NON-WORKINGMONKEY

I get you in the mood

2009-12-08T08:22:00.005-05:00

If you are a lover of this web-blog - which, frankly, could apply to anyone in their right mind - you may very much enjoy this website: a place where photographs of dodgy Father Christmases and screaming children/young men in red pants clutching a 'saxophone' are assembled for your viewing pleasure.

I announce the winner

2009-12-07T21:47:00.003-05:00

Yes, it is true. After much deliberation ("do you like your snack plate? Do you? Do you?"), we (i.e., me and the French-Canadian veterinary research pathologist to whom I am married), have chosen a winner for my competition.

As a reminder to new readers, or those who have lost their train of thought over the last few days, the competition was this: a prize of some biscuits (made by me) and a signed photograph of me in my chair would be given to the best answer to the question "Why I Think Non-workingmonkey is Great", in 150 characters or less (fewer?).

There have been a great many excellent entries which you may read by looking at the comments on the original post here, but there is one that stands out by over one million miles for a number of different reasons:

1. It suggests that its author is EITHER unable to read basic instructions OR (more to my liking), willfully ignores them, i.e. "150 characters or less"*;
2. It is funny;
3. It contains a phrase that stinks of genius.

Here is the full entry here:

"Non-working monkey is a stir-fry of calamity and genius, like a second helping of the world’s best pancakes served in a tumble dryer. It’s what happens when “je ne sais quoi” humps the leg of quiet desperation. This blog reminds me of the early voyageurs who boldly paddled through an unknown land, slapping mosquitoes as they went. Maybe it’s the man in the cardboard boat or the banner with the flag-hoisting beaver, but either way, around every bend there is a little bit more to learn, a little bit more to despise about homeopathy. Mais oui, alright?"

However, we have decided to take from the full-cream version the bit that pleases us most, and re-enter it into the competition, making the final - and magnificent - winner the legendary Purest Green with the immortal - if somewhat edited - line:

"Non-workingmonkey is what happens when "je ne sais quoi" humps the leg of quiet desperation."

Congratulations, Purest Green! Send in your address (email address over there on the right somewhere) and I will send you biscuits and a signed photograph. Coming tomorrow: the (unedited) runners-up.

Pip pip!

* Extra 1000 points for not doing what you are told, which I entirely salute being, as I am, the daughter of a woman who was thrown out of the Brownies for insubordination, probably aged about 7.

I will announce the winner tomorrow

2009-12-07T00:05:00.004-05:00

Do not think I have forgotten that I am supposed to announce the winner of my fantastic competition today (Sunday 6th). Oh no. I have not forgotten. We will announce the winner tomorrow (Monday 7th). You will see.

In the meantime, go and see Fantastic Mr Fox. It is brilliant. If you can't go out from your house and/or flat and/or box right now and go and see it, ignore the Barf-O-Rama voiceover and watch the trailer instead.

The trailer is 1/1,345,222,232,321th as good as the real film but OK to tide you over before you can get to the cinema/it is released in your country (if it isn't already):

It is brilliant for many reasons, one of them being that Jarvis Cocker sings a song in it.

I start having a go on Christmas

2009-12-06T09:57:00.008-05:00

Come on Christmas!! Yes, it is that speshul time of year again: time for lights, decorations, trees etc; putting out a mince pie for Father Christmas and a carrot for Rudolf; praying and praying that this year there will be a pony and/or puppy at the end of the bed; pretending you cannot see Monkeymother coming in with the stockings; eating chocolate money at 5am then a tangerine to balance it out; discouraging Monkeymother from inserting the 'business end' of the turkey over Monkeyfather's head; hiding Monkeyfather's Bailey's (3 types) in the shed, etc.

But this year it will be different. Yes. "Christmas 2009" will be tinged with a hint of the strange and a soupçon of the unfamiliar, for this will be first year in forty (40) years that I have not been with Monkeymother and Monkeyfather on Christmas Day. I will instead be in Canada with the French-Canadian veterinary research pathologist to whom I am married by law, a 14lb turkey, a ham, 1.28kg of Bendicks Bittermints* and Canada's version of The Queen having a speech.

It will be magnificent, of that I am convinced, and to make it even better, on Boxing Day some friends are coming from Toronto (words I never thought I would say!). There will be two extra ladies, two extra men, a baby and a gigantic dog the size of a Shetland pony and we will spend 5 days by the fire drinking beer, eating turkey pie and watching "Colin and Justin's Home Heist" on BBC Canada.

But I will not be allowed to forget the simple, gurning faces of Monkeymother and Monkeyfather, for last year they gave me a special and privit Christmas present that I have not, until now, felt able to share with you, dear readers. But now is the time - for today, yes today, the knitted monkey in a fez (a reproduction of my Victorian ancestor, Private-Income Monkey) has been taken out of his special place on our bedhead, and put up the top of our Canadian christmas tree**.

Here he is, having a climb and a little look around while he waits for the rest of the 'tree decorations' to be added, including a unicorn, over 1.2m gingerbread stars, and a white rubber stress-relieving sheep.

What a smashing little fella!

* An early present from Monkeymother, no less!
** "Small tree" in Canada = 6ft

I stimulate you further

2009-12-04T10:53:00.003-05:00

Come on, adoring readers! I know you are working hard on your submissions for my brilliant competition, and that means you must be tired.

Because you are tired, I must stimulate you, and I will do this with a cat singing about cake. It is not the first time I have put this video on my web-blog, but no matter: it stands the test of time.

I surprise you with a kitty!!!

2009-12-03T22:26:00.000-05:00

Whilst you, my adoring readers, are working on your competition entries, I am going to encourage you AND stimulate your creative energies by posting various excellent 'video clips' over the next day or so, i.e. until the competition entry time runs out.

First of all, here is a Surprised Kitty. I do not care if you have seen it one hundred times already. I know you will like seeing it again. Tonight, for example, I have watched it over 231 times.

Keep it up!

I do a competition

2009-12-02T06:50:00.005-05:00

Yes it is true. To get us all in the Christmas spirit, as it were, I am offering one lucky reader the chance to win a signed photograph of me AND a box of appropriately festive biscuits (that I will make myself) as a prize for the best short essay (in no more than 150 characters) on the following subject:

"Why I Think Non-workingmonkey Is Great*"

I would suggest that you 'insert your oeuvre' in the comments box but if you wish to submit your submission privately, you may do so by emailing me at the address you will find on your right.

The competition closes this Friday 4th December, and the winner will be announced on Sunday 6th December. The prize(s) will be despatched on Monday 7th December which, according to the mighty Canada Post, means you will have it by Christmas.

What greater bliss is there? None!

* You may insert another (positive) superlative here if you wish.

I introduce you to a special place

2009-12-01T20:15:00.001-05:00

Regular readers will be quite aware by now that I am very much 'on top of' new media, social media etc etc, and am able to 'Tweet' and 'Re-Tweet' etc with the best of them. So far I have a lot of followers on Twitter: not as many as bloody Jonny B or lovely Anna but still quite a lot, i.e. c. 12 at the last count (which is exactly 9 more people than visit my blog every day).

Also, I have a Facebook Group thing that someone opened up for me - it is quite good and has exactly 41 members, which would be too many people to have to dinner at the same time if you lived in quite a small house, but not enough for a barn-dance to be described as "quite an evening".

But I digress. If you have a Facebook profile (and everyone does these days, even Monkeyfather and Monkeymother, although they only have 1 friend each and that is each other, my brother and I having chosen to exclude them from sight of us chugging beer, mooning, smoking 'joints' etc in our Facebook photosnaps) and you are a right-minded person, might I suggest that you go here and sign up to the mighty "Pictures of Sting looking like a twat" group, recommended by the delicious Allanah in yesterday's post? I think you will like it!

Pip pip!

NWM

I think about other things that are rubbish

2009-11-29T10:39:00.006-05:00

Regular readers will by now be fully aware of the fact that I think homeopathy is rubbish. But what else do I think is rubbish? I will tell you!

Sting

As we all know, Sting is a gigantic spaz and Trudie is as well. I challenge you not to watch this video and shout WANKERS!!! at your computer, even if you do not swear ever and are a monk and/or a nun who has taken a vow of silence. (Of particular note: the bit where Captain Twat himself starts singing towards the end. I cannot comment on the fish.)

The only circumstances in which Sting is acceptable is when he is being covered by the legendary Jonny B, who is the best banjo player in England. Note: when I say 'covered' I do not mean it in the veterinary sense.

Windchimes

Unless you live in the middle of a field out of earshot of the rest of us, you should not be allowed to have windchimes. You may think the sound of windchimes jingling in the evening breeze is restful, but it disturbs my concentration - which could be potentially fatal in some circumstances, e.g. filling small clay pipe, steaming fez, etc.

Note: there is nothing worse than a hippy-type who bangs on about how much they love for e.g. the environment, nature, other people etc. They are the ones with dogs on strings, windchimes, curried lentil hotpot, cigarettes made out of twigs and smelly hair that disturb everyone else. Also, when you ask them for e.g. to stop smoking their cigarettes made out of twigs and doing clown-dancing and juggling in gigantic hats to an accompaniment of the lute and recorder on your front lawn, and when you ask them to stop recyling their babies' nappies in your recycling bin and/or living in your trees etc, and when you tell them that homeopathy doesn't work and crystals do not have energy, they say that 'not everything can be explained' and that you are a fascist!!!

Asking if we are "trying for a baby now we are married"

Are you the sort of person who strokes pregnant women's 'bumps' without asking? This is a truly ghastly question to ask (unless you are someone's friend). I have been asked it three times by relative strangers (e.g. hairdresser, person on shoot, person introduced to last weekend) in the last few weeks. So far, the best reply I have come up with is: "who can tell"?

Another rubbish thing is that many ghastly expressions - the ones that make your toes curl in horror - are invariably attached to babies, which is not fair on either the babies or their mothers. For e.g.:

1. "trying for a baby"
2. sudden loss of the article, e.g., "how is Baby?"
3. random and over-familiar use of the word "mum", e.g. "and how is Mum feeling today?"; "us mums like to get together!"; "Mums love Dettox!", "proud Mum to Horatio, 1 and Ebenezer, 5" etc. (I ask you: what is wrong with the word 'mother'?)
4. "little ones", "little xxx" (fill in name of baby)
5. "kiddies"
etc etc

NB: I like babies/children very much, and some of my favourite people are mothers, so if you are one of those humourless 'Mommy bloggers' looking for a fight, you will not get one here, no sirree!

Touching base

Acceptable in a sporting context; not acceptable, in any circumstances, in the workplace. I have said it before and I will say it again and again until it stops.

Ill-mannered dogs

Yesterday morning at 3.30am, I took great pleasure in leaning off my balcony and shout to my very stupid and very selfish downstairs neighbours, who were in their garden SHOUTING with their friends: "Excuse me. EXCUSE ME. Would you mind SHUTTING THE FUCK up?".

They shut up, and then at 7am they let their badly behaved, ill-trained dogs out into the garden, who then woke us up again with their relentless yapping as they do every morning at 7am. I dressed quickly, I went downstairs, I banged on their door, and I said many, many things, none of which I regret; indeed, this morning, they waited until 9.30 to let the dogs out. Result!

(I do not blame the dogs. The behaviour of dogs, like children, is entirely the result of their training. Monkeymother and Monkeyfather, for example, kept my brother and me in a box in the garden, letting us out only to perform highlights from the later works of Gilbert O'Sullivan for any visiting guests. Rewarded with Garibaldi biscuits and punished with Alan Parsons, we grew up to be - as anyone who knows us personally can attest - two perfectly-behaved, hugely accomplished, attractive adults, with more than our fair share of social and circus skills).

No doubt there is more to come.

Pip pip!

NWM

I have further evidence that homeopathy is bobbins

2009-11-27T20:38:00.009-05:00

"It's a kind of magic!", says the homeopathic naturopath who, apparently, was a real doctor in France, but is not allowed to practice in Quebec. She is asking me many questions about for e.g. my favourite colour and whether I prefer salty things to sweet things, reading them out of a gigantic book that looks not unlike the 1987 edition of Linda Goodman's Love Signs.

I am there because someone I work with who I like very much said I should go. I did not realise the 'doctor' was a homeopath until it was too late to elegantly cancel the appointment, and so I decide to keep an open mind and see if there is something to take away from the experience other than leaflets about Reiki.

She is very nice and I very much enjoy talking to her but it is absolute bobbins, what she is saying. I am determined to be honest, so I sit back in my chair and say with my mouth: "I do not believe in homeopathy!".

She starts laughing. "It is only in North America that homeopathy is not recognised", she says, drawing on a piece of paper and rolling her eyes. "They have done many wonderful things in North America, but they are not always right." I do not press her to define 'recognised', and watch instead as she rummages through her book of Magic. Yes, I do prefer harmony to conflict, and no, I am not constipated.

She does not ask me why I do not believe in homeopathy, and starts to write my prescription which will, if I understand my fellow doctor-visitors correctly, cost in the region of $1,000,000. I have no idea what she is prescribing, and she does not explain, so I say something else. "I don't believe in homeopathy because there is no evidence that it works, beyond the placebo effect, and more to the point, it just doesn't make any sense. Water doesn't have a memory, for starters". She smiles and keeps writing.

"Drink lemon in the morning, with hot water", she says. "It will help with the acidity." "Is that a good idea?", I say. "Lemon juice gives me sort of ... heartburn. Burny acid. In my stomach. And it hurts. So how can it help with acidity?" It is at this point that the alleged doctor delivers the fact that proves to me, beyond all shadow of a doubt, that 'alternative medicine' should be banished.

"Don't worry. Lemon has a false acidity. In other words, it tastes acidic, but it is not. It will neutralise the acid in your stomach."

With that, she gives me a bill for $100, which will - I am astonished to tell you - be paid by my medical insurance. "But you will see I have put it down as a naturopathic consultation, not a homeopathic one; as I say, they do not believe in homeopathy in North America."

I come home and watch this and feel very much better.

I have evidence

2009-11-26T12:07:00.000-05:00

"I do not believe you had a banjo player in a cardboard boat at your wedding!!!", said a detractor the other day. That person is a bloody idiot. We did, and here is a photograph of him to PROVE IT.

Sadly, he has a guitar in this photograph, so you will just have to believe me when I say he also has a banjo. (And no, we didn't fully understand what the cellophane thing in the background was either.)

He is called Philippe.

I make an appeal to any English people who meet Americans for the first time

2009-11-25T23:32:00.003-05:00

If you are English and are going about your daily life (e.g. at a party, dancing at a disco, buying sausages, at a meeting of international colleages, a sales conference, a wife swapping party, in a hotel lobby or at a rodeo) and you are introduced to a North American, please, upon hearing them speak for the first time, grasp them by the hand, look them in the eye and scream into their confused faces:

"OH. MY. GOD. I LOVE YOUR ACCENT."

This will also work if you are speaking to them on the telephone, but make sure you let them speak for five minutes, demonstrate that you have not been listening to a word they have said, and THEN say: "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening to what you said, I was just listening to your accent."

You may also tell them their accent is 'awesome', 'cute' or 'cool'. Once you are feeling more confident, feel free to ask them to say things for you, e.g. orange squash, Buckingham Palace, marmalade, and discotheque.

** UPDATE **
Prompted by a comment below, may I also suggest that, after shouting "OH. MY. GOD. I LOVE YOUR ACCENT", you then take a deep breath and ask: "And where are you FROM?".

I read the comments on the YouTube

2009-11-23T22:46:00.002-05:00

I am watching this video by a lady called Shakira (who is apparently only 4ft 8 inches tall in real life), wondering, as I was instructed to by the friend that told me to look it up, what exactly she is doing in the cage and whether or not she is hurting herself with her repetitive hip dislocation.

But what is this? I am distracted from the sexy lupine antics of the South American wolf-fox by the comments that are written underneath it. Here, for your particular enjoyment on this chilly November evening, is a contribution from a "Miss Mackenzie". Where she is from, we do not know - but sure as eggs is eggs, she has her finger on the pulse!!!

I am made to laugh until I squirt by John Peel

2009-11-23T16:45:00.005-05:00

I was sent this this morning by my friend Louis, who is reading a copy of John Peel's autobiography (found in Oxfam).

It made me extremely happy. I hope you enjoy it too.

In answer to the question "how did you feel about the music of the early ‘70s?", he replied:

“Well, when you look at that period, the only bands that got signed up were bands that contained at least one member of a previously successful band that had broken up, and almost the only new band that came through during the whole of that time was Roxy Music, so that’s why when punk came along, it was such a welcome breath of foul air, because you hadn’t realised how bored you’d been.

For instance, round about 1975, the controller of Radio 1, who was very much into motor racing, took us to Mallory Park. It was a regular race meeting, but there was a Radio 1 dimension to it. There’s a huge lake that takes up much of the area in the middle of the track, and right on the edge of the lake there’s a couple of small islands, and they’d set up a mock medieval tent on the bigger of the two islands and this is where the élite went, and you could only get to it from a footbridge guarded by security people. Slade were there, and the Bay city Rollers were also there. I was there too, standing outside the hospitality tent talking to my fellow DJ Johnny Walker.

Cars were hurtling around the track, and all these Rollers fans were dashing across, even during races I think, because the Bay City Rollers had been brought in by helicopter and were standing on top of this observation platform, waving to the fans on the other side of the road. The fans would run across the track, then down to the edge of the lagoon, and they’d see the Bay City Rollers about 20 yards away across this muddy water, reeds and stuff. Of course, these girls were all wearing Bay City Rollers chic – which wasn’t flattering – and they started wading through the water to get to their heroes.

The only security on the island – and it seems barely credible – was provided by the BBC Sub-Aqua Club. So you’ve got all these people in frogman outfits with flippers and goggles standing on the bank, catching these girls, carrying them back through the mud and depositing them on the other bank, where they’d just turn round and come back again. But Noddy Holder (of Slade, who had enjoyed an unbroken string of hits throughout the early 70s) went over the bridge and walked through this crowd and they paid no attention to him at all. He must have thought at that moment: “This is where it all ends.”

So helicopters are going backwards and forwards, all these girls are struggling through the water and there’s frogmen hopping about. I turned away, just in time to see on the main part of the lagoon, Tony Blackburn is hurtling across the water, waving to the crowds, in a speedboat driven by a Womble. I turned to Johnny and said, “Mark this well, because we‘ll never see the likes of it again.”

I offer you an early Christmas present idea

2009-11-23T16:31:00.003-05:00

This tiny pack of tiny post-it notes provides me with nothing but non-stop pleasure all day long.

Rapidly becoming the 'most used' item on my desk (after my stapler and crack pipe), this wonderful product is a must for every self-respecting employee - especially those that believe themselves, in their hearts, to be essentially non-working.

They are available to buy, via the medium of the 'internet shop', here.

Pip pip!

I receive the best medical advice of all time

2009-11-20T23:42:00.004-05:00

We are in Putre in Northern Chile and we are making a commercial. There is not much in Putre* other than some streets, some clothes made out of alpaca, shoes made out of alpaca, tiny alpacas made out of alpaca and a restaurant with alpaca chop suey on the menu. (Note: the animal in the picture is llama, not an alpaca; neither of these is a vicuna.)

Putre is quite high up in the air, and being high up in the air can bring on altitude sickness. Because we are lily-livered bottom dwellers, we are not used to the altitude, and more to the point, there is no way of predicting whether you will get altitude sickness or not until you get there, so we have taken 'precautions' before we leave. I have Diamox, as do the others, but we all have slightly different prescriptions and spend a great many minutes discussing them; I also have cortisone (which apparently stops your brain from blowing up); we each have a bag of coca leaves and some of us have even stopped halfway up the road to Putre to drink chachacoma tea, pausing from our hungry sucking only to wonder why the Nestlé refrigerator says "Savoury" on the outside when there is ice-cream on the inside of it.

But preventative tea and drugs are to no avail, for on my first night in the height I feel sick, and dizzy, and very, very, very tired, and cannot walk for more than 5 steps without panting like a hot dog. I go to bed and sleep for 12 hours, but before I sleep I lie in bed panting like someone who is running very fast. It is strange and magical, and I sleep the sleep of the not-quite-dead.

The next day I am recovered, although still panting, and we go to the 'set' and we do work. But then a doctor comes into the place we are shooting and suddenly I am hyper-pantilating.
"That's not a real doctor. They're shooting the South American version of 'Days of our Lives' down the road, and he's wandered on to the wrong set", says someone, and they are almost right because he is tall with curled hair and flashing black eyes so he looks like a soap dish. But in truth he is a real doctor, and he puts our fingers in his little machines and tells us if we are OK or not, and he has eyedrops if we need them, and he puts plasters on our cuts and hands out isotonic drinks and walks around with his big toolbox on display for everyone to see.

Two days later, we go even higher, to 4,400 metres. We are in a place called Parinacota, which is very beautiful, but I do not think its beauty is why my heart is beating at one million bpm. I am frowning and the doctor says, "OK, you OK?", and I say, "my heart is beating very fast!", and he makes me put my finger in his little machine, and then he says, "you must sit down, and not walk or run, and tonight you must have red wine. This way, you will be better soon."

Result!

* If par hasard you are going there, the best hotel in Putre is apparently the Terrace Lodge. We stayed in Hotel Quantati, which was much much nicer than this link says. Of the other hotels in Putre, which is tiny teeny, one has beds that are the shape of bananas and heaters that light up the whole room with their red light, and the other one is run by a woman who looks exactly like a llama. Oh, and this restaurant is actually and literally brilliant, and not far away are places that look like this:

I am in the Chile!!!

2009-11-16T10:26:00.000-05:00

Yes it is true, I am on the "set" of a "commercial shoot". It is super. Highlights so far:

1. Being stopped at Santiago customs going to Arica for a 125g bag of nuts; 1 hour wait; $200 fine. Meanwhile, people are held for 2 hams, a set of antlers and a banana (not all together).Yes.

2. Not being in possession of a telephone that works outside Canada.

3. Being kidnapped by 3 producers (who we were not expecting) whilst my client had no (0) idea where I was, due in part to (2).

4. Extraordinary views. See below.

5. Shooting lady with llama walking up street; meanwhile, man with cows walks up street, swiftly followed by a flock of sheep. Sun comes down over Chilean mountains. We all go: oooooo!

Tonight, we shoot a volcano at sundown, and tomorrow morning some llamas at sunrise. We will be very tired!

Pip pip

NWM

I prepare for a trip to Chile/Chili

2009-11-12T06:53:00.001-05:00

Chile, Chili. Either way, it is a long way from Montreal, and to get there I must do this: Montreal-Miami-Santiago-Arica in an aeroplane (24 hours), then Arica-Putre in a car, going up and up and up, for 3 hours. Yes, this is what it is like working in advertising: you fly to places you would not normally go to film things, and it is good.

But what is this? I am sent a link to the hotel we will stay in in Arica! I do not know where to look with my eyes, so wonderful does it seem.

I shall take photographs of the hotel in the flesh, as it were, and attempt to post them before I leave for Putre aware, as I am, of the fact that altitude sickness may make my head explode.*

* Fear not, gentle readers. I have Diamox AND cortisone, so I shall not be swollen, but I may be weeing non-stop. I will also be able to lick llamas with inpunity, having been vaccinated against Hepatitis A and B, diptheria, polio (again) and TB and having, in my sac, an Epipen, Benadryl and cortisone (in case my mouth swells up randomly, as it sometimes does).

I set England vs. North America

2009-11-10T22:56:00.002-05:00

Based on the following commercials, which is better: England or North America?

England:

North America:

In other news, you may still join the excellent 'group' set up by one of my adoring readers on the Facebook by pressing here. And this time, the link is working. Amazing.

I have a Facebook 'fan page' type thing

2009-11-08T21:45:00.002-05:00

Regular readers will be fully aware that I am quite 'au fait' with what is cleverly described as 'social media'. Only last week I had a conversation with a client about it that went a bit like this:

Client: We have to do ... the social media.

Me: The social media?

Client: Yes. The social media.

Me: Hmm.

Client: Can you do social media?

Me: Do it? What do you mean, can I 'do social media'?

Client: Yes. Do you know how to do it?

Most of the time, clients say, "I know, let's do a Facebook fan page!", and you ask them why and they say "because Facebook IS social media". Faced with that kind of assertion, the need to explain dissipates rapidly and thoughts turn to the olden days when you could choose from TV, radio, press or print, young people were respectful of their elders, and offices in advertising agencies were routinely equipped with full bars, humidors and Christina Hendricks*.

The thing is, I do know why fan pages exist. They exist so that fans of things (i.e., you, my loyal readers) can express your appreciation (aka love/lust) for things, e.g. this blog. Luckily, after many months of hoping that someone, somewhere, would listen to my plea, someone I know has made a thing on Facebook and it is all about me!!!

It is super. You can go there by going here. Sign up! You know it makes sense! And if you do it, YOU will be able to look your client in the eye and tell him or her that yes, you can do social media.

**UPDATE** Beady-eyed readers will have noticed that the link supposedly taking you to the Facebook did not, in fact, take you to the Facebook. Now it does. Yes indeed.

* I have recently added Christina Hedricks to my laminated list .

I deal with neighbours

2009-11-04T23:32:00.002-05:00

I have just composed this letter to our neighbours. It is cowardly, but I have no choice, other than taking archery lessons and remaining open to being imprisoned for animal cruelty.

Dear Neighbours

I am sure you know that your dogs are noisy. After all, you have to live with them. But that is your choice. It is not our choice to live with them, and yet somehow we feel that we do.

For about $5 you can buy a water pistol (Toys R Us is good, but you may be lucky at Loblaws). With that water pistol, you can train your dogs to stop barking so that we can get some sleep after 10pm and/or sleep past 6.30am in the morning.

This is how you do it:

1. Put water in the water pistol.
2. When the dog barks (but is NOT looking at you), squirt him/her with water.
3. Repeat until the dog(s) figure out that when they bark, bad shit happens.

You may have to do this for a couple of weeks before they get the message, but it’ll be worth it (for the entire street) if you do figure it out.

If you don’t want to spend $5 on a water pistol, the recycling goes out on Monday night. I’m sure you can maybe get a used washing up liquid bottle from someone’s box and use that.

A Neighbour

It is a sure sign that I am 40, which I am; other signs include:

- arthritis medicine and indigestion tablets in the bathroom cupboard
- aching joints
- going 'aaaah' when I sit down
- thinking young people are idiots
- thinking I should get a pension
- doing embroidery
- knitting
- making jam, bread, etc
- actually enjoying Oprah magazine (whilst remaining healthily British about the whole thing)
- waiting 'until we've got the money to do it properly'
- not seeing the point of holidays involving rucksacks
- tutting at the neighbours
- ordering M&S tights online from England
- starting to read murder mystery books (does Kate Atkinson count? And someone gave me a Barbara Vine that looks tempting)

Hoorah! I'm going for a little nap.

Zzzzzz.

I share with my adoring readers one of the finest wedding speeches ever written

2009-10-27T12:12:00.004-04:00

There is more to come on the subject of our wedding (for e.g. some more photographs). In the meantime, we have been remembering (with great fondness) some of the miraculously good speeches made by our dearest friends: so funny in parts that I weed my Spanx, and so English in others that the French Canadians could do no more than mutter "quoi?" and focus on their cheese(s).

Here is one of them, written by our dear friends (academics, comedians, parents of our god-children, and purveyors of all that is right in the world). I have edited it very little. I hope you enjoy it. (Regular readers will know that my true name is Lucy, and that the pathologist goes by the name of JM, when he is not being called either Boris or Master.)

"We like to think of Lucy and JM as the Sapphire and Steel of Montreal, the Laverne and Shirley if you will, the omelette and the fruit of the breakfast plate, the poutine and the chips, the Céline and the René.

JM is a creation straight from the pages of a modern romance novel, a Mills and Boon vision of manliness dreamt up by a fruity female writer. Picture the scene. An athletic mountain-biking French Canadian vet with a wide knowledge of Californian wines and the inside track on a lamb’s uterus, sweeps the Lady off her feet in the misty, cobbled streets of the ancient English cathedral town of Canterbury. (When I say 'sweep off her feet', I of course mean ply her with 6 gin and tonics and then dare her to a game of competitive spinning, resulting in lying face down on ye cobbled streets in the rain. This was Lucy’s first experience of a well-used Montrealian mating ritual. As we can tell from today’s happy event, it wasn’t to be her last.)

JM’s animal magnetism first sent the Monkey synapses sparking, leading her to emit her infamous high frequency ‘man growl’ – inaudible to most, but a siren’s call to her victim, also works in the animal kingdom. Photo evidence abounds of his mesmeric talents to stun a squirrel into a ‘paws up’ pose, his ability to render a caterpillar immobile for up to six minutes and to make almost any form of canine growl ‘sausages’ to order. Of course all this is done with a glint of his gunmetal grey eyes, for it is well known that he is yoda-like in his verbal delivery. (Once, after a 10 minute presentation on porcine dendentrics he was rendered incapable of speech for 2 weeks. Tru fax my friends, tru fax.)

But this ability to communicate as a latter day Dr Doolittle also extends to the plant world and his gardening prowess. The size of his marrow is legendary, as are his plums. Lucy has never been happier than whilst foraging with abandon in his well stocked garden.

But Lucy too has a great affinity with outdoor life. Many a time Lucy has watched American Idol with a rabid fox who has crept in from her former London garden and spent a merry half hour with her in her lounge whilst she peruses Simon Cowell’s nasal hair. She’s generous with animals too - lending her Fendi handbags to foxes to savage in her garden, talking to small dogs she meets on the street like Mary Poppins on crystal meth with a ‘come along poppit, keep up keep up’, and she always takes great pleasure in spotting animals who closely resemble their owners. She was the first to muse that Pamela Anderson does have a cute pair of puppies.

Lucy and JM are the meeting of two great forces, the Western seaboard squeezing at a few juicy Rockies. Without JM, Lucy would have no idea of the concept that you can’t leave your shopping in the car not in case it thaws, but because it will all freeze. He has taught her the joy of spaghetti suppers, and that it is not compulsory that risottos need to be served to guests after 11pm having been plied with several large turbo shandies beforehand. He has patiently month by month, year by year taken away all the grown-up stuff that a real lady should not be bothered with – MOT-ing the car, filing the cds into alphabetical order, cleaning the gutters – real daddy bear man stuff. In short, he is her knight in shining armour, or given his DIY boiler suit look, her shite in nylon armour, the Becks to her Posh.

In return, she has introduced JM to a whole new world of Englishness – a fondness for poorly insulated housing, having an ‘urgh, lovely cup of tea’ on 20 minute cycles, looking at a slight snow flurry and shouting ‘shitting hell we’re in a fucking white out we’re all going to die’. She has saved him from continuing to commit the fashion crime of wearing brown penny loafers with black shiney trousers, of keeping on his ear mufflers indoors and of sporting his vintage 1996 Alanis Morrisette ‘Jagged Little Pill’ blouson tour jacket when meeting friends for dinner. Sadly, she will never be able to rid him of his strange fascination with cutting his own hair. Lucy has, in short, turned him into the French Canadian stud muffin that we see before us today. A moment of quiet reflecion whilst we, as one, rest our gaze upon Jean-Martin. A chorus of "For he’s a jolly good fellow…"

As for the blushing bride well, the now dirtily titled Mrs Lucy Monkey, she is a phenomenon. Part boho flapper girl, part deep thinker, part house mistress, part cockney second hand car dealer. Imagine Martha Wainwright, soused with Steven Pinker mixed with Naomi Klein with a side order of Conrad Black. She can present an astounding array of burps, trumps and underarm fart noises. She can bump and grind like a bad bad Jamaican girl. You knows it sister. Step it girl. She can knock out a triumphant array of cakes and savoury snacks. Knows the method to produce a killer gin. Can make us laugh more than it was previously thought humanly possible. She has the prettiest eyes and the softest skin of a lady what I have ever known. Just thinking of her makes me feel happy. She has an exquisite taste in clothes, jewels, music, poetry and all the fighting arts. She knows more rude words than the progeny of a Fleet Street papparazi and a filthy minded aristocrat. Exceptionally modest, pure of heart, a caring and loving godmother to our children, and a huzzah to JM for becoming a godfather to our nippers.

A friend for life, indeed friends for life. For this happy union today cements the two tribes into one unique unstoppable force. Ability to cook and take the piss out of each other, check. Joint ability to discern a snow shoe from a tennis racket, check. Stamina to fly to England from Canada and race around to see all the millions of people who want you all to themselves, check. A love of hideous museums, bizarre spectacles and odd encounters with the uniquely blessed of this world. Double check.

Ladies and gentlemen, madams et messieurs, please raise your glasses and whoop yourselves senseless as I present to you Mr and Mrs Monkey."

I wish you all a premature happy Halloween

2009-10-24T10:52:00.000-04:00

I welcome you to the world of Canadian (specifically Quebecois) Halloween cakes. It will be nearly impossible for you to distinguish between those from the pikey rural supermarket and those from the fancy-schmancy patisserie, of that I am sure.

My particular favourite: take an Opera cake (more or less), cover in fondant icing and call it "Phantom of the Opera". NB: some of the Phantoms of the Opera have one eye, some two.

I still do not have photograph of our smashing top-rate wedding in which you can actually see our gurning faces

2009-10-22T15:42:00.006-04:00

But here, to whet your dirty appetites, is a picture sent by my oldest pal Anna with the accompanying note:

"I'm thinking the flash effect looks like the sparkling of a hundred fairies at the moment of Love".

I think she is right!!

(Multilingual readers will have noted with joy the "Exit" sign hovering over both our heads. Yes indeed.)

I haven't got any interesting photos, but we are married

2009-10-18T20:52:00.006-04:00

In the absence of any vaseline-rimmed shots of me and the pathologist looking over our shoulders and/or kissing under a fruity maple tree, I offer you the scant pickings of my own camera.

You will have to wait if you want to see one of me looking like Queen Victoria; we did not have a wedding photographer, choosing instead to spend the money on crystal meth and biscuits, so are hoping for the goodwill of friends with cameraphones to instead create us a virtual (and semi-focused) wedding album that we can look at when we are old and smell of wee.

(And yes, we had a lovely time.)

Here are the wedding cakes that I made with my own monkey paws.

Here is the extraordinary cushion our friend Sarah made for us:

And here are the medals, made by our friend Charly and given to and worn by all 79 of our geeeests. (I am still wearing mine, and refuse to take it off.) We have kept one aside for Captain Sir Dave Shelton, responsible for so many of the things that have made us happy in the last few months (and years).

More to come, including what happens when you put a 3-piece Quebec folk band and 10 dancers in a room with 30 English people and an open bar, and what happens when you introduce 30 French-Canadians to fake moustaches and noses from the joke shop on Upper Richmond Road.