Last night I discovered that the gift I had beautifully wrapped for a close friend, which lay waiting under the Christmas tree, was not as perfect as I’d thought it was. The item came up randomly and to my chagrin, my well-thought out gift that I’d planned ahead for and had bought a month and a half in advance would only be welcome because it came from my hand and not because it, in itself, was wanted. As I lay in bed before falling asleep, I found myself racking my brain to think of something meaningful that I could rush out and get for her last minute. My careful planning to avoid shopping in the last few days leading up to Christmas was thrown to the wind and I found myself trying to figure out if I could get into busy Glasgow, without the kids, to (hopefully) buy a welcome substitutionary gift. As we sang meaningful songs this morning in church I still found my mind wandering to the nagging question of what THE item could be. But then God grabbed my attention… through the sermon… and I listened. The man up front talked of how Christmas had become some worldly cycle of trying to out-do ourselves and putting ourselves under financial pressure to make sure we ticked off all the cultural ‘to dos’, the necessary gifts, the hurried last minute ‘buys’ because we must get them SOMETHING. And I was doing this in my mind… in the middle of church. Suddenly, I knew what I was to give my dear friend and my heart lurched a bit, but I also felt good about sacrificing something dear to me.

I have a plant. She is a kalanchoe and her name is Felicity. She only cost me a couple of pounds and she’s been in my possession for about two or two and a half years. She lives in a white tin pot painted in coloured polka-dots and she lives in the warmest, lightest place in the flat– the windowsill in Johnny’s room. I have faithfully cared for her and trimmed her of any dead foliage, watering her weekly, but she wouldn’t bloom. Finally, after following some advice from a friend with a green thumb, Felicity has broken forth in a multitude of small buds. They have grown larger and larger and I think that she will be in full bloom in the beginning of the new year. And this dear little plant, who I’ve talked to and gently handled was what I felt God wanted me to give to my friend.

Perhaps my friend won’t love my wee plant as I have loved her. But she will know that it is a gift from my heart. It is not about consumerism. It is about giving a part of oneself, about true giving no matter how great or little the cost. Every now and then God asks me to give up something that means a lot to me. Part of it is to keep me from becoming too attached to ‘things’. Part of it is to remember that there is a cost in true giving, but that this kind of sacrifice is something beautiful.

And in this time of year when the economy, the salespeople, the advertisements, are in a frantic state to get us to buy, buy, buy, it is good to remember that there is more to Christmas, more to life, than what we get, or even how much we give out. There is joy in simple things. There is joy in true giving. And there is joy in the memories that we make (which rarely has to do with the presents!). And so I savour my walk in the cold of the garden to bless the wee birdies with food. And so I give a gift that means something to me. And I remember Christ.

You’d think that these urgings would have long ago left those of us sunk deep into the ‘conveniences’ of modern living. We no longer rely on the ’stores’ we set aside to last us through a fierce winter. All I need to do to make basically anything is to throw on a warm jacket and take myself down to the local supermarket. But yet, I live to embrace the stirrings that come in Autumn. Perhaps it’s because my mum always did canning (mason jars) in the Fall and we enjoyed the fruits of her labour, savouring pears, peaches, and cherries poached in some delightful, syrupy liquid all winter long. Perhaps it really is deeper than that, something God inbuilt in us from the birth of humanity to move with the seasons in order to ensure our survival. In any case, I find that I must embrace it, to move with the rhythms of life.

So my hands have been busy. Yesterday afternoon I cut open and pitted approximately 130 plums from our pastors’ plum tree and made up stewed plums as well as plums poached in port. The day previous I made up a big batch of butternut squash and coconut soup spiced with red pepper– even my girls will eat this one! I’m so glad that both my birthday and Canadian thanksgiving are thrust right into the heart of Fall–it is a time when I always feel so thankful for nature and friendship and good food.

Yes, it’s been five months plus since I wrote an article. It’s not that I on’t have anything to say, it’s just that three children have a way of filling my days in a way that just two didn’t. However, having said that, it hasn’t been a difficult transition. Going from no children to one, and then from one to two required much more of a change in my lifestyle. The biggest difference that I have with three is that I have quite a bit more dirty washing and my tasks of the day tend to encroacch on any evening relaxation. I always have a pile of things I’d like to work on, whether they be for pleasure or otherwise, so I have the fortunate position of NEVER being bored. There is always something for me to pick up:-).

Perhaps some day I will write more on Johnny’s birth, perhaps it will just remain in the depths of my journal. Each birth has been such a treasure, so different from each other, but all with overwhelming, deep emotions that stir me deeper than anything else in life. Johnny ’swam’ into the world as he was born in a birthing pool; he also plunged into my heart after I had wondered for several months how I would adjust to a son after two daughters. I needn’t have worried.

Johnny has my eyes. While I know the girls look like me in some ways (like John in others), I’ve never been able to just pick out a feature and say, ‘Yes, that looks like me.’ However, very quickly with Johnny I felt sure that he had MY eyes and am thrilled whenever anyone confirms this. I have my dad’s eyes and he has HIS dad’s eyes, so it’s a proud thing to be passing on something to each generation–like with Johnny’s name on the Clancy side of the family:-): John Leo Clancy IV following his dad, grandpa, and great-grandpa. Johnny’s eyes do vary a bit from mine in colour. Both sets of eyes are brown, but mine have flecks of green and copper wheas his are dark brown. Kiera will ask me what Johnny’s eyes look like and giggles when I say, ‘They’re just like dark chocolate.’

Johnny’s smile has a way of melting my heart. It takes very little to make him smile and he does so gladly, even for complete strangers. He opens his mouth wide in a gummy grin and curls his little hands up under his chin, dipping his head into them like he’s just a wee bit shy, yet looking up with those dark eyes. While he delights in interacting with people, he will get overwhelmed by chaoic masses hovering too close and there is a point where he just wants John or I to rescue him and take him somewhere quiet where he has us all to himself.

Perhaps his laid-back-ness has something to do with the fact that, on the third go, I am pretty confident in what I’m doing. However, I find that things are not always cut and dry. Shifts are taking place within me and I want to be open to change, even if it means moving away from something that ’s been in my repertoire of ‘ideal parenting’. I’m moving from thinking that things are quite black and white. Funny that I find this a bit scary, loetting go of my initial ideals. However, I have the sense that it’s right and good; I want to be open to letting God lead me in my parenting, even in matters of style.

Well, that’s a wee picture of where I’m at right at the moment. Now I’m off for that cake…:-)

I’ve always had it pretty easy in the pregnancy department: no morning sickness, minimal stretch marks, nice neat ‘bumps’ (as they call our rounded bellies here in the UK). Perhaps that’s why I’m pregnant again- I remember the easy bits.

However, as we women get bigger, I think that having a good self-esteem becomes more difficult. I know that such is the case for me, at least. I feel big, ungraceful, and strangely vulnerable– both physically and emotionally.

About a month ago, during one such moment of feeling unattractive after being teasingly called a ‘fatty’, God blessed me with a little boost to my spirits. I discovered that some men actually find a pregnant woman’s body to be very attractive. My good friend told me that her husband thought that a woman was actually at her loveliest when pregnant. John too confirmed that he found pregnant curves quite wonderful. I’d heard this before, but thought it was just him trying to make me feel better. Somehow it gave me a boost to hear that it wasn’t just me pregnant that he found lovely, but pregnant women in general. That same week, the aforesaid friend’s brother also paid me a nice complement. So this really helped me through the last month and a half. When I began to feel like all my feminine appeal had gone out the window, I’d think about these things.

Mind you, now my belly feels like it’s ready to burst. Though I hate it when people use the phrase ‘ready to pop’, sometimes that’s just how I feel:-). So, though there is always a bit of nervousness involving the unknowns of labour (even with two births under my belt), I’m welcoming these little contractions that hint at something new and exciting to come.

Education is a priceless gift. When one knows how to read, a whole world is opened to them and places that were only names before become pictures in the imagination. But one can only experience so much of a place through seeing pictures and reading about it. Even first-hand accounts only add a few more details to the picture in one’s mind. There is something about being immersed into a place that does something to a person that thousands of visual and word pictures can never do. The Himalayas can be described to me, shown to me in photographs, but this can in no ways replace the depth of feeling that would undoubtedly sweep over me if I stood among the rocky crags of those same majesties. Something in feeling the cold, shallow air chilling my face, and being overwhelmed by the immensity of the landscape around me is lost when I just gaze at a photograph or read an article or book.

There are also different levels of experiencing a place that was once just a name. As tourists, we often miss out in tasting the real flavour of a culture. When one settles in for a while, learns to interact in the language, shares a meal in someone’s home, a depth that would otherwise be lacking is achieved. Coming into such a place is usually accompanied by a mixture of frustration and delight; but, as so aptly put by Samuel Johnson, the imagination is tempered by reality and one can only come away from that experience being the richer for it.

I have had the privilege of setting foot in thirteen separate countries. Some, like Canada, Mexico, Italy, the US, India, and Scotland, I have been able to dig my toes in for a while and get a feel of the place, the culture, the language. Others have only tantalized me with either a few short days, or even hours. Such was the case with my latest acquaintance: Amsterdam.

On our way back from our November trip to the States, we had a 10 hour layover in Amsterdam, so decided to whet our appetites with a quick train trip into the city. After waiting close to 45 minutes in a line, we were finally through immigration and free to explore. The train we boarded was like a solid metal hulk of a caterpillar, two stories high and winding its way through the dark underground and then through the industrial landscape between the airport and central station. 

Being pregnant, of course my first thought at getting off at the crowded station was to find the toilet. No problem there, but I needed 20 Euro cents to get in and I didn’t have it. So I bore up, held my bladder, and we stepped into the frigid air outside the station. The pavement in its wet state was like a mirror for the sun, blinding us with its brilliance. After a few blocks lined with small cafés, restaurants, and tourist shops, I slipped into the ever-present familiarity of a McDonalds, hoping to relieve myself there. After following the signs and climbing two flights of stairs with Aria, I was dismayed to see a woman sitting outside the toilets, collecting Euro coins. She must have been moved by the desperate look on this pregnant mother’s face and waved me in. Everything brightened after that:-). We ate lunch in a small café down a cobbled alley. We enjoyed our repast on the ground floor by a window where I watched pockets of people come and go. There was also an upper floor accessed by the steepest, circular stair I’ve ever experienced. When standing on it, one could lean forward and almost take a bite out of the step opposite their face. With our bellies full, we meandered our way along, traversing many small, curved bridges that spanned the canal system interlacing its way through the city.

There were three specific things that stood out to me about Amsterdam: the river boats, the bicycles, and the colours.

1)Docked along the edge of every canal were river boats, some of them occupied, some seeming like they had been there for an age long as their solid masts were far too tall to pass under any of the rather low bridges. One large one which had a particularly tall mast had smoke coming from its flue and an abundance of green potted plants creeping about its deck. I imagined that it must be quite lovely to be rocked by the river’s lullaby, though perhaps a bit chilly at times.

2)I have never seen such an abundance of bicycles as I saw in Amsterdam. Some of the bridges were flanked by an arsenal of parked bicycles, some locked, some not. There were bicycle lanes alongside the lanes for cars and as a pedestrian, you had to keep your eyes open for both. The sight of the vast variety of styles made me miss my last two bikes: Appley Dapply and Strawberry Shortcake. They were both town bikes with baskets and I saw many like them in this city.

3) Europe is known for sporting the more traditional colours of grey and black. This was evident in Amsterdam as well, but splashes of vibrant colours stood out against these dark palettes. I delighted to see bright moss green and vivacious purples bedecking both men and women. And though I saw a handful of small girls, not one was in pink. The children too reflected the diversity of the rainbow’s colours.

After wandering about in the cold for far too long, we popped into a vegetarian coffee shop filled with warm light, mirrors, and plants. We indulged in some delicious cake and hot drinks while the girls argued over who got to hold the knit rag doll that had been occupying the café’s high chair. John struck up a conversation with the tall, slender man working in the shop, getting a taste of the sentiments of the more alternative youth’s point of view in a place like Amsterdam. This particular man was a squatter who lived with radical ideals concerning society and environmental issues.

It was just a glimmer into a culture foreign to our own, but it had a part in giving us that tempering of reality as opposed to lofty imaginings.

After our three weeks spent in New Jersey and upstate New York, we had the same daunting journey ahead of us. I carefully packed up our stuff and we were picked up by a taxi to take us from John’s sister’s place in New Jersey to the Philedelphia Int. Airport. I stayed in the house with the girls while John took the bags outside and the taxi driver loaded them into the car. Then, I settled with the girls into the spacious backseat and spent the next 20 minutes listening to the taxi driver air his opinions on politics and the like– he was an interesting guy, definitely rough around the edges. John and the driver unloaded the bags at the airport and John carefully double-checked to make sure we hadn’t left anything in the cab. As the driver drove off, I surveyed the luggage deposited around my feet and suddenly got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘A bag is missing’, I said worriedly. ‘No, it’s on your back’, John countered. ‘No the other duffle bag– the grey and blue one.’ John saw that the bag I was talking about was indeed missing. After a little conference in which we came to the conclusion that we were 75% certain that the bag had made it outside of the now locked house and 100% certain that it hadn’t been in the cab, John went to see if we could somehow resolve the situation. Meanwhile, I sat with the girls and our luggage in that uncomfortable state of knowing that there was nothing I myself could do but wait.

And wait I did as John ran hither and thither trying to find a phonebook to contact the taxi cab company. But no, there was no phonebook at the airport. Thankfully, a call to a friend in Syracuse who had internet access procured him the number. The woman who manned the phones remembered John from when he’d booked the taxi and agreed to send another taxi to the house to see if the bag was outside the house. More waiting. Then the call came saying that the driver had found the bag outside the house and would be with us in 10 minutes. Relief and anxiety mingled. 

We had arrived at the airport 2 hours before our flight that would carry us to Detroit and by now an hour and 10 minutes had passed. The man at the check-in desk told John that we had until a half hour before the flight to be checked in (unfortunately, or maybe fortunately for us, we didn’t know that this meant if you weren’t checking any baggage!). As time yet ticked away, John checked us and our tardy bags in and the man at the desk set aside a baggage sticker for the still missing bag. 

The 10 minutes that we’d been told by the taxi company had come and gone. When 20 minutes had passed, my breathing was becoming very shallow and I could feel a lump rising in my throat. We still hadn’t received a phone call and the taxi was not yet outside our gate. John decided to call again and this is when he discovered that he was 6 cents short of being able to make and receive calls on our phone. Thankfully there was a payphone right there and John had just enough change to make a call. Meanwhile, the check-in man called me up and told me if we did not get up there right then, we were liable to miss our flight. If my breathing was shallow before, now I felt like I might hyperventilate! What could I do? John was on the phone with the taxi company and I couldn’t exactly just run off with the girls and leave him! Almost half an hour had passed since we’d heard the taxi had our bag. After a couple of minutes on the phone, John and the woman worked out that the taxi driver had been waiting for us at the wrong gate for the last 15 minutes. Would he get to us in time? If he didn’t, we’d either miss our flight or the taxi company would be in possession of our bag.

Just then I saw the right cab drive up and I raced out and dragged the bag out of the backseat, calling out that John would be out to pay him. I must of been a sight running at 7 months pregnant and dragging a large duffle bag behind me along the payment! I flew up to the desk and saw the bag stickered and sent off. Well, if it didn’t make it on this flight, it was now up to the airline to get it to us! Within a minute, we were up the stairs and running along to the security check. But our little rush to make our flight was not yet over…

I had been randomly (or not so randomly) been selected for extra security checks indicated by the three large S’s on my ticket. This slowed us down when we really needed speed and I had to get patted down and have my carry-on checked. Finally, we were through security and our gate just happened to be the first one on the right. The line of people going onto the plane was rapidly shortening with us joining at the back. Within 3 minutes we were stepping into the plane– we’d made it! And, at the end of our journey when we were picking up our checked luggage in Glasgow, we were happy to discover that ALL our bags had made it! 

This airline incident falls into my three most stressful airline experiences– I’ll have to write a little book about them someday:-).

The phrase ‘happy birthday’ has just become so over-used and in many ways, meaningless, like so many other phrases we find ourselves saying. Sometimes, instead of doling out the standard ‘happy birthday’ I will say ‘happy day that celebrates you’. Isn’t that essentially what we are doing on one’s birthday? Celebrating life? We are saying, ‘I’m so glad you were born… you add joy to this life.’ When I think of it this way, the meaninglessness fades away and instead is replaced by a heart-warming truth.

It was my birthday last Saturday. I was speaking with a woman who is about my mum’s age and she was saying that there seems to come a time in one’s life, as they age and mature, where we stop expecting our birthdays to be magical. I’m sure she’s right and I’m sure that some people reach that place at a much younger age than others; but I must say, I’m not there yet. I want the magic. And I don’t think I ever want to not want it. But I’ve also spent a lot of October 11ths disappointed. Now, I try not to expect too much. But the joy of the day that is as familiar to me as the face staring back in the mirror still creeps up on me. And I can’t help hoping that the day will be a little more special than others.

This year was full of jewels: a crisp sunny day, a walk through the autumn leaves in the morning, a quiet hour at a coffeeshop, a fabulous ‘John-brunch’, songs from little people, lovely gifts. In the afternoon Aria and I went to a hilly woodland area with other women in our church– a women’s outing to celebrate autumn. The weather was scrumptious. Aria and I led a small group along a trail which led to a high mound aptly named ‘The Windy Hill’. Aria bravely climbed it by my side and only asked to be carried twice (I swung her to my shoulders, but thankfully she wanted down before even a minute elapsed). The top of the hill was swarming with strong winds and a sudden rainfall pelted us with stinging raindrops, so we took a couple pictures and then raced back down the hill. The rain cloud quickly hurried on it’s way, leaving us with the sun once again. We had a barbeque in a semi-covered hut where we ate spiced apple pieces cooked to tenderness which we dipped in melted chocolate…mmm! We also ate a variety of nuts and had hot apple cider– a lovely Fall fare. The women surprised myself and the other woman whose birthday was that day with a homemade chocolate cake decked out in candles. The day ended with John taking me out to dinner to a restaurant in Glasgow called ‘The Butterfly and The Pig’– a place that glories in uniqueness and fresh, delicious food. 

And even though I did a whole pile of dishes after brunch, I felt celebrated all day long:-).

I write a blogspot for a quarterly Christian women’s magazine in the UK and two nights ago found me writing about the different things I’ve reflected on in the way of demands. It was rather ironic because that very day had felt so demanding– especially in the area of motherhood. I definitely had not been a very stellar example of patience. So as I wrote, I felt like I was reminding myself of certain truths and encouraging my spirit that there ARE ways to cope with the demands. 

Writing the article was also somewhat ironic because the very next day (yesterday) in the café, there was suddenly an influx of demanding customers. Yes, most days that I waitress bring a certain amount of impatient customers, but yesterday there seemed to be an wave of them. There are many different ways that they show their impatience: their facial expressions, glancing at their watches, occasionally swearing, walking out. Of course, this usually happens when the café is already buzzing and I am trying to keep my head on straight and serve people in the right order. But I have come to realize that everyone wants to be the one who is preferred. Okay, not everyone. There are those beautiful people who are kind and reflect an atmosphere of peace and patience. These ones, these shining ones, are a joy to serve and make the day so much brighter. But unfortunately, the world abounds with those who want to be first. And this is why all this reflecting got started in the first place.

The more I’ve thought about, the more I realize that almost every aspect of my life is interwoven with demands. Some of the demands I struggle with are real, some are imagined. But they are there and often I feel really burdened by them. I want some space, some beautiful ‘alone time’ to just be me. And yes, this is a healthy and necessary part of staying sane, but I realize that I can’t just rely on my ‘alone time’. For one, it happens so rarely and those times that I need it most are usually the times when it is least available. So, I thought, there has to be some other solution that can couple this. Knowing God, I figured the answer would end up involving Him more than it involved my own abilities to keep it all together.

I am reading a book by Madeleine L’Engle called ‘Circle of Peace’. The title of this book brings such a beautiful picture to mind. And it is not a circumstancial peace: it doesn’t mean that everything around me is all ‘la-tee-da’. This circle of peace is something more like a shield in the midst of battle– the battle of life. This peace is that which ‘transcends understanding’– the type that doesn’t make sense because of the chaos around me. So I am finding that I need to constantly choose to throw my inadequacies down and rely on God’s strength. That is when peace comes and I can learn to have joy in spite of the demands.

(On a related side note, I find that I can’t even get away from the demands while I’m sleeping! Last night I dreamed that I was working in the café and U2 came in and sat at a table in the kitchen (the kitchen??!), laughing and joking together. Bono wanted a double-shot latté and everytime I went to make it, another customer would be up in my face demanding to be served. It took me an hour to finally finish making Bono his latté! But, I must say, he was very nice and patient about it!)

Now, when we lived in India, I simply accepted the fact that the power supply was cut off several times a week. Yes, I’d groan if it happened while I was on the computer, but for the most part, it wasn’t a huge inconvience. Usually it would happen in the middle of the day and perhaps I’d come home from grocery-shopping with Aria in the sling and both hands lugging hefty bags of food items only to find that I would have to climb the four flights of stairs (or was it five?) to get home as the elevator was out of commission. But, I coped quite well. We had a set cupboard in which we kept the candles, matches, and flashlight and tried to remember which lights had been on if we had to retire to our beds before the electricity came back on. But, that was over two years ago and how we forget!

We lost power last night just as I was tucking the girlies into their beds. John thought it was a fuse at first, but no such luck. Aria started fussing over how dark it was, so I went to get a candle to put on their dresser. Amazingly, I was able to track down the matches without too much difficulty. And thankfully we have half a dozen candles lying around, which I promptly lit. Most of the flats on our side of the street were without electricity and random flats across the street were out too–the pattern of the blackout seemed without rhyme or reason. I took three candles into the kitchen and prepared the dishes for their face-washings, rinsing them with cold water and then improvising to wash them in hot. Our water is heated by gas, but the switch is electric so that kind of makes the gas pointless without the electricity. The stove-top is gas as well, but the built in lighter is also electric. Thankfully, having spent numerous months in India, Italy, and Mexico, I quickly remembered that all I needed to light the gas stove was a match!:-) Like I said, how easily we can forget! So, I boiled up a big pot of water, made some tea, and washed my dishes by candlelight. Perhaps they didn’t get quite as clean because lighting was dim, but I managed to get the place cleaned up and then John and I sat down on the couch to enjoy our tea and talk in the flickering light of our quiet house. The sound of the clock on the wall noisly ticked away the seconds without competition from the other appliances. The house had a peaceful air about it.

When we lost our power, I was reminded of how we are so reliant on it in our modernized lives. The neighbours from across the street were wandering around outside almost as if they were lost and didn’t know what to do with themselves. I suppose, with television and computers occupying most people’s evenings, the loss of electricity is rather disruptive. My own evenings more often than not involve the internet or a movie. But I found the loss of power a little blessing in disguise. Life seemed to slow down a bit. John and I had a good conversation over tea. And the lingering smell of candles added a delightful aroma to the air.

All the same, it was reassuring that the electricity came back on after two false hopes just before we went to bed… it wouldn’t do for my whole freezer-full of food to thaw!

I started working in Skirlies just before Christmas. I’d never been in the place before, but it had a good aura (so to speak) about it so I thought, “Hey, I could work here.” I popped my head in, left my details, and by the end of the week I was an official Skirlies waitress. I’m sure it usually isn’t so easy, but for me, it was the right place at the right time.

At the time we were still living on Kerr Street and it took me 20 minutes to walk to work. Within two months we’d moved to Queen Street and it took me all of two minutes (if that) to get there. How nice it is to know that even though I have to be at work at 7:45 a.m., I really don’t have to get up until 7:15 if my night’s sleep wasn’t all that it should have been. Mind you, this means that not only do I live in the rough end of town, but I work there too. But this is okay… I’ve only had one major happening in these past nine months:

It was closing time and myself and the assistant cook were just getting ready to do the floors. Our boss had been in that day- a no-nonsense type person who is small, yet strong–she spent a few years in the Edinburgh police force. Anyway, a tall, unshaven, unwashed, older man came in and I tried to make out from his stuttered speech if he was making an order. Amy (the boss), seeing that I was having trouble understanding the man, came over to assist me. His white hair on both his head and face seemed greasy, his jacket was dirty, and his pale blue eyes had an almost vacant stare. I was nervous that he perhaps had some medication that he needed to take; Amy was reading it differently. Anyway, he didn’t seem to have any money so she told him that he needed to leave as it was now past closing time, but she did offer him some scones that would just have been thrown out the next morning. She seemed to have the situation under control so I carried some dishes back to the kitchen. Suddenly I heard a sound almost between a growl and moan and my first thought was “Oh my goodness… he’s attacking Amy!” My mind propelled me toward the cash register where I knew the panic buttons were located and as I came into view, I saw Amy struggling with him. He fell against the counter and sent some plates crashing to the floor before Amy was able to guide his collapsing body down. It was then that I realized that he was having a fit. Amy knew just what to do, the ambulance was called, and in the end, the unconcious man was revived and taken away, leaving me, at least, feeling badly shaken. Apparently it was alcohol related. I have since seen the man twice from my kitchen window: the first time he was being pushed in a wheelchair by a younger woman and still seemed rather out of it, but the next time there seemed to be an improvement in his spirits and two women and children were with him and both his hair and beard were trimmed. I didn’t feel disgusted with him as my boss and co-worker had, but rather I felt a sympathy for this man who’d caused us such a fright. Anyway, that’s been the biggest happening so far in my career as a waitress!

I always wanted to work as a waitress in a café… I just didn’t see it happening anytime in my twenties as I have wee kiddos to care for. However, the dream was there. I think I liked the idea so much because of the joy that I’ve found in many different cafés, both in North America and Europe. I’ve always liked seeking out the one that fits me best and then frequenting it to write and sip something hot– cappuccinos, pots of steaming tea, or hot chocolate. Ahh, yes- relaxing in a place and working in one are entirely different things altogether. But usually, I enjoy my two days a week being a waitress. I wear all black on those days–the standard uniform of Europe–and a little red apron with pockets takes a lot of abuse as it’s smeared with butter, caramel, or other such things that end up on my hands. When it’s busy, I’m constantly in demand and am amazed how much serving customers can be like being a mum to toddlers (i.e. it matters not if you’re busy with a large amount of other things, everyone wants to be on the top of your priority list!).

One of my biggest joys in working in the café is that I have learned the art of making a good coffee. Yes, somedays the milk foams better than others, but for the most part, I can turn out a beautiful latté or cappuccino and that feels like a great accomplishment!