Have you wondered why I haven’t shown up on your doorstep lately? Well it’s because I showed up on the lovely Helen A.’s doorstep and she lives in England, which is pretty far away from all of you. So yeah, I’m in England. I’m in Southwestern England in fact, staying in a cottage on a 13th century estate. There are gardens and cows and wheat fields and ancient oaks and lanes of blackberries and a steam train that whistles and a river that moves so slowly it appears to change direction and lots of men with chin-length hair like they wore in Robin Hood Prince of Thieves and pubs and rain and doves that sound like the quail of California.
Also — you will laugh, but it’s been kind of crazy — EVERYONE HAS BRITISH ACCENTS. The old men, the jogging ladies with the little dogs, the hippies, the guy playing a stone marimba on the street — even the kids have British accents. So the bratty little boy in the cafe doesn’t say “Nu unh, I don’t wanna hold Dad’s hand,” he says (please read in your best terrible attempt at a British accent) “No! I’m not holding Daddy’s hand. I’m holding your hand, you!” I tell you, it’s kind of a perpetual shock.
The best Britishism I’ve learned so far? The word “cat flap.” It sounds like it could mean all kinds of interesting things, but it’s actually just a cat door. Don’t worry, by the time I’m home, I’m sure I’ll have learned loads more.