Not that anyone will have noticed, but..

Life has been rather busy and self absorbed here at Maison Sticker. Mrs S, as I may have mentioned, has been quite poorly and as a result I've been doing my best blue arsed fly impersonation. Ergo, the blog has taken about fifth place in my list of priorities. It's been;

William this, and William that, and William where's my book?
And can you help me shower dear, if you promise not to look.

With many and deep apologies to this little ballad from Rudyard Kipling.

Those who have to care for an indisposed loved one will understand what I mean. I'm also on the home stretch of a Novel project, which should be finished in two weeks. Followed by attempts to sell same. Providing of course that I'm not still full time Nurse, Taxi Driver, Cook, Home Help, Personal Shopper and Majordomo as well as shift work.

The good news is that my better half is well on the mend and will be fully independent in another three to four weeks. Will catch up on comments and seismic stuff as domestic disruptions return to their normal level. Although I did pick up on this item on the Russian news service. The original vid is in Russian, but there is translation and a transcript.An interesting eight minutes and forty seconds. The Russians have an experimental Seismic Prediction system? Who knew?

Dessert is on me

It's been one of those days. Slept badly last night. Mrs S's illness has meant I'm holding down a new shift job, acting as her chief carer, and losing much sleep in the process.

Our landlord, who is pure diamond, pokes his nose around the door to keep an eye on her when I'm working, and Mrs S has me on speed dial in case of serious problems. However, this has led to a few catering issues. The irregular hours I'm now working mean I'm not home on time to cook and clean up. However, I do try, and in the spirit of the new diet my wife wants to go on, I've been trying out new recipes. One of which is Coconut milk ice cream. You can see where this is going already can't you?

I got back from work later than normal, having done the shopping and loaded up on goodies to cheer her up. I got the mixture into the freezer, and as we don't have an ice cream maker, got into a routine of whisking every ten minutes while cooking the evenings repast.buy

All went well, the ice cream began to solidify, and I seemed to be heading in the right culinary direction when tiredness caught up with me. I didn't mean to, but fumbled the dish in mid stir, the dish dropped vertically onto the floor, base first, the impact splashing big splodges of melting coconut milk and honey mixture liberally all over me, the kitchen floor and the dog, who ran for cover. I swore loudly. Thinking Mrs S had fallen, Landlord came running to help, but I managed to keep everyone out of the newly blodged kitchen before we all went for an impromptu skating session.

Fortunately only a third of the mixture was spilled, and I was able to complete the batch without contamination of the remainder. As far as Coconut ice cream is concerned; next time I'm going to buy the bloody stuff. Although having said that, I'm not so sure anyone makes Honey and Peanut Butter flavour Coconut ice cream outside of Thailand.

Lurgi

No wonder I've been feeling out of sorts for the past couple of days. My recent mild sense of disconnectedness and distraction has morphed into a nose that was not so much running as speeding, sore throat, mild fever, and general feeling of malaise, as in run down - by a truck. One of the many seasonal lurgi has come to call. Nothing major, just enough to put me off my game for a while. The fever broke about half an hour ago, potions have been employed, and full health is but hours away.

Although you wouldn't have thought I was poorly at work today, hands and body just got on with things whilst Mr Brain took a day off. Fortunately most of todays tasks did not require any high level cogitation, or dealing with less than forgiving mortal mouths, and I could just wing it in comfort.

Passed an exam with flying colours yesterday, despite feeling slightly crook. Probably got a higher mark because I went through the whole thing twice, just to be certain. Still kicking myself over two silly mistakes, but when it comes to real life, I don't miss much so I'm not really fussed. Another piece of paper, and something I can use as leverage for a rise. It's all good. I've got another test on Friday, not such a hard one, but still tough enough to keep me on my toes. A quick skim through the text book at bedtime tonight should be sufficient to load the neurons with the necessary patterns to recognise. The rest, as they say, will be in the lap of the examiners.

Can't be arsed with all the idiocy in the news. I'm sure theres a lot of stuff flung out into the public domain just to see who bites, and at the moment I'm simply not that interested. Got told I was 'another weirdo' who didn't watch TV, by guess who, another self confessed non-TV watcher. Although I think he was kidding me, but I was too foggy headed to care.

Still tripping over boxes of 'what the hell did we ship this for'? My mother has for some reason packed two of my Dad's old golfing trophies. Maybe it's a hint, although I still share Sam Clemens opinion that Golf is a waste of a good walk. Whenever asked by a golfing friend what my handicap is, I always answer truthfully "My Swing." Well, you're good at what you do well, and golf will have to remain one of those things I don't do well. Many small white balls may have reason to be truly thankful for this small mercy.

Tried out my small hunting bow, only to have the old bowstring go 'kerchiong' on me at full draw sending the bow leaping out of my hand to bounce off the wall nearly twenty feet away. Well, it had been in store for the past four years, I suppose the damp must have got at the Dacron bindings. Mrs S gave a shout (God alone knows why, she was in the next room), and I retrieved my 45lb draw toy with a slight expression of embarrassment. I suppose the local Deer will be safe until I get a new bowstring made and shot in properly. That will have to wait for the weekend.

Time for bed.

Rust in peace

All good things come to an end, and it is my sad duty to announce the demise of our venerable, spacious (we used it as a camper van on the Trans-Canada) old battlebus. Bought at a knock down price back in 2007, we got over three years almost trouble free use from it (Apart from an almost inaccessible seal blowing on a transmission pump and a brake service). I will miss it. It served us well.

The battlebus has in our ownership crossed Canada coast to coast, from Tofino on the west side of Vancouver Island, to the easternmost tip of the Cape Breton trail, Nova Scotia and the misty hills of Price Edward Island. We have crossed vast prairies asking deep and reaching questions like; "When's the next bend?" or "Is that a hill over there?" and rarely; "Hey! Isn't that a tree?" Listened to songs about the majesty of Northern Ontario's forests that weren't by Gordon Lightfoot. Had to retune the radio four times a day because we kept on passing out of the transmitter footprint (No Sirius). If you think it's too far to walk down to the shops for a cold one, then Canada isn't for you. Vast is almost an understatement, yet our vehicle took it all in it's ageing stride.

However, Mrs S and I, after much headbanging deliberation, have purchased a more fuel efficient SUV with all season tyres, satnav and all the trimmings. Not only that, but it's a blast to drive, and nimbler than a mountain goat on amphetamines. The frustrated banging of heads has stopped, only to be replaced with a dash out of the front door to be first into the driving seat, a practice at which Mrs S becomes ever more Machiavellian. "Oo, I've forgotten my keys, lock the front door love." She says, and yours truly ends up in the passenger seat yet again. Hmmmm.

If anyone is interested, we've christened the new vehicle 'Thumper'. Why? Because it reminds me of this Disney Character.

Bifstoo!

While more climate change shenanigans are revealed in the latest Wikileaks scandal, covered here, I've elected to do a blog culinary interlude. I mean it's all very well arguing over CO2 and the climate with a bunch of people who won't listen, and won't engage except to regurgitate ad homs and bad science, but sometimes you just have to sit down and have a good feed.

The Bill Sticker culinary contribution today is my version of a family favourite, beef casserole, or as everyone else in the household calls it, Bifstoo! Yes, the exclamation mark is necessary, as it conjures up the enthusiasm with which this dish is always received. This is a family recipe, handed down the generations, and as such may be considered a form of heirloom.

Best made in batches of half a kilo or more, this is a very simple dish, simply prepared. What you'll need;

Stewing beef cut into half inch (12mm) cubes. If you have Venison, that's good too. This recipe works with any cheap cut of red meat; Moose, Elk, and even Bear, although a good seasoning of Rosemary is recommended if you're going to try it with Lamb. Kangaroo may also be good, although I've never tried it cooked this particular way.
Heaped teaspoon Bisto browning powder (Not the granules, and definitely not OXO or knorr)
Heaped teaspoon White flour or cornflour.
Carrots.
Onions.
Salt & pepper
Saucepan
Big fry pan or Wok
Casserole dish
Oven
Water (About half a pint or 250ml)
Safety goggles (Optional)

Preparation time fifteen minutes
Cooking time 2-4 hours

1. Cut the carrots into small slices about a quarter inch (6mm+) you'll need enough to form slightly more than a layer (or two) in the casserole dish.
2. Wearing goggles if need be, dice up a large onion a bit bigger than the size of your fist. Throw in saucepan with half a cup (ish) of water and gently heat to 'sweat down' or soften. You may now discard the safety goggles.
3. Mix equal amounts of Bisto and flour together dry.
4. Dust cubes of meat with dry mix of flour and Bisto so they are liberally coated. You can do this by rolling in the mix of shake in a bag - whatever coats the meat best.
5. In the Wok or large frying pan, put a dessert spoonful of cooking oil, no more, and put over a low heat. Drop coated beef into pan and fry until all the cubes are thoroughly brown.
6. When all meat is browned off, add water, and with the remaining dry Bisto / Flour mix, make a cold gravy mix with a little water.
7. Heat browned meat and gravy mix in pan, and add extra gravy mix to thicken (But not too much or this will come out like set concrete). Season with salt and pepper to taste.
8. Throw meat, softened onions and sliced carrots into casserole dish. Put in oven at medium heat (About 350 Fahrenheit, 175 Celsius or Gas regulo 3).
9. You can at this point prepare some vegetables. Mashed, boiled or roast potatoes are fine, and if you're feeling guilty, you can set up some broccoli, peas, french beans or similar (Asparagus is a bit OTT though). Do not begin to cook these yet.
10. Now the important bit; put the kettle on, put your feet up, watch a movie, scurf the net, or read a book for at least an hour and a half. Alternatively go and chop some wood, walk the dog, or other physical exercise. The thing is about this dish, it needs at least a couple of hours to cook properly. This is an old fashioned stick to your ribs dish for snow days and weekends.
11. The really good thing is that if the family throws a collective mardy and decides they don't want such solid nourishment right this minute, once cooled, store in portions and put in fridge or freezer for microwaving later. Do not give to pets, as afterwards they won't want anything else, and will have no truck with that crap you feed 'em out of a can. My dog gets the leftovers, and his empty food bowl does on average two laps of the kitchen floor. He's that desperate not to miss a bit. Stepkids love it, although they haven't the patience to prepare and cook it.
    

As an aside, during my student days I used to make this stuff for my own consumption, only to have one of my house mates (An irritating proselytising vegetarian) denounce it as 'dogfood' while I was eating. That was rich, coming from someone known to subsist on baked beans and junkfood. Last I heard, he'd developed some form of pernicious anaemia - couldn't happen to a nicer person. Hence my oft-expressed prejudice against Vegans etc. I don't mind people having a different dietary regime, just don't expect me to share your misery, that's all. As for being hectored by stupid politicians and 'health care professionals' advised by said sad acts to eat less meat - Fuck off.

P.S. I would have posted a picture, but Bifstoo disappears too quickly.

Clothes that fit

On the way back from Victoria, Mrs S and I took a couple of detours to look at properties and land parcels we liked the look of. Just south of Mill Bay off the Island highway I saw an Equestrian supplier and pulled over.

Now the thought of going line dancing is as repulsive to me as any other reasonably sophisticated male over forty, yet I do like the clothing. Not the fancy, covered in so many rhinestones no self respecting male prostitute would be seen wearing, but the plain, sturdy, workaday horse riding gear. Australian Dusters. Oilcloth Drovers hats with a broad brim. Working Jeans that fit like a second skin without having them grab your ass, bind your crotch or fit too baggily or tightly in your important little places. Boots that don't chafe and will last longer than twelve weeks of sustained use. So yes, I like Western style riding kit.

Every time I go shopping for jeans in a regular store I can never get quite get the cut of cloth I need. Yet the stuff this particular Equestrian store stocked found me something in my size first time that fitted like a glove. I was impressed.

New sofa

Have an ultra comfy new leather sofa. It's just the right size for two adults to snuggle up and read or watch TV. Spent all yesterday evening curled up on it. Mrs S watching some TV detective stuff, and me reading. Much cosiness and domestic harmony (for a change).

Carry on. Talk amongst yourselves.

Laying in stores for Winter

Well I was wrong about last year, but I'm still making preparations for another cold one here on the Island. Why? Well I've been keeping tabs on the Ocean temperatures, which took a large dip in 2008 then recovered, and according to those frightfully clever chaps over at Wattsupwiththat is heading downwards in a similar manner. We're going into an La Nina to boot, which is another indicator of inclemency.

Now I don't know if this means lots of snow or not, but we're taking no chances this year. Snow tyres on truck, log store being filled with a 'ready use' supply on the deck, propane stove and emergency lighting ready. Plenty of canned stuff in the larder, so we don't get caught out like Winter 2008/9. This year we will be cosy and toasty no matter what. Even if the power goes down for several days. I have bought a few Pratchetts and Holts to keep me amused if we get snowed in, and there's always batteries for the CD player and radio.

The minor hot spell we've just had has petered out and temperatures are back well below normal. The cooler weather is welcome, but it means we've probably only got another two weeks use out of the solar heated outdoor swimming pool. Bummer. Where's all the Warble Gloaming when you really need it?

Other amusements come from Dog, who is still learning the hard way about screen doors. He goes dashing through the house at full tilt and then thumps into the netting, silly pooch. Why he does this I have no idea. He has his own doggy door, but still tries to run through the fine heavy duty mesh meant to keep the mossies out and ends up bouncing back into the kitchen with a comical yelp.

Saturday chores

Well sort of. Definitely Saturday, but maybe not so much a chore. Todays small task has been cleaning our landlords small swimming outdoor pool which we have the use of.

The thing about outdoor pools is, well, they're outdoors, and so is everything else. Mostly insects and leaves. Having had the lack of judgement to drown in a warm chlorinated insect version of Davy Jones Locker, the various invertebrates so deceased do not have the courtesy to be recovered and buried decently in a civilised manner. Effectively resulting in the drifting corpses of large spiders, beetles, and the odd, long legged wasp type insect we call Yellowjackets swirling past you as you pootle up and down the pool. Birds poop in it, as does the local wildlife if you don't put the cover over at night, resulting on one salutary occasion in the last earthly remains of a medium sized rat being netted and disposed of. I can only assume it was a very depressed rodent.

In order to do a proper job of cleaning, I put on my mask and snorkel, diving to the bottom to enjoy half an hours innocent guiding the cleaning siphon around in the depths, disposing of said unwanted detritus and little accretions of dirt that accumulate in still water. By the time I was finished I felt a whole lot better about swimming in it. No doubt I will have to clean said pool again in the next two weeks, the local insect population being so careless of their tiny existences, but I don't mind a bit. I get snorkelling practice, and our landlord gets his pool cleaned. I might even do it again next week. Ah me, the things we must do for our pleasures sake. (Amused chortle)

Chill

Being a Whiskey purist, I was always brought up to never, ever adulterate Whiskey with anything. No water. No ice; and mixers, including soda, are strictly for those of dubious morality, poor education, and little taste.

What I do when drinking Whiskey is to chill the glass in the freezer for twenty minutes prior to pouring myself a generous measure, no more. Drinking neat scotch out of a cold glass seems to bring out the flavour like nothing else can, especially in a single malt like Talisker. Not so shabby for Jamesons either.

Youngest, knowing my weakness for a good single malt, brought a duty free bottle of my favourite tipple with her. Out of a cold glass you get all the flavours of the drink, and elements you don't ordinarily taste out of a glass at room temperature. The glass is chilled. I am chilled. Youngest is officially in my good books and can do no wrong.

New sleeping arrangement

Well I'm not publishing the details of Mrs S and I's sex life (Whaddya think this is, a sex blog or summink?), but what I am posting is the custom built (By me) headboard which makes sitting up for reading or serving Mrs S with breakfast in bed (She's such a slave driver) a genuine pleasure. The top, a generous 34 inches from the mattress top has a rollover pad which prevents the top of the board banging against the wall, no matter what we get up to. You know the sort of perverted activities I mean; reading, drinking hot chocolate, playing Quake II on my antiquated laptop, even (Gasp!) Scrabble. Goodness gracious me! Some of us even sleep! Unless of course my beloved drops me a gentle hint by digging her fingernails mischievously into my ribs. In which case, all bets are most definitely off.

Social success!

We have just seen our first of many house guests safely back home after an overnight visit and hearty breakfast. Verdicts are favourable, and praise for the hospitality at Chez Sticker effusive. Visitors book has been signed and smiles all round.

Drank far too much last night. Guests and I got quite smashed and a bit silly on a nice bottle of Syrah each, although I was far drunker than they were. That is strange. Used to be able to sling a bottle of wine down my throat without blinking. Although nowadays I don't drink for weeks on end. Maybe I'm just not used to the booze any more?

Pass the ibuprofen.

For the chop.

Have been feeling very low of late. Stuff which should have me rattling the keyboard at warp speed has quite frankly left me cold. Basically, I couldn't be arsed about anything. Not a proverbial sausage. Mrs S noticed and prodded me about how I felt.
"I don't know." Was the only answer I could give her. "I've just hit the buffers, that's all"
"Well, you moved house alone with a dose of flu, and we've had all the immigration fuss recently, so I'm not surprised. You're over stressed and need proper rest." Suggested my much better half. "Go to bed." Then she smirked. "I could always call the vet." Thank you dear.

She's quite right of course, I've been under the gun recently regarding work and had no real outlet for my frustrations. It kind of drains you after a while. Blood pressure goes up and you're left feeling tired all the time. Just like I used to feel back in the UK. Now all the medicals and form filling are completed I'm just about to keel over. The only thing I disagreed about was the 'go to bed' suggestion.

My solution? We have a log fire. Log fires need logs. Logs must be split and dried. It's a vigorous, highly physical activity which gets the blood pumping and burns a lot of excess calories. Landlord has a nice six pound log splitter with a thirty inch handle which he let me borrow today. He also has forty plus sections of approximately thirty inch diameter chunks of tree trunk already chainsawed into fourteen or so inch lengths sitting in the front yard. Each one weighs around a hundredweight (50kg ish). Ergo I have been splitting these hundred pound plus chunks of timber into eight or twelve sections per log ready for fiery sacrifice in our Moloch of a woodburning stove. Of course these things will take a few months to dry in the log store, but in the meantime, they're good solid exercise. Something to work up a good honest sweat about. Clear the arteries, lower the blood pressure, pump up under used muscles, all that jazz. Because at the moment the teaser below from the 'Incredibles' feels awfully familiar. My figurative superhero costume is, shall we say, a little snug in places. I need to peel off a few pounds, and the only way to do it is heavy physical exercise.

I like cutting wood the hard way. There's something about the smell of fresh split timber, the clean grain and pale straw of the sapwood with its abrupt transition into the rich orangey brown of the heartwood. The shock as your Maul bites deep into the grain. The splintery cracking noise of a clean cut followed by a solid thump as another fifteen to twenty pound log is sheared through, bouncing off the block ready for piling up to dry. Highly satisfying. Takes about five to ten minutes and about forty strikes per log. See picture below.

I have elected to cut at least five of these log sections a day. Just to get the old muscles back in some sort of tune. Perhaps recondition my currently saggy frame into some sort of fitness. No doubt there are those who would decry such activity, considering it mere physical labour and thus beneath them. Some might choose to go running or visit the Gym to burn off the stress and calories. Spend money at a spa, or visit the health centre, get a massage; but that wouldn't get next years firewood cut now would it?

I like this way best.

The fine art of log fires

Once upon a time, crusty old Uncle Bill was a real Boy Scout (Well, until that unfortunate incident with Arkela, those two Girl Guides and that game of 'strip spin the bottle'). He learned many tidbits of practical wisdom about living outdoors, and why it is strictly for those who enjoy such edifying pursuits as self flagellation with barbed wire whips and sticking one's willy into an active Wasp nest.

Nevertheless, before being ceremonially stripped of his Woggle, he had learned the basics of how to read a map and navigate cross country using a compass. He also learned about wildlife, and how not to get bitten by some (but sadly not all) of it. He also learned the fine art of building and lighting a nice toasty log fire. An essential Winter time skill.

Log fires? Well it's easy innit? Any bloody fool can light a fire. All you need is wood and gasoline, oh and a match. Pile up wood, pour on gasoline and strike match. Well the aforementioned is a quick and easy method for quickly igniting fires, especially if you don't care much for your eyebrows or interior decor. Firelighters also work, but they are so infernally slow. The object of this exercise it to quickly light a fulsome and warming glow that gives out a lot of heat and doesn't generate much asthmatic wheezing because it's smoking the place out. A key objective is minimal smoke creation. A fire that burns quickly and forms a nice bed of orangey red hot embers is best. A smouldering heap simply stinks the place out and may result in the Fire Brigade / local council / environmental activists paying you an unwelcome visit. It's crap at warming you up as well.

For myself, I prefer a more studied method that obviates the singeing of facial hair and other teensy inconveniences. All it takes is half an hour and a little attention to detail.

Before 'laying' fireplace; cut logs. Preferably from old, dry wood. Best burning woods are Birch, young Oak, Horse Chestnut etc. Fruit trees are also very good. Acacia and Rhododendron not so much. Pine is often too resinous and will spit and crackle alarmingly all over the place, leaving little black scorch marks in your nice fireside rug and immolating your household pet. Said logs should be no longer than the width of your fireplace or stove grate. Logs a little more than the diameter of the palm of your hand are also best. For the purpose of this exercise, we will assume you know what the bloody hell a dry log looks like. If not, turn up the central heating instead, for heating of this nature is destined not to be your forte.

For those dogged souls determined to press on regardless, the next few steps should be followed religiously (Literally, fire laying is best done kneeling).

Step 1; In a grate or stove when you are reasonably confident the vents and chimney are clear and swept (Not choked up with soot, or inconveniently blocked with wodges of old newspaper), crumple up a few handfuls of dry newspaper to cover the entire bottom of the grate. Magazine flyers, old envelopes and junk mail are good too, glossy magazines not so, because the china clay that is used to make the pages glossy isn't much good for firelighting. However, in a pinch it will suffice.
Step 2; On top of the paper, lay the thinnest kindling on the first layer in a grid pattern. FYI Kindling wood is thin cut, and above all dry wood roughly cut into approximate 30cm lengths about 10mm square or maybe a little more. Some can be thinner, some thicker. If you're the patient type with a sturdy and sharp pocket knife, you can even make some wood shavings and cast a loose double handful onto the kindling grid.
Step 3; put another grid of kindling wood on top crosswise to the first, and repeat twice. This is the grid method of building a fire, and as far as I'm concerned, the best for getting a good blaze quickly.
Step 4; using the smallest dry logs you have, put a single layer on top.
Step 5; strike match and light paper. If using a stove, close the door, but do not drop the catch.
Step 6; wait. Fire should begin to burn fairly rapidly. If it doesn't, and appears to go out, quickly blow on the embers three times. If it hasn't relit by now you tried to light the fire with damp or unsuitable materials. Smacked wrists. Try again.
Step 7; assuming you've lit the fire successfully, wait until first layer of logs is well alight before adding some larger ones.
Step 8; stand in the 'at ease' position proprietorially in front of the blaze to warm your buns and the backs of your legs, refusing to let the family pet / child / wife / husband / significant other close until you are sufficiently toasty to step aside. Sod it. It's your bloody fire, you laid it and lit it, they can wait their turn.

Stack any damp logs at least half a metre to one side of your blaze to dry overnight, no closer. In the meantime, put a log on the fire when the bed of red hot embers starts to die down, the one exception being if you're going to bed, in which case, don't put any new logs on the fire for at least two hours beforehand.

Cautionary note; FFS don't overload the fireplace, or you run the risk of a chimney fire, which aren't much fun, and will result in a visit from the fire brigade, or possibly worse; 'elf 'n safety.

If, on the other hand, you have successfully negotiated the pratfalls and pitfalls of the aforementioned; sit down, pat yourself on the back, have a drink, and gaze smugly out of the window into the freezing cold. Feet should be extended to take full advantage of heat source. Marshmallows and bread may be toasted, as may be sausages if the eco-friendly wind powered electricity fails. Potatoes may be roasted in the ashes, as can frozen chicken joints (Whole chickens need a different method). Just wrap tightly in baking foil and dig out after an hour or so. Dee-lishous.

Any objectors to your new found state of cosiness can be roundly admonished and bluntly informed that they can kiss your oversize carbon footprint. Let the self righteous buggers freeze. Friends and family may be welcomed to share in the blaze after you have had first dibs. Ah, the simple pleasures in life.

View from a deck

Of course it's far better in real life. Much smugness.

Morning

The view from my kitchen window in four small instalments. Taken around 07:30 Wednesday 6th January 2010 with cell phone camera. No zoom, and the only photoshopping was resizing the images and the addition of a caption for Mt Baker in the USA 93-94 miles away.

Mad, am I?

A newcomer to this blog, one George Saint, felt moved to comment on the post 'Moving part 3';

I've just blundered across your site and my first impression is that you must be completely bonkers, the evidence being that you moved homes during Christmas. Further exploration has proven my initial impression to be quite accurate but in that wholly eccentric way that only the literate Englishman can be.

Now this is an interesting point of view, and being of an independent cast of mind, one I have encountered many times before. George, please don't take this as a rebuff or insult, implied or otherwise. In fact I hope you don't mind if I explore this a little further.

Now my initial reaction was to detail my reasoning behind moving house during the festering (sic) season as follows;

The move over Christmas was necessitated by a number of factors;
1. Opportunity. Christmas was when the new rental became available.
2. Space. We need it because Mrs S and I had simply outgrown our previous apartment and were beginning to drive each other crazy. Also we needed space for work, visitors and the socialising that comes as part of our jobs.
3. Comfort. Three bedrooms. Log fire. Heat pump. Big yard. Swimming pool. Massive deck. 1800 Square feet of indoor space. Contrast with living in a two bedroom (1 a box room) 800 square feet apartment with only basic electric heating.

On the surface this seems a fairly reasonable thing to do. It is only the timing that seems slightly dodgy. To opt for more space and comfort when it becomes available is to me at least, a pretty rational act for any creature.

There is also a reasonable case to be made that I must be more than slightly nuts to uproot myself and travel to a strange land. Ummm... No. Relocation of this nature has been undertaken by millions before me in the hope of a better life, and if you'll indulge me, I have my own reasons for doing so.

At this point I must point out that I am a 'man of my word'. That is to say that if I 'give my word' that something shall be done, it gets done, regardless of personal cost. One condition though, that 'word' is never given for what I view as trivial or morally questionable reasons. I have to want to give my commitment. True, it is an old fashioned concept drawn from a time when sworn oaths formed the very basis of the law, yet that is not to say it does not have value, even in the early 21st century. For all the rest of my many failings as a human being, Integrity is one of my core values. 'To thine own self be true' as Polonius said to Laertes in William Shakespeare's 'Hamlet'. Because this precept seems to give me emotional strength, I try to follow it as much as possible, even it is oftentimes not an easy road. There are times I curse the very air I breathe for my stubborn persistence in the face of unfriendly odds.

One of the reasons I am here in British Columbia, Canada is one direct result of me 'keeping my word'. By making a solemn promise, I bound myself to a course of action that whatever it's inconveniences to me personally, had to be followed through. The promise in question was made on my wedding day to my wife, who wanted to 'go home' to Canada. Mrs S grew up in Quebec and Ontario, and just before she finished High School and very much against her own wishes, was taken back to England with her family because of her father's work commitments. Ever since she has wanted to return, but lacked the opportunity to do so. Until she met me. Muggins.

The shorthand of the situation ended up with me making my solemn commitment to my wife to help her fulfil this dream of (for her) homecoming "Though hell itself should bar the way" (My very words - stupid boy). So far I have kept up my end of the bargain. My reward? A solid emotional stability which I'd previously felt lacking. In itself no small possession.

The adventure of crossing continents has also appealed to my more wayward self. The constant novelty and uncertainty somehow make you feel more, well, alive. Becoming a stranger in a strange land, and yet finding more genuine friendship here in this new place than I ever did in the land of my birth is a novel experience. There is little of the workaday surliness it was my displeasure to constantly encounter in the UK. Canadians, with some notable exceptions, seem to have no 'side' to them. They say what they think and you don't need to be a mind reader to divine their intent. They are, in my current experience, wonderfully direct and relaxed. This is something I find a constant fount of spiritual refreshment. Even when a newbie like me gets the piss royally extracted from him.

To cut this rambling discourse short; I feel I am finding my true home here, and if that is a result of some form of irrationality, then hand me the straitjacket matron. I intend to enjoy every moment of it.

Incidentally George, you're now on my blogroll. You poor, benighted fool you. Welcome.

Update: Have finally found the widget for downloading from my Cell phone camera. This is the internal view of our new front room. Good 'ere, innit?
External view will follow when it gets light.

I love the smell of fresh cut Cedar in the morning...

You know, I'd forgotten how splendid a log fire is in a proper stove.

One of the chores I've set myself every weekend is to cut kindling from Cedar board we pick up from the scrap pile at a local sawmill. I try to cut enough kindling for a week and find it a pleasant task. There is something about the spice wood aroma of fresh cut Cedar that I find very calming.

Still suffering slightly with the lurgi from before Christmas. I've been aching and feverish for the past two weeks, but not enough to take to my bed. It's been very low level; more of an inconvenience than a show stopper. You get tired more readily than you should. Your get up and go has a lie-in, but apart from that, not much else. I'm due my immigration medical in a couple of weeks, and I fully expect them to say "Oh, you've had H1N1." when the blood test results come in.

If it has been the dreaded 'Swine flu' then the experience has been a bit of an anti-climax. With the assistance of a little paracetamol etc I've got through the working day quite adequately. Funnily enough the smell of fresh cut Cedar also helps keep my sinuses clear. Less catarrh, less sore throat and no chestiness. We were using fresh sawn blocks as air fresheners in the old place, but in the new the log fire does all that. There's also something very healthful about stepping out into the cool fresh air on the deck, secure in the knowledge that you can take as many lungfuls as you please before stepping back into the indoor toastiness again. Nice.

Seem to have got the knack of lighting a log fire without too much smoke. Just took a wander outside to see how much smoke the stove was kicking out and couldn't see any, just a heat shimmer from the chimney cowling. Unlike a few of the neighbours who appear to be trying to burn damp wood. From what my local friends tell me, the trick is to fill your log store in late summer from timber felled the previous year. That way it has time to dry out properly before use. Seems to work.

Dog is still a bit unsettled by the move, and sticks to me like glue. As if he's afraid of being abandoned, silly mutt. You'd think that having carted him across the world and Canada, he'd be used to my comings and goings. Not so. He still whines like his heart is breaking every time either Mrs S or I leave the house. Well at least he doesn't tear the place up like some other dogs do. Although he does attention seek by positioning himself in doorways so that you find yourself constantly stepping over him. I'd scold him, but he's such a good dog I can't find it in my heart to do so. He's a house pet, what else can you say?

The new place is gradually shaping up, and by the time Mrs S returns from the UK everything will be in order. 'Although', my cynical subconscious mutters 'she'll still rearrange everything'. Hi ho for a lazy Sunday. I've earned it.

Moving part 3

Well I'm in, a log fire has been lit. Oh... right. The new place looks like it's been carpet bombed with black polythene bags. Would like to be smarmy and upload a video of the new view, but the widget to do so is languishing inside one of the aforementioned black bags, so that will have to wait.

Today I'm off with friends to pick up a couch so that I can laze on it over Sunday and contemplate said heaps of black bags. I'll get better organised as the days go on, although when Mrs S returns I'm sure she'll change it all about. Sigh. such are the joys of married life. I bet Ug the Neanderthal caveman had the same problem. He'd tidy up the Flint and Mastodon bones into various niches in their little domicile, then Mrs Ug would come along and rearrange everything. Nothing much changes in that side of human nature then.

My mother rang this morning to complain about how cold it is in England. She's got the heating full on at present and stuff the bills. She's even resorting to putting hot water bottles on exposed pipes indoors. This is no surprise to me, as one time while I stayed at her house I had the discomfiting experience of waking up to find lumps of ice in my moustache. Since then she has had the place draught proofed and insulated and my moustache has gone, but her house still gets bloody cold in Winter. Happens every ten to twenty years.

Over here it's turned mild but grey, which is absolutely average for this time of year. Islands I can see from where I'm sitting at present (From North to south); Gabriola, Mudge, Link, DeCourcey, Valdez, Round, Galiano, Thetis / Kuiper and North Saltspring. Wow.

Moving part 2

Ran out of storage boxes half way through the moving process. Where the hell did all this stuff come from? I sure as hell didn't buy it.

Ergo, have been packing and unpacking boxes which has kind of slowed the job up. What is fortunate is that I gave myself four days to get everything transferred to new place. Today will be day three upon which Internet connection goes down and is restored at new premises. Local ISP is Shaw, who seem to be very good at what they do. Although I have heard negative comments about the quality of the content on cable, but I've found that holds true for most Television, so no surprises there.

New place is toasty inside, with none of the sneaky little draughts that populate our current apartment. Landlord is going to show me how the woodburner operates today. It's not one of those I've been used to, where everything's manual. There are manual controls, yes, but there's a forced air system and the vents are electronically controlled.

Old place is looking quite bare now. Tomorrow I finish the cleanup and hand over the keys. I'll miss it a bit, as Mrs S and I have racked up a lot of happy memories here.

However, the new place is bigger, warmer, and with a splendid view which I will post shortly. No more snow, and none forecast for the moment, which is a relief. Just light rain, which is more usual for this part of Canada.

Joe Bastardi's forecast for this part of the year was interesting. Wonder if the cold stuff we were gearing up for will give us the go-by this year. You wouldn't catch me complaining if it did.