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THE 21ST CENTURY HOUSEWIFE

Delicious recipes, ideas to help you make the most of your home, travel stories
and tips and inspiration to help you embrace your own unique style.





WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 08, 2007


LOTS OF LESSONS


I still find myself steaming after my encounter with company number three’s
representative.
Reluctantly I am beginning to acknowledge that it was his attitude when asking
me about my nationality and accent that have upset me the most. You see, he
touched a nerve.

When I came to England in the late 1980’s and met G, it didn’t take me very long
to realise that England was the place I wanted to make my home. My reasons for
this included, but were not exclusive to, the fact that G lived here. Anyway, I
believe that in most cases, if someone chooses to make a new country their home,
they ought to feel the sense of belonging that comes from being a citizen of
that country. The paperwork I used to come to England all those years ago meant
that after five years of residency, I could apply to be naturalized. Although
many people accused me otherwise, marrying G didn’t hurry the process along at
all. In fact, when I did apply for naturalization it was based entirely on my
time of residency, and not on our marriage. For those who did accuse me of
marrying for a passport I think sixteen years of marriage – and the renewal of
our vows at our tenth wedding anniversary – probably did a good job of proving
them wrong.

Anyway, during those first five years, I desperately wanted to be a citizen. I
also desperately wanted to fit in. Although being “the Canadian girl” really
helped me to be remembered and was a great thing when one is a “temp” or “Kelly
girl”, it was also a huge burden. What if people were judging all Canadians
based on my behaviour? And sometimes being different was the last thing I
wanted. So I cultivated a British accent, picked up as much vernacular as I
could, and tried to blend in. Please don’t misunderstand, I was very proud of
being Canadian, but as I had chosen to make my home somewhere else, I really
wanted to belong there. But despite all my efforts after two years of working in
Soho, everyone from shop keepers to new acquaintances were still asking me the
dreaded “where are you from?”. They would always look at me incredulously when I
said “Sydenham” (the district of London where we lived).

To make matters worse, when we did go back to visit Canada, I had picked up
enough English expressions and my Canadian accent had softened enough to make it
sound like I didn’t belong there either. The first time someone asked me where I
was from in a shop in the town I was born in I was thrilled. By the thirty-ninth
time the thrill had worn off. I began to realise that no matter where I was, I
was different. For someone who has always sought the approval and acceptance of
others, this was agony.

Even all these years later, I still get asked where I am from no matter what
country I am in. At home in England, I get asked. Visiting Canada, I get asked.
I’m always the different one, always the foreigner, even though officially I am
a citizen of both countries. I consider myself to be British and describe myself
as such, but officially I am still a citizen of both.

Happily, as the years have worn on, I have learned to cope better with this
situation most of the time. I try not to think about the fact that I never quite
blend in. After all, who wants to be ordinary? My voice has become flexible
enough that, with concentration, I can use one accent or the other. Yet ninety
percent of the time I really cannot be bothered to make that much effort and on
the whole my accent is usually pretty mid-Atlantic. However, if I get very
stressed, I sound very Canadian. On a day like yesterday, stressed as I was, the
last thing I was thinking about was what I sounded like.

Yes, clearly the representative from company number three did touch a nerve, one
that is still very raw despite nearly twenty years of living with it. I really
do not mind being asked where I am from, it is just that sometimes the tone it
is asked in can be very upsetting. It is like when some says “In this country,
we” when they are explaining a situation, as if I’m just off the boat. I wonder
why I am so insecure about this after all these years. I put so much stock in
what other people think of me, even people like the annoying man from company
number three. I really need to concentrate on getting my confidence from inside
myself, and not from what other people say or do.

This move really is teaching me a lot of lessons.

Posted by April J Harris at 2:52 pm No comments:
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THE JOYS OF MOVING


I always get three quotes for moving companies (or removal firms as we call them
here in England) when we move. This is not an experience I enjoy very much to be
honest. Having to walk through my house with a total stranger, opening every
cupboard and perusing every nook and cranny, is an experience I find extremely
uncomfortable. There are also other frustrations surrounding these quotes which
make them very stressful. My experience this time has been fairly true to form.

Company number one’s representative was nearly twenty minutes late. Although he
apologised, he did not phone to say he was going to be late. I know he had a
phone because when I called the office to enquire where he was, they said they
would call him. Not a very good start. Having said that, representative number
one was very polite, reasonably accommodating and acknowledged that I did know a
bit about the business of moving. He offered me choices as to the services I
required. Content to have every other cupboard door opened, he trusted my
description of the contents of those whose doors remained closed. As promised,
his quotation arrived fairly promptly.

Company number two’s representative was very punctual and polite. He did not
insist that every cupboard was opened and was happy to take my word for what was
inside. (I’m not in the habit of lying about the contents of my cupboards to
removal companies. It isn’t helpful when it comes to moving day.) When I
mentioned our lovely geriatric cat I was pleased to see he looked genuinely
concerned, although sad when I found out that the reason for this was that he
had just lost both his lovely geriatric cats in quick succession. He then
attempted to suggest everything he could to make sure that the move would be as
stress free for the aforementioned feline possible. I was offered choices, and
he spoke to me with respect and the acknowledgment that moving is something I
have done many times before. When I mentioned the other companies we were
getting to quote, he said nothing but nice things about them, but promised his
service was better. His quote has not yet arrived, but I did not expect it until
tomorrow anyway.

Company number three’s representative arrived very promptly this morning. By the
time we had sat down in the living room he had put my back up by instructing me
as to how we were going to formulate the quotation and telling me what I would
be doing whilst he was there. He then pointed out my accent, speculated as to
where I was from and looked dubious when I explained I had lived in England for
some twenty years. “Still got that accent though, haven’t you?” he said in a
vaguely accusatory way. I began explaining that we visit Canada frequently and
that I speak to my parents daily before realising that I hardly have to defend
accent or nationality to a total stranger, and one with a pretty heavy local
accent of his own at that. When we did go through the house, this man insisted
on the opening of every single blessed cupboard, and recorded every piece of
furniture on his pad with a price beside it. When we sat down to discuss
logistics, he told me exactly how I would be moving and did not offer me any
choices. He insisted my china would be unpacked, whether I wanted it to be or
not, and accused Company number two’s representative of lying when he said that
I would have seven days to declare any breakages. He trashed Company one and
two’s reputations and accused them of promising things they did not deliver on.
As I have used Company number two four times in the past, I knew that they do
deliver on their promises and they do allow you seven days to declare any
breakages. By the time he left I was beside myself with trying not to tell him
exactly what I thought of him. Needless to say, I don’t care when his quote
arrives as I would move myself before I would use his company.

Chances are, I will choose company number two regardless of whether they are
cheaper or not. I know this as I’ve done it four times before. A lot of the
reason for using them so often is their attitude, both towards their customers
and their customer’s possessions. I do believe firms who provide a service need
to realise that the impression made by sales staff really does count for a huge
amount. Let’s face it, company number three have already lost my business
entirely because of their salesman.

Isn’t it funny how things work out though? I was checking through my receipts
from previous moves this afternoon and I found that I did use company number
three once before some twelve years ago. I recognised the move immediately as
they left an entire cupboard’s worth of china behind in our flat. Luckily the
people who moved into it were very understanding and (despite the English law
that says if it is left behind after completion the purchasers get to keep it)
willingly returned it to me. Later, when I was sharing my experience with my
friend, she told me of an experience they had with company number three that
involved a huge number of breakages. I guess company number three is one of
those companies whose service, from the sales to the delivery, just never quite
measures up. Thank goodness I have a choice. I just wish I had the nerve to call
up company number three and explain to them exactly why they are not going to
get my business. It would make me feel better anyway. Ah, the joys of moving!

Posted by April J Harris at 2:52 pm No comments:
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TUESDAY, AUGUST 07, 2007


WHAT TO DO ABOUT MOVING


We now have several different options for What To Do About Moving. In fact, What
To Do About Moving is really all we talk about anymore. It is getting to the
stage it is even developing a personality. Indeed, it is taking on such epic
proportions I would not be surprised if What To Do About Moving developed form
and came walking into the room and sat down at the table with us.

Our house is now for sale, and for rent. We’ve got two possible houses we may
move to. We may be able to do a part exchange. My head is spinning. However I do
have to acknowledge that it is a wonderful thing to actually have all these
choices, and something I should be very grateful for.

Sadly all these choices are driving me to distraction. I am a creature of habit,
one who likes to have all her ducks in a row and know exactly what she is doing.
My diary is organised months in advance, and spontaneity is a concept I have
struggled with for most of my adult life. I realise now that part of the reason
for this move may well be that God knows I need to be more flexible and this is
the divine lesson in learning to do that. The trouble is I am fighting the
lesson, and until I give in and learn it, nothing is going to move forward. So I
am trying desperately to let go of a lifetime of controlling behaviour and
acknowledge that God has all this in hand. Some days are better than others.

I’m learning a lot about letting go and trusting recently. We had a small gap in
the guttering that runs round the roof of our house outside of A’s window which
has leaked for the last couple of rains. G tried to find a ladder tall enough to
fix it but no one we knew had one. As I am the lightest of the inhabitants of
this house (except our cat Jake of course) I was volunteered to go out on the
roof of the extension (which I hasten to add is anything but flat and is
actually on one heck of an angle slanting – of course – down to the ground). The
idea was I’d pull the guttering, which had obviously slipped, back into line. I
was quite confident as I started out of the window in the study – and even as I
set foot on the very slanted roof. It was not until I started to move towards
the gap and had to navigate yet another slope in the one side of the roof that I
started to get really scared. I turned slightly to get myself on a better angle,
and noticed that two of our neighbours in the close behind us were watching me
curiously. I smiled and tried to look confident, and once they had ascertained I
was not suicidal, they left me to it. However, their curiosity only served to
make me realise just how high up I was and just how silly a situation I had got
myself into. Now I was well and truly frightened.

So I began talking to myself, using positive language to increase my confidence.
Thankfully all my neighbours seemed to have disappeared at this point as a woman
talking to herself on a roof could possibly cause some unwanted attention. Of
course, doubts in my own ability began to creep in and all sorts of negative
language started to work itself into my brain.

I confess, I am the queen of “get a professional to do it”. That is one of the
reasons I call myself a professional housewife, because I believe we all have
talents that we should be proud of and use. One of my talents is being a
professional housewife. It is not guttering repair, or anything to do with
heights. As I found myself teetering on the edge of the roofing tiles (which
incidentally make a horrible slipping noise no matter how carefully you step on
them) reaching up to pull the offending piece of guttering back into place, I
have to confess I was petrified. I have never been so grateful to finish a job.

This experience has taught me some things however. There are not many tasks to
do with my household that I will not at least attempt. I’m thinner than I
thought (I fit through the window!). I have incredible balance. I can fix
guttering. I’m a lot tougher than I thought. It has certainly taught me that if
What To Do About Moving does develop form and turn up and sit down with us at
the table, it’s one demon I’ve definitely got the guts to chase away!!

Posted by April J Harris at 5:32 pm No comments:
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FRIDAY, AUGUST 03, 2007


WHAT'S REALLY IMPORTANT


It has been quite a week. The chaos surrounding our move is still slowly
simmering around us and I keep reminding myself that this move is a good - no,
actually a fantastic thing - one that will change our lives in a way so positive
I can only just begin to imagine it. The fact that I might get to actually have
two houses really excites me, that is for sure! As does the idea that I will be
closer to one of my very best friends.
She came up this weekend with her husband and family and I was reminded how much
I miss them. We used to live across the street from each other until about eight
years ago. Now we get together about three times a year, not nearly enough. This
weekend was particularly lovely in that it involved two days where it did not
rain! It was our first sunshine in ages, and I was the happiest I can remember
being for a long time sitting at Ilam in the Peak District
http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/main/w-vh/w-visits/w-findaplace/w-ilampark/
having a picnic all together. The kids were laughing and playing as we sat and
chatted in the precious sunshine.
Anyway, regardless of exactly where it is, our new home should be considerably
closer to hers so we should be able to meet up much more regularly. I can’t
wait. In the meantime though I am still mired in the confusion this move seems
to entail, having meeting after meeting with removal consultants, our premier
banker and various new home builders. I am also still desperately trying to sort
out our lives, having realised that in the space of this last nearly eight years
we have accumulated a huge amount of stuff, most of which we do not need. In
fact, most of which we have forgotten we have! Despite 12 trips to the dump and
numerous trips to the charity shop I am still, embarrassingly, surrounded by
clutter. There are a lot of sentimental things I want and need to keep, but if I
don’t pull my finger out I am going to struggle to find space for them!
Of course, all this confusion often gives rise to short tempers and I spent a
lot of last week behaving rather badly, and I was joined by my nearest and
dearest in this most undesirable of pursuits. We snipped and snapped at each
other, falling out and making up at such speed we often found ourselves
forgetting whether we were contented or cross. As usual when one begins behaving
rather badly, one often finds oneself snapped back to reality and regretting the
amount of time one has lost being petulant or stupid, or even both.
You see, on Sunday afternoon, just after my friend had left, we had one of those
awful phone calls. I totally was not expecting it, although the lady in question
was quite elderly and had serious heart problems. However she was one of those
amazing people whose vitality and zest for life just bubbles round her so that
one really does not believe it will ever stop doing so. If ever someone really
lived, it was my Aunt Trish. Not that her life was easy mind you. A divorced mom
of five in the day when the very idea of single moms had people shaking their
heads, she raised five lovely daughters who are a total credit to her. She had
lots of friends, and she really did live life absolutely to the full. She
travelled to England from Canada more than once, and knew more about the country
I live in than I do. I’ll always remember seeing her arrive at my wedding with
her daughters and my two little cousins. Most of my family were unable to make
the trip, but they did and I really was thrilled. Although Aunt Trish struggled
with heart problems in the last few years, she always insisted she was doing
fine, and got up to all sorts of mischief – even going off on the streetcar by
herself (at 83!!) despite being entreated by her daughters not to. They looked
after her so well that she was able to live nearly independently till the end.
I was the only one who called her Trish. I can’t remember why I did that, but
I’ve persisted in it my whole life. Everyone else called her Pat, perhaps a more
suitable short form for Patricia than the one I chose. But to me, she was, and
always will be Aunt Trish. She was my Godmother, the last one I had left. Of
course, I’ve been busy these last few years, but I regret not having kept in
touch better. I spoke to Aunt Trish about two months ago, and when we got the
phone call saying she had died, her birthday card, along with a long overdue
letter, was sitting on the side table by the door.
This very undesirable snap back to reality in the form of finding out about the
death of someone I love has, not surprisingly, caused me to resolve to remember
what is important. Life is far too short, and our family far too precious, to
spend time sniping and snipping, regardless of what chaos is circling round
one’s ankles. I’ve also resolved to get in touch when I am thinking of someone,
instead of waiting till later. One of the difficult lessons in life is that we
do not always have the luxury of later. But the most important things Aunt Trish
has taught me were to not waste time worrying, to live life to the full, to
experience everything you possibly can, to get out there and just live life to
the full. Excellent lessons from a really amazing lady.

Posted by April J Harris at 12:43 pm No comments:
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