Holidays on Holiday

by Adam Slade

“Dashing through the snooow,

In a one moose open sleigh,

O'er the fields we gooo,

Dodging bears all the way,

Bells on cat tails riiing

Knocking down trees tonight

Oh what fun it is to sing

In a Newfie accent toniiight.”

This Christmas will be my first spent away from the family. Let me explain for the sake of those who haven’t read my earlier articles. Because I’m nice like that. Stop rolling your eyes.

Back in April I decided that, as much as I like my family, real bacon, and decent cheddar, I would rather like to fly to Canada and marry my sweetheart. Y’know, ‘cause I’m weird like that.

So I headed to the airport, sat at the wrong terminal for an hour, and I was off.

It’s now many months later and Christmas is approaching. In fact it’s already on the highway in its ’57 Chevrolet, windows down, Radar Love blaring out of the speakers. And it ain’t braking for ice patches, moose, or odd Englishmen with crude goatees.

It’s not that I want to go home. Far from it. I want to experience Chrimbo, Newfoundland style. It’s just that I’m a rather traditional person at heart, and it takes me a while to break a habit. And this one’s a doozy.

My prior Christmases were standard in their, um, standarditude, but I loved them. Early rise, early stumble down the stairs, early cuddle of dog(s), first cup of tea, wait for appearance of grandparent, another cup of tea, open things, rejoice, more tea, too much chocolate, watch grandparent fall asleep while watching classic comedy re-runs and sipping tea. It was simple, it was a little heavy on the tea, but it was very happy.

This Christmas will be a little different. For one thing, I may freeze to death in my sleep. That would be a bummer. We will have lights, and we will have a tree, but it will be a cat friendly fibre-optic tree. There won’t be any dogs to sniff at the cable and give me a heart attack when I think they’ll bite through it.

There will be fun and frolics, and general merry-making, and I will have to find some mistletoe and use it whenever Sweetie is least expecting it, but my brother won’t be there to make retching sounds when I do.

And there won’t be my folks. I’m not one for sentimentality most of the year, but Christmas is special. It’s a time for family.

That being said, I am looking forward to a few quiet days with the missus and the cat. So far we’ve been through two birthdays and a Canada Day together, but not a Christmas or New Years Day. Those were previously spent over the webcam, unwrapping on camera (assuming things arrived on time) and wishing they’d implement Hug-O-Vision.

This time, though, we’ll get to exchange presents in the same time zone, and I won’t have to wipe the lip marks off my monitor.

Uh, not that I ever did that. Honest.

Merry Christmas, folks.

Man’s Malady

by Adam Slade

Birthdays are great, aren’t they? All that attention, and all those presents. Nothing gives me more satisfaction than the smile on a person’s face when they receive the brightly-coloured package that I wrapped just for them. The smile generally lasts right up until they get the wrapping off to find ‘Rocks Greatest Hits 1994’.

It’s not that I’m a bad gift-buyer, per se. It’s just that gas stations have a limited selection, and most other shops are shut at that time of night, or need more than two hours notice to order something special in.

Yup. I was a last-minute shopper. I’d find out the date of the birthday/occasion way in advance, find out what kind of things they wanted, then think, “Plenty of time yet!” and forget about the whole thing until someone reminded me three days before the party.

I know what some of you are thinking – typical man – and it’s true. Male DNA is missing certain key... uh... thingies, which makes it very difficult to both retain dates and prepare gifts with more than twelve minutes to go. Also, we’re often lazy. That’s genetic too. To be frank, they are serious flaws of ours, and we deserve sympathy. And puppies. 

I mean tattoos. Yeah, that’s it. Grr. Tattoos of puppies.

This pattern continued throughout my childhood years, teens, and into my early twenties, before I came across a way to deal with what I like to call ‘Man’s Malady’. The Internet. Lemme explain.

You see, shops these days are available online, as well as in meatspace, and in many ways they are superior to the old-fashioned ones which expect you to put clothes on before you enter. Online stores are fast to browse, which is ideal for the male’s limited attention span, have the shiny things in prominent positions, which makes them easier to spend too much money on, and, most importantly, they deliver.

Yup. You can order your plastic roses and red lacy lingerie that is only suitable to be worn on a bet from the comfort of your own boxer shorts and stained white t-shirt. You don’t even have to stand up!

On discovery of this, and after gaining a debit card and an account with a positive number, I rejoiced heartily (that’s like normal rejoicing, only with deep laughs and backslaps). Never again would I suffer from Man’s Malady! All I had to do was order something a few weeks before the event and throw the box into a cupboard. The only effort required was checking my fly was closed when I answered the door to the mail-lady. I even remembered most of the time.

Nowadays, my troubles are behind me. As the days pass, I sit back with a smug grin, safe in the knowledge that I’ve taken care of things way in advance. On the night before the occasion, I wrap the gift up tight, then place it reverently – like normal placing, only you have to sing a hymn while you do it – upon my glasses case, so I’ll remember to take it with me when I wake up. Perfect.

Still forget the card, though.

The result of a caveman breeding with an ingot of un-distilled sarcasm, newlywed Adam Slade was always going to go places. Some days he even makes it as far as the kitchen. Adam is an author of fantasy and humour works, and when he's not writing, he's reading or goofing off on the Internet. You can read about his exploits on his blog, Editing Hat, and on his Twitter.

Image credit: timorinvest.com

Cook-a-foodle-does

by Adam Slade

It turns out I can cook. It came as quite the shock, I can tell you.

The jaw-dropping discovery was aided by my darling wife, who will be named Sweetie for the entire article (because she is one). Y’see, Sweetie is an author, like me, as well as a nurse, and if I was to say to her, “What’s for dinner?” after she’d just got back from a twelve-hour shift she’d rightly feed me my own kneecaps.

So, after asking her a few probing questions about how the hell certain ingredients became edible, I decided I’d prove to myself that I was more than a Ramen eating water-burner, and prepare something for when she got back from work the next day. Something that didn’t come in one easily microwaveable package.

The next day came early. Too bloomin’ early, in fact, as Sweetie gets up at five in the morning on day shifts. I waved her off, then headed to the kitchen to begin my epic voyage of self-discovery/mutilation. I shall recount it in the form of a recipe. Be sure to follow the instructions to the letter:


1.    Remove pork joint from freezer early enough that, by the time of preparation, it is defrosted on the outside while still rock solid on the inside. Try not to drop on the cat’s head.

2.    Fill pot with about half an inch of water. That’s somewhere between ‘a smidgen’ and ‘yay much’, depending on the pot’s size.

3.    Place pork into pot, add onion.

4.    Remove onion, take off outer skin, dice, place back in pot and cover with lid.

5.    Realize you forgot to preheat the oven, but throw the pot in anyway. Cook at 350 degrees because that’s what the default setting is and you can’t remember how to change it. That’s probably Fahrenheit.

6.    Check on the pan after one hour and realize that the butcher tied string around the joint for some reason. Remove string with blunt knife while burning all ten fingers and screaming insults to the god of livestock.

7.    Check the meat every twenty minutes for the next two hours because you’re paranoid that it’ll burn and Sweetie will divorce you for being a terrible chef. In the gaps, soak throbbing fingers in ice water.

8.    After three hours cooking time has elapsed, take six reasonably-sized potatoes and peel skins. Aim for 80% potato skin, 20% human.

9.    Dice potatoes and throw in a pan of water. Once water is boiled, allow it to splash onto the stovetop, then turn down to medium heat. Remember the carrots shortly after and throw them on top of the potatoes. Sweetie likes ‘em a bit crunchy anyway, right?

10.  After five minutes panic because the meat is done but you haven’t finished the potatoes. Turn oven off and add water to top of meat to stop it solidifying.

11.  Drain potatoes, remove carrots, mash potatoes (add a little milk and margarine/butter, then squash them till your forearm cramps).

12.  Remove meat from pot, put on plates with the oniony watery stuff that it was cooking in. Dollop mash and carrots on the side.

13.  Serve, all the while apologizing in case it’s awful.


To my great surprise, the meal turned out edible. In fact it was lovely. The meat fell apart beautifully, and the mashed potato was as creamy as... uh, a very creamy thing on its creamiest day.

Next week? Fromage de tete de porc, avec asperges a la vinaigrette.

I’ll keep the ambulance on standby.



The result of a caveman breeding with an ingot of un-distilled sarcasm, Adam Slade was always going to go places. Some days he even makes it as far as the kitchen. Adam is an author of fantasy and humour works, and when he’s not writing, he’s reading or goofing off on the internet. You can read about his exploits on his blog, Editing Hat, and on his Twitter.

The sun, it burns!

by Adam Slade

In the summer time, when the weather is fine,

I step out the door, and catch on fire,

When the weather’s right,

I got burnin’, I got burnin’ on my mind.

(Mungo Jerry are suing as we speak.)

Back in the UK, ‘summer’ seems to translate into ‘slightly less rain, let’s go to the beach with half the population and ride donkeys’.

We do see some nice days, but given that most Brits consider a good summer to mean a fortnight of warm weather, don’t head over there expecting to top up your tan. (Or your car. You think you have it bad with your prices? Double it. Even the mayor of London rides a bicycle to work.)

Notice I said ‘back’ in the UK. I’m currently in Canada, living it up with my sweetie. Thing is, while it gets considerably colder over here during the winter, it also gets quite a bit warmer during the summer months.

Bugger.

Ignoring the ever-spreading grey, I am a brunette. I was born with bright ginger hair, though, and while that grew out, the fair skin remained. As such, if I see more than six seconds of mildly warm sunshine, my skin adopts the colour of molten lava and my eyes turn milky white from the glare.

Last year I spent a fortnight in Canada, and managed to arrive just before a heatwave. The resulting orgy of heat and humidity had me hiding indoors with a fan on bust 24 hours a day, hoping for either a quick death or an ice cream.

And now I’m back. And summer’s approaching.

So I have formulated a five step program for dealing with the oncoming solar apocalypse that is temperatures above 25C:

1.      Fans to remain on and pointed at my face at all times. If the fans should break, I will hire people to waft palm fronds at me.

2.      To further aid my temperature, I will wear light clothing, such as t-shirts, shorts, and baseball caps. If this does not work, I will move to a thong and sunhat.

3.      All keyboard keys will be replaced with carefully carved ice cubes. In the case of multiple electric shocks, I will start writing with pen and paper. Inside the refrigerator.

4.      When required to leave the house, I will strap ice-buckets to my feet, so as not to scorch my tootsies. If the water begins to boil, tea will be served wherever I happen to be at the time.

5.      Evenings will be spent immersed in jelly, as it retains its temperature for longer than water. For variety, I will use different flavours on different days of the week.

If these steps fail to work (I honestly don’t see how they could), I will fall upon my oft-used backup plan; whingeing and whining in the hope that someone will club me unconscious, thus rendering me immune to heat.

*Taps head.*

Not just a hat-rack.

The result of a caveman breeding with an ingot of un-distilled sarcasm, Adam Slade was always going to go places. Some days he even makes it as far as the kitchen. Adam is an author of fantasy and humour works, and when he's not writing, he's reading or goofing off on the internet. You can read about his exploits on his blog, Editing Hat, and on his Twitter.

Up, Up, and A-Team

by Adam Slade

First, a little backstory. Back in June of 2010, I flew to Canada to meet with my sweetie for the very first time. The flight was brief and pleasant (a mere 8 hours, including layover), and the fortnight I spent among the moose and poutine was pleasant, to say the least.

Jump ahead to the next year, and I decided it was about time I pulled up stakes and headed back over there. For six months.

People, especially family, were a little surprised. They kept saying, “When are you off?” to which I’d answer, “Uh, April,” and then they’d say, “Have you started packing?” to which I’d reply, “It’s January.”

Each month, I altered my reply to suit, until I realised that the month of leaving was this month. 

Ah.

As you can imagine, the sheer scale of preparation for such an upheaval would make lesser men weep. I had to write three whole lists, and buy a big bag. Then, using said lists, I put things in the bag. It was intense. I lost a foot to stress.

All the while, people kept telling me to pack more, pack less, make more lists, and to stop rolling my eyes when they gave me suggestions.

The day of epic travellage began at three in the morning, when I was roused by a mild heart attack brought on by the ‘apocalypse’ volume setting on my alarm. By four, I had said my goodbyes and was on the way to the airport.

See the picture above to see me sat at the wrong departure gate. Always a good start. I was wondering why it was so quiet.

After the first flight, I landed in the monstrosity that is London Heathrow, and had a three and a half hour wait before the next flight. Now, most seasoned fliers tell me the same thing about layovers. Stay stood up, as you’ll be sitting when you’re on the plane.

Stand up. For three and a half hours. Pfft.

There’s a finite number of times one can look at the same books, electronics, and £2,000 watches before one loses the will to live. I spent as much time upright as I could, though, then gave in and sagged into an uncomfortable seat to watch the minutes tick by. They took their bloomin’ time.

The next flight was the biggy, and I have to admit, I was dreading it. Six hours in the air, with only bad inflight movies and some smelly individual with a gut that hung over the armrest for company. In actual fact I got a row of three chairs all to myself,  and watched The A-Team and Kung Fu Panda. Pretty sweet. Even peed for the first time on a plane. In the right place, too!

I’d show you the pictures I took from the window seat, but it turns out that iPod cameras don’t like shooting through scratched and cloudy plastic windows.

We landed in Nova Scotia, I managed to get through customs, despite the fact that I was smuggling both a British accent AND sarcasm, and then was kindly informed by a gentleman that my hold luggage was not booked onto the final flight.

Cue second heart attack.

It turns out that it was easily resolved, but tell that to my blood pressure. The last flight was a speedy one, and I touched down in Newfoundland, Canada some seventeen hours after I left the house, to be greeted with a temperature of minus two degrees, and snow.

Oh, and my sweetie. And a warm hotel room to snooze in. Prior to the next day’s 350km drive.

*cough*

The result of a caveman breeding with an ingot of un-distilled sarcasm, Adam Slade was always going to go places. Some days he even makes it as far as the kitchen. Adam is an author of fantasy and humour works, and when he's not writing, he's reading or goofing off on the Internet. You can read about his exploits on his blog, Editing Hat (http://www.editinghat.blogspot.com/), and on his (occasionally updated) Twitter (http://twitter.com/adam_slade).

Of Elbows and Sawdust

by Adam Slade


There used to be a very simple technique for fixing broken things in our house. On discovering the defective electrical item/piece of furniture/banana, one would turn to face the stairs and shout, "Dad!"

The man in question would then appear and grumble about said defective item, then mutter something about getting it fixed at some point, and how he'd 'told your mother it was cheap crap when she bought it'. Easy. There is nothing the man cannot fix. Cars, wiring, plumbing... I'm pretty sure he could perform open heart surgery with a length of used duct tape and a garden gnome.

For reasons irrelevant to my attempt at wittiness, the main repairman became persona non gratis at the Slade household, leaving all the repairs to my brother and I.

Bugger.

I know what you're thinking. "You, an author, gamer, and 180 pound weakling, no good with your hands?" Shocking but true. And I'm 186 pounds, thank you very much. Writing repair? Piece of cake. The kind of repair that involves grunting, swearing, and massive blood loss? The clue's in the usage of the term "massive blood loss."

The first major repair that required my manly (stop laughing) assistance was a door that needed hanging. My brother and I eyed the job, shrugged simultaneously, and told mum, "Yeah we'll give it a go."

The first problem came taking the old door off. You see, my brother and I have traits that don't really suit the removal of screws. Rick is as strong as an ox, but has the sweatiest palms known to man, meaning he can't grip screwdrivers. I have a grip like a steel trap, but absolutely no muscle anywhere on my body to back it up. The act of removing the old door and putting up the new one to 'see how it looks' took twenty minutes of Rick holding the weight while I forced my arm to develop something other than hair. Minutes after, we found a fully charged cordless screwdriver. Live and learn.

On standing back to admire our work, we noticed two problems. Firstly, the hole in the frame where the sticky-out bit of the handle goes (stop me if I get too technical) was in the wrong place, and secondly, the door didn't actually fit in the frame.

At this point my brother and I fell back on tried and true methods of problem solving. We flipped the kettle on and bemoaned our luck, then went in search of a hammer. Mid-swing at the door, Rick suggested that maybe we should try chiselling out the hole in the frame instead.

Part one dealt with, we stopped for yet another cuppa. We are English, after all. It's how labourers work over here.

While the hinges on the door were seated right, it stuck out a bit at the top. And by 'a bit', I mean half an inch. Rick retrieved the sandpaper and was gracious enough to let me do the work, since we only had the one face mask, and he had television to watch.

After five minutes, my hair and beard were the same colour as the door. As were the floor, wall, and dog. After fifteen minutes, I could taste wood.

Two hours of coughing and swearing later my elbow was a disaster area, but I was finished! The door swung open and closed like t'was guided by angels! Angels made of grease!

Mum appeared back from work a few hours later while I was nursing my defective limb. Her first words?

"Did you find the electric plane I bought?"


...


Shut up.


Adam is one of those weird people who write books. Doesn't he know there are thousands in the book shop? No assembly required or anything.

You can find him at http://about.me/adamslade, which contains links to all his other sites. You can also drop him an email at asladeauthor(AT)gmail(DOT)com.

Resolute in my Failure

by Adam Slade

Since it's January, and I'm approaching a big ole turn in the road that is my life (that there is an understatement), I thought I'd try and stick to some resolutions this year. Problem is that I'll fail. I always do, often catastrophically.

I always start with the best of intentions, but as many of you know, intentions are slippery little buggers. As soon as you turn your back, they've slipped out back for a smoke and a game of hacky sack. Damn hippies.

So, for your delight and delectation, I shall not only give you my list of resolutions, but also tell you how and when I will fail them. Partly because I like the sound of my own voice, and partly because Stacey said she'd hit me with a zombie if I don't do this or 'winter sports'. Pfft, please. I'm a writer. I don't do the S word.

Sports, not-- Never mind.

Where was I? Oh.

1. Write a bare minimum of 2,000 words a day. (Facebook, Twitter and emails to celebrities do not count.)

This will be failed on January the fourth at around three thirty in the afternoon, when I look at how much I've done so far and think, "Awesome! That's nearly ten percent of a first draft right there! That deserves a day or twelve of browsing the internet while listening to geeky podcasts." Some guilt will be felt.

2. Get fit, in readiness for my trip across the high seas. Well, 30,000 feet above 'em anyway.

On January the 17th, after more than two weeks of walking around the block and pedalling on the cross trainer, I'll decide it's rather cold outside/in the garage, and my time would be much better spent eating chocolate. After all, it's been a long time since I've had a cold, and I don't want to push my luck. There will be a little guilt, but that's what the chocolate is for.

3. Read more books in genres other than fantasy and comedy to expand writing horizons. Note - Cereal boxes do not count.

"Where the hell are the dragons/magical swords/turnips?!" Date of failure - January first. Guilt will last the time it takes to open a real book.

Thankfully it's the thought that counts. Right?

RIGHT?!?!

Happy New Year, peeps.

Adam

Bah Humbug... Or Something

by Adam Slade


"Oh, the weather outside is frightful,
the lack of fire is sooo damn spiteful,
I don't care if it cooosts a ton,
turn it on, turn it on, warm my bum."

Or something.

I'm what you might call a Pre-Christmas Curmudgeon. Or 'miserable sod', should you prefer. Most do. If I see a Christmas advert before the first of December, it's too durned early, and I make a mental note not to buy anything from that store unless absolutely necessary (i.e. they're cheaper). I find decorations silly and distracting, the music jangly and irritating, and the trees? Tree? Indoors?! Pfft.

On or around the tenth, though, this all changes. The music makes me grin like a loon (ok, more like a loon), I help put the decorations up where they'll stand out the most, and I go nuts with the tinsel on the tree, which I crawl into the attic to retrieve, despite the spiders.

In the lead up to 'the day', I sit in the front room with a huge cup of tea in my hands and my swaddled tootsies up on the coffee table, watching repeats of '70s comedy Christmas specials and finishing the punchlines for them. I'm 27, and yet come the night of Christmas Eve, I don't sleep. I lie there with a grin plastered on my chapped and cracking lips, my legs jigging as I attempt to both warm the sheets. and keep my bladder full and mattress dry (that may be an exaggeration).

And then it arrives!

It!

The day!

Um, y'know... Christmas?

Try and pay attention.

It's the only day where I'm up ridiculously early -- and by that I mean before 2pm -- and don't care. I stagger downstairs, shiver, stagger back upstairs to put clothes on, stagger halfway back down the stairs and realize I have caveman hair and breath, stagger to the bathroom, then make it all the way to the kettle before I remember that I put my appallingly wrapped presents under my bed. This process of repeated stair climbs continues for another twenty to thirty minutes before everything is where is should be. When the family has finished laughing at me, we pass around the prezzies, and well, you know how the rest works.

My good spirits last throughout Christmas Day, Boxing Day, and sometimes even the day after, before receding. Once again the songs are crap, the tree is stupid, and the decorations are a fire hazard.

I keep the cards, though.



Photo credit: deltasdazzlingcostumes.com.au