Getting Into The Swing Of Things

Dosser's log, day five: have made inroads into the Canadian lifestyle. On my first full day in Toronto I had to acquire a Social Insurance Number. Imagine, if you will, sitting in Wallsend Jobcentre for an hour or two on your first day as a British resident and you're somewhere near the truth. In fairness, I left the premises with number in hand, card to follow in 6-8 weeks (handcrafted from whalebone?), free to deal with other urgent issues.

Spending the rest of that day doing literally nothing (NB: not literally), on Saturday I was chomping at the bit for a bit of action, so we spent the day shopping. And again on Sunday. Item(s) acquired over the course of two days: shaving gel. Items sought but ultimately unobtainable: too many to list here.

But it wasn't for a lack of trying. In Loblaws (not quite as posh as Sainsbury's, slightly posher than Morrisons) I gamely tried to deposit strange, new and exciting items into the "shopping cart" (shopping trolley). "How about this?" I would silently mouth to Heather at the other end of the aisle, holding up a vacuum pack of rainbow trout jelly bites (or similar). In return she would simply shake her head, making a mental note not to trust me with "cart" (trolley) duties in future. Not to be discouraged, I headed to the cereal aisle. There I was confronted with more than 50 metres (estimated) of unbroken breakfast magic; far too many varieties, as it turned out, to peruse sensibly. "Most important choice of the day!" some passing lady commented, causing me to mumble a response and head to the magazine racks instead.

But this isn't just a funnier, more tender and more explosive Bridget Jones' Diary for Generation Z; more than merely recall day-to-day activites in a roughly chronological order, I can EXCLUSIVELY REVEAL, for example, that Canadian bank accounts are NOT FREE (re-read that statement if it didn't sink in first time around). So I am now the proud-ish owner of a TD Canada Trust account that'll set me back a mind-boggling $10.95 each and every month (disclaimer: unless my balance exceeds a certain amount... which it does).

But the the title of this post is 'Getting Into The Swing Of Things' - not 'David Bitches About Trivial Stuff' - so let me be the first to wish you a heartfelt, hearty and generic HAPPY HOLIDAYS! (It's Halloween). Though I pitched the idea of a traditional Wallsend Halloween night - lights off, curtains closed, TV on low - here we have instead opted for the local custom of buying, carving and displaying a pumpkin, which brings me nicely to the Great Pumpkin Controversy of 2010...

"David, could you please carve a 'Jack O'Lantern' (pumpkin) for the Halloween festivities at the National Trust's newest property, Seaton Delaval Hall?" Heather asked me one day. "Of course," I replied, seeing that she worked at the National Trust's newest property, Seaton Delaval Hall, and had face to lose should she (a) fail to turn up with a pumpkin or, worse, (b) turn up with a poorly conceived, poorly executed piece of crap. So I carve a pumpkin (for the very first time, might I add) and it ends up being entered into the pumpkin competition that night.

Wouldn't you just know it: relative unknown David only went and won the contest, as voted for - democratically - by the region's most accomplished Halloweeners. What a coup! But the blue riband (first prize, not the chocolate; though the first prize was chocolate, ironically) went to some young lass from Holywell whose entry was suspiciously well carved (help from daddy, perhaps?) and wasn't even a pumpkin - it was a frigging turnip. So why was my glory snatched away? Well, because of my relationship with a member of NT's SDH (National Trust's Seaton Delaval Hall), there was deemed to be a conflict of interest, and all voting beans placed next to my intricately-sculpted masterwork were disregarded. I felt like Al Gore - a clear winner, but robbed by the system I helped create - and no amount of media exposure could numb the pain... Not even a lingering shot on the closing titles of Inside Out North East and Cumbria:

The pride of the region/The region's hidden shame

Not one to hold a grudge, I have again mangled a winter squash for the delight of local pagans, ne'er-do-wells and young offenders. Scarred by last year's events, however, it was a slap-dash, last minute job - taking only two or three hours of planning and a further five carving - and I seem to have inadvertently taken some subconscious inspiration from one of my all-time favourite doctored photos of hairline-defying, granny-romancing legend, Wayne "Wazza" Rooney:

L-R: Good, Bad, Ugly

HAPPY HALLOROON, EVERYBODY! Wazza great holiday; hope it doesn't Wayne.

The Magpie Has Landed!

The unthinkable has happened. I've done something incredibly brave; something that will reverberate down the ages like a tossed sausage roll - unwanted, unloved, misunderstood - rippling the surface of a dingy farm path puddle. No, I've not rescued an heir to the throne (God save the Queen) from a house fire - I've moved from the warm northern bosom of Newcastle-upon-Tyne to the warm northern bosom of Toronto, Ontario. I told you all this day would come, and though I found it hard to believe myself at times - quiet sobs in the Corner House were, admittedly, a low - it has come to pass and here I am.

It's 8.07am and I've already been up long enough to scribble some words for musicOMH, configure my fancy internet radio, and redraft this old gubbins a few dozen times. Yesterday wasn't all that bad: a Newcastle departure spared the emotional breakdown I had feared; a relatively uneventful and problem-free journey; a surprisingly prompt ushering through immigration (if he walks like a Geordie, talks like a Geordie, let him pass). Granted, the in-flight movies were the worst I've ever encountered - Arthur and Meet Dave, for Christ's sake - but I had Alan Partridge's autobiography to read, an aircraft wing to look at, and a passable impression of pasta to eat. Mustn't grumble when my flight cost a mere quid (plus taxes and surcharges).

So here I am. Just me, Feisty and the bag handed to me to carry the dozen-plus immigrant advice booklets doled out at border control. Exhibit A:

Left: bag. Right: Feisty [note to self: post better pictures]

In the words of Wallsend's most revered/most reviled son Sting, I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien; I'm an Englishman in Toronto. But with great power comes great responsibility, and I'll endeavour not to be an unmitigated eff-up. First stop: getting a job (a task to be thrillingly documented in these pages!). Second job: buying a nice winter coat, because wearing two t-shirts - while sufficient for North Tyneside's cruel weather - will not suffice over here. Third job: as-yet-undetermined, but could include acquiring a social insurance number, opening a bank account, or asking somebody (a dental professional, hopefully) to remove my God-forsaken wisdom tooth.

But for now I will bask in the novelty of being a genuine newcomer, fetch myself a cup of tea (not Ringtons, unfortunately) and call to mind a sense of British pride I haven't felt since England consistently underperformed at the 2006 World Cup, Newcastle's Crows Nest pub reverberating to the sound of Peter Lowery accompanying his own anti-IRA slogans with deafening table percussion. I have no video evidence of that particular occasion, but this sums up how it felt to march proudly into Toronto Pearson arrivals to be met by... well, nobody, as it turned out, but you get the picture:

"My bite is worse than my bark!"