In which rain is cheaper than counselling and just as effective

Say what you like about washout weather such as the stuff we've been getting here in Southern Ontario where it has rained so much recently, Seattle was on the phone to congratulate us - say what you like - crap weather doesn't half make you a) inventive b) personable towards family members who find themselves in the same 'boat'.

I was talking to my immediate family in whole sentences; hell I was talking full stop.

I had planned on a weekend weaving in and out of Niagara vineyards with my other half and nipper, lost in a hazy soft focus ever-so-slightly wine induced buzz followed perhaps by a leisurely and uninterrupted newspaper foray in the backyard the following morning and the most precious of commodities - having hopefully tired the nipper out the day before: a lie-in.

But instead, Monsieur Climate Change, the finicky so & so was having none of it. How dare the human become so smug and complacent as to think that warm weather is the only side effect of the Green House effect? For faffing about on the Kyoto Agreement, North America will be punished in Old Testament style - ungrateful wastrels!

Meanwhile back at pajama centrale, the family sat down for a big breakfast when it might otherwise have been fastening bicycle clips. This was followed by hours of - I believe the technical term is - conversation as we watch animals dash past the window - 2 by 2 on their way to Noah's Ark, or perhaps that was just the effects of too many Strawberry Daiquiris and cabin fever combined.

One brave soul then ventured out, armed with flesh shaved off the buttock area of a sodden corpse, to Blockbusters. Thus started the DVD-a-thon that lasted into the wee hours of the next day.

The following day took pretty much the same format with a wise swap-out of Daquiris for family puzzles, the after effects of which one is still suffering from 5 days later.

All in all, though we lived in the same clothes for 48 hours, it was a thoroughly civil and bonding affair. So rain all you like Ontario.

Ok, maybe not but you get my drift. Off to Spain next. Let's see what the effects of constant sun will be.

Jacked up at The Kool Haus

The Kool Haus http://www.theguvernment.com/ was true to its name last night as Jack White (White Stripes and The Raconteurs frontman) and Allison Mosshart (Singer for the Kills) brought their supergroup side project, The Dead Weather to Toronto.

This time on drums, White's latest blues-punk-rock outfit, which also features guitarist-keyboardist Dean Fertita from Queens Of The Stone Age and Raconteur's bassist Jack Lawrence collectively rocked out like only a supergroup can.

To call it a performance would be to do it a great injustice. This was an experience - the sort that stays with you for posterity. A packed venue on a flat floor (the only criticism - slope the floors please!) usually spells an early departure for a 5 footer like me as after a while I just can't see the stage - but that didn't matter last night. I squeezed every last drop of elixir out of this vessel; glimpses of Mosshart or White felt like what I imagine seeing a panther in the wild would.

Mosshart's sultry disenfranchisement put me in mind of Jeanne Moreau - obliviously self involved against an eery backdrop of tangled tree limps and voodoo imagery, a sense of hopelessness prevailed; doomed to fall under her spell there was no point in trying to fight the inevitable; Her dark and guttural voice permeating to the bone.

Lest you should forget to whom she sold her soul, Jack White steps out from behind the drums seamlessly moving from drums to guitar and insanely talented on both. To me there is nothing more attractive. I don't know what he is like as a person, but I like to imagine he's moody and socially awkward, insecure for sure - where else do you find the substance for art if not gouged out of your personal flaws? But apparently not. Apparently the man is nice. And perfect. It's heartbreaking.

And then as if in mid sentence, it stopped. No-one wanted it to but that is the nature of desire. As I made my way out into the street debating whether to walk or take a cab to the train station, the heavens opened and more dead weather arrived.

Sympathy for the Devil

I woke up 5 days ago with the worst case of pink eye I've ever had. It's only the second time in my life I've had an eye infection and that first time was 'rien du tout'. This time, well you have to see it to believe it - an irony not lost on me as I struggle to focus through inflamed membrane. So I've posted a picture to thoroughly gross you out - this is me after 5 days of anti-biotics. I don't know why I'm smiling either.

The sensible person in me, and you have to look very very deep for her wants to believe it was bad luck, an unfortunate brush with a less than meticulous make -up artist used at my sister in law's wedding. But the person who plays me in real life knows my immune system, disabled by stress and general unhappiness meant I was unable to shrug off what might otherwise have been a day or so of discomfort. Oh woe is me or like my husband likes to say: Boo hoo for you.

- Darling, I've got really bad conjunctivitis!

- Oh boo hoo for you

- Darling, I'm so unhappy I've been considering ending it all

- Oh boo hoo for you

...and so on and so forth.

To me, this is my body's way of sounding the alarm and I've taken note. More meditation, less bollocks and a practical plan out of the corporate world where I find myself in the unsavoury position of working for a bully - not to be mistaken for a mad genius or a hard task master. Or perhaps this is just the rhetoric of failure. Whatever it is, there is no place for bad in business. I'll be correcting downward dog poses long before it gets the true better of me.

A trip to Europe will right it all for now - misery loves company and my mates await me with pint in hand and maybe, just maybe I'll miss Canada. Stranger things have happened.

The Sisterhood Van

I was a bridesmaid this weekend for my sister in law; it was an absolute honour and privilege. My first and sweetest time and probably my last since I'm of an age now where all my friends in the market to be wed have already done so, while the rest are divorced with no desire to walk that plank again and the remainder have sworn life long allegiance to spinsterhood driven (so they tell me) by the fact that the best men are either taken or gay.

Back to the wedding in hand. It was a grand affair to say the least, the grandest I've ever attended, with well over 200 guests. Well over. There was enough food to feed a banana republic and more love filled positive energy than a weekend at the Dalai Lama's.

The blushing bride wore the gown of her dreams and couldn't get down the aisle fast enough. Not a tear or tremble. I've never seen anyone more determined to marry than this girl. Long may that sentiment reign. The groom played his part well but blink and you would have missed it. Still, these affairs as we all know are for the bride, by the bride, of the bride. And why not?

For me the best part of the day started early but I wouldn't have missed it for any sleep in -as delightful as a sleep in would have been: I refer to the 'girlie' stuff and I'm not ashamed to say it. The girls in the wedding party met at a salon...ooh too early to say to get their faces put on and hair ruffled into shape. Two hours of champagne filled fun later - eight stunners sashayed out.

The day got progressively better, as sleep continued to fall from our now well defined eyes as we climbed into our respective frocks. The best was yet to come three times over and it started with the limo bus - a great idea to ferry the wedding party from place to place without fuss but lots of ceremony.

The sun now shining bright - both temperature and humidity rising, this was an oasis of cool, the font of all things alcopop and the brasserie on wheels for the hungry - there was no better place to be. Best of all was the atmosphere of friendship and heartfelt emotion between friends and soulmates. Tears of love and laughter filled this heartshaped box and I felt truly blessed to have been invited into this sisterhood - even if just for one day.

But soon thoughts strayed to my own friends back in the UK, the ones I never get to see anymore since moving to Canada; The girls who've carried me through the brightest and darkest hour - whose intimate understanding and loyalty have helped me laugh, cry and grow. It was at this time, I thought of them. Nostalgia preceded a black mood that would stay with me for the rest of the day- thankfully deep enough to hide from the guests, especially the guests of honour but to me as obvious as a hole in the chest. Still, this day wasn't about me and I needed to remember that.

Wedding vows taken, it was time to party and I was more than ready to celebrate the new couple, sincerely but as Sod's Law would have it, the flower girl passed out just as dinner was being served. As the flower girl's mum and bridesmaid duties more or less done, I was left with the unsavoury task of spending the rest of the evening in the hotel room with a slumbering 3 year old - bless her cotton socks. I could hardly expect the bride's brother (my husband) or the parents of the bride to miss out.

Such is life, that I didn't get to party that night unless you call horizontally washing a piece of delicious beef down with a rye & coke fun and actually when I put it that way...it could have been much worse.

Thoughts turning to the UK again and unable to concentrate on the French New Wave film on TCM (it starred the tragic actress Jean Seaberg - just what a dark mood needed...), I wondered how much more I would have to take? When would enough be enough? How long would this feeling of homesickness last? What if it never really ends? but most of all will it have all been worth it?

Difficult as it was to admit, I realised that I am the only one who can assign this kind of worth but it means I also have to buy into this life here, drink the Canada Kool Aid and tow the party line like I mean it - and that requires me to let go of the past, start living for today and stop making those comparisons. Question is -is this a realistic ask? buggered if I know.

Confessions of a self-professed cougar

I can officially confirm two things about life after marriage and motherhood; first - there is life after marriage and motherhood and secondly, men in nightclubs don't give a monkeys about either of those two things.


Here's what brought me to this conclusion. I just got back from a hen weekend in Niagara - the Canadians call it a stagette. My sister-in-law is getting married next week to a sweet guy and being a very traditional type of gal, a hen night was imperative. I was never a massive fan of the hen night as I always found them tacky; the whole 'last night of freedom' moronic - that is until I hit 30 when basically any night out was a bonus. And it was in this spirit I bulldozed my way out of work and into Friday night.


More than a tiny part of me was intrigued to see what the dynamic of a group of mostly married working moms pushing the 35 - 44 bracket would be. I imagined one of two things; Utter debauchery (the kind of which would stand up in a divorce court) or one big Spanx- wearing yawn.

I couldn't have been more wrong, which basically is the story of my life. There was more Mojo in our hotel room than in Austin Power's pants and more camaraderie than an episode of 'Friends'.


The evening began in a large hotel room with strawberry flavoured wine, corona beers, Jenga - the drinking edition and the sound of one of the girls manually pumping breast milk (she'd had a baby 7 weeks earlier). Bottle upon bottle of the stuff casually packed in ice alongside the rest of the booze; The promise of a bizzaro night solidified by that image.


It took the best part of 2 hours to get out the door, 2 hours of good humoured, filth-filled laughter. I don't know what it is about getting a bunch of tipsy ladies together that invariably leads to talk of pooh, wee and farts. After a meal that left me in no doubt as to why North Americans are fatter than the rest of the world, we headed out to dance the calories off.

At midnight we headed for the Dragonfly nightclub in Niagara Falls and not two minutes into the night my first proposition; would I dance with what looked like a boy whose voice was yet to break. I debated not the answer but whether I was more flattered or dismayed. Not a joke veil or L plate in sight and yet it appeared a group of ladies, utterly self-effacing ones at that - was the green light for a free for all.


The most startling thing to me was how aggressive these 'men' were - plundering into one-sided conversations like they were god's gift. I can tell you now - only God could love them. I guess it's always been that way, I'd simply forgotten. 10 years ago I might have been bamboozled into wasting precious drinking and dancing time on letting these guys down easy. Today I watch through the bottom of a glass as I drain its contents before heading back to the bar.

Oh and we danced with ferral abandon. We closed the place.

The next morning, deep fried eyelids solidified shut, a mouth that felt and tasted like a rancid old chickpea - no longer the yummy mummy so alluring to the young boys, I was feeling more like a Himalayan Mountain Lion after a day outrunning poachers on an empty stomach.

ROARRR!