Too much of a good thing

Yesterday was the day I ate so much junk food I made myself sick. A whole chocolate selection pack, a bag of twiglets, nuts, Belgian chocolates, mince pies, jam tarts, chocolate biscuits…

Why oh why oh why? I know that stuff goes straight to my hips. I also know I’m not going to the gym over the holidays. Then why? All I can think of is that it feels good. Like something naughty you shouldn’t be doing. But you’re indulging anyway. And oh I indulged.

But isn’t that what Christmas is all about? Of course, of course, it’s the day baby Jesus was born. But isn’t it assumed we celebrate by eating, drinking and making merry? Sitting around with the family watching tele just wouldn't be the same without a bloody Mary – excuse the pun - and a plate of mince pies.

Alka Seltzer anyone?

Mince pie anyone?

I spent the afternoon making mince pies. And wondering why they were called mince pies when they have no meat in them. Thanks to the world wide web I have been enlightened.

You see, in Medieval times mince pieces were made with shredded meat, dried fruit and spices and were baked in oblong casings to represent Jesus' crib.

Over time, however, the pies have become smaller tarts made with fruit-based only mincemeat containing dried fruit, spices, nuts and alcohol, with the addition of suet.

But even though the content has changed, you might want to consider continuing certain traditions:

- If you make a wish with the first bite of your first festive mince pie, it will come true

- You should only stir the mincemeat clockwise. Stirring it anticlockwise will bring you bad luck in the new year

- Mince pies should be eaten in silence

- Eating one or more mince pies on each of the 12 days of Christmas will bring you good luck in the new year

- Mince pies should have a star on top, to represent the Christmas star that led the Magi to baby Jesus

If you haven't baked any mince pies yet, get cracking! Then hush the room and get as many down you as you can! For lots and lots of good luck in 2007.

Lost or stolen identity

At check-in at the airport, the Air Canada lady said to me, "You don't sound like you're from Liverpool." I looked at her apologetically, shrugged and said by way of excuse because I felt like I owed her an explanation, "I haven't lived there in 10 years." She answered, "Oh," as if to say, What an odd person you are. Or maybe she just meant, Oh right dear, now move along will you, we haven't got all day.

The thing is, I've got a hybrid accent - I speak English with a Canadian lilt, and French with both a Parisian and a Quebececois lilt. People never know where I'm from. Because I don't exactly look like an English rose either. But the question is, do I know where I'm from?

Lots of people that live abroad face this dilemma. Is their new home their home or do they still pine after their old home, making special trips to English shops to stock up on Ready Brek and clotted cream whenever they can?

I'm happy with my life in Montreal. I guess I would call myself a Montrealer, if hesitantly. And that's after 7 years. But there are still things that make me seem displaced to others and to myself. There's my accent, then certain cultural references, sometimes sense of humour, and quite simply not having family and friends around me that shared my past.

I prefer to think of the glass as half full as opposed to half empty, so I don't call my English identity my lost identity; I call my three quarter Montreal status my adopted identity.

At the other end of the spectrum, however, there's the stolen identity.

While I was waiting for my connection flight at Heathrow, I discreetly observed a rather strange couple. The woman seemed to be alone, but then was occasionally joined by an older man with a generous beer gut. They stood near each other, close enough for you to wonder if they were together, but far enough apart to think that it was random because she just looked vacant and he barely spoke two words to her.

When we landed I saw them exiting the airport with what looked like a friend of the guy's. The two men were chatting, the older man pulling a suitcase, while the other man walked empty-handed. The woman walked slightly behind them, struggling with her case and completely ignored by the men.

I couldn't help assuming she was a Filipino mail-order bride. She may have a better life in England but at what cost? Here was a beautiful woman that was obviously with someone that neither appreciated nor understood her. Her identity had been bought. And her glass was well and truly empty.

The long and short of it

I was sitting on the bus this weekend when a girl got on and stood near me. She was wearing a skirt so short that it was practically a belt. I was making sure my boyfriend wasn't ogling her. But mostly I caught the retort she made to her boyfriend after asking the bus driver a question and apparently being misunderstood.

"God, if you're going to move to this country, you should make sure you speak French."

Er, I think you meant province. And why are you speaking to an anglophone bus driver in French when you're an anglophone yourself?

I wanted to slap her because the bus driver probably had a PhD in economics. And why couldn't he not speak French? It's his right. This is Canada after all. Of course my hardcore pro-Quebec friend would have a fit that I could say such a thing. But it's true.

I should have done something. Or at least looked her skirt up and down, all 5 cm of it. But I was too much of a chicken. So I rested my head on my boyfriend's shoulder and fell asleep.

I have to hand it to you

Why are handbags bottomless pits?

I bought a row of metro tickets this afternoon. But when I took the metro later on to go home, no amount of fishing around in my handbag could locate them. Although I really did persist. In the following steps:

1. Peered in.
2. Fingered top contents lightly.
3. Put hand in and shuffled contents around haphazardly.
4. Sighed.
5. Dug hand in to bottom and felt around.
6. Swore.
7. Riffled roughly through contents.
8. Took a deep breath and sorted through contents while putting them in order somewhat.
9. Repeated 8. but in opposite direction.
10. Gave up and bought a ticket.

And it didn't stop there.

When I got in the train, I looked again. Surely they were in there.

And when I got home, I emptied my handbag completely. They had to be hiding somewhere.

But alas, no. They must have fallen out when I paid for a coffee.

I think in total I have dedicated one hour to the search of the tickets, the talking about losing the tickets and the writing about losing the tickets in this post.

I thought I liked that handbag. Now I can't bear to look at it. How dare you fail me handbag? I'll never forgive you.

Go Habs go!

Tonight I went to see a hockey match. It’s something else - the crowd, the noise, the excitement. I pigged out on hotdogs and chips and tried to follow the game. Because I’m somewhat of a novice at this. Plus it was difficult to concentrate at times with the girl next to me splashing her beer around. I was convinced I would be splattered on at some point. Luckily, I got out unscathed. But not before having the following conversation with her during one of the intermissions.

Her: Why are they playing that advertisement here?

It was a circus ad.

Me: To convince people to go.

Her: Yeah, but what’s the point?

Me: It plays with people’s minds.

I caught myself and stopped. Yep, such is the nature of what I do for a living. Manipulating people, making them believe they truly need a product or service, making them change perceptions and behaviour. Gotta love it.

What is it with Canadians and hockey anyway? Why is it such a popular game? Why do kids start playing as soon as they can walk?

Of course there’s that whole thing that you should take an interest in stuff your boyfriend is interested in. My boyfriend also plays in a work hockey league. It’s a lot of hockey for one person to handle. And I’m not talking about him.

But you know what? I surprised myself. I never thought that Go Habs go! and Olé olé olé olé would ever enter my vocabulary. Tonight they did. As I screamed them at the top of my voice.

Now I need to learn the rules.

Happy Easter!

It’s official. My hiatus is over. I had an interview. The mail fairy left me some lovely lovely cheques. And I got a juicy brief. Christmas - in the advertising world, that is - has ended and Easter is here, so the briefs are rolling back in.

Alas, all good things must come to an end. The Alvine Stra bedding is in the washer and I’m nostalgically watching it whirl around. Ahh, those were the days. We don’t know what we’ve got till it’s gone unfortunately. I should have savoured that time more. Appreciated it. Adored it. Instead I feel that I frittered it away on snoozing.

How naive I was, I think, as I look at myself in the mirror and shake my head mournfully. Then break into song, When will I see you again? and sway my hips in time to the music.

I celebrate by eating another cupcake.

The washer starts to spin and I immediately regret so openly showing my elation. Oh my, what was I thinking? I'm so selfish. My naked bed must think I am so shallow. To love and leave it like that. To strip it bare and then take off. A better offer came along and I just dropped it like a hot potato. How could I? And our honeymoon period not even over.

Do not fear Bed, even though I am not with you, you will always be in my heart. I will dress you in Tanja Brodyr later tonight and lull you to sleep with a lullaby.

I have to make sure you'll take me back next Christmas after all.

Retail therapy

I did my test yesterday. Then went and bought two new sweaters and a coat. It’s funny how the mere prospect of getting better results than 40 other suckers, succeeding in being called back for an interview and then perhaps being the # 1 person they hire for freelance work makes something click in my mind. Something that says, It’s ok for you to spend lashings and lashings of money because there’s money coming in soon, really soon! A remote possibility? Of course it is. But at the time, my mind refuses to even consider this for one second when there are some gorgeous sweaters in the window at Zara and a gorgeous coat I saw a girl wearing the other day that I simply have to have!

So the test. It was three hours long and was actually quite fun, if exhausting. I had to get out of bed early. Like 8:30. And on a Saturday! I’m obviously out of practice. So what with the test, the shopping, the haircut and the meeting boyfriend for dinner, I didn’t spend any part of my day in bed. And today what with waking up early and having stuff to do, I'm having withdrawal symptoms. Which include sore feet, dizziness, the shakes and extreme longing.

Right now my boyfriend is having a nap before work. Then finally, I can reclaim my bed. It’s mine, all mine.

Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3

I love my bed. No really, I do. I feel safe and beddy.

All the more so because I got a call yesterday evening. To take a test for a subtitling company. I foggily sent them my CV in the middle of the night last Sunday. And then instantly forgot about it.

The conversation went something like this. So unused I was to speaking and sounding relatively coherent.

Woman: Hello, can I speak to INSERT MY NAME?

Me: Speaking.

Here I assumed it was a telemarketer selling me cheap calling rates to India. I was preparing to send her packing.

W: This is Ilene from INSERT COMPANY.

My memory drew a blank.

W: You sent us your CV?

Still a blank.

W: For the Freelance English Editor position?

I suddenly remembered. Sort of.

M: Oh yes, I sent you my CV a couple of days ago.

W: On Sunday, yes.

Man, she was on the ball.

This is great news. If I can ace the test tomorrow I could get some serious work. And enjoy my days in bed with new relish.

Why I'm here

Although this by no means is my first day in bed, it is my first documented day in bed.

Time: 13:20
Bedding: white, Alvine Stra from Ikea
Position: propped up on two pillows, with blanket tucked under chin
Dress: jogging pants, t-shirt
Food: bowl of all-bran with raisins
Accessories: phone in case a client calls - and before you presume I am a hooker, let me fill you in...

I am a freelance writer, translator and editor. But I have so little work right now that I spend day after day in bed. Because I don't see the point in getting up quite simply.

I start my day by reaching down by the side of the bed for my laptop then surf, snooze and intermittently check my email on the off-chance I get some work. Today, I'm waiting for an email to come in with the promise of a 1-hour job. I take what I can.

Until then, I'm staying put. It's a guilty pleasure. But it's also a habit I've gotten into. I can't really stray far from home because my clients invariably call with, "I just sent you something to translate, could you do it right away?" Anyway, it's a bit cold to aimlessly wander. Even in my apartment because I'm saving on heating. So I stay in bed you see. Where it's nice and cozy and warm.