Get ready, Scotland!

In twenty-four hours I will be sitting comfortably on a train to Edinburgh for Hogmanay! I'm pretty excited, though also crazy nervous. I've never stayed in a hostel before, and I don't really know what to expect. The place I booked didn't really have any negative reviews before I booked it, but now they've got all these really negative reviews. People talking about rooms that don't lock, no plugs in the rooms [how am I going to charge my camera?!], really filthy accommodations. One person wrote about homeless people, another wrote about not having any water during their entire stay and not even getting a bit of money back for that... I'm pretty freaked out, and terrified that this place is going to be absolutely disgusting and awful and I won't be able to find another place to stay because Hogmanay is kind of a big deal. 

I'm trying really hard not to freak out, while at the same time preparing for the worst. I've got a suitcase lock, and one of those things that you can use to tie suitcases down. I fully intend to chain the thing to a bunk bed if there's no lockers, and I'm pretty sure there aren't any lockers. I think I'll ask my friend in another hostel to charge my camera battery if it becomes necessary, but I'm hoping it won't. 

I'm hoping the negative reviews are exaggerations because I've been seriously ripped off in the New Year's department. Try snow storms every year, and then the one year I give up and don't even try to get out of Small Town, Nova Scotia it was perfectly clear and didn't storm at all. I've racked up some serious bad karma I guess. I'm especially hoping for a good time because Christmas was sort of awful. I had to socialize with my roommate, NZ, and he's always just so much fun [/sarcasm]. 

Obviously I'll write up a full review upon my return in the new year! I'm sure you'll all be over the hangovers and perfectly capable of reading it then. (:

***

In Royal Fail news, the parcel still hasn't arrived. It's still en route to Canada, so that's lovely. I popped down to the post office to send off a card to the other side of London, and while I was there I thought I'd ask for a ParcelForce claims form. The employee was hilariously condescending and ridiculous, par the course I guess. 

Me: Can I have a claims form for ParcelForce? That parcel I sent out on December 6th still hasn't arrived. 

Employee: How do you know it hasn't arrived? Did you check the tracker?

Me: .... [Thinking, "She can't be serious, how else would I know that it hasn't arrived?"]

Employee: Well, did you?

Me: Of course I checked the tracker! That's how I know it's still en route!

Then the employee asked questions, like did I pay to have it sent quickly, and all this other stuff. that made it clear she wasn't even listening to my responses at all. She asked me three times when I sent it, where I sent it, and then asked again if I sent it before the bad weather hit. I should have just gone in  with, 'December 6th, it was supposed to arrive in Canada within three days,' tattooed to my forehead or something. I, of course, answered while becoming really annoyed though I managed to be polite. I'm sure I had major bitchface going on though. At the end of the increasingly frustrating conversation she announces that they're out of forms and will be until the new year. Nice. ParcelForce still hasn't replied to my e-mail, but I did send it right before Christmas so I'm assuming that's the delay. 

Ugh, crazy frustrating. Just get the package there, Royal Fail! I'm not in the mood for this. 

Here's hoping it arrives by the time I get back from Scotland! I'm pretty sick of dealing with it, honestly. 

Anyway, Happy New Year everyone! 

<3 Jade

Royal Fail: Snow!

Haha, so, writing this post means that "rants" will be the most used label for my blog. [EDIT: Ha, not any more! Had the brilliant idea of giving all the Royal Mail stuff its own tag so the people here just for that can easily find the posts.] I only created the tag last week! I guess I do rant an awful lot, but I hope it's funny ranting and not annoying ranting, or worse Mel Gibson ranting. I mean, I'm pretty sure it's not that last one because I have so far managed to go twenty-three years without calling someone an oven dodger [Really, really awful, I mean really. Do you even have a conscious, Mel? Jesus would not approve.], but I'm not so sure it's not the second one.

Anyway, in a bit of fail I didn't finish the claims process with ParcelForce. I know, I know, but there are reasons. First, thanks to their timely [sarcasm] responses to my enquiries, there really was no way to get the claim in on time anyway. You know, the whole not accepting claims over e-mail thing and how they have to receive the claim within two weeks for Global Express options. And, secondly, this is really a Royal Mail problem, honestly. I discovered that one of the other packages mailed that day also hasn't arrived yet, and, well, ParcelForce actually hasn't received anything. So, really, shouldn't Royal Mail pay for this mix up? Yes, but they won't, as I will explain in a second. 

The final nail in the coffin was when I looked at the claims form and I realized that I, stupidly, had screwed myself by not keeping all the receipts. I know, I know, you should always keep receipts, but some of the items were, like, grocery store chocolate and stuff. I do have the receipts for some of the stuff, and I debated just sending in what I had. Especially because Royal Mail won't even look at my claim, or even let me submit one. I filled in their little form on their customer service page, and even though it was supposed to get there in three days [and didn't... I so feel like a broken record here. THREE DAYS, THREE DAYS, THREE DAYS. I don't even like the number 3], they were all, "Yeah, no, you can't submit a claim until it's been missing for at least fifteen working days, keep checking your mail." Uhm, great. Except there was a delay, do I get compensation for that? Yeah, Royal Mail does not care. I tried to go back and redo it [Yes, I was the child who used to do those choose your adventure books backwards so I could get the best outcome], but, hilariously, they have some sort of remembrance thing on it. I kept getting a message at the top of the page all, "We're sorry your package hasn't arrived, check back when it's been fifteen days. In the meantime, keep checking your mail." Great, thanks Royal Mail.

Anyway, it all doesn't matter because...

They found the package!

I've still been checking the tracker religiously, you know, just in case. Today instead of the dreaded, "Advised," the tracking information says, "In transit." That's all it said on Royal Mail's website. Clearly an institution of very little words, so I checked in with ParcelForce, who elaborated a bit and claimed that the parcel is an international hub somewhere. Uhm, okay. Canada, what do you have say on the matter? Yeah, Canada Post says that the international hub is located in the country of origin, or, England. Okay, this is okay. It's moved, it has a location. 

EXCEPT HAVE YOU PEOPLE BEEN WATCHING THE NEWS? 

IT'S LIKE SNOWPOCALYPSE HERE:

Yeeeeep, this is the amount of snow that totally shut down London.
I can hear you laughing, Canada... Northern USA!
Stop it! It's not nice.

Look, it might not look like a lot but London is not used to anything beyond  particularly heavy flurries. Sometimes the tubes shut down because of *leaves* on the tracks. This is not a city that has the infrastructure to deal with an amount of snow that most of North America would consider a mild inconvenience. Yesterday I ventured out for food and, three days after the snowfall, they still hadn't cleared or salted the sidewalks. They have no idea what they're doing, and if they do, well, they don't have the equipment to do it, sadly.

Flights have been cancelled all over the place, people are sleeping in airports, I know several people who haven't made it home for Christmas and at this point it looks unlikely that they will. It's really terrible. And if England, and the rest of Europe that got hit with snow much heavier than normal for their climate, can't move people, odds are they aren't going to be moving parcels. 

So, anyway, eventually the parcel will make it to Canada, but the story isn't done yet! Royal Mail is avoiding my calls like they're scared I'm going to ask for a paternity test, and I still want some money back from the amount I paid to send the parcel... So... ParcelForce is clearly being set up to take the fall for this one. I e-mailed them, again, and asked if I could claim for part of the shipping fees, and if this required submitting receipts.

Here's hoping this thrilling [haha] saga can be concluded with a Part 4!

<3 Jade

Royal Fail: Part II [and other things]

In a bit of good news, I finally got out of the infinite loop that was Royal Mail's customer service contact page and got some information! Unfortunately, it didn't really help as Royal Mail keeps insisting that my parcel might not be lost. You can't register a complaint until it's gone missing for 15 working days, so I have to tell my parents to keep checking their mail. Le sigh. 

ParcelForce responded to my second, slightly strongly worded e-mail last night. They apologized again, which made me feel guilty. I'm torn, honestly. I'm usually so good with service people. I've worked retail, I know how tough it is to deal with people all the time, especially when those people ask you to do things you can not do. But at the same time, they were carefully chosen gifts that I paid to have delivered in three days! I'm just so frustrated. My mom has told me over and over again not to worry, it's not like they're upset. But I'm upset, which I recognize is due to several factors. I'm homesick, I'm actual sick, and so many other things and this Royal Mail thing is what I've chosen to focus my frustration and annoyance on. "I'm not going to get to be there for Christmas, but there's no excuse for my parcel to not be there," I think angrily every time I go to try to sort this out. 

ParcelForce was nice enough to send me a link to their complaints form. Unfortunately, you can't e-mail it to them. You have to print it off and mail it. So frustrating. I'm so upset with everything mail related that I haven't even gotten my Christmas cards sent off. They're sitting on my dresser, half done. I'll probably just send them after Christmas now. Anyway, I don't even have a printer, but the roommate that does have one is always nice enough to let me use his. If I'm going to file a complaint [and I do want my money back] I have to send it off on Monday. Why? Because they don't accept complaints or give compensation for the way I sent the parcel after two weeks. It's two weeks on Monday. 

Sigh. 

***

In other, miscellaneous news, my Christmas and birthday gifts from home have arrived! I thought they would make me feel better but they've only made me a million times more homesick. I put them on my window ledge. I'm going to Skype with my family on Christmas Day and open the gifts with them. My mom packed some Christmas DVDs, hoping they'd put me in a Christmas mood, but I'm honestly not feeling them. 

I'm spending Christmas alone. My friends have all gone home to their families. My cousin was willing to spend Christmas with me, but I didn't want him to miss out on his yearly tradition of visiting friends up north so I told him I had plans. My grandfather is here, of course, but he's decided that he doesn't want to spend Christmas with me. Which is fine, that's his prerogative. I shouldn't take it personally because he's just like that, but it still stings a bit. Obviously. 

I think I'll make apple pie and just eat the whole thing. There won't be anyone to make me share it! (: 

***

I feel like I probably would be able to pull myself out of this infinitely cranky mood, but I've caught a cold. I just finished a course of antibiotics for an UTI, so I'm really not looking forward to having to get antibiotics for the lung infection I usually get immediately after a cold. I've already calculated it, and if I go no later than next Tuesday for my week's worth of Avelox, it won't interfere with Hogmanay. Four days is usually long enough for the death rattle of bacteria to rear its head, if it does rear its head. It's just super frustrating in the meantime because I've got to overdose on my rescue and regular inhalers. 

I get sick every year around Christmas. Usually a cold, though last year it was a random throat infection that actually migrated into my mouth and made my back gums swell. Just my immune system keeping it fresh, I guess. Everyone used to say it's because I've finished exams and you usually get sick after a stressful time. Well, this year I'm not in university and I still got sick. I think we can all agree now that my yearly December illness is because my body hates me. This year it's decided to double hate me with two illnesses for the price of one. Thanks, immune system!

I read somewhere once that elderly people don't tend to get colds and flues because they gain immunity to tons of different strains over their life time. I really hope this is true. I can't even explain how miserable it is to have asthma and a rhinovirus trash your lungs during Birthday Season. If they were tenants, [I would be rich] they would so lose their damage deposit.

<3 Jade

Happy Birthday!

Okay, so, that rant about Royal Mail was very therapeutic. I feel calm and relaxed enough to write a birthday post and post date it because I have this thing about posting twice in one day.

So, birthdays. I was born on December 13th, 23 years ago. I have a thing about even numbers, and since both my birth day and year are odd, I can't say that I've ever really liked my birthday.Though I am strangely attached to it, so it's not like I would ever seriously consider changing it [not that you can]. Thirteen has always brought me good luck. While the rest of the world cringes during Friday the 13th, I always have a really fabulous day. I know 7 is supposed to be this magical number, but I honestly would have preferred an 88 birth year. Eight is one of my favourite numbers, along with 2, 4, 16, 32, I think you can see the pattern. Twelve is my absolute favourite number, I don't know why, I just like it. So, the only 'good' thing about my birthday is that December is the 12th month.

I had some fabulous birthdays as a kid. My parents were great. I never felt like I was competing [and losing] with Christmas. Not one Christmas-slash-birthday present for me! Look, I don't make a huge fuss or anything because it's rude and there's something to be said about never making someone uncomfortable when they're legitimately trying to do a nice thing for you, but I have three birthday rules that I feel are just basic, polite ways to handle December birthdays. It all boils down to the basic principle of: I don't make your July birthday about Canada Day, or your April/March birthday about Easter, etc., so why would you make my December birthday about Christmas? Here are the rules:

1. If is at all possible, don't give me one present for my birthday and Christmas. I don't do it to you, so don't do it to me. I get it, money is tight around Christmas, but seriously, it sucks. No other occasions get combined as often as Christmas and a December birthday. It's like they're pie and ice cream.

Honestly though, this rule is so flexible. Don't read this and think, "Oh no, I've done this! I'm TERRIBLE!" You're not. At all. Obviously if it's perfect and expensive go for it, give one gift. If not, you could always take your budget, half it, and buy two gifts with the two halves. No one's going to notice, trust me. And if they do they'll either be touched that you tried hard to separate the occasions, or they'll be jerks about it and you just dodged a bullet. Actually, in all seriousness, if your December friend is awful enough to comment if you do, for whatever reason [even if that reason is laziness], give him or her one gift you should probably cut them. In an ideal world I wouldn't have to fight for the limelight with baby Jesus, but it's not an ideal world, the economy sucks, university students are poor, shopping time is tight, December is really freaking busy... I could go on and on, but there are a million reasons why someone might buy a December baby a combined gift. Don't be rude, smile and be grateful you got anything and, if you must, complain about it later to other December folks.

2. Don't give me a Christmas card and add 'Happy Birthday' to the message. This bugs me even more than a single present for two events. I can forgive one present because, like I said, money is tight at Christmas. But I can't forgive one card. Even a folded piece of looseleaf with 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY' scrawled on it in barely legible hand writing goes over a million times better than a Happy Birthday/Merry Christmas card.

3. Don't wrap my presents in Christmas wrapping paper.

My parents, family, and most of my friends strictly adhere to these rules, which I am extremely grateful for. Even if it was wrapped in tissue paper instead of real wrapping paper, I knew my birthday present from my parents wouldn't have 'MERRY CHRISTMAS' all over it. I know that my birthday is not too close to Christmas, so I don't have it as bad as anyone born in the second half of December, but, like all December babies, as I got older, my birthday would play second fiddle to everything else going on in December. Christmas, vacations, the many tests and projects that teachers loved to assign for that last week of classes... And, when I got to university, fall term exams.

I remember mentioning university exams a bit dejectedly to my best friend during my last year of high school, and this smug, annoying girl with a late January birthday butted in with, "Well how do you think I feel, I've always had exams on my birthday!" Which, not true, unless she was taking shoe tying exams in kindergarten, or studying at a tenth grade level in grade seven, but whatever. I strained my eyes attempting not to roll them, and I bit my tongue in an effort to not quip back, "Yeah, well, try always competing with Jesus and it's not even his real birthday!" No seriously. All you spring babies should be getting screwed. You can thank the pagans for that, anyone born in March/April. But, I successfully managed to not say a word. It seriously wasn't worth it. This girl used to cry at the drop of a hat. No, really. Sometimes the only thing that would set her off was it was a Tuesday and particularly windy.

Anyway, back to the story. I became particularly neurotic about my birthday when I turned eighteen. I'm not really sure why. I think it was a fear of getting older thing, or maybe it was that adulthood was/is so abstract to me I couldn't, and still can't, believe that legally I'm considered one. I don't know. I do know that my two best friends planned a surprise party for my eighteenth birthday. No small feat considering all the work we had due that week. At least, I'm assuming we had work due that week, I don't really know which is odd because it's the sort of detail I would totally remember.

Right, story.

I actually went to bed. It was some ridiculously early time, like 6 pm, but I had decided that I didn't want it to be December 13th anymore so I was going to sleep until it was December 14th. My mother, panicked, tried to force me to stay up later, but I went to bed anyway, probably after spewing something dramatic and teenager-y. In the end my eighteenth birthday party began with my friends bursting into my room and waking me up.

It's been sort of like that off and on since. I had an exam the day after my 19th birthday, so I spent it studying. I was sick for my 20th birthday, but I also spent it studying. For my 21st birthday I had finished exams crazy early, so I was at home for my birthday. I had a nice family thing. For my 22nd birthday, I celebrated with my two best friends who also have exam/Christmas birthdays. That one was actually really fabulous, with the exception of me bursting into tears over being 22 [and then, hilariously, sobbing harder after one person was all, "but now you're my age!"], but I quickly calmed down [drank some alcohol...] and spent the rest of the evening announcing to anyone who would listen that it was, "MY BIRTHDAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY!"

I didn't really expect much for my 23rd birthday, mostly because I just started working and have a social group of exactly two other people in London. But they were really great. Welshie invited me out for drinks, and I asked my new Aussie friend to come along. I wore a new dress I bought on sale, in the petite section so it was actually the proper length on me! Clearly all signs were pointing to a wonderful night out, and I was definitely not disappointed.

It was a lot of fun. Welshie got me a 2011 day planner, which means a lot because I would lost without one, but also because she's currently unemployed. I wasn't expecting anything but some company, honestly, so I'm really grateful. We ate some chili fries [I pretended it was a poutine], drank some alcohol, and then started to dance. Welshie got the DJ to wish me a very happy birthday, we took some funny photos, Aussie almost got knocked down by this guy dancing crazily around us, at us, to us, whatever. It was a laugh. Then the bouncer tried to get us to check our bags and coats, so we left. I have a thing about checking my bag. I need it to stay on my person in case I spontaneously start to die and need my Epi-pen.

We wandered around Leicester Square for a bit, which is always hilarious. People, usually men, stand outside their clubs and bars and basically heckle women in an attempt to get them to go to their club or bar, which they hope will attract men. They're really persistent, and really creepy. Sometimes they follow you around the square, even after you've made it clear that you're not interested. They shout things at you like, "What do you have to lose, c'mon!" and can actually get a little abusive sometimes. Once we were out of the first bar and in the square we were surrounded by these jerks.

One club offered to let us in for free, but when we went up to the door the door person said we had to pay five pounds. We didn't want to pay to go in, so we turned around and left. At that point the owner marches up all, "These are pretty ladies! You let them in for FREE. Check their bags." I like compliments, so I was a little warmer about the place and didn't even mind the bouncer digging around my purse. We went in, but it was dead. There were maybe five people sitting around, so we immediately turned around and left.

The club across the street offered to let us in and give us a free shot each, so we tried that. The shot was absolutely disgusting. It was vodka, triple sec, and lemonade. But hey, alcohol! It was still dead, but honestly, on a Monday with the football game over, we weren't going to find a not-dead place. So, we sat around and took more pictures and people watched.

The night might seem pretty boring, especially since we left early enough that we could get home using the tubes, but I had a really great time. So, I guess, I have to admit that celebrating my birthday in London really wasn't that bad.

<3 Jade

Royal Fail

So, I was going to write about my birthday, but nothing really happened and I'm pretty much rage blinded by the institution that is the Royal Mail system that I would much, much rather complain about that instead.

Okay, call me crazy, but I like to send post cards and little souvenirs to people. Of course, since I didn't have a job until last month, I haven't exactly had the funds to send anything. I sent out a round of postcards because they're super cheap, but other than that the souvenirs I've been collecting have been taking up space in my room. Since it's now the Christmas season, and I have a job, I finally decided to wrap up all these gifts and send them along to my family.

We draw names in my family, and this year I got my youngest brother, CD. I did a lot of online shopping for him, so for the most part his presents have already arrived. But, I wanted to send him some chocolate and candy from London, stuff he could eat since he recently got braces, and I found this hilarious book at Windsor Castle about proper gentlemen hygiene and fashion that I figured he would also find hilarious. You know, little stuff, a key chain since he just recently passed his road test, little stuff like that.  Since I'm in another country I decided the 'only buy stuff for your person' rule no longer applied to me, and I also got gifts for the rest of my family. My other brother, T, lives in Alberta so I sent his stuff separately, but in the parcel with CD's stuff I also included some presents for my parents and grandmother. A picture of a lighthouse for my dad, a scarf with my mom's family tartan that I found in Wales. Chocolate for both of them. A cat calender for my grandmother who's obsessed with cats. A London hat for my father. Things I thought they might enjoy, things I had chosen carefully with the expectation that one day they would  actually get to see them.

The parcel in question. I like to think its size means
that it takes a special kind of idiot to lose it...

Unfortunately, as of right now, it looks like my family may never see their Christmas gifts. Thanks to the Royal Mail and its special brand of stupidity.

My saga starts on December 6th, when I finally finished wrapping all the gifts, taped up the parcel, and hauled it, my brother T's gifts, and a friend's birthday gift down to the local post office. I seriously don't understand the employees at this post office. I had been there about two weeks earlier sending off another birthday present, so I knew the [annoying] routine. Before they take my money and the parcel they always say, "It's going to be a lot of money." Like, I appreciate the warning, but what do they want me to do at that point? Turn around and walk out all, "Oh, okay, guess I'll teleport it there instead." How else is it going to get there? By the way, it only cost 25 pounds to send A's gift to Canada. I don't really consider that expensive considering I paid for air mail and it got there in a week.

Now, I'm sure you're all wondering how much that big box cost to send. It only weighed 4.5 kg, and it cost 73 pounds to send it using the express option [insurance, 3 day delivery, but if it had arrived in 3 days you wouldn't be reading this rant, and the ability to track it]. You're probably gasping and in the throes of a heart attack at the price, but I really don't think it was that bad. There was, admittedly, a lot of stuff. AND, it cost 25 pounds each to send the other three parcels [T's Christmas gifts and the birthday presents for my birthday twins]. These gifts each weighed 1/9th the amount of the big parcel, they didn't have a tracking option, and they were going to take a week to get to Canada. Sooo, the big parcel was actually cheaper when you factor in insurance, weight, travel time, and the tracking bit.

Would I do it again? Probably not, even before Royal Mail lost the parcel. But it was Christmas, so I'm not going to complain [about that, anyway]. 

Since the parcel left on Monday, I figured it would probably arrive on Friday. Yeah, I was being generous and giving them four days. I started to track the parcel on Wednesday because I'm paranoid and I was worried the parcel would get stuck in customs.

On Wednesday, and on Thursday, the tracking information did not change. It has said, and still says at the time of writing, that the package is 'advised'. What, exactly, does that mean? Unsure, I took to Google, where everyone had a different theory. It could mean that it's stuck in customs, maybe that customs is going to charge my family to have the parcel released. Which is a separate rant, why would you make my family pay for gifts I sent them? It clearly says GIFTS on the custom's declaration. You don't make people pay for gifts. Unless you're customs, I guess. Other people thought it meant that parcel was in a cargo hold somewhere over the ocean, which, it better not be. I seriously worry if the people flying the planes are taking a week to cross the ocean. That takes a serious commitment to being lost. Sure, it could be in a ship somewhere in the Atlantic, but again, it better not be. I paid for air mail!

Deciding that the only way to know for sure would be to go directly to the source, I e-mailed ParcelForce. You can seriously only contact them through e-mail, otherwise I totally would have called since it's way harder to ignore persistent ringing than it is an e-mail. Anyway, they sent back a stock e-mail claiming they'd reply to me within two business days. This was on Thursday.

On Friday, I admit, I got a little impatient. I sent another e-mail where I asked after the parcel's location, and questioned why the tracking information hadn't been updated, and why it was taking longer than three business days for my parcel to get to Canada.

I felt a little bad afterwards because it was a very clipped message and, not rude, but I made it clear that I was annoyed. Then my mother told me that on her end, Canada Post had informed her that parcels are taking longer to get in and out of Canada thanks to some sort of mail bomb or whatever threat. So, then I felt worse because maybe it wasn't Royal Mail's fault!

Annnndddd then ParcelForce responded to my enquiries on Monday [my birthday!]. I won't post the entire e-mail here because it was ridiculously long and I can sum it up in about four lines, max. Basically, they're incredibly sorry that my parcel didn't make it in the promised three days, they understand how annoyed and frustrated I am that it hasn't arrived, but Royal Mail hasn't actually given them my parcel for delivery yet, so they don't know where it is and therefore can't update the tracking information or tell me when it will get to Canada

...

Wait, what?

They don't know where it is.

Honestly, my brain about exploded at that point. HOW DO YOU LOSE A PARCEL THAT BIG? IT IS THE SIZE OF MY TORSO. It's not like it's a postcard and can get slipped in with someone else's mail, or fall out of the bag unnoticed. It's 4.5 kg!

I sent ParcelForce a reply, and I pride myself on being polite. A new maturity that comes with being 23 I guess. I basically asked for clarification on the not knowing where the parcel is bit, and asked for the contact information of someone who can find the thing. So, Royal Mail's contact information, in other words .Because the tracking device on their site takes you back to ParcelForce. Yesterday, I found the Royal Mail tracking information by accident and promptly bookmarked it because I wasn't sure if I could find it again.

Not that it's useful, since it says the same thing as ParcelForce. Advised. Canada Post claims it was mailed in the country of origin, so at least I know it's not still at the post office being used as a foot rest. That's something, I guess.

ParcelForce sent back another stock e-mail, promising to get to my reply within two business days, so I went back to Royal Mail's website and started to look harder for their contact information. However, they've totally taken website design tips from the government because it is impossible to navigate. Eventually, thanks to my amazing ability to navigate stupid, and the sort of blind determination that comes with being angry, I found their customer service page.

And that, my friends and readers, is where my story ends. But why does it end on a cliffhanger, Jade? You might be asking. Because, my friends and readers, every, single time I click their 'Contact Us' link I get the following:

Why yes, it does make me irrationally angry. Thanks for asking.

At the moment I'm stuck in an endless loop, and have been since yesterday. They link me back to customer services, I click the contact us link, and then that stupid little message with its sarcastic "Sorry..." [I've looked at it for so long it's taken on a tone, HELP ME!] mocks me and sends me back to the customer service page.

And there you go. The story up until now of Jade verses Royal Mail. Obviously I'll let you know the conclusion.

I should note at this point that the other two times I used Royal Mail they came through for me. Not one of the six post cards I sent got lost. Even though the first birthday gift was supposed to get there in 5 days, it arrived after 7, which I consider reasonable. I'll let you all know about T's Christmas gift and the other birthday gift...

<3 Jade

Job hunt: Part... III?

So, I've finally got myself a job! Three months later [Okay, actually it was two months and a bit into this trip but I'm just writing about it now, haha]. Oh recession, how I do not love you.

I had to sign confidentiality agreements and everything. So, I'm not allowed to tell you about any famous people I might see along the way, and I'm also not allowed to write a tell all when I leave the company. That's cool, I super have no desire to be famous, or infamous, anyway. I don't think it would hurt to tell you what I do, mostly because I feel like some people reading this started to imagine something really fabulous when  they read the bit about the confidentiality agreement and the reality is much less awesome. What can I say? I like to destroy the myth. 

It's a staffing company for parties and events around London. I go to places and, with loads of other people, set up for dinners, serve food, dessert, and alcohol to the guests, and then at the end of the event I take it all apart again. Yep. That's it. Before I move on to the point of the story, I will say this about the job: Drunk people are awful when you're sober and working. Bartenders and cabbies? I have a new appreciation for you. I really, really do.

Anyway, I've been working for the company for about two weeks now. My start date ended up being delayed because they hired me right before I left for Wales, and then it took forever to find their uniform. Black three quartered length, button up shirts? IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND! So far I've learned two things: 1. I need more supportive shoes, and 2. The people in this country can not give directions. At all. It's like they bred out the ability to sensibly give directions. Actually, this explains a lot about my own ability to tell people how to get from point A to point B.

I sort of had my suspicions because my friend Welshie is terrible at directions. One example that still annoys me when I think about it happened a few weeks back at the Lord Mayer's Show. I ended up trapped across the street from St. Paul's Cathedral. I couldn't cross the street because of the whole parade thing, but that was, apparently, where Welshie was. Welshie decided to sit in a Starbucks and wait for me to get there. I, a new person to London and with no idea where anything is, asked her how to get there. "Oh," she says, "do you see the shopping complex? It's in there." 

Great, you all say, that's easy enough to find! No, I reply while shaking my head sadly, it is not. St. Paul's is surrounded by shopping complexes. I was standing in front of [the wrong] one as I unsuccessfully tried to pry directions out of Welshie.

Welshie then proceeded to tell me to go right. "Right when I'm facing the cathedral, or right when I'm facing the other way?" I asked, as any sensible person would. At this point Welshie got flustered and told me to go right again. I calmly repeated my question, and she told me to go find a police officer and ask him. 

Anyway, it turned out I needed to go left, or what would have been right if I was facing away from the cathedral but I was not because as mentioned to you, and at the time to Welshie, my position was across the street from St. Paul's. Basically, if I had followed her directions I never would have found her. 

The annoying thing is this happens all the time. 

Another example? Of course! The other day I was booked for a job by M Station. The directions told me to turn left after leaving the tube station and I immediately knew I would get lost. Why? Because most tube stations have more than one entrance and the directions never, ever tell you which exit you need to take. Not when you try to use Google directions, not when you use the journey planner on the London Transport page, and definitely not when you're trying to get your staff to an event. Although, I do have to be fair and admit that it isn't the staffing company's fault. They're using the same Google directions and London Transport page that I use. Even though it feels like these programs are deliberately withholding information from me as I wander the streets of London, deep, deep down I know they are not.

So, I arrive at the station and relief floods over me when I realize there is only one proper tube station entrance, the other one is the overground entrance with access to the tube station. Great! I turn left and walk the whole length of the street without spotting the side street I'm supposed to be on. Lost, which is a state I'm in approximately 75% of the time in this city, I call the company, who tell me I should have turned right when I got out of the station. Of course. The directions were actually for the overground entrance across the street.  Even though they said they were from the tube station part. I quickly walked back to the station and made my way to the event, where I commiserated with some Australians who made the same 'mistake'.

Of course, the two previous examples have nothing on my third, and final, example of Londoners giving bad directions. I needed to get to an event by O Station. The directions told me to walk 'down' a street outside the station. If you leave the station you can go left or right, and it is important to note that this street is not on a hill. So, if it's flat, how do you know which way is down? Confused, I called the company for better directions. Where they repeatedly told me I needed to go down. "Okay," I said in my best 'I'm so frustrated by trying really hard to hide it' voice, "is that towards T Street, or towards H Street?" 

"It's down!" The person on the line repeated like a broken record. "You know, towards the river!" Right, cool, except you can't see the river from this station, so I still needed a left or right direction. At one point we were both so frustrated and annoyed that we both turned condescending and the person on the line went, "Okay, I feel like you're getting stressed... Listen very carefully: Gooooo dooooooooooowwwwnnnnnnnn."

... 

...

I honestly felt like forgetting about the job and going home. Why is it so hard to just tell me to go towards T Street, or towards H Street? You can't go down unless you're on a hill, or by a hole! Eventually I just picked a direction at random, found out that the street starts to go downhill once you pass a building or two, and found my way to the event. But still. 

I think the most frustrating thing is that the people here are convinced they give excellent directions. If I ask them to clear it up a bit they act like I'm the moron, when in every example I listed here, just blindly following their directions lead, or would have lead, to me being in the totally wrong spot. I'm not perfect when it comes to giving directions, but I always tell people things like, "Okay, when you stand in front the Well Known Landmark and look at it, you need to go right." It's really simple enough! Perspective means EVERYTHING. If you're looking away from the landmark you need to go left! This isn't hard stuff! 

...Unless you're a Londoner. 

<3 Jade

Ice Skating

So, here's the thing. I've moved into the negotiation stage of culture shock. It's on Wiki if you're not an anthropologist. But basically, I'm miserable and spend a lot of time going, "WHY IS EVERYTHING SO HARD IN THIS COUNTRY? IN CANADA WE..." I sound like Phoebe  from The Magic School Bus, but it's more annoying because I'm not a cartoon character in an ensemble cast. You don't get a break from me so you can be annoyed with Arnold or Dorothy Ann for a bit, you just get ME. 

I can't be the only person who thought they
were going to kill off Arnold in this episode.

Right... Now that I've gotten that off my chest, here's the reason for this post: 

I don't even really like ice skating, but it's so, so Canadian that even me, who's been rivalling Bella Swan for the title of Queen Klutz for years now, can skate with at least a little bit of skill. Literally every town in Nova Scotia has an ice rink. My county is so small we only have three high schools, but we have at least five rinks [that's one for every town, even though four of them are so close to each other they might as well be one mega town].

I had to skate to pass physical education. Anyone who knows me in real life knows that I'm not friends with gym classes. But until grade 11 [when gym was no longer mandatory] I skated at the local rink a couple times a year as part of the gym curriculum. I can only assume the other counties [the education curriculum  in Nova Scotia tends to be pretty uniform] and provinces are the same, which would make skating a BIG THING across the country.

Okay, so everyone knows that figure skates are awful unless you're a figure skater. The picks [the jagged edges along the front of the blade] are supposed to help with turns and stuff, and also with stopping. Unless you're me, then they just cause you to fall on your face with as much grace as a minute old giraffe. I, along with a lot of other girls in my class, skated in hockey skates. No picks, a little thicker so it's harder to kill yourself... They're like the skate equilvalent of flats. Sure, heels can be prettier, but if you're just going to kill yourself why bother? This is important for later, just so you know. 

Anyway, to the point of the story [though there will probably be more dancing around this point because that's just how I roll]. This past weekend, while in Wales, I had the opportunity to go ice skating for the first time in years. At this point, almost three months into my UK stay, I'm so homesick that I would even welcome someone mispronouncing my last name because it would remind me of New Scotland and their inability to pronounce the simplest of English surnames. Of course I say yes. So, off to Winter Wonderland we go. At this point it's freezing cold, which is also just like home. 

So, it's freezing, what does my host wear? A suit jacket, a tiny jean skirt, and tights. TO SKATE. TO SKATE OUTSIDE. TO SKATE OUTSIDE IN FREEZING TEMPERATURES. I knew right away that this wouldn't be like skating with the people from home. Mostly because cold weather doesn't confuse us Canadians. If we go skating in that sort of outfit it's probably because we want to impress a cute boy or girl, or we've got a concussion... And we're probably going to spend all of our time huddled in the penalty box giggling because in this scenario we're in high school. 

Seriously. I did the whole no jacket, no boots thing. IN HIGH SCHOOL. By the time I got to university I had learned to love my fingers and toes and bought proper boots, a nice thick jackets, and once again, mittens were considered cool. Let's be honest, Canadian university students have a lot in common with preschoolers. We wear mittens, we nap at every opportunity, and rubber boots in multicolours paired with sweat pants are the height of fashion at the library. You can't even find mittens in most of the shops here! I actually asked for a pair for my birthday, I am that desperate for a nice, lined pair, for Scotland. 

Okay, so, the 'rink' is outdoors. That's cool. I don't have a lot of experience with outdoor skating. Mostly because of the whole rink in every town thing. They even had a Zamboni at this makeshift Welsh skating rink though it SUCKED. Seriously, that ice was not glistening and the holes were not filled in. It just sort of shuffled the layer of snow from idiots pretending to be hockey players around a bit and called it a day. Seriously, it wasn't even doing it right. Everyone knows that the Zamboni has to cut the ice in half, then it does the outer edge, then it drives over one half, then the other half, then back up the centre and out of the rink.  I try not to watch hockey and even I can give the basic idea, sort of. That might not actually be right, but you get the picture. ANYWAY, the point is this Zamboni was drunk. It zigzagged a bit over the ice and then stumbled back to its sad little corner of grass.

I get my skates. I'm a size three in this country. Actually, I'm a size three at home too. Did you know that women's size 5 and children's size 3 are the same size? Oh yes. They are. For everyone wondering how I found so many pairs of flip flops with superheroes on them, or where I got my weird coloured flats... Wonder no more. The kid's section.

Okay, so the only size threes they had were women's skates. With picks. I was a little worried because I don't think I have dental care in this country, so I'd rather not knock out some teeth on the ice. The skates are awful, bright blue and plastic, and took ages to get on right. They're rusty because they haven't been cleaning them between uses [my skates still had snow on them]. I'm sort of horrified by this point [I also don't have health care here, yet] but decide to try it out anyway. Remember, I'm in the negociation stage here. If it's not exactly like Canada I'm not interested.

Remember the drunk Zamboni? Yeah, the ice had huge chunks out of it that mocked me with their existence. I know how to skate, but the combination of the picks and the crazy uneven ice made it pretty difficult. I actually spent fifteen minutes rotating between tightly gripping the wall, letting go to skate a bit, tripping over a huge gash on the ice, gripping the wall tightly to restore balance, rinse and repeat. I was off balance because of the giant hand bag I carry around. You try carrying around medicine in your pocket... It just makes you look like you've got a penis.

I am, however, very pleased to announce to you all that I did not fall once. After the first, perilous fifteen minutes, I found my ice legs and skated around in circles for fun like all the other people. Of course, it only lasted another fifteen minutes because my host couldn't figure out skating, and was practically frost bitten by then. Who could have predicted that tights aren't that great at keeping your legs warm?

... 

 

That was sarcasm. 

<3 Jade 

Nerd attack!

So, here's the thing. My name is Jade, and I am crazy nerdy. Like, really, really nerdy. Back home in Canada one of my all time favourite ways to pass the time was 'people speculating' with one of my best friends. Seriously. We would spend hours discussing people, their motives for certain actions, why we think they did this or that, what we think they might do in the future based on their past actions. I blame it on the anthropology training I've had because I'm pretty sure that 'normal' people do not spend hours discussing people. 

You can tell I'm a nerd just by looking at my blog. I call myself 'Thalia Rex'. The Mesozoic is the age of the dinosaurs, which is when a T. Rex would have lived, had babies, and eventually been a casualty of the Earth's mid life crisis. Seriously, it went seriously emo there for a bit and started to BLEED LAVA [Haha, a professor used that analogy in my dinosaurs class and I still crack up when I think about it] and then it got hit by meteors and basically it was a bad scene for a couple of million years. How do I know this? Because I'm also an evolution nerd.

Anyway, I thought I'd share some stories that show just how crazy nerdy I am. 

***

So, on Halloween I ended my evening in an empty bar, drowning my scratched up and bruised knee sorrows in mojitos. You know who's a captive audience at an empty bar? The bartender. I spent a good chunk of time giving him history lessons. 'History with Jade' is hilarious because it's a little like how Eddie Izzard tells history, and because I have three stories that I like to tell over and over again. 'The time America tried to invade Canada so we burnt down their president's house and that's why they call it a White House', 'The time Canada decided to revolt and it took place in a  tavern and everyone was drunk' and, 'The time Canada made a hospital room part of the Netherlands so now they send us tulips every year'. I always like to play up the most hilarious aspects of history during my lessons. Like, the only guy who was arrested at the Canadian revolution in Upper Canada was the guy who showed up late because he slept in. The other drunks got away. The guy that set the White House on fire was a Nova Scotian. We swept through and took an awful lot of land before England was all, 'Give that back, seriously. Canada, don't be a jerk.' 

SEE, I'm doing it again. Like, I can not stop myself from spewing out random facts all the time. It's like some sort of tick. That poor bartender. If I were him I would have spit in my drink. 

***

I'm crazy about evolution. I just think it's so much fun. I also quite enjoy reading missed connections on Craig's List or Kijiji or whatever. So, whenever I'm bored in lovely London I read missed connections and platonic friendship ads. I think missed connections are the funniest. Usually it's something like, "I was in the underground. You were wearing a black coat! You had blue eyes! I smiled at you." Right. That could be one of several people. Sometimes they're a little better and the person will be all, "I'll know it's you if you can tell me the logo on your shopping bag!" Hahahaha. I love it! I can't get enough.

Anyway, the other day I stumbled onto a platonic friendship ad that asked if a turtle without a shell is naked or homeless. Okay, so, a turtle without a shell is dead. No, seriously. The scutes, or scales, are its skin, and the shell itself is an extension of the turtle's RIBS and BACKBONES. Now, if I rip out your ribs are you going to continue living? No, of course not. We all know what happened on that episode of True Blood where Russell ripped out the news anchor's spine. [Fun fact: Turtles are also from the Mesozoic, just like dinosaurs! Woo!] 

This is how the turtle sees you.

So, I totally e-mailed the guy and pointed this out to him. Not surprisingly, he didn't e-mail me back. For obvious reasons. I'm a buzzkill, I'm crazy, who responds to a rhetorical question anyway?

***

Another thing that amuses me greatly is Omegle. I have spent hours on that website annoying strangers. My favourite question? 'What came first, the chicken or the egg?'  I also like to annoy the Creationists on that site by just spouting off every evolution fact I can think of before they close the window, but that question is by far my favourite. I seriously hate the philosophical answers that come from chicken verses egg questions and I would actually seriously consider marrying the guy who could answer the question using biology. Basically, the type of egg that chickens lay came first. The hard shelled  [amniotic] egg that protected the embryos from the elements and allowed everything after amphibians to move inland was evolved sometime in the Carboniferous. Aves, or birds, evolved from a theropod lineage. Theropods  [T. Rexes are theropods] first appeared in the Triassic. Several millions of years happened between the two!

***

Yeah, so, there you go. Some examples of just how nerdy I am. Love me anyway? 

(: 

<3 Jade 

P.S. Here's Daniel Radcliffe being nerdy! Love it!

Inappropriate? All the time, baby.

So, here's the thing. I have a knack for saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, laughing, whatever, at the wrong time. It's a gift, or a curse, it depends really. It's hilarious sometimes.

I mean, I have an unlimited number of examples here, so here's one... At the beginning of this year I was 'seeing' this guy. I don't really know if that's the appropriate word for it because it was basically him alternating between being a douchebag and making me feel guilty for thinking he was a douchebag. Anyway, I was dramatic about it, it was hilarious, and it all blew up a mere month later through text messages. Basically, he talked about bleeding for sins and other dramatic crap and accused me of being an alcoholic. I informed him that he wasn't Jesus and then proceeded to prove him wrong about the alcoholic thing by 'celebrating' at a bar with a couple of my nearest and dearest. Clearly it was a very mature... thing... because we both declared we were 'done' in the great tradition of Ron and Sammi from Jersey Shore. Except without the constant getting back together. You know your life is awesome when... Woo!

Anyway, in the early stages, well before it got stressful, I was chilling in his dorm room and he was playing the guitar. I let my mind wander, as you do, and then suddenly cracked myself up. Which was fine, but then I decided to share what made me laugh. Basically, I thought of that Kiss cartoon, or movie, or whatever it was, where they made the Berlin Wall fall with the magical powers of their instruments. These instruments emitted lightening or something. Please tell me that someone else remembers this because everyone thinks I'm crazy. But yeah, it was a hilarious image. Unfortunately, it didn't amuse him, which was probably some sort of sign.

Okay, so what about in London? Oh, it still happens all the time. All. The. Time. Like, this past weekend when I went to the Lord Mayor's Show. My friends and I were hanging out at the start, as you do, looking at the cute coppers, hanging out by the police line, waving to Australia House, etc. In London they block off streets for parades like a machine. Barriers, police tape, patrolling police, the whole nine yards. None of that, "Please don't cross - oh you're crossing anyway, okay, well, next time please don't cross!" stuff you see in Halifax. You were not crossing, and that's final.

This guy? Surprisingly absent.

Except Special Snowflakes don't really think the rules apply to them, so people still demanded to be allowed across and then the police officers, and perhaps Gandalf [occasionally, or not at all since he's imaginary], had to lay down the law. It really wasn't as bad as it sounded. Right up until a few minutes before the floats started to leave, you could cross about 10 metres up the street. Clearly this was too far for one woman because she merely huffed and stayed with us when told she'd have to *gasp* walk to the proper crossing spot. Do these people jay walk? Like, I don't get the problem.

Anyway, things got worse when they closed the barriers and started to inform people that they would have to walk ages along the parade route in order to find a place to cross. The indignant people were piling up!

Now, at the same time, there was a wedding taking place, in the middle of the parade route. Along comes what appears to be a bridesmaid, a flower girl, and several other family and friends, looking to cross so they can make it to the wedding in time. The police let them across the police tape because come on, wedding.

Remember that huffing and puffing lady? Yeah, she flipped her lid. Hilariously flipped her lid. Like, she wasn't making any sense. She calls over a police officer and proceeds to lose her mind.

"YOU SAID NO ONE WAS ALLOWED TO CROSS. HOW COME THEY GET TO CROSS?"

The police officer was like, "Those were my orders ma'am, I don't know why they were allowed to cross but my boss let it happen so..."

Then she goes, "WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET ACROSS? WHY WON'T YOU LET ME CROSS? DO I NEED A SIGN TO CROSS?"

Hahahahahahahaha, what? No one, at any point in this encounter, had a sign. Like, why, of all things, would a sign be the magical key to get across the street? At this point point I lost it and started to giggle hysterically. This did not help the police officer, as the woman was standing right behind me and he had to look at me to talk to her. Eventually he got her calmed down and she stormed off to find a way to cross the street.

Luckily she didn't decide to scream at me because I could not control the laughter.

And there you go. I couldn't have an appropriate reaction to something to save my life.

Oh well.

<3 Jade

P.S. Guys? Gals? Homo Sapiens? Here's the thing... I know someone out there is reading this because in the past couple of weeks I went from one or two page views to... a whole lot. I love you and want you to leave comments if you're so inclined. Please? <3

The Korean Film Festival

So, sometimes I like to joke that my life is a romantic comedy before the cute boy shows up. You know, the part where the heroine is bumbling her way through life, making hilarious gaffs and generally being insane. That is pretty much me in a nutshell, honestly. But don't put me in a nutshell. I'll die.

Anyway, last Friday I went to the centre for a bit. Took in the National Portrait Gallery and decided to go see a film with my friend, Welshie. That's not her real name, just so you know.

CONTINUING ON. We went to see Burke and Hare, which was as hilarious as a movie about two murderers can be. Surprisingly, when Simon Pegg is involved, this is very hilarious. I think my favourite part was the music. I'm honestly [not really] starting to think that Scotland only has two songs. Scotland the Brave, played on pipes, which was used at the beginning of the movie to let the audience know that the film was set in Scotland. And, 500 Miles, that hilarious song about walking 1000 miles to pass out on some poor girl's doorstep. Because nothing says true love like a song about getting drunk and havering [which apparently means 'babble like an idiot' and not 'puke your guts out' like I've been assuming for years] FOR LOVE. This song was played during the end credits. I'm sure it was a joke, and if you've watched the movie you'll get why it's hilariously appropriate but also hilariously tasteless.

I'm a little worried that my New Year's Eve in Edinburgh will just feature these two songs on repeat until it's time for Auld Lang Syne. That's also Scottish, apparently. My knowledge of Scotland is terrible because all I know I learned from this museum in my hometown [THE BIRTHPLACE OF NEW SCOTLAND] and they totally got it twisted and definitely rewrote bits to make the Scots look fantastic and the English even worse than normal. And let's be honest, England doesn't appear all that favourably [unless they're writing it] in history for like 500 years. Colonialism ftl!

Anyway, I do know Scotland has loads of fantastic music. My cousin listens to this stuff that can be best described as 'Cape Breton Alehouse Music' and I at least know I can dance to that! I am totally looking forward to hearing some other awesome Scottish music at New Year's though. Woo!

Okay, so that was a long winded tangent because the reason for this post is what happened after the film was over. Welshie and I got up, walked out of the cinema... and onto a red carpet.

I am not joking. There were people just inside posing on this backdrop thing while some guy snapped their photo. We dashed across that like ninja, and out the doors and BAM, red carpet city.

We had walked into the opening night of the London Korean Film Festival.

At first I thought it was no big thing [you know, like how Dal will have red carpets for costume or theatre events], but there were a couple people there with cameras, and they stopped flashing because, well, it was obvious that we weren't Korean film stars. There were people waiting to walk onto the carpet, and other people milling around. All while I stood there with Welshie paralysed with fear because I clearly wasn't supposed to be there. They had everything blocked off to prevent the cameras from getting too close, so we had to make a mad dash for the only way out: The way people were walking onto the red carpet.

Everyone seemed pretty nice, or at least, no one yelled at us, or looked like they were yelling at us. We had to pass a security guard to leave the carpet, and he didn't spare us much of a glance. He just waved us out. I'm not sure if I came into close contact with any Korean film stars, but I honestly wouldn't be able to tell. I don't know a thing about Korean films or their celebrities.

I did some googling later and found out that the film they were showing that night, at the theatre I was at, was kind of a big deal. The Man From Nowhere is a massive hit in Korea.

Well, I'm glad I got to be a part of it, even if it was to totally mess up their red carpet for a minute or so.

Sorry, Korea!

<3 Jade

Canada Shop

My lovely mother was nice enough to send me a care package that included maple syrup and Halloween treats. But, mailing stuff overseas is crazy expensive. I mean, my family is used to it because my grandparents are still living in la materland, in the very old world country of... England. Haha. But yeah, it's not something I'd expect them to do regularly or anything.

The Halloween treats were because I adore Halloween, and seriously, this country is crap at it. For a tradition that originated on the island next door [or this very island, way too lazy to google that], they're not very good at the commercialized aspect of it. They put all their efforts into Christmas. No, really. Tesco had Christmas decorations and food out before it was November 1st, and they're actually turning on the lights at Regent Street on Tuesday. Before Remembrance Day. Not that this will stop me from going because it's free, but still!

So, what's a girl to do when she doesn't want to burden her family with requests for Canadian food? She goes to the Canada Shop. That's a little bit of a misnomer because it's actually the Canada Aisle in a shop that imports Canadian, Australian, New Zealander, and South African products for ex-pats. I was unlucky enough to go about halfway between shipments, so there wasn't a whole lot. But it was pretty neat. In one corner they had the sort of Canadian junk you'd see in a dollar store before Canada Day. Cheap mini flags, pens, stuffed animals, stickers meant for your car or binder or something. The sort of stuff you know that no Canadians are buying, but you'd clearly be interested in if, say, you're from another country in North America and don't want the French to be jerks to you.

Then there was the aisle, which had the gross maple syrup [the stuff in the glass bottle, you know what I mean] that no one ever buys so of course they have stuff to spare for the Canadians playing at being British. They also had some canned stuff, like that canned poutine gravy stuff, and, I don't know, a bunch of Canadian stuff that I never bought in Canada so I wasn't going to buy it in England. Oh, and Oreos, which you can get in a regular English supermarket so I don't know what the deal was there. They did have Tim Horten's though, but no hot chocolate. So, I put myself down on a list to get a tin of it from the next shipment. Honestly, the golden, hilarious stuff was reading what other people ordered while I wrote down my information.

For those of you with no imagination.
Or, you know, for the Americans that read
this and don't know what I'm talking about.

The number one thing Canadians want from the Canada Shop? If you said maple syrup you're wrong. They definitely do not want it judging by the amount of containers still on the shelf. Oh no, everyone was ordering Kraft Dinner. Awesome!

Honestly, I only went in the first place because I saw on their website that they had Coffee Crisp bars, which I adore! Unfortunately, so does everyone else because the only chocolate bar they had left was Caramilk. Ew, and not at all nut free.

I mostly just wanted a taste of home, and something that lacks the infinitely stupid labelling in this country. Okay, well, not the whole country. Sainsbury's has pretty decent labelling, but Tesco is moronic. They're basically England's Costco. At Costco, they label every, single food thing that goes through their kitchen with a label that's like, "May contain nuts, peanuts, shellfish, whatever else you might be allergic to that's food, sulphites, your first born, my mother, diary". So, even if it's chicken, plain, raw chicken, it's apparently not safe to eat. Good to know. They also use that one label for everything, so if you're looking at a salad that has pecans and cheese in it, the note will still say that only may contain the stuff.

ANYWAY, enough of that little side rant.

Tesco is more hilarious with their labelling. Everything that's the Tesco brand has this label that's like:

THIS PRODUCT: Nut free
INGREDIENTS: Cannot guarantee nut free
FACTORY: Nut free

Uhm, what? If it's just, like, flour and sugar and whatever else you put in a scone why wouldn't it be nut free? Do your suppliers just walk around and slip nuts in things for a laugh?

It's the wording that's crazy. How can a product be simultaneously nut free and not nut free? I mean, I get that they're trying to prevent lawsuits, but the way they do it is just too funny. It also means that I go shop at Sainsbury's because I can't be bothered to deal with a company that slaps such a stupid label on everything in their shop.

Your loss, Tesco! You crazy, Christmas in October company, you!

<3 Jade

Halloween!

So, as all of you should know, Halloween is my favourite holiday of all time. ALL TIME.

It definitely goes back to when I was a little kid and my brother and I would go to my grandparents' house immediately after school every October 31st. There we would have pancakes, or something else that wasn't typically a supper food, and watch Halloween movies until it was finally time to get ready to go trick or treating. My cousin, my brother, and I would all get into our costumes while my grandmother would get into her's. She was always a clown, or a nun, or a witch, but she dressed up every, single year. She loved Halloween that much. We would leave my grandfather in charge of the candy bowl [he had a system that was, 'this candy I don't like for you, two of these candies I do like for me'] and we would go all over their neighbourhood. After exhaustion and sore feet set in, we'd go back to Nana's house and eat as much candy as possible before my parents arrived so we could all watch the fireworks the neighbours always set off. Of course, Grampy always helped us 'sort' the candy, which usually meant taking stuff we didn't like for himself.

I loved it so much that even after I stopped trick or treating I'd still go to my grandparents' and get ready and hang out until it was time to go to a party, or explore the local small pox hospital.

I still love Halloween. That's why I thought I'd be totally disappointed by London. Everyone I talked to said it wasn't a big deal, that no one really celebrated it. It's for kids, you'll never find a costume, you'll never find anything to do.

Pfft.

I wasn't not going to celebrate Halloween. Bonfire Night with its fireworks and creepy burning of Guy Fawkes: The Doll Version wasn't going to cut it. So, I did some searching and found that, yes, there were going to be bars celebrating Halloween. Excellent. Even if it was just me and a bunch of Americans, this was going to happen.

I wanted to go as Velma from Scooby Doo, but clothes in England are insanely expensive. I really didn't think I'd wear a red, £50 mini skirt enough to justify the price tag, so I decided to be a cheater and purchase a costume.

First I had to learn the lingo. For some reason, dressing up in costume is referred to as 'fancy dress'. Costume shops are fancy dress shops. The first couple of google map searches were pretty frustrating because I didn't want fancy dresses, which in my mind were things you'd wear on New Year's Eve. I wanted a costume.

Once I figured it out, I wrote down directions to the easiest one to get to [a tube station with one entrance/exit and a fancy dress shop on the same street as said tube station] I set off to Escapade. I admit, I did leave costume shopping to the last second. Everyone kept saying it wasn't a huge deal, so I left it until October 28th.

The shop had a queue that went down the street and into the road. I am not even joking.

It took 20 minutes to get into the shop.

The shop itself was packed, costumes were everywhere. They had three changing rooms. I grabbed a very inaccurate skeleton costume and got in line. I should have worn leggings and a tank top because then I could have changed in front of the mirror instead of waiting an hour for a changing room.

Escapade's website had a Freddie Mercury costume, but it was expensive so I was sort of relieved when I couldn't find it in the shop. I don't think I would have been able to resist it. I debated on getting a Star Trek costume, or maybe a superhero costume... The male versions. I super wasn't in the mood to be Daughter of Wolverine or Ironette [not even kidding, that was the name of the costume] when I could be the 'real' thing, except with boobs.

I put my male costumes back when I heard the shop employees discussing the sizing. It went by height. Apparently, a large was for someone over six feet. Smalls were in short supply, and the costumes were made so generously there was no way I'd find someone small enough for a five feet, two inches person. Especially at the last second.

But, back to the changing room situation. It was pretty ridiculous. You were allowed to take three costumes in with you. Two girls decided to take their friends into their dressing room so they could try on more costumes. Then, their friends would be their gophers and go grab more. These girls had dozens of costumes in the changing rooms and in the hallway outside. The whole time the changing room attendant sat there with a stunned, or stoned [or both], face on, pretending not to notice what was very clearly going on. After 45 minutes, an Italian guy, tired of waiting, leaned into the changing area and shouted, "Hurry it up bitches, it's a piece of fabric and a zipper. Move it!" Hilarious. The accent said 'Italian', but the phrasing said 'I watch a lot of American television'. He was my new best friend [confirmed when it was finally my turn to try on my costume and he went, 'Good luck, beautiful!'].

Anyway, the skeleton costume lights up. The heart isn't shaped like a real heart, sadly, it's a romantic heart. It's not protected by the chest plate, they made the chest plate smaller and sort moved it between the ribs. Otherwise you wouldn't see it flash. I already broke it once because my boobs attacked the lighting system when I put it on. Luckily, I fixed it. The costume itself makes me look a little pregnant because I needed a small but they didn't have any more.

But none of that matters. Because I have a costume, and tomorrow night is Halloween!

I can't wait.

<3 Jade