Elaine

*Yes, that’s how it’s spelled. Spelt?

I got my British Driver’s Licence last month. Here in the UK you can drive on an international license for up to 12 months, but then must apply for a UK one. A couple of interesting issues came out of this process (well, interesting to me, but we all know I’m a nerd who actually thinks the history of spreadsheets is fascinating – really. Look it up.) .

One: It is ridiculous how much easier it was for me to get my new DL than it is for my friends in Oxford. Ridiculous. They are Canadians who have lived the last twenty years in the US and moved to the UK three months prior to me. They started the UK DL process months before I did, and are now only at the stage of having a provisional licence (and that was by the skin of their teeth to get even that far along before the 12 month period was up). Because their last license was American, they had to go through a completely different process from mine. It seems that Great Britain will allow people from a certain list of countries to simply replace their old DL with a UK version. That list is mainly UK territories, former Commonwealth countries, and a few seemingly random countries including Andorra, North Macedonia, and Korea. But not the USA.

Turns out this sort of thing happens all the time with the UK, Canada, and the States, where one country is allowed leeway or holds a different status when dealing with another’s laws. But not necessarily always in Canada’s favour. When we were moving to Britain during COVID, the UK considered the US as a ‘green’ country, while Canada was listed as ‘amber’ (and therefore under greater scrutiny and restrictions). And that was at a time when Canada’s stats were better than either of the other countries in question.

So my friends continue to struggle through sticky red tape. How frustrating.

The second surprise was the type of licence I was allowed. 95% of all cars sold in Britain are manual transmission – everyone learns to drive stick. When I went to apply for the new DL, I was given two options: I could do a road test and get a blanket DL that allowed me to drive any automobile, or I could just apply for the Canadian DL to be swapped for a British one, in which case I would be issued a license limiting me to automatic transmissions only. I opted for the latter (I have driven a stick-shift maybe a dozen times in my life, and never on the lefthand side of the road), so I received my DL in the mail within 10 days.

Who thinks this stuff up?

So, my new home.  Well, there are just so many things about it that appeal.  It doesn’t have a street number, it has a name (that’s just so UK).  It’s not a house, it’s a cottage (or so the name tells me – looks like a house to me).  It has a flagstone path (dangerously slippy, but let’s not dwell on the dangers right now) surrounded by flowering shrubs and hedges.  There is a little wooden gate with a quaint little latch, and the roof is made of slate.  Brand new slate as the owners just had it re-roofed – the romantic in me loves the slate, the pragmatist appreciates its modernity.

My friends in Oxford live in a lovely old red brick house on a quiet street, with a steeply sloped slate roof, and a blue door.  And yes, I have been rather envious up until now.  Now, let us acknowledge I am still in the north of Scotland and there is only so much you can do with pebble-dash.  So, it may not have the cachet of a canal-side country house,  but nonetheless, it’s my bonnie, peedie hoose (for the time being) and I’m that chuffed about it.

I’ve found a place – I have been offered a lovely 2-bedroom here in Kirkwall. I went to view it and meet the owner this morning, and we’re good to go!

I hadn’t realized just how stressed I have been by this state of limbo – I’ve been trying to tell myself that if I found nothing, I had other options to explore but really, deep down, I did NOT want to leave Kirkwall. That stress became evident when I got home after visiting the cottage – the sense of relief I have felt; I mean, I’m dancing around the house, and I keep cuddling the dog for no reason (well, who needs a reason?).

To celebrate I’m having a big bowl of Ichiban Ramen noodles (thank you, LL) and a Kinrara martini. A martini? For lunch? Yes, I know a midday martini will lead to a mid-afternoon nap, but I don’t care.

The adventure continues!

I was feeling very smug this afternoon – I had taken all the ingredients for tonight’s dinner out in plenty of time. I even went so far as to measure everything out, and have it all ready to start cooking and assembling: the shallots were peeled and chopped (they are so hard to peel), the garlic was minced, the tomatoes diced, and even the pasta measured out and sitting on the tray with everything else. It’s called mise en place, doncha know, and all the great chefs do it.

I decided to have an appetizer at around five o’clock: smoked salmon on cucumber rounds. Then, I thought, why not a martini to go with them? I had just bought a bottle of vermouth (when Julia Child isn’t dowsing things in brandy, she’s pouring glugs of vermouth into everything). So, instead of a G&T, why not a martini? I got out the martini glass and put some ice in it to chill. Then I went back to assembling the salmon canapes.

As I was reaching for the minced green onion to sprinkle on the salmon, my elbow hit the martini glass, knocking it over so it shattered on the counter, all over: the tomatoes and shallots, the garlic, the salt dish, and even the raw pasta. Splendid. Everything had to go. There weren’t that many pieces, but I couldn’t afford to miss a sliver in the Maldon Sea Salt flakes, or clinging to the linguini.

I don’t know what to blame: the fact that many will say alcohol is the root of all evil, or the stupid concept of mise en place. All I know is that tonight’s dinner is now some lentil soup out of the freezer, and my pre-dinner cocktail is a glass of tonic water (I’m sulking).

This showed up in my Google feed this morning.

One year ago today I left Canada.

You can’t see it, but there is a big smile behind that mask.

I’ve mentioned before that, in spite of almost daily rain and high winds, most Orcadians hang their laundry outside to dry. In fact, I have just learned that, in the north of Scotland at least, the umbrella-style lines are called whirligigs (your piece of useless information for the day – you’re welcome). Those who don’t have access to a yard with a line have racks hooked on to their radiators, or hanging from their kitchen ceilings, or standing in the bathtub. But many do have a dryer as well.

The washing machine is almost always in the kitchen. My Grandma’s was, as is my uncle’s, and mine. Few houses have basements and unless you’re building brand new, or doing a reno like my cousin, not many people have laundry rooms. In my house, the dryer is in a large cupboard in the centre of the house. The closet has neither drainage nor exterior venting. This is also fairly typical in the UK, and while the solution to the lack of venting is to simply leave the closet or kitchen door open while the dryer is running, UK appliance manufacturers have found a way to address the build up of water that accumulates from drying clothes.

The photo on the right shows my dryer with a removable 5 kg plastic tank that needs emptying every 3 or 4 loads. You draw the long, flat tank out of the dryer, carry it (level and steady) to the kitchen sink, and empty it down the drain (left). I’ve never seen anything like this back home, but it works a treat here.

I mentioned last week that I want to start doing a bit of a Julie & Julia: making one of Julia Child’s classic recipes each week.  I don’t see myself doing what that blogger from the movie had done: all 524 recipes from Mastering the Art of French Cooking in 365 days.  I’m modelling myself after a YouTuber named Jamie, the Anti-Chef, whose videos of a novice cook tackling some fairly complex recipes are terrific. Last week I made Julia’s Onion Soup – it was the best I have ever had (and I’ve always made a pretty good onion soup, if I do say so myself). 

I also shared in a recent post that because of my imminent move (to God-knows-where), I have been trying to consume all the perishables in my fridge and freezer.  So it occurred to me that until I’ve made a considerable dent in what is already there, I shouldn’t be adding to the coffers with Coq au Vin, or Beef Tournedos.  I do cut the recipes in half, but that is still usually at least two servings.

So that narrowed my choices.  After watching almost all of Jamie’s YouTube channel (Did I mention I’ve been sofa-bound this week?), I decide on Julia’s Garlic Soup (Aïgo Bouido), as he seemed to have really loved it.  And, it has no butter or cream (how un-Julia-like).  It was a very simple recipe, few ingredients, all of which I already had in the house, and took about 30 minutes to make. 

And? It was delicious; very light, just lovely on a cool afternoon. I would even say it was as good (different) as the garlic soup we used to get at Garlics on Richmond Row in London in the 90s.  Yum.

Can’t wait for the next effort.

As I said yesterday, I am following the prescribed treatment for bursitis of the hip: minimal walking, maximal resting, anti-inflammatories, and Scout’s lovely dog-walker is taking her out for an hour-long hike each morning with another retriever. Last night’s sleep wasn’t great, but overall the inflammation is definitely reducing.

A massive gale-force storm arrived overnight and this morning the wind gusts were reaching 107 km/h.  Poor Rebecca arrived to pick Scout up, covered from head to toe in waterproof gear. And off they went.

The came back 50 minutes later and she advised me they had gone back to the beach, so Scout “might be a wee bit sandy”.  She was; she was also very happy.  I took Scout straight to the shower, thinking a 2 minute rinse should take care of things.  Fortunately I did remove my sweater and my watch, because what happened next would have ruined both.

FFS, that sand was drilled into her fur.  Half a bottle of dog shampoo, two soap-downs, three rinses, and 20 minutes of wrestling later, we were both cranky, both drenched, and both exhausted.  (She had just spent 50 glorious minutes in 8°C weather, being pelted with spears of rain, and I was using a gentle shower head and warm water and yet you would think I was stabbing her with a pitchfork. What a drama queen – it isn’t that she’s actively fighting me, more passive resistance, leaning and turning away. But she is 60lb; it’s work goddam it.)

About 10 minutes in to this 25-minutes-from-hell-for-all-involved, I felt my hip start to twinge.   Oh no.

But we were only part way done, so I kept bending, and scrubbing, and wrestling, and swearing.  And once she was finally washed, there was the drying, then the shower-cleaning, then the laundry, then the cleaning of the bathroom (we have one more family viewing the house this aft, so I can’t just leave the bathroom a disaster).  Every step I took was painful.  Great, just great.

So basically, all the progress I had made with my hip by hiring a dog walker had been completely reversed by a walk on the beach.  You know, maybe a walk on a sandy beach with two long-haired dogs in a gale-force storm wasn’t the best decision ever?  Just sayin’.

*oh and Lori, yes, I did remove the shower trap and clean it out too.  🙂

A few years ago I got together for lunch with a couple of friends I had worked with in the past.  We hadn’t seen each other in a while, so it was quite the catch-up session.  I drove away from that lunch with one thought  in my mind, “WTF just happened there?”  My friends and I (all approximately the same age) had just spent the previous 90 minutes itemizing our ailments.  One had had plantar fasciitis since we’d last met up, another had been diagnosed with diverticulosis, and we all had horror stories of MRIs, or X-rays, etc…  I had shared my bout of, actually, in retrospect, I may have been the one with plantar fasciitis, who knows?  All I could think on that ride home was, I’m in my 50’s now – is this what it’s going to be like?  Every visit with a friend a health summary like the medical segment of a Reader’s Digest magazine?  So that day I swore: never again.  Never again would the bulk of my conversation be taken up in a recitation of ills.  It hasn’t been easy; since that get together, whenever one person mentions a doctor’s appointment, or an ache or pain, I try to find a way to introduce a new topic.  It can be anything, the Faroe Islands, or Princess Charlotte’s new coat, or the price of Grand Marnier at the LCBO, anything but old people’s ailments.

And yet, if I were to start at the top of my head, and work my way south, I could come up with a myriad of over-50 failings: from insomnia, to failing memory, to tinnitus, to weakened eyesight, to hiatus hernia, to, well, you get the idea – I could be a poster child for the aging and the angry.

Which leads me to this week:  trochanteric bursitis.  Last week I badly bruised the toes on my left foot (I am so my mother’s daughter).  But since there’s nothing you can really do for toes, and the weather was nice, I just kept walking.  Unfortunately, that led to a whole new problem – clearly the limping was irritating and aggravating my right hip.  I thought the best thing would be to keep walking, to keep it loose and to stay active. I took Scout for her morning walks in the sunshine; my walking group went for a much-longer-then-usual walk to see a new park that was opening;  and I just generally kept moving.

Well that was stupid.  By Tuesday I was in agony, a walk from the library to the post office (90 seconds on a good day) took 12 minutes, and I even woke myself up one night crying from the pain.  I went online and yup, it was something I had had once before, bursitis.  And the immediate treatment for a bursitis flare-up?  RICE: rest, ice, compression, and elevation (well that last one is more for knee or ankle; I don’t think lying with one’s bum in the air is part of the recommended treatment); I needed rest, not movement.  So instead of keeping it moving and loose, I should have been sitting quietly, applying Voltarol, and taking ibuprofen.  Then, once the inflammation has subsided, one should introduce a series of gentle stretches, and then, and only then, start walking.

So, I arranged for Scout’s dog-walker to come each morning, I took to the sofa, and as people came through to view the house with the realtor, I lay back and tried to look helpless (as opposed to lazy).

Well, it’s working – slept like a log last night, and walking around the house no longer has me screaming in pain.  Yes, I have reverted to whining about my health. Sorry about that. And it looks like Scout is enjoying her walks with her new friend, Breya.  (Seriously, she seems to be well over her fear of water, doesn’t she?)

This month is very reminiscent of exactly one year ago. I have to be out of this place in four weeks; I don’t have a new place yet; I have to arrange for movers; there are people in and out of my current house, and I’m getting nervous about everything. (plus ça change, yadda, yadda, yadda)

As well as movers, this time ’round I also have to find a storage unit, which I might or might not need (I have a line on a house in the next town over, but I won’t know for sure about it for at least a week, and I’ve already been turned down for one house this month, so no guarantees). The reason there are people in and out of the house this time: buyers coming to check out the property as opposed to last year’s cleaners et al.

Just as with last year, I find myself looking at clothes and other items and thinking: charity shop? or pack & keep another few months? And then, exactly as last year at this time, I am trying to deplete my fridge & pantry as quickly as possible. I mean, if it turns out to be a straight house-to-house move, fresh and frozen food won’t matter, as I can just schlep them to the new place in grocery bags. But that option is not looking too likely. Oh, but that leads to another potential issue: even if I do get this house in Finstown (fingers crossed), it doesn’t come available until three days after my lease is up in this place. So, then what? I and my stuff move into a storage unit for three days? Those things are heated, right?

So lots to panic about and lose sleep over. (Last night I woke at 1:43am and that’s been me up ever since.) Sigh.

*EDIT: No, I don’t know what that funny little OBJ box is showing up in my title. I assume the software doesn’t like les accents? (Unless I’m the only one who can see it, in which case, never mind.)