The Naked World Is Not Ruined

Events have conspired against us. Note the passive voice. I would like to believe that we have not contributed to our own misery. We thought that the visa process would be quick and painless. It has proved (proven?) to be neither. In-depth searches on the internet - all you can do when stranded stateside - have revealed the fickle, impenetrable and sinister workings of the British Consulate. But who knew? It has caused us much pain to be apart, having to revert to skype chats and to have our relationship resume the abstract quality that we thought was firmly a part of history.

At least, we thought, we would have a temporary respite from this slow drip of loneliness, as James and Sarah were due at Logan Airport on Sunday, Dec. 26. (We would be reunited for our impending wedding on New Year's Eve.) On Sunday, Sarah and James were scheduled to leave Heathrow at 11:00 a.m. (GMT) but strangely their departure entered a series of delays. Oh no! Will they make it? Hours of texting and refreshing the British Airways website. And then yes, a reprieve! They caught the last flight out of Heathrow and made it across the Atlantic. Yippee! The British Airways site said the flight was due in a little after 6:00 p.m. A drive to the airport through slippery, snowy streets and a slushy turnpike. I entered terminal E at Logan to see a couple was hugging upon their reunion. I looked up at the arrivals board.  "Flight 213 - Diverted/See Agent." The delay forced them into the teeth of, what will be known as, the Blizzard of 2010. The plane has been detoured to Toronto.

Now don't get me wrong. I like winter storms and find comfort in the warmth and shelter of home. But when it separates from your loved ones, you see the harsh side of nature. After a full day of anticipation, the slow drip continued.

Or has the dam of devastation broken? Our wedding ceremony may be in jeopardy. I'll see today. In Massachusetts, you apply for a marriage certificate and have to wait three days to return to pick up the license. Our timing was precise but left no margin for...well, I can't call it error...acts of nature. I will find out today if we can proceed with the help of a hopefully, flexible bureaucracy. Will someone come in to the Northampton city clerks office on Friday - when they are closed - to issue us a marriage license? (Can you hear the timpani?)

Am I making this sound melodramatic? Do we sound like passive victims of events? I can't help it. I'm willing to entertain a little self-pity. I have missed the past two months of Sarah's pregnancy. She has been distraught at times and then, as is her nature, regains her composure, and resets her expectations. I have missed valuable time with James, that was to be spent enjoying each other and strengthening our bond. I wanted and want him to be secure in our relationship before the baby is born.

But, the naked world is not ruined. This phrase came to me at three in the morning. Strip away the immediate travails and look at the essentials. Whatever happens in the next week - in terms of the wedding - and in the next months - in terms of my visa, we still have our love for each other.  Eventually we will return to our life together. I try to embrace this thought.

But these may be the last ramblings of a man before he enters and institution. And I don't mean marriage.

While we're waiting...

Still no news on the visa.  I am considering a move to Dar Es Salaam in Tanzania to resubmit my application to the UK because the visa processing times are more favorable there.

I won't be able to see James open his Xmas gifts this year. To compensate for our "misfortune", Sarah and James, arriving on the day after Xmas, will be staying an extra week. We'll get in some skiing the first week of January. By then the slopes will be clear of the vacationers.

We're still moving ahead with our plans to have the baby and have decided to have a boy. Sarah had her scan last Thursday. Sarah told James the news and discussed possible names with him. She mentioned the name "Lucas" which was proposed by my family at Thanksgiving. James said, for some reason, that to be a Lucas, you need to have blond hair. When Sarah said the baby may be a redhead, he quickly offered "Rodney." No offense to anyone named Rodney but it's not in the running but is now serving as a moniker for the bump.

In other news, we're getting married in a very small ceremony on New Year's Eve day. For a complicated set of reasons, this is our window of opportunity. About a year ago, when Sarah and I were discussing the visa options, she offered, "Worst comes to worst, we can always get married." What a romantic. Marriage will not immediately help our visa status but once I receive my visa I can turn around and apply for a partner's visa.

Visa Time II

December 6, 2010

I wish I could tell you that the visa came and we're all set. Sorry.

The British Consulate has updated the visa processing times with Oct. 2010 data.

Settlement Visas	2 days	3 days	5 days	10 days	15 days	30 days	60 days	90 days	120 days	Total decisions made
Settlement	22%	28%	34%	39%	46%	73%	99%	100%	100%	149

Compared to September, they had three times as many visas submitted and the processing time took at least twice as long. Days means business days. We are now at day 17. The data for September were more hopeful. For example, in September, by the 15 day mark, 74% were processed.

But more silver lining to this waiting period. I was able to see the Hopper exhibit at the Whitney in NY. And yesterday, I was able to celebrate my brother Harvey's birthday with him in Cambridge. Good to spend time again with Rebecca and my nieces.

Sarah and I have adjusted our longer term plans to deal with reality. I will stay in the states and run for president in 2012. We're getting fed up with Obama's capitulation to the Republicans (I had a hard time using a capital "r") by extending the Bush tax cuts for two more years. How could he do that?

Sarah and James will be coming to the states on December 26. I was supposed to be coming with them. It looks like I will miss the 20-week scan on Dec. 16 when we will learn the gender of "Ginger/Red." (We're not disclosing names yet.) This is a great big bummer added to the disappointment of not being with Sarah and James to enjoy this time of year and the excitement about the baby. I can only hope that I will be flying back with them in the new year.

Well, gotta go to the hardware store. Sarah and I are planning to chain ourselves to the British Consulate gates over the holiday. Look for us on the evening news. Is anyone available to watch James?

Visa Time

"Oh to be in England" - Robert Browning

Wednesday, Nov. 3:

I am in Boston to have my Biometrics done for my visa application. It seems like Sarah and I have been strategizing around my visa and the implications for so long. Which visa? When? How long will it take? How do we work this around work, ultrasounds, etc.? Filling out the lengthy form. Assembling all the supporting documents. Email correspondence. Bank statements. Pictures of us together. Pictures of James. Mortgage statements. Birth certificates. Evidence of Sarah’s income as my sponsor.

As my sponsor, Sarah must demonstrate that I won’t be a burden on the system. That she can support me. They don’t realize that she goes off to work while I do all the heavy lifting, e.g. doing the wash, yardwork, etc. 

Sarah fears I will be stuck in the states longer than the two weeks, at most, it will likely take to process my visa. She has already said that if it takes longer than three weeks, she is pulling James out of school and coming to the states.

Today I’m going to the Application Support Center, opposite the Boston Garden, to have my Biometrics done as part of the visa application process. Sounds so futuristic. This probably only means finger printing but I’m hoping that they will also scan my retina and fit me for some new glasses.

When I entered the center, I was handed number 756 as part of the passive and impersonal process. “Move here.” “Sit here.” “Move down three chairs.” “Next.”  However, very efficient. I arrived an hour early to reduce my anxiety and was processed in a half an hour. Biometrics done. My BMI is 26. I need to lose a little weight. And my triglycerides were a little high. Ha!

The Application Support Center was the typical bureaucratic, drab powder blue. Would  powder blue be drab in your house? Maybe you can also get drab Egg Shell, or drab Ochre. The can must have specific instructions: “For use in government offices only.”

There was also an old 1’ x 3’ map in a case, bolted to the wall, of all the shipwrecks around Sable Island. Pretty random. Once home, my research revealed that Sable Island and the accompanying wrecks are up in Nova Scotia. I can’t make the connection to the Application Support Center, unless it relates to immigration back in the days of ocean travel.

Afterwards, I ran over to FedEx and shipped the two-inch thick packet, including confirmation the completion of my biometrics, that we had assembled for the Future Partners Visa to the British Consulate.

As we now fret over the uncertainty of my return to England, some personality traits are illuminated. Sarah pretends to be an optimist but this process reveals her methodology. She prepares herself with the worst-case scenario (“I’ll see you at Christmas, honey.”) and is then happy when it works out better. I tend to be optimistic (Can you say “naïve”, Pangloss?), thinking it will work out according to plan, the most expedient route.

Monday, Nov. 8:

The British Consulate sent an email today confirming receipt of our application. The letter states that the visa will be processed within 5-10 business days. They clearly state that we should not try to contact them within that time but may contact them if they exceed the 10 days.

Wednesday, Nov. 24:

The 10 days have expired and the visa has not been processed yet. We have had no contact or information from the British Consulate. I called my congressman's office and was told by a staffer that the embassies have, in the past, told them to mind their own business. In fact, she commented that an inquiry from the congressman's office would likely extend the processing time or quickly result in a rejection. With that information, I wrote to the consulate a careful, diplomatic, deferential email seeking information on the status of our application.

It’s been great to see family and friends but I am now feeling like an exile. Sarah is attending doctors’ appointments without me. In three weeks, she is having the scan where we will learn the gender of the baby. These events are supposed to be shared.

While I get to spend more time with my family for Thanksgiving, we had to cancel our Brent Pelham Thanksgiving scheduled for this Sunday.

Tuesday, Nov. 30:

The saga continues. No response to my email to the consulate. I called British Airways to reschedule my flight two weeks hence and was informed that it would cost an additional $450. I cancelled the flight. My optimism is beginning to look a lot like wishful thinking while Sarah pessimism is looking more realistic.

My tenant returned to Northampton from her two week trip to California and Washington state. I’m now itinerant, in NYC for a second round of visits with family and friends. James has begun to ask, again, when I am coming home.

If I am still stranded in the states when Sarah goes into labor (not really, since she is having a c-section), I'll be sending around a petition for your signatures, requesting that I be placed in a nice mental health facility with kindly orderlies. 

More updates to follow, unfortunately. If only we knew someone who had some influence with the British Consulate.

As Robert Browning wrote, “Oh to be in England” (http://poemsandprose.blog.co.uk/2009/08/23/oh-to-be-in-england-6798761/). I’m out of season but the sentiment still fits.

Big Brother

On Monday night (Oct. 18), while drying off from the bath, James asked if he could have a pet of his own. He wanted something that he could cuddle (his fish are hard to cuddle) and that wouldn’t run away (Kissa, our cat, has an understandable fear of kids). I could only think that somehow he sensed that something was up. Sarah and I had to restrain ourselves from saying, “Will a baby do?”

At the kitchen table, after dinner on the following Thursday, homework completed, the last of the pudding scarfed, Sarah asked James to sit in her lap because we wanted to tell him about a big surprise we had for him. Head nestled against Sarah’s chest, he immediately guessed that he was getting a hamster. We said that it was an even bigger surprise. He awaited our next comment eagerly with wide, puzzled eyes. We told him he was going to be a big brother. He leaned back, looked at Sarah, eyes widening further, the puzzlement instantly turning to glee. I said, to give him a location for his affection, “It’s in Mummy’s tummy.” He gave Sarah a big hug and came over to me with another hug. Then stepping away, he stood between us and said very maturely, “I know how this happened." (“Oh no,” we thought.) Pointing at each of us, he said, "This baby came from you guys. I came from my real dad and mum. You guys made this baby.”

We asked James if he would like to see pictures of the baby and pulled out the ultrasound scans which are amazingly detailed and clear (see pictures). We pointed out different features and, one particular scan which showed the baby picking its nose. We commented that James must have left a note behind in mommy’s tummy with instructions.  

Our baby

Baby's legs

Baby's fingers

We told him we didn’t know whether it would be a boy or a girl but that we would tell him as soon as we knew. Thus, over the course of the next few days, began the litany of questions, concerns, ideas, and thoughts – all betraying his excitement.

Practical: What should we call it? When will it be born? How old will it be when it’s born? Will we have enough money? If not, you can use money from my money pot. How old does the baby have to be before we can go on holiday?

Heart-wrenching: (To Sarah, who had a difficult childbirth with James) What happens if you die when you give birth? What happens if the baby dies before it is born?

Scientific: How does it eat? How does it breath in there? Where does the wee go? Where does the poop go?

General: It must be really dark in there.

Nurturing: He asked Sarah to open her mouth so that he could offer the baby advice, relishing his role as big brother.

We were relieved to see James’s response. We had anticipated disappointment at losing his place at the center of the universe. Of course, the baby is still an abstraction to him so we'll keep you posted.

The Harvest Festival (Sept. 26)

The Service

In a country covered by farmland – 75% of England is farmland – you need to pay homage to the Lord for the harvest. The church service was held in the Norman church in our little village. We were joined by Phil, Kate and Ralph. Phil is Sarah’s partner in their practice. The trio are good family friends.

To set the scene succinctly, the day was rainy and raw. As we sat in a dank stone church, I understood why tweed jackets and corduroy (wide-wale) trousers were in abundance. They looked so warm and comfortable. Sarah forbade me to wear my wide-wale corduroys and guffawed at the mention of my tweed sports jacket (I really have one, with vents even) in the closet.

The vicar introduced the purpose for our gathering and led the service efficiently. After fifteen minutes, Ted Barclay, as the prominent farmer in the area, was asked to speak. Standing beneath the large plaque dedicated to his father, Major Barclay, Ted shared a crop report and compared Britain’s yield to India and China, reminding us of our relative imperviousness to any great variance in weather (drought, floods or other natural disasters). Seamlessly, he transitioned to thanks giving for the abundance of food. Hey, thanksgiving!

After Ted’s speech, the vicar launched forth with questions about the ingredients in bread. She asked what prayer mentions bread. Unable to resist an ecumenical moment, I yelled out, “The motzi.” (The Hebrew prayer over bread: Baruch atah adonia eloheynu olam, boray pree hagafen, hamotzi lechem Minnie Horowitz.) The congregants were stunned, momentarily taken off course, but as they witnessed Sarah’s elbow into my uncushioned, tweedless flank, were able to regain their focus and resume the service.

(I revert to some fictional accounts because I missed parts of the service due to a child, directly behind us, who talked and whinged (whining for you Americans) throughout the hour-long service. I know I sound like a curmudgeon but I’ve never witnessed anything like it.)

The service hummed along nicely with recitations by children and reached its pinnacle with the children’s choir leading “Pears and Apples.” Phil had mentioned, over breakfast, that he loved this hymn and he and James sang to the nave rafters with the fervor of Mahalia Jackson.

Pears and Apples – Lyrics

Pear and apples, wheat and grapes

Many textures, many shapes

Falling leaves in golden drifts

Thank you God, for harvest gifts

Flashing shoals of silver fish,

Every colour you could wish;

Fishing boats, for you and me

Reap the harvest of the sea

Deep beneath the ocean floor

Fuel and power have lain in store,

Brought to use through dangerous toil

Thank you, God, for gas and oil.

Coal black diamonds in the earth,

Ancient forests gave them brith;

Skill and labour now combine

Raping harvests of the mine.

Earth and ocean, plant and beast,

Altogether make the feast;

All who long to share your grace

At your table have their place.

Loving Lord, we know you care;

May we all your goodness share;

Save us from all selfish greed,

Finding you in those who need.

The Meal

The service was followed by a Sunday roast – leg of lamb and many other fixin’s – in the village hall across from the church. The meal for 50, prepared by 3 women in the hall’s tiny kitchen, was delicious. We chatted with village folk, giving me a better opportunity to see the character and community spirit of Brent Pelham in full. 

The real focus of the meal was the three blackberry-apple crumbles including one by neighbor Jo. Jo is the standard-bearer and the one I look to take the measure of my crumbles. I chose not to embarrass Sarah (or myself) and only partook of Jo’s crumble.

By the way, the following day, I made another crumble after a walk to pick blackberries. This time I reduced the amount of cinnamon and didn’t overcook the apples when I carmelized them. James had tea at Jo and Woody’s with Tom and then they came back to our house for pudding (what we Americans call “dessert”). Jo, with a discerning palate, gave the thumbs up. I still haven’t gotten the magical response that you see in Chocolat, Babette’s Feast, or Like Water for Chocolate - a sort of mesmerized, transported glaze in the eyes. My standards may be too high or it may take more than an apple-blackberry crumble.

After the meal, we lingered a while. The skies relented and we headed back home, bellies full and glad that the whingeing child lives at the other end of the village.

Harvey, Henry VIII, the Pope, and Robin Hood

Harvey, Henry and the Pope
While in Yorkshire, we also saw my brother, Harvey, and Rebecca, who were “in country,” in Ilkley. Ilkley is an upmarket town up north and home to Betty’s, a restaurant and bakery, which is world famous, apparently. 

Harvey is doing well. He’s not fully operational post-operation but he is close to getting on the golf course. To warm up, we sat at the first tee of the golf course at the hotel, for a half an hour, watching a succession of golfers tee off.  We probably looked like two old men on a park bench not that anyone would confuse us with two old men. 

The four of us paid a brief visit to Bolton Abbey, inhabited by monks for 400 years until Henry VIII’s dissolution of Monasteries in 1539. We drove past moors, dales, and hillocks but no fens or heaths. The north has dramatic vocabulary, I mean, vistas along rolling hills. As you drive along the moors, the bucolia (it’s not a word but it should be) makes it difficult to keep your eyes on the road. This led to a rotation of drivers, partly to witness the scenery and partly to spare relationships.

Speaking of Henry the VIII, the pope is currently visiting the UK. He was greeted by the Queen in an address. (The Queen - I didn’t realize this - is the titular head of the Anglican Church and the Archbishop of Canterbury is the CEO.) She was gracious – emphasizing commonalities – and stressing this as a time for unity. The Catholic Church in England has lost about 2 million members since the pope’s last visit but, in his speech, he elected to go on the offensive, expressing concern about rampant atheism. BBC News did not report any rampant atheists returning to the Church because of his harangue.  

Robin Hood
Robin Hood is alive and well, taking a more entrepreneurial approach, lending his name to several, small, successful commercial ventures including an airport. Like Newman's empire, 100% of R.H.'s profits are donated to "good" causes - charities specifically to reduce poverty. His wife, Ms. Marion Hood, an entrepreneur herself, has a lingerie line, Maidenwear, that has been selling vigorously in boutiques in Canary Wharf. Not to be overshadowed, their son, Robin Jr., has launched a rap record label, da Real Hood, and has produced his first hit single, "Son of a Righteous Gangsta".

Sunday Roast, Yorkshire Puddings, and Crumbles

I’ve had two opportunities to have Yorkshire Pudding(s). The first time I partook of YP, Sarah made Sunday roast, which is analogous (analogs again?) to Shabbat dinner. Well, except not everything on the table is kosher. And, well, not everyone at the table is circumcised. (How often do you see circumcision mentioned in a food column?)

I liken Yorkshire Pudding to noodle kugel for its place in the British heart (or stomach). It’s about as simple to make and, similarly, satisfies the palate. I could easily see Jews adopting Yorkshire pudding as part of the Sabbath meal, though it would never replace challah for dipping (“tzupping up” is the Yiddish term, I think) in chicken soup. 

Yorkshire Puddings - Fresh out of the oven

I also can’t resist, maybe competitively, showing off my first blackberry-apple crumble (*see quiz below), which I made while Sarah was making the Sunday roast. James, his good friend Tommy, Sarah and I picked the blackberries along a historical country walk we had taken. I had mentioned, in an earlier post, that there had been several murders committed in the vicinity. This walk (as the English like to call their hikes, maybe because many of them attain no altitude) traced some of the murders in Clavering, which we found in a book I bought called, “Clavering Walks.” The blackberries were adequate – not yet at their peak – and we used some apples Sarah had frozen. I adjusted the recipe with a greater proportion of oats to flour. The result was good and Sarah gracefully ceded the title, at least in our household, to me. I accepted the new title and commensurate responsibility, but felt there was a need for refinement. 

Blackberry-Apple Crumble: A Work in Progress

A race for seconds

The second time I partook of Yorkshire Puddings was at Sarah’s parent’s house for another Sunday roast dinner. June and Malcolm live up north in Thorpe Willoughby in the county of Yorkshire, namesake of the aforementioned puddings. June’s Yorkshire puddings were also delicious. I couldn’t say which was better lest I stir up trouble with my partner or my mother-in-law (soon). On the car trip north, Sarah recounted how, as kids, she and her brother, Richard, used to fight over the extra Yorkshire puddings. Luckily, with the extras on this occasion, I was given guest’s privileges. I had half of one, dividing them among the three (other?) kids at the table.

The post-prandial entertainment was provided by Sarah’s niece, Amelia. At 10, already very dramatic and, like all fledgling actresses and comediennes, she capitalizes on the family as her first and best audience. The dining room picture window provides a view to the front yard and street. It also doubled as a frame for Amelia’s performance. She is not a greedy star so I was able to join her retinue. We took imaginary stairs and, on a second occasion, an escalator to the driveway.

Today, Sarah and I went to a local pub for Sunday roast. We had made tentative plans to pick blackberries with neighbor Jo. When we returned home from the pub, we ventured out, with Jo and her kids, for some more blackberries. This time we picked the blackberries, out of the “hedgerow” on the way to the ford (right now, a dry riverbed). No tales of murder along this route although one wonders what communal strife would arise if the blackberry supply ran low. In early autumn, the countryside is rife with people picking berries and the electricity grid use surges on Sunday afternoons as collective crumbles cook. On the way back we stopped off for some apples from Jo’s tree. This time, I put in too much flour and oats, and too little apple. Also, due to a lack of forethought, I had to use faux butter. The last was a crucial mistake. This time, the crumble was good but possibly a step down in quality. In the future, certainly butter, per Julia Child’s axiom, and I will reduce the flour and oats so they can better soak up the juices from the fruit, caramelizing sugar, and the flavor of browning butter. I’ve also had the brainstorm to add cinnamon and nutmeg. I welcome any comments on the nutmeg.

The cooking process provides some insight into my transition to life here. Sarah and I move through continual phases of adjustments to each other. We have abundant amounts of love and respect for each other. We are willing to hear each other and use a mixture of compassion and courage as we create a life together. Like my attempts with the blackberry-apple crumble, we have the necessary ingredients and are in the process of continually refining the recipe.

*Quiz: What's the difference between a crumble, a brickle, and a cobbler?

Travels with Charley (see J. Steinbeck)

We've got a little catching up to do. 


At the end of the holiday in the states, Sarah and I packed up the house in Northampton and left it in good condition for the renter, Ariel. I was an ambivalent participant in the clean up. Even though we're framing this chapter of our lives as a temporary permanent move - we're coming back to the states some day - it was hard to leave Northampton yet again, especially after spending time with friends at book group, poker, golf, and dinners and with family at the beach and in Boston. I don't take these relationships for granted and I've been feeling the distance lately because of the time difference and the difficulty in maintaining contact. 

One antidote for my homesickness has been to explore my new surroundings. Since we've been back from the States, I have been immersed in my English "adventure" with Sarah as both tour guide and companion. I will try not to bore you with too many pictures and tales from, what may seem to some as, my endless English vacation. 


Grantchester

Sarah’s mother, June was visiting for a few days so we ventured up to Grantchester for tea. The Orchard at Grantchester is situated in a village near Cambridge where Bertrand Russell, Wittgenstein, Sylvia Plath, E.M. Forster, Virginia Woolf (together known as The Granchester Group) and others spent time away from their studies. It can still be reached from Cambridge by punts along the River Cam. Grantchester holds some renown. One inhabitant, Rupert Brooke, who, by all accounts, was a middling poet but most remarkably, a handsome and thus “opportunistic” fellow. (Tiger Woods without quite as much media coverage?) Around the corner from the Orchard at Grantchester stands a church, which we visited, dating back to 1100 A.D., where Brooke must have confessed his sins. (Learn more about Grantchester at: http://www.orchard-grantchester.com/)

Audley End House

On the way back, we stopped at Audley End, a stately home, just 30 minutes from our house which is part of the English Heritage, a trust created to maintain these sites. Audley End was a residence of members of the king’s court and eventually to Charles II (sadly, no relation) in 1668. Audley End, like many of these manors, tells a fascinating and sometimes sordid history of portions of the rich and aristocratic. Two massive wings had been demolished but the parterre gardens, stables, organic fruit and vegetable gardens still exist. (I get some kickbacks for advertising: http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/daysout/properties/audley-end-house-and-gardens/)

Norfolk Coast
The following week, James was with his dad. Sarah and I snuck away to the Norfolk coast for two days. We stayed at the top of a seaside inn (a very lucky find) with a view of a coastline that changes dramatically with the tides. We walked for 7 miles along a coastal path which took us past salt marshes, the site of Roman ruins, small fishing villages, and out to a beach. A beautiful area.

On the second day, it was "just tipping it down” as Sarah would say so we visited Holkham Hall, which is an active residence of the seventh Earl of Leicester and his family. They were not available to receive us so we toured the facility on our own. To give a proper sense of scale – actually, to move it beyond comprehension – there are 400 houses on the property. (The tractor with a bushhog attachment was a mere speck on the back lawn.) In the early 1970’s, the manor was near dissolution but the Earl was able to turn the properties and accompanying farms and small industries into profitable ventures, saving Holkham Hall from an unknown fate. Like Audley End, a docent stands in each room, unassuming yet eager to regale you with facts and lore about the manor and its inhabitants. The last stop as we left the coast was an ale house with 50 locally brewed offerings. I don't drink vast quantities of beer but I've been sampling and savoring my purchases. (I can't help myself : http://www.therealaleshop.co.uk/)

For local colour, I've also now attended the Brent Pelham village fete (they pronounce it "fate" shunning the French version probably due to lingering antipathy for the French), our village picnic and I will soon partake in the Harvest Festival.

"Two countries separated by a common language" - George Bernard Shaw

Over time, in my adjustment to things British (and to stave off Anglicization), I have started to categorize my experience into analogs and non-analogs. Boot for car trunk, aubergine for eggplant, courgette for zucchini, kagool for raincoat, and so forth and so on. For the most part, there is a one-for-one correspondence between the languages. Some of the phrases are enchanting and entertaining. A situation that goes bad, goes "pear-shaped." (I love that one.) Though Shakespeare is long gone, they still use the terms "fortnight" (I heard it twice in two days) and "methinks." "Losing the plot" is not to be confused with getting your "knickers in a twist" though the latter may lead to the former.


Grammatically, there are differences reflected in conjugation: Referring to the English football team, the announcer may comment, "England are moving the ball well" or in general conversation you might hear, "The group are coming for tea." 


Gustatorily, the differences take a darker turn. Whilst (catch that?) in Brancaster Staithe (on the Norfolk Coast), we had a true English breakfast including black pudding. Scottish in origin. Sounds benign, right? Congealed pig's blood on the menu wouldn't sell well. Fine. But to present it as a delicacy? By jove! Sure they season it and I understand being resourceful with offal (heck, my eastern European ancestors savored stuffed derma and I've yet to learn what's in that) but give a bloke a heads up when it gets that serious. As for other dining experiences, sausage seems to be a staple of the English diet. At the recent village picnic, one participant took a bite of a sausage and, savoring it like a fine wine, cited it's origin as Braughing, a nearby village. I could go on.


Meteorology
The Norfolk coast also revealed other aspects of the British personality. A trip to the beach can happen in any weather, you just need to be well equipped. Sarah tells stories from her youth (I know, she is still young) where they would set up a windbreak (see picture) and, if it was raining, erect a dinghy over their heads for shelter. I've yet to witness the latter and, sensibly, may never.


(Click on the pictures to enlarge them.) 

Keeping warm with a windbreak on the Norfolk coast

Does that look like a beach day to you?

Speaking of weather (let me digress), it seems every Brit is an amateur meteorologist swinging dramatically between optimism and pessimism. A dark cloud on the horizon is a sure sign of rain. In a near-totally darkened sky, enough blue sky to "make a sailor's trouser leg," offers hope for a clear day. Remembering descriptions from my childhood, English weather was simplistically characterized as rainy. And my experience in America is that the forecasts are actually generally accurate with an occasional error. In England, since it is a little island, it is nearly impossible to provide an accurate forecast. There are so many small weather pockets moving through. On a typical day it will rain a couple of times. So I think the effort at meteorology is an attempt to maintain some semblance of control over, really, a helpless situation.


Hanging laundry on the line to dry (let me digress again to an even more engaging topic) is an English pastime. While the ethic is admirably "green," it is impractical given the predicatably unpredictable weather. How many mornings now, at the bus stop, have I heard about someone either running to take the wash in in anticipation of the rain or commenting on the futility of yesterday's wash-hanging?


(Following this discourse - not to be confused with a diatribe - you and I can now understand why James said to me in the car a couple of weeks ago, "Chip, you need to get a job." More on that later.)


I digress. Back to non-analogs (besides sailor's trouser legs and black pudding). After our tours of English manors,  the vestiges of the aristocracy still hold a unique position. Sure America has its uber-wealthy upper crust, but when your monarch is still supported by taxing the citizenry, and the legacy throughout the country is of noblemen and women, class is more formalized compared to the "bootstrap" mentality found in America.

Speaking of British history (now is this a digression within a digression - have you seen Inception?), Sept. 7, was the 70th anniversary of the beginning of the Blitz of London. The accounts of death and devastation are harrowing. 72 straight days of bombing. Enemy planes came right up the Thames, taking out stashes of supplies. Sarah has pointed out to me parts of East London where new construction adjoins Victorian era buildings telling the tale of the bombing. WWII holds a much firmer and intimate place in the British psyche than I had realized. (9/11 may now similarly occupy the American psyche.) Even before the anniversary of the Blitz, I had heard several other radio accounts of the war and have come to better understand its place in British consciousness. The proximity naturally leads to the primacy of the events.


Domestic Update
Speaking of war, on the home front, we are.......all adapting well. (See, just kidding.) James did say, after three days of school, that he was sick of it. He's getting more challenging homework - so far I approve - but he also mentioned, wistfully, his loss of freedom. 


It is always fascinating to watch a child's cognitive development. Some of this entails attempts by James at wordplay in the form of jokes, puns, and the new, and sometimes, creative use of expressions. Then there are the poop jokes. Yet, again, he asks the most interesting questions about life revealing a true inquisitiveness and, almost, philosophical attitude.  


Sarah has less time for philosophy. She is currently challenged by the potential changes to the NHS (National Healthcare System) introduced by the new Tory (well, coalition) government. I could send you the white paper - the government's platform - but I'll spare you. Among other things, they are proposing changes to the management of commissioning (payment) of services from a centralized body to individual practices. It has far-reaching implications for her practice, and everyone else's, so she's attending strategy meetings and discussions. Hopefully, I have been taking some of the pressure off her by taking James to the bus in the morning, making lunches and dinners, and doing other household chores.


I have a card game coming up with some of the blokes in the village. It will take time to learn the CVs for these guys like I have on my Northampton boys. I'll try to take some money off them in the meantime.


Employment Update
No news yet. I am making forays, joining discussion groups, visiting schools and still pursuing the transfer of my credentials. (The agency recently returned someone else's check to me which raises doubts about their efficiency.) 


Note: This blog website is a little crotchety when it comes to formatting. Please excuse the gaps. It's not my fault, okay?

James's tour of Chip's new house

I showed James my last blog entry about his time in the states. He soon started taking pictures of the house here to tell people about Chippie’s new home. (I guess he wanted to return the favor.) Here’s his essentially unfettered account though I tried to steer him away from describing every item in each picture. 

Let me pre-empt any comments about whose narrative is more stimulating. I'm trying to learn from the fresh and uninhibited observations of a seven year old. 

We took some pictures of Chip's new house. It is very good. Chip is having a nice time. This is a bit of his office. There is more too. This is the other part of his office. This is my mom’s old sewing machine.

This is the sink in the bathroom where we wash our teeth and wash our hands. This is the bath where we clean. Mommy sometimes relaxes in it. Chip lights candles for Mom. This is the toilet with one of the candles on top of it.

This is mom’s bed in her bedroom. There is a lamp beside the bed. Chip sleeps in there, too. It is a nice bedroom. It is a very good room. I go in there in the mornings with Mom and Chip.

This is the dining room. I like eating there. We eat there on Xmas eve and special occasions.

The lounge is the best place in the house because of all the comfy furniture, the rug and the TV.  This is the other side of the lounge. The big door goes to the garden. I sometimes make dens behind the furniture. We don’t often use the lamp on the side. This is the whole living room but there is another half. 

This is the kitchen where we normally eat. There is a radio that we listen to. I like to eat there because you can see out the window. This is the toaster.

This is my playroom where I leave most of my toys. I have lots of toys and games to play with in there. It’s quite a nice place. I have a football board, a tv and a map in the back. The door leads to Kissa’s room. (Kissa is the cat.) There are some beanbags to sit on while I watch the tv and a nice rug to lie on. I like it in there because there is lots of stuff to do and I can relax in there. This is my fish tank. I can look at my fish in my playroom. I like the old ship decoration and the rocks. The fish don’t normally go in there but when they sleep they look like they are dead. They’re not really dead.

 

This is outside. Not oftenly [sic] we eat out here. It’s a nice table because you can feel the breeze and we have candles. In the daytime, it's nice because of the sun. I like it because of all the sounds you can hear. This is my trampoline. I go there quite often. I got it for my seventh birthday. It’s nice because it is shady under the tree. It is very bouncy. Sometimes friends come round and I let them bounce on the trampoline, too, with me. We play this game where there are lots of balls and we have to dodge them.

This is the garden. I have a shed that I can go in. It’s really messy in there. I can go on the playset and a goal I can shoot in. I sometimes play football in the garden with my dad. I like playing football with my dad. I also go to a football club.

This is the veggie patch where we get most of our vegetables. There is a giant pumpkin but the bad thing is there are loads and loads and loads of caterpillars. The caterpillars eat all the leaves of the vegetables. For some reason the vegetables don’t die.

This is my bedroom. I really like sleeping with my teddies. (James petered out here and went to sleep with his teddies. His bedroom is the site of many inspired works including his version of Captain Underpants with text and drawings, new Lego inventions, and, recently, James's Book of Life.)