Me and John Barrowman Say Tomahto

A couple of weeks ago I declared that England was confused.  It’s nearer the truth to say that it’s me that’s the wrong way round – especially when it comes to my speaking voice.

I was born in England, as you may well know.  We moved to Canada when I was 5 years old, and some of my earliest memories of that time involve being very quickly labelled ‘the kid who talks funny’ so it wasn’t long before my schoolyard survival instinct subconsciously began to kick in, and my Teeside twang gave way to a rounded Canadian drawl.  My brother was exactly the same.  At least, between the hours of 9am and 3.30pm while we were at school.

But as soon as we were home, we’d slip straight back into our ‘normal’ accents.  With our parents, we spoke as we ever did.  And that’s the way it was.  ‘English’ with English people, and ‘Canadian’ with Canadian people – it just made sense at the time to our still fresh-off-the-boat brains.

Now?  My accent oscillates between the sublime and the ridiculous on a daily basis.  I speak in a Canadian accent in front of my husband and kids, though neither of the boys have really picked up any elements of it.  There was a brief interlude when Ben was very little, when certain words (“candle”, for example, or anything else with a short ‘a’) would come out a little bit Canadian, but it didn’t last very long.  

But hooooo-weee, when my parents are visiting from Canada, I get completely confused. I can be sitting in a room having a conversation with my parents and Jason at the same time, and if I reply to something my Dad has said, it’ll be in an English accent, and if I reply to something Jason has said, I’m Canadian again.  It is such a struggle - I don't know whether I'm coming or going.  It really is most unconsciously done – it’s just something that happens involuntarily, like sneezing or a bout of the hiccups.  I must sound like a total knob.

Jason says it even goes further than that –  even the Canadian-ness varies by degrees:  he says that when I talk on the phone to my Canadian friends, I get ‘extra-Canadian’ and as soon as I put the phone down I revert back to ‘regular-Canadian’.

And here's another one:  normally I speak in a Canadian accent to tmy kids, but when my Mum visits and it’s just me, her and the kids, I speak in an English accent to them.  They must think I'm completely bananas.  

I blame my mother, God love her.  I can hear the change in my Mum’s accent when she’s talking with her Yorkshire brothers and sisters.  It's 'put t'kettle on' this and 'by 'eck' that and  lots of 'lick road clean wi' tongue' flying about the place.  And then the next thing you know, she's a bit more North Eastern when she’s speaking with me and Dad.  Don't even get me started how Canadian she sounds when she answers the phone in her office.  IT IS BONKERS.

What is 'hubba hubba' in Scottish?

I thought I was alone in this madness, until one day I watched a documentary about John Barrowman.  John, star of Dr Who and Torchwood (which I love, love, love) who was born in Glasgow but grew up in the US.  I can’t remember what show it was – it was a biographical documentary about him, and there he was, in his mother’s American kitchen speaking with a lovely hard Glaswegian burr.  And then… AND THEN!  He turns to the camera and speaks ‘American’ again! 

Oh, but did my heart ever skip a beat!  I’M NOT THE ONLY ACCENT WEIRDO.  Hurrah for me!  And hurrah for John! 

Here he is, speaking about it a little.  

 
The peculiar thing about it all now, upon reflection, is that when I was a kid all I wanted was to be able to blend into the background – I changed the way I spoke to fit in, and for no other reason.  And yet now?  I want to distinguish myself from the background any chance I get.  I’m no wallflower; the hell with blending in.  So living in England, unless I’m with my family In Yorkshire, I speak with my Canadian accent.  And just to eff with things in a balanced way (I'm nothing if not well rounded) -- when I am Canada, say, for example at the supermarket with my Mum, I’m the bloody biggest blimey Limey you ever did hear.

I know you think I’m a total nutjob.

Never mind, I know John would understand.   

A Trip to the Airport

The world is, indeed, a tiny, tiny place. Here I am, four thousand miles away from my parents, and yet, I may as well be living next door – thanks to Facebook, email and Skype, four thousand miles is barely the distance from the end of my nose to the LCD screen.


If my Mum gets her hair cut, I see it on Skype. If she’s deciding what to wear on a night out, she holds up two different shoes to a webcam to get my instant opinion. If I get the laptop out, my two year old comes running over, clambers on my knee and says, “See Nana? See Nana, Mammy?”

It’s certainly a vastly different state of affairs from when I was a kid. We moved from England to Canada in 1981 – some of you out there will be ill equipped to remember that long ago world of blue tissue writing paper, special airmail envelopes with PAR AVION emblazoned up the edge. Transatlantic phone calls were restricted to birthdays and Christmas ONLY, and even then, especially on 25 December, a phone call was usually preceded with at least half an hour’s fevered redialing – and I mean actual dialing, not button pushing -- trying to ‘get a line’ between the busy signals. My Mum is the eldest of five siblings. Add those to my grandparents and my Dad’s side of the family, there was an awful lot of blistered forefingers round our way come Boxing Day.

As if the effort was directly conducive to the hardiness** of the bond of our bloodline, my extended family always has, even to this day, remained very close. My childhood summer holidays meant one thing: a trip to the airport – whether to receive a carload of Limeys or to deliver ourselves to one; that ceremonial journey up the 401 East towards the airport became standard operational procedure for summertime. We’d all pile in the car and head for the airport -- if we were good, stopping for a donut and a coffee on the way.

My earliest notions of travelling distance and time were forged early – I knew when we were nearly at the airport when my old Dad started fiddling with the radio dials, trying to find Toronto Airport's radio station. Back then, we’d check for flight arrivals via radio – any delays would be read out on the station’s AM frequency; we’d all wait with baited breath for a flight number and the word “MANCHESTER” to signify the impending arrival of our kindred on Canadian soil. I can hear the announcer in my mind – or rather, my Dad’s impression of him, warning us in his best clipped broadcast voice: “There is limited paaaaahr-king at Lestaah B Peaaah-son International Aaaahport…”


We'd always go early enough to watch the planes come in for a bit. “Is that them, Dad?” we’d squeal, waving madly off the airport roof, hoping our Grandma and Grandad, or our aunties and uncles or whoever it was would recognise their ant-sized relations from 1000… 900… 800 feet up as they touched down. And you know? Somehow they always did.  :-)

Then we’d scramble into the lift and press the button to be taken down to Arrivals where we’d elbow for a spot at the front with a good view of the automatic doors separating the luggage conveyors from the Arrivals hall.  Jonathan and me would be monkey-barring along the barriers, searching: “Is this them? Awwww, no. Is THIS them? Awww, no.”  

Mum stood, giant swelling of emotion trapped at the back of her throat rendering her unable to speak while her tears waited, quivering pools in her eyelids, for their cue to spill once we finally – at last – recognised the driver behind next luggage trolley.

Is there a name for what happens when you live an ocean away from those you hold most dear? What do you call it when a handful of time zones rips the fabric of filial connection to a sky full of angry swirls of ruddy crimson, fraying cloudy ribbons jostling in some ethereal breeze that never blows hard enough to bring the edges within reach? The pain of the separation, the severance you feel is at best a dull ache – you can live with it, but at times the pain of the tear is acute. The only balm is one of these trips to the airport.

Fast forward 25 years, and I’m my Mum, and the monkeys swinging in the Arrivals hall are my own kids. And that choking ball of emotion is already forming in the back of my throat, because in a few days, my Mum and Dad are coming from Canada.

Ben and I are picking them up from the airport.

We’re setting off really early.

We are going to wave at planes.

We’re definitely going to have a coffee and a donut.

And the best bit? The best bit by miles – four thousand miles – will be watching my boy’s face as he watches for familiar drivers of luggage trolleys.


**hardiness – family joke – my Grandma’s maiden name was “Hardy

Two Girls Down South

My gorgeous BFF came over from Canada and we had a few days in London.  I know, I'm rotten for not blogging in a while -- will these pictures do for now, until I catch my breath?

When we pulled into Kings Cross, they were filming the final scenes from the last Harry Potter film ... here is Platform 9 3/4's, and the Hogwarts Express! 

No really! I'm serious!

Lions in Trafalgar Square, with St Martin-in-the-Fields in the background.

I always take photographs where you're not supposed to take photos.  DON'T YELL AT ME it's my one vice to help exhaust my naturally rebellious nature.  This is the National Gallery - Van Gogh's 'Sunflowers'.  I know, it's bad.  But it was only my phone - no flash.  Vincent wouldn't mind.

Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament.  One of my favourite buildings, ever, ever, ever.

Isn't it beautiful?

Inside Westminster Abbey.  Somewhere else that you're not really supposed to take photos.  BUT ALWAYS have big boobs, and always buy a guide book, so that you can create a little hiding place for your camera phone beneath your cleavage with the book. Plus, where you put your hands with such an arrangement makes you look all pious and stuff, so like... people think you're in spiritual rapture and wonderment looking at the cathedral BUT REALLY YOU'RE JUST A TOTAL SNEAK.

Poets' Corner.  My favourite part of the whole Abbey; dedicated to England's finest scribblers.

Handel - hero!  Swoon!  And the famous north facade.

From half way up the London Eye...

...and all the way up!

What time is it?  Why, it's Pimms o'clock!

Quote of the afternoon:  "I love when they put all kindsa shit in your drink."

Camden Market - land of great sunglasses and cheap Dr Martens.

TEN POUNDS.  Srsly.  I know!!!

Tower Bridge - I'd never seen it in real life before, in all my trips to London.  It really took my breath away!

My sore London feet and Jenn's sore London feet. 

...and back to St Martin-in-the-Fields to see the Feinstein Ensemble play Bach's Brandenburg Concertos (with a little Vivaldi and some Telemann thrown in for good measure).

...and home on the train.

Happy St George’s Day from a Repat Expat

One of the things I really miss about Canada is Canada Day. The date of the Canadian Federation – the 1st day of July in 1867 -- is a date forever branded on the brain of every school child, and it is celebrated with zeal every summer.

Everyone gets the day off work – families have barbecues, friends meet for backyard bonfires and fireworks, it’s a proper red-and-white-maple-leafed brouhaha.

Here in the UK, today is St George’s Day. It’s supposed to be the closest thing we have to a national holiday… except that we’re all at work. No one really makes a fuss about old St George (maybe they don’t believe in dragons?!)

I don’t know why this is. We are a nation of fierce patriots – Exhibit A: the fever-pitch hoopla surrounding any important England football match – yet we don’t actually officially commemorate or celebrate being English on a designated day, even though it’s right there on the calendar.

This makes me sad. I’m a devoted dual-nationalist, equally proud of both my English blood and my Canadian heart. I wouldn’t mind so much, but take a walk down the high street on the 17th of March and every pub is decked out in Irish bunting in honour of St Patrick and it’s “top-of-the-mornin’-to-ya’s” and “póg mo thóin”-ings ‘til the bloody cows come home. No disrespect to my snake-shy friends across the sea, but even if half the English people who drank green beer a month and a half ago came out today in celebration of their own nation it would be a turn up for the books.

Anyway – I’ll shut up now lest I get a splinter in my toe from jumping up and down on this soapbox and wish you a happy St George’s Day. No fireworks, no barbecues, no days off work. I celebrate my heritage in the best way I know how.

Snow and the English

Only a week before Christmas, and we've already had a little flurry to make us all get in the mood.  Well, you know what I say:  ho, ho, mofos!  Bring it on!  As a displaced (replaced?) Canadian living in the North East of England I always like to see a bit of the old white stuff. 

At home in Canada, they measure precipitation in centimetres.  Here, I like to use the equally accurate but admittedly lesser-known depth guage of 'Adidas Print', as illustrated below:

Put the Army on standby; it's a white out.

That's what we woke up to this morning.  Ben was practically apopleptic with excitement, and all the way to school it was snowball this, snowmen that, and jingle all the way.  It made the trudge over to the school enjoyable indeed. 

"Look, Mammy!  I can make snowballs all by myself!"

I told my (British born 20+ yrs Canadian resident) Mum that it was snowing last night.  She says to me, "Buy the kid a toboggan."

Isn't language funny?  Imagine a scene in which the family walks into the nearest reliable retail outlet and asks the Geordie salesperson to sell us a toboggan.  I hope people on both sides of the ocean will find the provded translation helpful:

Salesperson: "Eeee, what’s SHE gannin' on aboot, like? What d'yer mean? Ah divvint knaa aboot nee 'toboggans', are ye askin' for a chinnin'?"

[Gosh! To what, exactly, are you referring? I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the word ‘toboggan’. Are you being deliberately impertinent? Would you like a slap?]

Me: “Dude, it's TOTALLY snowing, eh? My kid wants to go tobogganing, so I’ll be needing a new toque and a muffler as well! It’s cold!”

[It has snowed overnight. I would like to enable my child to partake of some snow-themed winter recreation. Also, if you have any woolly hats and scarves to protect me from the elements I would be greatly appreciative.]

Ben: How man, mutha man!

[Please, Mother. Don’t embarrass me.]

Jason (to the salesperson): Eeeh man, ye knaa what a mean leik (rolls eyes). Ahm gannin te the booza.

[I have put up with this ridiculousness quite long enough. I am off to partake of liquid refreshment in the nearest licensed establishment.]

Salesperson: Alreet, lass.  Ye’ll find a stack o’sledges in Aisle Forr. Mind, gan canny or ye’ll dunsch into summick if ye gans too fast doon the hill!

[Certainly, Madam.  The apparatus you require is in Aisle 4. Be careful, lest you crash into something during your recreational exertions!]

Ah... I love living here.  Canadians:  I love you all.  Geordies:  I love you as well.  My Mum said, "Perhaps I'm a bit more Canadian than I thought..."

Me in my toque and muffler this morning; this one's for you, Mum!

Undoubtedly quite the most ridiculous-looking Mama on the school run, but I don't eff around with snow.  Comfort and warmth before fashion, without exception.  I chuckled a little when I walked past a gaggle of Mammies talking about the state of the roads, who said what everyone the world over says when they talk about winter driving:  "The main roads are okay, " which is fine.  When the Canadians say it, it looks like this:

Jason, Christmas in Canada 2007

But when the English say it, it looks like this:

The view of my house from the school run this morning.

I am feeling homesick this week... in the run up to Christmas I flip-flop between mental-institution-excited for the kids, but lump-throatingly bereft at not being at home in Ontario. Sometimes a mile is no distance, especially with Skype and webcams, etc... but on mornings like this, one mile feels like a thousand.

So it is my Friday wish that we get some more of the white stuff for Christmas, and that my Canadian loved ones get a little less of it this winter.  And by way of apology for not giving you a Friday track to listen to in a couple of weeks, I'll leave you with this -- Jason's favourite Christmas song: