G'day cobbers!

Pardon me for having to get something off my chest, but Canadians seem to be the only nation on earth who literally cannot hear the difference between an English person and an Australian one. A day does not go by when I don't get mistaken for an Australian - occasionally a Kiwi but that's usually as a tentative second guess - and I must admit I'm long past being all British and apologetic about it ["I'm so sorry but I'm not, I know we really do sound similar, it's probably because I spent a year in New Zealand blah blah"]. It actually just pisses me off a bit now, though obviously I do still try not to be overly rude to people when they ask (seeing as it's usually when I'm at work). But I mean really? Who do I sound more like: the Queen or Crocodile Dundee?! Every day someone says something like 'Oh I bet you're missing the beaches back home!' To which I'll reply 'Well the beaches in London aren't all that impressive, so no, not particularly.' The other day at work a cocky sort of chap asked me what part of Oz I was from and when I said actually I am English, he said 'Oh. Well, you're close to each other though, aren't you?' A short and somewhat terse geography lesson ensued, in which he seemed totally uninterested.

And I think that's the crux for me. They just don't really care. A large number of North Americans - and yes, I'm lumping the Canadians in with the Americans for a moment - stay in North America, listen to North American music, watch North American telly and films and don't really pay any attention to the outside world. England might as well be next to Australia for all they know or care. And this goes even for the ones who ought to have a bit of a clue - I've had conversations that have started with 'Oh my dad is from England!' and ended with 'I'm not sure where, somewhere near Edinburgh.' It always reminds me of the line in Anchorman where Brian Fantana, while talking about a woman he may or may not have been in love with, claims that she was 'Brazilian, or Chinese, or something weird.'

And something weird is kind of how I feel most days. At work for example, although we all get on very well indeed and have a lot of fun, I'm often the butt of a few gentle jibes about my 'Englishisms'. Usually it's when I use a word or a phrase quite innocently over the radios that causes much hilarity because it's completely unknown here. For example, the other day I described people coming over to the Red Course as coming 'in dribs and drabs' - turns out this is not common parlance over here. When I told another guide that a customer was wearing a 'purple jumper' she looked at me in horror and asked what on earth a 'jumper' was. But the thing is, we've grown up with American telly and films so we already know that they call rubbish 'garbage', a boot a 'trunk', and a bum a 'fanny' (snigger) and so on. We indulge them when they come to England and say 'elevator' or 'flash-light' because we know what they really mean. They, however, may have seen Four Weddings and a Funeral but that hasn't taught them that we call such things a 'lift' and a 'torch' and so it seems to come as a bit of a surprise that we don't use the same words they do. In fact when I told a friend that I was just going to get a torch so we could walk next door, she got all excited that I was going to come back with a huge flaming piece of wood. Bless.

I do not however intend to give up my Englishisms. It is part of my heritage, it's what makes me me, and there's a little piece of me that resents saying I'm going to fill my car up with 'gas', just to make myself understood, because to me it isn't gas (and actually, it isn't a gas at all of course, so they're obviously just being silly). No, I'd rather face the blank looks and find myself having to explain that a saucepan is what we call a pot, and at least I'll be educating people one word at a time.

Lumps and bumps

Before I catch up with everything we've been up to - which is extensive by the way* - I have a small rant I wish to slot in.

I didn't think I'd ever find any living creature I hated as much as mosquitoes. Sadly, I was mistaken. In fact I have even begun to think of mosquitoes fondly. What could possibly have prompted this startling turn around? Sandflies.

They are small - small enough to be difficult to spot and easy to overlook. They bite you by burying their whole head into your skin and you don't even really feel the bite happening at the time, giving you little opportunity to swat them away, and what's more, the bite itself is impossible to spot initially. Only after a good few hours can you see a small pink spot where they got you, but it does not itch at this stage, nor is there any discernible bump. Oh no, it lulls you into a false sense of security; you think you've got away with it and relax, but you would be foolish to do so.

Around 12-24 hours after the bite, the itching begins. It is virtually impossible to ignore and once you start scratching you can find it drives you insane; it's easy to scratch until you bleed...and then keep on going, agony & ecstasy going hand in hand. Scratching of course causes the hive to swell and in some cases, the whole of the bite area too. My friend Simon scratched the ones on his ankles and ended up with ankles the size of elephants. The hive - and the concomitant itch - lasts for ages. And I mean ages. I find with mozzie bites that if I am able to ignore them for a day or two, they will disappear. I have had one or two mozzie bites recently that lay testament to this. However, I still have sandfly bites that are on-going which I got FOUR SODDING WEEKS AGO. Not so itchy, it's true, but still very much visible and irritating. My friend Debbie has scars from sandfly bites received several years ago.

I have now begun to wage a serious war on the little buggers. I had bought some 'natural' insect repellent, which worked okay I suppose, but was a pain to put on. It was an oily spray and, what with the slathering of suntan lotion I need to put on every day to combat the vicious UV rays, I tended to feel like a basted turkey. So now I have bought a special suntan lotion with insect repellent built in for days in the sun, plus a 'tropical strength' spray for evenings or rainy days (when they are out in force).

There are only a couple of good things that could be said about sandflies. They are immensely stupid. They don't seem to target human beings in the way that mozzies do, they seem to just fly around bumping into things and occasionally get lucky by finding something that they can bury their head into. This does make them fairly easy to kill, because they wander about slowly while they work out whether they've struck it lucky, giving you plenty of time to squish them if you happen to spot them. They are attracted by light, so in the evening if you put a lamp on pointing at a wall, you'll find them gathering in the glow and you can kill them in bulk. And they are generally only around during the day, so night time is fairly safe. Still, they're horrible horrible things and I hate them. HATE THEM.

*and therefore the reason I've got so behind in blogging, in addition to the issue of erratic internet access, is that once you've got behind you feel like you can't do anything until you've caught up, but the idea is so overwhelming you don't get round to it. That and the fact that when I DO sit down to blog, Isaac starts jumping around and desperately vying for attention like a small puppy, and I get nothing done. He erroneously claims this is untrue. I think it's sweet.

Burn them!

I thought that it was time that I finally commented on the huge news story of the week. No, not that one about Ben Fogle contracting a flesh-eating bug, though naturally we all wish him a speedy recovery. No, the ol' Brand & Ross scandal. I must say that I was SHOCKED and HORRIFIED that two COMEDIANS known for their NEAR THE KNUCKLE humour made a PRANK call to a fellow CELEBRITY and said something that might be considered in POOR TASTE and felt COMPELLED to write the BBC immediately.

This I did in fact, so I'd like to think that the fact that Jonathan Ross was not sacked was a direct result of my email asking them not to.

Who'd have thought it, eh? Erm...have you ever actually listened to their shows? Well, to be honest, I've never listened to Russell Brand's, because I'm not really a big fan of his, but I know what kind of humour I might be liable to find should I choose to tune in. I am a long-time listener of JR however and have often marvelled at his ability to say some fairly outrageous things and get away with it. But get away with it he does, because there's absolutely no malice behind what he's saying and he's just so cheeky and likeable (well, to those of us who like him I suppose) that you just can't be cross with him. I remember him interviewing Richard Briers a few years back and practically the whole interview consisted of him making lewd comments about Felicity Kendal and telling Richard that he was so old he was probably going to die any moment. You've never heard anyone giggle so much as Richard Briers did that day.

I'll be honest, I've seen the transcript of the calls they made to Andrew Sachs and they were pretty bad - I'm not surprised Andrew Sachs was rather offended - but whoever decides about these things (the producer of the show I presume), thought it was alright to go out on air anyway. Two listeners of the show even complained about it. Both Brand & Ross wrote letters of apology and sent flowers, as they should have, which Andrew accepted graciously, as he should have. But the ridiculous furore that has resulted from the publicity about it all, and the thousands of complaints received from people who almost certainly did not listen to the show and have probably never listened to the show, made my blood boil. The fact that Gordon Brown (you might have heard of him, he's our Prime Minister apparently) waded in was ludicrous. I'm not that bothered about Brand resigning, as I say I'm not a huge fan, but if JR had been sacked I might well have had to go and throw eggs at something.

Someone I used to know just posted a comment on my facebook page in response to my joining a 'Support Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross' group (well, I felt I had to do something) saying 'I rather think those obnoxious, overpaid, opinionated self-publicists can do without my support, ta very much'. Well, firstly, I never asked him to support them. I never expect anyone to support anything I personally believe in - I may feel the need to vote with my feet (with my Nestle boycott and refusal to buy from Esso for example) but I do not judge others for making different choices to me. Secondly, being obnoxious and opinionated self-publicists is what makes these people interesting and entertaining - it's the reason why we want to watch them (would you prefer it if all presenters were more like, say, Michael Parkinsozzzzzzzzzz oops sorry fell asleep just thinking about him there) and that they're paid so much. Over paid? Possibly, if you compare what they earn to a nurse or a teacher or a fireman, but I don't think it's a fair comparison. Compared to a Premiership footballer? Got yourself a bargain. Compared to the CEO of a large company? Probably about the same, but I'd rather watch 'Friday Night with Jonathan Ross' than 'Friday Night with the CEO of Glaxo Smithkline*', and I'm fairly sure I'm not alone. In fact, the viewer figures suggest I'm not.

So let's not have any of this pitchfork brandishing, burning torch waving, angry mob stupidity over two people doing what is, essentially, their job: entertaining the public by being rude about people.

*This might be unfair, he might be hilarious for all I know.

Canada vs. England

Five reasons why Canada is better than England:

1. The scenery - and the weather - is far more dramatic. That's not say that England's rolling greenery isn't lovely, because it is, but you can't beat a huge mountain towering above you, let alone a series of the damn things. With snow. That you can actually ski on.
   
2. The service you get in shops and restaurants is far better than back home. People actually seem to want you to get what you want and be happy. I'm not used to that. I mean, if people just refrain from scowling at you when you are giving them your custom back home you think you've been blessed.
   
3. They have Northern Lights. Aurora Borealis. Okay, I haven't seen them yet, but I live in hope and I bet when I do they'll be bloody brilliant.
4. The supermarkets are huge, and as you may know, I love a huge supermarket. I can spend hours wandering round them looking at a load of old nonsense - thermal underwear, cheap electrical goods, gardening equipment - and not buying a thing.
5. Property is still cheap enough that a young couple can buy a 4 bedroomed, 2 bathroomed, huge basemented 'starter home'. As it should be. I have amazed many a Canadian with tales of how much my tiny 1 bed flat is worth.
   

Five reasons why England is better than Canada:

1. The supermarkets may be huge but most of the food in them is processed and over-packaged rubbish. I feel guilty and wasteful just looking at half of it. And you can't buy loads of stuff you get back home: proper sausages, for example. Or any kind of decent cheese, which is deeply ironic given that back home, I buy Canadian Cheddar because it kicks ass. You can't get oxo cubes. And you can't buy gravy granules unless you go to the British Import Store in the West Edmonton Mall and pay nearly $6 for them...*
2. You have to have a car here to get anywhere. Having spent the best part of a month without one, I know how true that is. When Darrell was here, we tried to take the bus from Leduc, where Megan & Craig live, into the nearest big city, Edmonton. It took us just over an hour to walk to the bus stop, $17 each for a ticket, a 45 min journey time and there was only 1 bus back so if you miss that, or it's at an inconvenient time, you're buggered. If you do try to walk, the place is just not geared up for pedestrians. Often you have to take massive detours just to cross a road, or there's no crossing at all. And of course if you cross where there's no crossing, you're technically committing the crime of jaywalking (but I love being naughty!) And the distances are so big. The Canadians think nothing of driving 2 hours for a quick visit somewhere. You look on a map and think, oh, that's just over there, but then you find out that it's a 12 hour drive! At least England is manageably small.
   
3. You think Starbucks are ubiquitous back home? You should see it here: they're everywhere - and most of them are drive-thrus. I actually thought Megan was joking when she first mentioned a drive-thru Starbucks, but nope. I've had to relax my stance on not buying from them simply because there's little other choice. The other big coffee company here is called Tim Horton's and even though the coffee is fairly mediocre, the queues at the drive-thru (natch) have to be seen to be believed. Megan tells me in all seriousness that they put something addictive in their coffee so people keep coming back; I'm inclined to believe her.
4. There are very few independent restaurants or shops over here, they're all big chains. This means that every time you go to a mall or retail park (because there aren't really 'high streets' to speak of so that's where you go to shop), you get the same few shops over and over. At least you know what you're getting, I suppose (though Vancouver did have some cool independently-owned places to be fair). It's the kooky little restaurants back home more than anything that I miss. Particularly curry houses, because it's not really a big thing over here and so I've not had any since I was home.
5. Telly. Oh how I miss English telly, as I knew I would. They may have a gazillion different channels out here, but they largely show rubbish all day and night. Rubbish, interspersed every 5 minutes by adverts. I tend to look through to try to find English stuff - How to Look Good Naked and Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmare's have kept me almost sane - but it's nearly all American drama/action series, which is not really my cup of tea. Most of them are incomprehensible and/or packed full of clichés. Amusingly though, there's a big glut of English stars out here at the moment, and it never fails to make me smile wryly when I see Michelle Ryan (her off of Eastenders) playing The Bionic Woman with a - it has to be said - flawless American accent. Still, I can't shake off the image of her selling polyester blouses on a market stall, even when she's dropkicking a baddy. So I miss good English comedy and decent documentaries very much indeed. If you do see anything brilliant, please tell me, because there's lots of places online to watch them these days and I can try to track them down...

Oh and a quick mention goes to Greyhound, the bus service out here and the USA, who have screwed me over. I tried to buy my ticket to Banff online and it kept saying that it wouldn't process just now, could I try again later please? Eventually, after trying both my visa & debit cards, I gave up trying and Megan gave me a lift to the bus station to buy my ticket in person. However, the failed web purchases found their way onto my statements anyway, where, to date, they have taken an erroneous $200 from the 2 cards with a further $100 pending. On speaking to a customer service representative in Texas at length about this, after being passed from pillar to post around Canada first of course, I've been told that no, they've not taken any money from me at all. Oh, well, that's alright then. Other than the fact that you actually have. You bastards. Now I have to wait 15 days (for no particular reason) then send them copies of my statements to prove that they've stolen money from me and then they'll review it, and think about whether or not they'll return it, given that they don't believe that they have taken it in the first place because it's not on their system. Well it sure as heckfire is on mine, baby. Meh.

*A special prize goes to anyone who can name the three dishes I've cooked for Megan & Craig - a.k.a. Craigan - recently based on the clues provided. Jen, surely this should be easy for you?

Au reservoir work

Well my last day at work didn't go quite as planned. I haven't finished my (yawn!) audit for starters, because I'm very lazy when it comes to boring data input, but I still need to finish it at some point. I can do the lion's share at home but will have to pop in to the hospital next week to tidy up. On top of this, I have a case conference (social services meeting) to go to on Monday, because it's one of my girls I've spent months working with and fighting for, so I don't want to let her down by not attending just because I've left work!

Today I was asked to meet Debbie at 1.30pm in the community office. This I did and was taken round to my 'surprise' leaving party, which was very nice, and I ate lots of food. Then I had to finish a report for the social services meeting on Monday. It took me ages, because I had a load of research to do for it, then I tried to email it to the social worker, but our email client at work is being migrated this weekend and it wouldn't let me log on. So I thought I'd photocopy a load for Monday instead. Half an hour and SIX jam clearances later, I'd failed to copy even one bloody report. I thought I'd give up and go home, so I went out to my car, only to find the sodding thing wouldn't start. It had done this the other day and I'd taken it to the garage, who said they'd sorted the problem. Obviously not. So I contacted Security and they came out to jump start me, bless their cottons. I noticed my phone had run out of battery and had a barrage of messages when I switched it on. One was from Claire, for whom I'm housesitting at present while she's in Portugal, who'd had a garbled message from her cleaner about something she couldn't understand, so she was panicking. I promised to get home asap to make sure everything was okay (which it is, it's just that the cleaner had shut the door behind her and left some documents in the house by accident). I put my car stereo in to relax me and, lo and behold, the sodding thing wouldn't do a dicky bird. Won't even switch on. No idea why. I have a CD stuck in it too.

Now I've got home I'm pissed off and bloody starving in that order, so I need to find something to eat and then syringe feed the hamster. Don't ask.

Trying not to let the bastards grind me down

Well, this has been a challenging week. Of my current team of four midwives: Debbie is on long-term sick with a dodgy knee, unable to walk without crutches, and is awaiting surgery; Sophie is building up her hours again after being on long-term sick after some heavy duty surgery but is on two weeks annual leave at the moment; Karen only joined up 4 weeks ago but has had 1 week on annual leave and this past week has been on the Trust Induction programme (this is what you do when the infusion pump makes this horrible noise/this is how you give someone a blood transfusion without killing them/this is what you do when you suspect someone is beating their child to a pulp/when someone threatens to kill you this is who you call. All thrilling stuff) so I've been all alone this week. This basically means being on-call 24/7 for all four caseloads.

I spoke to my manager and explained I'd be on my own and asked if I could get some help with the routine daytime work so I could concentrate on on-calls and emergencies. I was told that everyone was too busy so, basically, no. The previous week I had walked in on a member of another team- let's call her 'Rita' - slagging me off for always asking for help*, so my avenues were becoming rather blocked. I managed to rearrange most of my work till the following week and get 2 immovable visits covered, would just have to do the rest when I could.

Then the carnage begun. On Sunday, my car had broken down (overheating) so on the Monday, as well as helping my mum get up to Kings Cross so she could take the train home to Yorkshire, I need to limp it over to the garage to be repaired. As a result, I couldn't do a booking that afternoon and, as no one else would cover it either, poor hopalong Debbie took a taxi in to the hospital to do it for me. I spent the day fielding calls from one of Debbie's women who was in early labour. I returned from Kings Cross to find my car had been issued with a parking ticket, despite being parked perfectly legally**. I was called in later to look after the labouring woman, who had a nice waterbirth at 5am. The birth centre (midwifery-led, low-risk unit) was jammed though and my friend Nia, who was all alone there, had a birth which had a few complications so I was helping out. Labour ward (consultant-led, high risk unit) was also packed and I somehow ended up having a HUGE stand-up in-your-face shouting match with one of the co-ordinators from there, who was unbelievably rude to me and acting like a child. I got a call at 8am from one of my girls to say her waters had broken and I finally left the hospital at about 10.30am to go round and see her. I knew I had to hand my phone to someone as she may well labour during the day but, after catching Rita (who would have been the first choice to call) slagging me off, wanted reassurance from my manager first I was doing the right thing. I called her, only to have her have a go at me, saying that of course my colleague should be covering me, she didn't know why I was calling her, I should be able to deal with this. I cried for about half an hour. I then got a call to say my car was ready to be collected so when I got home I caught a bus which took an hour after going all round the houses and dropped me half an hour's walk from the garage. I got there to find it had cost £150 and I'd been blocked in by a van. I ended up shouting at a perfectly friendly man and crying hysterically all the way home. Finally got to bed at 3pm but woke again 3 hours later.

Got called back in that night to look after the girl whose waters had broken. She was only in very early labour but she had lots of family with her who were being a nightmare and refusing to take her home. I ended up being there with them all night till 9am, before we persuaded them that at 1cm, she really needed to be at home. I then went and found the (very scary) labour ward manager, who had been complaining about me starting this row with the co-ordinator the previous night by throwing my weight around and making demands (completely untrue), so I did my best to calmly sort out the disagreement. Called Rita to take my phone for the day only to be told she'd spoken to our manager the previous evening who had said that of course they shouldn't be covering my work and that if I was off, my phone should be covered by the hospital. This completely contradicted what I'd been told the previous morning and what I'd been shouted at for even questioning. My manager of course hadn't thought to let me know this new piece information however. I left around 10am.

Got woken at 3.3opm by the birth centre saying my woman was back in and they were too busy to take her so could I come in and look after her? Errrmmmm....no actually. I explained that if they couldn't take her, she should go to the labour ward (fate worse than death in my book but I had no option). I then spent the rest of the afternoon worrying about her.

Came back in to labour ward at 10pm to take over. Her care had been somewhat shambolic but I managed to pull this back in order. The whole family were exhausted, having been awake for nigh on 72 hours, even though we'd all made it perfectly clear for the previous couple of days that she wasn't yet in active labour and the best thing they could ALL do was to get some rest, but instead the poor girl had had 4 people standing round staring at her for the whole time. No wonder the labour took so bloody long to establish. It took every ounce of my strength to remain the very epitome of calm and supportive to every last one of them. This notwithstanding, her tired and stressed mother - who kept telling me she'd had 5 children and really should have known better - ended up shouting at me that she "didn't care about the baby!" and I can't tell you how close I came to walking out. I didn't though and, despite the best efforts of the doctors and her family to interfere, she had a nice normal birth at 4am. The mother immediately backtracked and said I'd been "very brave and very patient". Managed to do a quick turnaround with the paperwork and left around 6.30am. Got to bed at 7.15am and then up again at 12pm, racing into London to meet my cousin Camilla who was over from Denmark for a couple of days and was leaving that night so only had that time to catch up. Came back from London to go to the opening night of the new Gourmet Burger Kitchen in Walton, which was guest list only and I practically fell asleep in my (free and delicious) burger. Come 8pm I was supposed to come back on call but realised I was not fit to look after a flea. Called a lovely colleague on the birth centre who agreed to take my phone that evening. Went home and slept - aaaaaaaahhhhhhhzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Next morning I found out that my girl had gone into the high dependency unit over night with breathing difficulties, which turned out to be nothing, but if my phone had been on I'd undoubtedly have been called in. I spend the day running around trying to sort her out and fit in all the visits I hadn't been able to do all week, before heading into London to go to a friend's Hen night at The Sanctuary and FINALLY TURNING MY PHONE OFF FOR THE WEEKEND.

It might amuse you to know that, to add insult to injury, I had just finished writing this when my computer decided, for reasons best known to itself, to delete it all and I had to write it all out again.

Anyway, I can quite honestly say that if I wasn't leaving in August, I'd have handed in my notice this week. It's one thing working hard and feeling tired all the time, but quite another to have to deal with a face-full of abuse from all and sundry at the same time. Sometimes I really hate my job.

*Unsurprisingly, since I've not had a full team of six for a YEAR now and for the past 6 months have been running the team with a maximum of 3 and often only 2 midwives. What does she expect me to do?
**I appealed, supplying lots of photos as support and had an email on Friday saying it had been issued in error and had been cancelled. Finally, some good news.

Tax does, it seems, have to be taxing

A couple of weeks ago I got notification, passed on to me via Tudor, that I needed to complete a tax return. I ignored it, obviously, because I'm PAYE and shouldn't need to complete one, plus they hadn't actually sent me a tax return. Then, a week or so ago, I decided to double check and found out that, low and behold, I do need to return one. As it was only a short time till the deadline, he suggested that I complete it online. So, a week ago I went to do just that but found I had to apply for a PIN code to register, which they had to send me in the post.

Today is 31st Jan. Deadline day and I risk a £100 fine I don't get it in. Didn't receive my PIN yet so couldn't do it online. Instead I had to print it off and complete it by hand, now I have to drive off to hand it in to the nearest tax office, which is Twickenham. There is, of course, industrial action today and I can't get hold of them by phone so I can't confirm with them that a) they're open and b) they can take receipt of my return. Fingers crossed I don't have a wasted (and therefore expensive) journey.

Add that to the fact that it's all bloody maths, which makes me stressed to the gills, and I'm pissed off with the fact that, despite £450 worth of expenses, the calculations say I'm only entitled to a £97 rebate. How the hell can that be right?! Bloody Inland bloody Revenue.