Kick ASS!

I stalk the Skytrain, alerting the “police” to injured souls in need of assistance, protecting infants from peril, helping old people not die and general superhero admin.

My name will ring out in the tunnels of the Millennium Line for years to come.

“That British Girl In The Scarf”

All shall worship me.

—

Speaking of British, I was justly pulled up after my last entry for using “cell”, when I clearly meant “mobile”.

From here on in I shall only use the Queen’s English whatwhat, and there will certainly be none of that jolly unpleasant and, frankly, common Americanising from me. Ball heck and all that…

Spot spot!

It started early and oddly. I had a dream. In this dream, I was incredibly angry with someone for the stupid stupid things they say and do. Markedly different from Dr King’s dream, I awoke, my left hand throbbing.

I’d punched the end table by my bed.

Odd, as I usually lead with my right hand.

Almost as quickly as I’d woken up, I was asleep again, and I slept soundly until my alarm went off for the third time and I leapt out of bed panicking as I thought it was Friday.

It wasn’t, it was Thursday and I wasn’t late for work. Huzzah.

Taking advantage of my afternoon start, I lazed about for a bit and wrote some more of my (for want of a better word) book. Ah, nice and relaxing.

Not wanting to go to work all smelly-like, I decided to go for a shower. A run of the mill activity, which could result in nothing hilarious or mildly humiliating, surely?

Surely not.

Yes, indeed, I locked myself out of my room in just my towel. I have no spare key (strike that, I had no spare key – I now have 5 spare keys dotted around the city) and the landlord was at work because it was the middle of the day and he is not a bum.

Now, mad props to said landlord, as he has apparently had installed the most impenetrable doorlocks in the Great White North (not racist). So I’m standing around in the kitchen in the nuddy, completely at a loss for what to do, and due in work in an hour and a half. Everything I had was in my room. I kept having flashes of inspiration – “I’ll call the landlord”, cell’s in my room. “I’ll put my coat on and see if his wife’s in”, coat’s in my room. “I’ll text Claire and see if she can bring me some clothes”, cell’s still in my room, idiot.

Then the flatmates came back from wherever they’d been. At first there was embarrassment as they took in my almost-nuddiness, then came the confusion – “why would you lock your door?” “I didn’t” “Why’s it locked then” “I genuinely don’t know” “are you sure you didn’t lock it?” “I’m in a towel, freezing my bits off, I’m sure”. And finally, the laughing. The laughing went on for a while, and was shortly followed by heroics.

Malaysian flatmate returned with tracksuit and flipflops while Mauritian flatmate and man Czech Republic flatmate tried to jimmy the locks in various ways. This proving to be a bust, because we’re not hardened criminals, tiny mauritian flatmate got a boost from tall man czech republi(can?) flatmate and shimmied her tiny frame through my one foot window.

Amazing. It was like the wee contortionist in Oceans 11. Smashing.

So I got in an went to work.

Work work work, that was quite nice, made some t-shirts, did some dusting. Much fun was had.

After work I hopped on the skytrain and made my way downtown to the Cellar for Brit Night, dancing and … well mostly dancing really – drinking’s spensive in this town.

The band were pretty good, there was a cracking rendition of “Tommy” that had us all going mental. During their set break, the DJ played some cracking tunes and took requests. At one point, we looked around and realised we were the only people in the club on the dance floor. I was mortified, but the rest of them were sozzled. As Mark Twain wisely said -

“Dance like no one is watching. Sing like no one is listening. Love like you’ve never been hurt and live like it’s heaven on Earth.”

So we danced and thrashed ourselves around as though we were inventing dancing. It was a great night.

Topped off by seeing, talking to, and not being a twat in front of this guy:

Nathan Fillion…

I spoke to him, and he asked polite questions about why I was in Vancouver. He was with someone else, they could have been made of tin foil for all I can remember of them. He was lovely, and let people take pictures with him.  I didn’t, as I don’t do photos with celebrities. The one of me and Martin Offiah may go down in history as the most unpleasant phtograph ever taken.

Charming, gorgeous, space cowboy… Perfect.

Note to everyone – watch Firefly, it’s seriously good.

And that meeting took my celebometer up to *quick calculation* 23. An that doesn’t include Ally McCoist and Grame Souness who I have been in the same room as, but not met.
And that was Thursday. It was rather groovy. Thank you for waiting a few days to hear about it, hope you agree t’was worth it.

The way they float about the mall like pacman ghosts in parkas. Fab.

How brilliant is it when they stand, spectre-like, opposite your store and stare at you. Don’t you love how you expect them at any moment to throw their heads back and emit a pod-people bellow?

By far my favourite thing about “seniors”, is the adorable way they filter into your shop, sweetly scowling at you as you bid them hello, fondle all the shirts and tut (very underrated form of communication, the tut) then leave, courteously and softly yelling across to Betty that:

“It’s a kids store, hon, full of rubbish. $20 for a shirt that won’t last one wash. They should be ashamed of themselves”

Rest assured, Margie, we’re suitably chastened. Than you for your always welcome and happily received customer feedback.

Now, hurry up and die you curmudgeonly old bat.

New favourite song alert! Mr Bass Man – Johnny Cymbal.

Thank you, yes, I am fully aware of his non-dead status – that means naught.

Get this -> there are 271 songs on my work ipod playlist. At approx 3mins a song, that is 14hrs of music, no? Yes. In 6 a standard hours, I’ll regularly hear 5 Bowie songs. I don’t know what the maths is on that, but it seems to me statistically unlikely.

At the start of a shift, “Golden Years” will play within 5 songs, closely followed by “TVC 15″ and, definitely before lunch, “John, I’m Only Dancing”.

Now comes the eerie. I saw a poster of him on the train on my way into work today. Not on the side or on an advert. It was just sitting there one the ground minding its own business. When was the last time you saw a picture of Bowie just lying around? See. Weird.

Finally, two seperate people came in today asking for the 2 foot “The Man Who Sold The World” print that we don’t carry.

If someone could have a word with the Duke, and find out what he wants that’d be smashing.

Same goes for the cast of Bones.

Holy hell! The second I put my pen down on this, “Breaking Glass” started.

WHAT, DAVID? WHAT?!?

An old UK friend appeared last week, and whilst it was great to see him it was most peculiar to have someone from my old life wandering around Vancouver. Get the hell out and find your own New World.

Speaking of Vancouver – we totes were – it’s been a tad soggy of late. That is to say, it has now rained for approximately 15 days straight. Peculiarly this doesn’t detract from the beauty of the place. In fact, Robson Street in the rain with the fairy lights in the trees and tiny shops feels almost Dickensian. Well, as Dickensian as any street with a Lush and an HMV can feel. The Starbucks helps, it’s all olde-worlde and smells like Christmas.

What else have I been up to other than hockey and work? Well, surprisingly large amounts of racism have been happening in a big way! Or do I mean bigotry? I’m not sure which the right word is these days. Suffice it to say, the guy who runs my laundrette is one or both of those things.

He’s Indian, he owns a laundrette/video rental store – we’ll get back to that – and he hates everyone. He hates the Chinese (they smell and are rude), Native Canadians (they’re drunks and rude) and most of all, he hates other Indian people (they smell, talk too much, steal, drive badly, have too many kids, are lazy, and… what was the other thing? Oh yeah, they’re rude).

I learned all this in the 10 minutes I waited for my underroos to finish drying.

Ladies sidebar – don’t dry your delicates in a public laundrette; all my bras are fucked. I think the guy has taken them all out and poked the wires out the sides on purpose. Like I can afford 4 new bras. Jeeeeesus. And ouch.

Everyone regularbar – I just spotted this scrolling across my ipod’s screen while listening to Motown 100: “Sly & The Family Stone: Thank You (Fallenttinme Be Mice Elf, Agin)”. And now that’s what the lyrics are. Thank You, Ipod.

I love misheard lyrics. My Dad’s version of kd Lang’s “Can’t Stand Gravy” is much better than the original, “licky as chips” in The Cure’s “High” is a better lyric than theirs, and there’s something in My Heart Will Go On about goats.

…What the hell was I talking about? I have completely lost my train of thought…

Oh yes, racism. Silly me.

Indeed, New Dehli’s answer to Enoch Powell tells me how much he distrusts and dislikes people from every culture in the world, except Britain. Stockholm Syndrome or unexpected politeness I’m not sure, but he freaking loves us and feels greatly aggrieved that the pesky Chinese and Polish (poor bastards, everyone picks on the polacks) are taking over and making it unliveable for us good white Brits. No word of a lie that is what he said to me. What can I do? The guy’s clearly mental, and while I try to politely disagree, I mostly have to nod and be noncommittal, because he’s 30 seconds from my place and it costs $2.25 to do a wash and dry. To put that in context, a litre of milk at my corner store costs $2.99.

I’m not proud, but I am a big fan of convenience and bargains.

Oh, just got busted by the security detail dancing to “Push It”

Ah, it’s good to be back…

*Blog One Get One Free…. you see.

I’m at work.

I’m mostly at work these days.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m super-stoked (yes, stoked like a chimney) to be employed right now, and in such a fun hassle-free job too. I’m a winner.

However, in one 8 hour shift I might serve 10 people. 6 of them will buy something, one OAP will ask where the loos are and, on average, 3 teenagers will come in and cream themselves over Bang On.

I’ve never known anyone to have a crush on an establishment before, but all the signs are there. They rush around, overexcited, flushed, and laughing at every t-shirt’s slogan as though it were written by Larry David.

They will hang in the store, male and female, and make banal, awkward conversation (usually about Twilight) with you – the anthropomorphised Bang On – just to stay one minute longer. Lord protect a parent fool enough to try and move them on. Snarling and snapping they turn on them, and turn back to us mumbling apologies and farewells.

“See you soon” they promise, stroking the catalogues goodbye, glancing longingly at fresh caps and gaudy costume jewellery as the slowly back out. Young love.

Inbetween such times, I am at a loss for shit to do. So I am resuscitating my poor dying blog. It’s a bit decayed and rotting round the edges I know, but with a bit of love and 200ccs of saline it should pull through.

***

Woah, easy there Fate, you narky cow.

So here I was, writing, idly daydreaming, generally whittling the day away on jumbles and cutting out rude letters in our Nudie Font, when in walks a big boxer man with three big scary boxer robes that he wants printing onto.

“No bother” says I, delirious from malnutrition. I’d not brought my lunch you see – I worked out that I spend about $60 a week on coffee and lunch where I only really have about $200 spare a month for “entertainment”. Nnnnnumpty. So I’ve stopped doing that.

Anway, shaking from hunger I take the shiny polyester robes from the aforementioned big scary fucker and promptly ruin them. Pink. I made them pink.

Then a woman comes in with a mega-order of hoody print requests and I let her walk out without paying! So far so bloody awesome.

I figure eating is the cure for all this nincompoopery, so throwing caution to the wind I close the store for 5 minutes and bolt to the food court. At the deli I load my tray with soup, crackers, coffee and a massive plate of the single best mac and cheese I’ve ever tasted. And then my card gets declined. Second worst Thursday ever.

Sigh.

That’s just one day though.

I’ve had bags of fun these past few weeks. I went to a hockey game and ended up on the Jumbotron, also I didn’t get hit in the face with a puck. Win-win!

I wrote a cheesey article about the hockey for a competition, I may post that later.

Some new friends have been made, and with them comes drinking in non-tourist bars, house parties and the “promise” of karaoke.

***

I’ll be frisking girls and using those WICKED hand metal wands. I get official Olympic gear and paid very well indeed. In an ideal world, I’ll also get to watch the figure skating and ice hockey games. You heard. Figure skating’s fabulous.

And I’ve applied for a job to be an elf for November and December. Again, you heard. What? I’d be a great elf!

Think that’s everything. Well, if I’ve missed anything I’ll include it next week.

x

How’ve you been? Still alive? Good, I’m glad. Having heard not a peep from any of you. At all. (Except you, you did facebook me, sorry.)

*sulks for a bit*

I’ve been very busy not missing the UK at all, being brave and seizing days and suchlike things.

I may have underestimated how much money I would need to live on before I found a paying job. Significantly. But that’s okay, it’s been almost 8 years since I last ate nothing but soup and pasta – it’s about time I revisited it. If only I liked noodles, eh? As well you know, I can’t bear them – and yet I love spaghetti. Oddness.

Anyway, financial destitution aside (don’t worry family, I have paid rent and I’m exaggerating for comic effect. A bit.) I am doing great, enjoying exploring Vancouver and really really trying to push myself out of my regular lifestyle. The poverty thing helps.

For touristy things, I haven now been to White Rock, which is very pretty and has oh, at least two things to put in its tourist brochure.

One, the White Rock – so white it looks like it’s painted. Don’t say that near any Canadians, turns out they’re proud of the landmarks they’ve got.

Thanks Claire, I stole your photo.

It’s the very White thing. Looks like a big tooth.

The Rock has two other things going for it:

White Rock Railway Museum

and

Purple Starfish!

Nice things, aren’t they? Especially, if you ask me, the old people outside the museum.

So that was very pleasant.

What else, what else…

We went to the movies a couple of times, and saw Funny People (quite sobering, not overly funny, quite good) and 9 (scary, great animation, no way is it a PG).  On Tuesday, my current only Vancouver-based-friend Claire – lovely girl – and I went to see Jack Penate and Miike Snow. It was a pretty damn good gig, and it was great to get out amongst young Canadian types.

Weirdest thing about Vancouver so far? They really could give the British a run for their money when it comes to queuing. So we were at The Venue (the name of the venue, I like) and required  a refreshment – there were three bars, not very long, but empty. This seemed strange, as the place was far from quiet. Turns out they weren’t empty; each bar had a well formed and patiently waiting queue of about 10 people. Queuing. At a bar. It was lovely! You knew exactly when you’d get served, and there was no desperately staring at the bar staff, refusing to blink in-case you missed the split second in which you could make eye contact and get served next. And the beers were only $5.50 a pop. Quite reasonable.

The gig was good, Jack Penate much better than expected and Miike Snow (a band I’d never heard of until now) were… well, they started well, got rubbish, then got better, and then we left early. So they were varying.

I think even if they’d been horrendous, I would have been happy. It’s nice to get out.

And that was Tuesday night.

On Wednesday, I really started with the seizing.

During the day, I have been applying for jobs – mainly through Craigslist – and so far one interview and a bunch of “thanks but we need someone who’s not sodding off in a year”, I paraphrase of course. Whilst browsing Craigslist I kept seeing an ad looking for “Fright Night Cast Members”. This is 2 weeks work at a massive haunted house complex, as something evil, scaring people.

And getting paid for it.

Every time I saw it I thought, that would be so cool, but I need to get a proper job. Then I realised that I didn’t need to do anything, and the whole point of this damn venture was to try something totally new. So I applied on Monday, and got an interview. The interview was on Wednesday and took the form of group improvisation *shudder*.

Unexpectedly, I killed.

They said they’d call the successful candidates on Thursday, and if we hadn’t heard by 7pm, we weren’t in. I got a call at 6.55pm. Think they’re funny, do they? I’ll show them.

I didn’t show them, I took the job and burbled about it being “awesome” and suchlike.  So I’ll be working at Fright Nights for the fortnight leading up to Halloween!

I’ve got an interview tomorrow for a job at Cherry Bomb, a costume shop cum t-shirt printing place cum vintage outlet, which sells a fair amount of superhero merchandise such as… oh I don’t know… THESE:

Check it!

Yes, that’s a Superman ring and a Wonder Woman pendant  – I’m searching for a Flash bracelet and Batman hairclips. Oh yeah.

And if this interview goes well tomorrow, I will be decked out head to toe in Cherry Bomb gear. Or a Robin costume.

In my spare time, I spend a lot of time wandering about Granville Street and came across The Vogue Theatre where Evil Dead: The Musical is playing in October, and got chatting to a random man who came out the theatre (Oh, I do that now – a regular chatterbox). Turns out his name is Hendrick and he is the Producer of said show. Long story short, I’m doing volunteer promotional work and assistant wardrobe work in exchange for a ticket or three not to mention an in with the people at The Vogue.

I’ve been keeping myself busy.

This got long again.

That’s what she said…

I’m still not used to things costing 7% more than the sticker price. Why not just put it on the thing you’re buying? That’s one of the reasons I had to quit my job – I kept telling people coffees cost $1.99, but they actually cost $2.14. That and I was covered in hash brown grease all the live long day and was being paid around $6 an hour after tax.

Now I am polishing my resume and plan to stomp it all over town tomorrow. I’m dreadful at advertising myself, and terrible at interviews. I need a haircut and all my clothes are far too casual for impressing important manager-types. I’m sure I’ll be fine!

What of Vancouver? To quote some geniuses, “The city is alive, the city’s expanding… living in the city can be demanding.” They meant New York, but it’s the same.

Pretty much everything in Vancouver Central is within walking distance, now that I’m all fit and whatnot (thank you Edinburgh). People say “get the bus, it’s 12 blocks away”, a block is no more than 100 yards! It took me 25 minutes max, including dawdling and staring up time, to walk the entire width of Vancouver City.

For the first couple of days that’s all I did. I walked around a lot.

I’ve always found the best way to get to know a city is to get lost in it and, let’s face it; I’m very good at that.

Vancouver has some astonishing things to see when you’re not looking for anything. Like at English Bay, on the west coast, there’s an apartment block, I’d say about 50/60 storeys, which has a tree growing out of the very top of it. It’s gorgeous.

There’s a small house on Payne that is completely circular. There are 5 panhandlers on every street in the centre, each holding signs ranging from horribly heartbreaking to hilarious.  For example, the guy who has a sign which reads “I bet you $1 you look at this sign” on one side, and “hey you looked, cough up” on the other. He got $2, cos that’s just goo

Then I got a job. I got a job by accident. I was walking around Granville Island, which is a brilliant artisan island with markets and workshops, studios and museums, when I came across a help wanted sign on a coffee shop wall. I asked the manageress what kind of job it was, then I must have blacked out, because I walked out of the market with a job, but no recollection of being interviewed or in fact asking for a job.

I did two shifts before realising that I did not want to get up at 6am and spend the day by a spitting stove making eggs Benedict for $8 an hour. And why the hell should I spend any of my Adventure doing anything I don’t want to do. So I quit. But you already knew that.

Thankfully, I have enough savings and my rent is low enough that I can survive October without pay.

Oh my rent, oh my lovely room! It’s a room in a house owned by a very nice Canadian Mexican (Canexian) family, and I live here with a Canadian girl, a Czech couple and a Korean couple. I don’t really know what they’re like yet, I haven’t spent much time in the shared part of the flat. My room has a sofa, some plug outlets, wireless internet and a TV with full cable. If I didn’t have to eat, ablute, or find a new job, I don’t think I’d leave the room ever.

The area seems nice, and as I’ve said before, it’s heavily Canasian. It feels very safe, and is very picturesque – right down to some picket fencing in the area!

I was supposed to be writing my resume up today, but instead I watched some Mad Men, messed about with Skype and put up all my personal things to make my room feel like home. It does a bit, thanks to the lovely people at Zimmers, Ritchie, Sam and all the Invisible Dot things I stole.

Real life can begin again tomorrow.

Tomorrow and tomorrow.