10.31 FORBIDDEN FRUIT

C'est L'Hallowe'en!

One of my favorite holidays. Surprisingly it isn't especially popular in the UK. I suppose this is because they've watered down the thrill of going out in costume with their frequent "Fancy Dress" parties.

Tonight was just another excuse to get ourselves all fancied up.

I have a history of getting hung up on costume ideas, like when I work my age 4-6 tiger costume until I was 12 and my mother had to detach the tail from my back and restitch it to my ass. The pants fit like capris - I was ahead of my time in terms of fashion sense.

Anyhow, this year I repeated a costume idea I'd done a few Halowe'ens back. I was a tree that year. The key was that Casey and Erica were tie-dye wearing granola eating tree huggers. That meant I was smothered with loving all night long - and you know how affectionate I can be.

It wore me out and broke me in all at once.

This year I decided to be a tree once again, simply because I own a pair of brown spandex running tights that make a handy trunk. I was going to grab a set of crutches and be the Major Oak (see http://3sixty6.blogspot.com/2007_09_01_archive.html if you dont get it) But my housemates insisted there needed to be a spooky twist to my costume.

The scary factor must be the matter that distinguishes Haloween from the ordinary Fancy Dress. Pardon that oxymoron.

So, I threw a (plastic) serpentine satan around my neck, grabbed a few apples from the yard, and deemed them forbidden fruit. What could be more frightening than the possibility of painful labour and the frightful fashion of figleaf lengerie.

Apparantly it doesn't shake a rotten tomato in her boots.

10.30 ORNAMENTAL SHRUBS

Kat and I might as well have stayed the night in Mapperley. We were up and back in our patch first thing this morning for a tour of the ward with Notts Mayor Mo Munir and our ward cousellor Mike Edwards.

The two cruise the area every month or two to identify problem areas like grafitti that needs cleaning and potholes and such. Thrilling? No. But Mike managed to add a bit of dialogue to the tour by guiding us historically from street to street.

Here he's pointing to a crop of neatly carved out bushes along a public boulevard. The ornamental shrubs were added to this otherwise shanty housing area by a well-intentioned resident. You might say its tacky. You might say he broke the law. But what harm could a bit of landscaping do?

It might actually do a lot of good. I wonder if the gardener guy realises the impact that aesthetic value has on attitude and behaviour.

In the Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell uses the example of the NYC underground cleanup a few decades ago. The chief of police at the time tackled rampant crime in the subway by increasing regulation at entranceways and tidying graffitti from subway trains.

Remarkable.

Primping and pruning the shrubs might simply be a hobby for this green thumb. What he might not realize is that he's also doing a lot of good for his hood.

10.29 FRAMBOZENBIER

Kat and I are reporting from Mapperley. We spend our days walking the streets of Ward 5, each of us independently in search of a riveting story for the week. When I say riveting, my mood is ambitious. Without the luxury of the odd press release and in the absence of the associated press feeding ideas, we typically take what we can get.

It's a tedious venture, but that much more exalting when a story emerges. And everybody has a story. Its a truth I learned while walking the aisles of Walmart Stores across Canada as my sister amateur camera person.

After sitting through a lengthy Neighbourhood Watch meeting in our assigned community - from which I emerged with a story about the organizations increasing reliance on technological advancements in light of its aging and reluctant members - Kat and I wandered our way to a nearby pub to unwind over a drink. If only it were as easy to find a story as it is to find a good brew in Mapperley.

In any event, we popped a couple of celebratory bottles of Frambozenbeir - the last two in the pub. Kat took the honour of unravelling the label and uncorking the Belgian beer - she does it like a pro. I, on the other hand, didn't really know where to start.

We sat, contemplating Mapperley but trying hard not to. Sipping slow.

10.28 TIN MAN

...and when he's not eating Welsh Cakes, the tin-man is on a soup diet. This is a peek into Dion's cupboard - he's admittedly not much of a culinary artists (any lack of skill thereof he makes up for in his photographic pursuits). Just the same, it works well since there are already enough cooks in our kitchen to spoil a broth - perhaps even a can of vegetable beef barley broth.

10.27 WELSH CAKES

Dion arrived back from a visit home to Wales.

He brought with him a load of traditional welsh cakes.

If I were Dion, I wouldn't be sharing those.

They are soft and sort of crumbly with a dusting of brown sugar that melts on the tongue. I was instructed (by the experts in the house) to add a layer of butter. I followed suit, but think they taste just fine without.

Its a matter of delish vs decadent I suppose.

They're especially good with tea, as long as you don't mind losing the sugary texture to the bottom of your mug - but cookie crumb-tainted tea is a bother if you ask me.

To sum it up, welsh cakes are right up there with crumpets in terms of inducing a classic pavolovian-effect. Just a minute while I wipe that bit of drool from the corner of my mouth.

10.26 NEWSDAY

Everyday is a newsday. But Fridays are especially so. Fridays are special.
On this day of the week, I am immersed in newspapers, quizzed on the latest stories, reporting from the legendary land of Oxdown, and conferencing with my classmates. I eat lunch with a broadsheet in hand and spend breaks online catching up to BBC4.

Its a 9-5 day. I head to conference with a coffee in my left hand, my right free to practice shorthand while my course director, Dave, goes on about how to peg stories and punctuate paragraph after paragraph after five-sentence-max paragraph.

The best part of the day, aside from lunch, but taking place the hour before - (torture I must say), is NCTJ exam prep. We head to the newsroom, the same newsroom that once housed the BBC. We are given 60 minutes to write a 250 word report generated from a press release out of the wonderful land of Oxdown. Its made up. My stomach growling is real and adds to the pressue. The document is placed on the desk beside me.

The gun goes and we're off.

By the end of the hour, the hunger pangs are long forgotten and all I can think is paragraph, after paragraph, after five-sentence-max, properly punctuated, paragraph. I scan my story for the words "local" and "resident," deleting any trace of those blasphemous terms and submit.

I depart from Oxdown and my brain lands safely back into Nottingham. I'm about to link to www.thisisnottigham.co.uk when my stomach growls. And I'm off. The newsday breaks, but only for a moment.

This is Friday. Every Friday. Every day is a newsday. But Friday is full on.

10.25 APPLE A DAY

An apple a day...my arse.

I've been sick. Sick and tired - or tired and consequently sick, if I can infer causality here. Its a vicious cycle that was begun despite a healthy diet including at least one large, juicy, apple picked fresh off the tree in my backyard each day.

You can argue that I haven't seen a doctor yet. But in this day and age, doctors don't often make house calls (or perhaps they do, in places like Gibraltar), and so there is little challenge to keeping them and their stethoscopes and their lectures on eating five fruit servings away.

If we advance the old adage into the present context, with online health information and over-the-counter pharmaceuticals at hand, I am able to counter the argument and suggest that I have been self-diagnosed with the common cold and followed my own prescription to the chemists for a extra strength supply of Acetaminophen, a life-saver not naturally occurring in the average orchard fruit and in effect a "doctored" up solution to my stuffy nose, cough, and headache.

Consider this a piece of anecdotal evidence (and a lesson to all of you Granny Smith aficionados) that an apple a day isn't gonna do the trick.

10.24 SUN ROOF

We'll be changing the clocks back this weekend. I'm putting to good use the sun roof in my attic room before the late-evening sunsets come to an end.

Instead, my early mornings will become even moreso, by the tormenting of a six o-clock-or-so sunrise. Not that I couldn't use a few extra zaps of Vitamin D.

Tonight, I admired for a moment the vibrant red reflection of the sun hitting the rooftops and aged brick houses in my neighbourhood. The scene is almost animated, like a cartoon, the colours exagerated brightly by a Crayola-range of colours.

I always liked Tangerine. But tonight, Burnt Umber will do.

10.23 DANCING LION

Reporting from Mapperley. Here's this week's news story. A light hearted story that I stumbled upon, perhaps by the good fortunes of the Dancing Lion:

A KIND-HEARTED Asian grocer is raising funds for a community learning centre in Nottingham. A large crowd gathered to watch a traditional Chinese Lion Dance on the fourth anniversary of the Asiana Hypermarket, which is continuing the celebration by giving back to the Asian community.

Proceeds from a raffle supported by several suppliers of the grocery store will be donated to the East England Chinese Association School in Mapperley Park.

Sandy Lathia, 25, is the local buyer for the family run business. She said: “We didn’t just want to celebrate our birthday by bringing people in. Without our customers we wouldn’t be here and we wanted to give back to the Asian community.”

The Mapperley Park school relies heavily on private donations for funding and welcomes the donation. Its coordinator Donna Mostyn heads 16 volunteer teachers and more than 180 students, many of whom joined the anniversary celebration with Chinese poetry, traditional song, and a demonstration of Tai Chi. Mrs Mostyn said, “Our aim is to keep the Chinese community together. We want our next generation, wherever in the world they may be, to have learned their roots.”

The school offers weekly classes in Chinese and Mandarin along with GSCE preparation courses. It welcomes students from any ethnic background.

VT, 11, was born in the UK. Her father, who is German, and her mother, from Vietnam, wanted her to learn Chinese. “I like going because my friends are there,” she said. “And now I know how to write Chinese.”

Raffle tickets will be sold at the Asiana Hypermarket on Woodborough Road until November 4. The money raised will be used to purchase a tennis table for the school which hopes to send a group of students to the Chinese Association National Sport Day next spring.

10.22 QUEEN BEE

Exhausted from pedalling around town all day, I hopped off my bike at the foot of my street, opting to walk the steep climb to my doorstep.

"You can do it! If I can get up this hill, so can you honey!"

I looked up to meet what was left of a once toothy grin. But the sprightly sound of her voice made up for a few gaps in this stranger's smile.

Despite the encouragement, I continued plodding uphill as she walked down to greet me.

She askes if I am a resident on her street.
Her street.

As the longest standing resident on P Road, this short but feisty woman has independently taken on the responsiblity as our neighbourhood watch.

She's called, Queen Bee, and don't nobody mess with her.

Upon her introduction, she starts pouncing side to side, fists primed to throw a punch.

"I'm a boxing champion, you know."

She has an afro-carribean lingo that meddles with her British accent. I would have trouble understanding if her body language wasn't so poignant.

She seems equally perplexed by my accent and can't identify it.

When I tell her I'm Canadian, her face lights up!

"Another Canadian! There are plenty of you on my street!"

She asks if I've met Chris, my next door neighbour from Peterborough, and points out another Canadian couple, both physiotherapists, living across the street.

"And that's my house there," she points to number 3, "with the leather gloves hanging in the window."

I was always curious about those.

Her fist dissapears in her heafty sack as she fumbles around for something.

All the while, she is giving me the low down on the residents of each house.

She also delves into her own life story. She is trained as a nurse and recieved her degree in the US. I sense her pride, but she is not gloating.

Eventually, she moved to the UK where she was employed for a number of charitable oranizations in her career.

She pulls a monochrome photo from her purse. Here she is, I can recognize her smile, healthy, more signatory of a student in the health services. I recognize another face in the photo. She is shaking hands with Mohammed Ali. Remarkable. In her other hand is her diploma.

This is the proudest moment of her life. She hasn't shared this photo for a long time, she adds.

And she has shared it with me, a neighbour, but moments ago a stranger.

Already I'm in her corner of the ring. I feel safe. I wouldn't want to be a contender.

10.21 COUNCIL HOUSE

It is Democracy Week in Nottingham - a prime opportunity to hassle local counsellors and committee reps for information and story ideas.

I ventured into the city armed (with a notepad and sharpie) and ready to tackle any resistance by my area representative.

I have been assigned to report from Ward 5 - a city burb called Mapperley - for this term and perhaps for my entire year of studies. It is a far-reaching and diverse ward that encompasses the hard-hit area of St Anns Well while also housing the city's most wealthy populous in areas like Mapperley Park.

In the Market Square I was surprised to receive a welcomed and cordial greeting on behalf of Coun Edwards. Hoping to wrench five or ten minutes from the guy, I was surprised when after more than two hours I could barely escape the conversation. Confiscating my pen and note pad, he guided me visually through Mapperley park with the aide a hand drawn map highlighting issues in each various areas of the ward. Prostitution along Forest Road, road safety on Ransom Drive, disgruntled residents in Thorneywood, and school closures in the Wells. Bonus, I got a tour of the Council House, including a history lesson on Nottingham and a debriefing of its more popular myths and legends.

I have to say, if it weren't for his reluctance to address the city's waste disposal problem, he'd have my sure vote simply because his people are his priority. His work ethic is impressive and his knowledge of the city remarkable. He is also cause for most of Nottingham's revolutionary traffic regulations which has seen the successful uptake of the public transport system and a ceiling on auto traffic in most areas. Impressive. He is insensitive to cyclists, however. Right to the heart, that one.

Anyhow, it was a successful day of networking. I have a host of story ideas worth following up and some insight into the story of Nottingham. And all it cost me was my pen.

10.20 DRINK MILK LOVE LIFE

It is World Osteoporosis Day.

Hug a cow. Drink its milk. Love life without a fractured hip.

It has been two years since I learned my bone density is greater than 2.5 standard deviations below the average for a woman my age. Two point seven standard deviations, last time I checked.

I recoiled - a spineless ball of fear. How long before I would shrink? At merely 5'3" I could still use a couple inches in the upward direction.

The fear of stigma was worse. Could I tell anybody without being pegged a skinny-legged, perfection-seeking, obsessive compulsive distance runner. I always ate my dinner. And by dinner I don't mean a saltine cracker and an apple wedge.

I was healthy. Sound in body, healthy in mind, until that day. And after that day, it wasn't my spine that crumbled - but my self-assurance. Despite any reluctance to accept population-based statistics as a sound diagnoses, my confidence was rapidly taking a turn. In a fleeting moment, I ceased to percieve myself as strong. In an effect, it was not a disordered lifestyle that affected my bone matrix, but the matrix that disordered my lifestyle.

Over the next two years, I was plagued not by the silent disease, but by a loud and menacing voice in my mind, convincing me that I was sick.

Mayoclinic doesnt list hypochondria as a side effect of osteoporosis.

10.19 MEN ARE FROM MARS

Here I sat, at the head of table among an executive of aspiring male newspaper journalists. Another Friday night at the pub. How we got onto the subject of pipes and cigars, I do not know, but I think it all started with the Scot. Or should I say Scotch.

Recalling my inaugural (and only) swig of a scotch-moistened cigar, I described in detail the decadent experience to the dumb-founded men at my table.

"Women shouldn't smoke cigars," they argued.
"You ladies want it all, the cigars and the civalry. The jobs and the kids."

"And I love the smell of an old man's tobacco pipe," I add.

The lot of them cringe, their stubbled chins folding into their Adam's Apples in utter disgust.

I don't take these sorts of conversations to heart. I am no feminist - apart from those moments spent jamming to Tori Amos - but I do appreciate the door being held open, the tab being picked up, and the the freedom of suffrage all at once. What can I say, it's a woman's world. And after centuries of oppression, the men owe it to us. Egad.

I'm about to make an argument for this.

But Dave claims to be a gentleman, mentions Germaine Greer, and I soften.

God damn those hormones.

10.18 IKEA

After weeks of drooling over the catalogue, Maddy and I finally ventured along an epic journey to Ikea. The showroom, in Giltbrook, required a 15 min walk to the bus stop, followed by a 30 minute wait for the northbound Rainbow 1. Buses in England are colour coded, yes.

Then, after a relatively brief, but brisk (re walking speed) beeline across the vast lot, half emptied now, we found ourselves before the Ikea floorplan map.

Girls don’t rely on maps, but on landmark objects. We wove our way through bathrooms and bedrooms, stalling briefly to admire and contest the best kitchen colours, before heading straight for the warehouse. All this without getting lost in the cupboards and cabinets. Who needs a map? Really.

So far so efficient. We crossed off our shopping lists - mine toting a single item, book ends, didn’t take long to accomplish. And then we hit the houseplants. This is where we passed our curfew, fixing plant in pot, swapping fern for flower. After – well we lost track of time – so after however long it was, I left with three pots but only two plants: a traditional tall dark and leafy chrysalidocarpus and the quirky and kinky juncus spiralis. As you see, Maddy landed an elegant orchid. The third plant pot, of window sill girth, has yet to house some greens. I figure it’s a good excuse to go to Notts’ Victoria Market for some more perusing.

Plants in hands, we departed once again for the bus stop. The Rainbow 1, now departing less frequently along the late-night runs, kept us waiting for over half an hour. It ran late. Shivering, we watched as the clock struck 5- then 10- past the minute the bus was supposed to arrive. And I knew the Brits to be reverently punctual.

The trek from the bus stop home felt like forever. Still, bookends and planters in hand, we made it. But barely. Exhausted, I breathed a sigh of life giving CO2 onto my frigid plants, as I set them in place in my bedroom. An epic journey, well worth it.

10.17 CANDLE WAX

This is Sean's ongoing project. Its a matter of sprucing up his room and adding colour to his already colourful cabinetry. Candles aglow, a mosaik of colourful swirls is slowly being formed by the merging of melting wax.

I don't suppose he's a pyro. Maybe just a little bored - he has to keep an eye on it for safety.

(yes, the smoke detector works)

It's an interesting project though. These art students never fail to impress. Walking by his room you think there is a seance, or otherwise that its a spa, suggested by the fruity scent of strawberries and vanilla.

Smells a lot better than the bamboo pot purri I stashed by my heating duct.

His birthday is coming up. I don't suppose we'll need a cake - we'll gather around his cabinet and watch him make a wish.

10.16 BEE LIVING

BeeLiving, our landlord agency hosted dinner and drinks at a local pub. Idan, an Israeli-born Brit runs the show. It was good to finally meet the guy after months of correspondence by telephone and email. He is a bright businessman, a lawyer and is currently at work on a Children's Book.

I wonder how he has time to fix the plumbing, let alone chill with his tenants for a pint...

10.15 THE OTHER WAL-MART

This is ASDA, Britain's sister store to Wal-Mart. It should be the Mother Ship. It is a much better shopping experience to its North American version.

This could be because the majority of its floor is stocked with grocery rather than distasteful clothing and everyday housewares. And anybody who knows me knows I love to cruise the aisles, grocery list in hand.

I spend a lot of time here. Far too much. I made a resolution to visit only twice each week, buying only boxed and packaged goods. I pick up produce from the city market when I am able, although the competition at ASDA is fair with plenty of local produce and organic Lincolnshire dairy.

The place stocks just about everything I need. Although I once spent what seemed an eternity in search of a spatula only to learn they don't sell this crucial kitchen utensil. I wrote them a letter to which they kindly replied that they will consider this item in future stock.

I bet WAL-MART sells spatulas.

10.14 GUINEA PIG

I am selling myself to science. Alright, so its not such an epic research study. But I am donating my time and my appetite to a research study that is examining the effects of a common sugar substitute on subsequent appetite. I'm doing it for interests sake and I'm doing it for some easy cash.

I made my way to the Queens Medical Centre which houses the University of Nottingham's Medical School. Here, I was weighed in at 8 stones and marked at 60 cm short. After completing a series of questionnaires including one on mood, which I have never used in my own research, but tried not to read too far into, I was sent home with a food and activity diary. Fun!

I will spend the upcoming two weekdays along with one weekend day recording my every gastronomical and physical move. In a few weeks I drink and eat on the lab's tab. The menu is bland: rice crispies and milk, artifically sweetened chocolate milkshake, and a buffet of pasta with tomato sauce and cheese. I will eat and I will drink. I will send staged electrical shocks to any passers by. I will disclose my profound emotions, expose my psyche...right, like I said, its not such an epic study...but I'm still technically a guinea pig.

All in the name of health science.

10.13 DION'S DISORDER

Better late than never. We thought Dion would never arrive, but he made it. After a summer spent in Georgia and an extended layover in Wales before heading to Notts, he seems primed and ready to get working.

Except for one problem. He has yet to unpack.

Baggage and boxes have exploded across his room, leaving a carpet of cardboard debris in their trail. A fortress of CDs protect Dion from future attacks by the post office delivery man.

Where to begin. He is one of those folk who just can't work in a state of disorganization, and yet there seems to remain some order to his disorder. He steps carefully, over a stack of Art Books, his hand disappearing into a file of mounted work. He finds what he is looking for as though the pile in his room follows a Dion-Dewy-Decimal System.

It is a photo of a girl, taken in Wales. Her costume is in the style of Mary Poppins, frilled umbrella and all and she is seated on the trunk of an elephant tree. The photo was printed in black and white but dyed with tea bags, an expression that screams of British fashion to me.

I am impressed by his work and curiosly I seem to suddenly thirst for a cup of tea. I leave Dion alone with his mess and head to the kettle for a cup of Earl Gray.

10.12 THE WORM THAT TURNED

The Worm that Turned is a fabulous gardening shop that I've found in the city. The name caught my attention, as worms themselves tend to. I have been told that I have something like a "Worm-Dar" that causes me to detect the vermin with an eagle eye.

I say "causes" (instead of "enables") because I would rather not detect the creepy earth crawlers. There is no real advantage to this keen super-sense. It typically brings on an embarrassing bout of hyperanxiety, followed by a surge of hypertension, and then a period of hyperventilation. Before its all over I am usually overcome by a hyperkinetic dance of frantic jumping as I try to shake off the imagined worms that are wriggling up my limbs.

In any event, I braved the shop, pleased to find that they didn't actually carry and worms in stock. Nor did they have any worm paraphernalia, in the likes of plastic lawn ornaments or plush toys, worm figurines or any other oddity that might scare the living daylights outta me if I stumbled upon it.

I'm glad I stumbled upon this shop. They did carry a few interesting pieces including an artsy wrought iron trellis which I intend to buy myself for my birthday. There were also a few books on gardening. I suggested Amy Stewart's book, The Earth Moved: On the Remarkable Achievements of the Earth Worm to the store manager. A few copies would sell out quick at a place like this. Almost as quick as the flick of an earthworm as it shoots back into the soil on a warm rainy night.

No body believes me, but with my naked eyes I've seen them move at hyperspeed.

10.11 HOT WHEELS

I set out for a marathon walk today, resolved that I would not return by foot. My pockets, emptied of any loose change meant that hailing a taxi or hopping on a city bus were not options. I definitely can’t balance a skateboard and would be gambling my front teeth on inline skates in a hilly town like Notts. Since blueprints for a pair of carbon fibre stilts are still in the works, my only resort is to depart from land, and the last time I could fly was in a dream I had after watching Peter Pan on VHS. I’m a little rusty.

This leaves me with only one reasonable alternative.
On this epic journey, my purpose was to pedal home.

There is no inanimate being that I miss more since my arrival in the UK than my bike.
Made inanimate only by my absence, I am certain my Cannondale – my baby – with the affectionate squeak of its hub and telling wounds from various clumsy tippings (which scar its olive skin), misses me too.

But alas, I must move on. By the end of the day I will have married my calves to a different suitor.

With a stretch of the legs and that ritual sprinter-slap of the slow-twitch sinews, I was off.
Determined, I took a beeline route to the opposite end of the city, headed west-bound toward the town of Beeston. Along the way, I stopped at Aladdin Bikes, a small shop on Ilkeston Road, where I found two mechanics, hard at work, with overalls suggesting they most definitely had the Midas Touch, only theirs would leave a fingerprint stain of grease.

I got the up and down from one of the workers who pointed out my long femurs then suggested a men’s hybrid. They always notice the femurs. I’m sure they notice the orang-utan arms too, but don’t bother to mention their primitive length. They had nothing else to offer a girl my shape and size.

Eventually they pointed me in the direction of a few other shops and I continued along a few miles, through Radford, down Derby (pronounced DArby…how annoying), into Lenton, stopping only to test ride this and that, here and there. Nothing turned my crank.

Tiring and quickly losing momentum, I began to wonder whether embarking on this epic bike hunt without a camel back and a pack of Sharkies was a good idea in the first place.

It was at this very moment of doubt that found myself on Lace Road in an area south west of the city called Dunkirk. Lace Road…this rings a bell. A buddy at uni had mentioned that the owner of a post office here sells second hand bikes out of his shop.

I made my way to the post office where I set my longing eyes on a 1995 Trek 370. Royal Blue. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the handle bars, both sealed with the vintage Sakae Cutom kiss. Shimano RSX shifters, predecessor to the system on my beloved Cannondale warmed my heart to the stranger bike. So, I took it for a spin - and was sold. Well almost. I managed to barter the price down to 80 quid from a hundred. Then it was surely a deal.

Indeed, it was a steal, as I found out a little later in the day. My feet off the ground, I turned toward the city centre concluding my epic journey. Along the way, I stopped at Aladdin’s once again to pick up a bike lock and get their appraisal of my new ride.

Jaws dropped. The Midas men confessed that I landed a gem. In its day, the blue beauty was Trek’s top racing bike. Like boys tend to do, they started tinkering with their newest toy. Free tune up, I figured. The gears were shifting smooth, the frame was still in tact, the wheels were in line, and with a top up of air in the tires they waved me off from the front step of their shop.

I think they were near ready to pay me for letting them adore my bike for a while.
I promised to return for a mid-season tune up.

I admit, I do miss my Cannondale, clipless pedals and all. The shoe straps on my new ride are almost harder to get in and out. But I have yet to tip over, and despite the swift unbuckling of my shoe from the pedal strap, I am nevertheless feeling very attached to my Trek.

10.10 BLACKWOOD

David is from Scotland. He is irreverent in his humor, rotates a wardrobe of t-shirts each depicting a poignant statement, and likes to look intimidating before the camera. But he's really just a softy.

David and I share financial woes, shorthand woes, and an appreciation for Quebecois Poutine.

His girlfriend, from Montreal, introduced him to the decadent potato and cheese curd combo.

This afternoon, during an extended break from reading our law texts, David introduced me to a few Scottish delicacies, including chippy sauce - a 50/50 combination of the traditional HP sauce and vinegar. Haggis...clapshot...black buns. The menu doesn't really make me want to hop on the next train for a gastronomic rendezvous in Edinburgh.

But I'm sure I'll make it there sooner or later. I'll let you know what I think.

10.09 REMEMBERING

After a light rainfall, the pattern of colourful leaves on the ground reminds me of the Canadian War Memorial in Green Park, London.

http://www.artandarchitecture.org.uk/images/conway/bfb145a7.html

The leaves aren't maple so this must be a stretch of my imagination and of my memory. But I did spend a lot of time exploring the piece by Pierre Granche's art, which lays low but stands out among other sculptures in the city. Modest in stature, the sculpture effectively reflects our temperate culture.

Conrad Black, the original benefactor of this project, is no longer able to fund the sculpture's mantenance. Since his kerfuffle in the courts earlier this year the monument has been left untended, its water pumps malfunctioning, visitors mindlessly scaling its concrete mass mass, unleished dogs adulterating the beautiful fountain with their tongues lapping.

Today, I am not sure which government is overseeing the monument. It is a disgrace; an insult on behalf of both the British and Canadian governments which have been tossing their responsibility back and forth like a hot potato.

But at least it still stands. Solid, intriguing, peaceful despite its neglect.

10.08 DORA

Shorthand day one.

Dora, our instructor, is a Teeline wizardress. Last term her students scored the highest marks across the country, mastering this cryptic confusion of the english language. And don't you forget it.

She's feisty and feverish with an enthusiasm for teaching which is unmatched at this level (or at this early time of day), but which is unmistakably characteristic among grade three spelling teachers.

Our homework is marked in green pen.

"I use strictly green." She proclaims, her face turning to grimace as she recalls horrific red circles and disasterous x's on her own shorthand homework, many years ago. Checkmarks and positive remarks like, "Good Job," "Well Done," and, "Excellent!!" are sure to be plentiful.

Letter by letter, one word at a time, Dora will lead us up the treacherous climb of the "shorthand mountain" until we reach the NCTJ standard 60 wpm summit.

It is difficult to take her seriously, a streak of blue marker smudged across her powdered face. But it is a grave mistake to deny her advice. Shorthand may very well be the steepist challenge any journalist in training will face.

Imaging writing backward with your non dominant hand in hyroglyphics.

Imagine climbing a mountain fully geared, but your trusted tools fall off your belt, rendered useless. And you've only just begun.

10.07 THANKSGIVING

I am thankful. My housemates, sympathetic toward my homesickend pangs of hunger for turkey and stuffing pitched in to prepare a thanksgiving dinner.

The modest-sized bird was accompanied by an elaborate menu of roast swede and onions, sweet potato mash, sauteed mushrooms in garlic butter, sage and sausage stuffing and homemade pie of apples from our garden.

With impressive diligence Jake, Maddy, and Sean coordinated the meal along with my help. While it was a cooperative effort, I bow my head and take blame for the undercooked dessert. A puddle of apple pie. One of these days ill nail it. Be patient.

But be thankful.

It was edible at least.

No one was left hungry and my homesickness passed.

10.06 NEIGHBOURS

Chris is from Peterborough. Not the smalltown in Cambridgeshire, famed restingplace of Henry VII's first woman, Kat of Aragon.
Its the other Peterborough I'm talking about: the gateway to the cottage country on Ontario's Otonabee River, home of the Peterborough Petes and Trent University.

Chris is my next door neighbour and, coincidentally, is Canadian born. He has lived in England for nearly 40 years, retiring a few years back from Notts Trent Uni where he taught fine arts.

I maxed my vertical the other day, jumping when he startled me out of my mid morning daze as I made my way out the door for school. Maybe it was the Canadian accent that threw me off my course. Perhaps it was his kindness.

I didn't expect such welcoming neighbours in Forest Fields.

This morning he buzzed again, hoping we wouldn't mind if he picked off our apple trees.
"It's thanksgiving weekend," I said. "Help yourself but save some for my apple pie."

I hoped to share a slice with him but the pie was a bit of a flop.
At home, Loretta usually doesn't mind samples of my culinary experiments.
But then I don't want to drive this guy back to Peterborough.

10.05 THE GOOSE FAIR

For the next four days, an undulating melody of adrenaline charged screaming will render a disturbing background music in my head. The accompanying rhythm of synthesized carnival music penetrating the single pain window in my bedroom will be equally impossible to ignore. The Goose Fair has arrived in Nottingham. It is an exorbitant event, over 700 years old in tradition, that inhabits the open field park just down the street from my house.

With the curtains closed flashing carnival lights still manage to catch the corner of my eye. In a way, it is mesmerizing. Overstimulating. Too much coffee too late. The colourful carpets and cling clang of casino coins. Money Pit.

Departing from my exhausted senses, I meander into the chaos of lights and sounds and 'chavs,' if you will, within the safety net of my three housemates. A childish excitement overwhelms me as we reach the depths of carny land. I'm waiting for this all to disappear so that I can find the deserted ticket booth and make a wish that I could be Big.

But for the moment I am happy to revert to being small. Or acting a few years younger anyhow. We settled on tickets for an aggressively torqued, topsy turvy, hold-on-to-that-sausage-you-just-downed sorta ride: The Space Roller.Fortunately I am harbouring an empty stomach. Mouth wide open, I let out nothing more than a guttural scream, joining the polluting choir of noisemakers, only I've reached a heightened pitch, like the glass-shattering mermaid.After a long wait for my appetite to return, I succumb to the enduring craving for something vile and greasy. Overcooked sausage on a bun, extra onions.

Back in my bedroom I may as well be Sleepless in Seattle. Or Nottingham. Geography doesn't matter anymore. I'm still lost, senseless but for the muted sound of carny music and colourful lights. The whirlwind of Goose Fair Land.

10.04 MY FELLOW COUNTRYMAN

Chris is from Toronto. At the ripened age of twenty nine, he is leaving the successful family construction business he managed in search of a fulfilling career in newspaper reporting.

He is older than me. This is consoling. Add to this the fact he is Canadian, and he becomes the perfect partner to wash down mad cravings for for Turkey and Stuffing while lamenting the future. We did this over a mid-afternoon beer; a Guinness and a Stella, hold the Moosehead.

10.03 HANDY MEN

A second housemate, Sean, arrived just the other day.

He and Jake are two peas in a pod, if you will, reminding me of the comical duo of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.

They are always up to something. I found them haphazardly piecing together a wine rack this afternoon. Other times they've been caught in the act of vacuuming the house, sewing costumes, or potting plants...undoubtedly red handed, if a cup of tea proves guilty of resembling a couple of old maids.

But don't you tell them I said so.

10.02 ON ASSIGNMENT

Induction week and already we have two group assignments and nine to five days at the Centre for Broadcast and Journalism at NTU.

Kieran, Becky, Karl, Chris and I set out to Lenton and Sneinton, two neighbourhoods in Notts to break exclusive stories before Friday. We are off to a good start in Sneinton.

In 100 words this is what we got:

Greenwood Junior School could lose half its student population under a
government shake-up designed to streamline primary education.

The latest phase of the Building Schools for the Future program could see the capacity of three Sneinton schools cut, in an effort to phase out mixed age-group classes and reduce surplus places in the area. Greenwood Junior faces losing 55% of its students.

The proposal is under public consultation until 5 October. Nottingham City Council has refused to comment. However, Greenwood Junior is asking parents and community members to contact the LEA and back the school’s campaign to retain 315 places.

10.01 BACK TO SCHOOL

Here we are. The Notts Trent Centre for Broadcast and Journalism Class of 2008. Hopefuls, I should add. Whether I make it through to graduation day will depend on whether we start and end every day of school like we did today - at a pub.

Wine flowed freely with lunch at The Orange Tree this afternoon, where we spent two hours numbing our minds despite engaging and excited conversation before heading back to campus for a introduction to the course along with an itinerary for the week...and the next twelve months.

This was abruptly sobering.

But the effect lasted only until we were dismissed. I reason that the only possible way to digest the pending workload was to collectively toast to it, then drink it down.

I gather much of what I learn this year - about writing, about the press, and about myself - will take place over a lager.