I have to give England massive props for their public gardens. I mean, yes, the United States has parks - big, huge, massive parks - but in England they wander around in fields and build gigantic glass houses for fun. (Okay, and medicine and science research, but they are fun.)
I finally visited Kew this weekend. It's merely 250 years old and sports two massive glass houses, a palace, a Japanese Garden, a tree walk, and an assortment of other items, all in one place. The fact that they've been at this sort of thing on this little island is astounding. Palms, cedars, various garden types - all replicated for the world to come visit.
I think you could feasibly spend a year wandering all the trails and parks and gardens that England has. For instance, yesterday as we bused into London I watched people - in misting rain and terrible wind - willingly walking along little hillsides, many stopping and looking out on the roadways and hills beyond and probably thinking, "Why couldn't we make indoor malls the source of all our wonder like Dubai does?"
Or something similar, I don't read minds.
But what got me is that I was wondering how you get up there, how long it takes to wander, and if I should pack a lunch and a snack. See how England is getting to me? Soon I will have a multipurpose windbreaker and waterproof hiking shoes. Kew alone calls practically for a camp site it's so big.
But that's just another wonderful part about England. Although I could use with a bit more sun.
Monday 31 August 2009
Saturday 22 August 2009
Inspiration.
I know why so many books have been set in Oxford, or parts of Oxford. It's a place where you really can let the imagination run free. There are so many odd and wonderful aspects about the city, the longer you spend here the more sense things like Tulgey Wood and Ents and Hobbits can be.
Or it may be something in the water. We do have a high population of eccentric geniuses here.
Anyways, I've decided to write a story. It may be short or long, don't know. But it's all Oxford's fault.
Or it may be something in the water. We do have a high population of eccentric geniuses here.
Anyways, I've decided to write a story. It may be short or long, don't know. But it's all Oxford's fault.
Thursday 13 August 2009
There is too much a thing as blackberry crumble.
Dude, things produce fruit here.
It's like, whoa. You walk down a path and like, *bam* there's blackberries.
And plums, and passion fruit.
Just, you know, like, THERE.
Coming from a land of ever greens and fried dead formerly blooming plants, it is the experience to see things grow and flower - not struggle then wither. I have herbs in abundance. I go out with kitchen scissors and cut what I need for dinner.
Freaky.
Even though apparently England has had a water shortage since breaking off the mainland we don't have to worry about watering the plants. We don't have to worry about sprinklers. At worst, it mists. Just like the little fruit and veg misters in the super market (sans the "Singing in the Rain" interlude).
Right now I have a blackberry bush that is producing berries in waves. I take a small bowl out and can harvest what would be equal to about £2.50 in a store. It's mental. It's insane. And I can do it every day. A guy at work had such a zucchini bumper crop I made zucchini bread for two weeks solid and there is STILL zucchini.
Nearby the park cherry trees, plum trees, and apple trees just sort of drop fruit around. You can even buy a book that tells you what bushes, shrubs, trees, and tall grass produce stuff you can eat.
And the English practically boil and eat everything. There is this show where a cook constantly is brewing wine from flowers or eating various stinging plants. I'm waiting for him to start waxing eloquent on river pebbles as a soup you can make in three or four millenia.
Downside is I have to work through my baking. I feel a bit like Bubba in Forest Gump... we got your blackberry pie...blackberry crumble...blackberry yogurt...blackberry ice cream...
Ugh, so full of blackberries. Yet, so happy. So, so, happy.
It's like, whoa. You walk down a path and like, *bam* there's blackberries.
And plums, and passion fruit.
Just, you know, like, THERE.
Coming from a land of ever greens and fried dead formerly blooming plants, it is the experience to see things grow and flower - not struggle then wither. I have herbs in abundance. I go out with kitchen scissors and cut what I need for dinner.
Freaky.
Even though apparently England has had a water shortage since breaking off the mainland we don't have to worry about watering the plants. We don't have to worry about sprinklers. At worst, it mists. Just like the little fruit and veg misters in the super market (sans the "Singing in the Rain" interlude).
Right now I have a blackberry bush that is producing berries in waves. I take a small bowl out and can harvest what would be equal to about £2.50 in a store. It's mental. It's insane. And I can do it every day. A guy at work had such a zucchini bumper crop I made zucchini bread for two weeks solid and there is STILL zucchini.
Nearby the park cherry trees, plum trees, and apple trees just sort of drop fruit around. You can even buy a book that tells you what bushes, shrubs, trees, and tall grass produce stuff you can eat.
And the English practically boil and eat everything. There is this show where a cook constantly is brewing wine from flowers or eating various stinging plants. I'm waiting for him to start waxing eloquent on river pebbles as a soup you can make in three or four millenia.
Downside is I have to work through my baking. I feel a bit like Bubba in Forest Gump... we got your blackberry pie...blackberry crumble...blackberry yogurt...blackberry ice cream...
Ugh, so full of blackberries. Yet, so happy. So, so, happy.
Sunday 9 August 2009
Oh my gawd I went clubbing in England.
I promised my colleague, who is here on training assignment from Australia, and I quote this, "a quiet night out."
I was wrong.
Had he been there earlier, it was quiet. It started out quiet. Laughing, a beer or two being consumed, a night garden evening in Jericho... and then it all went a bit off center. At first we frolicked at the Victoria, then the Jericho Tavern - home to Radiohead. I thought that this would be a lovely evening where he, our neophyte for new work, would relax and chat with people from all around the world.
However.
By the time my dear, beloved, adored colleague arrived they (the group) had decided we were done with quiet. We were done with Jericho and it's art scene and it's party groups dressed in sequins and Island Party wear, (this is subdued people) we were going to a cocktail bar. His arrival hailed with drunken waves and random hellos, we were off to Angels. Which, I believe, means you have to physically be a spirit of some holy nature in order to actually fit into this shoebox of a cocktail bar.
It's been awhile since I had to scream in order to maintain a conversation. I believe at one point he screamed at me he had gotten a phone call from his best friend saying that they had just had a healthy baby girl. I would like to send them my sincere apologies along with my congratulations. I think the last time I did anything like this was Goth Night at the Florida Theatre. I believe I was 20.
As soon as we managed to wedge ourselves into the place we were pushed out, headed to a ... dare I say this without a laugh or a cringe... dance club. One of the group knew a door person, and suddenly, seemingly in a blink of an eye I was plunged into the sickly sweet meat market smell of so many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many
many, many, many years ago.
For those who don't know me I grew up in a beach town full of these dance clubs. They were interesting to me when I was 13. By the time I hit college people wanted to go to my home town to party for Spring Break. Not my bag. If I had gone home it would have been, well, odd.
There we stood. Me, this 30-something holding a beer standing next to a 30-something quiet, nice person I had met a week ago and promised an equally quiet night out. I applaud the fact he took it all in stride. We screamed comments about the crowd. The barely dressed women. The overly self-conscious men. The people who you could tell wanted just to be loved. The ones you hoped that wouldn't regret tomorrow. All amongst the throbbing bass and popped collars and cheap cocktails and glowing puffer fish light fixtures.
I can say with absolute conviction that clubbing is officially universal. The same people with different accents working their mojo. I honestly marveled at being there the way I marveled at the first time I realized I was in Rome, Dubai, or working and living in England. A whole new scene, a whole new culture.
He decided to stay, my colleague. I left him in the glow of neon bracelets and people who were constantly feeling him up on their way to the loo (I stopped counting after 5). At that point they were spinning C-n-C Music Factory and I began feeling truly ancient. I hope he makes it out of there in one piece.
Oh please or I will never hear the end of it.
I was wrong.
Had he been there earlier, it was quiet. It started out quiet. Laughing, a beer or two being consumed, a night garden evening in Jericho... and then it all went a bit off center. At first we frolicked at the Victoria, then the Jericho Tavern - home to Radiohead. I thought that this would be a lovely evening where he, our neophyte for new work, would relax and chat with people from all around the world.
However.
By the time my dear, beloved, adored colleague arrived they (the group) had decided we were done with quiet. We were done with Jericho and it's art scene and it's party groups dressed in sequins and Island Party wear, (this is subdued people) we were going to a cocktail bar. His arrival hailed with drunken waves and random hellos, we were off to Angels. Which, I believe, means you have to physically be a spirit of some holy nature in order to actually fit into this shoebox of a cocktail bar.
It's been awhile since I had to scream in order to maintain a conversation. I believe at one point he screamed at me he had gotten a phone call from his best friend saying that they had just had a healthy baby girl. I would like to send them my sincere apologies along with my congratulations. I think the last time I did anything like this was Goth Night at the Florida Theatre. I believe I was 20.
As soon as we managed to wedge ourselves into the place we were pushed out, headed to a ... dare I say this without a laugh or a cringe... dance club. One of the group knew a door person, and suddenly, seemingly in a blink of an eye I was plunged into the sickly sweet meat market smell of so many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many
many, many, many years ago.
For those who don't know me I grew up in a beach town full of these dance clubs. They were interesting to me when I was 13. By the time I hit college people wanted to go to my home town to party for Spring Break. Not my bag. If I had gone home it would have been, well, odd.
There we stood. Me, this 30-something holding a beer standing next to a 30-something quiet, nice person I had met a week ago and promised an equally quiet night out. I applaud the fact he took it all in stride. We screamed comments about the crowd. The barely dressed women. The overly self-conscious men. The people who you could tell wanted just to be loved. The ones you hoped that wouldn't regret tomorrow. All amongst the throbbing bass and popped collars and cheap cocktails and glowing puffer fish light fixtures.
I can say with absolute conviction that clubbing is officially universal. The same people with different accents working their mojo. I honestly marveled at being there the way I marveled at the first time I realized I was in Rome, Dubai, or working and living in England. A whole new scene, a whole new culture.
He decided to stay, my colleague. I left him in the glow of neon bracelets and people who were constantly feeling him up on their way to the loo (I stopped counting after 5). At that point they were spinning C-n-C Music Factory and I began feeling truly ancient. I hope he makes it out of there in one piece.
Oh please or I will never hear the end of it.
Saturday 8 August 2009
Pedometer Fixation
I think I may have found something to help me with this whole purpose running deal. My company is nice enough to supplement me with private health insurance, which is good for when things need to go beyond the GP. They have this whole points program for if you go to a certain gym or get certain screenings done - and the rewards include the almighty British Pound.
So I've gotten their pedometer and have to reach the goal of 12,500 steps at least 4 days a week. It's been a bit of a curiosity for me to see just about how much energy I expend living in a town where a car is not horribly necessary... and here it's not all that hard to hit the goals. My running helps, but just walking to center of town and back gives great results. I've learned in a short span that I do take good care of myself, and that I do a lot more than most.
So hopefully I'll get the points and the cash and the discounts in time. Still I realize it's the long term benefits of healthy living that are much more important. That, and I have a massive chocolate addiction that has to be counterbalanced by something.
So I've gotten their pedometer and have to reach the goal of 12,500 steps at least 4 days a week. It's been a bit of a curiosity for me to see just about how much energy I expend living in a town where a car is not horribly necessary... and here it's not all that hard to hit the goals. My running helps, but just walking to center of town and back gives great results. I've learned in a short span that I do take good care of myself, and that I do a lot more than most.
So hopefully I'll get the points and the cash and the discounts in time. Still I realize it's the long term benefits of healthy living that are much more important. That, and I have a massive chocolate addiction that has to be counterbalanced by something.
Saturday 1 August 2009
Hmmm... Social Media...
I was so into it when all the social media stuff started. Honestly, I don't regret being into it, not in the slightest, but as the stream has diversified (as such interesting technologies do) I have found myself becoming more centralized.
Why?
I used to maintain enough social media accounts to completely take up all my free time. But as things became more complex or as they were slowly overtaken by spam and recruiters, I found myself backing away. I only maintain two social site accounts now and this blog, anything more and I find myself in a certain state of annoyance. On top of this, there is the new problem emerging - the professional vs. the personal social media site. I've rigorously maintained that whatever I put up on my site has to be something I wouldn't be ashamed to show my grandmother. Now I have to ask if what I put up is professional enough.
Seriously.
I don't really edit these blogs. I don't sit around for days upon days and work out grammar and spelling issues. If something comes along that I wouldn't be ashamed to tell my grandmother about, I put it up. There are things about England which fascinate me, annoy me, and despite all are something I would like to look back at and remember. So I have photos and videos and all sorts of things - much of which I share with people who are very far away. Still, does that mean big brother is watching me?
On the flip side there are people who completely stay away from social media altogether. That raises two questions - #1 Are they technologically with it? and #2 What have they got to hide? It's like you can't really win - you're sort of in this place where you need to maintain something, even if it's nothing. But how much is enough?
We're all part of the TMI Generation now, it seems. The next part of all this is the control of information. It used to be just Googling someone was the way of it, now there seems to be so much more. It's something to think about, even though I firmly believe this personal in the world of digital is still going to grow and thrive. It's only my hope that as it does, it doesn't eat us alive.
Why?
I used to maintain enough social media accounts to completely take up all my free time. But as things became more complex or as they were slowly overtaken by spam and recruiters, I found myself backing away. I only maintain two social site accounts now and this blog, anything more and I find myself in a certain state of annoyance. On top of this, there is the new problem emerging - the professional vs. the personal social media site. I've rigorously maintained that whatever I put up on my site has to be something I wouldn't be ashamed to show my grandmother. Now I have to ask if what I put up is professional enough.
Seriously.
I don't really edit these blogs. I don't sit around for days upon days and work out grammar and spelling issues. If something comes along that I wouldn't be ashamed to tell my grandmother about, I put it up. There are things about England which fascinate me, annoy me, and despite all are something I would like to look back at and remember. So I have photos and videos and all sorts of things - much of which I share with people who are very far away. Still, does that mean big brother is watching me?
On the flip side there are people who completely stay away from social media altogether. That raises two questions - #1 Are they technologically with it? and #2 What have they got to hide? It's like you can't really win - you're sort of in this place where you need to maintain something, even if it's nothing. But how much is enough?
We're all part of the TMI Generation now, it seems. The next part of all this is the control of information. It used to be just Googling someone was the way of it, now there seems to be so much more. It's something to think about, even though I firmly believe this personal in the world of digital is still going to grow and thrive. It's only my hope that as it does, it doesn't eat us alive.
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