I’m struggling with the reality of Andy leaving me. Panic grips me when I think about leaving Andy in Manchester Airport’s international terminal knowing that I might not see him for three months. That’s 12 weeks. And we all know how well I coped with him leaving me for a week last Christmas. I keep feeling like I should be savouring every minute with him in some special, never-before realised way, but I don’t know how to.

Aside from Andy, the only Provo songwriters I enjoy are JP, Spencer Kingman, John White, and Kari Jorgensen. Andy picked up my mums old classical guitar and figured out JP’s “You Don’t Belong to Me” and it is so good. JP writes such pretty things. I wish I had a copy of Kari singing “Dark Days”.

Websites like this do my head in. A pathetic effort to dupe the less astute members of America into backing the health-care plan from hell.

For example, see Myth 4:

MYTH 4: Health care reform legislation will cover undocumented immigrants
CLAIM: Under health care reform, you will be denied care, and it will be given to undocumented immigrants instead.

Note the wording of the claim. The Myth is that health care reform legislation will cover undocumented immigrants (which it will). The claim is that illegal immigrants will be given care instead of US citizens. i.e. US Citizens will be denied care because it will be given to illegal immigrants instead. What bozo thinks that? Nobody! The author completely avoids addressing the true myth and claim combination which would be: Health care reform will cover undocumented immigrants (true), will this decrease the overall quality of care/will my taxes pay for illegal immigrants healthcare/how then can the system stop health-care system abuse?

The article clearly sets up straw men, loosely based on questions sane (republican and democrat) people have about Obama’s hairbrained health care ideas, and burns them with glee.

The author is obviously not really interested in dispelling true myths and concerns anyway. If they were, they would address myths like “Obama will pay your gas bills and mortgage” or “Obama, who claimed Bush passed thousand page bills at disgusting speeds, should be able to pass his health-care reform junk through congress in less than a month because it’s important and we really need to move on this issue”.

Oh and while we’re on the subject of socialised healthcare and the joy it is, a girl here just got a root canal this week after suffering from an abscess on her gum for EIGHT months, all because she couldn’t get in to see an NHS dentist, nor could she afford a private one. And the waiting list for an arthritis ossicle replacement? Close to ten years. And while I’m complaining about people’s warped idea’s about welfare let me throw this out there: under socialised health plans, a ‘disabled’ individual can claim a weekly allowance which substitutes for working, they also get a new car they can change out every two years, free car insurance, and if they have a family member who fancies quitting work to be the primary ‘carer’, the government will pay out to them too.

Annnnd regulations on claiming job-seekers allowance just got easier to lie through.

There’s a thought to keep me warm on cold winter nights when I’m working 45 hours a week to pay rent while I go to uni.

That stuff they call bacon in America is just greasy parcel wrapping ribbon.

We went to see the ruins of Piel Castle, a 1337 gem on a little island off Barrow-in-Furness.

Tyson:

Andy:

Tyson:

Andy:

Andy:

There were some startlingly cute piglets for sale on the island too. I did not know that piglets were so cute.

After we got soaking wet crossing back to the mainland on a “ferry (cough, motorboat), we ate at the local cafe. This old lady was there having afternoon tea with what I presume was her son.

When I was in PA, I got my sewing machine out and went mad. I made a handful of skirts and two dresses. I only brought one with me, and this is what it looks like:

I was proud of it because I didn’t use a pattern, but you probably knew that because it looks like a potato sack.

My dad used to work in the Shetland Islands when I lived in Horwich. I only really remember  two things about him working in the Shetland’s: a photo he sent me of a hedgehog curled up under a rainbow, and an overpowering smell of almond marzipan. When he’d come home for his holidays he’d take us to Rivington. We’d go up the Pike and fly cheap plastic kites, or march around muddy trails. There was a castle ruin up there, but that wasn’t as fun to go to because my parents wouldn’t ever let me climb on the walls.

So the first thing we did when we got a car was drive to Rivington and do this:

What’s up, Danger!

Truth be told, I’ve been up there numerous times since my parents forbade it (playing Manhunt in the dark with other kids etc). This time I did more documenting than climbing, mainly because my shoes made for unreliable footing. No one ever called me foolhardy before.

I really love this picture of Andy. His hair is getting rather long now.

I never knew the history of the ruins because the only informative sign that was put up was promptly burned down by hooligans. When the council tried to make a better effort and replace it with a metal version they were foiled again by vandals who simply scratched the living daylights out of it, rendering the text unreadable.
Since I never learned the history of the castle as a kid, and it’s unlikely you’ll know enough about Rivington to contradict me, I’m going to straight up lie and say it was Henry the 8ths Holiday Home. I’m not providing the name of the castle because we’re a google generation and you’ll all wreck my childhood dreams with wikipedia quotes,  telling me it’s actually a 2002 Bolton Council Special.

It’s slightly surreal having Tyson around to be honest. I was unable to picture Tyson anywhere other than Costa Vida, Zion’s Park, or our front room in Provo until he arrived at Preston Train station last Wednesday. Unlike me, he doesn’t seem too shell shocked about being here. He’s starting an MSc degree at City this coming September.

We went to Manchester and had a whistle-stop wander around. I’m simultaneously proud of Manchester and embarrassed by plenty of Mancurians.

I’m proud of Manchester because, considering Moss Side, it’s rather ridiculous rate of gun crime (in a non-armed country?) and council flat- towers full to overflowing with benefits abusers, it’s such a pretty city. I love Cheetham’s School of Music, the large screen outside the Triangle on which people gather to watch the Berlin track events, or the Ashes, and the high street.  On the other hand, Manchester is kind of gross because it’s full of hyper-’fashionable’ teens and young adults, parading around in their newest buys while they shop for more. It’s kind of disgusting and you have to wonder, how did that fourteen year old that just passed you afford the £120 boots you just saw in a shop window?! And why on earth do people feel the need to change their wardrobe more often than a Topshop mannequin?

I’m not scared of voicing my opinion on this because it doesn’t reflect favourably on the UK, but so far as clothes go, most styles that hit America are potentially British cast-offs. I’ll catfight you on a catwalk about that one. British fashion is a centrifuge of “style”, designers hell-bent on shoving previously disgusting eras of fashion back through the wrangler and sewing machines of poorly paid Indonesians, all so Mancurians and Londoners can buy themselves a new identity every week. I’m generalising of course, America has plenty of ‘edgy’ designers blah blah blah, but so far as mainstream fashion goes, the UK most definitely blows through trends and styles harder and faster than the US. I’m defining “mainstream” fashion by whats being sold in American Suburbia Malls (stores like American Eagle, Hollister and PacSun even) vs. British High Street stores like River Island, Miss. Selfridges, Topshop.  While mainstream America was still heralding the “skinny jean”, the UK recycled four or five different trends of pants, upholding the standard drainpipe for the sticks-in-the-mud of yester-week. Unfortunately for me, I don’t suit pleated cotton tweeds with a one-inch turn up. Thanks, though.

America’s fashion seems to be something of an Amtrak out of NYC, while UK fashion is better illustrated by a rapidly revolving door. Topshop has fast proved itself the doorman of high-street fashion as it uses individuals unique “style” ideas to make molds for the masses, enabling the masses to basically exchange money for ’style’, which pushes the more “forward thinking” fashionistas to develop new ’styles’, and, essentially, new material for Topshop to copy and spoon-feed the nation, thus propelling the revolutions of fashion into a state of constant acceleration. Essentially, thanks to shops like Topshop, you can take any old sap with a heavy wallet, throw them through UK fashion, and they’ll emerge looking like Coloner Sanders got into Betsey Johnson’s wardrobe, yet they’ll seem perfectly confident about their state of undress because they were sold a misleading sense of confidence alongside those leopard-print pleated capris they spent £59.99 on.

Anyway, fashion is ridiculous, and I’m sure that eventually I will overcome the urge to loudly poke fun at boys wearing leggings (I’m no liar), and girls sporting their indie-cool neon plastic sunglasses while they are UNDERGROUND, on the TUBE.

Here’s a photo of Andy and I enjoying our time in Corsavy, France:

Excuse my immodesty; everyone swims topless in France.

We’d originally planned an European extravaganza consisting of scooters in Rome, tickets to view The Last Supper in Milan, hostels in Brussels, and all things back-packs, but we thought we’d save on time and money by returning after our two week working holiday instead. We used HelpX to coordinate with Jeremy and Michael, two retired men who advertised their location as being ‘in the foothills of the Pyrenees’. The deal was this: we worked for four hours a day and in return got given a place to kip and free food. HelpX is a good idea. Hosts advertise need of helpers, and helpers try to convinced the potential hosts that they’re good workers. Of course, some of the ads are creepy, saying things like: “Hostel in Rome requiring Attractive, Young, Female Helper only – ONLY 1 AT A TIME!” or “Fit, Male Helpers wanted to mud wrestle for entertainment”. I couldn’t help but think that sites like HelpX and Couch Surfing could be prime soliciting grounds for psychopaths trying to lure potential victims.

Thankfully, our hosts were neither serial rapists or voyeurs of any kind, and we ended up with a rather cushy HelpX experience. Our accommodation looked like this:

This trip to France was so different than any others I’ve taken. Naturally, because it was a working holiday, and because it was SUNNY, but mainly because I was with Andy, who speaks fluent French. It was such a novelty for me to be able to get around remote and un-touristy regions of France without having to resort to neanderthal antics of grunting and gesticulating wildly with my hands, trying to mime whatever it was I was trying to find/buy/see/ask. Andy speaks French with a good accent too, so much so that most locals didn’t even react to Andy as if he were a foreigner (which is odd, I’ve heard people speak French to the French before and most French pride themselves on establishing that you are a foreigner and they are French). I began to fully realise the extent of Andy’s French skillz while in a shop, when I realised that Andy was no longer asking for directions and times of a bus route, but was amiably chatting to the shop manager about our working holiday, the weather and other bits and bobs. Magic. I can only dream of being bilingual. Don’t make fun of me if I start practicing my German on here. Or “my Chinese” (I took Chinese classes at BYU to fill up some generals requirements. I felt like I learned a lot while I was in the class, but promptly forgot 95% of what I learned when I stopped practicing).

After flying into Perpignan and taking a bus to Arles-Sur-Tech we met Jeremy, who was driving the last car I expected to see in the South of France: a PT Cruiser. Jeremy, who had written the HelpX ad, had described his home as being in the “foothills of the Pyrenees” but from what I could tell, it was more like “halfway up the Pyrenees”. Almost a two hour walk from the nearest one-horse town, and half an hour walk from the nearest Coca-Cola vendor – slap-bang in the middle of the Pyrenees. The house was a stone farmhouse surrounded by acres of land, most of which resembling forest. Apparently hunters shot boar on the property and yielded the first pigs of the season to Jeremy and Michael and a gesture of goodwill. We had a good set up, our own little bedroom and shared kitchen. Here’s a photo of our room (well, our kitchen):

And there’s a picture of Jeremy and Michael with their dogs, Oscar and Freddie. Judging by his accent, Jeremy was sort of an upperclass Brit, from a fine stock of English people who made their Yorkshire puddings in meat drippings and considered it the height of bad manners to clear a dinnerplate and leave the cutlery askew. He had a selection of stories that involved upperclass things, like Polo, and French Bulldogs farting happily while they slept under a mahogany table. You may have needed to have been there for that last one. Speaking of ‘farting’ (something my mum would be mortally embarrassed to know I was talking about on the internet without euphemism), I smelt Avril Lavigne’s wretched perfume while passing through a department store recently. Andy asked how it was, and was repulsed when I answered that it smelled like a flower had farted. I was thoroughly amused by myself, but I don’t think Andy could get past the mental image of a flower being so rude to appreciate my attempt at being funny.

Anyway.

Jeremy had owned and managed a company that printed CAD manuals in London, then he met Michael in Malta and they’d been together ever since. Michael was a German, an ex-army-ex-lawyer who seemed to have retired at the ripe old age of 36. I suspect he had considerable financial success during his stint as a lawyer to do so. They’d been living in the farmhouse for eight years, frequently having helpers stay with them to keep their vast and sprawling gardens under control.

I mainly worked on weeding their garden while I was there. I had a few days smacking a chisel into three-inch thick plaster with the goal of revealing the stone wall underneath, but most of my time was spent knee deep in nettles.

I spent a lot of my work-time solo, because Andy was deemed strong and able enough for bigger and better tasks. I hadn’t taken my ipod (!?) so my solitary hours of weeding in the early morning sunlight were accompanied solely by my own thoughts. I certainly hope that the true nature of the mind isn’t revealed during it’s laziest moments because after considering issues of some gravity for limited amounts of time, I found my mind singing songs like “Mambo Number Five” (only I couldn’t remember the lyrics so it sounded more like “hmmm mmm mm mmm monica in my hmmm”), thinking of funny things to draw, or laughing at jokes I made up (Q. What do you call a bush that’s shaped like a foot? A. Very Fine Toe-Piary). I don’t know whether my brain just exploded from having time off or what, but I definitely wasn’t solving world problems during my distraction free-moments. My mental state aside, I worked hard and weeded a zillion flower beds and bits of the vegetable patch.

Here’s Andy, taking a break from strimming an entire orchard full of fruits being munched by flies.

Michael was telling us that they were generally hesitant to accept British helpers, as they were often lazy, deceitful, and rubbish workers. Apparently Ozzies and Kiwi’s proved to have the most mettle. I can understand that, I mean, most Brits are only interested in spending their Summer Hols on drunken rampages through clubs in Ibiza, or getting arrested for acts of public indecency. Weeding a garden that’s two hours hike from any semblance of civilization doesn’t really sound like the average Englishman’s idea of a holiday. While Andy the American and me, the poorly represented Englishman were there, we were joined by a Korean Australian, and I don’t say that in the same way that politically correct people incorrectly apply the term ‘African American’ to any black American. Henry was a Korean born Australian Citizen who had been working in the UK for the past year, and since being made redundant had been traveling through Europe. He came to Michael and Jeremy’s after working six hours a day on a 16th C monastery. Here’s Henry and some courgettes:

We ate an ungodly amount of courgettes while at Jeremy and Michael’s. They left us to our own devices for breakfast and lunch, plying us with baguettes, cheese, sausages, and yoghurts, but never failed to put a full dinner in front of us at 7pm every night. I would wager that 80% of the meals contained courgettes. My favourite meal was probably the one that ended with the typically french tarte made from peaches. Jeremy and Michael didn’t seem to have sweet-teeth, so the dessert was supplemented with creme freiche. The more refined step-sister of America’s Redy-Whip perhaps (which is the closest thing I’ve had to real cream in forever).  I have never eaten to much bread as I did the two weeks we were at Jeremy and Michaels. So good.

When we were eating, we’d often be paid visits by the household pets. Astrid-Matilda was a grey cat. Jeremy and Michael would shoot me for saying that because she’s actually some fancy pants pedigree breed of sorts, but I can’t remember what she is, and while I’m not the kind of girl who can only categorise car type by colour, I do struggle with genus and types of pet. Here’s a picture of Astrid-Matilda in her Nest. She had a little spot at the bottom of the drive that was lined with soft plants. It looked like a nest. She was called Astrid-Matilda because Jeremy and Michael couldn’t agree on a name, so they went halves.

And here, being given sausage by Andy:

They had a few other pets too. Oscar and Freddie the dogs (again, fancy breeds I can’t recall the name of) and another cat called Autonce. She was a fatter version of Astrid-Matilda and Jeremy and Michael often jokes that she had some sort of eating disorder. I began to concur after she consumed a sausage, and even cornflakes in our kitchen. Here’s a picture of Autonce:

Autonce was a bit more cuddly than Astrid-Matilda and sat around with us during our free time.

Here are some pictures of Oscar and Freddie. Honestly, I thought they were kind of ugly dogs, but considering that Oscar was from Finland, and Freddie cost a zillion Euros, they must be worth something. Even if that something is just a human’s self esteem. Either way, here are some photos. I’m embarrassed of these pictures because somehow they turned out Utahded, but I’d like to lay some photos down.

And while I’m posting about animals, look at this caterpillar we found!

When Andy touched it (when he was moving it off the road into the bushes) it pretended to be dead. I’m not sure who he thought he was fooling with that get-up.

Our free time was spent doing all sorts of things.
Like playing Boules

I’d stupidly only brought one book, and after reading that I was left to the mercy of the farmhouse’s ‘library’. I read a book titled “Toast”, one Robert Ludlum, and four Ian Rankin novels (all of which I hated) before finding Wild Swans and The Constant Gardener. The first few books I read were what Jeremy called “Airport Thrillers”, none of which thrilled me in the slightest.

We also spent our free time jumping around in the waterfall at the bottom of Jeremy and Michael’s land. Leading an expedition to the lower pools I slipped on a large rock that looked dry but was actually wetter than an otters back. I had a hefty bruise for the remainder of the trip that woke me up in the night when I lay on it. We also splashed around in their salt-water pool and walked to the nearest towns and villages.

The tiny village of Corsavy was about a half hour walk from the farm. It had one restaurant with about five seats, and a creperie that sold cans of coke for 3e each…. That’s like $4 for a can of coke. I opted for a lemon-sugar crepe for the grand total of 3.50e, and stole bites from Andy’s Orange-Chocolate one. Henry was the chump paying $4 for a can of coke haha. Andy and I walked up there once to have a scout around the village and enjoyed a walk home with a Fruit Pop, a delicious ice lolly with four different fruit flavours.

(I call this photo: Pwee Juh Prond, Votra Foto?”)

I don’t know what these plants were, but they were pretty.

Skinniest House ever.

This is what the local church looked like. Through the keyhole, at any rate.

We also went into Arles-Sur-Tech to buy Milka chocolate and grape juice. It was almost a 2 hour walk. We also took a trip over to Figueres, in Spain. The best part of that trip was visiting Costa Brava, a beach town Brits love to vacation at, because the sun has a better relationship with the Spanish coast than it does with Cornwall, no doubt.

“Tyred” Man at the Dali Museum.

The coastline was wiggly and rocky, broken up by ancient segments of walls and piers. Something I noticed in Figueres was that the children were all hyper-alert in comparison with the drones of kids I’d bumped into in Utah. The babies in Spain focused well on my face and I could swear they interacted. A lot of them were also dressed like mini adults, in toy-sized shoes with their hair neatly combed. One child in particular, with a harsh side part combed into his damp hair, was being strollered across a busy road by his mother. He looked at me in such an engaging and condescending fashion that I wouldn’t have been at all surprised had he said “What? I choose to take a stroller to the office, that’s my prerogative”. I could have hallucinated his facial expression though. I was eating a lot of cheese in France.

We took a hot hike to a watchtower in the Pyrenees. I felt fairly fevery (Swine Flu?!?!) that day but wanted to see the watchtower anyway so excuse my state of undress. It was mental hot, humid, and sticky enough. Pathetic excuse, I know.

The watchtower (which we could see from the farmhouse) was kind of fun. Being short and somewhat spidery has it’s advantages when a scrambling opportunity arises. It wasn’t that exciting a climb but the view was lovely.

Here you can see where we spent our weeks on the working holiday:

We had a BBQ too:

After working at Jeremy and Michaels for 2 weeks, Andy and I left for Perpignan, where we spent a few days camped out at a hostel. With the bus only costing 1.20e for a single anywhere, we ventured out to Canet-Plage and spent a considerable amount of time making mad dashes into the freezing mediterranean and getting sand in our pants while we waited for our swimsuits to dry out enough for us to repeat the process. We also guarded a semi-homeless Italian man’s wares and were rewarded with ash-trays made from Stella Artois cans. We have no photos from this because we didn’t bother taking our camera.

After that, we headed home to Manchester.

I’m not dead, just internetless. When I return to civilisation from my current location (halfway up the Pyrenees), I’ll resume blogmania. For now, I need to turn my attention to the television, which seems to be playing Al Jazeera’s Top Ten hits (or something equally Rock ‘n’ Roll).