NON-WORKINGMONKEY

I wish you a happy Thursday

2009-07-09T08:13:00.003-04:00

My word! At 2.32, such was my pleasure that my fez began to quiver excitably some inches from my head!

I hear some excellent news from monkeyworld

2009-07-02T23:02:00.004-04:00

Yes, it is true, M. Jackson is no more. I will not get into some sort of chit-chat about whether or not I care* for fear of filling the comments box with the barely-literate words of either angry Jackson-detractors or adoring fans, but I am very pleased to report that Bubbles is, apparently, still "a carefree monkey .... interacting with friends, eating well, taking cover when it rains."

Shamon indeed.

* Answer: not much, but this is brilliant, whether you were that bothered about him or not.

I wish you all a happy Canada Day

2009-07-01T20:59:00.008-04:00

Yes, it is Canada Day. Canada's national anthem is quite good; in the English version, it is described as "the true North, strong and free", which I think is an excellent way to describe Scotland. The French Canadian version is, as far as I can tell, always sung by Celine Dion. (Note: the French-Canadian pathologist with whom I live is clutching his sides with mirth as I play it; not all French-Canadians love Celine and spend every weekend watching Cirque du Soleil DVDs, whatever they may think in Toronto.)

Canadians are likely to vote in Michael Ignatieff as Prime Minister at some point, I think, which is good - because I remember him mainly on BBC 2 talking about books and being an "intellectual". I think it's a good sign. Also, their current Prime Minister (whose name you are unlikely to know unless you are a Canadian), is a right cock, and a boring one at that.

Anyway, Canada has been very kind to me so far, and although I am often homesick (for reasons related to things like this or this) I am, on the whole, glad I am here.

(And no, I don't know what these people were doing jumping out of a plane with a maple leaf parachute either, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves.)

I am experimenting with advertising

2009-07-01T08:53:00.005-04:00

Please forgive me whilst I try and earn one cent a day from carrying hideously unattractive advertising on this web-blog. With any luck, most of it will be for prosthetic monkey limbs, wedding photographers and Greek statue suppliers which would be amusing in and of itself, but already I feel grubby, and already my web-blog (to my eye anyway) looks cheaper; the web-blog equivalent of, say, Leslie Ash after she had her lips done.

Let me explain: regular readers will be aware that I give back to society every day by working in an advertising agency (an industry in which one does well not to take oneself too seriously). As we spend quite a lot of time giving people on advice on, for e.g., "web strategy" and suggest they do things like "banner advertising" and what-have-you, I have decided to see how it works "live" and from the consumer-interface-first-hand-experience/experiential widget clickthrough type dimension. (So far, so good: I press some buttons and then apparently the Google will send me a cheque. Result!)

In the meantime, if you want to know what Andrew Lloyd-Weber and Clive Owen thought of this blog and how much Will Self likes me, scroll up and down a bit on the right.

Pip pip

NWM

**UPDATE** I literally couldn't bear it, and took them down. If you missed it and give two hoots, it looked like this:

I watch wedding porn, Pt 1

2009-06-27T00:11:00.001-04:00

I have been despondent of late. In the olden days I would leap from my fur-lined monkeycot and rush to my computer, fez awry and absinthe at my paw, and tap and tap until juice squirted from behind the space bar. But these days seem to have passed, and instead I watch my 'site traffic' fall (from 23 readers per day to 7) and with it, my hopes of a blog-rich future.

Instead, the kidz are having a go on Twitter. "OMG!! I just broke my nail!!!!", writes Demi Moore. "At the pub having a pie and a pint of mild", writes Cat Deeley. "Eating Jammy Dodgers and reading Andy McNab", tweets Alain de Botton. "Called it Twatter by mistake", I write with one hand, whilst simultaneously updating my Facebook status and searching for pictures of dogs in lobster outfits.

The once-constant source of my joy - this web-blog and its remarkably attractive readership - is left neglected and dusty, as I fill my days with other considerations, including 18 inch bum-wipers, enormously fat upside-down cats, and wedding porn.

Yes. On the internet there lives a group of ladies whose lives are, it seems, devoted to planning their weddings. They are special ladies with high standards and special decorative needs and I have, to my shame, been obsessively reading their writing and looking at their pictures. It is very informative, and I have learnt a lot about how to plan a wedding in the twenty-first century.

Here, for your amusement is a "compare and contrast" type entry, in which I compare the wedding norms (as defined by wedding ladies on the internet), vs. what I am doing when I get married on 17th October to a French-Canadian veterinary research pathologist. I will have to do it in two parts, otherwise your heads - like mine - will explode.

Proposals must be romantic

Ideally involving getting down on one knee, flowers, crying etc, or perhaps a piece of animation that takes 20 people 3 months to make, audiences, Italian restaurants, more tears, rings hidden in fortune cookies, mystery trips away for the weekend, Ferraris, etc, and a lot! Of exclamation marks! About the whole! Thing!

My real-life proposal moment:

We are in a restaurant where they do not stop giving you food, including candyfloss in a box and over a hundred different types of cake.

Pathologist: So, do you think we should get married then?
Me: Did you just propose?
Pathologist: Yes.
Me: OK then.

The bill is put on our joint credit card. I am reminded that the pathologist is a French-Canadian and marriage is, to him, "counter-intuitive" (i.e., they don't do it much and think people that do are a bit weird); he is doing this thing for me.

Engagement rings are really important.

As any fule kno, all men must spend at least 12 months' salary on a ring and it must be presented in a box with said gentleman down on one knee with a rose in his gob. Ideally, music will also be playing. You have to worry about the 4 Cs and all of that and it must be very shiny, and perhaps made of diamonds made of old coal.

According to the web-blogs, it is also a really good idea to have it custom made on Etsy or have something 'vintage' (i.e., old) 'reworked' according to your own design (e.g. the face of Andrew Lloyd Weber, celtic knot-cum-arabic logo, etc).

Note: the amount of money the person who proposes spends on the engagement ring is directly related to how much he likes you and if he is able to chop wood, protect you from wolves, pay the bills, etc.

My engagement ring

Pathologist: I have not got you an engagement ring. I thought about it but I thought it was a waste of money.
Me: Oh. OK then.

I wear my great-grandmother's ring instead. This has a double effect: I get to wear something that I like and wouldn't otherwise wear, and I do not have to have the following conversation:

Nosy lady: If you are engaged where is your engagement ring? Is your fiancey a stingy motherfucker or poor or stupid or something?
Me: I do not have one because the person I am marrying is a particular type of person who is very generous, but does not believe in spending the same amount as a car would cost on a ring that I will keep getting caught on things.

Engagement shoot

This is vitally important and must feature pictures of shoes, a shot in a field, umbrellas, balloons and jumping in the air. (If you are portly you probably better not have an engagement shoot in case you do yourself an injury.)

Gentle cupping is also 'de rigeur' in North American engagement photograph sessions:

Our true-life engagement shoot conversation (today, c. 11.12am):

Me: Oh my fucking christ! We haven't had an engagement shoot. We have to have an engagement shoot otherwise we will die.
The pathologist: Who do we shoot?

Coming next: invitations, wedding inspiration boards, calligraphy, dresses, bridesmaids, food, decoration and the answer to that eternal question: do I have the cat as a ring-bearer, or just put her in a matching frock?

**UPDATE**: The pathologist (who has just read this post) fears that I have made him sound like "a terrible man". He is in fact the best of all men, which is why I am marrying him. He is also very handsome, mends things, does all the administration (including paying bills and every bit of negotiation and paperwork when I was buying a flat in Montreal), is enormously patient and very generous with himself and his money .

These things are harder to do all day, every day, than buy an expensive ring. Fact.

I give you some free beats for Friday, and sit back and wait for you to grin from ear-to-ear

2009-06-26T10:44:00.002-04:00

I offer up some super links

2009-06-22T15:28:00.006-04:00

First of all, you may like to see how the genitals make use of the gap.

For ladies of "C-cup or larger", you may want to order your Kush.

Third of all, I know for a fact that you will, each and every one of you, very much enjoy grabbing your nuts and following me.

But first, back to wedding planning, where today's difficult choice is: which place card holders? Adirondack chairs, or barbecue equipment?

If all else fails, perhaps I can ask Angela Fiebelkorn for help. On the other hand, she's pissed on my "get each guest to give me $200 on their way out" bonfire, so maybe I shouldn't listen to a word she says.

I have an excellent new web-blog that you will like

2009-06-19T11:04:00.002-04:00

It is fucking ace. It is a repository of stupid names you find when drunkenly looking at strangers' photographs on Facebook. You will love it, and you must send some in if you have some. (NB: screen grabs only, otherwise I will not know they are definitely off Facebook.)

I am planning

2009-06-19T09:22:00.003-04:00

Yes, dear readers, I am not dead; I am more than alive, and responding to the wordless beseeching I hear falling out of your every pore, begging me to update my web-blog with hot news and tips from my kaleidoscopically fascinating daily living-existence.

Today, I am distracted by heavy rain and my lettuce seedlings - but tomorrow a whole new day beckons, full of more rain, lettuce seedlings, and an update on how plans for my wedding are forming under my ever-watchful gaze.

In the meantime, I give you a sneak preview of my wedding cake:

I see it's been watched over 20,000 times

2009-05-29T18:52:00.002-04:00

... and 19,965 of them have been me, trying to do a drawing of Kiki's dungarees.

I am amused

2009-05-27T21:06:00.001-04:00

I discuss the perfect French Canadian night out

2009-05-25T22:40:00.009-04:00

Regular readers will by now be aware that I left London (England, UK, The World, The Universe), to move to Montreal, which is in Canada. (If you do not know much about Canada, let me enlighten you: is very big - almost as big as the moon. Also, it has two official languages, which means that often, things are written in two languages where really one would do.)

Montreal (where I live) is in Quebec, which is three-and-a-half times bigger than France, and (like France), full of people who talk French the whole time - for the very simple reason that it is their language, and therefore their preferred method of exchanging information with one another.

I live with one of these French-Canadians. In many ways, he is indistinguishable from any other Canadian, except his name is French, he speaks French (when he is not at home), and he is able to eat cheese that is not cheddar or Monterey Jack without having a breakdown.

Often, in the evenings - which are cold and long, as we live in Canada - we insult each others' countries. We are doing quite well: the mere mention of a toast rack leaves him rigid with glee, whilst I have yet to understand why the canned anchovies are kept in the refrigerated fish section of the supermarket. Tooth mugs and fruit salad; dust and syrup: the list goes on and on, and our evenings fly by, each one melding into the next.

Recently, whilst walking along a highway looking for a spectacle, we reached new levels of understanding whilst describing to each other the ideal night out in our respective countries.

Normal French Canadian evening's entertainment, according to me

"First of all you go to a bar and watch the Habs for a bit and drink a Labatt or something. Then you get in your car and drive round and round until you find a spectacle with either horses and clowns, or acrobats and clowns on tiny unicycles. What they will have in common is an opera lady going 'woo woo woo' and some electric guitar, and/or costumes featuring at least 5 colours and weird hairdos. Either way, both will be embarrassing and there will be a lot of expressive skipping going on that will make me feel sick.

After you've done that you will go to a restaurant in a shopping mall and have a Festival of Crevettes or Brochettes, with some poutine. Then you will go home and get the chocolate fondue on, and you will sit on front of the TV with your Céline Dion autobiography on your lap and watch a 3 hour biopic of Maman Dion and you love it and you cry the whole way through it. Then the next morning you go out and have an omelette that has fruit salad on the plate and you pour maple syrup all over it."

The perfect evening for an English person, according to a French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist who cuts his own hair

"First of all you go home and you have boiled sausage and cabbage for dinner. Then, when it starts raining, you go out for a walk and then you come back and your clothes are all damp, but you don't care and you sit in your damp clothes in your armchair and read a mouldy poetry book that has dust flying off it from the breeze that is coming through the badly-ventilated window you are sitting next to.

Then, to make the evening really perfect, you'll have a 'lovely cup of tea' and when you take the first sip you'll say, "ooh that's LOVELY", or "oh, there's nothing like a nice cup of tea", like it's the first time you've ever tried it and you're really surprised. Then you will go to bed but it will be so cold in your bedroom, even in summer, that you will see your breath coming out. Then in the morning you will drink more tea and be surprised that it's nice, and you will make toast that you will put in a toast rack so it's good and cold, and then you'll put Marmite on it and think it's the most delicious thing you've ever eaten."

I see nothing wrong with this at all.

I want a hamster

2009-05-22T23:40:00.004-04:00

Here is a photograph of the pathologist's cousin and his hamster. (Please note the co-ordinating expressions of boy and rodent.)

There was another long post, but the computer ate it. I may re-write it, but first: to New York, where I shall be driven through thunderstorms to attend a wedding.

Pip pip!

I am terrific

2009-05-16T08:56:00.011-04:00

I receive a note from one Michael Moran, an excellent gentleman, sometime co-resident of Brixton and longtime supporter of this web-blog. "I have written about you in my Saturday Times column about the Web & such", he writes mysteriously. "I don't suppose they deliver The Times out there in North West Passage Land but your mum might like it".

He is right. My Mum, better known to readers as MonkeyMother, does like it. "Mummy is so proud", she writes, swallowing all her principles (as a long-time subscriber to The Socialist Worker) to go to the corner shop, buy The Times and scan in the thing that Michael Moran has written.

I receive it in Canada, attached to an email. (I have said it before and I will say it again - the internets is miraculous and I admire it very much.) And I must be frank: I feel about Michael Moran's piece much as he does about this web-blog: it is terrific, and so intelligently written! My portrait - hand-rendered by none other than Mr Dave Shelton - is there in full colour, my small clay pipe, Hula-Hoops and absinthe clear for all to see. Not for the first time, I observe what an excellent looking monkey I am, and re-adjust my fez.

Regular readers will I am sure be celebrating the recognition of my genius (long known to them) all across the world. New readers may be interested to read a little more about the Brixton Hill incident, a matter that concluded a few days later with a lifting of a modesty panel.

Now all I need is a book deal and then I can be properly non-working forever!*

* Writers: do not try and tell me that writing things down for (for e.g.) newspapers and/or novels is 'work', especially when you consider what I have to do all day, e.g. sit in conference calls, read management books and listen to other people.

I am alive!

2009-05-14T07:37:00.003-04:00

But I have been distracted:

1. Buying and moving into new flat;
2. See (1);
3. Work;
4. Misc.

I will be back soon, including a rationale on why the word 'twinkle' should be banned.

I am back from holiday, and come across the most ghastly of all the expressions

2009-04-21T00:42:00.013-04:00

"Thank fuck for that!", I hear my legions of adoring readers screech, their tiny voices obscured only by the popping of multiple champagne corks, "now we may recline sharply in our Lazboys, safe in the knowledge that our favourite online web-blogger is back and In Business!".

Favourite, that is, except dear Anna, with whom I shared a plate of gingerbread pancakes and a 'mimosa' (seen in the photograph to the left), in America's fashionable San Francisco Monday last. We touched upon many Topics, including the notion of inflating like a flesh balloon, the wonder of bracelets of saints (I must confess that I copied dear Anna and bought my own - $3.99, made in China - in Santa Cruz a few days later), and other privit topicks that I was keen to discuss, e.g. the Daily Mail website and how many Americans (but not all!!!!!) do not understand irony*; sadly, however, my companions did not share my enthusiasm, choosing instead to suck hungrily from their coffee cups and comment on the weather.

After that, the only other person I know in San Francisco happened to see me walking past his window (this is not a joke; suffice to say we screamed and embraced), and the pathologist got up to his usual tricks with squirrels:

This is not the first time he has hypnotised squirrels; here he is in December 2006:

And here he is again, practising his dirty mind games on Montreal squirrels in the summer of 2008:

But all this is by-the-by, for I have only one thing of any import to tell you, and that is that I have found the most revolting expression in the English language. I have not forgotten the list; I will update it in due course, but surely this is the worst thing anyone has ever said out loud with their mouths:

"Yes, they are meaty nipples."

"Meaty nipples"? God help us, each and every one.

* When at the University of York not studying for my degree in English and Related Literature (e.g. Anglo Saxon, which is related to no language I know), I did a special paper in Jane Austen, which resulted in a 15,000 word essay on "The Role of Carriages in the Novels of Jane Austen and Maria Edgeworth" (2:1, but only because no-one could be bothered to read it). In my class was an American lady who said - and I swear on my life this is not made up - "Could you define irony for me?". Obviously we all screamed with joy, as Americans and their apparent lack of irony is the only way English people can console themselves re. loss of empire, etc.

I add even more words

2009-04-08T17:57:00.005-04:00

I am in California, where a numberplate tells me that the many assumptions I make about BMW drivers are probably correct*:

Meanwhile, the list of awful words grows and grows. It is great. As ever, new words at the top; where appropriate, the supplier of the word can be accessed by pressing on the word they have supplied.

Beverage
Spacious (as in, "spacious property")
Ensuite (as in, "they have an en suite" - the "bathroom" part is usually left off)
Take as in "So, what's your take on antimacassars then?"
Twist as in "a modern twist on the antimacassar"
Fleshy
Nestling ("...in a bed of lettuce")
Drizzled
Sourced ("for crying out loud", adds the anonymous submitter)
Coulis
Suckling

And this particularly good suggestion from Dan (who has no blog):

'The'. Yep. When people refer to their own medical conditions and try to detach themselves from them. Like not using 'my' somehow sounds less distasteful. "It turns out the infection has spread to THE eyes from THE arse etc". In the way that dog owners try to pretend that the animal crapping on the pavement is nothing to do with them despite their being connected to it by a length of chain.

Oh, and 'quilt'? As a noun.

* If I need to explain why this numberplate caught my attention (and not in a good way), you are no longer allowed to read this web-blog.

I am told about a dream

2009-04-04T09:43:00.004-04:00

It is breakfast time!!! We are gnawing eggs, drinking coffee, thrusting toast into our gaping maws, etc. The person I am having breakfast with (a French-Canadian self-haircutting veterinary research pathologist) speaks:

"I dreamt about monkeys last night.

There were some monkeys there, all together.

(Silence.)

In the closet. Yes. They were in the closet.

(Silence.)

Also, some marine mammals. Yes. The monkeys were with the marine mammals.

(Silence.)

Oh. They were in a boat.
Yes. They were in a boat. They were going to be released.

The monkeys. And the sea mammals."

Now we are going on holiday. It is not a moment too soon, in my opinion!!!!

(I am also adding "quaffing" to the banned words list - if you need know why, you may no longer read my web-blog.)

I ban more words

2009-04-03T22:12:00.003-04:00

We are not doing badly! I am not including "sofa" (there is nothing wrong with the word - in fact, I would go so far as to to say it is correct); "Chesterfield" is harmless if used correctly; "couch" is ghastly and I won't have it, as is settee, but neither is revolting in quite the way I mean. (I know what I mean, and I am choosing whether words qualify or not; so if you do not agree that is a shame, but I will not be moved.)

New words at the top of the list; the originals below for your enjoyment. If you have submitted a word that qualifies, you will be rewarded by a link, to which enthusiastic leaders may gain access by pressing their 'mouse' (or somesuch!) on the word you have submitted. (I have said it before and I will say it again: the internets are astonishing, and I admire them very much.)

Hosiery
Classy
Upcoming (as in, "upcoming nuptials")
Ramblings
Glistening
Crispy
Pan-fried
Pad
Methinks (she's absolutely right on both of those and her blog is fucking ace, so press on those ones with your mouse)
Pouch (she's got a web-blog but she wouldn't thank me for making you look at it)
Sliver (from the magnificent Monkeymother, who is a my mother)
Must, as in "a must for all visitors" (excellent submission from an anonymous fan)
Meal
Pardon (as in, "beg pardon?")

Morsel
Moist
Crusted
Replete
Gusset
Soiled
Thinly (when used with "sliced")
Glistening
Goitre
Membrane
Writings
Pert
Freshly (...milled, squeezed, made, baked, etc)
Crusty (as in, "crusty white loaf")

And now I must pack my suitcase (not my "luggage"; my suitcase, or suitcases - the very idea of matching luggage is appalling in the extreme), for I am going to California tomorrow. But do not let this deter you from sending in more words; they have the internet in America too, and I will be making good use of it.

Pip pip!!!

I am banning some words

2009-04-01T22:32:00.003-04:00

Morsel
Moist
Crusted
Replete
Gusset
Soiled
Thinly (when used with "sliced")
Glistening
Goitre
Membrane
Writings*
Pert
Freshly (...milled, squeezed, made, baked, etc)
Crusty (as in, "crusty white loaf")

Any more for any more? I will simply build this list until it contains all the horrid words ever created, and this is the truth.

* Which reminds me - I really do urge you, if you haven't already, to visit this, the most self-satisfied blog in the world. The advertising industry already has a dodgy enough reputation without chaps like this making it worse. And don't forget to try and leave a comment - you almost certainly won't be able to !

I always hated "The Story Of The Blues"

2009-03-28T21:36:00.004-04:00

"Full time twat", more like.

I consider advertising for friends

2009-03-27T19:40:00.007-04:00

My existing friends - who I have collected over the years much as a collecting type might collect rare butterflies, jewels or spiders - are insufferably selfish and have chosen to stay where they are (e.g. London, Amsterdam, New York, Sydney, Bedford, San Fransisco, Little Tew, Glasgow, etc) rather than moving to Montreal so they can be my friends at my leisure and at my convenience.
Because they are all bastards, I am going to have to replace them all - but the question is: how?

I have met a few wankers over the last two years, but none of them have been in Montreal (which is where I live - there were a couple of close 'wanker!' calls in Toronto, mind you, but what did you expect?); one particularly gigantic wanker that springs to mind is*:

Mr Dave, of Dave and Dave Estate Agents, London . This vile little man was the freeholder of the flat I have just sold in Brixton. A deceitful, avaricious, dishonest little shit; if you find this post by searching for him, drop me an email at nonworkingmonkey@mac.com and I'll tell you why you should avoid all dealings with him if you value your a) sanity; b) self-respect. With any luck by now he's afflicted by anal boils, but just in case - if you happen to live near him, could you slip a note under his door that reads: "You, sir, are a cunt"? Cheers.

But: to the point. I am in Montreal, which is remarkably wanker-free, so it is relatively easy to meet people you would like to see again. I need English friends for the same reasons I had my English friends in England (lunchtime drinking, sending each other photographs of enormous cats, talking about Rhubarb and Custard, etc)**, but it is quite hard to find English people in Montreal, so I am going to have to advertise.

Here is the advertisement I am in the middle of composing; I may post it to "Craig's List" or similar. Who can tell. OK here goes.

WANTED: English (from England) people in Montreal needed for lunchtime drinking with English (from England OR British from the British Isles, e.g. Scottish, Welsh - also Irish, North or South) person, also in Montreal.

I look good in a fez, enjoy absinthe, pulling on my small clay pipe and eating Hula-Hoops (when in Great Britain). I like Canadians a lot but most of them do not get most of my jokes (and it is not because I am not funny).

YOU are not an idiot, and get annoyed when people tell you they think your accent is cute. You do not only 'hang out' with other English people because you know that just because you are English does not mean you have anything in common with each other. You may well be called Tony, Paul or Helen. (If you are called Julie or Marie-something, you are definitely French Canadian and will not be able to deceive me.)

It is OK if:

You have Marmite in your cupboard and/or buy it from Fouvrac on Laurier Est for $3.75 for an appropriately bilingual jar

You can't answer when they ask you what kind of tea English people drink all day

You might have heard about The Sparrow but don't want to look like a massive cock by going in and ordering Bubble and Squeak in an English voice

The idea of being called an 'ex pat' makes you a bit sick in your mouth

You can speak French, what with living in Montreal and all

You do not secretly wish you were in Toronto

You think the CBC is a bit rubbish and think the Canadian dragons are wetsies

You find it mildly entertaining that Michael Ignatieff is no longer on BBC2 being an intellectual, but instead possibly going to be the next Prime Minister of Canada

You like drinking at lunchtime

It is not OK if:

You cock on about how great England/the UK is the whole time like a spazzer

You order British food online

You do not have any Canadian friends

You wish you were there, not here

You keep Googling "expat clubs Montreal".

What do you think? Will it work? Any tips?

* Eagle-eyed readers will have noticed the removal of my previous reference to this person.

** NB: this is as much for the person I am marrying as it is for me, as he does not like talking about for e.g. fishfingers and the Observer magazine or what-have-you.

I like this

2009-03-27T19:17:00.001-04:00

I couldn't agree more

2009-03-27T18:41:00.000-04:00

I make some comparisons

2009-03-10T21:13:00.009-04:00

I have a friend visiting from London! It is quite the thing. We go to a cabane à sucre and drink pints of maple syrup straight from the bottle whilst gnawing on meat pie and fisting beans into our mouths; we slide backwards dowhill on the ice; we play directionless charades in a log cabin, and we drive across an ice bridge:

But whilst we are enjoying the many and manifold delights of Canadia, something becomes apparent, and it is this: all the small things I notice about what is different here are exactly the same things that my visitor notices! It is great. It is possibly because she is from England, and so am I.

Toothmugs

When I am rinsing out my mouth after brushing my teeth, I spit the water in the basin and then sup like a hungry gnu from the tap.

I do not own a toothmug. If there is a cup/receptacle by the sink, it is for the placement of toothbrushes. (3-piece bathroom sets are beyond the pale to my mind, although quite normal here, even amongst people who have been to school.)

Friend (upon entering bathroom): Ha ha ha! A toothmug!
Me: I know!
(We hoot with laughter.)
Canadian: This is funnier than drinking straight out of the tap?

Note: I suspect this might be something to do with English snobbery - the type that leads us to think that things like double glazing, fitted carpets (or indeed anything comfortable) is slightly vulgar.

Duvets vs. comforters

In my land, which is England, the duvet exists so that you do not need multiple sheets, blankies etc. Here it is usual to call it a 'comforter' and you put a sheet underneath said 'comforter' so you don't have to wash the 'comforter cover'.

I am enraged by this! The whole fucking point of duvets (or "contintental quilts", as I believe some people still call them!!), is to get rid of sheets and blankies in the style of old person's houses and wash the 'duvet cover' as one would a sheet, etc. And I am enraged mainly because I hate this spare sheet with all my being; I get tangled it in and it makes me angry like this: grrr.

Gigantic hobs/stove tops

Electric rings mainly, with about a foot of space between each ring that serves no purpose (other than giving you more room to put things). "My God, it's so ... NORTH AMERICAN!", exclaims my guest. And she's right: they're just big, like everything is, possibly because there's so much spare space to chuck around on for e.g. gigantic hobs and ice rinks.

Top loading washing machines

"Weird. I hate those. They break your bras". Yes, exactly.

Washing up liquid dispensers

... in a sort of unit with a little thing that holds your sponge. Rubbish, hard to fill, squirt their washing-uppy jizz all down their own sides, get clogged up, provide ample opportunity for sponge thing to breed bubonic plague-type diseases and are almost everywhere in Canada, like hockey, Tim Hortons, healthy people, clean air and 3 litre bottles of Maple Syrup.

Update!!! Elizabeth of British Columbia writes: "I just can't picture this. Can you provide a photograph?" Yes, Elizabeth. I can. Here it is:

But this is just the beginning!! Coming soon: why there are no number plates on the front of cars, and why Canadian ads all feature a combination of the following:

1. Jingly jangly acoustic music;
2. Astonishingly patronising voiceover supplied by one of the four voiceover artists working in Canada today;
3. Women in the kitchen offering up 'meal solutions' to their ungrateful families.

It is very strange.

Pip pip!