Lost voice

It's finally happened. My accent has changed. I was hoping to survive unscathed but alas it was not to be. I haven't gone Canadian - my sentences don't all end with 'eh', and I haven't picked up such mannerisms as 'where're you to' (though I quite like that one). Nope, I've gone posh.

When I first arrived I was in a lab with all Newfoundlanders (as opposed to my other half, who's shacked up with a huge European contingent). Most of the time we got on fine but one guy just didn't have a clue what I was saying. To be fair I couldn't really understand him either. We both used far too much slang and spoke too fast.

In shops I either had people look at me like I was crazy or gush at how exotic I was. This seems to be the main divide in my experience. It's really embarrassing to stand there while the secretary in your department tells you how wonderful your voice is and that she could listen to you all day. Believe me, she'd soon get bored. On the other hand it's infuriating to ask an unlabelled person in a shop whether they work there 6 times and just have them gape at you like you're some kind of freak then get annoyed with you.

As a result I seem to have inadvertantly dropped the slang and poshed right up. So much so that I can't remember how to speak with my normal accent. I was already pretty well-spoken so it wasn't a giant leap, but now I can't go back without speaking to someone from home. Liam has started to mock me on how ridiculous I sound. As a result, it's also made me pretty angry everytime I meet a 'gusher'. On exiting the cinema last week after watching 'In The Loop' a woman walked past, grabbed my arm and said "ooh you could have been in the film"! I wanted to hit her. Possibly an overreaction but it was a bloody stupid thing to say. Do you find me exiting Hollywood blockbusters and, on hearing a North American accent, blather on about how they could have been the star? No, I do not. Because I am not a twat.

So, my mission now is to regain my accent at all costs, but without going too far in the opposite direction. No-one loves a cod-cockney.

Rant over.


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Cooking in Canada

I am not a bad cook. In fact I'd go so far as to say I'm a pretty good cook. However, for some reason, ever since I got to Canada it all seems to have gone a bit wrong. As I wanted to expand my repertoire I brought a cookery book with me, eager to try some new recipes, and to save money Liam and I have been planning our meals very carefully. What we forgot to take account of was that many of the ingredients just aren't available here, and this has led to some unsatisfying conclusions about both cooking and shopping:


1. You cannot buy Halloumi, but you can get about 25 different types of Feta.

2. Havarti is not an adequate substitute for Halloumi, and will melt and burn all over your pans.

3. Strong cheddar is basically tasteless plastic, unless you pay extortionate sums in a specialist 'shoppe'.

4. Guessing the Fahrenheit/Celsius conversion is not a sensible thing to do, and proper calculations should be done (see nos.4 and 5)

4. Macaroni cheese (or Marconi cheese as we now like to call it) does not like to be cooked for too long in a too cool oven, or it turns into an inedible solid

5. Spanish omelette shouldn't be cooked in a pan that's too hot or it burns very quickly indeed, setting off smoke alarms and annoying the neighbours

6. You can't really buy decent cordial/squash here. Our first buy was "tropical punch" that basically tasted overwhelmingly of almonds, making me constantly suspicious that Liam was attempting to poison me

7. Cider vinegar is not a good substitute for actual alcoholic cider in cooking, and will burn your eyes in the process

8. 'Broiling' is actually grilling, despite what it sounds like, but the 'Broil' setting on our cooker doesn't actually work, rendering this discovery rather pointless


I'm sure I've left some off, and will no doubt return to the theme in a later post. I rather suspect that this won't be the end of my culinary disasters...


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Decluttering for fun and (no) profit

It's coming dangerously close to the time that I'm supposed to be escaping the UK but it still doesn't feel like I'm really going. The main reason for this is that I'm still waiting for my work permit to arrive and I can't book my flight without it :o(

Despite this, I've been furiously clearing the flat and my office, putting things into storage, and culling the things I really don't need. I am incredibly impressed with my ruthlessness even if I say so myself!

So far I have taken two very full car loads to the charity shop, though this was problematic as I was being turned away due to overflowing stock rooms! It makes me think a large section of the community can't be that affected by the credit crunch if they are getting rid of their stuff for free after getting lovely new shiny Christmas presents...

I've brought in bag fulls of various belongings to work (bags of fabric, toiletries, clothes, stationery, butane (!)) to foist them off on my friends, and another friend came round for dinner this weekend and left with a giant box of houseplants, baking ingredients, and ornaments.

It's extraordinarily liberating. Apart from the stress of having to do it to a deadline, I'm finding the whole process of house clearance good for the soul. When I started to tot up the actual value of what was going it became too scary though and I had to have a sit down and cup of tea. But then it was pointed out to me that I should just consider it a big charity donation and not worry about whether I'd have to re-buy everything I'd just given away. Anyone that knows me will realise what a big step this is for me. I am a hoarder, and a miserly hoarder at that.

The office is a whole other ball game. Six years-worth of photocopied articles, notes, books, out of date software, mystery cables, the list goes on. Whilst I kept all my photocopied articles from my PhD as I still work in that area, one of the hardest things I had to do was recycle my old university notes from my undergraduate course back in 1995-8. As I still work in archaeology I found it really difficult to think that, although I'd not looked at them since, that they might come in useful for planning my own teaching in the future (though was I ever really going to be teaching about Ancient Western Asia or European Prehistory?). Still, in the recycling sack they went. I've just filled my third...

As one of life's collectors I'm finding, surprisingly, that I'm really enjoying a life without "stuff". I'll be starting again with a clean slate (well... two full suitcases), and I'll be desperately trying not to buy. I'm finding it therapeutic, but not so much that I want to be doing it all again when the time comes to return!



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All bets are off!

What a shame. The BBC has cowed to the teen market and hired a gawky boy to play the new Dr Who. I don't know if it's because I'm clearly showing my age, but I really don't like the idea of a Doctor that's younger than me. As seen by my previous post I was favouring PJ, but to be honest many of the people put forward would have been good. Call me crazy but he doesn't exactly look very inspiring. I want experience and a few wrinkles please...




PS - I wonder how long we will have to wait to get a male companion? It's been a while...



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I am not a lazy blogger, it's just that...

... I can't post what I'm up to at the moment for fear that people who are likely to receive a Christmas present from me will see them here if I do.

Bloody Internet, who thought it was a good idea again?


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How my brain works

I just put this blog through Wordle and came up with this. I'm really not sure what this says about me...

Recently Discovered Earth*

* (c) Liam Herringshaw 2008


Well, where to start? I appear to have completely lost my mind. I am giving up a well-paid job to move to a country where there is 10 months of winter and 2 of summer, and very few job prospects for an archaeologist.



My other half has been given a two-year post at Memorial University in Newfoundland and, after nearly 3 years of frequent visits up to Aberdeen I've had enough of killing the environment with my frequent flying. Commuting to Canada for weekend visits is a step too far...

To cap it all I'm moving over in mid-January, which is possibly the stupidest time to go, given the pack ice, sleet, and general arctic nature of the place. I think this excerpt from the current Provincial anthem sums it up nicely:

When spreads thy cloak of shimm'ring white,

At winter's stern command,

Thro' shortened day and starlit night,

We love thee, frozen land,

We love thee, we love thee,

We love thee, frozen land.

When blinding storm gusts fret thy shore,

And wild waves lash thy strand,

Thro' sprindrift swirl and tempest roar,

We love thee, windswept land,

We love thee, we love thee,

We love thee, windswept land.

Of course there's every opportunity for things to go a bit wrong: I don't have a job lined up properly or a work permit, but these are mere trivialities and I won't let that get in the way of my excitement. Come February I may still be in the UK and regretting handing in my notice but fingers crossed this won't be a problem. I have more things to worry about once I get there:

1) permanent frizzy hair due to sleet and wind
2) premature skin aging from adverse weather conditions
3) contracting hypothermia on landing
4) being mauled by gigantic Newfoundland dogs
5) having to tie down my house with rope
6) developing rickets due to Vitamin D deficiency
7) being attacked by Skraelings*

* see Saga of Erik the Red


I'm sure that many of these fears are completely unfounded... except the dog one ... ;o)

I must be getting old...

... because I don't understand fashion anymore. Boys: Why belt your jeans *underneath* your arse, thereby showing me your greying pants? Why think that trucker caps look good? Why emulate Russell Brand's hairstyle? The latter I would hope is pure laziness, though I have a sneaking suspicion it takes longer to style mops like that than to cook a 3 course meal...

I went to a gig on Wednesday night at Birmingham University's student Guild (it was rather excellent and involved amp fires and drummer fights - rock and roll!) so I was probably asking for my eyes to be assaulted by dreadful 'fashionable' outfits sported by 18-21 year olds. The pinnacle of nastiness was a girl who was wearing extremely tight and extremely high cut jeans with neat little turn ups to show off her black patent sensible lace ups (last worn by my mother in 1985) plus a puffed sleeve white shirt tucked in. If I'd have worn that I'd have been quite rightfully beaten with sticks and hounded out of the town.

I came to the conclusion, with the help of C, that this is because these people never had to live through the 80s when they actually happened. Horror of horrors the next crop of undergraduates will have been born in 1990. I was aged 3-13 in the 80s, and these were formative years where you make your worst fashion and hair mistakes. My worst that I can remember off hand, which I may dig out a photo of if you're 'lucky', was ski pants with deck shoes (blue with white cording), topped off with a lilac bodywarmer. (As an aside - when did bodywarmers suddenly become gilets?).

I've realised that most people are happy with the fashions of their early twenties. Hence people in their forties still dressing in a slightly 80s way (though not to the ridiculous extents of the youth of today) and people of my age sticking with the mid-late 90s (I am at my happiest in slightly flared cords plus a top with different coloured sleeves - which in turn is an homage to the 70s). It's all extremely cyclical, and I'm just hoping that in 5-10 years time that young people will not be stalking the streets in shellsuits...

The Joys of Laminate

I've mentioned my evil upstairs neighbour before, he's been a joy* to live beneath for the last year and a half...

(*utter nightmare)

After he'd been living there about a month I had a particularly bad night: it was 11.30 at night and he was sawing and banging and generally being annoying, then he came down to proudly tell me about his new laminate floor. My heart sank... He'd blatantly not put down any kind of underlay and the noise just got worse after that. He might as well have been living in my flat the amount I could hear.

Well it's now a year later and he goes through phases of loudness and quietness (the quietness usually being those times he's in rehab). But this last week or two has been particularly bad. It began with a girl banging on my window to be let in the block (one of my personal favourite annoyances) and there followed continual late night bangings and shoutings plus extremely loud Coldplay at 3:30 am - I was at boiling point (at least choose better music!)

I was on my way for a weekend in Aberdeen to see the boy L and I ran into my neighbour selling the Big Issue at the train station. I was about to have it out with him when he told me that he'd moved out 6 weeks ago to a Multiple Needs Unit, which is great news because he'll finally get the care and support he needs without bothering me any more! But then who is in the flat? It turns out that he gave the keys to someone else and she's been living there illegally. Lucky for me though that the council are coming to change the locks this week.

And here was my chance! I phoned the Leasehold Team to ask about laminate floors and whether there were any rules about it - it appears you need permission to lay them (great news I thought! He obviously didn't have it), and the builders may or may not take it up between tenants, and that it depends on them. She then passed me on to the contractors to see if they were likely to take it up when they made the flat ready for the next tenant. On finally getting through to the contractors I was told rather unhelpfully that what the builders are going to do to the upstairs flat is classified information (this is Birmingham City Council not the CIA!!) , that they were unlikely to take it up unless it was a repair (despite not having permission to lay it in the first place), that I couldn't even put in a request for the floor to be taken up, despite it making my life a misery, and there was nobody I could talk to as it was plainly none of my business. Leaseholders' rights my arse!

So, I'm at an impasse. My best bet is to either pounce on the new tenant and hope for sympathy, or write a letter to the council. I suspect neither will work brilliantly but I'll give it a go. Until then I'll make the most of a tenantless flat...

No country for old hen

My battle with the upstairs neighbour will probably become a recurrent theme on this blog. He doesn't keep normal hours - in fact I'm not sure he sleeps at all. The odd noises that come from his flat often keep me awake at night, not only by their annoyance, but also as I'm utterly mystified as to what he's actually doing up there. Last night night he appeared to be either a) carrying out some extremely energetic clog dancing or b) training for a marathon until the wee small hours in a small 1 bedroom flat. I often lie awake thinking of the myriad punishments I should mete out on him. Last night's consisted of me with a chic bob going up there with a high pressure oxygen tank to give him a new parting...