First post from Montreal.

Every time I tell someone I'm moving to Montreal I always add 'for a year'. This is a reminder to myself more than anything. It's only for a year. That's because the whole escapade is enormously stressful - a new country, a new language, a radically new climate and an abandoned network of friends, sources of income and Greggs outlets.

So why have we done this? Why have we done this? WHY HAVE WE DONE THIS?

This was a question I asked myself frequently last week as I woke up at 4am every day to monitor my jet lagged and dangerously curious toddler in our death trap of a temporary apartment. With my partner in bed, suffering from a chest infection (though she could be faking it) I flitted between stopping my son from climbing the stairs, turning the oven on and licking the wall sockets. Concessions have had to be made. I've decided that it's ok if he licks the wall sockets. Fuck it. You can't wrap them in cotton wool forever.

We've done this because my partner had the opportunity to transfer with work, because we've always wanted to try out another city and because death is always looming (sorry lads, it is) and one doesn't know if one'll get such an opportunity again.

When you tell a Montreal resident you've just moved here they all look at you like a veteran, sixty smokes a day detective and remark 'so your first winter huh?'. They love that. The consensus seems to be that from January until March it's minus 30. The internet says otherwise. I even pulled out my phone and thrust it in a bartender's face - 'Look! Minus ten! Minus ten!'. She laughed. At me, not with me. I've never felt minus thirty. Perhaps that's where I'm at my best. 'You know I never really hit my peak until I spent three months in an industrial freezer'. I guess they could be fucking with me. The whole city is built on a lie. It's named after Mt. Royal which is not a mountain. It's. A. Hill.

The place has a lot going for it. Excellent food, friendly people, plentiful pool tables and a perfect place to hideout after all the murders I did in London earlier this year. Thus far I haven't had much of a chance to experience it. Until we find our proper apartment, we can't stick the boy into a daycare and despite being nearly a year and a half old he is still utterly incapable of taking care of himself. And so the woman trudges into work and me and the boy run out of things to talk about.

There is a chance that in twenty years time Louis (his name) will, waist high in climate changed water, find this blog and perhaps I should moderate what I say about him accordingly. Look, son, in 2018 you were endlessly cute and my love for you was boundless but as a conversationalist you were piss poor.

"What sound does a cow make?"

"Mmmm"

"Good. What sound does a dog make?"

"Oufff. Ouffff."

"Good. What sound does a duck make?"

"Du! Du! Du!"

"Ok. Can we talk about the mid terms now? There's a lot going on. All this voter suppression doesn't bode well for 2020 does it?"

"Du! Du!"

This week is all about trying to get mittens on a toddler and then keep them on the toddler. So far I haven't come close but it's about to hit minus ten (which apparently means minus thirty) so it's either stay inside, get mittens on the boy or teach the boy a thing or two about frostbite.

I have to go now. I had an incredible smoked meat sandwich an hour ago and it's currently aggressively introducing itself to my bowels. Here's an observation - every other commercial on television here is for a bowel medication. Concerned looking woman after concerned looking woman with a voiceover about constipation. But then every other advert is for a fast food outlet yelling "THE TEN FOOT HIGH DEEP FRIED PORK CHOP BURGER DELUX - BABY YOU NEED IT!" Could these two things be connected? Or am I just being overly suspicious? No collusion!