Salt: Now it's just ridiculous

I honestly didn't think I'd be writing another salt post any time soon. There's already a book on the market (which, coincidently, I have read and thoroughly enjoyed) and I've written extensively on the topic in two other riveting posts. What more could I add?

Well, how about this photo:

THAT is the amount of salt I had to buy for the dishwasher. I put it beside our other comically larger bottle of salt to help drive home the scale of 3kg of salt. 3kg of salt. That I carried home from the grocery store in a carrier bag (Tesco, as you can see from the label). Had I known when I left the house that I'd be bringing home all of the groceries and 3kg of salt, I'd have brought my trolley. What is up with the salt in this country?!

On the plus side, I was having a rather out of sorts day and when I realised that this was the only option for dishwasher salt I got to have a much-needed laugh in the aisle at the grocery store. Yeah, nothing off-putting about a girl staring at the salt, alone, and laughing.

So, I bought the salt and dragged it home. It was only then that I re-read the directions regarding the salt. You know, the ones I posted to the blog not a week earlier?? Yeah, apparently I was so stunned by the dishwasher-needs-salt issue that I misread how much salt was actually required. I have highlighted this for the convenience of the tl;dr crowd:

How did I miss that!?!

Anyway, now we are fully stocked up on salt and the dishwasher is once again happen. And I will endeavour to never discuss salt again!

There was an election

As a resident I got to vote in the municipal election yesterday. Since I always vote, and I always make informed votes, I had a lot of catching up to do to get ready for the ballot. Thankfully this little brochure arrives with our registration cards so that I could scope the candidates out and spell their names correctly when I went to the Internet for further details.

Since I'd rather not discuss the people I voted for, and the process is so different from what I'm used to in Canada, let's talk about that.

First of all, candidates have party affiliations here, even at the municipal level. While I'm sure we can all guess most of the affiliations in Canadian municipal elections, they're not declared. That was new and meant I got a crash course in all the major (and a number of lesser known) parties. There were seven candidates for mayor, with seven different parties represented. 

The voting for mayor was probably the most interesting component of this process. You make a first choice and then you get to make a second choice! I know, this blew my mind too - what are they on about with a second choice?! Well, the idea is that if no one wins the first column votes by receiving more than fifty percent of the votes, the top two candidates move the round two and the second column votes for them are allocated. The winner is the person with the highest combined score. It made my head spin to think of the strategic possibilities, but I must admit, I didn't investigate the prevalence of strategic voting.

If you want to know more about the process, London Elects has details.

Anyway, after you vote for mayor, you get to vote for the assembly member for your borough. We're in Westminster so we had five options and, again, party affiliations abound. The assembly is made up of additional London-wide members, so once you've chosen your borough member you get your third ballot out and you vote for the party that you would like to give your vote to. Seats are then divided up based on votes.

See? I told you this party affiliation phenomenon was serious stuff!

Aside from the above differences, you know what else I noticed about the election? There were no election signs to be seen in our area. It was so refreshing not to walk by sign after sign or to see them blowing down the street or filling ditches.

The cutest part of voting was the actual building where we voted: we walked in through the kitchen and were met by two women with scratch pads in a sort of closet-type room. They asked our numbers and then sent us into a bigger room (with a really strange assortment of items piled into the one end...I noticed a faux military helmet on top of one box). In the bigger room we stated our names, then took our ballots to tables with little wooden make-shift dividers that were probably older than I am. Much like in Canada it was all over before we knew it, but unlike in Canada, we couldn't go home to watch the counts roll in or get the results. Polls didn't close until 10pm, so the winner is announced tonight. I suspect the second column has a lot to do with the delay too. 

There you go. We've voted in a new mayor....can't wait to find out who it is!!

Hmm, the dishwasher could use more salt

I wish I was joking, but I'm serious. The dishwasher needs more salt. The hard reality of hard water is that apparently the dishwasher requires special salt to operate. And, because they require special salt, it means that I can't just use my never-run-out-until-you're-dead-or-maybe-even-later* supply of salt. I have to BUY MORE SALT. Groan.

When we moved in I read all the manuals for the appliances and made a note of the salt issue, but I didn't give it another thought until I went to clean the dishwasher. James, however, beat me to it and actually cleaned the dishwasher himself just a day earlier (there may be hope for him yet on the cleaning front!). 

Anyway, as I was marvelling at the fact that someone else had gotten to the grubby dishwasher seals before me, I noticed the salt compartment and thought back to what I'd read. I fished out the manual and tried to figure out how the dishwasher would tell me it needed more salt. Apparently it uses an indicator light. In fact, it uses the light on the control panel that has been very brightly on since we moved into the flat. In January. Oops.

Join me, when I finally make it to the grocery store, for another riveting salt-filled adventure. Alternatively, if Finish, whose dishwasher tabs we already use, would like to just send me a packet, that would be awesome too.

Also upcoming: I will talk at length about hard water. I know, you can hardly wait!

*A little nod to Purple, Green and Yellow by Robert Munsch. Thanks to my parents for reading to me all the time as a child!

The doctor's secretary is very thorough

Yesterday I had my last appointment with my sports medicine specialist. I couldn't have missed the appointment if I had tried. His secretary is so thorough that I was reminded of my appointment by way of:

• one phone call
• two personally written emails
• one auto-generated email
• three text messages
• and a mailed letter

I kid you not. An actual letter that came in the post. You'd think the country was populated by goldfish for the amount of credit they give people's memories! Astonishing.

Suffice to say, I didn't miss my appointment. And I also better understand the discussion over British bureaucracy.

Buying salt

When we were still living in corporate accommodation in The City (London's financial district), we had a kitchenette in our unit, so we tried to eat in as much as possible. Of course, that required buying groceries and, when you're starting from scratch, you have to purchase every single staple item as it's required. There's nothing worse than being right in the thick of a recipe and realising that you don't have any cumin. Don't take your pantry for granted. Everyone, go give your pantry a grateful and approving look. I'll wait here.

We don't cook with heaps of salt, but we still use it, so it went onto the grocery list one morning. I didn't think it would be so difficult. Our closest grocery store happened to be attached to our corporate flat, so I scoured the meagre aisles hunting down salt. Given that I was still so new at visiting British grocery stores, I took my time - many of the brands I am used to just don't exist here, or if they do, they've been repackaged for the UK market. Tricksy, tricksy products.

Upon finding the herbs and spices, I thought, "Well, here we go; salt, I'm coming to find you!" But I didn't find the salt. Undeterred, I thought I might have better luck with the baking supplies. I rounded the corner and found everything but salt. I gave up and left. We cooked without salt for a few more days. Not one to handle my defeats well (and also obstinately stubborn when it comes to asking a shop clerk for assistance), I returned to the site of my previous defeat and gave the store such a thorough once-over that I'm sure the security guards had me pegged as a shoplifter waiting to happen. I was rewarded by finding the salt tucked away at the end of an aisle, near a support pole, practically obstructed from the desperate eyes of salt-seekers. I can only assume it is the one remaining survival technique employed by salt.

Apparently wanting to buy a small amount of salt is next to impossible. I might as well have asked for six different varieties of sugar, individually packaged in one cup portions, because that would have been possible. Small amounts of salt, however, are out of the question, unless you're going to cruise all the fast food joints in the area lifting salt packets from the condiment stands. Maybe it was like this in Canada too and I just didn't notice because we'd had our box of salt for so long, it became a member of the family, only without a birthday.

On the plus side, my massive bottle of salt cost me 39p (that's $0.62 Canadian). 750g. Nearly a full kilo, for less than the cost of a chocolate bar. I simply do not understand, but I do know that we'll have salt for years and years. I'll be handing this salt down to my children and telling them fanciful stories about how I had to leave the house and go to a store to buy this salt with actual money (apparently I'm assuming that by the time I get around to actually making use of my reproductive system we'll have grown beyond a paper-based currency. Stop crying, mom.).

And because photos are fun, here's my salt beside a reasonable sized salt shaker:

See? Free running, even. Whew, that's my conscience cleared that the salt wasn't kept in captivity.

So behind!

I'm tempted to say I've been a bit lazy when it comes to blogging in the last week, but honestly, I don't know where I would have found the time in all the moving commotion.

"But Katie, you're not working, remember? You're some sort of unemployed, living-in-limbo kept woman slash home maker, so maybe you should get your act together and spare a moment to smash out a post, ok?"

Whoa, easy there judge-y.

So what's moving like in London? Well, let me tell you, when you're married to an economist, it's g-r-e-a-t. This is where I would use the sarcasm font or symbol, if the world could actually agree on one. James, in his....wisdom (??) decided it would be best if we did the move from the long-term accommodation flat to the rented flat in trips. By tube. Carrying things. Ugh. Ever the go-with-the-flow wife that I am, I agreed and we schlepped our six suitcases, one guitar and several bags to the flat, via a 30 minute tube ride (plus ten minutes walking). I had the privilege (Oh my god, I just realised I don't know how to spell privilege...Oshawa Catholic School Board, that one is on your head. Just saying.) of making four trips by tube. James joined me for the last two.

On Monday when I received the keys, I actually got to experience a delightful British ritual of the check-in. Our relocation agent and an independent inventory clerk met me at the flat bright and early (I had one suitcase and a bag with me, since we can't possibly waste the potential to move something into the flat). We spent the next two hours looking at every nook and cranny and itemising, in great detail, all the surfaces, furniture, appliances and housewares in the flat. It was interesting to experience and it definitely covers both us and our landlord, but whoa, I wish I'd packed a snack! After the inventory, our relocation agent (who, I must say, was adorable and enthusiastic) walked me all over the new 'hood for two hours, showing me the grocery store, the doctor's office, shops, tube stations and the library. It was a useful experience, but again, I wish I'd packed a snack.

With keys in hand I did another solo trip and then returned to the crap flat to wait for James so we could do the final two trips together. It wasn't pretty, but we go the job done and got to sleep in our new flat a day earlier than expected and, as an added bonus, no one had to cross town to get here in time for the movers with our shipped items! Little did we know our mover would actually be 40 minutes early to unload. Seriously, when have you known a mover to show up so early for a job?? 

James and I have moved house together twice, so we know each others' strengths and weaknesses when it comes to the process. I think it is fair to say that I am, by leaps and bounds, more methodical and have far more exacting standards when it comes to setting up a house. James puts things in cupboards and all over surfaces while I stand by cringing. I prefer to start with a perfect, clean slate. That means all the cupboards, shelves, walls and floors are cleaned before you go tossing things around and putting items away. I see dirt everywhere. I blame my family. Mostly my mother, but my whole family can take credit. We are a family that does things properly and thoroughly. I'm actually surprised when I think about it right now because I can say, with certainty, that all of my family members have very good habits where this is concerned. Must be the Polish influence. I don't think all families are as meticulous, but I don't care to find out...*shudder*

Fast forward to Friday and we're nearly sorted. There are a few things here and there that need attention, but it actually feels like we're living here, not just trying to set up shop. It's a good feeling.

Photos to come.

A litany of surprises

Ever since we found out that this impending move really was going to happen and wasn't just some crazy story I'd used to fuel my day dreaming while lying in bed each night, I've been scrutinizing various aspects of my Canadian life to understand how my life will change once we're finally in London. Silly things, almost insignificant things, have occupied my mind in ways I never thought possible!

For instance, the day we arrive in London, I will have a pocketful of some currency I can't quickly identify and enumerate in my head. Sure, I'll figure this out in a jiffy, and this in and of itself doesn't seem like much, but I expect I will go through that process a hundred times over in the first week we're in London. When you start to add up all the little, insignificant differences, it actually amounts to, well, a lorry full of insignificant differences. Did you catch that? I used the word "lorry" instead of "truck" because in England that's what I'm likely to hear. I'm already going to stick out when I open my mouth due to my (hopefully endearing) Canadian accent, so no harm in leaving it at that and picking up some British terms before we've even landed.

I've learned that I am, if anything, very laid back and capable of adapting to these sorts of scenarios, so I have no fears of extreme culture shock or of a tearful outburst in a tube station when I'm asked to use an Oyster card and I don't see a fish monger anywhere. But I am learning that I relish in these little differences and quirks that will make living in London an entirely thrilling and endlessly amusing situation. For my part, I'm inclined to share these here, as social observation, and to help flesh out the "today I walked around and looked at stuff" posts that I'm sure are bound to run amok in tediously short time come December 2011.