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!"