Eid Mubarak!

It was just Eid. Not Eid ul-Fitr, Eid ul-Adha. The one with the slaughter.

Days before Eid, there were suddenly thousands of cows on the road. Pulling eight-year old boys into traffic, bucking against the stick used to herd them, tied to trees, looking mournful and muddy. And sometimes, once in a great while, there would be a sparkly cow, doused in glitter, adorned with tinsel, sashaying up and down the dusty avenues. As a fan of general livestock, I was in two minds about these processions of fancified bovines (and the occasionally herd of eight or nine goats on a string). On the one hand, how exciting! Pretty cows! On the other hand, I knew what awaited them come Eid. A slit throat and an undignified disembowelment, followed by apportionment to hordes of impoverished women with trick-or-treat satchels, gathering their meat where they may.

Modern tradition states that the families that can afford a cow will have it slaughtered on Eid: 1/3 goes to the family (the best bits), 1/3 goes to distant relations, and 1/3 goes to the poor. In the villages, it's pretty clear who gets the last third ad which families are responsible for giving it, but in the disparate life in the city, there are so many poor people unaffiliated with richer families, so they go around and collect their share from whomever they can. The slaughter happens in the street, followed by immediately skinning and disembowelment.

I wandered around Old Dhaka on Eid, responding to the million "How are you?!"s and "Your country?!"s, my eyes firmly to the ground which was, literally, awash with blood. The gutters ran red, the cobbles directed blood spills in rivulets across the narrow alley paths. I saw cows in various stages of slaughter: sparkly and fighting against the harness as it was led to the imam, hooves bound, frantic as the large knife approached, just after, as the imam gave way to the butcher, and in various bits along the road. Skins were piled fifty deep along the road; hooves reached from the laps of the passengers in rickshaws, the ankle bones still swiveling with the motion of the bicycle on cobbles; carts of collected jaw bones brandished not quite clean skulls, and beggars tugged at the last bits of intestines, floating down the bloody gullies at the edge of the street.

Interestingly, I didn't find myself overly disturbed by any of the process other than the danger of getting blood on the hem of my jeans or smacked in the head by a passing joint of beef.

Related Links:
What up with the two Eids?

Indicators, Frü, and Americans

A little bit of patience is paying off in the employment department. Though I'm still in my same role as Personal Assistant to someone who does cool things (case in point, she's currently in Tanzania and I'm planning her trip to Nigeria in December), I've managed (with a leg up from a number of folk) to be allowed to participate in some work for the Disaster Risk Reduction team. So this week I'm furiously scrabbling away at producing a synthesis on the work that's been done on DRR indicators. It's not a difficult task, but I'm a bit stressed about it if only because if it's something they find useful, I might get a few more interesting bits of work.

Onto a much more tasty topic: Frü, closely related to Gü. Lemon cheesecakes... flirty little puds... Sinéad and I just got back from Tescos where we couldn't decide if we wanted plum and pear crumble or apple ginger crumble or zesty lemon cheesecakes... so we got all of them...

This week brings many Americans (none of whom can have my Frü). Michelle is here from Canada via Dubai and Ruth and Josh are honeymooning in Kent (in Britain?! in November?!). And all are attending what will be the Halloween Bash of the year- hurrah!

That's the long and short of it for the moment... trees are changing, the weather's frigid, I have crumble in my belly, and the laundry's done - life's not too bad.

Related Links:
Characteristics of a Disaster-Resilient Community
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm....

Blackberry Crisp and Driving Lessons and Marge's Replacement

My arms are a scritched and scratched and covered in nettle rash... all for the want of blackberry crumble. Being from a city in the States, I'm unfamiliar with the concept of being able to walk around and randomly eat fruit that grows on public foliage. It's really just not a done thing. So, in the excitement that is blackberry (bramble) season in the UK, I've thrown myself wholeheartedly into a tradition which most British people have got their fill of before their teenage years. Sinéad, loving partner that she is, has encouraged me in this pursuit and accompanies me around footpaths whilst I fling myself into bramble bushes and emerge with a grand total of three blackberries and stinging arms. Having returned home slightly scathed, there's now a blackberry crisp bubbling away in the oven which will taste all the more exciting because the berries were were there to be plucked by anyone... but it was me who got them.

When I'm not pursuing the joys of fresh roadside fruit (mmmm, taste the exhaust), I'm zipping around British roads in a snappy orange car with a big Learner pyramid on the top. For those Americans who wonder why I'm doing this despite the fact that I've been driving since the age of 15, it's because the UK, despite recognizing the driver's licenses from a gajillion countries but (I think for political reasons) not the US. So I have to start from scratch. I've passed my theory test and I have to pass my practical. In order to do this, I need to be affiliated with a school because I need a car to take the test in and I can't be insured on Sinéad's car because she's had her license for less than three years. It's all very complicated, very expensive, and a right pain in the butt. There are some interesting differences in how they teach you to take the test. For example, you can't sit at an intersection with your brake lights on because of the fear that you will dazzle other drivers. What?!?!?! Try sitting in rush hour traffic in DC and see how dazzled you get by the brake lights. Whatever.

All this brings me to Dunster, Sinéad's new car. A high end Peugeot 106. I say high end because we only paid £250 for Marge and we put £650 into Dunster. Classy chicks that we are. No power steering, though. I shudder to think.

Related Links

Exchanging for a UK Licence (yes, that's how they spell it here...)

Triple Berry Crisp

A Farewell to Marge

Alas, our poor dear Marge, lovely gray Peugeot that we purchased in November, failed her MOT with startling brilliant pizazz and has been sent to a home for the elderly vehicle in the hands of a banger-racer.

A weekend in Cork and a weekend in Glasgow and a weekend in London

Three weekends ago, we were back in Cork for the Month's Mind, essentially this is an Irish Catholic tradition in which the family pays more money to the church who then dedicates a mass to the family member on the month's anniversary of the funeral. Practically everyone who was at the funeral comes back and it's rather of short version of the three-day wake/funeral. We visited Ciaran's grave and mingled with family and ate too much and cried. I think it's good, despite it being another occasion on which the Church takes advantage of its congregation in that it seemed to bring closure to most of the family and friends. The grief was tempered and more heartfelt than that which immediately followed Ciaran's death. I'm glad to have been able to go and to support Sinéad and be there for her family. Even though it's a series of traditions which are alien to me (which I found exhausting simply from the toll of unfamiliarity not to mention everything else), I could understand a bit more the meaning behind them and how they evolved and the purpose that they're meant to serve. I find that to be comforting in some small, overly logical OCD part of myself.

The next weekend, Sinéad and I schlepped up to a well-deserved weekend in Glasgow to pay Helen back for about ten visits that's she made down South (admittedly usually piggy backing on some work jaunt). An eight hour drive after work does not happy bunnies make (particularly since it's Sinéad doing all the driving). Friday, while Helen worked, Sinéad slept until 3:30 (the mind boggles) and I had the first relaxing day in a long time, with not a lot of much to do except read the 7th Harry Potter. Heaven.



On Saturday we faffed about town and on Sunday we went to the Glasgow Show where I developed a passion for rowing, threw a caber (assisted by a very large man in a kilt), and saw Indian running ducks herded around an obstacle course by sheepdogs in training... actually a bit more entertaining than actual sheepdog trials, once you kicked all the kids out of the way so as to get a better view.



The weekend after Glasgow (no rest for the wicked) was Jim's big THREE OH fancy dress pah-tay in London. Pretty swish, fablus cake, and I combined the whole affair with dragging Sinéad to an exhibit at the Tate Modern on Global Cities which she found wanky and I found interesting. But I think I avoided the wanky looking aspects of the exhibit and focused on what I found interesting. It's all what you go in looking for, I imagine.







Related Links:


Month's Mind

The Glasgow Show

Indian Running Ducks

Tossing the Caber

SIMS 2 and Festivals and Ryan Scair Strikes Again

On a recommendation from Mr. Peter Vigors, we brought SIMS2 into our lives. For those of you who are not familiar with with world of simulated living, SIMs 2 (distantly related to that ol' favourite SimCity) allows you to create neighborhoods and people to live in them (with an amazing amount of detail). What do these people do? They make friends, find jobs, and cook dinner. Why it's so addictive, I'm not sure, but my wife and I have found ourselves sat in front of the computer for hours a day, watching little virtual people go to the bathroom.


Yesterday I came home to find a distraught wife because Social Services had come to take the virtual babies away. And she needed comforting after the virtual Sinéad through a party and no one had fun... I believe her exact words were "I spent 400 pounds on a buffet, why didn't anybody have fun!", accompanied by small sniffles. What's even more ironic is the fact that we now consistently argue over who gets control of the computer and, in general, Sinéad will spend her hard-earned computer time making our SIMs get together with some virtual cuddles...
something is well out of kilter...

General commentary on the UK
Something I find insane about the UK is that, despite the predictably awful weather, there is a continuous series of music festivals throughout the summer known for big crowds, pouring rain, floating tents, and slodging through mud, generally accompanied by sleepless nights, over-consumption of alcohol, and the occasional drug use. What's even more insane is that in general, if one is a festival go-er, one goes to all of them, weekend after weekend after weekend. In addition to this, they think that the rest of the world is like them and admires them for their festivals. The looks I got when I acknowledged that I had never heard of the mud fest know as Glastonbury are indescribable. My thirty-year-old mind does not compute.

Why you need to boycott Ryan Air, an essay in two words:
They Suck.

Oh my gawd. Besides all the basic reasons that we hate Ryan Air: cavalier attitude towards customer service, scalping passengers with carry on luggage fees, complete lack of any sort of empathy in any sort of situation for any reason whatsoever, leaving out of such sh*t airports as Stansted and Prestwick, they are also scary as f*ck in terms of safety. I will never ever take a Ryan Air flight again, I don't care if it is £1.99 before the £75.00 in taxes and fees.

This morning the flight attendant didn't shut the door properly. The big door. The door that looks like an eggs and makes a seal with the exterior of the aircraft when it shuts. She didn't shut the door and she had no idea and the plane started to back away from the gate and someone from OUTSIDE noticed and she had to open it and shut it and it took two flight attendants to shut it properly. Their main role is to make sure that passengers are safe and they did not know their asses from their elbows.

I'm not saying that every employee of Ryan Air is that incompetent but I am so never taking the risk again because if they will hire someone so obviously unsuitable for job in terms of a) common sense and b) physical ability to do the job, I'm sure that there are others. And next time, someone might not notice that they didn't shut the bloody door. [*end rant]

Related Links:
Ryan Air: Caught Napping

Glastonbury Official Site

Glastonbury MUD FOR SALE (what is wrong with these people?)
SIMs2 Support Group (see what I mean?!)

Weddings and Gendarmes and Waterfalls

After an exhausting week in Ireland, complete with Satan's new design for an emotional roller coaster, I had two days at home and one day at work before heading out for a week in the South of France to have a mini-reunion with my friends from Nice and to be a witness for Jo at her and Laurent's wedding in Beaulieu. The wedding itself was held in the mairie of the town where the mayor himself performed the ceremony on his day off bc he knows Laurent from "way back". He mentioned, during the ceremony, that he wanted to see Laurent in a suit because he didn't believe it would happen... well... it didn't really.

From Beaulieu we headed up to Aups and from there it was a coffee in the morning at the Cafe du Grands Cours, next to the "place ombragée", then a day by the lake and exploring wee villages, followed by aperos by the pool, and then a big fat dinner which we should never have been able to eat after all our aperos, but which we stuffed in our gobs anyway.

The reception was held up in Aups on the Saturday and, oh, what a reception. The bride and groom were led into the bar area by the pool (of the villa that they rented on the top of a mountain) by a djembe band. *swish! Laurent, whose job is to be the monkey that shimmies all those big catwalks at musical events to put up lighting and sound, called on his connections and decked out the villa something proper: smoke machine, lighting, speakers in every corner all focused on an outdoor dance floor.

All of this leads us to the fact that solid music blasting at from the top of a mountain until 7:30 in the morning, does not the valley inhabitants happy make. Hence the arrival of the gendarmes, to whom, despite the fact that they arrived in a car up a sinewy mountain dirt path, I was apparently supposed to offer champagne when they came to tell us about the complaints. Personally, coming from the US where that would have been a) a stupid thing to do and 2) a really stupid thing to do, it didn't occur to me to offer the coppers an alcoholic bribe.

At any rate, after having informed the police that a wedding party was the cause of the noise and after them expressing an interest in how many anglophones were present in the middle of nowhere on top of a hill, they backed their way back down the twisty road calling out the general message," Oh, well if it's a wedding... we wouldn't want to interrupt that. Just maybe try to keep it down a little bit. But, you know.... if it's a wedding...".

The response to this by the French DJ en charge... crank it up.

Gotta love France.

Aups is a little village that I've been visiting for the past seven or so years with Jo, who spent summers there as a teenager (lucky bint). We tend to do the same things when we go, paddleboating in the Gorges du Verdon, picnicing by the Lac St. Croix, and stopping for glaces in Moustiers. As you do. This time, with a bit of an itch for exploration, we ventured forth to a new village and new excitement: Sillons-la-Cascade. Chosen specifically because the word cascade was in the name of the village.

Despite the initial terror that the town we were driving into was little more than an épicerie and a tired dog out front, we soon saw a little panneau for the cascade... oh the tremors of excitement that shivered through us as we followed the windy path through olive orchards and past hay bales only to arrive, quite unexpectedly given the fact that we couldn't hear the running water, at a big phat waterfall and an accompanying swimming hole. [photo to come]

Oh hurrah! In my life, so many quests for waterfalls have gone unfulfilled that to arrive at one so bedecked in green splendour of foliage falling from such a height that to see the top one has to tilt one's head back so far that it can't be taken it without the influence of sun shining through spume... truly a moment of unadulterated pleasure. That and I didn't get my a** kicked for leading my friends on a two hour wild goose chase.

Related Links:
Beaulieu - sur- Mer
Aups
Moustiers

Ciarán James Garry

there's been a death... another one... it's ciarán...

(was he ill?)

does it make it better if he was? does it make it easier? does it make it less unexpected? I suppose it should, but it doesn't really. not really.

my wife's baby brother, my bruv-in-law, died of cancer

(cancer?! surely you're not surprised then...)

on Sunday.

except not from the cancer because everything was fine, curable, going as expected...

he was best man at a wedding on thursday, buying toys and preparing for da jung and juni to come spend the rest of his treatment time with him on friday, on the phone arranging for his fiancée to get past immigration at heathrow on sunday, and in the car on the way to pick her up when he collapsed...

(did he crash? did he know it was coming?)

he pulled over, just felt weak, and collapsed. they couldn't help him, and the police had to collect da jung at the airport...

the world stopped... it should have stopped... just for a moment before it implodes and discovers recreation,

without Ciarán

(how's sinéad?)

she's not a big sister anymore...

she's a little sister to a brother who's only just returned to ireland after ten years in america... he got his green card just in time...

(thank gracious, a blessing ...)

to be able to come back to ireland to visit his father in the hospital and to bury his baby brother.

(how was the funeral?)

three days. three days of the world on pause. three days of people giving time, extra beds, shepherd's pies, money, flowers, cards, tears, and love...

three days of holding each other.

three days of coming together.

three days of losing someone we don't think we can live without.

i love you, ciarán. i miss you.

Related Links:

The Amazing Adventures of Ciarán Garry
The Huddleboard

Stand up, Sit Down, Drink Drink Drink

Rising to the epitome of poshness, I have attended a formal Oxford University sit-down, grace-in-latin, students-in-robes, drooling-professors-at-a-head-table-with-crystal-decanters supper in a dining hall with flying buttresses. Needless to say, the vegetarian option included mushrooms.



Also on an Oxford University note (hail to the gownies... I think?), I attended a charity comedy event to raise money for the Darfur Appeal. Featured were the Oxford Imps doing improv as well as loads of sketches. Four hours of comedy and we unthinkingly decided to eat after the show.



All this followed up by a loverly Saturday afternoon with Michelle popping into shops and looking for fab dresses to wear to Miss Jo Finlay's wedding. Having had no luck, we retired to the Turf for a glass of white wine in the sunshine. Unfortunately it was thronged with finishing Oxford students and their beaming parents (*ugh) and after about 20 minutes in line, we determined that it would be a better option to use the 15 quid we were going to spend on a bottle of cheap chardonnay on a much cheaper bottle of white and to sit in the park. This plan was slightly stunted by the fact that we were miles from a liquor store.



Luckily, we stumbled across a small deli (Olives on High Street) with exactly one bottle of chilled white wine for sale. Alas, no bottle opener. A trip down the road found us an overpriced corkscrew and then off to the park, happily stocked with pinot grigio, olives, and brie. Where the realization struck us that we had no glasses. Which is how, at the age of thirty, I found myself sat in the park drinking wine from a bottle. Oh so very classy indeed.





Related Links
Mansfield College

The Darfur Wall

Oxford Imps

Pirates and Punting and Performances

This has been a full week in my social calendar (not sure if there's any relation to the fact that Ms. Sinéad has been away in Ireland...).

On Wednesday I met some friends at the pub down the street to sit about and listen to some live music, the main act being a friend of Amazonas that she met whilst traveling in Brazil (as you do...). Despite the fact that I've lived a three minute walk from the Exeter Pub for the last eight months, I'd never managed to actually go inside before... a couple of near misses, but never that fateful moment of crossing the threshold. In retrospect, it is with good reason. A soul-less bar, with a limited selection of alcohol and bizarre house rules including not speaking at all while a large dog roams the stage and the patron in a rugby shirt casts dirty looks and tries to keep out the students. Admittedly, Jessica, friend o' Amazonas, put on a decent show (especially considering it was three pound entry) - much of her music seemed Bebel Gilberto inspired which I quite enjoyed. Her opening act, however, did not warrant the enforced ban on speaking, poor lad.

Saturday was a fabulous day filled with capoeira, punting, and the cinema. Despite the fact that I am meant to be hard at work this weekend, I took the liberty of going punting yesterday for the first time ever... Punting is Oxford's sport o' choice. Luckily, I ended up in a punt with a master punter because my five minutes of punting fame consisted of me desperately struggling to get the pole in the water and the punt spinning lazily towards one bank or the other... no forward progress was made. I do, however, highly recommend the punting. I did later find out that I was probably holding the pole upside down and I'd like to give it another try, just to see if having it with the weighted end in the water does make all the difference.

As for the pirates... we went to see Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End. I thought that it was fabulous, but I honestly think that of the seven people with whom I attended, I was the only one of that opinion. And then Dende ruined it all by making us stay 'til the very end, past allllllll the credits, to see Keira Knightly on a hill with a kid.


Related Links:
Jessica Goydar
Punting
PIRATES! (or, more to the point... JOHNNY!)

Freecycle and Freelance and Freaking Painful Pinky Finger

Does anyone else absolutely love Freecycle? I must admit to having furnished practically the entirety of my current flat with Free-cyclage. Our bed, bedside tables, sleeper sofa, butler's trolley, toaster, coffee machine, scanner, gawd, a number of things. Of course, I've fed back into the system, especially when I left the States last year and gave away my entire house, practically. Of course, every Freecycle has its own character, which I find amusing, to a certain extent. Reston Freecycle was well-organized and remarkably reliable. Only occasionally would you find the odd individual who didn't follow up with promises to appear or deliver. Oxford Freecycle is remarkably contentious- there's always people kicking up a public fuss (blatantly ignoring the discussion boards) and calling each other names because they don't agree whether animals should be free-cycled.

What's really irksome about Oxford is that people never tell you where they are located when they post... it's such a big group geographically that it really does matter when trying to decide if it's worth the schlep for that old pair of ice skates or whether it's actually feasible for someone without their own mode of transport.

My primary reasons for bringing up the topic of Freecycle, however, is a recent post on Freecycle Oxford that just needs to be publicized:

[OxfordFreecycle] Offered half dead child's bmx!!!
isisunicorngirl to OxfordFreecycle

What on earth does that mean? Is there a half dead child somewhere and they're giving away the poor thing's bike?

Somewhat related to the fact that all my furniture comes from Freecycle is that fact that I'm doing some freelancing for Oxfam Publications to bulk up my bank account (thanks be to Katie for getting me the initial gig...). This freelance work comes in the form of putting together Resources sections for books that Oxfam is publishing. The first one was Cities. It couldn't seem to figure out if it was meant to be academically informative or a rant. Alas. Next one up is a book on campaigning which will be a bit more research on my part familiarising myself with the field. Cities was a bit more straightforward since I'm still up on the literature.

Also occupying my time and sucking the hours from my weekend are events like the four hour berimbau workshop that I attended yesterday. My pinky is killing me. For those not in my capoeira world (what? is there a world outside capoeira?!?!) a berimbau is the main instrument in the roda (I'll explain the roda another time). It looks like a big bow with a gourd attached. You play it by hitting a wire with a stick and change notes by adjusting the tension on the wire by pressing it with a stone (or coin or whatever generally appropriate object is within arm's reach). It's not excessively complicated but you hold the whole instrument up with your pinky finger. Whose idea that was, I'm not sure, but I think there's probably another thirty folks 'round Oxford today nursing an aching pinky finger...


Related Links:
Freecycle
Oxfam Publishing
Berimbaus
What do you call a "pinky finger"?

Other People's Exciting Tales of Greeks and Favorite Jackets and Laying Eggs

So, while absolutely nothing amazing happened to me this week, some of my friends had some crazy sh*t happen to them and so I shall spin their tales rather than try to cleverly augment a pitifully dull story of my own.

The Tale of Boa Onda and the Shoe of Woe
Boa Onda was peddling home early Friday (round abouts 11:00PM) when, in the slipperiness that is Britain, her lovely shoe flew off her foot and bounded into the darkness (which is also Britain as they don't seem to have a procurement officer responsible for street lights). Unable to find the shoe in plain sight, Boa took the light off of her bike and shone it under a line of cars parked on the side of the road. Still no luck. Only one foot clad, she directed her attentions to a nearby house where a party was underway. Thinking that perhaps the cars belonged to the party participants, she forlornly banged on the door, hoping that they might a) help her look or b) move their cars or c) something, she's not sure what.

It turned out to be a birthday celebration thronged with Greeks, all very merry by that hour. As the birthday boy selflessly flung himself into the wet world to look for the shoe, Boa was dragged into the house and given ouzo and was well-lavished with attention by doting Greek gentlemen. Needless to say, she did not arrive home until after one thirty, still only bearing one shoe.

My question is, who on earth loses a shoe and ends up at a mad Greek party?

For those who may be concerned for the fate of the shoe, Boa found it the next day on her way to another party, very popular girl that she is.


The Tale of Michelle and the Khaki-green Jacket
Michelle has a khaki green jacket. It's old but it's comfy and lovely and quite suits her. On Saturday she left it in a field surrounded by dancer types and was unable to locate it at the end of the afternoon. Distressed, she drowned her sorrows in a few pints at the Angel and Greyhound, as you do.

Still bemoaning the loss, she went out in the evening (back to the A&G) where she met up with her friend Strelly. As they were sat outside, they were quite bundled up (it being freaking frigid in the UK in May) and Michelle was secretly admiring Strelly's coat which looked remarkably like the one she had lost earlier that day. Not wanting to be presumptuous, she dared mention that Strelly's coat was quite lovely and where had she gotten it...

Lo and behold! Strelly had purchased it that afternoon for £3.99 at a charity shop right next to the park where Michelle had lost her jacket. The hope almost too much to bear, Michelle asked Strelly if, perhaps, there might be gum in one of the pockets, gesturing to the place she had left her last stick of Trident Soft. And there was!

Ah, such a coincidence, that of all the people in Oxford, Strelly should have happened to buy the very jacket that Michelle had lost, and that they would have seen each other the same day. Very exciting. In the end, Michelle got her jacket back and Strelly was out £3.99 and her new cool purchase. Not fair, really, but that's fate for you...

The Tale of Wyatt and the Egg
This is a short and simple tale that will end soon. Wyatt, our boy bird, laid an egg yesterday. S/he has assumed the name Wyette. And poor Pete has lost the only other male in the house. A sad sad funny funny day.

Related Links
Age Concern
Perhaps Pete should have read this
Symposium?!

BBQs and Bluebells and Recycling comes to Cowley

This has been a bit of a slow week as far as anything newsworthy is concerned. We went on a tramp through the bluebells last Sunday... it was fabulous! There were bits of the woods where it seemed as though the trees were sprouting from a sea of flowers. It's easy to understand where stories of faeries comes from when wandering about in such a fantastical place.

This weekend, however, has been the weekend of birthdays. We had two birthdays on Saturday, one in the mad house of the Mexican mafia and another on the town with some mates. Sunday was the mad-cap BBQ antics of our flatmates Pete and Kate and slightly more than a dozen capoeiristas attempting to enjoy burnt meat in the wind and rain. Somehow the party managed to last from four in the afternoon 'til about two AM. No possibility of faulting our aging friends on their stamina.

And the best news of all is that Cowley (the neighborhood in which I live) has finally been integrated into the city's recycling scheme. So now our trash gets picked up every other week and only the trash that fits inside the city-provided bin, which I think is a good way to get people started in trying to reduce. At the same time, we have three different bins that we can use to recycle pretty much everything barring cling film. And a composter. It's a slow process, but bit by bit governments are mainstreaming recycling.

Related Links:
Oxford Recycles!

Trips to Ireland and Mortgages and Phone Upgrades

As Sinead's entire family is falling ill, we went to Ireland to keep an eye on them. Ciaran is doing fine, three rounds (out of 12) of chemo later. His hair is starting to come out, but he still has enough energy to pull a few shifts at the local pub and to do a great deal of going out, despite various protestations (generally when he wants something like another pint) that "My cancer hurts"...

Sinead's dad is still in hospital, but he's coherent, lucid, and actually has a chance of going home in the next month. We spent the visiting hours wrapped in plastic, half-bathing in anti-bacterial gel, having decent chats and betting on the horses.

When not in hospital, we had some lovely dinners with Sinead's mum and brother and one night on the town in a pub called Slainte: Traditional Irish Pub. Isn't that like going to China and seeing advertisements for Chinese Food? Seems rather naff if they have to say that they're an Irish pub when, blatantly, they're a pub in Ireland...

As for Mortgages, Sinead and I have decided that we might try our hand at the housing market again, despite the fact that we're currently in mediation for one housing dispute (previous landlords) and are starting the process for the most recent mortgage advisor (only registered communication has been exchanged, nothing filed in the courts yet). Rather than Buy-to-Let, we've been talking about getting a group mortgage with Pete and Kate, our flatmates. We had a lovely shiny unaffiliated mortgage advisor come by the house (getting white hair all over his pristine suit in the process) and almost laugh when he heard our four salaries combined. He's making some phone calls though, we'll see how it pans out. Fun to have it in the works though; it's something else to keep my mind off my career or lack thereof.

The most exciting news of all is that I made it through all 18 months of my phone contract and qualified for an upgrade!!!! I now have an awesome phone with a 3.2 mp camera which is also capable of video calling so I can have a video call with anyone who also has 3G service, as far as I can understand how it works... hooray! It also has radio reception, mp3 capabilities, and came with an iPod shuffle... my life is complete (I mean, you know, Sinead and an iPod shuffle, what more could any girl ask for?)

Related Links:
Ipod Shuffle

Beer Gardens and Country Walks and Sunshine(2)

It's been abso-effing-lutely goi-geous here for the past week... sunshine! That being said, we're expecting frost this week, but I'm not as bothered as I might have been as we've have a full week and two weekends of nothing but sunshine (and I even have a little color in my cheeks! oh miracle of miracles!)

As it's been so nice, we've gone on two lovely country walks, Jibril in tow (well, actually, running madly in front of us). We've meandered past a tithe barn, two water mills, a wind mill, and numerous country homes that I would give my eyeteeth to own. We lingered by a pond smothered in frog spunk that Jibril, silly bugger, fell into repeatedly... not the brightest fluffy white beast in the house...

What I, as a die hard American (I got me a gun to protect my property!) about the UK is the concept of the public right of way. There are paths, some used frequently, some never used, some in the middle of nowhere, some cutting through people's private property and all these paths, due to the fact that they have been historically public, remain public and will, for all intents and purposes, always be public.

There are times when people aren't too keen on this and some are less keen than others. We went through a farm where they posted "Beware of Bull" on the fence that we had to cross over to continue on the path. It is, however, illegal to put a bull in a field through which a public footpath crosses, so we just ignored it and kept walking. But at the next fence, there wasn't a stile and we had to crawl under the bottom rung of the fence to get into a field full of horses (which Jibril was less than thrilled about).

At any rate, all country walks, fraught with obstacles or no, end at the pub, in the beer garden, sun on your face and a pint of ale in your hand... There really is nothing that beats that feeling of utter, nigh-comatose, relaxation in the sunshine, surrounded by fairly well-behaved, football kit clad children drinking lemonade out of newly-awarded trophies.

Related Links:
Public Rights of Way - UK

Sunshine and Haircuts and Bank Holidays

There are many annoying things about living in the UK, the lack of Goldfish crackers and DSWs, for example. One very non-annoying thing is the surplus of bank holidays, especially in the Spring-turns-Summer time of the year. Such good planning on the part of the British government has resulted in time of work on generally very sunny days. Such is the case today and (fingers crossed) Monday as well. The Brits get two official days off for Easter! How brilliant is that?

Of course, the bank holidays in the UK have caused me a great deal of stress in that I never assume that there will be a day off around a Christian holiday, completely forget that it's a Christian holiday, and then send out big steers with required submission dates on said Christian holiday. The recipients of said steers are in two minds of how to deal with such terrible oversights. Most feel that I'm a bit silly and just assume that the deadline is the following day. The others feel the need to phone me up, state explicitly that I have, yet again, scheduled something on a holiday, and then ask me if I really expect them to work over the holiday weekend. To which I generally grit my teeth and let them know very sweetly that early submissions are most welcome, thus negating the need to think about a project over the weekend.

At any rate, silly Brits aside, my plans for the bank holiday weekend are few and far between. I shall be getting my haircut today. Not as exciting as it could be as all I'm going in for is to clean up the current disaster taking residence on my scalp while I continue to try and grow it out. There may be a 10 mile walk on the horizon, should it still be sunny and should Sinead allow me to drag her a** out of bed at a decent time (*tangent: The Brit's *bleep* out the word a** in That Seventies Show) . That's about it for the plans. The household is having some folk 'round on Monday night and I am secretly endeavoring to get them all to play Cranium, which Sinead got for Christmas and has never opened.

Happy Easter - enjoy all the resultant chocolate. (*another sidenote- the UK concept of Easter eggs and Easter chocolate is randomly really different from ours... Rather than rattan baskets filled with Easter grass, jelly beans, and those awful marshmallow chicks, kids in the UK wake up to a big box with an egg (and occasionally a mug, or an egg cup, or some other Easter-related paraphernalia). Is it me or is that crap and unexciting? On the other hand, whenever I try to give Sinead an American-style Easter basket, I end up eating all the candy and cleaning up the Easter grass, so I'm going minimalist this year. The Easter Bunny has brought her a box with a chocolate egg and a Simpson's mug).


Related Links:
British Bank Holildays
Walk in the Cotswolds


Other place to find me:
Couchsurfing

Anniversaries and Carrot Muffins and Opposites Attract

Two years today. Gracious!

We have no real plans because Sinead's week has been pretty insanely awful, father in hospital and brother starting his radio-therapy. She got home last night after one, having had to drive all the way home from Stansted Airport which is a bit of a schlep. Poor wudgy.

I wanted to plan something quite special and extravagant and really spoil her today, but a) we have no money and b) what she really wants to do is sleep past noon and sit on her bottom and just not think.

So, I made her favorite carrot muffins and I'll bring her a cuppa and a muffin round abouts 11:30. And I'll do my best not to say "Seen this one" when she turned the Simpsons on. Might be the best anniversary gift I could offer actually.



One thing that I've realized this anniversary is how different Sinead and I really are. I guess that I always knew that, but it was really brought home when I got into an (admittedly tipsy) discussion last night about what I should do for her this anniversary. All the suggestions of cheap/romantic options were things that I would absolutely love but, upon reflection determine that Sinead would actually not only not love them, but really really be resentful if I suggested them (get up and watch the sunrise together, case in point). I think it's good to have lives independent of each other, but where's the point of too much diversion?


Other places you can find me:
Multiply

Celeriac(2) and Complaints and Project Catwalk

For those who are mad eager to hear about the Celeriacal Fest, it was brilliant! Despite the fact that my flatmate who had intended to make dessert went to capoeira class instead and the fact that Sinead was disgustingly ill in a hacking sort of way, Chapada and I had a grand ol' time and I made a decadent celeriac and blue cheese soup and Chapada made celeriac schnitzel and that was really all the celeriac we could take. Plus the fact that one of the celeriacs had gone off so there was less celeriac than might otherwise have been anticipated. I shall post the video of Chapada juggling celeriacs as soon as I get around to uploading it.

I've had a fairly busy coupla weeks, but most eventful was the fact that I was sent to a Complaints and Response Mechanisms Workshop on behalf of my new boss, her being in Hanoi for the week. Actually, I was fourth on the list. Also unable to attend was the lead on Humanitarian Accountability and two of the legal team that are actually working on the Complaints Mechanism Policy. So I was rubbing shoulders with quite high-up, senior management staff that kept looking at me and saying... "Who are you again? How does this workshop impact your role? You're a personal assistant... ? Who are you again?"

On the bright side, I actually knew more about complaints procedures than most of them because OGB actually has a procedure and a policy and some pilot studies whereas, interestingly enough, a lot of Aid agencies don't seem to.

The most exciting part of the day of the workshop which, incidentally, started at five cause I had to catch a bus to catch a coach to catch the tube to be there at 9:30, was that whilst in Islington (poshy part of London) I passed WAYNE from Project Catwalk. Fabulous! What's random, however, is that, in my excitement, I texted all my Project Catwalk compatriots (i.e., Jim and Kate who I sit with on a Monday night with six glasses of wine, eyes glued to the telly) and Jim had a Wayne-spotting the day before on the bus. Coincidence? Or just a mad outbreak of Waynes? Will we ever know the answer?

Related Links:
Wayne Wins Project Catwalk
BOND: Complaints and Mechanisms Workshop
Marie Juggles Celeriac

Other places to find me:
MySpace

Jobs and Blogs and Celeriac

Right, then... inspired by the bloggings of such folks as marla and marianne, i have decided to commence my own little mini-journal to keep those who are interested updated and aware of the goings on of my own inconsequential life...

that being said, big news is that i got a job. finally. at last. jaysus. one year after the first applications and CVs were sent into this wide wide world, i've finally signed a contract making me 100% employed as a Personal Assistant. oh hurrah to me. i am, however, still in the market for a job which entails more than photo-copying, filing, and managing a very busy individual's diary. lemme know if you hear anything.

now, as for celeriac. How many of you know what it is... i must admit to a certain degree of ignorance as regards this particular vegetable other than having supposedly consumed it in soup form at a recent supper party chez RPB, the poshest vicar's daughter in the world. what is most consternating is that celeriac happens to be in season locally, and keeps appearing in our organic veg box... one was enough and then last week we got two. TWO!

This Wednesday has now been reserved for what will soon be renowned as the Celeriacal Fest 2007, an event which will involve the use of all three of our celeriacs, (presuming, of course, that they haven't gone off while we've tried to figure out what the heck to do with them). The proposed menu fixe is an entree of celeriac and blue cheese soup, followed by the play principal of celeriac schnitzel, and topped off with a decadent celeriac and rhubarb pie... devastatingly mouth-watering.

Thus ends this Sunday's report.

Stay tuned for further news regarding the vicious slaughter of a number of innocuous root vegetables.

Related Links:

Riverford Organic Vegetables

Food for Thought Quiz

Other places to look for me:

43 Things