Saturday, as previously discussed on the Big Bad Blog, was reserved for fish:

A dad.
A daughter.
An adventure.

And oh, what a day we had.

The day began in a backpack. A walk, on a pleasant morning, from our flat to the tube station.

Once aboard the train, however, what little must remain of the novelty of being carried high above we mere mortals – slaves to her whims – expired. Maggie wanted to be on foot.

So on foot we went. From the Overground to the Jubilee line. From the Jubilee to the South Bank. To the queue. Marching, ever marching. Standing on escalators. Barely deigning to hold Daddy’s hand — and then only doing so because otherwise our little walker would have to face the indignity of being carried.

And then, fish.

There were two happy things about the aquarium. First being that Maggie has been hiding her patience somewhere — perhaps saving it up for a time when it was needed. We arrived early, but not early enough to avoid a queue at the door. And she waited patiently for nearly half an hour to get to the front, and into the aquarium, despite having little idea as to why she was waiting.

Second, Maggie seemed to enjoy the aquarium. Here’s a short list of things that she loved:

• Fish tanks that were bigger than she was.
• Fish that were bigger than she was.
• Brightly coloured fish
• Funny looking fish
• Turtles
• Other children

By the time we were done, it was lunch time, and a cranky Maggie was back in the backpack. But not for long.

A word of wisdom to other parents with backpacks: be very cautious when adjusting the straps.

The day had become warm by this point, and Maggie and I had removed our coats. This meant for loose straps — no good. So, as a good father, I tightened them. As an incompetent father, I did a poor job.

Halfway across Westminster Bridge, Maggie was tapping me on the head. She wanted down.

“Not now, little one. Wait until we get to the restaurant.”

Thirty seconds later, a little person was climbing out of a backpack that remained affixed to my back. Only my ninja-like dexterity ensured that the now-no-longer-strapped-in little girl remained perched precariously upon the backpack while being lowered to the ground.

As soon as she was out, she attempted to run off into the mass of people who magically appear at London tourist destinations on warm, sunny Saturdays.

Again, my ninja-like dexterity allowed me to corral her, and place her in my arms.

Later, we would discover that I had failed to secure the straps after making sure they were the right length. I’d call it a “rookie mistake”, but I’m pretty sure that’s demeaning to the rookies out there.

In any case, we were bump and bruise free. Soon lunched, we found ourselves at Oxford Circus.

Near Oxford Circus, on Regent Street, is a toy store. I would call it a small toy store, were it not the biggest motherfucking toy store I’ve ever set foot in.

We entered. I removed the backpack. I let Maggie out.

“Alright, sweetie. As long as you stay in the store, you can go wherever you like. I’ll follow.”

Maggie – who has never been in the store before, to my knowledge – heads straight for the escalator. Up to the fourth floor. Straight to a table containing Playmobil toys. And plays with the police car and officer who had clearly been summoned to handle crowd control outside the horrible disaster area that was the crash site of the doomed Pacific Airline fight A1.

I had a cunning plan — OK, a foolish plan — that I would allow Maggie to get one thing. She had chosen her one thing, a Mister Men book, ensured that she couldn’t change her mind by damaging the merchandise, and then decided to change her mind and choose a bear.

“No, Maggie. You can only get one thing, and we have to buy the book now.”

Wrong answer, daddy-o.

The girl throws herself on the ground, grievously wounded by her sudden inability to get a really crappy teddy bear that was cunningly placed at a child’s eye-level just before you get to the till.

And then she was truly grievously wounded, as a bad, bad, bad man (who is not me) accidentally trod on her fingers. And stood on them, unaware that her screaming had changed from “oh why, oh why can I not have a teddy” to “ohmyfuckinggod, myfingersmyfingersMYFINGERS!”

Shortly thereafter, we were in the bear section, getting a second thing.

Meet Koala Walla, the newest member of Maggie’s growing family of furry friends.

Koala Walla chased the tears away, turning pain into a memory. And soon Maggie was back in the pack, with firmly affixed restraints, head buried in Koala Walla’s furry belly, heading towards a blissful sleep.

And I, not wanted to disturb the young lady with trains, crowds, buses, or other distractions, headed to the riverside and enjoyed the long walk home.

All photos by Mr. Topp, some rights reserved, taken on March 10th, 2012. Photographic assistance and modelling by Maggie Rose Topp.

Happy Canada Day to all the Canadians (and wanna-be-Canadians, and people-living-in-Canada-who-get-a-day-off) out there.

Here in the UK, we do not get time off for Canada Day – perhaps not unexpectedly – but your intrepid blogger has taken the day off, anyways. Though never one to be overly celebratory regarding the birth of the nation when living in Canada, since arriving in London I have gone out of my way to make sure I celebrate my Canadian-ness every year on July 1st.

Every year, the location is the same — Trafalgar Square, where we celebrate with a mix of odd Canadian music (this year: Canadian throat singing), musical acts waning in popularity (this year: Blue Rodeo), and things that don’t quite fit the Canadian theme (this year: Yoga).

Throw in some low-quality poutine and Sleeman beer, and we have ourselves a party.

We are on a four year run of good Canada Day weather, so fingers crossed that the unpredictable British weather behaves itself once more today. We will be there, rain or shine.

We now leave you with photos from last year’s festivities:

All photo by Mr. Topp, taken on July 1, 2010, at Trafalgar Square, London. Published under a Creative Commons license.

Looking at awesome tilt-shift photos of London reminds me (yet again) that I should get a tilt-shift lens for my camera.

My imaginary lusted-after lens wishlist is sadly much larger than my actual collection of lenses …

Photo found at FFFFound. Credit unknown.
Webcomic is Chuck and Beans.

It seems that I missed an anniversary last week. Shame on me.

Five years and seven days ago, I boarded a plane at Toronto’s Pearson airport. Five years and six days ago, I got off a plane at Heathrow airport for the first time. I dragged my jetlagged self through passport control, picked up my two maximum-weight bags and found my way to the Picadilly Line.

Some time later, I was wandering around the streets of central London for the first time. Evening approached, and I made my way to Swiss Cottage where a new home and a new bed were waiting for me.

It’s hard to believe that it has been five years.

Since then, I have had three new jobs, two new employers and one child. I’ve lived north of the river, south of the river, in east London, in west London. Half of my career has now been spent in London (the first half was in the wilds of southern Ontario), and London has, indisputably, become my home.

But I can still recall stepping onto a London street for the first time like it was yesterday. The fear and excitement of leaving Canada to a place where I knew only a single individual, leaving my safety net behind. I don’t think I ever expected to find a new home — I expected to have a few adventures, and find myself back in Canada in a year, or two years, or four years.

Making it to five years here? Quite a surprise. And now there is no end in sight, no plan to go back to Canada. Getting on a plane to Toronto feels like leaving home, not returning there.

And I couldn’t be happier.