Happy New Year!

New beginnings

Well, it’s been a while folks, and the last few months have flown by.

November saw me briefly returning to the Motherland to see family and friends, and to collect a pretty blue biscuit tin containing the last of the ashes from my poor old dad.

In true Spencer O’Rourke style, he’s ended up scattered here there and everywhere (at last count, it was the TT course in the Isle of Man, two different places in Ireland, Hatfield in the UK, and eventually somewhere in Canada).

I’m not sure where I’m going to put him yet but a couple of places spring to mind, and I might even do both. I would share, however I understand it’s not entirely legal to just go dispersing cremated relatives wherever you want, but suffice to say it will be somewhere peaceful and picturesque.

In life, my dad was a modern day Caine who spent much of his adult life just walking the earth (albeit designing cars and without the spiritual outlook and Kung Fu skills… but you catch my drift?), so it feels appropriate not to confine Grasshopper to one place in the afterlife.

Old chums

But that was two months ago, and now it’s January, and after a hectic family Christmas and a wonderful visit from old Brit friends, 2013 feels like it’s going to be a good one.

17 months after we moved here, living in Canada still feels like we’ve arrived in the Promised Land. I actually can’t think of a time of year here that I don’t enjoy (except Black Friday in Walmart, which is hell on earth). And this month is going to herald our inaugural trip to the ski slopes, en famille!

I’ve decked out the children with the appropriate attire, and after much nagging, the old man finally took himself off to Ripcurl and invested in a bright and trendy outfit that will ensure he never gets lost in a blizzard.

We are now very much a family with all the gear, and no idea!

Actually that’s not strictly true since I can ski and have done sporadically since I was a child, but Rob hasn’t put on a pair of skis in 30 odd years so it’ll be particularly interesting to see how his 42 year old carcass holds up on the slopes…

Bad news

But if one thing does cheese me off about Canada, it’s the boring news coverage and restrictive access to online newspapers.

As an online news junkie I now find myself in limbo-land with regards to current affairs, feeling very much stuck half way between English and Canadian newspapers.

While no longer interested in much of the daily news in the UK, at least stories are written in an engaging (often tongue-in-cheek) style that makes you want to read more – even if it is complete dross about the latest p*rn star Charlie Sheen’s been seen snogging in Mexico.

But I just can’t get excited about the content and layout of the Vancouver Sun and the Globe and Mail.

Case in point, the lead story in today’s Sun was about Canada losing to Russia in the World Junior Hockey Championships.

I mean, really? I know Canadians pride themselves on being hockey-mad, but shouldn’t the massive earthquake in Alaska that sparked tsunami warnings along a lengthy part of the BC coastline today, come before a story about a bunch of feisty young men who chase a little back dot around the ice before frequently stopping to punch each other?!

As a Brit I clearly don’t quite get it yet, but just sayin…

Amateur film critic

But it has meant that I’ve started spending a bit less time in front of the computer, and more time catching up on some good movies, now that I’ve finally worked out how Netflix works using the Wii.

So I’ll finish with some recommendations (and a few self-indulgent opinions):

Smokin' Aces – Uber violent but very stylish gangster flick, with some big names. Not for kids, and don’t eat while you watch it, it’ll put you off your dinner.

Dear John – Romantic tosh with the lovely Channing Tatum. Forget what it’s about, just watch it to oggle the eye candy before he became Magic Mike.

Hunger Games – I thought this was going to be about something else entirely but it’s Running Man vs Lord of the Flies – for kids? Good. But I'm not entirely sure it's suitable for children...

The Notebook - How on earth did I only hear about this film recently? A fantastic romp (literally) about star-crossed lovers. Bittersweet and fabulous, with the swoon-some Ryan Gosling.

Miss Piggy

Big 'n' Chunky Sweet 16

Cuddly

This, ladies and gentleman, is what can happen to your carcass if you work in a chocolate factory.

Or, if you suddenly give up a childhood full of sport, to enjoy a Bacchanalian youth on the English Riviera (a.k.a. Southend-on-sea).

Worryingly, this is what could happen to me (again), now that all my children are in full-time education, if I don't start pounding the streets more often.

I won't blame my children if I get fat of course, but for the first time in 9 years, five whole hours during the day actually belongs to ME; and this means learning how to eat properly again during daylight hours.

Lunchtime, for almost a decade has been relegated to eating small quantities of something simple, scoffed on the hoof, while being constantly interrupted and summoned by midget drill sergeants with stereo calls for more drinks, or a shouted demand to wipe a bum.

Yucky

I mean seriously, is there any better way to ensure you don’t gorge yourself on peanut butter sandwiches, than peering at a child’s deposits in the bottom of a toilet bowl?

It’s as though my children instinctively knew that they could help me to stay slim.

With Halloween around the corner and the knowledge that in just over 3 weeks, the house will be filled with candy again for at least another 6 months, I've taken a pre-emptive stance and increased my exercise regime.

This means going to the gym and running four times a week, and thanks to a hill-running workout with the Peninsula Runners on Tuesday night – which was surely designed for mountain goats (?) – my butt cheeks have been singing to me for two days now.

But with Saturday looming, and the need to slip into my favourite leopard print trousers for a party, I’m determined to spend all of tomorrow resisting the box of Tim Horton donuts that Rob brought home from work today…

Other than that it’s been a lovely week. Beautiful weather, some gorgeous views of the surrounding mountains, and pretty industrious now that I actually have time to work during the day.

Blundering abroad

And this week heralds the publication of Forced to Fly, a collection of stories by expat women about their foreign humiliations, one of which is written by yours truly!

An anthology that's previously found its way into corporate goodie bags for relocating employees, Forced to Fly is a humorous introduction to the inevitable cultural gaffes and embarrassing incidents that most of us face when living abroad.

Empty nest

First day at school

Indian Summer

I’ve decided that September is my favorite month in BC.

I love the deep cornflower blue sky and the breathtaking mountain vistas over Mount Baker and the North Shore. I absolutely adore the gorgeous Canadian maples that are beginning to turn red; and I love the crisp clear autumn mornings that turn into warm sunny days.

But more than anything, I love it when the children return to school after nine exhausting, relentless, and utterly mind-frazzling weeks of school summer vacation.

And this September is particularly momentous for yours truly, because all four children are now at school!

I have dreamed of this day for years, and seeing backpacked number four trot off excitedly on his first day was a wonderful feeling. Because not only was my happy and confident little man thrilled to be starting school, but after nearly 10 years of breeding, nurturing and slaving, I really felt like I was due some time off.

Back in 2003 at the start of our intensive breeding program, I thought my life was mapped out for the next fifty years:

1)   Grow peppers in England

2)   Have four kids and continue working

3)   Employ a nanny to help out

Then real life intervened halfway through the final pregnancy with number four, the grand plan changed, and we had to follow the pepper-growing jobs overseas, and without our much-loved nanny.

Throw into the mix: a complete absence of grandparental support; substituting my professional life for fulltime motherhood and houswifedom; and then moving to a third country in as many years, and I’m sure you can imagine how desperately I was looking forward to some peace, quiet and solitude for a few hours a day.

And now that I have it, it is as sweet as I imagined. Indeed I am writing this blog IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY! Surrounded by nothing more than the tranquil, calming sound of running water in the nearby creek and birds tweeting merrily in the garden.

It would be almost completely perfect, if it weren’t for bloody Donald the Jack Russell tip-tapping manically around the wooden floors…

But seeing as it could be at least another seven years until we can have Donald stuffed and wall-mounted, then I guess we’re finally going to have to learn to get along.

Houses of Pain...

Sgt O'Neill: the day after he's moved house; just as his wife tells him she's going back to work tomorrow, leaving him in charge of their four young children, and unpacked boxes.

Moving hell

Moving house is one of the most stressful, exhausting, time-consuming, and totally un-fun activities, that consenting adults can indulge in.

FACT.

But in our case, it feels like a fetish we've become almost powerless to resist.

Last week we moved for the sixth time, into our seventh house, in three countries, spanning two continents. In five years.

The latest move was conducted with four children aged between three to eight years old, without a grandparent in sight, and with only the wonderful help of some really super new Canadian (and one Brit) chums to help us with the heavier items.

We actually had quite a few generous offers to palm off the kids during said move, but having done this so many times, we’re now a) sad experts, and b) it’s actually easier to just keep them around rather than have to drop off and collect them while trying to lug boxes around, and conduct errands.

Anyway, I’m now absolutely shattered and feeling REALLY bad-tempered and very unsociable (and a bit fat), and desperately trying to hang onto some thread of my sanity that is usually only salvaged after a jolly good run.

Except that I haven’t had time to run for a whole week - which is not good for my frazzled marbles.

Rob (husband), took off three days for the whole house move (generous or what?!), then went back to peaceful, ordered work, abandoning me to the company of our four demanding children, whining Donald (the family Jack Russell); sh*tloads of boxes, and a feeling akin to that of Sgt. O’Neill in Platoon, who looks on in abject desperation as Charlie Sheen is airlifted out of Vietnam….

Running on empty

Note to South Surrey residents. If you see a deranged woman (in a dark pink running top) - with loads of young children cheering her on from the bank as though she’s winning the Olympic 10K - just running round and around South Surrey Athletic Track, on any given morning; then it’s probably me.

It’s also worth mentioning that my husband and I have had some of our finest arguments in the last few days and there’s been an ungodly amount of swearing going on - enough to make a seasoned sailor blush.

And just to top off a very unpleasant week, I managed to embarrass myself in the bank on Friday, when a very nice lady came up to me and quietly whispered in my ear that the zip on the back of my skirt was undone.

Doesn’t sound too bad you might think. Except this particular skirt is prone to unzipping itself unless I secure a little button at the top (which I generally always do), and without it, anyone standing behind me must have got an eyeful of thonged bum cleavage. Classy.

But thankfully it’s not just me, and a few days later at the beach, Rob stood up to drop his shorts, only to reveal a not-very-flattering pair of boxer shorts as it dawned on him (and anyone else who might have seen him), that he’d forgotten to put his swimming trunks on underneath…

Humiliations aside, we’re now moved, fairly unpacked, and normality is beginning to return, and with it, the feeling of longing for the school holidays to end sooner than the 28 days, 14 hours and 39 minutes that have yet to pass.

Rob sent me a link the other day that pretty much summed up what (I assume) many stay-at-home parents probably feel - even if they don’t say it out loud, with this advert from a few years ago:

"It’s the most wonderful time of the year"

Give me strength...

Our house: week two of the summer vacation

...to cope with School Holidays

It's that time of year again and I've been hunting for my box of horse sedatives. Anything to numb the stress, tedium and mental exhaustion of being surrounded by squabbling children all day, every day.

Is it just my children I wonder, who are equipped with an inexhaustible capacity for requests, demands, daft questions and flashes of inter-sibling violence, or are they all like that? As this is my first and last litter of children, and my only stab at motherhood, I have no idea if mine are any worse than other people's.

Don't get me wrong, I love my children more than anything. But nine weeks of school vacation is enough to test the most dedicated earth mother, and it was only after we began breeding, that I discovered that I most definitely do not fall into this category.

Rather naively, I just assumed that a mother's love would also somehow magically spawn the capacity to enjoy the constant company of one's own children for weeks and weeks and weeks on end...

Downtrodden

To give you an example of how feeble-minded I have become in two short weeks of school holiday, last week I found myself inexplicably sucked into one of those ridiculous discussions that only children can have.

We have a little friend of nearly three who we were due to meet at the park, and on the way there, No. 2 (who's seven) wanted to know, "can Everett run faster than a chihuahua?"

Now I should have used some kind of diversionary tactic to avoid getting involved in this kind of dopey conversation, but stupidly I replied, that it was unlikely that Everett (even though he is bigger), could outrun a speedy little chihuahua.

What felt like an eternity later - and after all four passengers in the back of the car had vigorously put in their two cents worth - I was declared resoundingly wrong by a majority of four to one, and it was only at this point that I came to my senses and swiftly changed the subject to something a little less contentious. Like what to have for dinner that evening.

God, what I crave more than anything at the moment is to be locked up in a quiet and peaceful padded cell, all by myself, but instead (just to spice things up a bit) we're moving house again in two weeks... Although this time thankfully, just up the road.

This will be our 7th house in five years (and three countries) so I'm quite good at moving these days (as everyone keeps complimenting me), but it's still a huge logistical pain in the ass trying to pack boxes with at least 2 out of 4 of my four-strong sabotage squad under foot and trying to 'help' me.

Not only that, but because I'm so good at the whole process, my husband has decided he will only be taking three days off work; the day before the move, the day of the move, and the day after. And in that time, he is of the opinion that we can start, and finish packing up the whole house (he hasn't noticed the Packing Fairy who's been quietly emptying cupboards and drawers, and cleaning everything for the last two weeks).

Now I don't want to sound like I'm ungrateful for his assistance or anything, but is it me???

First Anniversary

But it could always be worse, and we could still be living in the boondocks of North Holland as we were almost a year ago. Yes, our first anniversary of moving to Canada is looming large and I cannot believe we've been here for that long. Despite all my whinging, it's been the best year I can remember in a very long time, and even 12 months on, it still often feels like we're on holiday.

With some lovely new friends and some ancient English friends living close by, and with so much to do summer or winter, there's little to get homesick about, even as the Motherland is about to host the 2012 Olympics, which is splashed across the British media constantly at the moment. Fingers crossed that Dave, Nick, Boris et al will have sorted out the security debacle, London traffic congestion, Heathrow delays, tube strikes and the British weather in time for the opening ceremony!

But my favourite Olympic story to emerge so far, was the article about a streaker (a beloved, and not unusual British pastime that generally results from too much sun - and alcohol - at English sporting events) who disrupted the 53rd leg of the Olympic torch relay in Henley-on-Thames last week:

Naked man carrying a fake Olympic torch outwits police