Funny farm

According to Pete, every animal says "rarr-rarr-rarr!" accompanied by a dramatic waving of the arms.  His not-at-all-competitive mother identified this as an educational deficiency and so a remedial trip to a farm was booked.

As luck would have it, Maplewood Farm is a short bus ride from the centre of Vancouver and has more animals than Old McDonald after a long car journey.  You had to pay to get in, which is an idea I'll pass on to my dairy-farming cousin should milk prices drop further.

Alongside the domesticated animals there were herds of vicious wild beasts that roamed free, or school groups as they're otherwise known.  We thought it was a good idea to go on a Friday when things might be quieter, but no: several parties of identically-T-shirted children piled in as we did, teachers beseeching them to "use their inside voices".  Canadian classrooms must be very noisy places.

Pete loved it all, of course, observing animals and humans with equal frowniness.  He continued to greet everything with a "rarr!" but the animals were better trained than the children.  The goats in the petting area were especially saintly.  Hannah spent the trip mentally drawing up the menu for our next fortnight's dinners.

All-you-can-eat buffet.

Roast chicken.

Pulled pork.

Christmas/Thanksgiving dinner.

...?

Look Mum and Dad, I found some dirt!  Woo!

Goat curry.

Glue.

 It was sunny, so the chickens were happy.

Nuggets.

Predator.

Happy Mother's Day

Mother's Day falls on a different day in North America than in the UK, so Hannah gets to celebrate twice!  Or, more accurately, I have twice the chance of forgetting to buy a card.

Pete is on-message.

Hannah - the best mother in the world!  Apart from my mother and her mother, of course.

Banned in the USA

We needed to go to the bank, we'd run out of cheese, and we'd been missing the sweet smell of freedom; it was time to visit the USA again.  Such fun!  We picked up a rental car and nosed into the downtown Vancouver weekend traffic.

Getting to the border was relatively painless and the "30 minutes" wait time on the signs was surprisingly accurate.  Until the immigration officer in his little kiosk uttered those terrifying words: secondary processing.

Yes, next to the border there's a whole other border, a longer, more tedious, traditional border where you park your car and join a massive queue in a grey government building, shuffling forward inches at a time towards the all-powerful stony-faced officials behind the long desk at the front.  "Where's the fast lane for British subjects?" I asked the armed guard at the door.  His silence did not reassure me - the Queen will be hearing about this.

Over an hour later a man stapled additional forms into our passports and charged us $6 each for the privilege.  It seems to be free to fly into the US but you have to pay every 90 days to drive in.  Whether I'll be reimbursed for the lost hours of my life wasn't discussed (and, to be fair, I usually charge less than $6 an hour).  Giving birth to a US citizen was meant to stop this kind of thing happening, but I suppose I have to look forward to the day when Pete says "I'll see you in California" and leaves his struggling parents to fend for themselves.

Amazingly, these border shenanigans made the usual insanity at the bank seem pedestrian ("no, I'd like you to let me send my money to myself!") and although I like to spend longer at a destination than it takes to travel there we turned around quickly in case of more hassles going back.  Thankfully the Queen's authority still carries weight in civilised places, and after a trifling 15 minutes queuing in the car at the Canadian border we were waved through and my worries melted away like the chocolate peanut butter cups from Trader Joe's that I was smuggling in my underwear.

Welcome?  Are you sure?

Canada's Got Talent

We awoke this morning to find that a shanty town had been constructed across the road!  On closer inspection it seemed that the numerous people under blankets and makeshift-umbrella-tents were waiting in a long line around the Westin Hotel.  What would bring so many hundreds out so early?  Perhaps the England cricket team were staying there, or maybe one of the bands that kids listen to these days, like Abba or Oasis.

But no - Hannah's quick internet investigation told us that there were auditions taking place for season seven of The Next Star (you'd have thought, after six unsuccessful seasons, they'd have given up the search by now).  The rules stated that you had to get there before 9am to be guaranteed an audition and then sing two songs, one from the approved list and one of your choosing.  I recognised maybe three songs from this list of 50, and none were by Oasis or Abba.

We watched as the line grew and television cameras appeared, and someone with a megaphone got everyone to cheer and clap a lot while they filmed the spontaneous excitement.  I marvelled at the desperation that would drive so many to think fame and adulation are quickly achievable through a televised talent contest.  I wept tears of pity that fortune and fans are so easily acquired in our disposable media culture.  I grabbed my ukulele and ran down to join the line.

I'm not sure when they arrived, but some of these people looked like they'd been there overnight - possibly not the best preparation for a singing contest.

That's the front, and over on the right is the end.  Some people got to keep their dreams alive longer than others...

Melting point

Summer has come to the Arctic Circle!  There were rumours that somewhere in the city the rain stopped falling and temperatures reached 20C.  Like us Brits, Vancouverites have over 30 words for rain but, interestingly, none for sun, unless "it burns!!" counts.

It's raining again now, of course, but for those few brief glorious moments all of Vancouver came out to bask.  Artists set up stalls along the beach selling twee watercolours, the chimes of an ice cream van were heard, and the smell of suncream brought Pete distant memories of his Californian birthplace.

Daddy...that hot thing in the sky...I'm sure I've seen it before...

What do Canadians do when it gets this warm?  Bury their heads in the sand.

Although sometimes that sand's too hot to stand on.

Run for your wife

Pete has a 50% chance of growing up sporty.  He also has a 50% chance of growing up loving computer games (a number boosted by sitting watching me play all-day-every-day).  But today the sporty side won out when we saw Hannah compete in the annual Vancouver Sun Run.

Now in its 30th year, the run is named after the local paper rather than ironically after this city's weather.  It's a 10km race around downtown, starting right by the cathedral and trailing through Stanley Park, over a bridge or two, and finishing at the stadium.  It's the second biggest run in North America, attracting around 50,000 entrants.

Hannah has adopted a grueling training regime...intermittently...but it worked when she clocked a time of 59:10, finishing around the top 20% of all runners and top 15% of her category.  Unbelievably impressive!  I'm going to have to work harder at my computer gaming, shortly after giving my Olympian wife a foot massage.

Hannah is runner 803 - that's my favourite number in the whole world!

Plenty of others line up as well.

With her work/running-mate Gillian.  They made up the Chevron team from her office.

Here's the view from the very back of the line as Pete and I try to escape from a totally closed city centre.

 And this is the start!  Hannah had to wait over an hour to cross, given the vast hordes and the way they started people in groups, but luckily they only time you from when you cross the line...

...except this group - these are the elites who started off first, to win.  I thought of breaking into the lead pack pushing Pete in his buggy, for the unbelievable photo opportunity, but thankfully reconsidered (given that my fastest flat-out sprint wouldn't have got me near them anyway I avoided epic fail embarrassment).

And there go the rest.  We didn't spot Hannah, but did see two bananas that she started alongside.

Next year it's my turn, I guess.  Or not.

Baby's first Twinkie

They don't sell Twinkies in Canada.  I'll let that phrase sink in for a moment.  And then I'll repeat it: they don't sell Twinkies in Canada.

They used to, but after the infamous cake crash of 2012 and the subsequent resurrection no one bothered to distribute the most amazing food ever north of the 49th parallel (hang on - does Alaska have Twinkies?  That would be deeply wrong).

Luckily our contraband mules James and Gen managed to smuggle ten through YVR (I didn't ask where they hid them) and so I am in receipt of the only pack of Twinkies in 50 miles.  Apart from all those people who cross the border to shop in the USA every weekend I suppose.

But who should I share this treasure chest of spongy gold bars with?  No one, obviously, but then I remembered how important it is for our son to remain connected to the cultural heritage of his birthplace.  He's never tasted inorganic food so I reluctantly handed over an artificial-cream-filled miracle.  His reaction?

Suspicion.

Confusion.

Wariness.

Recklessness.

Destruction.

Fulfillment.

Oblivion.

Understanding.