An Englishman in Davis, California

Positive Caring

2012-01-26T12:54:00.000-08:00

On reflection, my last post was a tad unbalanced. It is a hard row to hoe, I admit, but I recognise that there are positive aspects, and I feel the need to address those now. I've done venting and feeling sorry for myself for now, I'm ready to move on.

One of the things I've learned from my reading of others' experiences is that there's nothing like a life-critical situation for changing one's perspective. In the case of Christine's cancer, there's always been that "Oh my God, things are bad" feeling for both of us; when we first began this journey, nearly seven years ago, there was a lot of fear, uncertainty and doubt about the future, but also a sense that "this is worthwhile doing".

I can't really feel too sorry for myself; after all, I volunteered to do this. When Christine was first diagnosed and the seriousness of the disease was apparent, I immediately came over to join her. I'm no shrinking violet, I made my decision; made my bed, so to speak.

So without further ado, here's a glimpse into the positive:

When she came home after the mastectomy, it was hard for both of us. A wife sprouting tubes and pipes and drainage things was hardly easy for me as a new lover and husband. Even once those were out, and healing began, it was tough. This was a woman, who in her own words was "...one of the few women who was happy with my breasts", and now one of them was gone. Occasionally, after a while, it would become something to joke about; I'd forget which was gone and which remained, and would sometimes be surprised by the presence or absence of one as I hugged and caressed her.

From the outset, we learned to recognise the little things as important. Some of them were things we did together - the trips, walks and days out. I still remember them, and probably always will. Then there are the things we learned to accept and even laugh at. Some of these were funny little things, such as her hair falling out (from chemotherapy) the day of our wedding. Then we delighted as her hair grew back in, light, fine and curly. She had a head of hair like lamb's wool, pettable and strokable - this was something we laughed about, and which became important to us. As she was feeling ill and out of sorts (chemo being a dreadful curse), my stroking her head was a source of comfort to us both. It kept us in close contact physically and emotionally, and (dare I say) spiritually too.

As things moved on, there were changes. I find nothing pleasantly memorable about radiation treatment; her radiation oncologist had said he would be looking for a "brisk response". This, in layman's terms, basically meant second-degree burns over a good deal of her skin. There's nothing soothing about stroking weeping sores, nothing comforting about hearing her whimper in her sleep when she turned over. Daily treatments meant a continual reminder of what she was facing; in many ways, that was the toughest thing we both faced.

Of course, this has an effect on everyone in the family. I'd cry as I watched her change her dressings, weep in sympathy with her blasted skin. Tessie found it hard to sleep; she'd come in to our room at night. We finally worked out what was going on for her - she was checking to see that her mother was still alive. That's another thread of story, and I'd need Tessie's clearance to tell the whole thing.

Slowly, following the end of these things, we learned just to live with it. Unspoken was the fear that cancer would return, and what that would mean for her, for me, and for a little girl named Tess.

Meanwhile, of course, the cancer came back like the blasted yellow cat. I learned more than I ever wanted to know about lymph nodes, the anatomy of the torso, brain and whatnot, and how that would affect Christine and the rest of us.

Meantime, I loved her, and still do. She's precious to me; every breath, every time I feel her warm against me, every time I catch her looking at me with deep love in her eyes. For every smile, laugh and tear, there's a memory. There's love. We know it ain't forever, but as I have often said lately, forty-seven years would not be enough, let alone seven.

I carry on, thankful for everything I have; a loving wife and daughter, great friends, and the support of my men's group. A man could ask for nothing more.

The Angry Carer

2012-01-20T10:36:00.000-08:00

Scared? In shadow? You bet.

A few months ago, Christine gave me the book Grace and Grit to read. The author, she said, is quite the philosopher. "Good", I thought, this will do me the power of good; a man describing the joint journey of a couple going through cancer. The ups and downs, the coping, the dealing, the however-many-stages-of-grief. This, I thought, will be good.

I read a little; I thought a little. I read a little more; thought a little more. Read more, thought more. Then I read some more, and stopped. It turns out that my journey is very different from his, Christine's from Treya's. It irritated me, he irritated me, and I finally decided that this was a book I would gladly ~~burn~~ pop in the yard sale box.

There is, of course, a reason. I am not Ken Wilber. I'm a little angrier than he; coarser, more...vulgar. I dislike bullshit and I declare that "it's not fair!" because deep down inside I still have the little boy who wants and expects the world to be a just and honest place, where there are no monsters hiding under the bed.

There are monsters, among them is cancer. And yes, it's unreasonable for me to be angry and hurt and wounded by this seven-year process, because after all, I came to the US to support for and be a carer to Christine. She was diagnosed two months after we were engaged, I flew out from England to be with her. So some might argue (and have!) that I made the bed, I have to lie in it.

It's true, I do have to lie in the bed of my making, but by Golly, if I can't sleep I will get grouchy, and right now, that is where I'm at, sadly.

Christine is back in chemotherapy, and chemo is not a Good Thing to have. There are so many "maybes" in treatment of cancer (this one has a 35% response rate), and to add injury to insult, chemo adds nausea, fatigue and bullshit to the pain, fear, uncertainty and grief. It make me angry that she has to have 24-hour pain medication and anti-nausea drugs (patches, not IV, not yet). It ticks me off that there's a huge basket'o'drugs that adorns the breakfast table (not the basket itself, rather the necessity).

I get unreasonably angry when, half an hour after a meagre breakfast, she has to throw up, losing some of the priceless meds she took minutes earlier. I get sad and fearful as I watch her appetite ebb and the weight fall off her. I look at her sometimes and weep, because I already miss her.

On taking a new direction

2012-01-02T20:58:00.000-08:00

"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way" - Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

A man in our men's group recently described a few aspects of his family. He has come to realise, after many years, that his father is a bully, and his mother, well let's just say that she's no saint (in his own words, a slut). Given that he's on a journey to deal with his feelings of being bullied, this has made him angry, let down and betrayed by people who should have been giving him positive role models.

Having worked on his own "shadow" stuff for sometime, he has recognised the darker side of his own nature and learned to be accountable for his actions and feelings, particularly in respect of his dealings with his own family. He's developed good communication within the family, and modelled respect for open and honest family values, and the realisation that his own upbringing was to some degree dysfunctional, has thrown his own life into sharp focus. Despite his own upbringing (his father's egotistical bullying and his mother's immorality), he learned not just to resolve problems but to avoid the issues in the first place.

First step in a new direction

No "victim" status for him; he's taken responsibility for his own life, warts and all, and now acts in a way that supports love, openness and nurturing.

I have done the same, in that I've recognised that some of my default responses to even momentary stress or difficulty in my relationships, are flawed and needed to be corrected. To this end, I now act in
harmony with a personal mission to foster good, open and empathetic communications with everyone, but my own family circle in particular.

This raises a question for me now; why do not all men (and women, come to that) see their role as loving warriors in their lives? It turns out that there's a pretty simple and straightforward reason for this. Most of us do not learn how to express feelings in an honest and constructive way, that fosters communication rather than conflict. Men in particular have few good models for this - often the only emotion they are able to express is anger, and uncontrolled, rageful anger at that. Frequently, men are told to hide their "softer" feelings such as love, sadness, shame and empathy; they effectively stuff them into bags and learn to show only their rage, often at themselves.

I will illustrate this with my experience, to demonstrate how I take responsibility for myself. For example, I would find myself getting angry with my 13-year-old stepdaughter for not putting her dishes away at the end of a meal. This escalated into an argument about how she never noticed that things needed doing in the kitchen, for example, loading or emptying the dishwasher. In addition, I'd get cross with my wife if she interrupted me or wanted to continue a conversation I was done with. The person I was really angry with was myself.

This created barriers to good communication, and I only realised how effectively I was shutting my most-loved ones out after I attended a New Warrior Training Adventure weekend, during which I learned (among other things) that when I would get angry with others, it was often over things that I also did. It turns out that I had failed to recognise that I often neglected kitchen duties, for instance, or that I was also guilty of interrupting. This, I realised, was hypocritical, and that I needed to take steps to change my behaviour.

Over the course of the weekend, I learned how to be accountable for my actions, not just to myself, but to others. I needed to own up to my shortcomings honestly, and take action not just to correct the behaviour, but to offer something to make amends. I also learned to acknowledge my shadow-self, which I (in the company of many other men) ignore. The "shadow", in Jungian terms, is that part of us that we ignore, hide, are ashamed of, and for whatever reason, goes unacknowledged. We're all too often encouraged to hear only criticism and to stuff our "childish" needs, feelings and actions away.

These parts of us, figuratively stuffed into bags, we drag around for the rest of our lives, pretending that they don't exist, and all too often letting them not just hold us back from expressing ourselves openly and honestly, but even allowing ourselves to use them as unconscious excuses to sabotage our own good efforts. In modern parlance, we "act out", behaving in ways that are immature, damaging to all around us and damaging our ability to become good human beings. We become stilted men, hobbling through life; immature and incomplete.

Is there a solution? Well yes, there is. I've begun attending a men's circle and keeping in touch with the men I've met there, and I'm proud to say that in the past few months I have taken huge leaps forward in knowing myself much better, more honestly. The side effects are equally beneficial. I find myself unable to make excuses for my behaviour - I'm forced to be honest because I know what drives the anger, insecurity, fear and lack of action. I'm pleased to be a New Warrior.

If all this sounds somewhat evangelical, well it is, and I make no apology for it. I'm proud of what I'm doing.

It's been a while...

2011-12-27T20:04:00.000-08:00

Actually, it's been far too long. Several people have asked me what's going on in my life, and I have been saying things along the lines of "Semper in excreta sumus solum profundum variat". Which is not strictly true. Christine still has cancer, I'm still seeking honest employment, still struggling some with stress and depression, but this is not to say that there are no silver linings.

We're surrounded by loving, caring people, Christine and I danced in the Nutcracker in November, as did Tess (of course!)

I have been meditating, attending a men's circle, and have gone so far as to attend a "men's retreat" - the New Warrior Training Adventure in September.

Each of these elements have conspired (can one conspire constructively?) to help me out in some measure. Meditation has given me a sound, balanced and well-grounded core, has helped me develop inner peace and count to ten before throwing my teddy out of the pram. Dancing in the Nutcracker was an enormous amount of fun and gave me a lot of confidence, having been told at age 13 that I would never be able to dance.

The men's circle was another boon, albeit an almost accidental one. A pal of mine had invited me to go, and in my usual rather skeptikal fashion, I kept turning down his invitation. Oh, all right, I'll fess up; I made countless excuses. Finally, one evening, I was dragged along, and found myself in one of the few places I could be truly honest about myself, my feelings and behaviours. It was like confession, only without the kneeling, and it worked.

Suffice to say that after even more excuses, I signed up to attend the weekend "training", an eye-opening adventure into myself. It's produced lasting effects, all positive. I find myself more rounded, balanced and positive. Christine and I are even better friends as a result.

That said, I'm still struggling. The "carer" element of my life has all but taken over, and I have a fight to look after myself. I've been a cancer carer for most of the last seven years, and it's tough sometimes. Its hard to look at Christine and know that even with the best outcome, I won't have her for much longer. Not that I let it get me down; I think of the line from Theodore Gesiel (Doctor Seuss, to you): "Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened."

Oh yes. I smile.

On Ladybirds and Lymph Nodes

2010-02-15T16:36:00.000-08:00

It's Spring in the Sacramento Valley. There are several reasons why I know this to be true. For one thing the sun climbs quickly to a height close to UK summer standards, which allows the moderate chill of the morning to quickly give way to t-shirt temperatures. For another, there are bugs at play, and by "bugs" I refer to the American usage, meaning "insects", for today I saw the first ladybird of the year, bumbling around in the grass of the back lawn, stretching remarkably stout gossamer in readiness for possibly the first flight of the season.

Yesterday, returning from Wilbur Hot Springs, there was more evidence, were it needed, for the return of things vernal. Almond blossom and lambs. Yes, little baby lambs wailing and running as far as they dare from their mothers. We stopped at one friend's ranch to see a couple of lambs rejected by their mothers. To the oohs and ahs and various cooing, various of our party remarked on their cuteness. More the pragmatic, I wondered how long it would be before they fattened up enough for tha table. Served with almonds, of course.

Almonds are not the only fruit

In the grand tradition of "doctor" joaks, there's also good news and bad news. The good news is that we're readying to move into a new house of our own. Yes, at last we have taken the plunge to join the great mass of mortgage-payers and home "ownership", with all that entails. We have to be out of our current rental by the end of June, so Christine's been househunting through the winter, and having seen every single house in our price range, we settled on one that's close enough to the right school, commute and whatnot. The offer made and accepted, and the many pieces of paper read, signed and initialed, we're gathering the financial resources together to actually buy the bugger. We're so close we can taste it; Christine's asked if we can pay another visit for th epuroses of "colour matching". This is a throwback to some primitive mothering, nesting instinct, I take it. In any event, it's a distraction while we play the waiting and preparation game.

Which brings me to the bad news. We already knew that Christine had a tumour in her left parietal lobe (that's in the brain, apparently), and have been moving toward the practically Star-Trek technology that is gamma knife surgery. This entails firing 201 precisely-tuned beams of radiation from Cobalt-60 into a tiny focal point inside her brain. It's a good use of modern med-tech, non-invasive and highly effective.

She also had another PET scan last week, regarded as necessary to identify and further sites of metastatic cancer. Which of course, have materialised. They've spotted a couple of "somethings" that indicate cancerous activity in lymph nodes in, on or about her lungs. This is not good news; lung tissue apparently is highly fertile ground for cancer to grow and spread. Yes, of course, it's treatable, but it does mean that during the busy moving season,Christine will be going through chemo again, and everyone will be stressing a little.

Still, it's Spring and the ladybirds are out. So there's always that going for us.

How Many Shoes?

2010-01-29T16:11:00.000-08:00

"Fiver?", said the rabbit. "Why's he called that?"
"Five in the litter, you know: he was the last..."
Rabbits can count up to four. Any number above four is hrair - "a lot", or "a thousand".

"Waiting for the other shoe to drop" seems to be the life of many cancer patients and their carers. Once diagnosed with the Big "C", there's always uncertainty about whether it will return; every lump, bump and pain becomes a possible recurrence. Since Christine's original brush with breast cancer in February 2005 we've been through this several times, and it never gets any easier. There are prods and pokes and scans of varying types; mostly (we've been fortunate) the tests are negative, once in a while they aren't. We recently had another shoe drop (Christine was diagnosed with a regional recurrence in lymph nodes in her neck a little over a year ago) but were confident that the treatment she had then would whack it for a few years.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago. Just about a year after finishing the last round of her (second) chemotherapy treatment she was getting headaches of increasing intensity. This, coupled by her fatigue, prompted her to go for a checkup. Her oncologist suggested an MRI, and so yesterday we hied off to Sacramento to have the poor lass stuck in a tube for an hour while various electromagnetic wossnames whirled and clanked around her. Tests over, the waiting began for the results, which came back in today.

Suffice to say, we've had another shoe drop, the third in just under five years. The MRI showed a small growth of uncertain nature in her brain, and because one of the places that breast cancer metastasizes is the brain, this has aroused enough suspicion that her oncologist recommended that she have gamma knife treatment and a third course of chemotherapy.

She called me today while I was out visiting friends. The conversation went along these lines:

Christine: So, do you want the good news first, or the bad news?
Me: Good news.
Christine: I got the kitchen cleaned up!
Me: Oh, well done you! And the bad news...? (As though I didn't know what it was going to be.)
Christine: I got a phone call, the results are in.
Me: And...?
Christine: They found something in the scan.
Me: Well, FART!
Christine: My response exactly.

The rest is predictable. I came home, shaking slightly. Now we have to tell Tessie, who at 11 years of age, has been through so much, with good grace, courage and resilience. But we'll all be scared. It's not just lumps and bumps now, and we have no idea how many more shoes there are to drop. Hopefully, it won't be hrair.

Candied Bacon!

2009-12-25T12:47:00.000-08:00

I have to confess. Like many ex-vegetarians, I was undone by bacon. I've long been a fan, it was a staple of English Sunday breakfasts, was used to bard roast chicken and was added to soups and casseroles.

Lately I've succumbed to a Southern American tradition in which so many recipes begin "fry an onion in bacon grease", and it's one of the refrigerator staples that I'll rush to replenish any time we run short.

Imagine my delight when our dear friend Caroline presented me with a package of "Candied Bacon" today. Having conspired with Christine's cousin Nono she prepared a dozen strips of this strange sweetmeat for my delectation. Now my day is complete, apart from eating it all, of course.

Next year - bacon turducken!

Mammogram Day

2009-10-22T10:46:00.000-07:00

It's almost 4½ years since Christine was originally diagnosed with breast cancer, and occasionally people will ask me how she is doing. These days my response is pretty much always the same: "She's doing pretty well, the cancer seems to be in remission", I'll reply, whilst thinking "why don't you ask how everyone else is doing?"

I think this because cancer affects everyone around the patient, and this week has been a classic example of familial cancer. A week ago, or thereabouts, Christine had a sore spot in her remaining breast. This is the continual dread of cancer survivors; every lump or swelling, pain or discomfort suddenly turns lives upside-down all over again. The bright hope of survival dims until the next test confirms or denies more cancer, more treatment, less life.

So we have a mammogram today. I say "we" because she has an entourage. I'm going and at least one of our friends will come along to keep us company and encourage us, holding our hands through the darkness of not-knowingness, and afterward to celebrate a negative (no-cancer) result or help us cry if it's positive.

I need to get this out of my system today because anyone who hasn't been through the whole cancer thing can't understand that the lump circus can occur at any time. My reckoning is that we go through this four times a year. A lump is found, then Christine's off to have a scan of some sort. Mammograms, PET, MRI, CSI, drinking contrast fluids, fasting for twelve hours, trekking hither and yon and all the while wondering if This Is It Again, while all we really want is five years free of cancer. Then we can call it "cured". Four times a year.

So being moderately brainless at the moment (see stress) I looked on an online thesaurus for "four times a year" because I knew that it wasn't quadrennial. The result of my search was "No results found...did you mean 'doomsayer'?" No, I didn't, thank you very much. Let's just hope that the doom is a long way off.

Update: Both the mammogram and subsequent ultrasound scans showed no evidence of worrisome stuff. But the stress and anxiety take their toll, nonetheless.

A writer's work is never done...

2009-09-18T18:01:00.000-07:00

"Eleven hours I spent to write it over" - King Richard III

In today's news: area man loses job, gains opportunity to become professional freelance wordsmith.

Things were clearly not working out with the Davis Food Co-op. Christine has been badgering me for over a year to start working full-time as a writer. I am now in a position to report that I have made a start in this direction.

One of the things I've been up to lately is writing articles on my beer blog, reading the Writer's Market and plucking up the courage to write my first query letter to a publication. Oh, and I'm no Shakespearean scrivener, either; this one has so far taken be over a day to not write.

Articles is one matter, seemingly, the first letter requesting work is quite another. I can happily churn out thousands of words a day when on good form, six hundred when I'm not, but a couple of hundred to an editor? There's the mountain I needs must climb.

Were I gifted with courage and self-confidence, this chore would be a delight, there'd be no need of the spoonful of sugar, for the medicine itself would suffice to please the palate. In short, I can't write a simple letter to say "Hey! I can write stuff, how can I write for you?"

So I've created a web presence advertising my writing skills, but for now I sit in front of my computer electronically penning these words while opportunities are growing cold somewhere. Sooner or later I will get up the courage to churn out those vital paragraphs. Film at 11.

You don't love God, if you don't heal your neighbor.

2009-08-29T20:17:00.000-07:00

I suppose that it had to happen sooner or later. The US and British political issues are so different that it was only a matter of time before the bubble of my patience burst and I'd weigh in on matters of politics.

One of the most heated debates lately has been on the issue of healthcare. The US has a pay-for-care system in which one buys, or an employer provides, health insurance. The UK has a system in which the National Health Service guarantees healthcare to all, without cost. Barak Obama is making it his business to move the US toward the UK model, and it's been a thorn in the side of some, for a variety of reasons. Various facts and figures are bandied about, and I've read a blog recently that quotes statistics that 37% of voters support his model, and 57% oppose it. Not surprisingly, 62% of Democrats support it, while 87% of Republicans oppose it.

Further to that, I've been stunned to discover that there are many who profess the Christian religion who are opposed to changes, and that baffles me more than anything else. Pardon me if I appear to oversimplify this, but didn't Jesus say that the greatest commandement was to love God, and after that, to love your neighbour as yourself? Matthew 22:36- 40 has it:

36 Master, which is the great commandment in the law?
37 Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.
38 This is the first and great commandment.
39 And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
40 On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.

"The second [greatest commandment] is...thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself". There's even a song about it - composed by one Carl Story. In part, it reads as follows:

There are many people who will say they're Christians
And they live like Christians on the Sabbath day
But come Monday morning 'till the coming Sunday
They will fight their neighbor all along the way.

Oh you don't love God, if you don't love your neighbor
If you gossip about him, if you never have mercy
If he gets into trouble and you don't try to help him
If you don't love your neighbor and you don't love God.

In the Holy Bible, in the book of Matthew
Read the 18th chapter and the 21st verse
Jesus plainly tells us that we must have mercy
Then a special warning in the 35th verse.

So according to this, what would Jesus do about healthcare? Well, let's take a look at his ministry, according to the Bible. He threw out demons. He cured the blind, made the mute speak, put a spring in the step of the lame. He even cured leprosy, and according to the Bible, he didn't just wave his hands about or tell them to be better, he showed enormous compassion by actually reaching out and touching him. Yes, according to Mark 1:40-45, he "Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man" and he was cured. Not only that, but he did it for free, and in the case of that one leper, he asked that he keep quiet about it, and not tell the whole world.

Now I'm not a Christian, though I have read the Bible many times over, and my understanding of Jesus' ministry was that he sought to do good things for no reward, and that he encouraged his followers to do the same, and in the same way. Compassionately, without prejudice and as a part of a Christian work.

So, here's the thing. I see supposed Christians opposing a publicly-funded healthcare system, a system which to my eyes, demonstrates a compassionate Christian love for neighbour. And it mystifies me.

The only thing I can think is that these people (who, I assume have paid health insurance already) don't see any social obligation to help those less fortunate than themselves to have the same. Where, I ask, is the Christianity in that? Surely, according to their Master's own words, they should take the view that "these people are our neighbours and we should love them as ourselves, if we are claiming to love God".

Maybe you may think that I'm oversimplifying this, but it seems so simple to me. I don't understand. Maybe these folk should prayerfully review these few verses, reflect on the tale of the Good Samaritan and then take stock again.

I would have no problem with paying less to the insurance companies (who think not of their neighbours but of their investors), and paying a little more in taxes. But then, I'm not a right-wing Christian.

Cross-posted at Everything2

Bandanas are folded square, everyone knows that!

2009-08-11T07:29:00.000-07:00

I've never been much of a one for folding clothes. Shirts I'd hang in a cupboard on hangers, as that's what they are for. T-shirts get folded, and as long as the sleeves are folded flattish so they don't wrinkle too badly, I'm happy. Jeans, folded along the seams, then into four. Undies, folded into two if at all before being placed carefully in a drawer. Sheets and towels into whatever configuration fits best into the linen closet or airing cupboard. Everything else, tossed into whatever storage is available for it.

It was only recently that my dear wife told me that there were scientific and artistic ways to fold and store stuff. Her mother (who, sadly, I never had the chance to meet) taught her to fold sheets and towels in such a way that their final proportions approached a golden rectangle. This, apparently, is an æsthetically pleasing thing. What it means in real life is that when I'm folding sheets or towels, I have to check with her. Sometimes she nods, and I carry one. Sometimes she smiles gently and asks me to fold in into thirds or somesuch darned thing, at which point I roll my eyes and undo my work to the point where she nods, and try again.

Further to that, there's the dreaded fitted sheet. Now in the past, I'd make several attempts to get these unruly blighters into something resembling a flattish parcel, and leave it at that. Imagine my surprise when I found that there was a scientific approach. Apparently, the secret is getting all the corners together and tucked into one another before folding into the desired rectangle. I could not possibly explain this in words, so courtesy of YouTube, here is a video showing you this particular bit of household magic. Now all I need to do is fit the quart that is our duvet into the pint pot that is the duvet cover.

Apparently all of this is necessary so that when the item is placed in the linen closet (last fold facing out, of course) it looks good. For myself, I don't much care. As long as I can see the perishing things in there, and pick out the item I seek, it's of little concern how they look. But to an artist like Christine, it clearly matters, as it did to her mother before her.

Some people take this to even greater extremes. Apparently there is a whole subset of Martha Stewart skills that, if I cared enough, I would apply to each and every piece of linen and towelling that I own. I have seen guest towels folded into careful packages tied with ribbon. I've seen them carefully wrapped in tissue paper, banded with coloured tapes, bound in silk parcels and much more. Now correct me if I am wrong, but I very much doubt that this is necessary, unless you have the kind of houseguests who, before unpacking their suitcases, demand an examination of the linen.

I can only think that there are people for whom this is sufficiently important that they Need To Know. I imagine them arriving chez wertperch with a little ticklist, checking to see what sort of hosts we will be, getting to the linens and suddenly shrieking with horror before fleeing to the nearest hotel to scrub themselves off under a scalding shower. Thankfully, we know of no such people. Our guests are presented with a neatly folded set of face flannel, hand and bath towel. They are clean, smell of clean, and are as neatly folded as I can be bothered to whilst approaching artistically mathematical perfection. For the rest, let them eat cake.

I write this conversation because I found a random bandana in the closet this morning, and in jest, asked whether it needed to be specially folded into the golden ratio (1.618). Quite seriously, she answered me the the following words: "Bandanas are folded square, everyone knows that!" I stand corrected.

P.S. Christine just saw the video. Guess what she said? "He didn't fold it into thirds".

Farmer's Market Magic and Madness

2009-05-18T21:23:00.000-07:00

I first came to California in the winter of 2004, and have only a few jet-lagged memories of my first few days here. There was meeting Christine for the very first time, the bigness of American roads and shopping malls, and then the Davis Farmer's Market. Christine (in the photo, left) helped one of the vendors, Jim Eldon of Fiddler's Green Farm. Of course I went with her on my first big outing in Davis, hence my first Saturday in the US was spent serving customers at the market stand.

I quickly came to realise that this marketplace was magical. Here was a social space, not just a place to buy veggies. People would stop and chat, swap recipes, admire babies, compare notes on the past week and generally support and encourage one another. The magic is in the people, you see.

Since then I have continue to go down to spend a little time with Jim and his customers, some of whom have become my friends and supporters during the long months of Christine's cancer treatment. When I started working at the Davis Food Co-op, I'd still go down on my days off, to schmooze with people, learn about my new country and its ways, and occasionally baffle people with my British English.

My accent came in handy sometimes (though Christine points out that I'm frequently chatted up!) in starting conversations, though occasionally there were moments of confusion. For example, I had to learn that what I'd known in England as a courgette was in fact a zucchini, the French loan word swapped for an Italian. Coriander herb was suddenly cilantro, and even basil was different - not the word this time, rather the pronunciation (we say ba-sil, Americans say bay-sil). Of course, this soon became part of my lexicon, though while I am quite happy to use a different word, I tend to stick to my British English pronunciations. You may say tomay-to, I still say tomah-to.

Then over time, as the seasons changed, I watched the progression of vegetables. Winter squash gave way to melons, the huge variety of summer squashes and a profusion of greens from the plain cabbage to the exotic mizuna. There was far more than just the plain courgette, of course - here were crookneck, Romanesco, Zephyr and their kin. There were peppers of all shapes, sizes and heats; likewise heirloom tomatoes with real old-fashioned flavour and a bewildering palette of colours.

Oh, and the people. They fascinated me. I'd talk and learn about America in general, California in particular. I learned about the history of the West, about farming in different parts of the country, about a dozen family histories, about their holidays and customs. In turn, they'd learn from me. I told people about the three-cent piece, about why the US pint was a different size from the Imperial pint, about British ways and language. It was a wonderful time, and you know, it still is.

Here's a piece of real America, the social marketplace, the gossip fence, the cultural exchange built on what colonised America in the first place - a place to farm and live in peace. Long may it last.

I wrote this after reading a customer's blog. She stopped by on Saturday as I was having a bit of a laugh with Jim. There are good words, and a good picture too, here.

Better you than me?

2009-03-03T10:42:00.000-08:00

When Christine was newly diagnosed with cancer four years ago, we talked, as many couples must in such circumstances, about the injustice of it all. One of the things she found so hard to deal with was that, after years of looking after her body so well, it nonetheless rebelled against her. The body she'd honed through being active (she was a firefighter and forest ranger) and fed (lots of good fresh food) let her down. I remember saying that it would be more just had I had the cancer, having abused my body with drinking to much, smoking and not exercising. But we play the hand we're given, and play it as best we can. "If wishes were horses", the saying goes, "then beggars would ride".

So it goes. Christine suffered the indignities and discomfort of chemo and radiation therapy, and I stood by and watched, supporting her and Tess by doing shopping, cooking, laundry and all those little things. But it's hard to be a carer. It exacts an emotional and mental toll that is seemingly unending. Worthwhile? Of course. But a toll nonetheless.

The worst part of it was watching her pain get worse over the long months. Spring meant recovery from surgery, watching violated tissue knit, heal and scar. She mourned the loss of her breast and I could only watch, in my widow's weeds, crying my own silent and hidden tears over her poor lopsided body. We married in May, the weekend her hair really fell out, so our wedding pictures are of my scraggily-bald bride and I together.

Summer was for chemotherapy, and trying to keep her mind and spirit active and healthy while the poisons stripped not just the rebellious cancer, but her hair, skin and energy. When she couldn't face a full meal, I'd cook up rice, potatoes; bland foods for easy digestion. When she could barely stir from the couch, I'd hold her and comfort her with touch and words. She'd cry as she watched Tess and I playing and forging our relationship in the heat of the California summer; crying because she no longer felt alive, shackled in the house, separated from the real world by a veil of pain and fatigue.

Autumn meant radiation, the third dreadful blow. This was the cruelest time for me, watching her go every day for treatment. Each day a new horror on her tired flesh, each day the burns flushing brighter until they wept. And we wept too. She with the pain of happening, I with the pain of watching. She'd cry in her sleep each time she turned, a childlike whimper that belied her daytime stoicism; she'd cry, and my heart cried with her.

Our honeymoon had been the baptism of fire. Of course, we still talked; talked of how things should have been, how we wished it had been otherwise. I of course talked of the injustice I felt, and oft said that, in the words of the song, "it should have been me". But the cards were dealt, and Christine would often say that we had the right cards, that I would have been a far worse patient. I don't suffer well.

Now, years along, that is still true. At this moment I'm in bed with a cold, and I hate it. I hate being weak and in pain, and I'm assured that I'm a poor patient. I moan and make demands, and Christine, despite her own problems, fusses over me in a reversal of roles that she adapts to far better than do I. She of course, reminds me of this whenever I moan about my poor, pathetic lot. I may have been a hero to come and support her years ago, but now, struck by my own viral Kryptonite, I have to admit that she's right.

Sometimes it's like housework...

2009-02-25T21:00:00.000-08:00

"It's not all beer and skittles", they say, and it's true. Sometimes, life is harder than we'd like it to be, the cards we are dealt are not the cards we'd like. I was talking to a poker-playing friend once, and I wondered aloud how the heck anyone could want to play a game where the odds are apparently stacked against you. His response was fairly simple. He said that in poker you get to fold, take a little loss, and come back in the next hand. That and you can work out the odds, or you can bluff and still win with a poorer hand.

The hand I currently hold doesn't seem to be entirely a strong one. I have an Ace of hearts in Christine, a Queen of hearts in Tess (who is 10½), but for the most part, I feel that I have dross in the rest of my hand. Not that I'm going to fold, not that I'm going to lose entirely, but playing the hand right is important for me and the rest of the family.

Christine is treatment-weary, the chemo is hard on her both physically and mentally. I'm treatment-weary too, just in a different way. One of the things that I am finding as a carer is that I feel I should always be doing stuff. If it's not making drinks, or meals, or juice, it's laundry or housekeeping or shopping. If I'm not doing one of these things, I tend to feel guilty. I fret if I'm sitting and relaxing. I agonise if I sit down to write.

I was talking with my sister-in-law a few days ago, and she came up with an expression that I'm going to share here. To put it into its proper context, we were talking about why some doctors really seem to enjoy their jobs, and some don't. Part of her reply was this - I think lots don't enjoy it because it isn't what they thought. They thought they would make people better. But it turns out to be messy and complex and the person gets sick again, damn it. It's like housework.

Well, what do you know. That's just like looking after someone with cancer. You do a thing, and do it well, only to have to do it all over again soon afterward. Chemo is like dusting. While it's going on, it seems never to end. There's always more tiredness, always more painful and inconvenient symptoms, always the fatigue. What respite there may be after a few days is too short-lived. The dust will be back on the bookcase all too soon, and out comes the feather duster once more.

This is how it is - if Christine stays in, I stay in unless there's an errand to run. Once she goes out, then I feel free to go out myself.

That's the tiring bit, that doing it all over. So why do we do it? I don't know about doctors, but I do know this. Looking after Christine (and Tess too) is a lot more rewarding than you might think. We know right now that Christine has no evidence of disease (NED, nice acronym from her oncologist), and the last round of three sessions is an insurance policy. Whilst it's expensive (in terms of the short-term suffering), it's worthwhile in the long term. Even if all this means just a few years (and we're hoping to beat all the odds), it will be worth it.

I am starting to realise that the way to tackle this is not to try and do it all at once. Vacuum the living room carpet, have a cup of tea. Tidy those books away, sit and read a few chapters. Make the bed with clean sheets, treat yourself to a wee snooze, not forgetting to set an alarm. For the love and the pride and the honour and the joy, I carry on. I just need to remember to take some time to look after me, too.

Spit or Swallow? Truly a beer to cheer.

2009-02-20T17:49:00.000-08:00

So here's a funny thing. I recently wrote an article on the topic of American beer, having sampled many exotic beers in the past few years. Imagine my was utter delight when I stumbled upon (I avoided saying "came across") this delightful label in the Davis Food Co-op.

Now I'm not normally given to judging a book by its binding, any more than I buy a beer based on the label. This time, however, the New York Shmaltz Brewing Company did it for me, with one of their "Freak Beer" brews.

Now did I say "exotic" or "erotic" earlier? Because here's a practically pornographic freak snake blow-job fetishist beer label from Hell, that manages to hide a beer that is almost certainly from Heaven.

Thankfully, the label is not the only thing that stands out. The beer itself is reminiscent of Hoegaarden, a weissbier-styled lager with a sweet and slightly spicy finish. It's malty enough for me, and hoppy enough to stay balanced from the first sniff to the last swallow, and with a 22-ounce bottle, there is, thankfully, plenty of swallow to go around.

I managed to procure the last two in the store, one of which I gave as a birthday gift to a friend (Hi, Tom!), one of which four of us demolished at home. Sadly, that wasn't enough, and I eagerly await the arrival of the next batch at the Co-op, so that I may chase the snake to my heart's content.

Fingernails and whatnot; it's all about the chemo

2009-02-11T10:45:00.001-08:00

So we're down to the last round of three chemo treatments, which will start in a little over a week. Meantime, Christine gets a week off (no chemo this Friday!) and I will be taking three weeks of leave to nurse her through those last few dreadful days.

Chemotherapy is hard, let no-one deceive you by saying otherwise. In addition to the reduction in skin growth (tender skin and a painful and less-effective digestive system), there's neuropathy (a reduction in peripheral nerve sensation), hair loss and now, to cap it all, painful fingernails. Yes, her fingernails are not growing properly. Her nail beds are painful, so picking things up, cooking, typing - all these things are now painful. Oh, and did I mention mouth sores? Shame on me.

It's hard to be a carer. Watching the one you love suffering because everything hurts, there's a lot of emotional pain that goes along with that. Coupled with the fact that the medical bills are flowing in at a time when the State of California has enforced two furlough days a month to save money, and everything's under stress.

What could be worse? Well, how about my being suspended from work for three days? Yes, that's what's happened. This was after I had been called into work on my day off for the disciplinary meeting. Truly it was Saint Bastard's Day. So now I have a few days to kick about at home, wondering what happens when the disciplinary action is re-opened, and what happens when (if?) I am able to return to work. Time to worry about paying bills, putting food on the table, time to worry about Christine's future (both health- and job-wise). Time to make a new start? Possibly. Watch this space.

On the upside, the trees are starting to show green, shoots and flowers are appearing all over the oche, and life is rearing its delightful head. Hope? Always.

Scribble. Like Scrabble, only sillier.

2009-02-09T12:19:00.001-08:00

One of the great joys of holidays is being able to relax and enjoy the scenery. Now today is Lincoln's birthday, and we're up stayng with friends in the delightful Capay Valley, and right just now I'm enjoying a game of Scrabble, which is in itself a great joy, provided it's not taken too seriously, which as you can see from the picture above, it's not.

Getting to confound my American friends with British English spellings and usages is also part of the fun, but Jim trumped me with "Plutoish"; a planet resembling Pluto. Well done.

The last few rounds

2009-02-01T10:39:00.000-08:00

So we had some good news recently. In short, Christine's cancer seems to be on the run, at least for the moment. When she was first diagnosed, we were devastated to learn that we the docs weren't looking to cure it, rather to manage it as a "chronic disease". Since then, the various chemo drugs have taken their toll. She's tired, her body aches, she's nauseous and has little appetite.

The change from the original Taxol drug to the newer Paclitaxel NAD has given us a couple of breaks. Firstly, the Paclitxel does seem to produce less neuropathy, so the feeling in her feet and toes is returning. Secondly, it turns out that the new drug gives a better response rate, which is good for the long-term outlook.

All this means that Christine can carry on her ballet lessons. In fact (and I'm proud of her for this!) she recently did some pointe work for the first time. Given that this was a long-term dream for her, see why I'm so proud of the acheivement, not just that she did it, but did it partway through a long and arduous chemotherapy regime. It may not sound like much, but from the look on her face it was worth every moment and every penny, by gum.

After thanking Doctors Dollbaum and Laptalo, I'd like to reserve a moment of silence for the insurance company. Silence, because I lack the words to describe how I feel about you, Anthem Healthcare. Thank you for picking up the Paclitxel, no thanks for declining the anti-nausea drug. Having a wife whose belly is in turmoil is no picnic, and taking a swipe at her quality of life over a few dollars strikes me as pretty bloody poor. They say that the new regime causes less nausea. Well, they are right, but the statistics show that 3% of patients suffer extreme nausea and vomiting. Guess what? Christine is in that 3%, you unspeakable gits.

Speaking of quality of life, I find myself struggling at this point. Goodness knows how Christine is coping, fraught with worries about the future, and with a body poised on the brink of falling apart from the inside. All I have to do is make a few meals, juice her now and again, and try to keep her spirits up. God knows I try, and God knows I fail all too often.

I'm angry. Angry that the damned cancer came back, angry over the health insurance and pharmaceutical companies squeezing every penny for their shareholders. Angry that we have to fight for better treatment, angry that we fail. Angry at myself for failing to cope, angry that I'm probably not looking after myself as I should, which means that ultimately, I'm not best able to look after my family.

I find myself snapping at them, snarling at the world outside, being grouchy and grumpy. And inevitably, we fight. Every weekend, Christine tells me. I have to take her word for this, as I'm not tracking. Only today really exists. Yesterday is a ghost of time, tomorrow is so uncertain.

Finally, I'm sorry. Sorry I rant. Sorry I shout. Sorry I vent and want to throw things. Sorry I'm not caring as I feel I should.

Oh, look at the muscle!

2009-01-25T13:04:00.001-08:00

The muscle car, that is. Larry ain't no muscleman, that's for sure. The car's a Plymouth Belvedere, 1956 vintage, just like me. It represents what I'm coming to think of as "classic America", big and gaudy with '50s chrome. Here's the same smooth, shiny lines of the Happy Days diner and the Harley.

When we were in Port Townsend we visited such a diner, where I had a fabulous clam chowder and creamy milk shake. The chrome-and-formica counter, the curvy jukebox and the old-fashioned Coke fridge were all present and correct. It was almost as romantic, for me, as seeing the old gold towns. Or visiting Billy the Kid's grave.

But I digress. Here's this big ol' car with massive metal chassis and body, big leather bench seats, and the proud driver alongside. He cares not a fig for the terrible mileage (15 miles to the US gallon), he'd get another in a moment.

Me, I am caught between nostalgia and horror, and right now I'm not sure which will win in the end.

Top Ten

2009-01-20T15:46:00.001-08:00

Wot? No fag ends? That was Number One in most UK pubs.

Oh, and for the American audience, "fag end" = "cigarette butt".

Tahoe igloo

2009-01-20T07:41:00.000-08:00

So here's a test of the G1 phone, updating my blog by email over a wireless network. This was science fiction not many years ago, and I wonder what the next few years will hold.

My sense of childlike wonder trembles.

What it is to be a carer

2008-11-18T15:17:00.000-08:00

I seem to be writing, slantwise, about Christine's cancer. I realise that I have been avoiding what is actually on my mind, which is about being a carer, about what it means to care for someone who has cancer.

Christine's cancer story, briefly, is this. We met virtually through the website everything2.com - I lived in England, she lived in California. We met in real life four years ago today. She was diagnosed with infiltrating ductal carcinoma in February 2004, following a trip to England. I flew out to be with her, to help her through the start of her treatment, which we hoped would be simple. As things turned out, she would be needing a mastectomy, chemo and radiation. I wound up staying here, as she was clearly going to need more than a little moral support. We were married on 1st May, 2005.

Since then we've been nursing her back to health. This is not as easy as it sounds. Cancer is no joke, neither for the patient nor the family - we've often said that cancer is a disease that affects the whole family. The patient is affected in fairly obvious ways, the family in ways that are not always so obvious. And each case is, of course, different. In this case, the difference was, and is, twofold. Christine has a daughter Tess, now aged ten. Her husband (me!) flew six thousand miles to care for, leaving behind his family, friends and support, to be with her.

Now the cancer has reared its ugly head again. That it did so made me angry at first. I came to realise that I was grieving. This grief is real - after all, there's a chance I might lose her at lot sooner than I'd like, and that's rather annoying, as it took me all this time to find a keeper. I also lost both my parents last year, Dad to cancer, Mum to a broken heart. My sister I lost because she feels I let them all down. I don't intend to let Christine down, or Tess.

I want to talk about my feelings, and I hope I don't bore you, or drive you away. I know I'm not alone, but I feel alone. It's not that I have no-one close, I do. I have Christine and Tess. There are thousands of people, millions, going through similar processes during their caring journey, but that's not the alone I feel. Our family is surrounded by people who love us, and bend over backwards to help us, but again, that doesn't address my alone-ness. It's the being alone inside my head with all the hopes and fears, no matter how reasonable or unreasonable, rational or unfathomable.

There are too many things worrying me right now. Things I can barely express, thoughts and feelings that are a knotted jumble. I need to get them out, and I hope that there is someone there who can help me make sense of them. Of course, along the way, maybe I will be able to help someone else. I hope so.

Autumn, Fall, whatever. Still my favourite season

2008-11-16T12:28:00.000-08:00

Going into Autumn is complex for me. It always was - the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" used to fill me with a desire to flee England's dismal shortening days for milder weather and above all, daylight. Living in California now means that I don't have to fear the coming winter, miss the light, bright days or plod around in wet-weather gear just in case it rains.

Now, it means the season of abundance at the Farmer's Market. We're just out of the best bit, with the piles of tomatoes and peppers, but apples are beginning, so just as I start to miss one crop, another comes along to excite and delight me. How can anyone not shop at the Market? All those Safeway shoppers don't know what they are missing by buying their "fresh" produce in bags and boxes, shipped from God-knows-where and treated in dreadful ways that a man ought not wot of.

Now, of course, it saddens me because my Mum died last year, in late October. This year I'm also dealing with Christine's cancer and the grief that's attached to that. But it's not about to drag me South with the autumnal emigre birds.

A final note on autumn, for my many English or British friends who enquire after my dealings with "American English". "Fall", they say, "is an Americanism best done without. Use 'autumn'".

Sorry to tell you this, but the words fall and autumn are relatively new words, dating from the 17th century. Before that, the season was known as "Harvest", and both words were used alike in America and Britain (or at least, England), though in time, each country had its own preferences. In fairness though, most Americans know what "autumn" means, and few Brits fail to understand the "fall" season. Of the two, once again, the Brits are the ones who gripe most.

I still love you, Harvest season, by any name.

Shooting Cancer

2008-10-28T18:14:00.000-07:00

So following my recent bash at shooting, I went back to Vacaville today, and I SHOT AT CANCER. This was the best group, .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson at about fifteen yards.

It was a lot of fun, and for a beginner, not a bad effort, according to the chap at the counter.

Just tell me it won't make me rush off to join the NRA and vote Republican.

Speaking of flying the flag...

2008-10-22T20:29:00.000-07:00

How's this for wearing your heart on your sleeve? Found, apparently, in Northern California. So where do I get one?

Flag? What flag?

2008-10-22T17:02:00.000-07:00

Here's a funny thing. Another great difference between our two great nations. It's all to do with those symbols of national pride. Yes, I mean flags.

It certainly seems that some in the US think that flying the flag is a Good Thing, and flags are certainly scattered liberally (if you'll pardon the phrase) about, not just around the patriotic holidays, but outside houses and businesses on a day-to-day basis.

Go to England and you'll see nary a one. Not even on Saint George's Day. You know Saint George, patron saint of England? Of course not. The Irish, bless 'em, beat us to the draw on that one, spreading the word about their patron saint until the whole world knows him and his Day. But I digress. In short, you won't see many English flags. You might see a few Union Flags, but that's the flag of Britain, which includes Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland.

So what's the deal? Simple. In England, the flag has been hijacked by the racist extreme right, so much so that even prison officers have been told not to wear a flag pin, and police told a motorist he couldn't have one on his car. That, and there's little national pride left. Go to Scotland, you'll see Saint Andrew's cross flying, but south of the border, nada.

In the US, there's a different take. Here it's only the liberals who seems to fear the flag - others seem to fly it with impunity and pride. Where did this come from? I have no idea. But I do recall a time when both ultraconservative and hippie liberal alike were proud of the flag - this from a news item when I was but a tad, showing a hippie at an anti-Vietnam march, with one around his shoulders, and another held proudly. Yes, proudly.

If someone would take the time to explain why the liberals seem to need to reclaim the Stars and Stripes for their own, I'd gladly hear them out.

In the meantime, as a potential future citizen of this country, I prepare to fly all three flags with equal pride.

Two pints of lager, and a packet of crisps, please.

2008-10-19T22:09:00.000-07:00

I never thought how much I was reliant on traditional British fare until I landed on these shores. You see, the English live on very different foods to you lot over here. At least, so it seems at first glance. Take, for example, the humble bacon sandwich. This is the staple of workman's cafés up and down the country, as well as railway stations and motorway service stations. It consists of bread, and bacon. You might get the choice of butter or HP Sauce, but that's your lot. It's basic, filling and no-nonsense. Some of my American friends have asked me how to make a bacon sandwich, and I have to describe it as "a BLT without the LT". To say the least, British food is simpler.

Davis, where I find myself living, is a university town. In England, the equivalent town would have at the very least five fish-and-chip shops, a scattering of sandwich bars and maybe a workman-style caff where you can get a cheese sammidge and a cuppa tea. No such luck here. David Sedaris wrote about the simple ham sandwich transformed into the gourmet delight complete with four types of heirloom lettuce, two rare handmade cheeses, before finally being spritzed with rancid musk-ox oil. I,like Mr Sedaris, prefer the old-fashioned version, but can I get that here? No, Sir, I cannot. And we are all the poorer for it.

Then there's the pork pie. This is (wait for it!) a pie containing pork. Simple, you think? Not worthy of consideration in overstuffed gourmet America? You have to be kidding. Along with the Cornish pasty, this is a true delight of British cuisine. Tender pork, cooked with a few herbs and spices (notably pepper) and finally encased in a hot water pastry and topped off with pork jelly (aspic). Served cold with salads, pickles and good bread, it knocks the socks off any fancy sushi.

Last, but not least, the humble pub snack. There's nothing like the British pub anywhere else in the world. With apologies to everyone in the American hospitality industry, you need to do more than serve your beer slightly warmer, in a 20-ounce glass. You need real crisps. Crisps, not "potato chips". Crisps with character, flavour, attitude. You need roast chicken, beef and mustard, and ham and pickle. Sea-salt and cracked pepper, indeed.

Dude! Where's my car?

2008-10-15T11:08:00.000-07:00

Well, let me tell you. Last I saw your car, it was failing to stop at a stop sign. After that, it was shooting down 6th Street at about 30 mph. Shortly after, it was straddling the railway line behind the Davis Food Co-op, and you were doubtless feeling both foolish and bloody lucky. Foolish because you clearly were not paying attention to the main business of driving safely, and lucky because believe it or not, there are trains that run down that line. Big trains. Heavy trains. Trains going fast enough and with sufficient momentum that they would crush you and your car like bugs.

Does this ring a bell with you? Goodness, I hope so. I really wish I'd had a camera because I would be posting a picture of you along with this post. What were you thinking? Clearly, your mind was elsewhere. Maybe you were (illegally) on the phone. Maybe you were texting someone. You may have been reading a map. But whatever you were doing, be aware of this - you were not driving in any way safely, and you were putting other people in danger. In short, you are an idiot and a scofflaw.

Sadly, you are in great company. And I don't mean "great" in the sense of good, either. You are in that great multitude of drivers who clearly don't feel that the basic, common-sense rules of the road apply to you. I've seen them everywhere. On freeways, doing 80+ whilst reading or using a phone, or putting on lipstick.

Now clyclists, don't start feeling all superior and the like. It's not just motorists, you know. At least in Davis, there are dozens, nay, hundreds of cyclists who regularly flout the law and ignore safety. They do all of the above, with added bonuses like riding without lights, the wrong way down the bike lanes and with no hands on the handlebars.

Let me just get this straight. The poor deluded souls in their cars are at least protected by a high-tech steel cage with seatbelts and those explody-bag things to protect them in case of accident. You, on the other hand, are exposed to the elements, and I don't just mean the weather. You are as bad as the guy we started with, who was risking his life by potentially going up against hundreds of tons of train. All teh protection you have is your clothes and a helmet. Good grief.

What is wrong with you people? Do you think you are immortal, or are you just stupid? Evidence points to the latter.

The .357 Calibre Stress Management System

2008-10-14T15:24:00.000-07:00

So for those of you who don't know, the reason I came to the US was to court Christine. I first came over in November 2004, fell totally in love, and we were engaged "real quick" as they say. In February 2005, she was diagnosed with cancer following a trip to the UK. You can read the full story here, but the short of it is that she's been cancer-free for just three years.

Or so we thought. She recently had a PET scan, which showed enlarged and over-active lymph nodes. This in turn triggered a return of the kind of uncertain stress that's associated with being in the anxious darkness of not knowing. At this moment, we're not sure whether it's new cancer (which would be bad) or some other infection (which would be not so bad). In short, we're all a little variable in our moods. I'm unafraid to admit that I've been running the emotional spectrum from anger through anxiety to tears of pain. None of us are immune to this, and it's a tough one to cope with.

So what to do while we wait for the medical machine to give this fear a name? We continue to work, though my boss, bless her heart, has kindly given me Saturdays off for a while. Tess continues her schooling (Grade 5, she's doing so well, too!) We're trying to live normally, but the worry is apparent. Sleepless nights, poor appetite and all the trappings of the tension.

I have many hobbies. I read, I write. Christine knits, makes jewelry and both she and Tess do ballet. I lacked something physical, something that would burn off some adrenalin. If I were up at our summer cabin in Ontario, I could dig out the old foundations of the deck and porch and make them sturdier, I could build the workbench I promised myself, fix up the dock. Chop down trees. That's how I get rid of stress.

But the problem is that I am basically lazy. I do a little Tai Chi now and then, but not regularly, and I am loth to run because I feel ridiculous. And as for anything else physical, I don't dance and the pools are closed, pretty much. So a couple of weeks ago, I went down to Vacaville to do what many red-blooded American males seem to do. I joined a shooting range and went and shot a rifle.

Now at this point, I will remind you that I am an Englishman. In England, we don't shoot things. You can own a shotgun and shoot clay pigeons or (if you're rich enough) go hunting. But rifles and handguns? No way. Not for many a year has it been legal to own or use a firearm. So for me this was a big deal. I have never fired a gun before, never wanted to. But here in the US, I have the opportunity to do just that, and I decided to give it a shot. So to speak.

The news that I had done this attracted a few raised eyebrows among my mostly-liberal Davis friends, none of whom I can imagine owning or using a weapon. Many have never used one, nor would they consider it necessary. But I went and rented a .22 rifle (a Ruger 10/22, in case that means something to you) and bought 100 cartridges, got a brief demo as to how to load and use the thing, and off I went into the indoor range. It was okay, after I got over the initial nervous shakes caused by "this thing could kill someone" thoughts. But I did it, and even learned how to hit the target close to the bull. Pulled to the left a little, but hey, I'm new at this.

Trouble was, it was interesting, but not really that much fun. The rifle made a crack rather than the BANG that my neighbour got when he was firing his much bigger handgun. So this week, I plucked up even more courage and went back, and this time, rented a handgun. A Smith and Wesson 686P, .357 Magnum. Now that is a gun that goes BANG.

It kicked a little, too. I knew I was firing something, because I could feel it in my shoulder. The .22 didn't have that, there was no immediacy, no impact, no...oomph. This felt like it was doing something, and as another plus, I could see the holes in the target, clear and round and large and black. It was satisfying and, dare I say it, fun. Next time, I shall write CANCER in big letters on the target before I shoot.

Three reasons why I'm not rich

2007-07-13T09:03:00.000-07:00

I realised something vital earlier today, and it's blown my mind. You see, I'd always thought I'd never be rich because I wasn't clever enough - no degree in bio-whatsit so I could sell my ideas for genetically engineering tomatoes with human genes (just a random example, you understand). I would always see these fabulous ideas and think "I wish I'd thought of that" because deep down, these great ideas are frequently so simple.

Now, I realise, I was wrong. I'm not rich because I'm not stupid enough. Take the ad I saw today on The Onion - basically, you buy three boxes.

These special gift boxes, printed with fake product graphics and descriptions, hold your actual gifts inside. The victim/recipient will congratulate you (eventually) for providing them an utterly perplexing and wonderfully humbling moment.

Your GotchaBox box set includes one each of the following: (1) USB Toaster, (1) Make-Your-Own Umbrella Kit, (1) Salt Of The Month Club

That's right, empty boxes. Clever idea, you send a gift to someone in a box with high-quality graphics, displaying a USB toaster. Hilarious. Cost to you, the lucky shopper? Just $17.99 for three boxes. Now if my arithmetic is good enough, that's $6 a box. Simple and brilliant. And I could never have thought of that.

The third reason I'll never be rich? I don't want to be. Funny old world.

But it's a dry heat...

2007-07-05T17:59:00.000-07:00

Well, I came to Northern California to live, in March 2005. Straight to Davis from chilly Nottingham, I fell in love with the lovely sunny 60°F days (that's 15°C). Compare that with 50°C/10°C maxima, following frosty March mornings, that I was used to. I was in Paradise...

Summers were another matter, however. As soon as the temperature started to climb much above 75°F (23°C) I started to sweat a little. "Hot out", I'd say. The locals would just smile and nod and pat me on the head. "Oh, You think it's hot now...wait 'till it gets HOT." That was in April. By June I was certain that it couldn't get hotter, temperatures starting to get into the mid-80s (30-ish) and I repeated my little "...hot out..." speech. Only to get the same response.

I would sweat my way to the Food Co-op and sweat back again, laden with goodies, to an amused but not entirely sympathetic wife. "Oh, it can hit 100", she'd remind me. And I'd groan. You see, the all-time UK temperature was (still is, I think) just 101° (a sweltering 38.5°C), and if it even approached 90°F there would be "Phew, What A Scorcher!" headlines in the papers.

Finally, however, my day came - a red letter day for me, when a Davis resident finally agreed that it was hot. It was 90-odd that day, but I was satisfied for a moment. "At least it's a dry heat...", he said, and I gritted my teeth. As I reluctantly turn on the air conditioning, I groan (and not always just inwardly) at the certainty of an inflated electricity bill and the knowledge that my cooler home interior means a hotter exterior.

Of course, I'm something of a veteran now, and I barely flinch until it hits ninety. But I still worry. You see, Davis' typical weather is pretty bad in the summer - we managed to escape the worst excesses last year by running off to Canada the week it climbed to 110, but that won't always be the case. Each year more people drive away or jet off to avoid the gnarliest of the heat, but that must soon start to change.

What happens if climate change means that it gets hotter? Maybe not just hotter, but drier too. California grows a good deal of America's food, and farmers rely on (would you believe) water - without irrigation, there would be no agriculture. Without the runoff from the surrounding mountains, water levels in the Central Valley would fall, and sooner or later we'd have to look elsewhere for our water.

Rather like the residents of Southern California, we'd have to pump water hundreds, thousands of miles to irrigate our fields, water our lawns and golf courses, wash our cars.

Yep, that would be a dry heat.

The British Are Coming!

2007-07-02T17:59:00.000-07:00

I've been in the USA (specifically, California) for a little over two years now, and I feel that I'm becoming a veteran of Independence Day and other American holidays. I understand the difference between Veteran's Day and Memorial Day, and I understand that you celebrate President's Day and Columbus Day (although he didn't discover America, just the West Indies). I don't quite get how, despite your evidently strong religious beliefs, you don't have a holiday on Good Friday, and I still miss the UK's Boxing Day holiday.

I'm still struggling to remember the seasons of these holidays, although one is pretty plain, even to the dumbest of Brits. I refer of course, to Independence Day, (or the Fourth of July as it is also known) - a day set aside to celebrate your liberation from the dreadful yoke of British royalty and taxation. There was some fuss made about some tea in Boston, and some dreadful fellows tipped the precious cargo into the briny, and ever since then you have rubbed salt into the wound by not making tea in an approved manner (although I have to admit that mostly, you make better coffee than the British).

Now I'm not going to go on about that topic (suffice to say that I refuse to ask for "hot tea") but I will allow give you a quick reminder of the email forward that many of you will doubtless have received some time ago. Allegedly from John Cleese, regarding the revocation of American Independence, he proposed that...

...in the light of your failure to elect a competent President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves...to aid in the transition to a British Crown dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:

You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford English Dictionary. Then look up "aluminium."...

There is no such thing as "US English." We will let Microsoft know on your behalf....

You should learn to distinguish the English and Australian accents. It really isn't that hard...

Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as the good guys...

You should relearn your original national anthem, "God Save The Queen"...

You should stop playing American "football." There is only one kind of football. What you refer to as American "football" is not a very good game...

You will no longer be allowed to own or carry guns. You will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous in public than a vegetable peeler...

It does go on a little, but is worth a read if you've a decent sense of humour. The full text is given at Snopes, along with an equally satirical response.

Okay, time to come clean. I've learned a lot about America, "Americanisms" and the evident superior attitude of the average Brit, who disdains some American ways because of some basic ignorance of history. Most of these are linguistic things, like color for colour, and the "girly pints of beer", and I may well address some of these in this blog, over time. This isn't to say that I don't occasionally wind up my Merkin friends, neighbours and colleagues, and even my delightful American wife. After all, you beat us in that war thing a couple of hundred years ago, we have to get our own back somehow.

Finally, I will allow myself myself a soupçon of pleasure by relaying an anecdote from about a year ago, during a discussion of what I was doing for the Fourth. I was asked "...do you have the Fourth of July in England"? As God is my witness, I didn't know how to respond.