Our Middle Son

Dear all,

With the end of October, we became the parents of another teenager.  So vividly I remember the days of wishing the kids could walk and tie their shoes on their own, bring us cold drinks and help find the remote.  Now we worry about decisions teenagers can make which have more dire outcomes than waiting too long to go to the loo.  

R’s twelfth year was a bit ugly.  He managed, in an unfailing yet somewhat admirable way, to consistently do the wrong thing.  If there was a shoe to be lost, he lost it.  If there was a fight to pick with an unsuspecting sibling, he did.  If there was homework to do, he didn’t.  If he thought his mother was imperfect, he chose all the wrong times to point it out (trust me).   

I am happy to report that R has had a great couple of months.  First of all, he performed Shakespeare’s Henry the Fifth at a professional theater in Birmingham.  What a fabulous night.  Four schools each performed a shortened version of a Shakespeare play for an All Schools Shakespeare Festival.  I was humbled thinking about the blessing of watching R perform Shakespeare in England. 

Although R had a small part, it made us beam to hear his two lines projected into the theater with his still strong American accent.  The performance was the usual over the top Cheltenham College Junior School production complete with costumes and choreography.  If only the drama teacher could captivate her English class in the same manner.

Days later, R went on a class trip to Iceland.  Yes, Iceland.  Aside from serious issues with its banks, Iceland is more beautiful than one might expect.  There is a stark beauty, but there are stunning blue glacier fed lagoons and rivers.  The kids swam in the blue lagoon while it was freezing outside, smearing themselves with mud that is bottled and sold for a high price for its anti-aging properties (it gave R a rash on his face).  They went whale watching (lots of barfing kids out on the sea) and visited a bunch of geysers. 

A highlight was climbing around and behind waterfalls in dangerously icy conditions. Thankfully, one mission was called off due to life threatening conditions (one kid next to R slipped on ice near the edge of one huge waterfall).  It snowed while they were there which was real treat for many of the kids who rarely see snow.  It was a brilliant time, the lucky dog.   Just seems that in return he could take out the garbage with a smile and walk the dog every once in awhile…

This magical geography trip was sold to parents as a trip highlighting geothermal heat and the environment, yet surprisingly, we have heard very little details of the environment.  Apparently, field reports and the Icelandic topography did not hold the children’s attention as much as the opposite sex.  I would never embarrass R, however, I am just going to say that he is now the IT boy in class and all the “fit” (read: hot) girls are totally diggin’ on him.

So he has that going for him.

R also announced recently that he wants to be a doctor, something a science teacher two years ago predicted. The teacher actually said, 'R is the kind of kid who is so clearly capable in science that it scares me.  I fear one day I will lay in surgery and look up to see R's face standing over me.'  

R thinks the medical profession is a pretty good gig if you are planning on owning Ferraris and flashy watches (I'm pretty sure R was either a magpie or pimp in a former life.  I have never seen anyone outside the rap industry who is drawn to bling in quite the way he is... We continue to explore the concept of 'understated' with him.).  Additionally, he is pretty sure he could have his choice of girls if he becomes a doctor.  As an afterthought, he thinks he could help people. 

Tonight, he is in anger management mode because his biology teacher gave him a 'B' on his recent exam despite having enough correct answers to have earned an 'A'.  His work was too sloppy she said.  Ya gotta love that:  a teacher with principles. 

R has a scrapped up face and a black eye from two nasty rugby hits (one collision with a knee, the other from someone stepping on his face with their cleats).  We took him last weekend to be fitted for a tux (dinner suit) for his first ball to be held the second week of December.  Daniel Craig should be very afraid of his competition.

All in all, we have decided to keep him.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Left of Barney

Dear all,

Our spectacular autumn ended abruptly.  We are officially into the grey and wet days of an English winter. Heating costs in this country are criminal and this beautiful, old, drafty stone house loses its charm in the winter.  Last year, our heating bills were close to mortgage payments.  Still, I have an optimism that warms my heart.

This is the secret of my warm heart:  the gift of an Obama win.  I am skipping through the cold rain with joy in every step. 

Last week, I sat with A on my lap and tearfully watched the Obamas vote. The next morning, we gathered as a family at 4:00 to watch the election results. It was history in the making and we were grateful to share the moment with the kids.

I cannot tell you how many people here stayed up all night or woke early to watch results of our election. I’d never lose sleep over election results France.  The American election matters to so many people around the world.  I had no idea just how seriously the world views it.  This time, the United States did not let them down. 

Most of you know that I am a bit liberal.  Much more liberal than J (Who, although a staunch democrat, seems to inch closer to The Right when I am not looking.  At one point last spring, I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of J moon walking like Michael Jackson, to The Right.  He crept back and our marriage absorbed his indiscretion.).   J reminds me that even Barney the Big Purple Dinosaur, who shares EVERYTHING, has to look left to see me. (For that reason, J opposed the children watching Barney-‘Too much sharing isn’t natural,’ he would quip.). 

Obama’s victory touched me deeply.

No matter what your party affiliation, there is no denying that Obama’s win has sparked an energy around the world.  I do hope that our great nation comes together to tackle all that troubles it.  Living abroad does not allow for the luxury of taking your country for granted.  By not being there, I am reminded every day of just how wonderful the United States of America is.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Jeremy

Dear all, 

Living with feet planted securely in two countries is nothing if not life affirming.  We have good friends in both countries and we do not take this blessing for granted.

Last summer J and I left the kids with a sitter and escaped to the seaside.  We joined three other couples in Woolacombe, North Devon, to celebrate the birthday of a friend.  It was a spectacular few days filled with sand and sun British style. 

During WW2, Woolacombe was the English army’s base during the training for D-Day.  The cliffs surrounding the beach look amazingly like those in Normandy, France.  We had a post card perfect beach hut, white with a brightly painted door, where we gathered during the day and laughed until our faces hurt and we were properly sunburned.

In the evenings, against a glorious backdrop of the setting sun over the sparkling sea, we got together to celebrate not only the birthday, but also the warm weather.   One night, at 2:00 a.m. after quite possibly too much fun, J and I dragged ourselves up the impossibly steep hill, legs burning, to our Bed and Breakfast only to discover we were locked out.

There we stood, making lots of noise, ringing the doorbell, wondering what to do.  Like a couple of dim-witted criminals, we planned a break in. 

We were not dressed appropriately for criminal activity.

I hiked up my dress for serious range of motion. While balancing in the manner of Dr. Seuss atop two stacked outdoor stools, on the edge of a deep hill, J tried hoisting me into the air towards our open window.  Well, that was the plan, anyway.  As you might imagine, this wasn’t easy and, what with the alcohol, laughter and more than a few lewd comments from J, my cat-like reflexes were not as sharp as usual. 

It took a few tries for me to grab the windowsill with my hands.  I then swung my legs up and secured my toes.  J was a rock of encouragement during this critical phase of the break in.  He gently reminded me of what a nimble athlete I am and poked me in a generally cheering way every chance he could.  I hung there momentarily with all the grace and dignity of an underage Chinese gymnast until at last I pulled my knee onto the sill.  I then heaved up the remaining, unaccountably heavy pieces of myself.  All this smoothness of movement achieved with my dress somewhere around my neck.  Finally, after I was successfully squatting on the sill taking a well-deserved deep breath, there came one last unexpected push on my rear end.  I fell into the room with an embarrassingly loud thump (note to self:  definitely lose weight). 

The eight of us had such a great a time; we planned to go back for our summer holiday ’09.

The phone call came two weeks ago, while I was visiting in the US.  I stood in shock. I couldn’t breathe.

Jeremy and another man, two friends with whom we shared such lively times in Woolacombe last summer, were motorcycling through France when Jeremy was hit by a car and killed instantly, leaving behind the most beautiful wife and three lovely teenage children.

Jeremy was a mischievous, larger than life man who possessed an infectious love of life. He adored his family and enjoyed his friends.  He was always up for a laugh and as J can attest, as they are in the same business, humor was always present even in business emails.

Jeremy is the second friend in England we have lost in as many years.  Both deaths occurred while we were visiting in the US.  I felt helpless in the US and yet when tragedy strikes back home, which it has, I feel equally as powerless in England.

The day we were asked to move to England, I could not have guessed that we would have made such good friends here.   I don’t think I imagined it would gut me to miss weddings, Christenings and funerals in England just as I have missed them back home over the past two and a half years, but it will.

I am, however, grateful for whatever time I have on this earth.  Time to experience both the sorrow and joys, pain and happiness along side the good friends and family that we have on both sides of The Pond.  

It is just that some days, I wish England wasn't quite so far from home. 

With love from England,

T-Ann  

Air Space

Dear all,

Here I am at 3800 feet.  I’ve entered US airspace, which thrills me.

I am looking forward to US immigration.  After the immigration officer reviews your passport suspiciously and grills you as to why you would like to enter the US, he hands you your passport, looks you in the eye and says, “Welcome home.”  

Every expat here agrees it is the sweetest of moments.  Makes me well up every time. 

Then you pass through the gates and into the land of freedom, liberty and medium rare burgers.  Some days I wonder how we could ever have left.  It is just such so good to be home.

With love from England,

T-Ann   

Flash

Dear all,

Seems hard to believe that my friend Elizabeth, or The Queen as we like to think of her, is back at home after a ten-day visit.  It was a very quick ten days.  We hit every boutique and tearoom I could find.  Little to no time was devoted to educational excursions, but that is why one is always welcome to read a history book.  We weren’t about to waste our time in educational pursuits when there were scones to be devoured and winding roads to explore.

I enjoyed every minute of her trip.  I think she did, too, although it was almost friendship over at a car boot sale.  Elizabeth and I have scoured flea markets and thrift stores together for years with the steadfast rule that whoever first spies the bargain has ‘dibs’.  Still, when I beat her to an ancient and exquisitely patched kilim rug  (Fabulous by the way-got it for a song), I thought she might hurt me in a very dramatic and Shakespearian way. 

In the end, she thanked me for allowing her to spend time in our movie like life and I thanked her for walking our dog.

She returned safely to the controlled or not so controlled chaos that is family life.  An award and big kiss goes to her husband, Flash (his actual summer camp nick name), who, along with the reluctant assistance of one scowling teenager, managed to clean both the garage and the basement in her absence.   

He also kept two barfing-on-the-carpet younger boys and an acutely old dog alive in her absence.  All this with only one panicked call to England.

Really, his only fault was sleeping through the boys’ Religious Ed. classes, which is a real shame because Sister Surly at Our Lady of Hopeless Progression has now doomed them to Hell.  

Who needs a vacation now, Flash?

With love from England,

T-Ann

The Patience of Job

Dear all,

My ray of sunshine has arrived. 

My dear friend, Elizabeth, has arrived in England and not a moment too soon.  Literally. 

I got the guest room ready and I organized day trips.  Finally, after months of planning J took the day off to drive to Heathrow (two hours away) and collect her.  He called with status reports: her plane landed, baggage claim assigned.  Then nothing.  No more updates.  Finally, I called him assuming they’d be on the way home, but still no Elizabeth.  A little worry set in.

More time, more pages over the airport intercom.  No Elizabeth.  Now near panic.  She must have been pulled in immigration, I thought. What could she, the mother of five and a soon to be grandmother have smuggled into England?  I chuckled (I swear, only a little and very quietly) at the thought of her being roughed up while jet lagged and quite possibly without lipstick, by some scary immigration officer.  J, bless him, was searching endlessly to get information.

Well, wouldn’t you just know?  I put the wrong date down on the calendar.  Sometimes I do the darndest things.

This brings me to admit a fact that I have been denying to my friends and family on a regular basis for over 17 years:  J is a saint. I now admit it:  J is for Job.  

It is a bad week for me when I have to apologize twice in one week, but it has happened.  One fit of PMS insanity and the other, sending him on a wild goose chase at Heathrow.  I hate when I do that.

Glad he is the forgiving type. 

And so happy to have Elizabeth by my side.

With love from England,

T-Ann

The Promise of Another Year

Dear all,

The kids are now entrenched in school.  M and S continue at the senior school (college) while R enjoys his final year at the Junior along with A who is now big enough to have weekly spelling tests, the bane of my life. 

R is Big Man On Campus but it comes with a price:  studying for his Common Entrance Exam in June in order to be accepted into college.  R has never taken much pride in the academic side of his education.  He does, however, possess Nobel Prize winning social skills, which he continues to hone every time the teacher’s back is turned.

M is for once, off to a great start.  This is the first year in his entire school career where I have not had to attend an emergency first week parent/teacher meeting.  I am missing those conferences just a bit.  It was always exciting to see teachers’ eyes bulge and their hair stand on end when they described M’s legendary lack of organization, as if I mightn’t have been aware.  When they managed to pull themselves together, they would insist, without exception, they’d have M sorted by the end of the year; I’d nod my head solemnly in gratitude and solidarity, hiding my amusement and doubt.  M organized by the end of the year?  Good. Luck.

So M has turned over a new leaf.   He mostly shows up to class on time.  Often he turns in homework. Relatively few illegible assignments are returned.  Kudos!  Yet for all those successes, he admits that he rarely brings the right books and folders to class but let’s face it, it’s good to have goals.

S, on the other hand, is one of those people who love the promise of a new school year: the scents of new books and autumn in the air.  Her academic load gives me a stomachache:  Math, History, Religious Ed, Physical Ed, Physics, Biology, Chemistry, English, French, Spanish, Latin and Greek.  And my only goal week after week is the same:  keep up with the laundry.  Also, for fun, she takes Mandarin two days a week at lunchtime, but she thinks this might prove be too much.  Ya think?

With love from England,

T-Ann   

The Wall

Dear all,

This summer was, as I have mentioned before, a bit long though we were blessed with a visit from our 13-year-old Prairie Crossing neighbor.  Each and every one of us was thrilled to have him with us.  He is like a part of our family and, in fact, when we moved to England, I felt deeply that I had left a child behind I missed him so much 

We took him to very important places in England such as Cadbury World and Weston-Super-Mare, a seaside town with a proper grand pier.  Sadly, two days later, The Grand Pier burned to the ground in a matter of minutes. 

J and the boys dragged him around London.  What a trooper N was, throwing up on the lawn outside Westminster Abbey and nearly passing out at the Hard Rock Café while fighting a forty-eight hour flu.    You can always count on a good time when you visit us.

The homesickness was palpable in our house for weeks after N returned to the USA.   Then we endured the Olympics, which came on at 3:00 a.m. and annoyed R to no end because they only interviewed British athletes and the coverage did not include US teams. So those were a wash.

While touring a castle in Scotland, I walked into TWO rooms with the same William Morris Willow wallpaper we have in our house back home.  The sight of the wallpaper made my insides hurt.  I missed my house.

Ex-Pats often experience a little known phenomenon we refer to as Hitting The One Year Wall.  It’s when the charm of living abroad has evaporated.  When you miss people who understand that when you say ‘windbreaker’ you mean ‘jacket’ and not beach paraphernalia.  Or when you say something gives you the ‘willies’, you are not faced with looks of horror and mothers making mental notes to never let their child play with the little American boy.  Ditto the phrase ‘Just blow it off’. 

The Wall means you are tired of paying $12 a gallon for gas and $5 for a can of refried beans. Tired of the weather, tired of the five guys at the butcher’s shop staring at your boobs while you order up pork and leek sausages, tired of calling their sorry excuse for band-aids ‘plasters’, tired of hearing Michael Jackson on the radio, tired of the metric system and Celsius. But mostly, I’m tired of trying to figure out WTF is so intriguing about Posh and Becks.

I think, although I am a bit overdue, I may have hit The Wall.   And God knows, there better be dark chocolate, Merlot and really good music on the other side….

With love from England,

T-Ann

The Royal and Ancient

 Dear all,

Our reason for visiting Scotland was simple:  J desperately wanted to tick off one of the boxes on his To Do This Life list:  Play St. Andrews Old Course.  We scheduled the trip with our friends in order to watch the Jacques Leglise Tournament-a tournament of Europe’s next golf stars-and scam free meals. Our friend, The Really Good Golfer, was the captain of the Great Britain and Ireland team as they took on continental Europe.  Not only did J play the Old Course, another fine links course and a 1920’s hickory shaft course, but we were wined and dined by The Royal and Ancient, golf’s first ruling club and Britain’s version of the United States Professional Golf Association.

The Really Good Golfer is a humble gentleman.  He is arguably the finest British amateur golfer.  He has played with some of golf’s legends and has played in the US Masters three times.  He has received four crystal highball glasses for each hole in one he has made at the Masters.  If you are thirsty at their house, you’re as likely to be handed an old Ikea glass as one of his Master’s glasses, although only three remain as one was dropped years ago by one of the kids at dinner. The guy is seriously humble. 

So not only did we get to hang out with Europe’s talented new golfers we were treated to receptions filled with some of the world’s oldest money.  This is the crowd where the Du Ponts run as does the Cartier family and the Lacostes.  And now the Pierces? 

The Royal and Ancient Club is the stone building they highlight when you watch the British Open being played at St. Andrews.  Most people who work for the Royal and Ancient and certainly the course keepers at the Old Course have never been inside the prestigious club, but there we were, inside the club drinking wine in beautiful glasses etched with the R and A logo.  Such a shame my bag was too small to nick any. 

The reception was held in a room only recently opened up to women.  Portraits of royal and/or long deceased R and A members hung on the walls.  The ceiling looked like a Wedgwood ashtray, for lack of a better description, painted in Wedgwood blue with fine moldings defined in white.  We were invited into the secretary of the R and A’s office and out onto his infamous balcony for drinks while people down on the Old Course and walking around St. Andrews stared up at us wondering if we were royalty.  Or maybe thinking that we were a bunch of stuffy old gits.   Same thing.

There were a few speeches, which allowed me time to check out the women’s dresses.  It was a bit disappointing as the women were overall an amazingly frumpy lot.  One, however, from my vantage point behind, was quite elegant.  She was in her mid to late seventies.  Her silver hair was cut in a bob and she wore a hot pink very tight dress.  No underwear.   Bless her, I thought.  But, oh my, when she turned around!  She obviously burned her bra a lifetime ago and never looked back.  Wow.  The sight left me speechless, but The Wife lost no time voicing her concern that those aging, sagging, bra-less boobs might have put all the young, handsome golfers off sex. 

The best part, aside from The Wife and I holing ourselves up in the ladies room while she filled me in on Royal and Ancient gossip (literally-did you know Prince Andrew is gay?) was being escorted into the Members Only room by The Really Good Golfer.  

As a member, he was free to go in and bring J, a male guest. But The Really Good Golfer, as I said before, is quite a gentleman and he also possesses a great sense of humor.   He opened the door for his wife and me so that we entered the room first and there we stood, however briefly, alone in a men’s only room. 

The room was everything you’d want it to be:  the carpets were plaid as were the curtains framing the leaded windows.  Walnut paneling.  There were worn leather chairs occupied by equally worn, impossibly snobby looking men. There was a moment of surprise on each of the men’s faces as they looked up to see two women with great big smiles on their faces.  Then, all in turn, there was a stiffening of the backs.  Jaws dropped on cue, each man unable to form words.  Then came red faces and clenched hands on leather club chairs.  I suggested to The Really Good Golfer that it might be time to leave, but not before the giggles had set in.  How obnoxious these men were!  How obnoxious The Wife and I were hooting all the way out of the room.  I just wanted to shout, “I HAVE MY PERIOD!” or maybe lick something on my way out just to ensure that the Haz Mat team had to be called out.  

With love from England,

T-Ann

Even Prisoners get Paroled

Dear all,

Our dreary English summer is turning into a grey and dreary autumn.  While we have had some wonderful moments this summer, some that I will share with you later, I mostly have been holed up with four bored children the whole wet summer.  That is, until J and I escaped for five days to St. Andrews, Scotland.

I love Scotland.  I mean it.  I am completely in love with Scotland.  The craggy shoreline, the sea, the mist, the sunshine, the rain, the people.  I have had some sort of conversion, a bit like the first time I ever roamed through Vermont.  An instant homesickness for place I’ve never been before. We have traveled so much, but I rarely drive through foreign towns and villages and think to myself, ‘Wow.  Lucky you.  You get to live here,’ but that is exactly how I felt about every Scottish person we passed.

J and I drove up from Cheltenham.  We headed north and put Birmingham and Manchester behind us before 9:00 a.m. By the time we entered Cumbria, England, or The Lake District as it is called, we were ready for a break.  Cumbria is Beatrix Potter country.  We exited the motorway following signs for a rest stop and drove through a heavily wooded, winding road which lead to glass and stone walled lodge nestled in between mountains with a deep pond running right up to the glass wall.  Honestly, it was as if any number of Beatrix Potter’s characters would come padding over to us.  So spectacular was the setting, we hated to leave. And this was just a rest stop!

We drove further north and entered Scotland.  I was a bit disappointed.  It just looked so much like England.  Then the landscape began to turn.   The tidy green grasses slowly grew more stark and yellow.  Then we wound around a bend in the road and there it was:  the heather.  Mounds and mounds of purple hills and mountains fading into the mist.  Why does anyone leave Scotland I wondered and that was before we even got to the sea.

We made our way through Glasgow and around Edinburgh and drove up the east coast through tiny but proud villages of weathered grey stone buildings and cottages with bright blue front doors (Scotland’s flag is blue and white).  Grandmas walked with grandchildren in record numbers.  Scotland is like Ireland with a more grand past-not quite as humble and with better roads, but it is not as painfully cute as our part of England.  Rugged and refined.  I like that.

Our first sighting of the sea coincided with the first golf course we spotted.  The smell of the sea along with freshly cut grass was intoxicating.  The air was thick.  We rolled down the windows and breathed deeply.  The air in Scotland is so pure and clean; it almost feels sharp in your lungs.   London leaves your boogers black and in Cheltenham, I do not dust so much as wipe black grime off stuff.   It felt so good just to breath in Scotland.

By the time we arrived in St. Andrews, the golf Mecca, I was smitten. 

More to follow,

With love from England,

T-Ann

Pig

Dear all,

I haven’t told you about my Mothers Day gift, Pig.  Pig is a Jack Russell Terrier with the looks and markings of a beagle so he is a cuter than most.  He has a good temperament for a Jack Russell, which isn’t saying much since they are a notoriously difficult breed.  Pig is an English hunting dog through and through, which I hope sends images of red coats and horses into your head, however briefly. Jack Russells are working dogs, though, bred to hunt rats, not foxes. During our Summer of the Rat, Pig remains blissfully unaware.  Perhaps he is working on his upward social mobility (so difficult in England), aspiring to become a setter or maybe a retriever.  Once R had to throw a dog treat next to a rat so that Pig would take notice of it (then, true to roots, the dog went crazy). 

Pig came to live with us in March (England’s ‘Mothering Day’ weekend).  He settled in well at first, however, the more comfortable he became, the more he began to act up by way of marking everything in our house.  I had my initial pang of buyer’s remorse when he peed the FIRST time on top of our kitchen table.  No matter how hard I tried, I no longer could see the value in this dog.  And while I am the first to admit I’ve had a bit of buyer’s remorse with every dog (and child for that matter-still do, occasionally), the heinousness of this particular incident disturbed me deeply.  The situation did not improve no matter how much I roared at J (The dog was HIS idea, see how that works?).  And so it went until we had him fixed (the dog, not J) which is not a standard procedure in this country.  ‘Let this be a lesson to you boys,’ I wagged my finger, ‘Do you see how I deal with young males who cross me?  I’d keep your room clean, if I were you.  And do some homework, while you’re at it.’

We introduced the cage after Pig jumped up on the dining room table while I was gone and ate/ground three chocolate bars (wrapped and in a grocery bag) into the carpet. I am aware how dangerous chocolate is to dogs.  I was not concerned.  I was PRAYING for a slow doggy death by chocolate. 

Now that he has stopped peeing all over the house and is no longer jumping on tables, I have fallen in love with him again. Pig is now nearly perfect except for the bit about wanting to attack every animal he sees.  Still working on that.

Pig is far from the big, fluffy dogs we usually go for but we are discovering that smart dogs are just as challenging as dumb dogs.  No one would deny that Barley, as loveable as she was, was the world’s dumbest dog.  With a smile and grateful heart, she happily lived at the bottom of our pack.  Pig needs constant daily reminders of his place.  Still, I see the advantages of small and shorthaired Pig: he is portable, doesn’t slobber, doesn’t barf in the back seat and is nearly bullet proof. 

We failed to enquire about life expectancy when we adopted Pig.  A mistake.  Jack Russells can live for more than TWENTY YEARS, which SO would have been a deal breaker. J will be pushing 70, kids long gone and we will still have this dog to walk.  J couldn’t be more thrilled.  A dog is for life, you know, not just for Christmas 

With love from England,

T-Ann 

The Strike

Dear all,

It is all just unfortunate timing, really.  Who could have guessed that the rubbish collectors’ strike (second time since we’ve been here) would coincide with the local drains being replaced?  I’ll share with you a thing or two I’ve come to know about English rats.  First of all, I think a rabbit sized rat is impressive by anyone’s standards, especially when it is dangling from a vine, inches from your window.  This makes you feel, well, rather uncomfortable.  Second, the sight of rats in England, even the smaller, cuddly, cute ones, the ones that my two younger sons fancy we should keep as pets, recalls images of the London in high school history books or at the very least, scenes from Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life.  I just can’t get ‘Ring Around the Rosie’ out of my head...

Sure, rat watching is fun for now, a jolly good diversion from our over cast and chilly summer, but I can’t help thinking this new sport of ours may grow old in time.  It's doubtful that the situation will improve anytime soon and I just don’t think the NHS is equipped to handle The Black Plague.  Send supplies.

With love from England,

T-Ann

A's House

 Dear all,

Today is one of those days when I contemplate, not without the occasional watery eye, the two chapters of our lives:  Before England and In England, the two very different childhoods the big kids and A will have had. R is off at cricket camp, S off with a friend swinging from the treetops in at an outdoor park in Cirencester.  M chose to spend the day walking the dog and cleaning up the kitchen (poorly) in order to avoid possibly having to exert energy and speak in complete sentences.  ‘Forget about it,’ I said to A as we jumped into the car, ‘you and I will have fun without him.’

We spent the day at Sudeley Castle (sudeleycastle.co.uk), which is in the ancient Saxon town of Winchcombe.  We spent the day wandering the gardens, looking into ponds for koi and avoiding goose poop.  There is a brand new, magnificent wooden climbing castle for the kids, which makes you long for the days before our country was litigation happy.  It has a big ‘ole metal slide that would have been outlawed in The States a generation ago.  As luck would have it a friend of A’s was there with her family, so A was quite happy to stay for hours.

I have this little boy who only ever swims in pools.  He has never placed one little toe into Forest Lake (the lake we lived on for more than ten years).  He was too young in Prairie Crossing to remember the magical world of the organic farm, prairie grass or bugs (I’m going to digress: M once saved an egg sack of praying mantis.  He put it into the green velvet hatbox, which houses all our family’s most precious treasures, tissue wrapped treasures, like dead butterflies, a raccoon skull, cicada shells, leaves too perfect to leave behind and the like.  Months later, I removed the lid of the hatbox to add the most perfect pebble someone had collected, when out exploded- I am NOT kidding- hundreds if not THOUSANDS of baby preying mantis all over me- yes, in my hair- like a Stephen King movie.  Go on.  Take a moment to imagine THAT scene.  M was safe at school, lucky him. The hatbox lived outside for quite some time after that.). 

A will never know a childhood with herds of children thundering in and out of neighborhood homes.  Or the security of knowing that someone, anyone will take care of you in a tight knit neighborhood if you are hurt or hungry or thirsty.  He’ll not have eaten corn dogs or pickles on sticks at the state fair. He will not own a pair of beaded moccasins purchased in the Wisconsin Dells, which is more disappointing to me than you might guess.

But this is what he WILL know:  travel and adventure, how to act in an airport and a cathedral.  He will have eaten squid, snails, rabbit, horse, octopus and black sausage. He will have spent long summer days at castles pretending he was a knight and the Tewkesbury Park Hotel, swimming.  He will have worn winter jammies all year long.  He will remember walking into town for almost every need we have and he'll remember handing the lady in the Post Office 10p for a sweet after school. 

While I was on the phone with my cousin, Claudia, the other day, A was doodling on a notepad nearby.  Later, I picked up the notepad to see his drawing and without even realizing why, my eyes filled with tears and my throat was grabbed in a way that was both sad and happy.  It was a drawing of a boy next to his house.  The boy’s head was balloon like from which unsteady arms and legs protruded. Next to the boy was a house.  This house wasn’t the inverted ‘v’ with two walls like American children draw.  It was a very tall, narrow house, with lots of windows and an impressive front door- a massive doorknob in the middle- and curly cues for the iron balcony.  It is a drawing of the only kind of house A really knows:  An English Regency townhouse.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Broadway

Dear everyone,

The beginning of our summer holiday was very wet.  Thursday it rained all day without a break, which is unusual in England.  Normally, a rain cloud will empty and then move on.  Often it will softly rain when the sky is blue and sunny.  I have learned to look to the West.  If I see a dark cloud, I wait five minutes to leave the house.  Once it has passed it is safe to go outside.  I can say that the rain rarely catches me.  If it does rain, you simply pop into a shop or stop for a cup of tea and wait till it passes.  

So Sunday we went to our sweet church, St. Phillip and St. James (Pip and Jim’s) and afterwards pounced on the sunny day.  J took the boys golfing while S, A and I went out for a drive in the country.  We headed to Broadway, a picturesque Cotswold village.  I mean this town is cute. It is a postcard village with honey colored Cotswold stone houses with worn steps and many with impossibly small front doors.  Each house looks so content, joyfully sitting in the same place for hundreds of years, maybe leaning just a bit with age. Every house is covered in wisteria and heavily scented roses in such a way that I wonder if one could exist without the other.  Gardens explode with color-always shades of pink and purple and white.  You’ve never seen more plump and satisfied bees.  Every so often, just for punctuation, there will stand a storybook thatched roof cottage with a cheerfully painted front door, window boxes bursting and dripping and timbered walls alive with ambling roses.  The houses often have names, not number for addresses, names like Tittlemouse House and The Old Bakery. Tipsy Cottage and Snowdrop House.  Or The Rabbit Box.  I am SO naming our house when we go home…

On High Street, girls serve ice cream from old fashioned white carts wearing white Capri pants, pink shirts and straw boater hats, pink ribbons fluttering in every breeze 

Because S and I were not overpowered by testosterone, we decided to take the long way home.  Understand that to get from Cheltenham to Broadway you take a scenic two-lane road.  Such was the beauty of the day, even a two-lane road seemed too fast paced for us. With lavender fields in my rear view mirror, we found a one-lane road that took us up hills and down into valleys, through miles of crazy quilt farmland separated by stone fences.  We passed hundreds of fluffy sheep, but not a house for miles.  We drove downward through dense forest, which had the feel of burrowing and when the occasional beam of sunlight broke through, the damp air and dust made the light swirl like a dream. It was a fairy tale.  Indeed, I told A that he should keep an eye out for fairies; as everyone knows these are the sorts of places fairies prefer to gather. S empathically agreed.  ‘The fairies are all dead,’ was A’s response from the back seat after a minute or two of looking. S is now concerned about his mental health.

When we reemerged onto a two-lane road, we followed another crooked wooden sign in the shape of an arrow.  We drove down a wonderfully winding and wooded road, a deep ravine on the passenger’s side.  We curled our way through one more chocolate box village, avoiding walkers and horses in the roadway.  In town, people are less willing to smile, but in the country everyone smiles, waves and nods.  There is an agreeable sense of unity when you share sunshine and unhurried space with bikers, walkers and riders.

Memories like these will make my heart ache when we return to the US.

With love from England,

T-Ann

The End of the Year

 Dear all,

The end-of-the-year parties are over. Thank God.  I won’t bore you with details and honestly, I am not sure I can come up with any more descriptions of refined English school parties. It is all the same:  blah, blah, blah, BEAUTIFUL FROCKS, blah, blah, blah, CHAMPAGNE.  I hope I never have to peer into another picnic basket as long as I live.

M and S’s day houses hosted a BBQ Friday, the 4^th of July, complete with American flag bunting, a band and fireworks.  Afterwards, I was spent.  I just didn’t think I could get through another day of picnics.  Long before tea was served in the marquee the following afternoon at the Junior’s Parents Day, I slipped into the car and fell asleep.  I was like the Little Engine Who Couldn’t: I simply could not go on chatting one more minute.  We were home by mid afternoon, in jammies and watching what I consider to be one of the finest low budget movies ever made:  Employee of the Month.  This film is remarkable, not in the least because its writer did such an astonishing job of capturing the essence of twelve-year-old boy humor.  Pure genius. So many writers try to sustain this kind of humor, but fail to deliver for a full hour and a half. And with Costco as a set, how can you lose? Brilliant.

I came home Saturday afternoon and I didn’t leave the house for two days.  It was glorious, but now I am beginning to think our plans for staying home this summer were a bit short sighted.  The instigator, R, is driving me crazy already.   R walks around the house starting arguments with everyone.  Even if you do not hear his footsteps or voice, you can locate R by the argument that develops.  It’s R’s own take on GPS. We received his grades early in the week.  We were, how do I say it, less than impressed. R apparently gave himself permission to take off the last term of school.  That is the thanks you get when you raise independent thinkers.  If only he was graded on immature antics, poor penmanship and talking during class.  He’d be headed to Harvard.

On Thursday morning, M strolled into the kitchen after 11:30.  I tried not to notice. I tried to be upbeat.  I tried to remind myself that it was only the first week of summer vacation and that it was raining.  I tried to remind myself that he was growing and he needed his sleep.  In the end, it just didn’t matter. I exploded about his lack plans for the summer (except receiving serious Latin tutoring, which should be a whole lot of fun. All kidding aside, even M had to agree this was a MUCH better scenario than the Latin Camp I was threatening-even I thought Latin Camp was harsh.).  He came to visit me later that day at work.  He, A and Pig were all soaking wet from a long walk in the rain, but very upbeat:  M, with his little brother and dog in tow, secured a paper route for the summer.  He is now like his twin sister who has taken over my hours at Blue: gainfully employed.  So, once he delivers the papers each morning and studies his Latin, he is free to sleep and eat all day long.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Road Works

Good morning,

In the U.S. you are all, no doubt, sharing in the glory that is Construction Season.  In England we too have our share, however, you would NEVER believe ‘road works’ in this country.  First of all, if you can imagine, the streets are completely closed.  No access to businesses.  No flaggers or temporary lights to allow traffic through, albeit slowly.  They will close a two-mile stretch of road for a week or two even though they will only work one block at a time. If you are the unfortunate owner of a small business at the far end of the planned construction, the road in front of your business is likely to be completely closed to all traffic for a full week to 10 days before the construction crews reach your section of road. 

The construction companies start later in the morning than back home, they break for lunch and tea and wrap up their days about 4:30.  There are no detour signs.  No one works at night.   The thing that I find impossible to understand is that business owners don’t complain!  The Brits still carry the attitude of  ‘make do and mend’.  People ask me, when I enquire about business, what construction is like in Chicago.  Ha!  Political elections (and in all likelihood lives) would be lost if construction was handled in this manner.  Here, the mild mannered English shrug and say, ‘But what can we do?’

The construction has put even more bikes on the road.  Bikes and motorcycles are such a danger here.  They do not follow motoring rules of the road.  Motorcyclists are able to be both vehicle and pedestrian simultaneously and I cannot tell you how dangerous this makes the narrow roads. 

On our block alone this week, there have been three bicyclists hit by cars (One cyclist hit and thrown off his bike just two feet in front of M and me one morning-thankfully he was shaken and sore, but okay.  He had dropped off his five-year-old daughter who had been riding on the back of the bike, just minutes before at school.).  Judging by the squealing of bike brakes and abusive language, a fourth one was narrowly avoided this morning. 

We are blessed to live in town where my car is hardly driven (I have the privilege of WALKING through street construction.  With all the construction workers, this is, either degrading or ego boosting, I haven’t figured out which.).  Because my car is small and rarely used, I fill up my tank only every couple of months; so infrequently, in fact, it is the warning light on the dashboard that reminds me-a trait J finds much more than frustrating-but have I EVER run out of gas?  No.  I’m in no hurry to fill up. Petrol is about $10 a gallon, with prices expected to rise over the summer.

With love from England,

T-Ann 

A Teenage Boy

Dear all,

M has grown up so quickly.  When did it happen?  Wasn’t it just yesterday I was telling him how to pee into the toilet?  Oh, that’s right.  I DID just have to talk to him yesterday about this.  Wasn’t it just yesterday I was encouraging him to string more and more words together to form sentences?  Right.  Same thing.  Just yesterday I had to beg him to stop grunting.  Wasn’t it just yesterday he’d take two naps a day and shove food into his face with glee?  Ditto.  It WAS yesterday.  So being a teenage boy isn’t that different from being a toddler, from what I can tell, except he isn’t nearly as cute as he used to be.  I had unflinching patience when he was chubby and cuddly.  My patience is now directly related to the amount of words in M’s limited vocabulary.

M has a vocab of about five words, but these are sounds, really and do not qualify as words per se.  Mostly he communicates with one word, ‘Wa’.  I think this means, ‘What’, but it is hard to tell because he uses this sound as a response to each question or statement directed at him.  ‘Huh’ is another popular response for either question or statement. ‘Nnn’ is ‘no’ and ‘yy’ means ‘yes’.  ‘Mmm’ is a bit trickier because it has at least three or four meanings. It is as likely to mean ‘what’ as it is to mean ‘yes’.    It could also mean he likes the dinner he is shoveling into his mouth.  (Don’t mistake this for a compliment, however. It is only a primal response to the filling of his stomach, which is always empty.) There is also an outside chance that he is using this particular grunt to communicate that he agrees with you, but this is unlikely.

About four months ago, his room took on an odor that can only be described as stench. While he was away recently, S and I dragged his mattress into the yard to air every day for four days.  I thoroughly cleaned the room.  Aired out his shoes.  Got rid of old clothes that may have been retaining odor. By the end of the week, the room smelled just fine.  M returned and within days it again smelled like the inside of a gym bag/mouth/decaying bowel system.  HE doesn’t smell, so is it the chemistry of a teenage boy that makes the room so pungent:  a caustic combination of otherwise subtle odors that just blows your mind? Does it fade in time? Will he ever move out? 

The most foreboding aspect of all of this is that R cannot smell anything in M’s room.  Please don’t tell me that in a couple of years, BOTH their rooms will smell like this!

With love from England,

T-Ann

The NHS, again

Dear all,

I am sitting here wondering if I should unload on you (again) about the National Health Service.  Are you saturated with my NHS complaints yet?  I’m not.  I think I could write about the NHS forever.  There is something undeniably nostalgic about reliving the 1970’s every time you enter a doctor’s office in England. 

I have surrendered to the sinus infection that I’ve been brewing for quite awhile. Even the Chinese medicine man cannot fix me. When I called our surgery (medical practice) I spoke with the same doctor whom I confronted last year citing her lack of ethics and medical skills in an award winning performance, complete with tears, that was somewhere between a justice seeking Sally Fields and an insane Glenn Close. S was suffering from pain and blood in her urine for MONTHS and we were told repeatedly to go home and hope the problem would go away.  This lack of care coincided with R having his second bout of issues with, shall we say, his bits.  The doctor’s answer to R’s problems were,  ‘Well, everyone has pain and swelling sometimes.  This is just his time.’ At the same time, M had warts removed from his feet by yet another doctor who did not wash his hands or wear gloves.  How FREAKING nasty is that? All these problems fell on the heels of R having a seriously infected cut on his finger, which looked more like something you’d purchase at the butcher and throw on the grill than an actual appendage.  I questioned the doctor’s choice of antibiotics (Four times a day?  You are joking). The doctor spent five minutes thumbing through a manual for alternative antibiotics.  There weren’t any.  Only two types:  penicillin or tetracycline.  Having an opinion about your care is, well, frowned upon here.  Doctors do not like informed patients.

So, Friday, when the doctor asked me what antibiotics are most effective for me, I laughed and said that the American Z Pack, the once a day/five day antibiotic works beautifully.  Long pause.  ‘Mrs. Pierce,’ the doctor said in a tone of forced calm, like she was asking me to hand over the gun, ‘You know we do not have anything like that in this country.’ When CAN we expect it in this country, I enquired?  ‘Mrs. Pierce,’ same pause, same tone, ‘You know I cannot answer that question.’ So I will try to remember to take the old four times day penicillin that she assures me ‘works just fine for British bugs in British people’. 

Wasn’t I just saying I’d embrace all that was good enough for the British?  I may have lied. 

With love from England,

T-Ann

Last Week

Good morning,

Is it possible I forgot to write about our hip and happening last week? June 21, J and I attended the Cheltenham College Junior School ball.  This year’s ball was even more enjoyable than last.  We had what I was lovingly referring to as a Pre Prom Party:  four other couples who were sharing our table joined us for canapés (appetizers) and Cheltenham’s drink of choice, champagne.   We have always had exceptionally fun friends, I must say, so this was just a wonderful evening of dancing and the best of company.   The English have an endearing phrase on ball invitations, ‘Carriages at 1:00 a.m.’.  For some reason, we always seem to be the last to leave and, therefore, our ‘carriage’ didn’t arrive until closer to 2:00 a.m.    As you might imagine, the following day, J’s birthday, was a bit of a gentle affair…

On Tuesday evening, this edgy mum headed into Birmingham for the John Mayer concert.  John Mayer is relatively unknown in this country.  S and a friend, Mary who discovered John Mayer while in the USA this past winter, organized tickets to the concert months ago.  Unfortunately, S was not able to attend because she was participating in the Duke Of Edinburgh Awards.  Currently, she is working towards a bronze award:  out door training, survival skills, orienteering and camping skills. The kids go onto earn silver and gold awards in the following years, the gold award being achieved when you are dropped in the middle of nowhere, survive on your own and manage to find your way home. Isn’t that called hazing?  The best students from school were chosen.  I find it odd that the best and brightest are chosen to survive alone in the dark and wet of Wales. I’ve been a teacher.  I think the pain in the ass kids should be made to survive in the wilderness.

So. Back to young and trendy me going to the concert.  First of all, I wish I could describe the look of horror when I told S that I’d attend the concert without her. Like I was too old to hang with the students.  Please.  Mary and her mother and another lucky girl all went.

Here is the truth:  I am too old to hang with the students.  Although Mary assured us there were seats, there weren’t (she knew we wouldn’t go otherwise).  The venue reminded me SO much of the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago (or ‘brawl’ room as we referred to it).  With me so far, former youth of the greater Chicagoland area?  Sticky floors, no a/c, smelly, lots of bars, one small filthy bathroom.  Wow.  I wanted to go home.  The concert was okay, although John Mayer was not as hot as I thought he ought to have been considering what we paid for the tickets.   I’m just saying, for the price, he could have worked a bit harder on his biceps, that’s all.  And re-thought the black wife beater he was sporting.  So Helen and I left the girls to rock it out, while we hung out towards the back, close to a fire exit.

The thing that really got me about the concert was the fact that he didn’t sing his big hit, the one that made him ‘John Mayer’, Your Body is a Wonderland, because years ago he decided that he was tired of singing it and that he didn’t want to be remembered by that one ‘wedding song’.  First of all, I have to say, whose wedding?  If, at my wedding, I had played a song about not showing up for work so I could suck on someone’s ‘bubble gum tongue’, I don’t think my mother would have ever fully recovered.  No one has ever played that song at a wedding.  Second, get over yourself, John!  It is not like you are ELTON JOHN who has decided, after decades, to no longer sing Candle in the Wind. And, God help me, wouldn’t it be wonderful to live in a world where we never had to LISTEN to that song again?

With love from England,

T-Ann

The Talent Show

Dear all,

I have been asked how I manage to be myself around some of the world’s brightest and/or most talented people who are fellow parents at school. Saturday, I think I figured out why it doesn’t intimidate me. 

Saturday afternoon and evening were spent feting our school.  The occasion was the celebration of the Junior School’s 100 years on its current site.  There were a ton of people and, this shouldn’t surprise you, picnicking.  I swear, eight hours of small talk can wear even me out, but as I stood there chatting with other parents that day, I figured something out. 

As part of the day’s activities there was a children’s talent show.  Fifty-eight kids auditioned and only seventeen acts were chosen.  R was chosen for two acts. That’s right, TWO!  You can imagine my beaming face when R took his place on the outdoor stage; his image projected onto a massive screen for the curious who were too far away to catch the subtleties of  his performance. His first act was (a drum roll please…) smooshing an empty 7-UP can between his shoulder blades and, additionally, carrying a shoe around between his aforementioned shoulder blades.  Very well received by the audience, by the way.  His second act was himself and a friend wrestling, while on their knees in what appeared to be some sort of yoga position.  The audience received this with lesser enthusiasm.  His older siblings were horrified.

Other acts included a band and other children displaying athletic skills.

So you wonder how any of this relates to me feeling confident enough to talk to other parents with ease?  I’ll tell you.  The girl in the band has a famous father who wasn’t there that night because he is touring the US to sold out shows all summer long.  The kid with athletic skills has a father who is an English national treasure and has a statue of his likeness in town.  How could I NOT feel confident with these people?  Of course their children will be talented! How could they not be talented?  These kids are blessed with good genes not to mention the reserves of money that seem to go hand in hand with talent, brains and ability.  But our children?  Just look at their parents:  ZERO talent.  Our children are wonderful because they have risen to life’s challenges despite coming from a gene pool void of any talent!  They are bright even though their mother’s answer to any and all questions is, ‘I don’t know.  Go google it.’ Sheer determination to rise above their watery gene pool.  It makes me proud.  It makes me good enough.

I feel at ease, I suppose, because I am just as proud of my kids as the famous parents are of their children.  Let’s just see THEIR kid walk around on a stage, shirt off, boxer shorts a good three or four inches above his jeans-and who knows the last time they were changed- carrying a dirty shoe around on his boney back.  We’re all just the same, proud of our kids, doing what we hope is best and wishing someone would do something, ANYTHING, to ease congestion every morning in the school parking lot. 

With love from England,

T-Ann

June 27, 2008

Good morning,

I believe one of the sweetest sounds I have ever heard is the gentle and merry clanking of milk bottles as the milkman makes his early morning rounds in England. Make no mistake about it.  The milkman’s trade in England does not in any way resemble dairy delivery in the US.  There are no refrigerated trucks; logos slapped across the sides, heavy sliding doors slamming repeatedly up and down the street, there are no plastic coolers, no bulky half-gallon milk jugs.  Instead, the English milkman is ever so softly reminiscent of a nursery rhyme.  His truck really isn’t a truck so much as a covered golf cart pulling what looks like an extended flower cart filled with milk bottles. It doesn’t take much to envision a horse pulling the cart.  A cheery striped awning in either yellow or blue covers the cart. The purr of the small engine and the festive melody of slender, foil topped clanking bottles wakes me up two mornings a week and when I hear it, I smile, roll over and go back to sleep knowing that the world is going to be okay: the milk is being delivered.  It harkens back to a not so distant time when the English truly felt that nearly all the ills of the world, from war to disobedient children, could be cured with a nice, hot cup of tea.   If, by some rare chance, I haul myself out of bed and go for a run, I may encounter two or three milkmen going about their rounds.  Each of them waves.    I’ll tell you right now, in the cool and hush of the early morning to be greeted with a nod and a ‘Morning, Luve!’ is one of life’s greatest pleasures.

With love from England,

T-Ann

June 25, 2008

Dear all,

Grab a jacket; Hell hath frozen over, I’m afraid. Yes, the one thing I was most passionate about when we moved to England (aside from how we were going to source Skippy peanut butter), indeed one of the “terms” of my agreement to move here, was that no British dentist would ever lay one old fashioned instrument into the mouths of my children. We would fly home for our dental needs. When I bit down on a chunk of glass in a restaurant at Christmastime (Dining out here is maddening.  Either you are biting down on shards of glass, or the food, service and price make you feel as if you are), I waited until we were home in March to have my tooth x-rayed.  Arguably, this was a bit over the top. But, I will tell you; it is intensely gratifying to cling to my outdated American notions of British dentistry.  Secretly, I enjoy looking at bad British teeth knowing that American dentistry is far superior.  This thought, then, encourages me to reinforce in my tiny mind, the US’s overall dominance.  (If I am honest with you, though, it’s obvious that my need to look down on the Brits’ teeth is just my insecure way of over compensating for the crushing and internationally humiliating fact that Bush was elected twice.)  My friend, Mark, recently watched a BBC show in the US called, ‘Britain’s Worst Teeth’. Undoubtedly, good television.  So, anyway, no dentist in this country was touching our teeth. As is so often the case when I start to feel all smug and satisfied, I am compelled to guiltily slink back into reality. M is now sporting braces, English style.  Every bit the railroad tracks we saw back home in the 70’s.  Never mind.  M will thank me for overcoming my prejudice when he is out of braces before he turns 16 and not into them when he is 18, back in the US.   So, I’ve learned my lesson, no doubt about it.  I will embrace all that the Brits have to offer.  Well, I think it goes without saying, I won’t eat runny baked beans for breakfast, but, GENERALLY speaking, if it is good enough for them, it will be good enough for us.

That being said, for the record, I want to make one thing clear:  I do not put these feet in stirrups for ANYONE who does not hold a license to practice medicine in the USA.

With love from England,

T-Ann

June 20, 2008

Dear all,

I collected A from school yesterday. I was standing with a friend who teaches American and British politics at the senior school.  The Major spent his gap year as a high school senior in the US.  The Major, eyes ever twinkling and chuckling in an unsupportive manner, not so secretly revels in the fact that A is slowly acquiring British mannerisms.  You can imagine The Major’s chortle when A ran from his classroom to me clutching a small white paper bag he received at the zoo the previous day.  He reached in and proudly pulled out a pencil.  ‘Look,’ A shouted, ‘This pencil looks like a zeb-bra.’ (There is no ‘z’ as we know it here.  The letter ‘z’ is pronounced ‘zed’ and zebra rhymes with, say, jebra.  They don’t sing our alphabet song.  Zed doesn’t rhyme with the last word of the song, ‘me’.  Also, ‘h’ is pronounced, ‘haich’).  ‘And, look!’ A squealed with excitement, ‘We all got rubbers!’  In England, it is apparently uncontroversial to hand out rubbers to young children…

 

With love from England,

T-Ann