Mars and Venus or just the Atlantic ocean?

We’ve all had holiday flings: the swarthy Italian who informed you that your eyes had stars in them, the enthusiastic Australian who took to throwing you over his shoulder and chucking you in the sea for no apparent reason, the Frenchman with the hypnotically sexy voice and somewhat distant relationship with personal hygiene. Who hasn’t been up for two weeks of fun, what-the-hell-he’s-sexy-who-cares-if-he-doesn’t-speak-English-or-use-deodorant? But what about an honest to goodness grown up relationship with a foreign man? Settled down, arguing about who picked the rubbish DVD and why there are smelly socks on the kitchen floor, going to Home Depot and trying for a baby - ideally not at the same time, but still, you get the drift.

Living in Canada for the past couple of years and having dated one or too many men while I was there, I became interested in just how unaware it is possible to be of the dating conventions we all blindly follow until we meet someone who – quite literally in some cases – speaks another language. For example, I find that in Britain when you’re seeing someone, even if it isn’t especially serious yet, avoiding shagging other people is just manners – whereas in North America the “is this exclusive?” conversation has some fairly serious commitment connotations, and “of course it bloody is, are you taking the piss?” isn’t quite the desired answer.

In London, pulling someone (or hooking up with someone, I realize that this blog needs to be bilingual) generally consists of: you meet, you have a bit of a snog, you exchange phone numbers and meet up – usually with other people, your friends will meet his friends at a bar, or one of you will invite the other along to a party – a few times and you may or may not end up alone (with each other) and naked at the end of the night. After this has gone on for a couple of weeks, you finally arrange a date which you get all nervous about and put on pantyhose and lipstick, and that heralds the beginning of you as some kind of a couple. That’s it, roughly, anyway.
So when I was first asked out in Vancouver, and the young man in question seemed to want to do the pantyhose-and-lipstick date thing right away I thought that he was moving terribly fast and was clearly deeply in love with me. Which was fair enough. Until he casually mentioned that he was also seeing someone else. But – wha--aa – huh?

Interviewing a few male Canadian friends, all in the interests of research naturally, I was surprised, and not especially displeased, to learn that we British women have something of a world wide reputation for being good in bed, because we tend to be less self conscious about our bodies – who knew?! - and are seen as confident and straightforward... again, who knew?! And also, a bit scary. This, I believe is down to us thinking that they are head over heels with us because they want to take us out to dinner when we have only just met, and ending up perturbed to learn that they are not so desperately in love with us that they are skipping steps – they just do things differently in Canada.

And even if these cultural barriers affecting the, let’s face it, already tenuous levels of male/female communication, don’t put a kibosh on the whole thing right away, there are practicalities to consider. As much as I love travelling and living abroad right now, the thought of settling down and raising children several time zones from my family saddens me. It might be what I end up doing, who knows? but committing to someone whose work ties them to their country, therefore potentially committing to my kids only seeing their grandparents a couple of times a year, would be a big step. Would I be able to demand that we go back to Britain every Christmas? And if not, what would Christmas be without Slade on the radio every 5 minutes, the Queen’s speech (not that I have watched it in years, I just like to know that I could) and a Christmas pudding my dad sets fire to with way too much brandy? A few years ago, when I was with my American boyfriend, we chatted on the phone on Christmas afternoon and I mentioned I had to go because my dad was about to light the pudding… there was a bit of a silence after which he enquired as to whether all Brits set their Christmas dinner on fire, or if it was just us.

Transamerica Claire Style Part II

After storming through the departure gate at Midway and childishly refusing to hug the now very definitely ex, I nearly came to blows with a woman at the coffee shop over the pronunciation of the word “raspberry” (don’t ask) and boarded my flight to Seattle. The flight itself was uneventful enough, other than the fact that it was 20 minutes late. Not a big deal, or so you’d think. It meant that I when I struggled outside (bear in mind, I was carting every last one of my worldly goods in a massive suitcase which was literally bursting at the seams, a large backpack, and, just for good measure, a small backpack) – I arrived just in time to watch the back of my bus departing in the direction of Vancouver.

Dragging the lopsided suitcase (for one of the wheels had broken off) and vainly attempting to offset the weight of one backpack by strapping it sideways so that it rested on my hip and in theory countered the weight of the other backpack on the other hip – which gave me the look of a hunchback with an inner ear problem – I made off for the taxi rank. Unfortunately, bumming around America for three months doesn’t pay terribly well, so I had to pay for a ride to the Greyhound station with small change I found at the bottom of each piece of luggage. Oddly, given my charm, the taxi driver was not a fan of mine, so he thought it fun to drop me off at the bottom of a hill near the Seattle Greyhound bus station. I discovered that by straightening my right leg so that it was parallel to the suitcase (Seattle’s hills are steep), balancing the bigger backpack against it and sort of lunging forward with my left leg – the momentum of which would yank the suitcase/backpack combo forward – I would find myself, at intervals, slightly startled, approximately half a foot further up the hill than I had been. If not terribly elegantly. On the plus side, I did get to do this with a stunning Pacific sunset for company, although whenever I turned around to have a look at the bay the suitcase would invariably slip out of my grip and merrily trundle back down the hill, which was fun.

Eventually, in pitch darkness, I made it up the hill and into the bus station, where I was greeted by a young man, for whom – I suspect – hospitality was not a first choice of career. He perked up somewhat when he got to deliver the news that the next bus to Vancouver wouldn’t be departing until 12.30am (three hours from then) and would arrive at around 5am. And also, my suitcase was too heavy. Stunned by the news that my suitcase weighed a bit, I asked for a little further clarification. Apparently the big strong men who load luggage for a living were not covered by insurance to lift up the suitcase that I (a not big, not strong, not man) had carted all over the United States. The solution my good friend the Greyhound man cheerfully offered me was to unload around 15 pounds from the case (wish I’d had him around back in Boston.)

“And where do you suggest I put these 15 pounds?”
“Uhh… I have some garbage bags?”

With my worldly goods now packed securely in a suitcase, a large backpack, a small packback and two garbage bags, I headed to the vending machine to see what culinary delights were on offer for that evening’s meal. Deciding to partake of a starter of Ruffles chips, followed by a main of M&Ms cooked to perfection and washed down by a tangy Lilt, I fed the machine my last three dollars, which it happily accepted but – clearly it had the temperament expected of all the best chefs – chose not to serve me my meal. So I kicked the crap out of it and burst into tears.

Cut to 10 minutes later, I was sitting on the best bench the Greyhound Bus Station has to offer, surrounded by sympathetic homeless people as I wailed “but I thought hee looooovvveed meeeeee….” and a woman wizened with years of exposure to the elements patted my arm and clucked “If he didn’t see what he had in you then he’s not good enough for you, honey” and various other residents of Seattle’s streets nodded in agreement. (Incidentally, years later, that very ex mentioned that he was thinking of moving to Seattle – I advised him to stay away from the bus station as he’s not very popular there.)

Finally, the bus arrived and I managed to snooze all the way to the Canadian border, where all passengers were ejected, handed our luggage and pointed in the direction of customs. Concerned that my Quasimodo lunge wouldn’t endear me to Canada Immigration, I invented a new way to walk while carrying nearly 150 pounds of crap: backwards. This worked just wonderfully, right up until I crashed into a display of Maple themed stuff and knocked it all over. Had this happened going in the other direction I am fairly sure that I would have been carted off to State prison with all the potential terrorists and B.C. pot activists on charges of being too much of a bloody idiot to enter the United States, but this being Canada, three immigration officers jumped up to help me carry my stuff to the desk.

My passport was duly stamped, the crap was duly searched through, and a security guy carried my suitcase and backpacks (I took the garbage bags) back to the bus and off we headed up Highway 99. As the sun rose over the North Shore mountains, I struggled into a hotel room and fell asleep next to my sister – I was home.

Lessons to be Learnt?

A few months ago, two of my friends met for the first time. Moments after they clapped eyes on one another, they each grabbed me aside and announced they wanted an introduction. Shortly after said introduction, they fell cheerfully in love, and a couple of months later fell equally cheerfully back out of love and became the best of friends. Failing the ideal Prince-Charming-or-at-least-J.D.-Fortune happy ever after scenario, it seems to me that that situation was pretty much as good as it gets for us singletons. The only catch was, they are both men. Might there be a lesson to be learned?

Why is it that all the Wills and Sanfords in my life happily breeze through the dating scene thoroughly enjoying themselves and I panic and question and think and panic some more? Why do I get mixed signals and they get honest conversations?

On a long drive from Vancouver to L.A. with a hetero-but-platonic mate a few months ago, we had a conversation on the different ways straight men and women approach relationships. We realized, that it is precisely the opposite to how each sex approaches learning to swim. I can remember cautiously venturing into the sea, enough flotation devices about my person to keep me afloat on steam and yet still clinging to my dad's hand and keeping one toe on the sand lest my face get wet. Meanwhile, my brother had raced - without so much as waiting to get sunscreen or a swimsuit on - headlong into the waves, dived in nose first and ended up with a jellyfish sting and grazing half of his forehead off on the rocky sea bed. Fast forward a decade or so, and I realize that I tend to approach a new relationship like my brother tackled the Adriatic Sea - head first, no protective gear and cheerfully accepting that sometimes you just have to get stung by a jellyfish. Men on the other hand, become like me - barracading themselves behind the flotation device of possibly being in love with the ex they haven't seen in years, clinging on to 'commitment issues' (whatever the heck that means) and keeping one toe firmly anchored in the dating pool.

Unless, it seems, they are gay. Then they are all about rushing headlong into in luurrvve bliss and just as cheerfully rushing straight out, building a sandcastle and sharing an ice cream. Which - and I truly hate to say this - begs the question: would all men be that straightforward if only women let them? Are all those flotation devices simply a reaction against us yelling "come on you big jessie, duck your face under" and a sneaking suspicion that given half a chance we'd have them gasping for air at the bottom of the pool with our feet on their chests? Have I taken this analogy way too far?

Last night I chatted on the phone with my gay husband and couldn't help but note that when he asked me how my love life was going, I huffed and puffed about there being narry a man to be found in London or the Home Counties for love nor money (conveniently forgetting that I'd been on two dates - with two men! - a couple of weeks ago) and when I asked him if he had anyone special he cheerfully replied "nope, but plenty of of unspecial ones!" I think that he's on to something.

Transamerica Claire Style - Part I

You know when you feel as though you haven’t quite broken up with someone enough? When you have cried and wailed and attached yourself, limpet like, to their leg as they tried to leave you, but still, you sensed that deep down there was a teeny bit more heartbreak left to be wrung out of the situation and damned if you weren’t going to wring it?

My very first sojourn to Canada ended rather abruptly when it turned that the Canadian government wasn’t keen on granting visas for foreigners who wanted to fart about and try to make movies – there are, after all, more than enough Canadians farting about and trying to make movies, so I was out on my ear. This all happened so abruptly, however, that my family had already booked and paid for a trip to visit me, in three months’ time – in the country I wasn’t allowed to live in any more. Also around this time, my boyfriend and I were not getting on terribly well and had discussed breaking up – but, in the end decided that it would be a better idea to travel around the U.S. in a tiny car and tent together for three months at which time I would head back to Canada to meet up with my family. Brilliant? Or not.

That lasted a couple of weeks after which point we decided that the breaking up idea in fact had been the right one, and I took a train to Boston to stay with my aunt until it was time to sneak back into the Great White North. Except that a couple of months later, we decided that, in fact, we’d better just see each other one more time to make sure that the breaking up idea was the one to go for. I jumped on a train in Washington D.C. (after visiting another aunt) for a day and a half’s journey after which time I would have almost 2 days in Chicago to sort things with old what’s his face then jump on a plane to Seattle and get a bus up to Vancouver where my family would be waiting and bob would be my uncle.

Things started to go a bit pear shaped when the train pulled out of the station in D.C. – and promptly began to reverse. It turned out that there had been a crash (no one was hurt so I was allowed to be annoyed) on the track to Chicago, so we had to head down into Virginia to get on to another track. Virginia, it turns out, is ever such a pretty state, but being in a bit of a hurry to get to Illinois probably isn’t the best circumstance in which to appreciate it. Nearly 20 hours later, at an interminable wait outside Cleveland, with my precious time in Chicago ticking away, I’d had enough and burst into tears. A very sweet elderly couple who were due to get off in Cleveland kindly asked me if I was okay (which was somewhat a redundant question given that I was heaving with sobs and struggling to catch my breath while drowning in snot, but undoubtedly well intentioned.) I was of course terribly British about it and said that I was just fine, thank you for asking. When the couple got off the train, the old man handed me a bag of pretzels, which I tried to hand back as I don’t like pretzels, but he told me to keep it anyway. Not wishing to appear rude, I did so – and as the train pulled out of the station I glanced at the bag, and realized that he had put a $10 note in it for me. I was quite stunned by such a random and incredibly kind gesture from a stranger – although I would love to know what he thought I was crying about!

Upon finally reaching Chicago, a couple of hours chatting with the man confirmed that yup, breakup still definitely on. Unfortunately, we came to that conclusion with a good two hours to go before I had to be at the airport for my flight to Seattle, and there was no one else to drive me. So we had lots of fun sitting in stony silence in my cousin’s apartment, with me occasionally choking back sobs because damned if I was going to cry (more) in front of him. The silence was occasionally punctuated by me grandly pronouncing that I didn’t want him to drive me to the airport, in fact I never wanted to see him again, and he would ask if I had the money for a taxi to the airport and I would huff that no, I didn’t, and he would reply that then he would drive me and I would snort ‘fine then’ and we’d go back to silence and choked sobs.

Virtual Insanity

The other day, in the midst of catching up with two old friends, I happened to mention my friend Al in Hong Kong. The conversation stopped and I cringed, hoping that they wouldn’t ask the inevitable. They did – “who’s Al? You’ve never mentioned an Al before.” And I had to admit that in fact I don’t really know an Al in Hong Kong. Al isn’t her real name, in fact I don’t know for sure that she is female – or even exists, at all. Am I stark raving mad? Probably, but hear me out.

For me, it all started innocently enough. Last summer my favourite band auditioned on tv for a new lead singer (no prizes for guessing for who my favourite band is) and towards the end of the series I missed an episode, so naturally enough (see how I justify myself? Come join me on Planet Dellusion!) I searched the internet for a recap to find out who had been eliminated, stumbled across a message board community… and nothing has been quite the same since. I am fascinated by this very 21st century form of communication, even socializing: the group dynamic that emerges between people who have never laid eyes on one another, the social mores, the varying tones between different boards, the cliquishness, and the disconcerting way a computer screen can suddenly assume atmosphere. From in-jokes spanning several time zones to the way the board rallies round members suffering personal hard times, I can’t help but note the way that people naturally overcome the inherent impersonal-ness of the internet. Despite expert claims that the internet is a threat to social interaction, I have found the opposite to be true. A connection or common ground on the board seems to lead to email, then phone and eventually meeting, and many people have reported that one of their favourite parts of the band’s recent tour was meeting up with other board members. A couple of months ago, I travelled – from England – to Las Vegas for the weekend to see one of the tour dates, and ended up spending the majority of the weekend with ‘old friends’ I could not have picked out of a line up prior to the trip.

The effects of friendships that are a product of common interest rather than dictated by geographical limitations on the 21st century international lifestyle are exciting. I have a possible stopover in Hong Kong in the next couple of months, and rather than venturing out alone or staying in at the hotel, I will be able to use the time to verify the existence of my good friend Al.

One Spirit or Another

I have always liked the idea of ghosts. If there is a choice between paying attention to scientific research and going with the more fun belief, you can bet I’ll go with the latter. If anyone ever asked me whether I believe in ghosts, I said “sure – why not?” and I have been compiling my list of who I am going to haunt for years.

However, at 3am one July lying rigid with terror in a period style canopied bed in a pitch dark room at the top of a turret towering above a 15th century French Chateau, I was beginning to question just how much fun it was to believe in ghosts. Quite how my siblings and I had drawn the short straw and ended up spending the week in the turret reachable only by a shadowy, musty-smelling spiral staircase which wound past the castle chapel I don’t know, but there we were. My sister and I were cowering together under the covers, praying for the electricity to come back on before the clunky, uneven footsteps that were slowly making their way up the stone steps reached the top. But no such luck. The footsteps paused on the tiny landing, the sudden floorboard creak causing my sister to stuff the duvet in her mouth to stop from screaming...

All week I had insisted to everyone – everyone being my family plus my parents’ best friends and all their kids: 24 Glaswegians in all, staying in the castle nestled in the Bordeaux countryside to celebrate all four dads’ 50th birthdays – that there was something strange about the fact that all 24 of us – at least, those of us who’d gone to bed by that point – awoke independently at 3am, every night. All week, everyone said that I was talking nonsense and told me off for scaring the wee ones, but now it seemed that I had been right all along. Until… the moon drifted out from behind a cloud, filling the room with an eerie blue light, just as the door opened and a white figure stumbled into the room.

Stumbled?

“Boonnjooouurrr” intoned a deep, creepy voice.

“Can you not say anything better?” hissed a most definitely alive, although not without suggestion of being full of some sort of spirit, voice from the landing.
“I don’t know any better in French!” the ghost replied in a hurt tone.
“Did you not do ‘A’ level?”
“Aye, in Spanish!”
“Useless!” proclaimed our cousin Sean, yanking the sheet from our brother Ryan’s head, shortly before the two of them clattered back down the steps amid a shower of abuse and pillows from my sister and I.

However this didn’t explain the waking at precisely 3am, the footsteps that had been heard when Ryan and Sean were safely in the games room (verified by third party witnesses,) the unreachable turret window which opened and closed with no explanation, not to mention the joiner working on the castle renovations shortly before our arrival who had suddenly packed up and left after seeing the figures of a couple walking on the terrace. We thought about holding a séance, but were afraid that if the ghost came through and started blethering away about who it was and why it was haunting the castle, we’d be frantically thumbing through “Let’s Speak French!” begging it to speak slowly and asking for deux bagettes si’il vous plait.

On the last day, I managed to persuade the curator to tell me the story of doomed couple Émile and Jacqueline who had lived – and died tragically – in the castle in the mid-18th Century. Without my mentioning anything of us waking up, he told me that both husband and wife had died within days of one another by jumping from the turret window at – 3am. This story can be verified - Émile was a private in the French army during the 1700s and it was during a sojurn to Spain that Jaqueline allegedly began the affair with a local man that ultimately led to their saddening endings. Whether or not that tragic event proves that the two of them are still kicking about the castle or not is another matter, but, I will certainly think twice in the future about visiting a castle where the ghosts don't speak English. This year, for all the mums' 50ths, we are headed for a castle in Tuscany... Se le cose vanno l'urto nella notte, chi andiamo chiamare? Qualcuno che parla l'italiano!

(www.freetranslation.com)

Too Busy to Worry About My Bum

I recently read an article – I would love to be able to quote it to you but I gave the magazine to a friend who was just about to get on a flight to Australia, I remember the gist, though – in which Anita Rodderick attacked media and the fashion industry for making women hate their bodies by giving us such unrealistic images to aim for. A couple of creepy statistics: twenty-five years ago, top models weighed 8% less than the average woman. Today that figure is 23%. The current “ideal weight” – as dictated by fashion and Hollywood – is estimated to be achievable by less than 5% of the population.

All of which sounds very terrible, but hold on a second: why on earth would any more than 5% of the population want to achieve such a ridiculous weight? If my job was being a supermodel (I mentioned this to a couple of my best friends at lunch the other week and they fell about laughing,) if my livelihood depended on me possessing minus 0% body fat or whatever it is that models weigh these days, then I might see reason to eat a handful of seeds and three lettuce leaves a day; but as a normal average person with a busy life I have neither the time nor the inclination to count calories nor give an arse about how many carbs I consume. I don’t really know what size my bum is, I rarely see it after all, much less spend precious moments when I could be thinking about much more interesting things (like J.D. Fortune’s bum, for example ) and the only time I am the least bit bothered about my dress size is in January, because it is so boringly average that it’s always the first to go in the sales. According to what I read, all of this makes me an utter freak of nature.

Why is it, that over the last 30-odd years, we women have run countries and conglomerates, travelled the world and raised families, spoken up for ourselves and generally knocked the socks off all those around us – and yet are not credited with enough intelligence to see the difference between an image on the pages of Vogue (or US Weekly or Heat for that matter) and ourselves? In the same way that I can’t sing (and I don’t just mean that I don’t sing to professional standard – people actually request that I don’t join in on Happy Birthday because it ruins the party) so I won’t be a popstar, I am not especially stunning so I am not going to be a model… and, err, so what? There are plenty of other things that I can do (make my friends laugh, figure my way around strange cities, make pumpkin pie – my sole, but glorious, culinary achievement – beat my Grandma at a variation of Scrabble called Upwords, to name a few) that will see me through a rather more interesting life than being skinny and exceptionally beautiful would.

Perhaps I am being somewhat hypocritical here, because I own make up and hair straighteners and even use them on a fairly regular basis, but I simply refuse to see what I look like as the be all and end all of who I am. On the mornings that I hit the snooze button two or eight times more than I should so run out of time to fix my hair or put my contacts in, do I do my job any worse? Do I lose my friends? Does my family refuse to speak to me? Not that I notice.

Everyone gets their down days where we feel blah and crap and if we happen to feel blah and crap about our bums or the size of our noses and bury ourselves in a tub of ice cream and a Desperate Housewives marathon, well fair enough, I don’t think that anyone would judge. All I ask is that sometime, somewhere, when some annoying person bleats on about the pressure women are under to look perfect and weigh nothing, one of us replies “that’s a load of nonsense, I have much more interesting things to worry about, thank you very much.”

Home Office Campaign an Insult to Women

The Home Office in the UK launched a campaign yesterday to, according to a spokesman, "help tackle rape by educating young men about the need to gain consent before having sex." The campaign will consist of radio ads, ads in men's magazines and posters in the gents in urban pubs and clubs.

Far be it from me to oppose any initiative that helps tackle the woefully low rates of rape conviction in England and Wales – a recent poll by Glamour magazine found that out of 11% of readers who had been raped, 80% had not reported it – but, to my mind, this campaign communicates a worrying and even destructive message.

I have always understood the term "consenting adults" to be plural, yet this campaign suggests that sex is one sided, that it is something 'done' to women which we must give our permission to be subjected to. Didn't that go out with corsets and having your beloved's dinner on the table when he gets home from earning a crust? Further, the campaign does not seem to make a clear distinction between sex and rape, when the fact is, one has very little to do with the other. The same poll by British Glamour found that 11% of respondents believed that if a woman was acting flirtatiously, she was encouraging rape. Flirting with a guy, dressing provocatively, going on a date and even inviting him into your home may invite sex; but rape is not sex, it is an attack. The sole signal that turns sex into rape is a simple one: it is the word “no.”

A few months ago, I went on a date with a friend of a friend. I wasn’t attracted to him, but we were in the midst of an enjoyable conversation when the bar closed, so I invited him back to my apartment for a cup of tea so we could finish our chat. Once inside, he kissed me – I reciprocated, thinking that as he was such a lovely bloke maybe if I snogged him for a few minutes I could start to fancy him. No such luck, so I pulled away and put the kettle on. Once on the sofa, he started to kiss me again, again I pulled away but again he – either deliberately or insensitively – didn’t get the message and carried on. I didn’t feel afraid, just irritated that he was being so pig-headed, and as it was clear that subtle body language messages weren’t getting through, I said “no, not happening,” and got up from the sofa. He left. I had been on a date with this man, my outfit wasn’t a nun’s habit, I had invited him into my apartment and initially kissed him back, yet had he grabbed me and subjected me to sex after I had unquestionably told him no then it would have been rape, pure and simple.

I realize that the Home Office’s campaign may be intended to combat situations such as my experience – had a rape occurred, presumably the guy would have argued that I had implied consent… and maybe I did: right up until I said no. Had I been attracted to him, then the date may well have continued on to a naked conclusion – and had I been attracted to him there would have been no need to formally sign a waiver of consent as I would have been too busy informing him that unless he had to scrape me off the ceiling he wasn’t finished.

The idea that I, as a capable, not to mention sexually confident adult, am required to state the words “yes I give you permission to shag me silly” lest a man be unsure as to whether or not he is raping me or not is both insulting and dangerous. A woman has every right to give out all the flirtatious signals in the world; if she says “no” and a man physically overcomes her and subjects her to sex then he is raping her. End of story. And I do not accept that he needs a poster over a urinal to tell him that.

Braining a Walking Carpet

I am a truly terrible person. Honestly, I should be locked up. Have you ever thought to yourself 'well I'm not perfect, but at least I am kind to animals.' Now I can't even claim that.

I am working from home this week, and as I am resident at the family home while flat hunting in London, that puts me on doggy duty. I won't lie to you, I am of course fond of our family dogs, but I am not really a doggy dog person, and the younger, Shauna, and I have always had something of a tempestuous relationship. Her penchant for chewing on my slippers, while I am wearing them, for example, doesn't especially endear her to me, nor mine for ignoring her plaintive barks for a third meal of the day does me to her.

She is a big dog though, and without at least a walk a day will be bouncing off the kitchen walls all night, so yesterday - despite the drizzle - off we went. Me in my mum's welly boots - too big for me, they make me walk as though I've spent rather too much time on a horse, sweats - and I am not talking cute, pastel Desperate Housewives sweats, but proper, baggy, saggy-in-the-bum tracky bottoms, the coat I bought when I lived in Canada which makes me look like the Michelin Man, and Shauna sporting, well her usual fur coat and the collar that due to the fact she is a collie therefore has no head is utterly useless.

Once in the woods, the drizzle turned, on cue, to driving rain with a dash of hailstones for good measure: that typically British, horizontal rain that has my hair on one side plastered to my head, and on the other just frizzing in confusion. But on we trundled - at least, on I trundled, the dog sheltered under a tree and looked at me as though I was mad - through the mud and driving rain. I started to grumpily abuse the dog - verbally, don't look at me like that - as she skipped happily around me, and what started as muttering under my breath shortly became yelling over the wind, "this is your bloody walk you great useless walking carpet, why am I the only one walking? Why am I even bothering to exercise you when, if you steal my lunch one more time it'll be the sausage factory for you - don't give me that look ya eedgit, you know fine that I mean it..." and so on... until I suddenly realized that the rain had stopped and the sun had come out, and there was a man working in the field that borders the woods listening to every word I said. As I quickly changed paths, Shauna gave me a look that plainly said 'that'll teach you to talk to me like that.'

In the interests of further ridding her of excess energy, I scouted around for a stick to throw, and found one big enough that she wouldn't swallow in excitement. I waved it around to catch her attention, she helpfully yapped and scuttled in circles, I threw the stick... she jumped up to catch it... and it clunked her right on the head. I heard the dull thud as wood collided with - well more wood really, given that this is the dog who has gotten herself trapped - twice - in the cat flap trying to chase the cats out it, and once in the washing machine trying to hide from thunder. She yelped and pawed at her face, looking at me in a wounded, 'what did you do that for?' sort of way and as I squelched across the mud, slithering in my haste to check she was okay, I caught sight of... the very same man who had just heard me call her 'a great useless walking carpet' staring at me in horror.

Just in case you are worried, I apologised unreservedly (to Shauna) she forgave me and in the few hours since has displayed no less brain activity than she did before (not that that is saying much) but in case this blog is never updated again, you will know that that man called the RSPCA and I am serving 5-10 for accidentally braining a walking carpet.

Dating the Canadian Male - published in ELLE Canada, November 2005

GOODFELLAS
One British woman discovers the secret rituals of dating - Canadian style.

In England, when a guy doesn't call after a date or two, well, he just doesn't call, and you can cheerfully go your own way pretending that he accidentally fell off a cliff or something. You see, British men are somewhat reticent with their feelings. After months of living with one, he might go so far as to mumble, "I think you're alright," while staring at the ground and shuffling his feet like he has to pee. If you're lucky. This, at least, means that when your British date acts as though he likes you, he sodding well means it. You know where you stand. In Canada, it appears, there is no such luxury.

After moving to Vancouver last year, I fell - in quick succession - for the guy who did call (to tell me he wasn't going to call again), my gay professor (which isn't really Canada's fault, but is unfortunate all the same) and a guy who patiently explained who Wayne Gretzky was when I admitted ignorance, and then never called again. Maybe he accidentally fell off a cliff?

Undeterred, I scored a date with the most Canadian of Canadians: a six-foot-four ex-military man who'd spent time chopping down trees in northen British Columbia - or maybe planting them; I was too busy staring adoringly into his goatee to really listen. It was then that I had a revelation about Canadian men: they really are very nice. And when Mr. Canadian Army was all "You put a smile on my face," I was flattered. Until he didn't call.

Now, it can't be that he accidentally fell off a cliff because surely in the army they teach you to avoid that sort of thing. So I can only conclude that he just wasn't that in to me. It seems that the poor lads are conflicted between being overly earnest and calling to say they won't call, and being so Canadianly enthusiastic about you that you reasonably expect them to call. Before I fall for another one of these flannel-wearing charmers, I think I'll stick Post-its around my apartment that say "Remember, he's Canadian - just because he acts nice doesn't mean he likes you."

Because, despite mixed signals, insultingly clear signals and numerous goatee burns, I still think Canadian guys are lovely. They possess a remarkable lack of chauvinism, yet every man I have dated over here has picked me up at home for a date. I love that Canadian men smile all the time, are comfortable with PDA and make me laugh when they gush for hours about the latest NHL sign ups.

So I haven't given up. I've resolved to read up on "The Great One." I'll even grow to like orange macaroni. But one thing is for certain: the minute a Canadian guy starts saying nice things to me, I'll stick my fingers in my ears and sing, "O Canada, we stand on guard for thee."

Team Guildford

Suffering from a bout of Canada-sickness this week, I decided I would try to make myself feel "at home" by attending a hockey game with a friend who's also lived in Vancouver. BC Place, Guildford Spectrum - same difference, right? We'd hardly know...

The national anthem was the first confusing bit. My friend and I jumped to our feet and enthusiastically broke into O Canada... only to notice a moment later that all around us people were shuffling and looking bored while God Save the Queen played over the tannoy. That's right, nearly forgotten: we were in Guildford.

Once the game started I have to admit that my first thought was: why are they playing in slow motion? Despite the rink being bigger than an NHL rink, there was an unquestionably leisurely air. It soon became clear that the other team were hopelessly outmatched. In fact, when the Guildford Flames scored 7 times in the first 10 minutes I have to admit that the nail biting element was a bit lost, and I even bored a little of cheering (forgive me – I am a Scottish so not used to seeing my team score, I was a bit perturbed and confused.) To be fair, I don’t know an awful lot about hockey, but they didn’t seem terribly keen on passing to one another. Or doing anything other than merrily chasing our team back up towards their goal, come to that. I even saw one of them get the giggles after our team’s 9th goal, which I thought was very sportsmanship like, if not terribly competitive. Perhaps it is the taking part that counts?

There was a disappointing lack of violence on ice: one or two half hearted shoves but it almost seemed as though they didn’t want to hurt one another. I began to wonder whether it was a cultural thing – as Brits, we rid ourselves of any pent up aggression on a regular basis (a good old elbow to the ribs of a commuter on the tube of a morning does wonders for the soul) that perhaps there is nothing left for the ice? Whereas Canadians spend their days being so lovely and nice that that great human emotion, hostility, has to come out somewhere (of course British Columbians do get it out a bit behind the wheel of a car) and so explodes – in both fans and players – as soon as a hockey game starts. In fact the main bit of action came when my friend and I accidentally stood in front of a couple of season ticket holders and Mrs. Season Ticket Holder brayed loudly to anyone who would listen (but not directly to us because that would have been rude) “I’ll ‘ave them moved on, don’t worry everyone, I’m ‘aving them moved on.” Used to Canadians who are straightforward if terribly pleasant about it, it took us a good minute or two to figure out that she was talking about us and actually move. One kid in the stands started up a chant of "Guildford, Guildford" and was shushed by the adults he was sitting with. It was altogether so very British.

So in the end: Fun Night Out:1, Helping Canada-Sickness: 0. I'll be hitting The Maple Leaf in Covent Garden this week... I'll let you know how it goes.

A Weekend INXS

When I was about 9 years old, I was deeply in love - along with most girls of my age in Britain and probably quite a few in Australia - with a young Aussie actor called Jason Donovan. He was in a soap called Neighbours with Kylie Minogue, they played a married couple and rumour had it were dating in real life. And if that wasn't quite astoundingly romantic enough they even released a duet called Especially for You which to my young heart was just the last word ever on luurvveee. I desperately wanted his album - Ten Good Reasons, fact fans - for my 10th birthday, and my dad was duly dispatched to the record shop to purchase it and stop me whining. Unfortunately - or indeed fortunately, as it turned out - my dad doesn't have much of a memory for slightly girly looking Australian pop singers, so at the shop he struggled a bit, muttering, "uummmm, Australian.... singer... aha! Kylie's boyfriend! I would like Kylie's boyfriend's album to stop my daughter whining. Please." However it turned out that good old Kylie had moved on to pastures new... the pastures new being none other than Michael Hutchence.

So, on my birthday morning I excitedly ripped open my brand new tape to find... Kick. Kick. "What's this??" I demanded in disgust, "Not one of these people have been in Neighbours!!" I refused to listen to it. I might even have stepped on it and cracked the tape case.
"You'll bloody well listen to any tape I buy you, you ungrateful wee (expletive deleted)" yelled Dad.
"I won't! It's rubbish!" I yelled right back, stamping my just-turned-ten-year-old foot like a just-turned-two-year-old.

Finally, on threat of grounding and not being allowed to watch Neighbours ever again, I sat down and listened to it. Nearly twenty years later, I jumped on a plane to Las Vegas for the weekend...

My write up of the weekend can be found at:

http://www.rockband.com/inxs/news/concert-review-vegas-01-2006.asp

And review (of sorts, no one could accuse me of being much of a critic!) of the Lovehammers concert at the Viper Room:

http://lovehammersfanclub.com/lhfanclub/ViperRoomReview.html

Sacred and Profane Love: The Mystery of William Desmond Taylor

As far as the police were concerned, it was routine. On the morning of February 22nd, 1922, they arrived at the home of William Desmond Taylor in a wealthy suburb of Los Angeles to find the prominent film director dead on the floor of his study. With the agreement of Lieutenant Ziegler, a doctor from the crowd of onlookers made a preliminary examination of the body and declared death from natural causes, possibly heart trouble. The case was closed.
However, moments later when the body was turned over to reveal a pool of blood and neat bullet hole in the back of the head, the case was re-opened, and it remains so today. The identity of the doctor was never discovered, nor was he seen again and serious doubt was eventually cast on his very existence: he formed just the first of many mysteries concerning the murder of the man described in the memoirs of Special Investigator Ed C King as “a cultured, dignified gentleman with a charming personality and considerable magnetism.” The unsolved investigation into the untimely death of this “cultured, dignified gentleman” spanned decades; it ruined the careers of two of the most prominent actresses of the day, left countless reputations in tatters and caused the Seattle Star to remark: “every time there is a shooting scrape in the movie colony some screen star finds out where the rest of her clothes are.” Risque stuff for 1922; the murder became one of the first instances of trial by tabloid and reveals a Wild West Hollywood almost forgotten today.

The real mystery to me is how this fascinating case has become so forgotten. Mention Fatty Arbuckle, Charlie Chaplin, Rudolph Valentino to anyone who doesn’t have a particular interest in film history, and the names will ring a bell. They might even have a rough idea of their scandals that made such an impact on the fledgling movie community during the 1920s, but William Desmond Taylor? Almost invariably nada. In fact, a few months ago I visited Los Angeles, and was determined to visit the site of Taylor’s death (typing this, it occurs to me for the first time that it could be construed as somewhat macabre – I prefer to think of it as a keen interest in history!) – his bungalow at Alvadoro and Maryland in Westlake, part of a complex that was home to a host of stars of the day including Douglas and Faith MacLean and Chaplin's leading lady Edna Purviance. I knew that the original complex had been torn down in the 1960s – the demolition is featured in Sidney Kirkpatrick’s A Cast of Killers – but expected something to remain to commemorate Taylor’s place in Hollywood history. My lovely friend D (he does have a full first name, but I’ll go with the initial in case he decides to sue me one day) agreed to drive me to the site, and so – following a 1920s map which I now see was somewhat short sighted – we set off. After a good 40 minutes trawling the streets of downtown Los Angeles getting confused by unexpected freeways not featured on my map, we finally found Alvadoro and excitedly counted down the streets towards Maryland to discover… a parking lot. How horribly indicative of America’s regard for history to find that such a site – which would surely feature at least a plaque in London – had been turned into a place to stick cars.

Despite numerous false leads and unsubstantiated confessions - in 1964, a former silent star who had worked with Taylor for six months in 1914, Margaret Gibson, claimed on her deathbed to have killed Taylor - and an investigation spanning decades, the case has never been conclusively solved. The most popular theory, favoured by Ed C. King and director King Vidor, was that Charlotte Shelby, mother of actress and Taylor admirer Mary Miles Minter, killed Taylor.

For further reading on the case, I highly recommend Bruce Long’s online newsletter, Taylorology at http://www.angelfire.com/az/Taylorology/