Hot as Hades

It is so hot (41 degrees in the shade, closer to 45 in the sun according to the weather gauge) that I have, in a fit of environmental consciousness, taken to having solar powered showers (ie from the garden hose on the deck). But today the water in the hose was SO hot that I was almost scalded: I might have to have a rethink.

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American TV is so unsubtle. Whereas in the UK we disguise our hard hitting documentaries under generic titles like "One Story" or "The Visit" etc etc, here no punches are pulled to drag in an audience. Perfect example last night: "The Boy Whose Skin Fell Off".

GFY

My mum thinks I look a mess and that I'll never catch a man unless I cut my fringe and brush my hair properly before I go out. Her comments are chicken feed compared to the devastating critiques on this blog: my new favourite website. No-one is safe.

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I sat in Club World on the way out to DC on Thursday. I nearly didn't get to fly at all because I was on standby and the plane was full: but then at the eleventh hour, just as I was beginning to despair, a business class passenger failed to show up. Actually, there ended up being one more spare seat in Club. Someone went missing in the terminal, and we sat around waiting while they rummaged round in the hold to remove his bags. I always wonder why/how that happens so often. Where do they go? Do they fall asleep on the loo? I wasn't complaining though. I drank kir royales, watched Ocean's Twelve twice, and accidentally dropped two biros into the machinery that makes the seat convert to a bed...

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A nice lady from Nielsen phoned up today to ask if the household would like to participate in the national TV ratings. My former flatmate Ann and Ann's former husband Pete work for Nielsen in the UK, and I was always begging them to let me be one of their sample, so I was pretty excited to be asked at last. But while in the UK they register what you watch with an electronic set top monitoring device, in the US it turns out that you actually have to use a real pencil to write everything down in a diary, which is a bit of a bore.

The lady wanted to know how many TVs were in the house. Four, I thought. She said they would be sending four diaries, one for each TV. But I will be in the house alone, I protested: not even I can be in more than one room at a time. Unless they are interested in what the cats are watching? She was unmoved. Four diaries. If the cats can't write, I'm allowed to do it for them.

Postal Mania

I am not altogether sure about the status of the US Post Office and US Mail service. What with all the tax forms and uniforms, and the general administrative feel of an actual US post office building it strikes me as being a government thing: even though it seems counter-intuitive that in capitalist free market America it would be.

In the UK, the Post Office is one of the few businesses still technically owned by the government. It's strange to remember that as recently as 1979 the UK government still owned and controlled everything from car and pharmaceutical manufacturers to gas stations, airlines, hotels, travel agencies, railways and shipyards, not to mention having a complete monopoly on gas, water, electricity, and telecoms. All of these have now been sold off to the private sector. Virtually the only businesses that remain in state hands are the poor old Post Office and Royal Mail.

But that is not for want of trying. The government would no doubt love to get rid off it: if only it could. The Post Office loses massive amounts of money every year. But closing all of its uneconomic branches in rural parts of the UK would provoke the most enormous public uprising since it was discovered that Sunny Delight is just sugar flavoured water. The Post Office is an integral part of the community in the UK: in every village there is a joint general store/post office where people can buy their newspaper and a pint of milk and at the same time post a letter, apply for a passport, or make deposits into their Post Office savings account.

City and town Post Offices of course have always been a little different: not dissimilar like a US Post Office, with multiple counters, a business like air, and definitely no milk for sale. (Although most British Post Offices are luxuriously carpeted in a most ungovernmental fashion - why is that?) I have noticed that recent attempts to boost profitability have expanded their product range a bit further than their transatlantic cousins however: UK Post Offices now sell phone cards, foreign currency, life insurance, and travel insurance over the counter: and, no doubt, the Royal Mail Mortgage will be coming to our letter boxes soon.

It seems I had not quite appreciated how far this diversification has gone, however. This week, I went into the Post Office in Hereford (a very small city near the England/Wales border) to post a card to the Darden librarians of Hereford Cathedral's famous Chained Library, which dates from the time of James I. (This was meant to be an extremely subtle hint about the shortage of reserve copies for the second year Reading Seminar electives - which on reflection I think may have been a bit too subtle as it is now over a year since I graduated and I think they probably only remember me as the girl who once asked Frank Wilmot to help her research bra size demographics and got her thumb stuck in the microfiche machine).

Anyway, I went into to Hereford and I was struck all of a heap. If it hadn't been for the red and yellow Post Office sign above the door I would not have known where I was. The place looked like a cross between a Walmart and a dollar store (or at least it would have done except that you can't buy anything in the UK for a dollar, not even a post card stamp) So much for travel insurance and holiday Euros: there were boxes of electric fans piled up, a bargain at only £19.99 - and propped up on each counter were a big stack of - wait for it... disposable mini barbecues (£1.99 a throw).

I just can't believe the Americans haven't already thought of this. It's a brilliant idea.

Horrors

There were several cringing moments at the wedding festivities yesterday (including the moment when my father realized I had carried out my threat to sign the official register with my nom de plume if I was forced into being one of their witnesses at the last minute in front of a room full of people; or the moment when me and my sister realized we had been left out of his speech at the reception, in which he had thanked every other member of his extended family present, up to and including his stepson's girlfriend and his elder brother's second wife.)

But for me, the most cringing moment had to be when I went back into the kitchens at the reception venue (a local golf club) to supervise the wrapping up of the remains of the wedding cake.

The waitress looked at me slightly strangely. Where are you from then?

For once in my life, the answer was quite truthfully "here". I was puzzled though, because as I spent most of my childhood in the ten miles radius of where we were standing at that moment, I couldn't really explain away the question to regional dialectal differences.

She looked a bit embarrassed. It's just that, she said, your accent... I thought you were American...

Intermittent Service Has Resumed (With Leaves On The Line)

Well. Back in England at last. Apart from the fact that things are indeed so expensive here that all I can afford to do is to sit very still in a chair with my arms straight down by my sides, things are well.

Apologies for the recent downtime, it's taken me five days to get online properly. Sorry Mum, but you still do live in the dark ages as far as these things go: a dial up line which can only be used after 6pm and which cuts off if anyone picks up the telephone. I guess I have been spoiled by wireless broadband laptoppery for too long.

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I was recently reading Bill Bryson's Note from A Large Incontinent (or something of that sort) which is all about how he found life in America after moving back there from 20 years living in England. My move is clearly much less dramatic, as I can't really claim, as Bill does, that I don't know the British name for things like Band Aids or such like. Plus, moving from a country which has 400 TV channels to a country with essentially only five is much less of a culture shock than the other way round.

The things I have noticed in the first five days since getting back have been rather peculiar.
1) The fact that the Channel Four TV in-between programmes announcer said yesterday And now for Big Brother: be warned the programme contains strong language and God knows what else...
2) The way the mention of putting the kettle on literally turned my mum's carpet fitters into spaniels (idiot grins and tongues hanging out). The British really do have a strong belief that a cup of tea is the answer in every situation.
3) The fact there was NO NEWS yesterday. None. Honestly one wonders why they bother devoting an hour to the news if there is no news to be related. (If you don't believe me: the lead story at six o'clock yesterday was that someone had scratched his name onto the bull statue outside the Bullring shopping centre in Birmingham.) They should do what they used to do on the radio back in the Thirties: the BBC announcer would come on, announce there was no news, and that they would be playing relaxing music instead.
4) the way that the British always refer to the US as "The 'States". I must hereby confess that one of the carpet fitters seemed to think that Canada was part of The 'States too. The other carpet fitter thought that Michael Jackson was just "behaving like a father does naturally with his son".
5)going back to the subject of news, the way that a very large proportion of British news is about minor celebrities who are only famous for getting their tits out. If it wasn't for Page Three Girls, I honestly don't think that our very small country would be able to sustain ten national daily newspapers as it does. Perhaps McKinsey ought to make this point to all the US publishing groups they are currently advising about the dire state of their industry.
6) the impression I have, following a visit to its Walsall store, that IKEA has become the British Wal-Mart. More on this another time.
7) the general fabulousness of the British supermarket. Even the local Morrison's - which in the pecking order in England is pretty close to the bottom, only just above Budgens and the Co-op, has a massive banner outside reading "Fresh Pasta Retailer of the Year 2004". I don't think Food Lion even sells fresh pasta, let alone competes on the national stage.

Last Day Pharmaceutical Blur

Last Day Stats

Boxes packed (total): 41
Total weight of cargo packed: 644kg
Net increase since shipping it out here three years ago: 140kg (the weight of knowledge gleaned from MBA, I like to think)
Hours spent building excel optimization model to allocate boxes between sea and air consignments: 4.5

***

I've just spent my Last Evening in 'Nowheresville, and after a bit more packing of the two largest Nigerian-style suitcases I could find, am about to go to bed for my Last Night. I fly out tomorrow evening at 9.55pm from Dulles.

Fortunately, though - just in time - the weather has turned utterly rubbish and rainy so it's not like one's last day on holiday, where one can hardly drag oneself away from the beach. In my case, I will be dragging myself away from last minute missions to CVS.

Mother requests: silvery can of hair spray stuff, individual false eyelashes. Once a beauty queen, always a beauty queen.
Sister requests: Reese's candy, beef jerky (biltong).
Father requests: Teeth whitening strips. Unbelievably my father has discovered vanity aged 60, and has spent the last month diligently applying teeth whitening strips to his gnashers. I assume this has something to do with getting married next weekend, but one can never tell...

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For the benefit of any people in the UK planning on going to the US in the reasonably near future, here are my top ten tips on what to buy in US chemists (CVS, Walgreens, Eckerds etc):

1) Wet n, Wild lip pencils. Very good, very long, and only 99 cents each.
2) Beer. Yes, pharmacies in the US sell beer (and wine, and cigarettes).
3) Melatonin tablets (meant to induce sleep, counter jetlag).. not legal to buy in the UK.
4) ELA-Max cream (LMX-4), an OTC topical analgesic for use before 5)..
5) Surgiwax's Complete Brazilian Waxing System. Comes complete with stencils.
6) Copy of the National Enquirer, to read about how Camilla Is An Alien, while waxing.
7) Tooth whitening items. You can get triple strength ones now which do the job in seven days.
8) PowerDeet insect repellent wipes, industrial strength, for "backwoodsmen".
9) Jessica Simpson's Dessert Treats Deliciously Kissable Whipped Cream with Candy Sprinkles Banana Split. According to the label, this is not a food item.
10) Peanut Butter Twix bars

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I am not sure when I will next be able to blog as may not have access to proper electronic communications for a while. Please bear with me while normal service is restored....

Memorial Day BBQ

Dave and EnglishHelen's BBQ survivors...

99.9% of attendees at Dave and EnglishHelen's BBQ on Memorial Day believe that Tom n' Katie are faking it. It is surprising how many highly educated people with power jobs in the Richmond area read US Weekly magazine.

There was hospitality galore at Crown Prince Circle on Monday. Dave and EnglishHelen had gone to town: highlights were the daiquiris emerging from the blender, a different flavour every half hour; and the brownies made with Reese's peanut butter cups, a recipe which I would have liked to have taken credit for, but shamefully could not.

I clearly had too many daiquiris for at some stage I announced that Dave needed to clean out his fountain, and if he wouldn't do it, I would. This is not optimal guest behaviour, I admit, although to be fair, his fountain is really just a small barrel filled with stagnant, brown, mosquito breeding water - which is actually illegal in most towns in the state of Virginia.

The original, compromise, solution reached was to reinstall the fountain's pump, which turned out, for some reason, to be resident in the shed. The previous owner had spun Dave some sort of line about why he had dismantled the pump and hidden it in the shed, and Dave had believed it. Needless to say, there were no signs of life in this pump, after a good deal of testing. By now, my hands were rather brown and sludgy, though they dried quickly under the hot sun: I still maintain that anyone could have mistaken the dried sludge for brownie mixture.


 
NSD licking sludge off her paws.