12.31 A NEW YEAR

Holidays are meant to be spent with friends and families. They're said to be amongst the most memorable occasions.

When you're travelling solo, the random people you meet replace those people who are closest to you. In a peculiar way you bond, relinquishing prejudgements and any inhibitions that would otherwise make you reluctant to grow friends.

It's an accelerated, ephemeral development of relationships.

Put yourself in the situation where you're travelling solo AND you are spending holidays together, and it strengthens that strange bond. Even if you don't really like the people, you are sharing something special and acquiesce as you would your least favourite cousin. You're stuck with them.

This evening I was lucky enough to get stuck with a band of like-minded travellers set on having a remarkable new years. (Among them, Joe and Louise, a couple from Melbourne who I've spent most of my time here with). After dinner and a bottle or two of wine, we battled the crowds in the city centre to make our way to the riverside where the fireworks show was best viewed.

The mutual urge to veer off the beaten track carried us over a bridge and onto a small island in the middle of Prague's Vltava River where we joined a few dozen others - mostly locals - firing sparklers and crackers and toasting left, right, and centre.

A glass of rum and hot chocolate in hand I did a slow but still dizzying 360 to enjoy the panorama of fire in the sky.

It was amazing.

We were all pretty mesmerized and infatuated with the realization that we had landed the best seat in the Praguish house.

Midnight had come and gone. Without traditions to uphold, without the familiar countdown - Dick Clark muttering something on TV amidst a crowd of fanatical New Yorkers - there was little longing.

In the absence of any familiarity, amidst the void of any tradition, and without the company of old friends or close family it was truly novel. A proper New Year.

12.30 BANDITOS

...Or so I thought.

I find myself even farther removed from Prague among a crowd of Canadian hockey fan(atic)s drinking beer in a mexican restaurant.

They happen to be staying at the same place I am and have put a dent in the chair seats across the street at Banditos.

I find myself spending more and more time here as the week carries on. I am a tourist by day but find comfort in Canadian company by night.

No place like home...or the closest thing to it. Click those ruby heels.

12.29 NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE

Not in Prague that is.

After an extraordinariliy touristy day touring the Prague Castle, snacking on pickled cheese and rye and attending a live Marionnette theatre production of Don Giovanni (the Opera Mozart created in Prague for Prague), I found myself here.

I am in an Italian-style cafe enjoying stone-oven pizza and merlot with a bunch of Aussies. It is a welcomed break from Pilsner, pork stew and variations of potato dumplings.

Kate and Natasha, both from Sydney, are registered medical technicians working in London and bring me back to my days at the Vascular Lab. It was a year ago that I resumed my staff position there for the purpose of funding this very holiday. My mind wanders to pulsing waveforms and the gangrenous toes.

The reverie is nice, nonetheless and after more than two weeks of touring and travel I need to take a moment away from Eastern Europe. I can't imagine feeling any farther away than this...

12.28 PETRIN TOWER

When Gustave Eiffel made his mark on paris it was innovation and engineering he had in mind moreso than aesthetics.

Despite controversial receipt by the general public, it was accepted as a remarkable structure in design and complexity, yet it was (and still is)undeniably an eyesore.

Two years later, in 1891, the Czechosolvakian Republic constructed a miniature replica of the Parisian peak. It towers the city in plain view from any angle, marring the landscape of one of Europe's most beautiful cities.

The Petrin Tower is due some recognition, however, for its historical role in Czech(-osolvakian)telecommunications. (A journalism student myself, I have come to appreciate these sorts of feats although I cease to understand communications technology beyond the age of the printing press...). The steel structure was originally used as an observations and transmissions tower. I'm not sure what they were observing then, but it now offers a 360 view of the city scape. Lovely.

In the 1950s it was used for regular television broadcasting through a system of antennas mounted on the tower top. For 40 years it distributed all sorts of Czech programming including who-knows-what sort of Stalinist propaganda and neo-Stalinist numbo-jumbo in its earlier years. That tidbit wasn't included in the brief 'Tower History' flyer I was handed before my ascent.

That brings me to the climb.

In 1998 the Spojprojekt Praha Company embarked on a renovation and restoration of the Petrin Tower making it accessible to the public and most notably an unmistakable tourist trap - er, attraction.

I'm not a sucker for these sorts of things, but once you've strapped your quads and strained your calves scaling the Petrin Hill to find yourself at the tower's base, you may as well gird your loins and go for it.

Besides, It's only 60kc which is peanuts of the quality you might feed to a Bohemian circus elephant.

I embarked on the first of 299 steps, not without first asking the lady at the ticketbooth why they didn't just engineer one last step into the design. She replied with a confused and still contemplative shrug of the shoulders.

I tried counting just to make sure it wasn't actually 300 but lost it at around 42 steps, the increasing rhythm of each breath confusing the count of my steps, not to mention I was chewing a piece of gum. Far too much going on at once.

I was indeed distracted by my breathlessness, a consequence of my lack of general fitness coupled with the breath-taking views at each plateau. I paused at one of these for a rest and to have my photo taken by a good-looking Spaniard before continuing to the top of the tower.

The view wasn't spectacular as such, but aided my orientation of the city and the winding path of the Vltava River which cuts through its centre. I noticed small structures amidst remarkable monuments and a river of people - tourists - running through them.

My attention was struck and stuck, however, on a single clothesline spanning the sunlit breadth of a tall residential building. Panties and pairs of socks were neatly pegged between a few t-shirts along its length. I recalled the upheaval in Aurora last summer where it was made illegal to hang clothes to dry - a breach of property regulations. Residents faced prosecution and were left to resort to the unenvironmental and uneconomical method of their Maytag. As recently as November municipalities the Ontario town was calling on provincial government to initiate legislation overriding subdivision property agreements and making the 'humble' clothesline a regular siting once again.

It is a passionate cause. There is even a "Right to Dry" movement.

The argument, at its core, is one of aesthetics. The property owners believe a string-line of socks and underwear is an eyesore. Residents argue there is some intrinsic beauty here, nostalgic in a sense, not to mention hanging clothes to dry is less costly and more environmentally sound.

I stood atop the Petrin Tower - this eyesore that offers such eye-pleasing views.
I thought about the Eiffel Tower, equally reviled for its cold appearance.
Yet both are beautiful in their symbolism and remarkable in their historical relevance.
Both are necessary as the clothesline.

Behold. Breathe. Breath deeply.
And descend.

12.27 PRAGUE

A train carried me and my overloaded luggage from Bavaria to Bohemia.

Crossing the border by night I noticed little in the change of landscape. But when I finally arrived in Prague I knew this wasn't Deutschland anymore.


The station was bustling - bumping in the late evening hours. A stark contrast to the ghost town I had departed 6 hours earlier. Notices in Czech were indecipherable, bearing no resemblance to my native English tongue or my more recently acquired German lingo. The currency - 1000 Koruny to 30 British Pounds to roughly 60 Canadian dollars - is only mildly confusing. Still, forking out 300Kc for a coffee makes me feel like a high roller.


I walked circles for a bit before I orienteered my way into the city, my trusty map in hand. Lost, but not abandoned to my own navigational devices (i.e., lick my finger and follow the wind, which is reliably westerly where I come from...).


I love this sort of travel - taking on a big city, getting lost in winding streets. Bookstores, cafes, galleries, and markets. Certainly enough to keep me occupied for a week.

Indeed, you will see that I end up staying local the entire week.

12.26 GHOST TOWN

This is not the Boxing Day that I'm used to.

By the afternoon of Chistmas Eve the bustling market stalls throughout Germany start closing shop. Shoppers evacuate the city centre and head home only to surface breifly from their abodes to attend church service.

I went to a Lutheran service at St. Lawrence's, a Gothic church. The stone-cold stone I stood on left my feet frozen. I never did warm up despite the cozy crowd I nestled myself in between to listen to the organ music. Standing room only that night.

The crowds quickly dissipate after mass. I headed back to the hostel for a quiet night, followed by an equally quiet Christmas (on which I ate 5 - yes 5! - leibkuchen), followed by an equally quiet "boxing day."

On this day (a monumental day for gross sales where I come from) I took a walk through town and was astounded by the echo of my footsteps on the cobblestone. Like a bat, I could have closed my eyes and relied on echolocation to navigate the winding streets. But then I trip on the cobblestone with my eyes open...

(If I were a bat on Boxing Day in Canada I would hide from daylight and creep reluctantly into the shadows only when the deluge of shoppers have retreated to their dinner tables for leftover turkey.)

It was nice to go for a peaceful stroll. I was prompted by slight boredom and an equal curiosity about who/what might also brave the awkward silence of the city street. I crossed paths with a handful of presumably like minded tourists and a few German families marking the moment with photos in front of fountains and church steps.

I walked briskly to stay warm, but slowly enough to browse the shop windows as I passed. It was a subtle urge to fulfill the 'boxing day' tradition that means consuming: consuming reduced items amidst crowds of shoppers along with mountains of mashed potatoes and re-heated stuffing. It took little to satisfy this urge. I would rather deny it.

I hate to shop.
Right now I feel very far from home, but very far from homesick.

12.25 FROHE WEIHNACHTEN!

FROHE WEIHNACHTEN!

(night watchmen?....)

12.24 A CHRISTMAS MESSAGE

This man stood, quietly, amidst the hustle and bustle of shoppers and tourists making their last rounds of the Christmas markets.

His good news, scribbled sideways, in largish text on a whiteboard: "Jesus Christus ist fur dich geboren."

He stood in front of St. Lawrence's Lutheran Church, and with the steadiness of a a palace guard, didn't flinch while I stole his photo.

12.23 KIRSCHMANNLE

Flying solo again.
At the first sign of distress, I lean to my trusty novel and find a sweet cafe where I can relax with a forkful in my mouth and my nose in a book.

I happened to land a forkful of Kirschmannle.

It is a cherry-chocolate-almond pastry that is deemed a specialty of Nurenburg. Hit the spot. Sitting at a long-time family owned place called Cafe Beer, I delved into my book, my attention interrupted only at chapter ends when I breaked to bite into dessert.

The book was engaging enough to keep me distracted from the couples, the families, the groups of friends coming and going from the cafe. But the slice of pastry was fit for two and I would have like to have someone, anyone...Casey...to share with.

12.22 CHESS ANYONE?

Casey will be leaving for Munich tonight, then departing to Canada tommorow. We had a relaxing day, just enjoying the city scene, staying warm, and eating good food.

We found a quaint cafe alongside the city castle where we ate pretzels and tea and challenged ourselves to a game of checkers. We couldn't sort out the rules of the game, figuring we'd be better off playing chess if we had the set.

Its a good thing we're pretty.
Cause we're apparantly too smart for this game.

I think Casey smoked me in the end though I'm not sure. We were both pretty confused by the end of it and made up rules along the way. I was distracted anyhow by the fact that she was taking off soon and I'd be playing solitaire for the next little while.

It has been amazing travelling with Casey, sharing the bitter burn of frostbite, sampling together the bittersweet bite of gluewein, and sharing woes and worries about school over a soothing plate of knoodle and goulash. All the while, it has been loads of fun.

12.21 TOURING A LOCAL

Casey's friend Stephen joined us from Erfurt for his first visit to the town of Nuremberg. This well travelled bloke had never been to this historic city, despite living only a few hours away by train.

It speaks to the notion that we percieve what is farther away or outside our nation's bounds as being more exotic and therefore having more appeal.

So how do you show a German around an old German town? Both Casey and I were stumped and so meandered the streets alongside Stephan exchanging information about our hometowns instead. I learned a lot about Erfurt, while Stephan got plenty of detail about my life in the UK.

Casey provided a more suitable tourguide, showing him to the gourmet Lebkuchen stalls and insisting he turn the legendary Nurenburg Ring, an ironwork of intricate piercing inserted withing latticed grills by the renaissance locksmith Andreus Kuhn. It is said that turning the ring once will bring good fortune and make your wish come true.

We toured the Nuremberg tower with Stephan and tried to explore some of the history, but realized we knew very little about the town, its history, or its art. At the end of the day, he said we had seen what Nurermberg wants us to see. I was disappointed that we had only skimmed the surface but then wondered if I really want to see what Nuremberg doesn't want me to.

We ended the day at a local brewery where we dined on traditional food local to this town and bid Stephan adeiu as he hopped on his return to Erfurt.

12.20 SANTA SPOTTING

Casey and I travelled from Munchen to Nurnburg today. This city boasts a reputation for being the Number 1 Christmas Town. It certainly hosts plenty of markets to make its name and is home to the best ever Lebkuchen, or traditional ginger bread cookies.

And there certainly is no shortage of Santa Claus posers.
I spotted him here today with his pup.

Later in the day I found he was also musically inclide, with accordian in hand and puppy in tow. I'm not sure if it was Santa's merry making or the adorable sidekick that had me, along with most passersby, throwing our money at the man.

Anyhow we made our way through this beautiful town, on either side of its Pegnitz river, through several of its ornate gothic churches, and up and down the christmas market stalls for treats and souvenirs. I browsed a couple of bookshops as well and landed an golden find: A copy of "Rotkappchen" by the Bruder Grimm. It is the original german text of the story of Red Riding Hood, only the illustrations have been done by a contemporary artist in a wild and abstract juxtaposition to the text.

Merry Christmas to me.

12.19 DACHAU

A trip to Dachau made for an interesting history lesson today.

Instead of touring the place on audio or just reading the posts on monuments and sites, Casey and I booked a tour with an independent guide working for the concentration camp. His name is Gordon.

Gordon is a fine artist and provides tours of Dachau on the side. He does it because he is passionate about the history of Bavaria during WWII. Born in Ireland, Gordon has lived in Germany for 8 years, has learned the language, and had some fascinating insights into the culture and its history to share.

The tour was certainly flavoured by Gordon's opinion on the implications of what happened here during the war, what it meant then and how it remains significant in our world today. It was an enlightening experience as I knew little about the development and running of a concentration camp.

Dachau was the central camp, where high profile prisoners were originally held. It eventually became a training ground for S.A. members and a starting point where all prisoners were filtered through.

Gordon is pleased that the camp has become somewhat of a cemetery and a place where families of those who died here are able to visit and mourn. At the same time, the grounds have been imposed on by several religious memorials, each bestowed upon the camp as a reconciliatory gift by different religious denominations.

Here I have captured the peak of the Russian Orthodox monument. This church decided against erecting its memorial on the site of the camp in a motion to keep the location neutral of religious or cultural divisions. I am looking at the monument from across the ditch and beyond the electric barbed wire fence where prisoners were once tempted to cross the line and commit to their execution.

The camp was cold and eerie but not in a way that is spooked. Instead I felt empty here and at the same time fascinated by some of the stories Gordon told. I was less moved by facts and figures than I was by circumstances and opportunities which made the atrocities of WWII possible. The role of the Dachau concentration camp is a piece of this monstrous and materminded puzzle which.

12.18 SALZBURG

On a bit of a whim, Casey and I hopped on a train from Munich to Salzburg today. We expected to be amongst a bunch of other like-minded tourists, heading out for a day trip to see some sights. In fact, the train was loaded with local Germans, mostly pensioners, who set out annually to visit the market stalls in this neighbouring Austrian city and get some good deals on Leivchuken and crafts.

We diverted from the typical tourist paths which follow the monumental spots where the "Sound of Music" was filmed, despite desperately wanting to know where we could find a relic of one of our favorite old films. We found a cow, a tacky green colour, painted with scenes depicting Julie Andrews and the rest of the von Trapps twirling in the Alps.

Speaking of Alps, I got my first glimpse of those great peaks today. It was at the top of the (exhausting) climb up to Salzburg's tower where we got a gorgeous view of the city and landscape. You can barely see Casey in this pic - she is tiny compared to the gigantic tower entrance.

After the trek we made our way to a cafe to enjoy a piece of Sukretorte - a traditional chocolate pie. Absolutely scrumptious.

12.17 GLUHWEIN

We spent the day roaming the city and the market stalls then headed to the Tollwood Christmas Marketplace where we met Bowerman for some traditional gluvein.

The Tollwood markets are an ecclectic arrangement of artisan work and food. Its has a Bohemian flare to it and is held in a wide open space just outside the city centre.

The gluhwein is a mulled red wine spiced and spiked with whiskey or rum. This one was fired up with a flaming piece of sugar on the lip of the mug, it simultaneously warms and sweetens the drink.

Bottoms up...once it cools off the gluvein loses is sweet flavour and the sharp alcoholic taste becomes almost unbearable.

12.16 BRATWURST

Finally, Casey and I got our mitted hands on some german sausage. A bratwurst bun was on the to-do list for the day and it was worth scouring the Christmas markets for the best looking bite.

Typically, I only do street meet at 3 in the morning on a hangover. But the cold air forces the senses to yield to the smoking smell coming from market stalls and the steamy spiced sausage on a bun.

12.15 HOFBRAUHAUS

I am in the historic Hofbrauhaus in Munich with Bowerman and Casey. On the upper level of this old beer hall, Hitler held meetings with his political supporters, establishing the Nazi party and SA troops.

The place has a dark past, but the night was merry. Today it remains a popular place for gathering with friends, for pork and beef and wheat beer to wash it all down.

And I am in the good company of friends indeed. Bowerman has offered Casey and I a place at his apartment for the next few nights. He has been living in Germany for a few years now, teaching and loving life with knoodle and bratwurst. Who could complain, really?

12.14 LADIES NIGHT

We are the women who have infiltrated the man's world that is journalism at NTU. We only comprise one third of the head count in the program but we are a strong and willing force, collected tonight to celebrate a semester's end.

We started out at a local pub where we met the boys for a few drinks before heading to our dinner reservation, leaving the boys is a disarray. How will they organise themselves without us? Where will they go on one of the busiest nights of the year without reservation?

They followed close and parked it at a pub around the corner from our dinner reservation where they remained until we enjoyed an exclusive dinner which we absolutely did not spend talking about boys.

12.13 FLEECE

School's nearly out and thing's are winding down. Papers are handed in, deadlines are passed and we're all just a bit more cheerful.

Lunch at the fleece found a group of nearly 20 slowly diminish until only four of us (die-hards?) remained. Simon, Paul, Jenny and I had one last well-deserved pint before departing.

With no stories to chase, no reports to write, no library books to check in, what's the hurry?

12.12 MEMSAAB

The lineup: Sean, Maddy, Dion, myself and Jake.

We shared Indian curry before going our own ways for the holidays. Sometimes it's nice to get out of the house.

12.11 CHERRY PICKER

Paul is another spring fever baby. He is turning 25 and has never before tasted a cherry.

At his ripe old age, I figured what better time to break the spell and have him sample a ripe old cherry. They're out of season in most parts of the world, but the market had a crate of imports that I dug into.

We all watched while Paul maneuvered the pitted fruit clumsily as any cherry virgin would. He seemed impartial to the taste and after a few pieces conceded that they were, "alright."

I beg to differ.

12.10 FROST

This is frost. It is quite possibly the closest I'll come to seeing snow in Nottingham and therefore worth documenting.

Actually, the thin layer of opaque ice on the forest ground this morning was beautiful. Knowing it would melt by mid day brought me to a halt on my bike ride to school to capture the icing on the foliage cake.

12.09 BURGER QUEENS

For five long years I fasted from fast food. It started as a short-term resolution to detox over a season of cross country training, in the hopes that a nutritious turn would mean a faster turnover. I was 15.

It turned into a long-term abstinence. It wasn't so much an active effort to avoid fast food. I just stopped craving burgers alltogether.

It took until the end of my teenage years, before I was old enough to sense a nostalgia for fast food. It might have been a fleeting sniff of a whopper, an advertisement for a juicy char grilled burger that triggered the sentiment. Whatever it was, it brought me to my senses enough to realize that it was time to break the spell.

I would ring in my 20th birthday as the Burger Queen.

Since then, a birthday lunch at Burger King has become ritual. Every year I am joined by a different group of friends or family for a hit of greasy burger and fries - and a wash of coke.

It has been eight years running. I haven't missed a beat. Every year it has been a different BK to boot. Once I even celebrated in Kaukura, New Zealand at an obscure BK joint. This year, Maddy and I made our way to Nottingham's city centre for a bite. It was enough that Maddy had never seen the menu at burger king and neither of us really new where to place and pick up the order. But we stood out even more wearing plastic star-shaped shades my sister had sent just for the occassion.

They were a nice disguise in case anybody we knew saw us mawing down Whoppers in the city centre. Not that I have anything to hide - it's a shameless ritual....one that I take pride in for sticking to for so long...

At the end of the ordeal our digestive systems had taken a hit. But my birthday tradition had been satisfied. And the tradition will continue - so save the date for next year.

12.08 BRICKLAYER'S BACK

It was the ultimate birthday splurge. I treated myself to an Indian Head and Neck Massage. I was long due for some therapy as my spine has felt the crunch of hours spent day after day hovering over my computer desk in a demonstration of the most unergonomic spread.

My massage therapist, Emma, took one look at my neck and head, but started with a firm grip at the rolled-in shoulders. She then treaded slowly up my vertebrae with her knuckles, kneading through knots here and there until she hit my traps.

Here she dug. She dug until I had tears in my eyes, was clenching my fists and yelping in excrutiating pain.

"You will thank me for this later."

A line you never want to hear. Ever.

My confidence rested in her strong hold, however. I certainly wasn't going to argue with a woman who's pinky finger could put a dent in my sternum.

Emma had never worked on a back as tight as mine.

She asked if I was a bricklayer by day. There was only a faint hint of sarcasm in her voice.

The emotional and physical pain was excrutiating.

I made a resolution today - an early New Year's vow - to take care of my back come January. I plan to see an osteopath and check in with Emma every 6-8 weeks. I bought a new back pack for cycling into school and plan to start weight training and doing pilates once a week with a friend from uni. In the meantime, I will take careful consideration of the hand-made bricks in and around Nottingham. Wouldn't have wanted to be the one laying those down.

12.07 BIRTHDAY

We are the spring-fever babies. It's Friday night and Clare, Dan and I are celebrating our upcoming birthdays collectively and in advance with a bunch of friends from uni. I have always been accustomed to sharing the spotlight around and on my birthday because there seems to have been a boom of births around the month of December.

At my (young and spritey) age I have no problem drawing attention away - it is becoming a burden to explain my age...to explain how I came to look so young for a 27 year old (and no, I don't feel old at all...). Physically, I am ageing at a slower rate than most but have realized that I am emotionally old enough to appreciate the astonishment when someone learns I am 10 years older than they think.

I still get asked for ID here and there, and always have it on hand. Actually, once this fall I was carded in line at a Wilco's for a purchase of scissors. In the UK you have to be 16 to buy the common kitchen utensil. The woman working cash was stupefied when I kindly told her I was 10 years older than she had assumed. Mouth agape with awe, she asked to see a second piece of picture ID.

Can't wait till I'm forty and I look 29.

12.06 CLIFTON CAMPUS

I took a bus to NTU's Clifton Campus today for 5 hours of intensive training for a new job I am taking on. In the new year I will begin tutoring primary students in literacy and numeracy.

Clifton is about 20 minutes outside the city centre by bus. It is quite a small campus and remote and houses the Department of Education, Sciences, Medicine, and Technology. It is generally the university's science base, whereas the city centre site hosts the arts and humanities.

It made me feel a world away from where I began, academically. With a background in sciences I feel somehow more at home around this centre - although a departure from my norm has served me better. I think the matter that I am focused now on a discipline that requires that I get out into the community, make contacts daily, and engage in my social environment is a needed break from the path toward the sometimes isolated and independent work-style of academic research.

12.05 NIGHT LIGHTS

This is the Old Market Square dressed up for Christmas.

Just in front of the council house the German Markets add to the seasonal effect.

A fountain at the far end of the square reflects the lights on the municipal building.

Seems like only yesterday I was here in the city square, a copy of The Guardian in hand, enjoying the last few days of warm weather and sunshine before the school semester set in and daylight savings stole my nightlife. The night lights help.

12.04 CHRISTMAS BALL

The CBJ hosted its department Christmas party this evening. Organized by undergrads, the shin-dig was more a display of fashion and flare as the HK formals of my undergard years (although it was there that I once wore a home-made dress that barely departed from a poorly wrapped toga except that the material was a pattern of shimmery green.)

Anyhow, the food was scarce but the wine was plenty and my clothes were buttoned and stitched by a proper manufacturer. I was safe to dance the night away.

But the spotlight was already had by Shanks - the international student from India who managed a few hard-core break dance moves which left me on the sidelines having not yet mastered my 'freze.'

Alternatively, there were always folk to hang with at the bar. Here I am with radio students Jenny and Simon, our hair neatly swept to the same size after at least three attempts at a satisfying portrait. I say for only three attempts, we've done pretty good given none of us are TV journalists...

That's besides the point. There is little time to waste taking photos, when there is break dancing to be done. Back to the dance floor.

12.03 A LANGUAGE LESSON

There is a traditional butcher in Mapperley where I frequently pick up random and sometimes exotic cuts of meat. Venison from the Queen's plot in Scotland, ostrich farmed in Lancashire, and Lorne sausage among the varieties I've sampled.

This afternoon, I tried a fagot. It was less a force of appetite than a whim of curiosity that landed one of these traditional English meatballs in my grocery bag.

The first thing that comes to mind upon hearing the term is obviously not a meatball - or bundle of meat - although the etymology of the term does trace back to its 13th century definition of a bundle of sticks, often used to kindle a fire.

Instead, our generation would more readily associate the term, spelled with a double-'G', as a derogatory reference to a person who is homosexual.

For myself, one of Dion's home rolled cigarettes immediately sprung to mind. When I asked him whether he could quit smoking by replacing one fagot with the edible other he kindly reminded me that a ciggy is not a fagot, but a 'fag.'

This was my brief language lesson for the day - and I have one encouter with a foreign phrase or word nearly every day. It's a constant reminder that English - UK-English that is - is not my first language after all...

12.02 POPCORN

"Once you pop...you can't stop." We all know it as the catchline for Pringles. For Maddy the phrase applies doubly to popcorn.

I have mixed feelings about the toasted maize. It is bland without butter, boring without salt, and far too healthy to gain any sense of indulgence - even after bottoming a pot of freshly popped corn. And there's nothing worse than the lodging of a kernel between a freshly flossed set of pearly whites.

On the topic of my dental works, sugary variations, like caramel corn, satisfy my sweet tooth enough that it's not bothered by an extra sweep with the waxed wire. In addition to this, a visit to the theatre isn't the same without a bucket of popped corn of by your side.

And beyond its crave-curbin functions, popcorn has other varied uses. For instance, this time of year it reminds me of my role in the mass production of endless lengths of strung popcorn for the classroom Christmas tree in primary school. On a cloudless day it also provides an alternative to hunting for vague shapes in the sky - most popcorn pieces, I have found, bear some resemblance either to a zoo animal or a character from The Simpsons.

For Maddy none of this matters. There is no need to dissect the popular popped snack. A sprinkle of salt and a near-bottomless pot of popcorn is good enough. It's appeal is rubbing off on me - but then my appetite succumbs to peer pressure quite easily...

12.01 CONFUSED CHRISTMAS

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

But not much like the Christmas I'm used to.

The German markets in the city centre are enough to confuse my seasonal spirit. My own traditions include stringing tin foil ornaments on a two-foot tree, attempts at baking cookies amidst a dust-storm of flour and a tornado of candied fruit; potlucks and Chris Kringle's; and the occasional forage into a turkey's ass with a fist full of stuffing; and late-night treks through a neighbourhood aglow with Christmas bulbs.

None of these traditions will hold this year. I'm trying to make the best of enjoying the novelty, of breaking free of these so-called customs before they become ingraine in my habit like a Whopper on my birthday (more to come).

But for a Canadian girl at a German market in the UK, it can all be a little confusing.