Dear Mr Harper

Dear Mr Harper,

I received your letter today. It informed me that I am no longer allowed to vote in Canadian elections--unless, of course, I meet a list of very specific criteria and have the official, letter-headed, documentation to prove it.

I left Canada almost five years ago because I was unable to find a full-time job in my hometown--or even my home province. Any chance of finding a job meant moving thousands of kilometers away, to northern or western Canada; separating myself from my family, friends and everything familiar. Instead, I moved to England. I was given a full-time job, straight out of university, which is almost unheard of as a new teacher. I could live in a new country, travel Europe, experience new adventures and see if it really did rain all the time in England.

Why would I come home? Why would I give up a full-time, guaranteed, job for putting my name on a supply list where I could, maybe, possibly, if the wind blows in the right direction, get an odd day of work, here and there, all the while working in a field that has nothing to do with my degree? I've made friends here, I've adopted a pet, bought a car, traveled, met a loving boyfriend and find myself actually being recruited for work in my specialized field--even though I'm already employed, full-time.

For 23 years, I lived in Canada. When I began work I dutifully paid taxes. I didn't quite understand how it worked, where my money went or how it was completely calculated, but I did so. Moreover, I did so happily and, in return, was given free health care, democracy and citizenship to what, I considered, the greatest nation in the world. When I turned 18, I registered to vote and participated, with millions of others, in provincial and federal elections. Sadly, all our efforts weren't enough to keep you out of Parliament, Mr Harper

Every time an election was called, I voted. I knew my vote would never be make-or-break for the next Premier or Prime Minister; it was the action, the participating and exercising my democratic right, that I felt most important. When I moved to England, I made sure to register as an international voter. I may no longer be in Canada, but it is still the country I plan to return to; I still call Canada my home. Surely, if I still hold my Canadian citizenship, I should still have a say in who runs the country?

No.

That's because of your choices and your "ruling by the Ontario Court of Appeal, which took immediate effect", Mr Harper. Perhaps you have realized that all of us ex-pats around the world must have left Canada for a reason? For myself: no job opportunities, a line of credit to pay off and no future if I didn't make the choice to move. Possibly, just possibly, us ex-pats might hold the government, at least partially, responsible for moving. The budget cuts. The actions taken that limit the protection of our wilderness. The rising cost of buying a house--something a student with thousands of dollars to pay off could only ever dream of, especially if they cannot get a job in the first place.

You have taken our vote, our voices away, Mr Harper. When I read the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, I see section 3: "Every citizen of Canada has the right to vote in an election of the members of the House of Commons or of a legislative assembly and to be qualified for membership therein."

Now, there are apparently exceptions to this. Stipulations introduced. You can vote abroad, but only if...I have exceeded my time limit for being away from home and, therefore, can no longer vote. There will be thousands who agree with this--I don't live in the country day to day, I don't have apersonal connection with my local MP and, fair point. My question though is why, when thousands choose not to vote while they live in Canada, should I have someone decide that I don't wish to either? Why do I lose a constitutional right because I chose to move away and secure a future for myself?

The government voted in will change the economy, policies on foreign relations, the national budget and the list goes on and on. These bills, policies and laws introduced will change the country that I left five short years ago--and want to return to--into something a little bit different with every election. Who is to say whether it will be for the better or worse? I suppose that could have been the voters. All of them. Citizens and 'ex-pats' alike.

Mr Harper, I do have a voice. I had a vote. Thanks to you, I only have one of those now. I only hope that those who still have their votes choose to send you a message as well: your time is over. 

Rest peacefully, Emma. You were, and continue to be, a beautiful and loving soul.

Where has the time gone?

Well, this is post #100 and it should be something more monumental than an all-encompassing summary of the last 6 months but....ain't nobody got time for that.

Since May...

Tom and I have moved (again). We are living in a beautiful little village outside of town, which I am more than happy with.
I left Malcolm Arnold Academy. The first school I worked at when I moved over here...well, all things come to an end.
I began teaching at a new school. I am teaching History now--which I love. I love the subject. As for the students....
I've been to Canada, Norway and a few odd places in between. I've had friends from home visit, booked tickets to Prague in February and am very excited for the birth of my niece in December.

And, there we have it! I hope to get back into the habit of writing in this. Apparently there are still people who check in with me every so often. I do thank you, faithful readers. (However few and far between.)

Sigh of Relief

It's that time of the year again: coursework nightmare time. In England, in order to get a grade in English, students have 2 years to complete a GCSE (general certificate of secondary education...or some such British nonsense) which consists of 5 written pieces of coursework, 3 speaking and listening tasks and an exam (or three exams, depending on what they are studying). My Year 11s have finished everything but exams and they will be done on June 4 at the latest. In order to finish the work and get it ready to send off to the exam board, all the pieces have to me read, marked, annotated and given a final score. I have 29 students, it takes about 20-30 minutes to properly mark a piece of work and that means...29 times 5...times 30...carry the 2....well, it's a hell of a lot of hours marking.

But, long story short (or not really short at all actually), all the work has been read, marked, annotated and graded and sent off. It is the wind down period now and it is the time when we finally get to lighten up a bit and relax. Thank you Jebus.

Rehearsals for Annie are going well and I am loving being part of the show. The countdown is already on until the show goes up!

Speaking of countdowns...1 week until Norway!

Recently

I am rather crap at getting back into the routine of updating. Hey ho. To business. '|???
\\\\\\\\\ (that was the cat. Poppy the cat says hello to you all.)


I am one need-to-spend-an-entire-paycheck for: no-bloody-leg-room (ironic since I barely scrape 5' tall), plastic-covered-mush-disguised-as-food, seated-next-to-the-screaming-child-for-8-nonstop-hours with the inconsiderate-8-foot-tall-giant-in-the-seat-ahead-shoving-his-seat-into-my-face, airplane ticket away from buying a damn canoe to get back to Canada. If a (albeit fictitious) man can survive for months at sea with a tiger, I'm sure the Atlantic will be no problem for me. I haven't been able to buy my ticket to get home for the summer yet and I am not a happy camper. I know I should have bought it months ago--I have this fight with myself every year and decide that future Jessica can worry about it. Well, future Jessica is now present Jessica and present Jessica is going to be broke for the second half of May so I can get home. It will be nostalgic, living on a university diet. I wonder if Mr Noodles come in any different flavours now?

Ok, so not altogether thrilled with the cost of airtravel now and don't think the QEII will be any cheaper so I'll have to bite the proverbial (bloody expensive) bullet. On re-reading that, I am realising I am adopting British slang a bit. I'm sure Carleton County will beat that out of me this summer and I will return a red neck--linguistically and literally, I'm sure; sunburns are a'comin'.

 I do have some exciting events to look forward to: Tom and I are heading to Norway at the end of May to visit Sarah and Kristian. It will be Tom's first visit and his first time meeting Kristian and I am excited to get back.

The other exciting bit of news--and the one I am probably most excited about and this will dominate many of my blog updates (if I ever become a regular updater again--is there a prune juice for bloggers?) from now on: I have been asked to become stage manager for the theatre company I volunteer with on their upcoming production of Annie. Quite excited for this! I am completely new to stage managing (directing We Will Rock You was fun and a great experience but, who am I kidding, complete and utter omnishambles by the end of it) and I am looking forward to the experience.

So, I leave you on that note, faithful readers. When I update again, I may have in my possession a stupidly ridiculous ticket home for the summer. Speaking of ...I have decided to start a charity. It is the Canadians-need-to-get-home-for-the-summer fund. Completely not for profit and a very worthy cause. You know you want to. This charity doesn't include TV adverts that make you feel guilty and want to change the channel. Really, it is a win-win for everyone involved.

Brush the Dust Off

Well well, it has been awhile indeed. Actually, according to my last post, I haven't updated in all of 2013! It would be useless to try and recount all of the events in detail so I will do a bit of a summative update and hopefully get back into a more regular routine. I do enjoy keeping my faithful readers updated. (I also like making ironic jokes)

To start, Tom and I have moved into a beautiful house together. We moved in mid-February and it has been going great so far. A bit further away from town, slightly further away from work but in a better location and much quieter. Not sure if I would ever want to go back to living in an apartment building again.

Two or three weeks after we moved into our house, a colleague of mine told me about her cat that she had recently re-homed. She was very allergic to her cat and had reached the unhappy decision that she had to give her up. Tom and I had discussed having pets and decided to take Poppy, rather than see her go to a shelter or re-homed somewhere not nearly as awesome as our house. We brought Poppy home and, after climbing up the chimney for four hours and sitting behind the dryer for another fifteen or sixteen, she settled in very well. She has this adorable habit of trying to get your attention by sinking her lovely little claws into your legs, arms, hands, face...you know, wherever. This is made even more adorable at 3:30 in the morning. Also, I want to publicly state I wanted to rename her. I was thinking Moose, as a tribute to my native land. Tom disagreed. How unfair.

I am on Easter holiday now and not nearly prepared to go back to work on Monday. Following my return to work, it will be the most frantic time of the year getting my Year 11s finished with their coursework, ready for exams and done their GCSEs. My third year of teaching is quickly finishing and I am still at the same school. Before I leave England, I want to see more of the country than the midlands, but I am happy enough and still have 4.5 years left on my Visa to decide on a change of scenery.

And, in 400 little words (or so), that is my life for the last few months. The upcoming months will include travelling, trips back to Canada and going on a trip with one of my best friends; hopefully this will allow for less summative posts, more exciting story-telling.

T'was the Night Before Christmas...

Gather 'round children and let me tell you the story of a very special gift.

What gift you ask?






Why, dear readers, this gift.








This gift came to me all the way from Norway from my very own sister. And what an adventure this package went on! Let me tell you the tale...



A few weeks ago, Sarah told me that she had mailed a Christmas gift to me and that I should look out for it. A couple weeks went by, didn't receive anything and didn't think much of it (considering mail was backed up for months following the Olympics, I figured I would get it just in time for Thanksgiving 2013). When Sarah mentioned it a few more times, I started checking the mail more frequently, asking the concierge at my building and still found nothing. Finally it got to Friday and still nothing (and only 2 more post days until Christmas--oh no)! This is where the story gets interesting. Or boring, depending on how limited your patience is. Mine had reached a critical low by the end of Friday afternoon.

 Sarah gave me the customer number and tracking number. I decided to stop in to my local post office to see if, for some reason, they had my parcel and just hadn't delivered it yet. No dice...attempt one. After getting home, I tried one more time with the front desk to see if it had been delivered in my 45 minute absence...nope. Attempt two. I called the courier company that Sarah shipped it with and the oh-so-unhelpful woman on the phone told me that I would have to drive to one of their convenient locations to pick up my parcel, about 300 miles away. Thanks love. Attempt three.

I then tried to see if the tracking number would work on one of the main courier services for England--it worked! Success. It seemed like I would be fourth-attempt lucky and have my parcel before bedtime! So off to the local Royal Mail depot I trundle, 10 miles away, and wait in line. It turns out that there are two Royal Mail depots in Northampton, one serving the post codes of NN1, NN2, NN5 and so on...and I had chosen the depot that served all other postal codes but mine. Fourth attempt strike-out.

The next adventure involved a 15-mile backtrack to this rather smelly little post office near my apartment where the woman behind the counter informed me that I hadn't reached the post depot, but rather just a mail office; lovely. Fifth attempt.

Patience wearing thin, the postal depot that proved as easy to find as Narnia was finally found and the line was literally out the door. After standing in line and explaining, for about the 72nd time, my quest to find this bleep-ing gift, the woman behind the counter took my information, checked her whizzy little computer and cheerfully informed me that my tracking number had nothing to do with Royal Mail and I had to contact the other major courier, ParcelForce. Sixth attempt.

On the drive back to my apartment, of course we hit heavy traffic. I found the phone number for ParcelForce and managed to get through...to a waiting line for a call centre. Teeth-grittingly wonderful. I am finally answered, explain my story for now the 117th time and the next unhelpful woman in my encounters cheerfully informed me that my parcel had been in the UK since December 3. Lucky number 7 it seems.

Without trying to sound like a shrieking banshee, I asked why I was not informed that my parcel had arrived. The woman informed me that there was a customs charge on it that needed to be paid. Fine and fair enough I replied and then sweetly enquired how in the sweet mother of everything holy was I expected to pay the customs charge if I was never informed of the package arriving in the UK?! Somewhat sheepishly, Miss ParcelForce said that there must have been a slight oversight and my letter just must have been left out. She then asked me if I wanted to pay an additional extortionate amount to have it delivered to me the next day. I politely (mentally) told her to stuff it and (verbally) asked what my other options were. I decided on a Christmas Eve delivery and then had another little spat about the concept of leaving the package at the front desk and that I was not, in fact, going to wait outside my building between the hours of 8AM and 5PM to get the.........wonderful........thing. Really, it was probably safer for Mr/Mrs ParceForce delivery-person that we never meet.

So, seven attempts and a few spikes in blood pressure later...

See how pretty it is?!

Alright, it was definitely worth it in the long run. I'm looking forward to my first truly British Christmas tomorrow; even if I am thinking of friends and family far across the Atlantic. First Christmas away from home in all my 25 years and I'm pretty excited about it. Now. I have milk and cookies to leave for the fat man. 

And, on that note...a Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!