Friday, I'm in Love

I feel the need to end this week's blogging (as George Costanza says) on a high. To the cynic out there, what I'm about to say will sound like drivel, like I'm clutching at straws, like I've taken a bit too much cough medicine but frankly it's the best I can come up with right now.

So let's see, it's Saturday tomorrow which means I get to have my whole family around me all the live long day. I'm also due for a dress fitting - I'm a bridesmaid at my sister-in-law's summer wedding and there is not a pastel, a trace of chiffon or a carnation in sight. It's black, sleek and very very wearable. So that's nice.

I've had two good friends get in touch today; like London buses you wait for ages and then three come in a row and by then you're so grateful you'd give the drunken bus bum the kiss of life - you know the one that sits on the top deck at the back and smells of poo? Him.

I'm tempted to talk about progress made on my 'novel' but I'm in danger of this becoming the blogging equivalent of a navel-gazing dance to The Cure. And there's a little bit of Schadenfreude about my post today (what kind of a Brit would I be if I didn't have a bit of a laugh at the expense of another); I have a friend who is around 50. Lovely, lovely man who is going through the Hurricane Katrina of midlife crises. He sent me a diatribe on how he feels he took the easy and safe route in life and how he wishes he'd taken a few more risks instead and best of all, he blames his wife. Well, me old china, I said, let me tell you a little bit about taking risks: they're overrated.

But I'm interested in ending on a high for this week. So I will: my daughter did her first unassisted pee in the potty yesterday and that now opens up a whole new world of adventure for us. And here's another high - I believe I've timed this potty training malarkey well. With Spring round the corner...(any day now) I won't find myself (too often) in the unfortunate position of hearing the words every parent dreads once the snowsuit goes on: Mummy, I need a pee pee.

The Wisdom of the Fortune Cookie

It is wise to avoid food shopping on an empty stomach or going to bed angry. It isn't a great idea to drink and dial either or put yourself in any position where you are not feeling quite up to resisting temptation. It may satiate a short-term need or defuse a momentary frustration but long term it will lead to an entirely avoidable and painful time of self reflection.

Yet we do it because for that short time afterwards you feel justified and exonerated. Like having a cigarette after years of abstaining, for one short sweet moment, it feels really good. Long term however it's the equivalent of allowing a three year old to give you a haircut the day before a really important event. Mind you, being sensible all the time is really boring.

All of this to remind me to remain grounded, professional but most of all open and hopeful about the future even under the current economic situation and it's devastating effects on the job market. I'm one of the lucky ones in many ways. I have a lot of things that keep me busy and engaged as well as a husband who (for now) can pay the bills, though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't more than ready to take up the reins again on my PR career. I put a lot of the delay in finding the right role down to timing, timing that sadly has made geography an issue too; as if PR is somehow done differently in the UK (or less well) than here. But it's exactly the excuse many are using. I'm in danger of doing what I didn't set out to do - criticize without construction. So I won't but it is frustrating.

And yet I have it good by many standards and I'm not alone in this. I do constantly remind myself of that and while it doesn't change the fact that I'm still playing this insatiable waiting game; a Russian roulette of opportunity when it was never so haphazard I have learnt not to take good fortune for granted however it wishes to manifest.

The experience has taught me much about gratitude, humility and resilience namely that you can never been too grateful, too humble or too strong.

I cracked open a fortune cookie at lunch today (nothing to lose right?) that said: Today is a lucky day for those who remain cheerful and optimistic. And you know what? I couldn't have put it better myself - where's humility when you need it?!

Practice: It May Not Make Perfect But It Doesn't Hurt

It's been weeks since I've had anything to say about the job front. If you've forgotten - and I don't blame you, I've been looking on and off for a senior comms role since middle of Sept. 08. The fact that it's been weeks is merely a reflection of the tough times many of us are going through but yesterday I did have an interview for an in-house communications role at a big brand - I'm talking huge.

I feel I've been practising all my life for these interviews when really it only seems that way because I've never had such a hard time of it. One positive is that I don't really get nervous any more; another is that it forces you to strive for excellence from first contact. Under any other circumstances (i.e if the market were buoyant) it would not be wise to admit to having had quite so much interview practice but these are not normal times and actually truth be told, I haven't had that many interviews. I'm not sure what is worse. In my defence I am still quite discerning about what I go for. This is a career I'm planning, not lunch.

It's sink or swim time both for candidates and companies. Many companies are interviewing during hiring freezes - go figure the logic. As my friend's American dad used to say..."the world doesn't know whether to s**t or go blind."

Yesterday's interview was like my experience of having a baby in that if you knew how hard and painful it was going to be, you'd become a nun and be done with the whole scene. And like labour once it's starts there is no turning back. The interviewers were absolutely delightful, I mean genuinely. In retrospect I guess they knew what I was in for and felt it best to put me at ease from the start. So after the usual "Tell us a bit about yourself," I was expecting the left hook: "What do you know about us?"; right hook: "What would you do for us?' and knock-out: "Why should we hire you?" though I would be picking my teeth up off the floor at about this time metaphorically speaking, I do always go prepared with insightful answers to these questions (least I hope.)

Except at this interview there was an employment specialist present - I let it fly. These places are denizens of excellence and monitor everything so I didn't really think twice about having an HR person present so early in the game. But they are not silly. By having such a person there it eliminates the need for second interviews. This is a lean mean employing machine. He told me he had 5 questions. I was to take my time and he was happy to repeat the questions as often as I needed. The tinkle of a far away fire alarm began to sound in my head. Now I was nervous. The questions were from the MENSA version of the Krypton Factor. But. I. Got. Through. Them. And I believe I did as well as only practice can facilitate. On top of this I also did my best which is different to giving practiced answers. Be warned. It will show.

So now it's in the laps of the gods. Weathered as I've become to this economic storm I'm not thinking about it now and am moving onto the next opportunity. If this one pays off...I'll be very very happy. Until then it's networking as usual. Chin up boys and girls. We will get through this.

PR for a Revolution

During one of my early nights while on holiday, I retired to my room which on this occasion had been cleaned, a nice surprise in this part of the world. After reading failed to secure my daughter's side of the bargain which was for her to go to sleep, I resorted to putting cartoons on the portable DVD and left her to it. Well, I tried the intellectual way and it failed.

I then began my nightly ritual of flicking through the hundreds of channels offered at resorts like this - they get so many nationalities they figure they may as well sign up for every satellite going. I would usually do this for a good few minutes (that is the downside to having too much choice) before settling on a channel. In this case curiosity got me early on in the process and I stopped looking after a record short time on the Sofia Coppola film: Marie Antoinette with Kirsten Dunst. I'll admit this is not a film that ever drew my attention when it first came out and I'm now truly sorry I missed the opportunity to see it on the big screen. I've often passed it over for other much less worthy films at Blockbusters (I know that now) and I realise the folly of my pre-conceived attitude towards this work because I've since been completely seduced by it.

Never before have I seen such juxtaposition of the old and the new and Dunst is absolutely perfect for the role as directed by Sofia Coppola. I'll try to explain. Coppola has coupled the opulence of the 18th century with its manicured lawns, its haute couture, the grandeur of the Palace of Versailles and the decadence of the era with soundtrack of the 80s' post punk, new wave and its 90s' accomplished imitators. But it all makes sense, afterall what was Marie Antoinette if not a child queen who lived her life like a rock star - what else was a 14 year old supposed to do? Throw into the mix the understated sensual beauty and edginess of an actress like Dunst (known to exude both qualities off as well as on-screen) and Marianne Faithfull (who plays Antoinette's mother - Queen of Austria) and you have yourself a cult classic. It's all in the detail.

It's also the cleverest use of the art of film I've seen in quite a while though I really can't call myself an expert - I know what touches me and the effects of this film swept me away. I can't wait to own the film, buy the soundtrack and generally relive the emotions attached to the sights and sounds offered.

Sofia Coppola explained the rationale behind her treatment of the subject as being a way of bringing a truly misrepresented historical figure to today's world of celebrity, pop culture and teenage energy. She also just made it in the only way that would lure her to see what would otherwise just be another period drama. If like me and Ms. Coppola you are a child of the 80s and pop art nostalgia junkie then I challenge you to go see this film and not like it just a little bit.

Don't believe the propaganda of the revolutionaries - Marie Antoinette apparently never said "let them eat cake" quite the opposite in fact because when she was done with pastry and sweets there was nothing left for the proletariat. No, this was just a child who knew how to party and those were just the times. Who could have resisted the lifestyle when it was offered to you on a silver plate?

The Sun and the Seven Deadly Sins

Just got back from an idyllic break in the powder white sands of the Dominican Republic, in no doubt as to why this country isn't one of the G8. It runs on Caribbean time so take a seat, place your order and make sure you have a steady supply of margaritas as you wait and wait for nothing to happen and while you wait enjoy how the white man slowly yields to the way of the sloth and stops sweating the small things.

I'm not sure who was more amusing to watch; the punctual German having an anxiety attack with the front desk staff about the tardiness of a tour bus taking him to see the sharks and sting rays or the American's sense of entitlement being ignored at ever turn. A truer study on man's lack of appreciation and his inability to enjoy life's simple pleasures would be harder to find. All this in front of a poor nation who would give anything to be able to afford a trip to the cold shores of Germany or even a ticket to see the sting rays in their own back yard, though I'm sure they don't see the beauty of their own back yard through the daily grind of poverty; reality TV at it's most revealing. But I am in danger of over-thinking the situation and now that I'm here I'm going to act like a sun tourist - crime not to. Besides the locals want you to be stupid with money and greedy about everything else - they don't turn a profit from people being frugal or thoughtful.

I had my moments too, from having to wait 2 days for a TV remote control (a converter for the americanos) to my room not making it onto the cleaning staff's rota 2 days out of 7. It's a small thing but when you are lying in bed watching HBO at one in the morning, between sandy sheets that should have been changed, unable to switch off literally...well it's a pain.

I'll say one thing for the Brits and Swedes - as long as the beer flows they can endure any service affront. I timed it once. It took 1 hour and 43 minutes for the blancmange-like European to enquire about the whereabouts of a cheese and tomato sandwich ordered poolside. It arrived just as the sun began to dip behind the palms trees. It would have taken 2 minutes to go to the bar and get it himself...like I say; these resorts rely on the white man's need to sloth around and be served.

It didn't go unnoticed that the best looking staff were reserved for the entertainment team. Well preserved grandmothers flushed with the tingle of flattery; fat old men revelled in attention they previously only self-administered. I avoided the scene entirely preferring to furtively watch from afar with the ever present margarita in hand. I was on a mission to get a tan and outside of that, the rest was fluff (remember I was there with my 2 year old so not much choice in the matter).

So the sun shone, minutes felt like hours and the tan deepened. The food more often than not brought tears to my eyes and a pork cutlet actually made my gums bleed but to complain would have elicited well... nothing. So the week trickled by with the most energy being spent on avoiding the world's most obnoxious American family (from Boston) with two kids sent from Hell itself to torment and destroy the lightness of being wherever they went.

This family who could clear the baby pool area on sight or if you were lucky on sound; their arrival heralded by loud boastful demands and a sudden sense of doom in the air followed by the mass stampede of other families to another part of the pool; babies torn from the water as if to save them from an approaching Great White; birds flapping from trees, lizards belly flopping into the deep end. If you were unfortunate enough to have been powdering your nose and now faced the reality of having to stay put for a while, it wasn't long before the feeling of sloth and entitlement left you and you made a polite exit for the sanctuary of one or other of the restaurants that under any other circumstances you'd never bother to walk to.

The Kindness of Strangers

It isn't often that we come across the true kindness of strangers because usually as we go about our daily lives, especially when we are not in need, we really aren't that interested in receiving anything from strangers let alone this intangible thing called 'kindness'. In a world where we almost always give to receive - yes that is what networking is all about afterall and in my experience those who say stuff like 'pay it forward' are not interested in a long-term relationship . That's not fine. Chance meetings on the other hand are not bound by any such terms and conditions and as such the after-effects don't have a very long shelf -life...or do they?

Let me explain the kindness I'm referring to because it comes in many forms and is open to interpretation of course. Different strokes.

I was in town for two 'networking' meetings! Ha ha. I was early - quite early and I decided to kill time over a tea and a crossword inside the underpass that links East and West Bloor. I guess I owe it all to lack of space in such warren-like conditions because I was forced to share a table the size of a loonie (2 pound coin for the Brits) with at first one and then another person in quick succession.

Doing crosswords in public is very insular but I'm not the sort that can sit and do nothing when I'm waiting around for time to pass but the act of having to ask whether a chair was free gave the other occupant of this doll sized coffeehouse an opening. She was there for a risk management job fair. I could sense she was at once nervous and hopeful and I will the light of success her way.

She was knowledgeable about the financial markets and being Chinese just plain intelligent about everything else. While she soothed her nerves by 'practicing' her interview lines on me, I found the exercise cathartic and calming. Two Johnny foreigners being proactive in the city of Toronto at a time when even the natives are having a hard time. Off she went with my well wishes but before leaving, she scooped a magazine out of her bag and tore out the crossword page for me saying, "I'm more a SuDoKu person."

Warmed by this I turned my attention in a less insular fashion to my new crossword and it wasn't long before the next caffeine junkie was asking me if he could sit at my table.

I wasn't expecting lightning to strike twice but it did. This man, I would have put him in his late 50s perhaps early 60s, originally from Calcutta and as it turns out educated at a British Raj school (by choice and happily) mistook me for a South African. I get that a lot. That or Australian. Believe me, my London accent is unmistakable...Well this led to the most fascinating conversation. Its eloquence took me by surprise.

This most educated man with smiling green eyes and an attitude of gratitude that would put the most deferential person on their guard, talked about how he left India as a young man because he couldn't reconcile himself with the misogyny of the place. He talked about his feminist icons(Germaine Greer, Dorothy Swanson and countless more I'm ashamed to admit I'd never heard of.) He talked about how he had long lost faith in man's ability to rule and referred to his wife and daughter as deities. He spoke about how at conception, all foetuses are female for the first 3 weeks and pondered the significance of that; he explained how originally there were only Goddesses in India. WOW! I could have listened to his philosophy all day but I had to go to this interview. As I left he smiled, shook my hand and said: be yourself.

I did as I was told and I can't say whether I can connect these incidents to the resultant energy in the interview room, but something special happened at that meeting and I sincerely hope to be able to blog about future outcomes soon. Regardless of whatever happens, whether Canada works out for me or I find myself going back home, I already feel I will walk away with more than I came with.

Pain is just weakness leaving your body

Last night's Bootcamp was like having a catering-sized fridge (with optional ice maker ) fall on top of you just as your flat mate has left to go to work for the day. Nine hours later, barely breathing at all, thinking 'so this is how it all ends for me', you are rescued just in the nick of time but you will bear the scars for many nights to come.

It started out like any other Bootcamp workout with a bit of a warm-up. It being Bootcamp, the warm up is like a workout to a normal person. But we're all in it to win and we do the laps, the tower runs and the prisoner squats with the zeal of a simpleton, a toothless one at that.

Then the trainer explained the first circuit. A total of 20 minutes would be divided into 1 minute intervals. 1 minute intervals? A three day old baby could do that. In that first minute you were to do one push up and spend the rest of the time doing tower runs (these are runs that basically serve to disorientate) next minute you were to do two push-ups followed by as many tower runs as you could fit into that time and the minute after that three push- ups and so on. Guffaws all round. Walk in the park this workout!

So by twenty minutes you would be up to twenty push-ups and then have yourself a little run to cool down. 'Cept by twenty minutes, the clever mathematician among you will have worked out that you have in fact done one million, gazillion push-ups; you will have expended enough energy to run the national grid for a weekend and you are nothing but a pool of liquid and cloth. People were no longer able to communicate with words by this point. I have actually employed an assistant to type this up for me as I no longer have the use of my upper body.

With the flexibility of a wax version of the Tin Man, I have no idea how I will shave before I go on a sun break next week. Guess I will just have to pretend I'm German.

But this wasn't the end. NO. This is Bootcamp you fool. While people rooted around for morphine in the bleechers of the gym, the trainer announced that we would now work on our cores. CORRR! blimeys more like. A twenty second plank; well most of us having little more than a plank's range of motion managed it and then some Turkish get-ups, Burpees and Russian rolls; legal forms of torture in any other language.

Grown men left the gym, sobbing quietly. Women hobbled (we have a higher pain threshold I'm told) and our trainer left us with these soothing words. Pain is just weakness leaving your body. See you Friday - don't be late.

Let's do the Time Warp again!

I found myself meandering around the "downtown core', (to use the North American vernacular) yesterday with my two year old and was again reminded of the truly laid back approach Toronto, perhaps even the whole of Ontario has to the evolution of a city. A yawning but nonetheless interesting personality gap between the eclectic bohemia of Queen St. W and the stark stainless steel of Bay St gives way to the endearingly woolly environment of T.O's Kensington Market. This is a city that doesn't fix it if it ain't broke and sometimes even if it is broke. More power to it.

I'm from London, UK - a London, I might add that no longer exists. Even my London wasn't the London that many before me loved and left, but for me it was what it was and I loved it truly, madly, deeply. Still do. I adored it's colourful artistry, the endless creative outlets it offered and the boundless opportunities for those who dared to dream. I suspect this highly romanticized view owes a considerable amount to the rush of teenage hormones and their uncontrollable peaks and troughs. I remember, as if it were yesterday, the thrill of having a choker made by a hippie in Portobello Market when I was 14 (I still have it); the creeping buzz of excitement caused by just being inside the labyrinth that was Kensington Market (sadly no longer there) and the 'rock n' roll' debauchery of weekends in Camden and Soho. Nuff said.

But it's all over now. Most of my teenage haunts have been unrecognizably gentrified (poncified more like) or shut down altogether. I guess it's called evolution, progress. Doesn't mean I can't still mourn their losses. Which brings me to the delightful sluggishness of T.O. Kensington Market to me is like Portobello Market before the invasion of the body snatchers; the designers and bankers and I love it for that. You smell Kensington Market before you see it. Led by the nose literally around it's multi-cultural stalls and moth ball hangouts. It's an assault on the senses - a welcome one and my two year old loves it. After rummaging through the shops on Kensington Avenue, it's off for a flourless chocolate snack and dynamite moccachino at the Moon Bean Cafe where some kind crustie always helps lift my stroller up the rickety steps to the service counter. Replenished it's off for a walk down the sidewalk version of an everlasting gobstopper: Augusta St.

When you have exhausted your occular capillaries you can cut back through Queen St. W en route to Union and stop, as we did, to have the tastiest, most authentic and hysterically cheap Indian buffet (all you can eat - to boot). You don't find this very often anymore in London.

No, London has become something else - just as precious to me but for very different reasons but T.O is proving to be a loving and nurturing foster parent and I thank it from the bottom of my sentimental heart.