03.31 ACHTUNG

The G20 Summit is due to take place this week in London. Protests are scheduled at the Bank of England around the corner from my workplace. I had a stroll in that direction over my lunch break and came across this notice that a restaurant will be closed on the day of protests.

It seems much of the Bank area will take a furlough during the protests, with the possibility of violence imminent. I do wonder just how agressive people will be, what damage will be caused and exactly what the outcome will be. While I do believe it is important to vocalize our opinions and exercise democracy, I wonder just how effective the act of mass protesting is in terms of changing or swaying policy. The world leaders attendin the summit surely have detailed agendas set forth, are already fully aware of the general consensus on the economic issues in their representative nation states and will forge ahead with whatever plans they had for reform - regardless of the flailing angry unemployed or sympathetic mob outside the building walls. We'll see.

03.30 CORNER OFFICE

I always wanted an office with windows and a nice view. I worked from home today. The ideal workplace - complete with fully stocked kitchen and bed for frequent breaks. Not to mention the view on such a sunny day.

I do find I am more productive working from home, without time wasted on the morning routing - working breakfast, blowdrying and makeup application into breaks taken occasionally as needed.

We should be allowed to do this more often.

03.29 ROWING

It's the famous, annual Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race !

I headed across the city to Hammersmith to watch the rowers whiz by on the bend of the Thames River. I didn't know who to root for, but from the looks of things here, I think Cambridge had the lead.

Oxford took the race in the end. But what I realised was that it was not so much the rowers I was excited by, but the crowd. Hunderds - thousands - flocked to the waterfront to watch the sport. As the rowers approached the bend, fans on the north side of the river who could see them nearing began to cheer. There was a slow, steady crescendo to the point when the rowers were in full view under the Hammersmith Bridge and everyone was howling in full throttle.

The two squads were moving alarmingly quick and I could barely catch the photo. There speed appeared hastened by a fleet of motorized boats in hot pursuit - media, medics and security.

It got me all excited about the weather warming and getting back into some competitive action!

03.28 BUSKER

Had a stroll through Covent Garden and watched some amateur buskers doing their thing. This man was quite acrobatic and somersaulted his body through a tiny ring. Well done. Wish they hadn't kicked me out of gymnastics at aged 6.

03.27 VISIT FROM DERBY

Juliette visited this weekend - a much needed getaway from the hustle and bustle of her life up in Derby.

With three teenaged sons, one of whom has a chronic bone disorder and currently in therapy after a major op, I don't understand how she keeps up with the journo course at NTU. She is struggling to finish up, but here, so am I and I have no excuses! Her motivation is remarkable and her energy even more impressive.

We scrounged some food and wine at a bar round the corner mine and got all caught up.

03.26 FRAGGLE ROCK

Saw this add in the tube and it immediately reminded me of Fraggle Rock - the 1980s childrens program about a clan of underground working muppets, called Fraggles.

I grew up on that show and it was a dedicated viewer.

I remember distinctly, the character Red, who was a good swimmer. I liked Red. I'm not sure why she was my favourite. Perhaps it was the athleticism. Red is just about all I really remember - and dreams. I'd like to rest my head alongside somebody else's sometime soon and share one...

03.25 OUTDOOR TUBE

As you might begin to sense from this blog, I spend a lot of time commuting - by foot, by bike, by train and by tube (if I'm not flying across the ocean).

Generally speaking, I avoid the tube at all costs - but today, I found myself waiting at an outdoor station, under a warm, humid, partly sunny sky - and it wasn't all bad.

This is the South Kensington tube station. The structure oposite the rail tracks looks almost like an ancient aquaduct by the angle (and distance) of this picture. It is rather pretty, with the trees edging over and the spots of graffitti here and there. In no time, a bustling train will overwhelm the tranquility of the scene - but it is just that fact that makes this moment worth capturing.

Soon enough I'll be trapped in the confines of another rattling tube train with another bunch of strangers breaking the unwritten prohibition of smelly-food items in the dark underground distracting myself with another heavy hard-cover novel...

03.24 WALK

Walking home, I saw this advertisement - sponsored by Transport for London, the Mayor of London and the NHS - reminding me that I should indeed be walking home.

'Nearly half of all journeys are walkable.'

03.23 JAM SESSION

I don't remember the last time I went to church. It might have been with my parents, in Windsor, with the promise of a he-man breakfast at the Maple Leaf afterward...

Visiting a church is like a trip home. Indeed, I think of my religion much like I do my nationality - something I was born into, but by my own volition, have since departed from. But I can always go back and my return, even for a visit, conjures a sense of nostalgia but also some restlessness. I still consider myself Catholic, although not practicing - and my 'religious' identity is something that has formed my person as much as the fact that I'm Canadian. I am conscientous, forgiving and vaguely ascetic as much as I am laid-back, friendly and active - stereotyped characteristics drawn from my Catholic-Canadian upbringing.

On a tip from Barb, who visited St Elthereda during her visit to London last autumn, I made my way to the oldest Catholic church in London. Barb had been especially impressed by the choir and I made sure to attend during a sung service. The church is a quaint, but with elaborate stained glass with strong purple and blue hues. It was a sunny day, and the windows were gleaming.

It was a beautiful setting.

Anyways, at the end of the service I caught the organist, a young, passionate player jamming, in the style of Elton John on the keys. It was intense, and amusing - but sweet.

03.22 BREAKFAST WITH CLAIR

Amazing! We meet again. On her return flight from Cape Town to Toronto, Clair had another layover. I hurried to the airport for 8 AM and we had breakfast together.

Seeing her again felt less remarkable than it did a few weeks ago; somehow, I think this is a good thing. It is not to suggest I am taking for granted the opportunity to spend time with her - as these opportunities are few and far between now that we live an ocean apart. But there was something reassuring in the frequency of our meetings this month - something that made me feel like an ocean isn't so far and wide after all....

03.21 EAST DULWICH

Went out for drinks in East Dulwich, where Paul and his brother have just moved into a new flat. It happens that they live up the street from Kat's friend, Ben, as well.

It took just 30 minutes to get there by bus - yet it felt very much outside of the city and in fact reminded me of some of the neighbourhoods in Mapperly when I was living in Nottingham. Being on a hill, many houses were a few steps below the street level and overlooked the city, with a gorgeous view of the river, the Eye and Canary Wharf. Very domesticated.

I suggested they have a Rye-and-Pie for a housewarming since Wine and Cheese has been done and done again...It's a pretty cozy house already though - even with only just one plant.

03.20 CRASH

I live on the high street. It's busy, bustling and noisy all at once. I'm used 3am cahoots from kebab-eating drunks, the bass blaring from Kazbar, the gay bar just round the corner, and the constant hum of traffic passing by along with the occasional blaring siren.

Despite the kerfuffle, to which I am near-deaf, I jumped from my seat mid-morning today when what I heard was a screech and dramatic crash on the street. Not good.

It was early hours and there was hardly any traffic on the street - but somehow a lorry managed to turn in front of a car, causing the driver to veer onto the sidewalk, hitting a post and a pedestrian in the meantime.

Within minutes there were people at the scene and 999 had been dialed. That was a relief, because I forget how to do CPR and I was please the bystander effect hadn't taken place - perhaps because there were so few people on the streets at that hour.

I peered down from my roof to find two bodies on the pavement, on either side of the building I live on. The windshield of the small black car had been smashed on the drivers side, and he lay on the ground moaning, motionless. Initially, the situation looked grim - but soon as the paramedics arrived, I could tell the victims were not in critical condition by their response. They treated the patients on the spot, checking for internal injury and then administering anaesthetics in order to move them to the hospital.

I watched reluctantly, knowing that my position only a few feet above the scene was rather intimate. (And I felt like the paparazzi taking this picture.) I could hear the conversation between paramedics and police, sharing details, giving instruction. I watched one NHS staff cut the trousers and shirt off of the pedestrian woman so that he could check for visceral injuries and strap her onto a cot.

It frightened me and appeased my fear at once. Although the police appeared to be rather disorganized, the medics were clearly in control of the situation, telling the officers what they needed and cooperating amongst themselves to help the victims. Still, it was an alarming start to the day - and I hope the outcome is good.

I walked out of my flat later this afternoon, a saw spattered blood on the ground that looked like ketchup. Had I not witnessed the accident, I could easily have mistaken this for a condiment. It's amazing how our lives carry on when we have only a proxy or partial awareness of what is around us, what is happening in the wider world and just around the corner, while for others the day is halted abruptly, unexpectedly - and life is turned around.

03.19 GARDENERS

More signs of spring. I spend many of my lunch hours sat in the gardens of St Dunstan's church ruins. The gardeners were out this week. I watched, peeking over my book, as they laboured over the lawn, carefully rolling the grass out over smoothed dirt like a rug.

There was such an art to it, and I admired the sprightliness in their effort and could see the fullfillment of their task when they stood back every few minutes to admire their work. The garden was transformed, from a bare weathered pit to a colourful vibrant oasis in the middle of the city.

As my hour for lunch came to a close, I realised that I envy these men and the handiwork that they do with such care. So many people retire into gardening - these men have made a living of it.

03.18 BOOKS

Charing Cross is famed for its second-hand and vintage book shops. I popped into a few of them recently and found myself alone in the basement of one shop.

The walls were concrete, chipped white paint with some brick exposed here and there. Built into the walls were bookshelves - stacks and stacks of books, lined in a vague order, the system for which was so incomprehensible that it made for even better exploring and even more rewarding when I picked a gem from between two dusty covers and took it home...

03.17 GREEN

It's St Patrick's Day. I find in England it is much less celebrated than it is in Canada; I suppose this is because the English intentionally differentiate themselves from Catholic Irish, whereas Canadians like to embrace the culture and the green beer that comes with their holiday. We flood Patrick O'Ryan's in Windsor and pack Sliante's in Hamilton on the average saturday night - and St Pat's is no exception whatever day of the week it should happen to fall!

Anyways, as it happens, I met someone recently, named Drewry. Obviously Irish. I thought of him today as I walked across the common - the sun shining, the grass green as ever and with the luck of the Irish on my mind. A few days ago, he passed along this springtime poem:

Spring is sprung, the grass is ris’, I wonder where dem birdies is?,
Why, the birds is on the wing – but that’s absurd, I always thought the wings was on the bird?
Lucky charms. I used to eat the marshmallows last.

03.16 SEAL HUNT

People are always protesting something. This disgruntled looking woman is handing out flyers advertising the legalised annual seal cull in

Canada.

Interestingly, the flyers stated in bold 'Oppose the Cull by NOT TRAVELING to Canada.'

I'll come back to that.

In spite of intense international pressure to stop the practice, Canada refuses to put an end to the chase-and-club cull of the very photogenic pups. It's been banned since 1983 in the EU. But it obviously brings in a lot of loot, especially among indigenous people, who rely on the commerical interests and government support for their livlihood.

The animals are used in total from pelts to blubber to meat off the bones. Neither are the hooded seals endangered, which leaves no strong conservation-based argument for the government to put a halt to it.

Indeed, it is a tragic and inhumane method of bludgeoning the furry little things, and I think we can all live without another fur coat. On the other hand, the meat and blubber is exceptionally nutritious and we could all use a helping in place of another big mac or industrialized hunk of corn-fed beef.

I'm not suggesting this practice is right and that it should go on. Rather, it should be kept in perspective. If the cow were as exotic, as cuddly or as cute as the seal, would more of us protest with such passion? Would we all stop eating meat? How much of the by products of a cow go to waste? How much damage has the domestication and mass rearing of cattle caused our land, our air and our own bodies? We need to pay attention to the bigger problems - the real issues - instead of diverting attention.

Don't tell me not to travel to Canada to protest the friggen cull. Tell me not to buy a fur coat. Tell me to board the Sea Sheperd and sail the seas with my arms flailing and my feet freezing, but my efforts going toward something that actually makes an impact.

03.15 DANCING GIRLS

Today was all about the women. Shopping, Talking, and a bit of Flamenco dancing.

Apart from visiting me, of course, the Flamenco Festival was the purpose of Rako and Claudia's visit this weekend. Claudia is a seasoned dancer, not surprising as she has roots in Southern Spain mingled with her Mexican blood.

Before hitting the show, we dragged Rako out and about to get a bit of shopping done. As you see, he did a great job of leaving us to it without complaint. Along the way, we ventured into some old second-hand book shops in Charing Cross, where I landed a gem. Yes, a paperback copy of Margaret Atwood's collection of short stories entitled 'Dancing Girls'. How fitting.

I knew little about Flamenco before this weekend. It's roots are moorish and hail from the South of Spain. The music involves the guitar, of couse as well as drum and the singing is operatic - long drawn out words, held in vibretto, with the resonance of an Arabic chant. The performance itself was remarkable. I've never had lesbian tendencies -but these women were so powerful, so strong and fierce in their step, with their arms flapping and dresses flailing. It was absolutely stunning. Flamenco is a powerful dance, and passionate to say the least. I was so impressed and so moved by the performance. These were no mere Dancing Girls. They were Dancing Women.

03.14 PICNIC

Rako and Claudia are down for a visit this weekend - it's great to see old friends. I have had so many visitors since moving to London, that I've developed an itinerary of sorts for enjoying a day in the city. Top of the list is the Borough Market. It is easily one of my favourite places in London and any foodie - or any non-foodie with an appetite - will share my sentiment. I'll admit, Rako was a bit overwhelmed by the cheese - he's not a fan, and cheese is what this market does best. The look on his face when he saw the Raclette...oh my. You'd have thought that they were grilling human flesh...

Claudia, on the other hand, was all about the cheese and inevitably left with a few purchases that I'm sure she was please not to have to share with her husband. It was great to have her along - I would never have thought to order what appears to be a simple pasty from the Argentinian stall. Indeed, it was a traditional empanada complete with chimichurri sauce for dipping. It was scrumptulescent - and even met her authentic Mexican standards.

I took them for a long walk along southbank, with a nip into the Tate, to work off the nibbles before meeting up with friends for curry on Brick Lane. A splendid day with plenty of time for catching up and a little bit of gossip from the old lab..

03.13 RED NOSE DAY

It's Friday the 13th. It's also Claire's birthday. And it just happens to be red nose day (http://www.rednoseday.com/)!

This is something altogether new to me. I expected men in suits with traditional clown noses on racing into work on unicycles. To my disappointment, we professionals are much too sophisticated to partake. Actually, it is properly a rite of passage reserved for celebrities - when those who were never inclined to tell a joke have a chance to try and be funny, and raise money all the while. Professional comedians and non-celebrities also get out for the cause, as do schools and various organizations. It is a day of comic relief - and a day to do something for charity...and charity giving is huge in the UK.

Sophie did her best, by baking this birthday cake for Claire, all in the spirit of red noses! I secretly wished I'd gotten the piece with the nose, but then it's not my birthday after all...

03.12 TOURISTS

It's my lunch break - I've taken a short walk, just past the monument to the Great Siege (http://3sixty6.blogspot.com/2009/03/0309-seige.html), to have a view of the Tower of London and Tower Bridge.

A group of tourists - students most likely at this time of day during this time of year - reminded me to appreciate the view, the fact that I'm a stone's throw from these remarkable structures, laden with history, still standing, waiting to be discovered time and again as each new group of tourists are coralled through.

This is how I spent my lunch break. In Windsor, I remember eating lunch in the staff kitchen watching the local crossdresser making his rounds in the bins, clad in a dinghy yellow housecoat and pink slippers. Poor soul. Strange man. My heart warms up at the thought, but confess, I don't miss him very much.

Similarly, I do miss the Detroit skyline and have a soft spot for the Ambassador Bridge (even after they paintind it aquamarine.) - but admit, it is really flipping amazing to live in London.

03.11 OH CANADA...

...we let go of the hug, she hurried into a cab in rush hour traffic and I was left with a pane of glass window and my sister waving from behind it. For a moment, that pane of glass had the depth of an ocean - my eyes were welling. Crap. When did I get to be so emotional? I was always dramatic about goodbyes, perhaps a remnant of a maladaptive attachment style growing up?

When the taxi drove off, I found myself stood directly across the street from the Canadian Embassy, the flag taunting me - anchored to its post as I am anchored to this island. Nostalgia. Longing. Homesick.

Sigh.

'Being seasick at sea is not the same as being homesick at home.'

03.10 LAYOVER LUNCH

I meet a lot of people like me, living in London, miles and miles of ocean or land distancing them from family and long-time friends. Often, the speak of missing family, mostly on holidays and special occasions.

I miss the little things. Coffee at the Second Cup in Westdale, Sunday mornings at The Maple Leaf with my parents or skipping town to have dinner with my sis in Toronto.

And this is what made today so remarkable. I 'did lunch' with Clair and her two co-workers Don and Aerin. She phone a few weeks ago to mention a layover on her way through London to Cape Town. We had the whole of 3-4 hours to trek through town to The Cinnamon Club for a fashionable lunch near Westminster and a quick catch up on life, work and the everyday - the weather. It was such an ordinary event, a few free hours on a workday to catch-up, and yet such a special occasion for a Tuesday afternoon in London.

Although I'll see her in Paris in May, it was still disheartening to let go of the hug.

03.09 THE SEIGE

This monument commemorates the Great Seige of Malta (1940-1943). Because of the crucial location of this tiny archipelago - it's nearest allies were Gibralter and Alexandria, neither of which was closer than its neighbouring enemies in Italy - Malta was a much sought after territory.

'Beseiged by enemies, Malta became a fulcrum on which the fate of the war balanced for the next three years.'

If Malta had been lost by Great Britain, the rest of North Africa would follow, opening a transport gateway for Axis powers. So important was the position of this tiny island, that it became the most bombed location in the history of war.

This might baffle the mind of the average tourist visiting Malta. The islands are frequented for their pristine beaches, sunny skies and friendly folk. There are few ruins remaining; indeed it is believed to be a miracle that so many of the country's revered church buildings were undamaged - including the famed Mosta Dome on which a bomb fell, but failed to detonate during a church service with over 300 people in attendance. Imagine!

But anyone who knows a Malteser can better grasp the remnants of WWII by the love of their own country - by their nationalism and pride. It's endearing, probably because the sentiment is well deserved and grounded in the heroism of their history. Where individuals have little to boast for themselves, they can also point to their emblem, the George Cross, awarded to the country as a whole.

In 1942, the Maltese were on the brink of starvation when Operation Pedestal was mounted in an effort to save the people and protect the territory from Axis control. People were down to morsels of dry bread and water once a day, a can of tuna per week. On 15 August, the Feast of Santa Maria - now a national holiday - one of 14 original tankers that set out on mission arrived at port in Grand Harbour. The seige was broken and Malta was, though no longer in one piece, finally at peace.

03.08 THE MORNING AFTER

...I found Paul in my bed. With Kat and Ben.
Right. Of course - the cheese. We had crashed out after mountains of Edam washed down with Malbec.

I had heard about cheese dreams - the wild and wacky mental state brought on by eating too much before bed. But I didn't expect my dreams would in fact be about cheese.

But I woke up with an epiphany, rolled over and asked Paul, 'Why did the Aged Cheddar cross the road?'

He looked weary and confused so I just told him.

'It was so old it Camembert why.'

(*overwhelming laughter, knee slapping and applause. I take a bow. Thank you. I must still be dreaming*)

The cheese had a different effect on Paul. Or perhaps it was my cheese dream. But he found himself endowed with superhuman powers, the Wizard of Wensleydale perhaps? I'm not sure. But he could churn a mean Manchego with that look in his eye and a swift wave of his imaginary wand.

03.07 CHEESE DREAMS

Cheese sherades. Can you guess it from a snapshot?
It's not any easier in real-time. Sanam's impression of...a Parmesan cheese grater. My, oh my. And we're only into our first bottle of wine - but must be at our fourth round of gouda.

A good part of the evening was spent sampling cheese, discussing danish blues, imitating kitchen utensils and trying to figure out just why exaclty the cheddar crossed the road...

I fell asleep in the wee hours of Saturday, drunk on cheese, in a spell: dreaming of cheese.

03.06 GOOD NEWS

Now this was an interesting find in my postbox today. The oversized envelope formed a semi-circle in the pigeonhole marked Flat 7, and I new by the odd fit that it was from overseas.

My heart was aflutter, but I felt anxiety all at once.
What could this mean? What would I do? Where might I go?

It's all still very tentative. I didn't know what to do, so I cut my hair. I always take my emotions out on my hair. A bad habit. Oh well.

03.05 SKIP TO THE THE LOO

Now this is an interesting loo. If dinner weren't going so well, I could just park it here for a while, behind a locked door and hide until my guest is fed up waiting and leaves. This was an unusually cozy loo: somehow, I think they got the lighting confused when they were laying out the dining room and toilets. The old fashioned suspended tank added a certain outhouse-like coziness and the romantic glow of a lantern bulb added to this effect, emitting enough dim lighting that I could easily flip through a magazine without sqinting. Not that I would read if I were actually using the loo - only men take that long to go to the toilet. No, but if I were using the loo as a hideout for a while. Then maybe I would need to pass time reading.

03.04 BRONZE WOMAN

The Bronze Woman is actually Black. This is the first statue of a black woman to be displayed publicly in England - and it was only unveiled last June.

It was inspired by Cecile Nobrega, a writer born in Guyana in 1919, but who has lived and taught in Stockwell for 30 years. She wrote a poem celebrating the achievements of black women in Britain and began a campaign for a sculpture representing the black community - in particular the contributions of Carribean people to British society and of women everywhere (www.bronzewoman.org.uk/)

The monochrome statue stands in front of the colourful building in Stockwell Gardens, in the centre of the roundabout. I did a walkabout myself. She is a voluptous figure, holding high her baby - both gazing at one another. She has a powerful physique yet appears maternal and unthreatening in her pose.

Woman of Bronze!
Symbol of Slavery
Free
Strength
sweat and toil,
who can foil
your quest
for best
to give your child?

~Cecile Nobrega, Bronze Woman, 1968.

03.03 BLUE MEN

Three men, scaling Maya House on Borough High Street. They catch my eye each morning that I walk past. They are the creation of Israeli artist Ofra Zimbalista, a work called 'Walls and Trumpets.

I looked up the artists website for some details (http://www.ofra-zimbalista.co.il/default.asp). The life-sized figures are developed by a casting technique the artist uses that is based on real subjects. Much of her work involves this technique, and I've found some of her projects quite erie, like alien forms frozen in time. This strikes me, as they are formed on human casts - but without the physiognomic details, the facial features in particular, they become an abstraction and are depersonified.



I have read a few reviews and it seems the colour blue is intended to be somber, morbid or mournful. The colour blue, deep and uniform, might also have been used to represent the anonymity of the figures - having no native or ethnic idendity - they could be anybody. But in my eyes, at least for this setting, it enlivens the figures, making them appear bright, lively against the bluest sky...or the more often grey overhead. The artist has been known to use Yves Klein blinding blue - a colour he made his own - in something of a protest against his effort to appropriate the colour, as colour should belong to everyone.

(A good point. How do you go about patenting a colour?)


I read on about here work. Words that come to mind are circusesque, spiritual and feminist, non-physiognomic. She tends to depict women in emotive poses whereas men are more often engaged in acrobatics, music and climbing. Her work is described as merging the comic and the serious. Here, the lowest and middle figure appear to grapple with the task, the first looking downward as if to determine where to grip next, and I believe holding a trumpet as well. The second is looking upward, eliciting a sense he is nearing the summit. The topmost figure is suspended, facing forward and playing the drum.

There is a sort of continuum to the poses - I wonder if they are meant to represent a single individual progressing upward over time or a group of three on their course. I stopped and had a think about this, then continued along my own path...

03.02 ORANGE MEN

Did you know that a citrus fruit is, botanically, a berry?

I didn't either. I have yet to source the explanation behind this one, but I can at least say that this is not an idea fabricated in my mind. No. I read this in a book, called 'Oranges' by John McPhee.

I admit, I am a closeted fan of the colour Orange. This came to the fore a few years ago, when, despite my outward loathing of the hue, I found, in my closet, a band of reddish-yellow shirts, skirts and socks. Indeed, I nearly purchased an Orange road bike, before I set my eyes on one that was Olive. Yes Olive. I must be drawn to colours that are also edible.

The book was written in the sixties. McPhee, a reporter for the New York Times, was commissioed to write an article on the US orange industry and found such a wealth of information that he translated it into a book - about Oranges.

It has certainly opened my appetite for the fruit. I bought myself a carton of organic orange juice - unfortunately from concentrate, a process I now know more than I ever would have liked to know about. Still I pierced the lid with my plastic straw and slurped and read and savoured.

The book is remarkable, in that McPhee has taken a subject which one might expect to be bland or boring, and engages the social and historical relevance of the fruit.

It talks of Orange Men - men who worked the groves in the US, picking bushels of oranges throughout the harvest, a whole culture of workers with their own take on the industry and the fruit. This I found amusing:

'An orange grown in Florida usually has a thin and tightly fitting skin, and it is also heavy with juice. Californians say that if you want to eat a Florida orange you have to get into a bathtub first. California oranges are light in weight and have thick sinks that break easily and come off in hunks...In Florida it is said that you can run over a California orange with a ten-ton truck and not even wet the pavement.' (pp. 9)

03.01 WHO'S CAKE IS IT ANYWAY?

I find myself at a comedy club for the second time this weekend. Tonight, they club is hosting an improv session, a la 'Who's line is it anyway' fashion.

So who's cake is it, anyway?

You'd think it was Paul's on the basis of how indulgent a spoonful it appears he's taken in, not to mention how pleased Kat looks in the background despite the fact her boyfriend is eating her birthday brownie.

Lex and I assembled the makeshift dessert, adding a plastic straw with napkin flames and tearing off the word 'inferno' from my cinnamon gum packaging to be certain it was obviously supposed to be a birthday candle.

Obviously.

I don't think much attention was paid to the accessories, however, as the cake went pretty quick.