Hogmanay: Part 3!

Look, I've been totally honest with this blog thing. I'm crazy homesick, and sometimes [a lot of time] it makes me sort of awful. You've read it, the bitching and whining and everything else that makes this thing a lot less funny than I'd like it to be. Christmas sucked, it really did. I have been looking forward to Hogmanay for months now. It's been like this lighthouse, and I'm the icebreaker getting steadily closer and it's getting brighter and I know that everything's going to be okay if I can just make it to Hogmanay. It's an awful lot of pressure to put on a trip, it really is. I don't know what would have happened had it not lived up to the hype. Would I have packed it in to go home? Probably not. But I would have been even more miserable than I was before I left, which was pretty miserable. Anyway, enough about that. Here's day 3.

DECEMBER 31

And here it is, the day and night I've been waiting for. I awakened to the dulcet tones of birds singing and woodland creatures making me breakfast... Wait, slipped into a Snow White fantasy there. I actually woke up to the sounds of the crazy old man in my room JUMPING OUT OF THE TOP BUNK. Why? I do not know because I am neither a mind reader nor a crazy. I got up because I needed to finish charging my phone and camera, anyway. Luckily, the people with the cocaine were gone, sleeping, whatever.

The poor girl under me had sounded seriously ill all night. I don't know, if you've had significant lung infection experience you just know it in other people. She coughed all night, and she couldn't stop herself once she started. She must have rolled over onto her back at some point because she started the death rattle breathing that is usually the point I need to go to the hospital and get some antibiotics and a nebulizer treatment. 

Clearly this child's parents
didn't put Babar on for him.

She was a trooper though. When I came back from charging up my electronics both girls were up and furious. Apparently Mr. Crazy had been equally loud getting into bed last night [though they hadn't heard me at all, so point for the ungraceful elephant that is me!], and they couldn't understand why he jumped out of bed this morning. Once again the room was freezing, and they couldn't imagine staying another night, especially with the one girl and her dying lungs. I was extremely sad to lose them as roommates because they seemed so nice. They even offered to take me with them! But, it was the 31st and I had an Australian new year to get to! Plus, they wouldn't refund my money and I couldn't justify paying double for accommodations.

My second shower was better, someone was nice enough to explain the showers to me. The first one was cold, the second one was dirty, the third and fourth showers had ledges and hot water. So, there was a line up. Then I had to wait for them to re-program my card, which ended up not happening because they hadn't turned on the machine [seriously, so frustrating. If you know you'll have to re-program the cards every day at 10 HAVE THE MACHINES TURNED ON BY 10].

Theeeeeen I got lost looking for the pub with the cheap drinks for anyone on Haggis Adventures, and anyone pretending to be on Haggis Adventures. We had taken a roundabout route to get there the night before. Since asking a random on the street had worked so well before when that random was A, we asked another random for directions and found the only socialist/Marxist/whatever in Edinburgh, pretty sure. He kept going on and on about how if the Queen died and the monarchy with her he'd do a jig [I kind of think happily wishing death on people that aren't Hitler or otherwise terrible human beings that terrorize people on a regular basis is kind of... awful. She has a family that loves her!], then he kept talking about all his socialist ideals and explaining the Scottish socialist party to us. He was nice enough to take us where we needed to go, even if it was a crazy route, but I definitely could have done without learning how he thought the government should give everyone a house. He held us up by this puppy statue for so long L pretended to get a phone call so we could leave. She was very convincing! I was sure she had actually received the call, haha. Okay, yeah, the point. I got lost on the way home, too, so needless to say I had no idea how to find the pub and got lost, and there you go.

Long story short, I missed Australian new year. I did get a lovely lunch though. And a nap while we waited for Hogmanay to start. Unfortunately it wasn't a nice nap because the two guys that replaced the girls moved in right in the middle of it, and Mr. Crazy came in at some point to act a bit creepy and loud.

I think if you've been to a street party, you've been to Hogmanay. Except Hogmanay was probably way larger, and definitely had a much more international feel. There were people from everywhere. It was really neat. Basically, we walked around as a group, drinking our copious amounts of alcohol out of our plastic bottles, chatting to people, going on the carnival rides. We did spend an awful lot of time split up because the bathroom lines were horrendous, but luckily we were all together for the count down and Auld Lang Syne.

Things got briefly annoying when I really had to pee and one of the girls, who was seriously making out with a different person every time I looked at her [which is not something I have a problem with, so trust that comment was made out of jealousy], just would not stop sucking face long enough for us to migrate to a bathroom. I ended up going alone, where I may or may not have drunkenly called at a door, "IT'S JUST PEEING, DO IT FASTER!" But seriously, in 10 minutes, TWO people went in and out. TWO. That's just unhealthy. It took so long for me to get a bathroom that everyone started worrying because a couple others had been in gone in the time it took me to get a stall. Ugh.

Then things got scary when we went to find a club and got held up by a street fight. Two girls were fighting for some reason, one started to hit cars with her boots and then all of a sudden the guys that owned the cars were out and stomping on the boyfriend's head. It was awful and unlike anything I've seen before. Ever. For me, head stomping is something that happens in American movies I don't watch because HEAD STOMPING IS AWFUL. One especially evil individual walked over, pretended he was going to help, stomped on the guys head, walked around around the car, and STOMPED ON HIS HEAD AGAIN! ON WHAT PLANET IS THAT EVEN AN ACCEPTABLE REACTION TO *ANYTHING*? The cops showed up, no ambulance. In Canada if the police show up, so do the fire department and emergency health services. That's just how it goes. Not in the UK, apparently. We walked off to look for the girl on a mission to make out with every boy in Scotland, and when we came back [because it all happened on the street the club was on], he was lying on the side of the road, with the cops, still no ambulance, and they weren't interested in a statement at all. Ridiculous. So, uhm, if you call 999 or whatever in the UK, don't expect someone to come and assess your brain damage quickly or anything. Terrifying. 

The night didn't end there, I stayed out to celebrate Canada's new year. I tried to wait until 4 but I got crazy impatient and celebrated Newfoundland's at 3:30. (: I stumbled home by 5, with plans to go to Loony Dook [Scotland's version of the Polar Bear Dip] the next day. 

Anddd that was my new year. It was fun for the most part, a little scary, but that's how it goes I guess...


<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 

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

Flat hunting is...

Frustrating? Nearly impossible? Ridiculous?

...All of the above.

I really didn't know what I was getting into when I moved here. The UK is deep in a recession. It was hit way harder than Canada, and basically every day, all day the news talks about three things:

1. The war in Afghanistan
2. How awful the stocks are doing
3. The zillion pending government cuts

This affects every aspect of everything. Jobs are impossible to find, and this in turn makes apartments hard to find. Rent has increased in what is probably an attempt to make up for lost income, though rent is always high in cities, especially one as large as London. Most ads on Gumtree [the UK version of Kijiji] specify that one must be a working professional or a student to even be considered for rooms. And these rooms are not even that great, honestly. But whatever. Your classism is showing, London.

If you weed out the places that are too expensive, want you to be a professional, want you to be Christian, want you to be gay [not gay friendly, actually gay], and finally the people that want their home to be 'meat free zones' [because having to see meat gives vegetarians and vegans seizures, didn't you know?] you're left with... not a lot.

Then you have to do further weeding out. You want to live within walking distance to an underground station. At least, I do. Why? Well, for loads of reasons. Trains on the underground leave every 3 to 6 minutes. Overground trains might leave two to three times an hour, during peak times. Buses insist they leave every 5 to 10 minutes during peak times, but they're lying. London doesn't have power lines above ground, they're under the concrete. This means that somewhere in London there is a road being dug up at all times. To add to that, the population of London is bigger than all of Nova Scotia combined. So, that's Nova Scotia shoved into a small county. These things contribute to congested roads where it takes over an hour to drive the distance between Pictou and New Glasgow. Basically, buses suck, and trains are a disaster to try to plan around. Trains can add up to an hour to your travel time if you're unlucky enough to miss one, or if you have to leave early because it's either that or catching the train that will make you late.

Seriously, every, other mode of transportation sucks so much that when the underground goes on strike people just take a sick day.

Anyway, I followed the housing market on Gumtree all summer. Then, two weeks into my stay I decided it was time to spread my wings and leave my cousin's home. So, I made an ad. It said I was new to the country, wanted to live with people around my age, maybe people who were also travellers. I said I didn't want to have to share a room, and that I wanted to live somewhere relatively clean.

I also included a picture because that's what everyone else was doing, and really, pictures help. I don't even open ads that don't have a photo of the room, so I figure most people are probably with me on this one. Naturally, I picked some nicer pictures because no one wants to look crazy and 'crazy' describes ninety per cent of my Facebook photos.

This photo says, "I am only slightly crazy and I love elephants!"

This photo says, "You probably shouldn't leave me unattended in your house."

Unfortunately, a side effect of 'not crazy' photos is every bored moron feels they can hit on you through Gumtree. ...Because clearly the quickest way to my heart is to flood my e-mail with requests to be my boyfriend when all I really want is a flat. Watch me swoon RIGHT NOW.

It's sad because these guys are clearly delusional and probably don't even get that they're creepy as hell. I didn't bother to respond to any of them because I didn't want these sketchbags to have my e-mail address, but if I had of it would have been something along the lines of, "Where do you get off using my housing ad to hit on me? It's creepy and gross and totally unacceptable." I'm fairly certain these creeps would have been shocked! "What do you mean it makes me look like I was raised by Joe Francis? You're just an ungrateful bitch!"


...Right.

Anyway, here comes the parade of loser.

My very first response:

are you looking for a boyfriend by any chance?

No. No I am not.

My second response:

Hi, im 28 years old and verey friendly man and i live in a one cozy beroom flat on my own and just need some one like you in my flat because its boring to be alone meybe your the same, if you interesed you can email me then i dont care about any bills from you i can offer you a free living and cool life.
Thanks,
NAME REMOVED

Uh, what? I clearly said I didn't want to share a room, so nice reading comprehension. Also, ew. I have a sneaking suspicion that 'cool life' is very literal. As in, "It's awfully cool in this basement you have me chained up in."

At this point I actually changed the photos, hoping the creepy responses would stop. There was another guy who wanted to look at flats with me, promising to "make our house a home." The rest were alright. Then there was the guy that turned creepy as we e-mailed back and forth.

He originally e-mailed me with a description of his flat and some photos that made it seem really nice. So, I e-mailed back and told him that I’d love to take a look and meet the people.

He responded with:

hi, i have ogt a room for a week only. and its £80. u think it sounds suitable?

bye

Uh, no. Not suitable. It said in my ad that I was looking for something long term. I e-mailed him back and told him exactly that.

His response said:

u can hav it for longterm


only if yur hot lololol

I didn’t even bother to reply because clearly it was just another sketchbag.


Anyway, this rather long story has a happy ending. After a couple of failed responses, failing to get one of the rooms I looked at [because competition here is huge, tons of people look at every room no matter how crap it is], I finally found a place to live! I’m going to move in next Friday, which gives me just enough time to go to IKEA [SQUEE!] and pick up some things I need!

<3 Jade

"Part conversation... part puzzle."

So, I was watching The Comedy Roadshow about a week ago and as soon as this guy walked on stage I just knew he was a Canadian. Sure enough, I was right. Most of what he says about the UK is true, and what he says about Canada, well... I guess some of it is true. But the UK stuff is the best according to this Canadian. :)

Also, the comedian who went after him had a Glasgow accent. Here you go:

Everyone here keeps telling me I look really young by UK standards. Just for example, Kevin Bridges is 23. I am almost 23. I look like jailbait next to these people.

<3 Jade