The Plot Thus Far

A note to a friend, whom I've not seen in ages and who I think I will probably not see again for a long time:

She asks how it's going.

Ann and I have moved into a condominium in North York that she is renting from a parishioner friend of ours. I've donated almost an entire apartment's worth of furnishings because I can't afford to have it all shipped. Taking my bike though. Can't do without the bike. And the 'cello, even though the only thing I learned to play was the C major scale and the eight notes of the 'cello piece of Pachebel's Canon. And a couple of Christmas songs.

Apart from that, I've contacted the long lost relatives in Cheshire and they will be picking me up from Manchester airport and putting me up long enough to sleep off the jet lag. After that, it's off on the train to London on the 22nd to go to some weird posh do. A memorial Mass, in the traditional (what we now must call the "extraordinary" , thankyou Pope Benedict!) rite for Henry IX, de jure king of England and a reception with some famous a titled people. I understand Henry was a direct male-line descendant of James the somethingth, the last Catholic king of England. Cardinal Henry Stuart, brother of 'Bonnie Prince Charlie', Stuart claimant to the British throne. Anyway, I have already fallen in with thieves who are inviting me to this annual celebration of English Recusantism.

A very posh thing that involves one of the ancient Catholic chapels in St. John's Wood, and the wearing of hats, the drinking of tea/expensive sherry and, doubtless, the eating of very small sandwiches with the crusts cut off and cut into interesting shapes. So, I'm very happy to say that my plan of leaving Canada and going to live in a PG Wodehouse or Evelyn Waugh novel, seems to be working out famously.

To that end, I am taking my hat boxes with me on the subway to work tomorrow and am going to mail them to a friend of mine who lives in London so they will be there in relatively good order when I arrive on the 22nd ready to hobnob.

Everything else will be going by ship to Liverpool in a portion (1.3 meters cubed) of a container, for the paltry fee of 700 Canadian dollars. They will even take care of the customs forms for me. After that, I have to figure out a way to get it from the Liverpool docks to wherever I will be living.

I've decided on the North East. Fewest immigrants, highest population (according to 2002 statistics) of people born in Britain who call themselves Christian and go to church more than once a month. Decided particularly on the city of Durham. It's got a cathedral, (currently in enemy hands) built by William the Conquerer. And an 11th century castle that you can stay in as a B&B.

I talked to someone on the phone from Consett, a former coal mining town just "on the edge of the Pennines" and was surprised when I could not understand anything he said. It was like a Yorkshire accent, but kind of more so. Geordie they call it. I'm told the Geordies are the "nicest people in England."

Thinking of giving up journalism in favour of becoming a mad hatter.

Tough call.

The plane leaves the following Wednesday night, late, and arrives Manchester 11:20 am, local time.

And that will be that.

They tell me that there are 63 million people in Britain, only about 1.2 million of whom are mad Islamic savages. It will take me years to alienate 61.8 million people. Possibly even decades.

After that, I think it will have to be Malta.

How are you?