New Bed?

Our house has three bedrooms (with possibilities for a fourth), but not enough bedroom furniture. Our main guest bedroom is downstairs on the main floor, and I've been planning to get a queen-size bed for it. We already have two single beds, which are upstairs in the second guest bedroom. But it would be nice to accommodate visiting couples with a proper bed, instead of those two singles pushed together.

The problem, as always, is a limited budget. I want something decent, but given that the bed will only have occasional use, I don't want to spend very much. So I've been keeping an eye on the want ads for a gently-used bed. And I think I may have found a good one at last.

The mattress and boxspring are five years old and were bought for a spare room. The frame, however, consists of a wrought-iron headboard, footboard and canopy (!). The seller sent me a couple of pictures. This is the standard configuration:

And with canopy attached:

Obviously, this is rather more than we need. But the seller is only asking $350 for the lot, which seems a bit of a bargain to me. I've offered her $300, so we'll see what she says.

Prisoner of Narnia

Via McWetboy came a link yesterday to this splendid essay in the New Yorker about C. S. Lewis. I enjoyed it very much. This part resonated with me especially (emphasis mine):

...[P]oetry and fantasy aren’t stimulants to a deeper spiritual appetite; they are what we have to fill the appetite. The experience of magic conveyed by poetry, landscape, light, and ritual, is . . . an experience of magic conveyed by poetry, landscape, light, and ritual. To hope that the conveyance will turn out to bring another message, beyond itself, is the futile hope of the mystic. Fairy stories are not rich because they are true, and they lose none of their light because someone lit the candle. It is here that the atheist and the believer meet, exactly in the realm of made-up magic. Atheists need ghosts and kings and magical uncles and strange coincidences, living fairies and thriving Lilliputians, just as much as the believers do, to register their understanding that a narrow material world, unlit by imagination, is inadequate to our experience, much less to our hopes.

Secrets and Smoothness

Finding a beauty-related product that actually does what it says on the tin (as they say) is such a rare occurrence these days that when it happens, you feel the need to spread the word.

Yes ladies, I'm talking about the prickly subject of hair removal. (And if this subject constitutes Too Much Information for you, you'd best look away now.)

I've been thinking for quite a while about trying an epilator, as an alternative to waxing. But I didn't know if they were any good, and was put off buying one by both the rather high price, and fears that it would be painful. There's nothing worse than paying a lot of money for something that gets used once before being relegated to a drawer somewhere.

Well, recently I found this one at a bargain price, and decided to give it a go. And lo - it is truly a thing of wonder. Quite easy to use, and far quicker, less painful and less messy than waxing. And so effective. When I read in the instructions that it removed hair as short as 0.02 inches, I scoffed. But it's true! And let me tell you, it's amazing.

I'm totally impressed, and converted. I think I can safely say I will never wax again. YAY!

To the Neptune

Back again to the theatre this evening, for the third show of the season, The God of Hell by Sam Shepard. The Halifax production is the Canadian premiere; interestingly, the play is also having its European premiere this month, at the famed Donmar Warehouse in London.

Good play, but a bit of a head-scratcher. It's a total anti-Republican, Orwellian polemic (see this review in New York magazine for a plot summary), and apparently Shepard rushed it out just before the US election last year. Which shows, given the fact that it's only just over an hour long. There's not much of a narrative - it's more a political statement, chucked out there for the audience to ponder. Still quite worthy, though. And the acting was very good - one of the leads was Mary-Colin Chisholm, from Sydney in Cape Breton, whose work I've always enjoyed.

I'm a Woman of Letters

I know I'm sentimental and a bit of a packrat when it comes to things people have sent me, but sometimes I amaze myself.

I've been setting up a desk for myself in the pantry this afternoon (In fact, I'm typing away on the laptop at said desk right now. And the room gets sunlight! And it's warm!). So I took the opportunity to unpack a couple small boxes of 'desk stuff' that have been languishing upstairs for some time.

Hoo boy. Along with all the stationery-related ephemera, I found stacks of letters. You know, the paper kind that we hand-wrote and popped into the post, back in the days before e-mail. By the time I'd sorted through them all, they littered the floor and I stared at them in amazement. They all date from 1994-96. I had forgotten that I never used to throw out letters - it seemed disrespectful to the friends who wrote them to me (most of whom I still keep in touch with). Plus, as a historian, I've spent ridiculous amounts of time poring over the letters of others, and what seems mundane and trivial to us now could be immensely interesting to someone else in future.

So I'm ashamed to say that my first impulse was to chuck the lot for recycling. But I decided on a reprieve. After all, I've kept them this long. So they've gone back into a little box, to be put away with the rest of the sentimental flotsam and jetsam of my life. They're to be kept, just for the sake of keeping.

George Best

The famed footballer George Best died last night. Normally I don't give a toss about soccer, but Best was both a sporting and a pop culture legend in 1960s Britain. He played for Manchester United at the height of his career, but he was born and raised in Belfast, so Ireland loved him too.

Sadly, like not a few other immensely gifted people, his talents were overshadowed by his personal problems. He was an alcoholic nearly all of his adult life, and he had a controversial liver transplant a couple of years ago - after which he still couldn't stop drinking. And he was pretty unrepentant about his lifestyle. "I spent a lot of money on booze, birds and fast cars," he once remarked. "The rest I just squandered."

Still, people loved him. The blanket press coverage across the pond today is proof of that. Hell, it even made the main page of CNN's US site this morning.

Shopping Insanity

The US papers and websites are full of stories about shopping today. I hadn't realised until after we moved home last year that the day after Thanksgiving in America was such a big deal, when it comes to the sales. All these crazy stories about people getting up at 4 am to go to the mall and get a few bucks off some useless gadget...it's mental. I guess maybe it's similar to the Boxing Day sales here - which I must admit I often attend, but in a very strategic manner (i.e. only when there's a specific item I've had my eye on - I go in as soon as the shops open, grab said item, then get the hell out).

All that said, I'm heading back to Montreal next weekend and hope there will be good sales on, as I need to finish my Christmas shopping and get some new clothes for work.

Madge = Dance Queen

While commuting today, I listened to Madonna's new album, Confessions on a Dance Floor. And bugger me if it isn't completely brilliant. Not a dud track on it - though weirdly enough, 'Hung Up' is maybe the weakest thing on it (why the Abba sample? It may be catchy, but when you're Madonna, why is it even necessary?). Dance music is definitely her forte and this album showcases Madge doing what she does best. Mind you, the lyrics are not amongst her finest - 'I Love New York' is especially cringey ("...I like New York / Other places make me feel like a dork", "If you don't like my attitude, then you can eff off." Erm...OK then, missus). But then, the lyrics are hardly the point. If this record doesn't make you want to move, you probably don't have a pulse.

All that said, if you don't like dance music, you'll loathe it from start to finish. Heh.

New Job Pressures

Much possible employment activity happening at the moment.

I've just come out of an interview for a permanent post in one of the main Faculty offices here at the university. *mops sweaty brow* I think it went very well, but of course you never know. Still, it was good to get to interview stage after so much time applying and getting nowhere. But jeez, if they are thinking of offering me the post...I'd have to tell the bosses about it as Personnel would want to call them for a reference. And given that the bosses don't know I'm applying for other work, this would make for an extremely awkward situation. Gaah.

In related news, one of the other universities here in the city has been jockeying for my teaching services (which is really rather nice, when you think about it). They've asked me to teach a survey course in my field, which is absolutely fine, but they've also asked me to take on another course in early modern British history (1485-1715!). Given that the last time I studied early modern history was when I was an undergraduate, this prospect fills me with terror. I think I'm going to have to turn it down - the amount of work involved in teaching myself the material and writing lectures would be overwhelming. And given that teaching is something I'm supposed to be exploring for 'fun' and mental stimulation, I don't want to get pressured into doing stuff I'm not comfortable with. Even teaching a class in my field of speciality will take a ridiculous amount of my (already limited) free time - the preparation will be staggering.

I must say, it feels very odd to be in a situation where one might turn down work.

Female Chauvinist Pigs - A Review

I finally got hold of a copy of Female Chauvinist Pigs by Ariel Levy, loaned to me by an online friend (thanks Nancy!). And though I have quite a few criticisms of it, I thought it was an entertaining and important read. The central premise of the book is that the current prevalence of ‘raunch’ in our culture (i.e. porn-star memoirs on bestseller lists; stripping classes at gyms; Girls Gone Wild; g-strings marketed to preteens and their mums) is not ‘empowering’ or indicative of the success of the feminist project, but rather serves as proof of how far women still have to go.

I wanted to love this book, and for it to be stronger than it is. Its biggest problem is that it’s very uneven. The strongest chapters are the introductory chapter on ‘Raunch Culture’, the third chapter (which describes the nature of the ‘Female Chauvinist Pig’, who objectifies other women) and the final chapter, ‘Shopping for Sex’, which returns to the carefully-argued ground of the first and third chapters and ties them together neatly.

The second chapter, ‘The Future That Never Happened’, does its best to map the terrain of the women’s liberation movement in the 1960s and 70s, in an effort to show how we got from those heady days of radical activism, to our current quiescent, apolitical and hyper-sexual situation. This chapter only partly succeeds, mainly due to an apparent lack of broad, well-grounded research on Levy’s part. I don’t doubt her argument, and support her attempts to illustrate how far we have fallen away from the woman-centred position of the second-wave feminists, but this chapter would have been so much more convincing if she’d marshalled more evidence and examples. The only contemporary feminist of any prominence she interviewed for the book was Susan Brownmiller. Surely with a little more effort, she could have sampled a wider cross-section of opinion? I’m not a specialist in this area, but I was left wanting much more from this chapter in particular (probably because I was reading it as a historian). The argument was there, but it seemed rather hollow.

The fourth and fifth chapters are the weakest of the bunch, however. Chapter Four, ‘From Womyn to Bois’, attempts to illustrate the ways in which raunch culture has infiltrated the lesbian community, while the fifth chapter, ‘Pigs in Training’, takes the inquiry to teenage girls. The ‘Pigs in Training’ chapter seems to consist mainly of handwringing over the degree to which today’s teenage girls spend most of their time fixated on their physical appearance and how to make boys like them. But there is nothing new about this. While I’d agree that girls are becoming sexualised at a younger age than they were even a decade or two ago, I don’t think a strong enough connection was made with raunch culture generally. As for the ‘Womyn to Bois’ chapter, the example of the ‘bois’ (lesbians who ‘act like men’ in adopting cavalier, love-‘em-and-leave-‘em attitudes in their relationships with other women) also seems a weak basis from which to extrapolate. How widespread is this phenomenon? Has its impact been felt beyond the lesbian enclaves of New York and San Francisco? We never find out. The entire chapter smacks of an ‘add lesbians and stir’ approach.

Despite these serious shortcomings, I do think this book is very valuable. There’s no doubt that it has articulated, in a very clear and accessible way, just how pervasive and disturbing ‘raunch culture’ has become. As a statement of the zeitgeist, it is urgently overdue and therefore is to be welcomed. But Ariel Levy has only outlined the contours of the problem. Her central premise is sound, but I don’t think Levy has the expertise to extend her investigation beyond the limited world she herself has witnessed – as becomes obvious in the very thin chapters about lesbian ‘bois’ and teenage girls. I got the impression that, rather than allowing the evidence she uncovered to shape the argument, she undertook research that would support the point she wanted to make. I guess this isn’t surprising, since she’s a journalist by profession. But of course, I’m interested in a more academic approach.

What we need next are feminist theorists, familiar with the relevant research and with greater knowledge and experience, to pick up this line of inquiry and explore it in much greater depth. As it is, Female Chauvinist Pigs reads less like a coherent thesis, and more like a series of discrete magazine essays (which, in fact, it is – several of the chapters appeared as articles in various papers and magazines, including the LA Times, New York (1, 2) and Slate). But still, at least she’s shed light on the issue, and made me angry about it. And of course, change doesn’t happen until people are sufficiently pissed off. I can’t understand how my contemporaries have allowed themselves to sink so low as to embrace pole-dancing and Playboy, when our mothers’ and grandmothers’ generation worked so hard to bring us the rights we now take for granted. It’s embarrassing, and the fact that so many young women are blind to it is infuriating. As Susan Brownmiller says, in my favourite quote from the book, “’You think you’re being brave, you think you’re being sexy, you think you’re transcending feminism. But that’s bullshit.’”

Wireless, baby...yeah!

While I was away last weekend, A. had fun playing with computer stuff. He installed our new AirPort Express, as well as the wireless network card he bought last week. This means that, in addition to being able to broadcast music from our iTunes library (installed on the computer downstairs) on the living room speakers upstairs, we also now have wireless Internet access throughout the house. Given that he has the use of a nice new military-issue PC laptop for the next few months, this is pretty convenient. I'm hoping to set up my own desk (with said laptop) in the pantry/sewing room this weekend.

Ahhh...peace. ;-)

Harry Potter

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. The new Harry Potter movie doesn't open until tomorrow. But I'm special and got to see it tonight. My sister-in-law's law firm arranged a special advance screening for their staff and clients and rented out a cinema. The management told us the only other cinema screening the film in North America today is somewhere in California. Don't know if that's true or not...but if it is, that's really odd.

(I think I might indulge in a few spoilers here, so if you don't want to know what happens, look away now!)

Anyway. The film is really very good - definitely the best of the series so far. The script is a hell of a lot better than that of the previous three films. It came across as less of a kids' movie, and was considerably darker - in a good way. My favourite bits at this point probably are:

1. visual effects: the Quidditch World Cup stadium, for sheer scale; the medieval grandiosity of the Gryffindor Common Room; the general de-Disneyfication of the sets (the interiors of Hogwarts now look like they've been done up by someone from the BBC costume drama department, rather than by someone in Hollywood with a penchant for Ye Olde this and that);
2. the setting of the South Downs on the Sussex coast (near Brighton, where I used to live) for the World Cup: Harry and the Weasleys materialise on the chalk cliffs with the Seven Sisters towering behind them; later, the lighthouse at Beachy Head comes into view!
3. the fabulously OTT Miranda Richardson as Rita Skeeter, and Brendan Gleeson as Mad-Eye Moody;
4. a fleeting but fun cameo by Jarvis Cocker as the lead singer of the Weird Sisters, the band that plays the Yule Ball. *EDIT - the other guys in the band are from Radiohead, apparently*
5. *EDIT* Teenage girls everywhere will rejoice at the amount of eye candy in this film. There are two especially cute boys filling the gap left by the sadly departed Oliver Wood. Viktor Krum is menacingly 'andsome, but no question that Cedric Diggory takes the cake as the archetypal English Public Schoolboy - floppy posh-lad hair, rosy cheeks, and all:

(Jailbait! Jailbait!)

Of course, the film's not all wonderful. There were a couple of cringey aspects. It did nothing to change my opinion that Daniel Radcliffe and Emma Watson are not very good actors (Rupert Grint continues to be great, though). Also, there was a horrible bit at the beginning when the Irish team flew into the stadium for their World Cup match - fireworks went off which morphed into a leprechaun jigging away to horrible diddly-eye music, and a huge banner reading "Top o' the Morning" was unfurled...eurrgh (Irish people themselves refer to this sort of rubbish as 'Oirish'). And don't get me started on the entrance of the Beauxbatons girls...pah. Tellingly, none of this bad stuff was in the book.

I had fears for this film, but I was pleasantly surprised. Now I need to start worrying about The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe...

Formidable!

So then...Montréal pour le week-end. Brilliant time had by J. and I, as was to be expected.

Arrived around suppertime on Thursday night; J. met me at the airport with hubby K. and baby A. Trooped back to hers and then spent the evening watching the live concert section of the new Duran DVD and inhaling some wine and cheese.

Friday morning we were up early to see K. off to work and A. off to her daycare (Remembrance Day, surprisingly, is not a public holiday in Quebec). Spent the morning having a bit of a laze, watched the song commentaries section of the Duran DVD, then got cleaned up and headed downtown about 11 am, whereupon we hit the shops. I had planned to do a bit of a shopping recce this trip, and not really buy anything (saving that for my return visit in December), but we hit a couple of brilliant sales. What to do? I ended up buying a lovely new coat and a few sweaters, while J. got a coat and a suit. Good stuff.

Later in the afternoon we headed for the hairdresser so J. could get her hair cut. As we had plans for an evening out, I got a blow dry and the stylist gave me some seriously big hair - a bit of a retro Farrah-esque flick, actually (J. said my hair looked like Madonna's in her new video - heh). Bit of a new look for me - felt I was channelling my inner blonde ditz - but it was kind of fun! Hee. Anyway, after that, we headed for the makeup artist's - J.'s treat. Result was a bit of a mixed bag - the foundation the girl used on me was too dark, but she did an outstanding job on my eyes. I kept trying to see what she was doing, but not sure I'll be able to replicate it myself.

All dolled up, we headed back to J.'s place, got dressed, and then K. drove us back into the city as we had reservations at Bu for 8 pm. Bu is really a stylish wine bar with food ('Bu', of course, meaning 'drink' in French), rather than a restaurant that serves wines. But it was really very good. Over the course of the evening, we tried seven different wines - two whites (a riesling and a costières de nîmes), a flight of three pinot noirs, and two dessert wines (a muscat and a tokaij). In between sips, we had crostini, antipasti and chocolate tart to finish. Very nice.

After dinner, we jumped into a cab and headed to Old Montreal, where we hit the Wunderbar at the W Hotel, hoping that we'd find a slightly older and more stylish crowd. By midnight it was pretty packed, but mostly with twentysomethings (who were nonetheless quite à la mode). Ah well...at least the DJ was great, and the bar itself very chic, though the crowd was younger than we'd have liked and rather attitudinous. But we ended up staying till about two, and had quite a good time in the end.

The saintly K. was up early with the baby the next morning while we had a much-needed lie-in. Around lunchtime, we jumped into the car and headed downtown for round two of serious shopping and strolling. That night, we had reservations at Le Club Chasse et Pêche, one of the smartest new restos in town (coincidentally, I discovered during my flight home that it's been deemed one of the 10 best new restaurants in the country this year - la-di-dah!).

It was a bit of a gastronomic tour de force. We sipped cocktails whilst considering the menu and debating what wines to order (eventually, after consultation with the waiter, we settled on an extremely good bottle of Piedmontese chardonnay, La Spinetta 'Lidia'). I had butternut squash ravioli and suckling pig risotto with foie gras, while J. had the lobster, white truffle and Kobe beef starter, followed by a main course of American snapper. We both partook of the cheese board before moving on to glasses of muscat and dessert - nougat ice cream with crystallised fruit for me, and baklava with honey ice cream for J. Amazing meal. J. quite pickled by the end of it, and for second night in a row. Shocking. ;-)

By Sunday morning we were all feeling kinda wiped. What lightweights we are these days. It was a beautiful morning so we took little Miss A. to the playground and the nearby park for a walk. Then we had lunch and crashed for a bit (A. and K. both disappeared for mid-afternoon naps), while watching the remaining bits of the Duran DVD. And then it was time for me to head to the airport.

Great weekend. And the best part is that I'll be back there again in less than three weeks, cos J. and I are going to see Depeche Mode and the Bravery at the Bell Centre on 4 December. SWEET!

Remembrance Day

In Flanders Fields (1915)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

- John McRae

In Flanders Fields first appeared in Punch magazine on 8 December 1915. John McRae, a Canadian doctor, was brought up in Guelph, Ontario. He served in the Canadian contingent in the South African Boer War in 1900 and he volunteered to serve with the Canadian forces in France in 1914. He saw extensive service in dressing stations and hospitals in France and Flanders. Exhausted by his work and the stresses of war, Lt Colonel McRae died of pneumonia and meningitis on 28 January 1918, aged 45. He is buried at Wimereux Cemetery near Boulogne.

Aftermath (1920)

Have you forgotten yet?...

For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,

Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:

And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow

Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,

Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.

But the past is just the same -- and War's a bloody game...

Have you forgotten yet?...

Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.

Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz --

The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?

Do you remember the rats; and the stench

Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench --

And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?

Do you ever stop and ask, 'Is it all going to happen again?'

Do you remember that hour of din before the attack --

And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then

As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?

Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back

With dying eyes and lolling heads -- those ashen-grey

Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?

Have you forgotten yet?...

Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget.

- Siegfried Sassoon

Off to Montreal

I've been getting packed and ready this evening as I'm away to Quebec tomorrow, for a joint-birthday weekend with Jana (it's her birthday on Friday). Should be much fun.

I'm leaving after work tomorrow and we're planning to spend the evening curled up with the new Duran Duran Live From London DVD, and a bouteille or two. Friday night J. wants to hit this wine bar, and Saturday we've got posh dins booked at a swank resto called Club Chasse et Pêche (i.e. The Huntin' n' Fishin' Club). Sunday we'll probably head for the Musée des Beaux-Arts, as they have an exhibition of paintings from Provence at the moment - quite looking forward to a little wistful reminiscing about last year's holiday.

I shall doubtless report back on my return!

Happy Birfday to Meeee

Yep, I'm 33 today. Not sure how in the hell that happened. ;-) Especially as the last birthday I remember being excited about (in a "Wow, I'm XX years old today! Kewl!" way) was my 24th.

Like every working stiff, I'm in the office today, but at least it's a beautiful day outside. Opened some cards and presents at breakfast this morning and have been sent some nice e-mail messages. It's all good. :-)

I discovered that some cool things happened on this day in history. For instance, the Louvre opened as a museum on this day in 1793. Also, Sarah Bernhardt made her debut on the New York stage this day in 1880. Furthermore, this is the 82nd anniversary of Hitler's launching of the Beer Hall Putsch - which is most definitely not a cool event, but it has one of the silliest names ever. So it's good for a birthday snicker.

**ADDENDUM, 9.00 PM**
Just in from dinner at the bistro in the Hydrostone Market. Quite a nice little restaurant - would definitely go back. I had crab cakes and veal and two glasses of red wine and coffee with a big lump of chocolatey goodness (properly called Dark and White Chocolate Cheesecake, I believe) to finish ... mmmmmm! *pats grotesquely-distended stomach contentedly*

My birthday present from A. turned out to be a Griffin iTrip - yay! For those not in the know, the iTrip is a little FM transmitter gizmo that allows you to use your iPod in a car and broadcast through the car stereo. As he ordered it from Apple, he also took the opportunity to finally get us an AirPort card and base station (double yay!), which he's been tinkering with all evening. Not only will this allow us to broadcast music in various places through the house via the computer in the basement, but it will also facilitate the setup of a wireless Internet network. So soon, I'll be able to set up one of our laptops upstairs for my own use - which should cut down on battling with A. for keyboard time on the main computer. Good stuff all around.

Busy Weekend

Quite a bit of activity this weekend. I've just come in from having brunch with a group of friends, one of whom is in town from Newfoundland at the moment. We went to the Victory Arms down at the Lord Nelson, and it was Eggs Benedict and mimosas all round. :-)

Friday night, I decided I needed to get a jump on my Christmas shopping and so dragged A. to the big Christmas craft and antique show over at the Forum. The stuff on offer was about eighty percent twee rubbish, as usual, but actually we did find quite a few presents for people on our collective lists. The 'antique' stalls were mostly old tat from the Fifties onwards, but I did get a bit of a bargain on a cache of lovely vintage costume jewellery. Also (because one must always buy presents for oneself at these things) I found a pile of old postcards. I winkled out the oldest ones (a half-dozen dated from 1910 to 1921), which I got for $2.50 apiece. Some of them are quite sweet, and I'll try to scan and post a few later. I've got a little collection of old postcards now, which I really must figure out how to display nicely.

Then last night, A. and I went to a play at the Neptune. We actually have season tickets this year, and this was our second show. The play was Frozen by Bryony Lavery; it was very dark (the main character was a pedophile serial killer), but very well-written and acted. Not a fun thing to watch by any means, but very worthy. I'm quite looking forward to the rest of the plays this season. Neptune always does a very good job of mixing well-known plays with the not so well-known, comedies and dramas, and a few brand-new and/or local things as well. For a small city like Halifax, it really is a remarkably good little theatre.

Bonfire Night

Remember, remember, the Fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
For I see no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.









This is Bonfire Night (Guy Fawkes) in the UK - though I imagine there will probably be a few fires even around the Maritimes tonight. When I lived in Brighton, I went once to the bonfire celebrations in the nearby county town of Lewes, which are probably the most famous in England. It was something I will never forget - the press of the crowds, the noise, the darkness, and all that fire. Very primeval.

Of course, the other thing I won't forget is the strident anti-Catholic theme of most of the traditional bonfire processions. In Lewes, I was astonished to see a huge banner strung up above the High Street which read 'No Popery'. Then there are the other, politically incorrect, verses of the Bonfire Prayer above, which include:

A penny loaf to feed the Pope
A farthing o'cheese to choke him
A pint of beer to rinse it down
A faggot of sticks to burn him.

Burn him in a tub of tar
Burn him like a blazing star
Burn his body from his head
Then we'll say old Pope is dead!

Not that the Catholic Church needs me coming to its defence, mind. I'm just pointing it out, as a bizarre historical anachronism.

Autumn Leaves

Wow. What a difference twelve days makes at this time of year. On 22 October, I posted this pic of the maple tree on our front lawn:

And this was the scene this morning:


A. will doubtless have lots of fun with his new leaf blowing/sucking/mulching machine this weekend, I think!

Such a beautiful morning here, so I took a few pics outside before going to work and posted them over at Flickr.

Kate, Dear Kate...How I Have Missed You

I've always adored Kate Bush. Her new album Aerial (her first for 12 years) is out next week. But most of it can be streamed at the moment from nme.com, so I've been listening to it today. It's a delight. Much of it is just Kate playing piano and the sound of her beautiful, dreamy, ethereal voice.

There's a few rather wacky touches, as are to be expected from Kate. 'Prelude', the first track on the second CD of Aerial, features what sounds like a child's voiceover and the coo of mourning doves (the speakers on my office computer aren't the greatest, so it's hard to be sure). Actually, there seems to be rather a lot of birdsong. But for sheer weirdness, however, nothing could ever beat the Bulgarian choristers she had singing backup on most of The Sensual World. Aerial is considerably less odd, but no less enjoyable.