Arrrrghhh! My comments!

To my (modest readership and blogging friends: for some reason, I seem unable to comment on some of your blogs since the last few days. Not all of yours, but it is the case for Bourdon Chapardeur, Quedula and Octoberfarm. I have no idea why it is doing that and I hope things get back to normal soon.

Victor Hugo par Georges Brassens

Pour essayer d'oublier mon rhume qui commence sérieusement à me mettre de mauvaise humeur et le temps de fin de janvier qui va avec, j'ai pensé mettre ici La légende de la nonne de Victor Hugo interprétée par Georges Brassens. J'ai déjà fait un cours sur Hernani dans mon autre vie à Liverpool, c'était mon premier cours de littérature alors même si je ne suis pas naturellement très porté sur le XIXe siècle romantique français (pas depuis mon adolescence et ma jeune vingtaine en tout cas), j'aime bien Hugo. Et puis, l'exotisme espagnol (appelé espagnolade si mes souvenirs sont exacts) est idéal pour oublier la griserie quotidienne et mon état de rhumatique grincheux. Je n'ai jamais été particulièrement intéressé par la vraie Espagne (pas comme l'Italie ou l'Irlande), je crois que c'est partiellement parce que je suis pleinement satisfait par celle de la fiction, aussi inauthentique soit-elle.

Addictive TV series

I am not a complete, hooked TV addict. Actually, I spend more time on the Internet than watching TV. Something I picked up from years of studying in university halls here without any television. I learned to do without. That said, I am addicted to some kind of TV, as long as it is intelligent fiction. Entertaining is not enough: it needs to be really smart, inventive and remain consistently so. I actually lost interest with 24, Prison Break and the likes when their plots became increasingly implausible and formulaic. I don't care if the series is brand new or not.

I already mentioned here on a few occasions the brilliant The Wire, which I watched the first season last year. I am planning to buy and watch the rest religiously. I am impatient to watch episodes written by George Pelecanos. No contemporary TV series has been as perfect (so far) as The Wire: flawless casting of unknown actors (which means that the character is more important than the name playing him/her), tight, realistic plot, the most acurate depiction of police work and criminality, brilliant characterisations, a disdain for cheap thrills and brilliant atmosphere. When it comes to crime dramas, I will always have a soft spot for Omertà (which I will try to rewatch during my next trip to Québec), but The Wire is far superior, in all aspects. Here's the first minutes of season one, with the intro:



There is also a much older and much more obscure TV series which I purchased recently: The Sandbaggers. I first heard about it in the introductions of the graphic novels series Queen & Country, as it was the inspiration for it. Like Greg Rucka's series, it is an espionnage drama based on a team of MI6 operatives, called here the Sandbaggers (in Q&C it is the Minders). It is devoid of the clichés of the genre, de-glamourised and de-mythified. The characters spend more time discussing the missions (which do not always succeed) and fighting British bureaucracy than going after KGB spies (even though the main protagonist is devoted to "the eradication of the KGB"), they drink bucket loads of coffee, smoke nervously, fight, get into arguments with their colleagues, these spies are real people. The dialogues are brilliant, sharp like razor blades, to the point. It's British drama like you'd never seen it before (or you never see anymore) and it's a shame it is not more famous. From what I read, it got a fairly important fanbase in the US, where the series was shown on PBS. There is a devoted fan website you can visit if you want to know more about the show and you can find the first episode on Youtube. Until I get season two of The Wire, I will stay hooked on The Sandbaggers. Here is the opening credit, where you can hear the only music in the show. It sets the atmosphere perfectly:

Rhume hivernal

Il fallait s'y attendre, ça m'arrive à chaque année, d'habitude dans ces temps-ci de l'année: j'ai un mauvais rhume depuis hier. C'est une tradition involontaire et dont je pourrais bien me passer, ça m'arrive peu importe où je vis. Je suis chanceux car je n'avais pas à travailler aujourd'hui, alors j'ai passé la journée à me soigner (régime de jus d'orange, de smoothies et suppléments de vitamine C) et à ne rien faire. Hier, c'était infernal, je me sentais plutôt moyen et je devais travailler. Ce sont des maux qui courent: j'avais au moins trois collègues enrhumés en même temps que moi. Au moins j'ai repris du poil de la bête aujour'hui. Et je tombe malade avant la Saint-Valentin.

Ah, petite surprise ce soir: il a neigé un peu. On annonce plus de neige en fin de semaine. Comme quoi l'hiver n'est pas fini...

A bittersweet farewell?

The Monday after next week, it will be my last day of work in my other, miserable, uber part-time, underpaid, under appreciated, I-got-fed-up-with-it job. I got really fed up with it, way before I went part-time and way before I knew it was going to end. Waking up ghastly early in the morning and getting home late, all this for, well this. It saddens me as I was so happy when I first got the job, I think I had high expectations and thought it could lead me to more. It didn't, and in the meantime I slowly got bitter about the job itself. I say this, and last Monday when I announced to some of the pupils that I was leaving soon, they seemed genuinely sad. This, and the fact that they have been really nice recently, remind me of the things I always loved about the school and will always remember fondly, no matter what. I will certainly miss them, even if I don't miss the rest, and the list that makes "the rest" is numerous. There is:

-The canteen food.
-Many of the colleagues.
-The long train journey.
-The long foot journey after the long train journey.
-The short foot journey between the train station and home which feels worse because I am exhausted.
-The prayers. Seriously. In a public school, it is the preaching and the praying that bothered me more than anything else.

Le volume des livres

J'ai récemment acheté quelques livres (deux pour moi, un pour ma femme). Rien d'extraordinaire à cela, mais je me rend compte que les étagères de ma bibliothèque anglaise, déjà passablement bien garnies à cause de sa taille modeste, risquent de déborder. Et à chaque fois que je vais au Québec, je rapporte des bouquins de ma plus imposante bibliothèque que je veux lire, relire ou avoir près de moi. Ce qui fait que je me demande si je ne devrais pas:

1)Acheter une nouvelle bibliothèque (mais où la mettre?).
2)Donner certains bouquins que j'aime moins à la charité.

Le pire, c'est qu'en consommateur invétéré, j'achète plus que je ne peux lire.

The Creative Process

During our last trip to Québec and Canada, I discovered a hilarious short animated movie made by a certain Jeffrey Royiwsky. I found it so funny I watched it over and over again, on the trip to Montreal, then back from Vancouver, then back to England. I tried to find it everywhere, on Youtube and on Google, without any success. All I found was something on the Air Canada website. Then recently, I was lucky enough to find it here. Watch it and tell me what you think.

I know why I find The Creative Process so funny: it is a simple cartoon which shows a reality I know too well. I have never made animated movies, but as a student I spent a lot of sleepless nights due to poor planning, overconfidence and procrastination, with varying results. I sometimes managed to get As, but not always. I also got a lot of suffering through it, however proud I was of my work. Anyway, The Creative Process is, in a nutshell, student life.

Petites traditions dominicales

Comme c'est notre habitude le dimanche, ma femme et moi sommes allés dans notre café préféré. Nous avions pensé essayer un nouveau café indépendant qui a ouvert ses portes récemment, mais comme nous étions sortis tard, il était déjà sur le point de fermer. Ce sera pour une prochaine fois. Selon ce que j'ai pu voir de l'endroit, il me fait penser un peu à l'autre café indépendant qui est sur le coin de rue: décor minimaliste (mais plus coloré), endroit plus éclairé, sélection de breuvages moins connus.

La visite au café est l'une de ces rituels qui se sont installés dans notre vie de couple subrepticement, histoire de rendre dimanche moins monotone. C'est une manière charmante de ne rien faire et d'oublier un peu le lundi qui vient. Nous avons une autre petite tradition, typiquement anglaise celle-là, que nous avons décidé de suivre: le Sunday roast. Avec les patates et les carottes, on mange habituellement un roast végétalien qui ne me fait pas regretter une minute la viande. Il ne manquerait qu'un peu de vin ou une bière pour rendre le repas parfait, mais tant que j'aurai ma job à Windsor qui me force à me lever à des heures impossibles (ce qui ne durera pas), je préfère ne pas boire d'alcool un dimanche. Même avec modération, ça me rend le sommeil difficile.

To go "useful" shopping

I had to go to a gardening shop today, hoping to find some "useful" purchases. I don't like "useful" shops, by that I mean tool shops, gardening shops, cleaning products shops and other shops where they sell things that are not entertaining. This is not how I like to spend my Saturday. I have an uncle, who goes to Canadian Tire (of all places!) when he gets bored during weekends. And when he gets bored again, he goes back during the very same day. At least there were electric trains on display (and on sale) in the gardening center I went to. I didn't buy any, but it was nice to see, even though they were not as nice as the family one. It is not like visiting a museum, but it is entertaining enough.

Anyway, after successful but tiresome "useful" shopping (including clothes shopping, a torture in itself, especially when you are a glorified clothes hanger), I managed to convince my wife to stop at Waterstone's to buy some books. That was more like it. Sometimes the only purchases worth making are the useless ones.

Bienvenue au Bourdon Chapardeur

Tiens je viens de me rendre compte avec plaisir qu'un ami a mis au monde un nouveau blogue. Je lui souhaite la bienvenue dans la blogosphère. Je dois le remercier pour beaucoup de mes meilleures soirées de beuverie à Montréal (on dirait que je reviens souvent à l'alcool dans mon blogue ces temps-ci). Et, puisqu'il est acteur professionnel, donc artiste, ses billets promettent d'être intéressants. Dès que je mets à jour le blogroll (ce que je remets à plus tard depuis six mois), je lui fait une place d'honneur. Et je fais cet honneur au Baron Luisant (devrais-je dire l'Étrange Cas?) également. Enfin bref, une fois encore bienvenue. Si sa plume vaut son verbe, ce sera fascinant.

The worm in the tequila

This afternoon, after work, I went to my local pub. I haven't been in a while and I was missing the place and the drinks. I must have drank half my weight in beer, but it was all real ale, so that's okay. Had I consumed all my weight in beer, then I would have been drunk. I was not expecting to drink that much, but as I ordered yet another half a pint, the barrel was almost empty, and as a generous gesture the landlady gave me what was left in it. So I had a pint for the price of a half. But that is not the topic.

In this local pub, you can buy a tequila shot with the legendary worm in it. The worm has the reputation of having hallucinatory qualities. I don't know, as I have never tried. Somehow, the idea of swallowing a worm disgusts me. The landlady (again) said that she witnessed in the very pub people feeling the alleged hallucinatory effects of the worm. I think this has more to do with common drunkenness than anything else. This urban legend reminds me of a method to get rid of slugs in gardens: you place bowls full of beer around, bowls in which the slugs will sink and die. It might seem cruel, but the slugs will die happy. So does the worm in the tequila, I am quite sure of it.

Une perle de sagesse

Entendue alors que j'étais plongeur, alors qu'on remplissait une fois de plus le verre d'un client:

"-Chéri, tu sais que l'alcool est un poison qui tue lentement.
-Tant mieux, je ne suis pas pressé."

Scotland Yard

Before I became a complete geek and started playing RPGs, when I was still a young and innocent child, I used to be into board games, something I only play during the holidays now. One of my favourite was Scotland Yard (you can find a few reviews here and a Youtube one here). I think it was triggered by my Anglophilia, which I had even then, even if I hadn't been in England yet. My first perception of London was through the map that served as the board for the game.

Other than my love and fascination for British culture (yes, I love British culture), the game appealed to me for many reasons. So, apart from the particular and pretty nice English feel to the game (the name Scotland Yard has almost mythical associations), it has that adventure element (pursuing a criminal in London is more dynamic and exciting than say investigating in Cluedo), it has a clever little game system that makes you use strategy and cooperation, it also has a bit of a dramatic background.

I discovered an advert for the game on Youtube. I loved watching it as a child, even though I could not understand a word of English. It was like watching the trailer of a movie in which I had a role. Now I wonder: why would Metropolitan Police detectives have American accents? I understand for Mister X, he could be of any nationality, but the police officers themselves?

Le ménage du printemps en janvier?

Je n'ai pas blogué depuis quelques jours, je songeais commencer par un billet trivial: quelqu'un a lavé les vitres du bloc aujourd'hui. En janvier! Il y a quelques semaines, la neige tombait tellement que les écoles fermaient, en fait pas plus tard qu'hier il avait neigé, pas beaucoup mais au moins un peu. Le temps est beaucoup plus doux aujourd'hui et tout est vert. Mais je me demande si laver les vitres si tôt après des bordées de neige sérieuses, ce n'est pas faire preuve d'optimisme. À la première bordée ou à la première pluie bien lourde, les fenêtres seront sales à nouveau.

Foggy Monday

Mondays are often Hell for me, but even Hellish Mondays can have their appeal. I woke up dreadfully early as usual, when it was still dark outside, but there was a ghostly fog that gave the surrounding and eerie feel. The rest of the day was clear, but on the way back, the fog got back and the view on the train was simply stunning, with the fog blurring light and darkness. I spent the journey back staring outside the window. The words fail me to describe how beautiful it was. I wish I had a camera with me.

Anyway, I will not have to endure the commuting for much longer: I have learned today that my contract for my Monday job will end in mid-term. I couldn't care less when I got the news, as it is not bringing me much, the commuting was getting on me and I was fed up feeling invisible. Then the pupils were angels with me today, even if they didn't know, so it make me feel less eager to leave. When I saw the fog on the way back, I almost thought I would miss commuting too.

Les oeufs crus

Ma femme et moi venons de faire cuire un gâteau au chocolat appelé "Devil's food cake" (toujours bien de se lancer dans la cuisine de classiques). On n'a pas encore goûté et il reste à faire la crème et le glaçage, mais j'ai mangé la pâte crue comme goûter de l'après-midi. C'est une tradition familiale que ma nouvelle belle-soeur trouve ça bizarre et imprudent. La gourmandise l'emportant sur la peur pour ma santé, je mange malgré tout des oeufs crus, pour autant qu'ils soient en mayonnaise ou en gâteau. Enfant, j'avais par erreur bu une bonne gorgée d'oeuf cru laissé dans une tasse dans le réfrigérateur, couvert de lait. Je me rappelle encore du goût horrible. Étonnant que ce soit si bon en pâte à gâteau.

We'll Meet Again

Maybe it is the rain falling, maybe it is the grey look of outside since the snow is gone, maybe it's because of the earthquake in Haiti, but I have been having We'll Meet Again in the head since this morning. Here in the UK, Dame Vera Lynn is of course an icon. For me, she simply sang that beautiful song in the closing credits of Dr. Strangelove, where I first heard it and where it was used to brilliant, cynical, pessimistic effect by Stanley Kubrick. The more I think of it, the more I think my mind has been associating it with Haiti. Sure, what happened there was not a nuclear holocaust, but it must have felt like Apocalypse all the same. The song pictures perfectly dark, difficult times where you can still feel a dim but ever present hope.

Un long mois de janvier

La neige a commencé à fondre sérieusement hier, à cause du temps doux et de la pluie. C'est un mal pour un bien: le pays ne pouvait pas marcher au ralenti indéfiniment. Mais ça veut dire que le brun/gris/vert a succédé au blanc. Les rues sont pleines de sable et de cailloux comme la rue Racine à Chicout un jour de printemps. Sauf qu'on est en janvier...

Janvier est un mois ennuyeux, peut-être autant que novembre. Une fois le Jour de l'An passé et les Fêtes terminées, il ne reste plus qu'à attendre la Chandeleur (si on la fête) ou la Saint-Valentin, si on est en couple. Et le mois est en général froid, humide, gris, sans couleur (les lumières de Noël étant depuis longtemps enlevées). Dans les pires des cas, on attend jusqu'à la Saint-Patrick ou bien Pâques. On vend d'ailleurs des oeufs Cadbury dès le premier janvier ici, ce qui est presqu'aussi absurde que les décorations de Noël en septembre. Mais ça illustre parfaitement à quel point janvier est un non-évènement, un mois d'attente. Un mois qui est souvent très long. Cela dit, j'aurais tort de me plaindre: autant s'ennuyer dans le temps morne que mourir sous un soleil splendide.

Distance and proximity

I have two jobs at the moments, in two different schools, one in this town, one outside. I go to the one outside town on Monday. I have blogged on a number of occasions about how I feel about this one. Apart from the general impression that I am an outsider (coming once a week, that has to be expected), I find Mondays difficult because of the long commuting I have to go through. I used to find it bearable, but since I do it only once a week now, I don't get used to it anymore. Getting there and back is long, it is exhausting, it is frustrating. I lose my day and I am too tired to really appreciate my evening. I guess all the walking is good for my health, but I don't think it is worth it.

Therefore, I appreciate my job even moreso now that I live close to it. It is also overall a nicer working environment, for me anyway, people have bene more welcoming, I feel more useful and I am less of an outsider. But the commuting difference really makes the contrast. I don't have to wake up at ghastly hours in the morning, disturbing my wife's sleep in the meantime, I have time to take a full breakfast (on Monday I have it on the train, which, no matter how much I like trains, is not idea), I can see the daylight when I come home and, more importantly, I still have energy at the end of the day.

Living close to your working place has its downsides, obviously: it is more difficult to distanciate yourself from the work, if you lose your job you risk meeting former colleagues (which is at best awkward at worst unpleasant), in my particular case I risk meeting pupils every single moment here. And no matter what I think of my job now, it does not mean that I will not get fed up one day. Still, it's nice to work closer to home for a change.

Haïti

English below, in the usual rewritten form...

Je ne l'apprendrai à personne: Haïti a subi un épouvantable tremblement de terre. Les commentaires que je peux faire sont un peu vains, forcément, vu l'ampleur de la catastrophe, absurde dans l'intensité de sa violence. Je n'ai jamais mis les pieds à Haïti. Cela dit, j'ai lu un peu sur son histoire et La tragédie du roi Christophe d'Aimé Césaire (de la voisine Martinique), lue à l'université, a fait une impression durable sur moi. Mais surtout, j'ai un peu de famille originaire d'Haïti, lesquels ont encore de la famille et des amis là-bas, alors la présente catastrophe me touche par ricochet. Je vais dire un cliché, mais nous vivons sur une bien petite planète.
----------------------------------
This is the kind of news that remind me that we live on a small planet and I hope to avoid clichés after this one. I will not break the news for anybody, but here it is anyway: Haiti has been caught in an earthquake. After what happened to the island in the last...centuries, this catastrophe can be qualified by nothing else than absurd so meaningless it is in its blind violence. I have never been to Haiti, but I read about its history and, more importantly, I have a bit of family that is from there, who themselves have friends and family still living in the island. Therefore, the current tragedy touches me by proxy. No man is an island, and so on... Whatever you look at it, it still sucks.

Italian wisdom

Here is a bit of Italian wisdom from this site I discovered not so long ago. I really like it and I had wanted to put it here for a long time. Now is just a good time as any (you can find the particular post on the other website/blog here):

"A chi non beve birra, Dio neghi anche l'acqua."

J'ai manqué la Saint-Guillaume

Remarqué aujourd'hui sur le calendrier de ma collègue: j'ai manqué la Saint-Guillaume, laquelle était célébrée hier. Je dis ça, mais qui fête encore la fête du saint qui lui a "donné" son nom? Les Grecs, à ce qu'il paraît: j'avais une voisine grecque durant mes études qui fêtait son "name day". C'est un peu absurde, surtout que je ne ressemble en rien à l'austère prêtre que le saint semble avoir été. Cela dit, je me demande comment on peut fêter la Saint-Guillaume, si jamais elle est célébrée. Il y a des traditions qui y sont associées? Des fois que quelqu'un saurait...

The café in the corner

It seems that I am often blogging about cafés these days. This post is about a café, but it is about the angles of the café itself, the kind of room it was in, that I want to blog about. I have those weird ideas for posts sometimes, I muse on architecture and the use of space in a building or whatever.

Anyway, we went in an indie café today, my wife and I. I thought it would be different from the usual Costa, Starbucks, Caffè Nero, Coffee Republic or whatever. Chains are nice, but predictable, especially for someone who does not drink coffee like myself. The indie café is in the corner of two streets. It is very small, there is not much room or sitting place, but there are not that many customers. I think it makes most of its money from take away orders. The walls are white/grey/beige/cream, anyway some kind of nondescript bland colour, there are large windows covered with condensation, windows that makes the place as light and open as our usual drinking places are shadowy. There is something bare about the café, but it has a simplicity not devoid of charm. It also has interesting products for a non-coffee drinkers. I had some Curiosity Cola from Fentimans, which I have never heard of before. It reminded me of the obscure soft drinks I was drinking at my grandmother's place, things I would not find anywhere else.

Part of its charm comes from its geographical/architectural situation. There is something about little corner shops, little corner restaurants, little corner pubs, bars, takeaways, cafés that makes them stand out. It is a natural attraction point in any town or neighbourhood. If I had to open a business, I would try to rent a room in a corner. There is also the unusual angles. I love unusual angles in a building or a room. Since the streets meeting don't make a straight angle, the café has some kind of messy attitude (I can't find the right word, "attitude" is as good as I can get).

Ma nouvelle héroïne

Mes lecteurs savent à quel point la séparation de l'Église et de l'état me tient à coeur et, conséquemment, que je trouve aberrante l'idée que des fonctionnaires, employés de l'état, puissent arborer des signes religieux, y compris mais pas exclusivement le voile islamique. Or récemment, un certain benoît Renaud de Québec Solidaire a écrit une lettre d'opinion publiée dans le Devoir, en réponse à une autre lettre d'opinion, défendant le port du voile islamique et faisant d'odieuses attaques envers les laïcs comme moi, les traitant ni plus ni moins de racisme, d'intégrisme laïque (faudra un jour m'expliquer ce que c'est, surtout au Québec, qui a souffert sous l'obscurantisme religieux pure laine pendant des générations), enfin bref de tous les maux. C'est rempli d'attaques ad hominem, d'accusations intempestives et ça m'a un peu mis le feu quand j'ai lu ce minable merdier. Parce que c'est ce que c'est. Monsieur Renaud me rappelle pourquoi je me qualifie d'humaniste laïque mais jamais (jamais plus) de social démocrate ou "de gauche". Enfin bref...

Je songeais à lui répondre, jusqu'à ce que je lise la brillante réplique de Marie-Michelle Poisson, présidente du Mouvement laïque québécois. Brillant, cinglant, inébranlable comme argument. Je ne suis pas membre du MLQ, vivant à l'étranger je suis plus porté à suivre et appuyer ce que la British Humanist Association fait, mais je suis quand même ce qui se passe dans ce domaine avec attention. J'aimais déjà beaucoup le MLQ, maintenant cette excellente lettre de sa présidente me la fait placer dans la liste des femmes que j'admire. Pas autant que Cate Blanchett, mais assez pour que je la considère comme une héroïne.

Rediscovering snow

Well, sort of... I don't want to turn this into a weather blog and I know it is not particularly original to blog about the current weather. But I was not expecting the snow to stay for that long here.

Since I have been living in England, I got used to see snow only around Christmas, when I got back to Québec. During my studies here, there were the few odd snow storms, but nothing that lasted more than a day or two. Now, I almost feel at home. Snow fell heavily, it stayed, there is ice on the pavement and roads and the air is cold. I find it much more bearable at this temperature than if it was slightly warmer, but wet and accompanied with heavy rains. It feels almost weird to have snow post Christmas. I had forgotten how it felt, hence the title.

There is one huge difference between this winter and the one in Québec: here, everything is on a standstill. It is not nearly as bad as the ice storm of 1998 (we have electricity running, after all), but schools are closed, roads are treacherous (I am not being original here, "are treacherous" is used on every news channel, wish they could find some synonyms), travelling is therefore hasardous and avoided, etc. So far, I can cope with the situation: I don't have to work (although it is sad, as I love my new job), my wife has to work from home (I wouldn't let her drive or even take the train even if she wanted to) so I can spend more time with her, I can get on my the pile of books I want to read and well, there is the snow. I could enjoy it better if I had a warmer winter coat (as I said here), but hey, it is still bearable.

Bleuet en exil

Je me suis rendu compte récemment qu'une section minuscule du site web du Quotidien de Chicoutimi (dit-on "de Saguenay" maintenant?) demande aux expatriés comme moi de raconter leurs aventures et expériences. Je me pose la question depuis ce matin: devrais-je? Mon blogue porte parfois, voire souvent, sur mon expérience d'exilé, mais c'est mon petit frère qui est le plus porté sur le mal du pays du Saguenéen expatrié. Cela dit, je suis encore plus loin que lui du fjord, au point d'être la branche saguenéenne de la famille en Angleterre. PJ vit encore au Québec.

J'y songe un peu. Cela donnerait peut-être un lectorat important au blogue, ça me forcerait à écrire en français un peu plus souvent, je pourrais soulever des controverses bien de chez nous, qui attireraient des trolls bleus, pas des blokes (je suis méchant, je sais). Cela dit, le Quotidien est un r'ournal qui m'ennuie passablement, même mon mal du pays ne me le fait pas lire. Je m'ennuie encore moins du maire Catholique dévôt de Saguenay (dont j'ai déjà parlé ici et que je soupçonne de créationnisme). Alors je vais y réfléchir encore un peu.

Et en passant, parlant du maire Tremblay, il y a un groupe sur Facebook qui s'appelle, je ne l'invente pas "Supportons le maire Jean Tremblay!" (avec un point d'exclamation pour s'exclamer, j'imagine). Ca en dit long sur ses admirateurs: le titre est un anglicisme sémantique qui, en français, veut dire presque le contraire de ce que "Support mayor Tremblay" veut dire. Moi, je n'arrive pas à le supporter. L'exil a parfois du bon.

Blood on snow

Don't worry, nobody is dead yet (touch wood). It has been snowing a lot today, and it reminded me of a promise I made here. So I will blog about crime fiction and winter (presuming it interests anyone), as I think they go well together. So as I was saying, we have a really nice heavy snow today, the kind of sticky snow that does "sqweek" when you step on it and which is perfect for snowballs and snowmen. And perfect for walking on, of course.

I once participated for a few hours in a creative writing workshop, back in cégep. One of the teachers hosting the event had an activity where he explained how to make associations of words and themes. He kind of freely associated snow, cold, ice, blizzard and so on, with words that sounded the same (for instance neige (snow)/en nage (sweaty)) and elements that looked the same (snow/cocaine for instance). The words and their associations would be the starting point for our short stories, or our poems, or whatever the students chose to write. There was a price for the best story. I never went as far as a few paragraphs. My friend who writes the serial/blogged novel L'Étrange cas du baron luisant made a great atmospheric short story which won the price. I am glad I did not go further, as I couldn't have competed with what he had written.

My few paragraphs, however, made some kind of impact in my creative writing. I had written about a man who snores cocaine on a snowy day, then goes out on a walk. Under the effect of the drug some vein in his nose bursts and blood drops on the snow, quickly erased by the heavy falls. That was it, I had no idea who this man was, why he was a drug user, what prompted him to go on a walk and what to do with him. In a writer's block that got unresolved, I presented this to the teacher, who said something like this: "An interesting piece. You focus a lot on the action, the setting and the atmosphere. This is a good beginning for a crime story." It stayed in the back of my mind. Years later, another teacher, this time at university level, told me my style would work better for crime fiction than "serious" literature. I found a use for the drug user, first as the antihero of a short story set during Christmastime where he was a sort of prodigal son (I think I lost the piece), then, years later, as a Messianic figure in another setting. But I think there is still potential for him in the crime fiction genre.

The genre is often associated with summertime, but for me it is just as much a "winter genre". Because of this haunting image of blood in the snow. Dripping blood, the sound of a gun, loneliness in an open environment that is made oppressive, claustrophobic even, because of it immaculate whiteness, the footsteps of the antagonists getting erased by the falling snow, it is such a perfect season for murder. Yes, it has been done before (gotta read this graphic novel one day). But still, it can be reused again. It does not have to be Antarctica. Any snowy place could work.

L'Épiphanie

Tiens, c'est l'Épiphanie aujourd'hui, j'avais presque oublié. Le temps des Fêtes sera officiellement terminé demain. J'ai rangé l'arbre de Noël, les décorations et les cartes aujourd'hui. J'ai pensé épargner à mon lectorat les photos de crèche que j'ai mis ici lors de l'Épiphanie de 2009. Le blogue va changer de sujets avec la nouvelle année. En un sens, la nouvelle année commence avec l'Épiphanie et la fin des Fêtes.

Ah oui, la neige est de retour en force ici. De la neige collante qui fait "scoui" sous les bottes. Je la préfère et de loin au froid humide de lundi, qui me gelait jusqu'aux os. Sous la neige, je suis dans mon élément naturel.

Rambling about English winters

English temperature has been pretty cold recently and will stay cold for a while. We didn't have snow until the evening. As I am writing these lines it is changing dramatically, with snow falling from the sky like in my homeland. The school I am working for will most likely close tomorrow and pretty much everything in Québec. This made me wonder about the way they deal with winter here.

I am feeling pretty good when it snows here. The temperature gets slightly warmer and I have the right kind of boots to walk without much problems. Unlike the locals, who cannot deal with snow. Everything is on a standstill when it snows even just a few centimeters. They don't have the right equipment to shuffle it, the cars don't have winter tires, it's like a white Apocalypse Now for the English people. I think it will change for future years, as winter seems every year to be getting more like...well, winter.

So I have no problem with snow and I am sometimes smug about it. It is when it gets slightly below zero that I have issues with English winter and stop being smug. I often find it barely more bearable than our minus 30 we get in Québec. Inside, the houses are often badly insulated, I often feel cold. Except in this flat, because the attic gathers the heat for the rest of the building. Almost everywhere else, I often end up freezing. Outside, it's worse, especially in the morning and at nighttime. I find the cold air unbearable here. My Timberland coat does not cover me enough and the coat I bought in Liverpool is good, but not below zero. I miss my winter coat which is hanging in our Montreal flat. I will probably bring it back here one day. One cannot behave like a man of the North without the proper clothes.

Je connais Yamachiche

Ce blogue a reçu récemment la visite de quelqu'un de Yamachiche. En tout cas, son serveur était situé à Yamachiche, à en croire mon sitemeter. Chaque fois que je vois le nom de la municipalité, je me rappelle la seule et unique fois où j'y suis allé. Car oui, il y a à peu près vingt ans je me suis déjà arrêté à Yamachiche avec ma famille, le temps de manger un hot dog avant de continuer notre voyage vers Mirabel, puis vers l'Angleterre. De Chicoutimi à Londres en passant par Yamachiche, donc. C'était notre premier voyage à l'étranger, à mes frères et moi et il a donc pris une importance particulière. Tout ce qui lui est associé de près ou de loin m'est resté en mémoire. Je me rappelle qu'il pleuvait beaucoup, qu'il y avait des banderoles partout pour une célébration quelconque et que ma grand-mère, qui voyageait avec nous, trouvait le nom comique. À en croire wikipedia, la polulation de Yamachiche est de 2 760 âmes, le village ne doit donc pas avoir beaucoup changé depuis notre première visite. Maintenant ils ont vraisemblablement internet, mais à part ça. Je me demande si le "restaurant" où nous avons mangé existe encore.

Étrange quand même comme certains souvenirs particulièrement triviaux nous restent en mémoire.

Tea in the attic

It is Sunday, one of those Sundays that are also the last day of a holiday. The day usually makes me a bit melancholic, so I feel even more moody when I know the holidays are about to finish. Even when I don't have a job, I feel like this. At least I have a job to return to, I guess, that's the good side of things. But I still feel melancholic like a schoolboy about Christmastime coming to an end. Yes, yes, I am repeating myself.

Today, my wife and I went to Costa. It is one of our little rituals on a Sunday. We hadn't done it since before our trip to Brittany, so it was nice to be back there. I don't drink coffee, and even though tea is ridiculously expensive for what it is, it is still cheaper than something I would not enjoy.

I enjoy this ritual for the place more than for the drinks anyway. This Costa is in an old building with an upper floor which is an attic. And as my old-time readers know I love attics. I love this one even more since it is an old one, with wooden beams, uneven floor and old windows (with slightly crooked frames) with a view on the main street. When the weather outside is bad, one can feel it while staying comfortable inside. It has the balance of light and shadow that makes it feel warm and welcoming. The atmosphere of this place is worth the price of the drinks. It used to be a indie bookstore, before we moved in. Part of me thinks it is a shame it is not a bookstore anymore, even though I don't know if they had good books in stock. Reading there would be quite an experience too, I might do it one day. The only thing is that it is often quite busy, so it might not be the ideal place for a bookworm. But otherwise it is perfect.

Le Jour de l'An d'hier à aujourd'hui

2010 déjà... Ma femme et moi avons fêté modestement, avant-hier avec du mousseux pour minuit, hier avec un dîner et un souper avec des amis. Ils avaient un authentique sapin de Noël, je veux dire un vrai, pas un artificiel. Ah, l'odeur du sapin! Ca me manquait. Je suis heureux d'avoir pu en sentir un, ne serait-ce que sur le tard.

Je suis plus porté sur Noël que sur le Jour de l'An et ce, depuis l'enfance. Comme je l'ai dit ici, le Jour de l'An vient un peu trop tard durant les vacances et c'est déjà un peu la fin des Fêtes. Surtout que l'on ne fête plus l'Épiphanie. Au moins, je n'ai plus à endurer les partys du Jour de l'An peuplés de mononcles et de matantes qui nous souhaitaient invariablement "bonne année, bonne santé, du succès dans tes études, du succès dans tes amours". Que je détestais les souhaits de la bonne année d'alors! On fête peut-être moins de nos jours, mais la fête est quand même plus agréable, parce que moins kétaine.