inner drama queen?
Previously at times of great crisis - relationship break-ups, hair straighteners on the blink, running out of wine at 11.05pm on a Monday night - said drama queen didn't so much get exercised as thrown on the treadmill at full speed on a 45-degree incline until she screamed. So why, in the final moments before such a monumental occassion, hasn't she appeared? There's n'ery a Gucci running shoe or a Prada sweat-towell in sight. Have I really changed that much? Perhaps my need to obssess at such a major occurence has been tempered by the fact that my husband is 43 and looks fantastic, thus negating the commonly-held belief that it all goes wrong as you get older. Or perhaps it's because my closest friends have already leaped this hurdle - and done it gracefully, without dissolving into fits of woe and self-pity. Maybe that last point is complete bollocks and it's just that I couldn't hear their anguished cries from 5,000 miles away...
Or - and here's a scary thought - perhaps I have come to realise that even though there are a million things in this world worth being upset about, getting a little older isn't one of them.
Or perhaps this is normal denial and at the stroke of midnight on June 12th I'll find myself drunk on the sofa in my underwaer, eating two litres of Ben and Jerry's straight from the tub because lets-face-who-cares-I'm-old-and-hideous-and-what's-the-point-anyway?
Stay tuned folks - we'll be right back after these messages...
I was looking forward to turning 30 in that weird, sick way. You know, the way you look forward to getting a bad stomach bug because of the effort-free weight loss, or a big operation because of all the attention and presents. The odd thing is, although I feel compelled to have the obligatory crisis I just can't seem to muster up the requisite hysteria. It's quite annoying really; this is the man that spent the two months before turning 25 in a tear-streaked diva-strop and STILL gets emotional when the poor, white trash contestant on 'Wheel of Fortune' wins the jackpot. Hell, I even shed a tear when 'Steps' broke up. So surely turning 30 should be a perfect excuse to exercise my inner drama queen?
Previously at times of great crisis - relationship break-ups, hair straighteners on the blink, running out of wine at 11.05pm on a Monday night - said drama queen didn't so much get exercised as thrown on the treadmill at full speed on a 45-degree incline until she screamed. So why, in the final moments before such a monumental occassion, hasn't she appeared? There's n'ery a Gucci running shoe or a Prada sweat-towell in sight. Have I really changed that much? Perhaps my need to obssess at such a major occurence has been tempered by the fact that my husband is 43 and looks fantastic, thus negating the commonly-held belief that it all goes wrong as you get older. Or perhaps it's because my closest friends have already leaped this hurdle - and done it gracefully, without dissolving into fits of woe and self-pity. Maybe that last point is complete bollocks and it's just that I couldn't hear their anguished cries from 5,000 miles away...
Or - and here's a scary thought - perhaps I have come to realise that even though there are a million things in this world worth being upset about, getting a little older isn't one of them.
Or perhaps this is normal denial and at the stroke of midnight on June 12th I'll find myself drunk on the sofa in my underwaer, eating two litres of Ben and Jerry's straight from the tub because lets-face-who-cares-I'm-old-and-hideous-and-what's-the-point-anyway?
Stay tuned folks - we'll be right back after these messages...
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Cover it in shit... and watch it grow
I love to read. Many books move me, and it's fair to say that more than once I have proclaimed 'that book changed my life!'. Some people will know that more than others because if I love a book, I love to share it. A precious few books will stay with me forever. Some are recent discoveries. Some date far back, and are all but forgotten until current events force you into a state of contemplation and reflection...
There's a book I read whilst at school. I was 10 years old and my Dad had just been diagnosed with cancer of the throat. He'd been given six months to live. The cruel reality of his disease would take him away from me in less than three.
He was my life. My saviour, and my hero. After several years of absolute horror (long story, best not disclosed here) he had rescued me and, as far as I was concerned, I lived in safety. I was happy. I was loved.
He died.
I had an amazing teacher throughout all this. She was there for me in many ways, ways which only now as an adult I can fully comprehend and understand. And, ironically, never thank her for in person. She made me (yes, MADE me) read a book called "Fireweed", which after a quick whiz on Amazon I find out is written by Jill Paton Walsh. At age 10, with your whole life capsizing about your ears, you don't really pay attention to this kind of detail...
So, the book... well, I have to read it again before I can comment on its literary attributes. And I will. I have just ordered it. However I don't need to read it again to recall the impact it had on me in 1987. The story concerns two London orphans left behind in the child evacuation of WWII and, despite everything working against them, they flourish and survive in the hostile environment they find themselves in. "Fireweed" - the title - refers to a rare flower that manages to grow in the most extreme of environments. In fact, it thrives in these conditions.
Even at age 10 I understood the book - its context and its relevance. God bless you, Mrs Parker. Your insight was, and is, incredible. But, with the onset of hormones, it was inevitably forgotten. Until today...
I read an article in the paper that this flower was found growing amongst the two-month old ruins of a bombed-out school in Iraq, in a villlage that had been razed to the ground with over 200 fatalities and where no life remained.
Being 10 years old and losing your Dad, or being a villager burned out of your home... being in a relationship that's faultering, or a family dispute, or any situation where you feel life just can't possibly treat you any worse...
I was reminded - with a clarity that only comes once in a while - that no matter how shitty life gets, it still manages to grow. And some good always sprouts from the destruction...
There's a book I read whilst at school. I was 10 years old and my Dad had just been diagnosed with cancer of the throat. He'd been given six months to live. The cruel reality of his disease would take him away from me in less than three.
He was my life. My saviour, and my hero. After several years of absolute horror (long story, best not disclosed here) he had rescued me and, as far as I was concerned, I lived in safety. I was happy. I was loved.
He died.
I had an amazing teacher throughout all this. She was there for me in many ways, ways which only now as an adult I can fully comprehend and understand. And, ironically, never thank her for in person. She made me (yes, MADE me) read a book called "Fireweed", which after a quick whiz on Amazon I find out is written by Jill Paton Walsh. At age 10, with your whole life capsizing about your ears, you don't really pay attention to this kind of detail...
So, the book... well, I have to read it again before I can comment on its literary attributes. And I will. I have just ordered it. However I don't need to read it again to recall the impact it had on me in 1987. The story concerns two London orphans left behind in the child evacuation of WWII and, despite everything working against them, they flourish and survive in the hostile environment they find themselves in. "Fireweed" - the title - refers to a rare flower that manages to grow in the most extreme of environments. In fact, it thrives in these conditions.
Even at age 10 I understood the book - its context and its relevance. God bless you, Mrs Parker. Your insight was, and is, incredible. But, with the onset of hormones, it was inevitably forgotten. Until today...
I read an article in the paper that this flower was found growing amongst the two-month old ruins of a bombed-out school in Iraq, in a villlage that had been razed to the ground with over 200 fatalities and where no life remained.
Being 10 years old and losing your Dad, or being a villager burned out of your home... being in a relationship that's faultering, or a family dispute, or any situation where you feel life just can't possibly treat you any worse...
I was reminded - with a clarity that only comes once in a while - that no matter how shitty life gets, it still manages to grow. And some good always sprouts from the destruction...
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