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 But, I will tell you; it is intensely gratifying to cling to my outdated American notions of British dentistry.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

June 18, 2008

Dear all,

We celebrated Father’s Day in posh English style.  I might be able to get used to this lady-of-the manor lifestyle.  We spent the afternoon at the Greenway Hotel in Cheltenham.  This is the same hotel where we lunched after M and S’s confirmation.  Google if you are bored.  It is so lovely.  We booked tickets to an afternoon falconry demo (possibly the LAST thing I would have requested to do on Mother’s Day) and arrived slightly ahead of time.  We walked the grounds, in and out of secret gardens without M who lazily commandeered a garden bench in the sun.  Good thing.  Staff appeared carrying small tables and china service for five (R was away at a 24 hour “experience” at the senior school). We were served hot chocolates, tea and champagne out in the garden.  While enjoying our drinks, the refined waiter, looking like a butler, reappeared with a tray of scones, clotted cream, raspberry jam and an assortment of biscuits and cookies.  I mean, honestly.  Didn’t you think all that stuff was just a stereotype?  We gobbled the scones and battled aggressively with silver butter knives for clotted cream.  If I have learned but one thing during these past two years, it is this:  there is never enough clotted cream.  I could have sat in that garden all day, but eventually the falcon guy showed up.   

 

Falconry.  Yet another career for which I am not cut out.  It is unfathomable to me that one might actually enjoy spending each and every day, hours at a time, training birds to fly away and then return (Not to mention handling all that warm, raw chicken the birds tug and eat. You just know it has to smell terrible.).  Just the thought of the tediousness makes me edgy.  Argh.  Don’t get me started.  Anyway, as usual, it didn’t take long before the kids jumped in to volunteer to hold all the birds.  J even had a go.  Not surprisingly, I took a pass.

 

With love from England,

T-Ann

 

 

June 14, 2008           

Dear all,

Yesterday was A’s fifth birthday and, just like the day he was born, it was Friday the 13^th.  How telling.  A came into this world on his own terms:  he had to be turned because he was breech and a couple of weeks later, I was induced and actually went home later that evening exhausted and with nothing but a headache.  He refused to be born.  When finally he decided to make an entrance, it was Friday the 13^th.  His headstrong pre-natal tendencies were very much an indication of his post-natal personality.  Still, he does get under your skin and we adore the little man who rules our house with an iron fist.

 

A woke everyone up early so we could all celebrate his day.  The big kids staggered into the kitchen to watch the presents being opened.  He got a “real” watch after asking for a new one for months. “I want a watch where the hands move on their own and it isn’t made of wood.”  Fair enough, I suppose. 

 

His big gift was a Playmobil airplane (or ‘aero’ plane if you are British).  It is a sturdy aircraft complete with figures.  Playmobil must have updated itself.  It is so right on:  The passengers are no longer a family with a mom and dad and 2 children.  The family consists a boy accompanied by his mother.   The flight attendant frowns, sports an orange fake tan, rolls her eyes and smells strongly of migraine inducing perfume.  The pilot’s blazer has an ever-so-faint outline of a handgun.   We had fun checking out the baggage handlers, too.  They are darling, jonesing for a smoke and, if you hold them up to your ear, threatening to strike.  We’re looking forward to adding to the set over time, hoping beyond all hopes that Playmobil has by Christmas added an airport security set to their line.  What child doesn't love the drug sniffing dogs?  The thought of A playing with plastic burley, 5 o’clock shadowed women warms my heart.  Maybe then we could make believe play the time when M got pulled aside in London’s Gatwick Airport by some overzealous security worker and was searched, suspected of having a grenade in his pocket. M reached into his pocket and produced instead, a pinecone.  I doubt Playmobil will include an action figure of an American-looking mother who, when the right buttons are pushed, flips out and spouts off about her son’s civil liberties. But then, she is why Playmobil also makes the police car.

 

With love from England,

T-Ann

June 12, 2008

Dear all,

This blogging thing has been wonderful for me.  I can write to my heart’s content without feeling like a pain, but apparently blogging comes at a price:  I cannot keep anything too personal hanging out there in cyberspace.  Not like sharing my preference in underwear isn’t personal, but no one can hunt me down, tie me up and force me to wear shoes that pinch until I tell them everything I know about furniture placement, based solely on the fact that I’ve written I wear thongs.  Sadly, by using our names, I leave our family vulnerable.  I will, going forward use simply our initials and will go back and edit my previous entries.  For friends, especially in England, I may use made up names if I am feeling clever (For instance, the double barrel name Mr. Posh-Wanker immediately springs to mind when I think of the Headmaster at the senior school.).  I hope this all doesn’t become too distracting.  I think it really bites, to be honest, but since my whole life I have attracted the unsavory/stalker types (and, God knows, I am the first to admit they all are generally good fun at first…) it just makes good sense to be a bit prudent. I’m all about good judgment.

With love from England,

T-Ann

June 9, 2008

Dear all,

Saturday we celebrated A's birthday (5 years old on June 13). A and thirteen of his closest friends gathered in Stroud at Go Bananas, a germ infested indoor soft playground.  We have never done a full on birthday party for any of the older kids.  Are we too tired to say ‘no’ we wondered?  Birthdays here are quite different than back home.  For one, the home party is almost unheard of.  Besides, in all my years of teaching pre-school and observing the older kids’ classes, I have never seen a group of such testosterone pumped boys in all my life.  Power Rangers rule even though most of them, including A, have never seen an episode.  Even to have three or four boys over for cake and a few games was completely out of the question.  The party went well with the kids playing on the equipment and then lunching on little tea sandwiches.  The tea sandwich really does exist here.  They don’t taste very good and the crust less white bread does get stuck on the roof of your mouth, but, never mind, they go down a treat.

 

We left A’s party with all his presents (still wrapped-no one unwraps presents at the party) and headed for Tewkesbury where M and S were participating in the Cheltenham College Regatta.  What a dreamy afternoon.  We arrived at the College Boat House later than most parents and the bank of the river was already lined with picnicking parents. Some were in folding chairs at tables draped with linens others on blankets laid out on the ground.  Well-behaved English hunting dogs sat patiently beside their owners (We left our dog, Pig, at home. He qualifies as an English hunting dog, however he feels that anything with four legs, wings or anything that resembles a vacuum is to be consumed in an urgent and rather violent way.  We’re working on that...). The sky was blue, clouds were fluffy and when the ice cream man drove in I thought I might need to be pinched.  So civilized, so perfect. We sat sipping Elderberry Presse in the sunshine.

 

 J and I had yet to see M and S row.  They both started rowing in January first with indoor training and then all spring spending miserable afternoons on The River Severn in the wind, rain and cold.  They came home soaking wet with bloody knuckles and chills right down to the bones.  But on a summer afternoon, to see the boats gliding through the water in such an effortless manner, you’d never know the pain that went into learning to row.  Rowing is a beautiful sport to watch.  So graceful. So powerful.   It is a team effort but you can see the strength of each shoulder, arm and leg as the skulls glide by.  The kids make it look easy, but just enter into the skull and not topple into the water is a skill that must be mastered.  The afternoon was divine and when it was time for tea, we gathered under the canopy to enjoy triangular, crust less sandwiches and tea.  Does life get sweeter? 

 

It does if you are able to leave the regatta and head back to Cheltenham to watch R play cricket.  The good thing about cricket, and there aren’t many, is that R can start a cricket game in the early afternoon and in the early evening, after you have done more than most people do in an entire weekend, you can still make the end of the game. R had one of his best games yet, but managed to lose one school shoe which will prove to be fairly uncomfortable for him (Ask my parents.  They were here to witness the last shoe loss, only a few weeks ago.)  R spent his Sunday washing our cars in order to raise money to buy a new pair. His entire income goes towards shoes.  A concept to which I am familiar.

With love from England,

T-Ann

June 8, 2008

Good morning,

We are basking in the glory of a breathtaking summer day in Cheltenham.  Yesterday's rain was one of the most depressing days yet.  Cold rain has no place in June.  It was so soggy that even my umbrella couldn't keep up.  After a walk to school and back in the morning, my umbrella began running its red dye over my light colored linen dress. 

This dress is cursed.  I wore it recently in Florida, walked through a parking lot and was met by a wall of rain.  It came from nowhere and I was drenched.  I raced along hugging the outside wall of CVS until I reached the front doors.  They wouldn't open.  I'm banging on the doors and the cashier inside was gesturing that I should step back a few paces and enter the automatic doors directly from the front, not from the side.  Funny thing though, in the pouring rain, I wasn't in the mood for charades so I continued to pound until a customer walked up to activate the automatic doors and let me in. I was drenched and thanking the man when I looked around and realized everyone was staring at my dress, which had become ENTIRELY transparent.  And clingy.

I’d like, if I may, to say a word or two about thong underwear.   While I am no stranger to Bridget Jones undies, there is a time when less is more. My friend, Cindy, who has given me spot on advice for thirty years (‘Omigod, T, put on your seatbelt!’), told me I should buy a thong one size too large.  For obvious reasons, I will be forever grateful to Cindy for sharing her wisdom. However, in terms of coverage, going up the one size didn’t do too much for me, as I was standing there in CVS essentially naked.  I ran for cover, crouched and dodging in and out of aisles, avoiding people-I did have to apologize to one old man in the toothpaste aisle- until I had the good fortune to find myself hiding behind an end cap of cheap bathrobes.  In perfect Lucy and Desi form, when J found me, (he had been in Dunkin Donuts procuring large amounts of coffee to bring back to England.), I was standing in the cough syrup aisle, dripping wet, wearing a fluffy purple bathrobe. We laughed so hard I nearly wet my pants, which obviously wouldn't have mattered much, anyway.)

So the fact that my umbrella was slowly ruining my dress was just the way the whole day went, culminating with a late afternoon conference with R's English teacher who, as they do, started off by presenting R's positive qualities particularly noting that R was really more of a math and science guy and (with great enthusiasm) that R, in his recent exams, did an outstanding job using capital letters and punctuation.  Hmmm. Seeing as R is TWELVE; you'd rather think he'd have a grip on those matters. It was going to be a painfully long conference.  But in the light of a whole new bright, perfect English day, I'll give my red floral umbrella, linen dress and R another chance.

With love from England,

T-Ann

 

June 6, 2008

Good morning,

Our Speech Day was a beautiful, English day. S made us incredibly proud by winning, as I said before, three awards for Chemistry, History and Religious Studies. She was also awarded the Headmaster's Award for Academic Excellence. It made for great day.

Having been to an extravagent 50th birthday party on Friday night and a grueling day of sunshine, champagne and lovely frocks on Saturday's Speech Day, J and I struggled to pack the car and leave the house in the wee hours of Sunday morning. The house looked less like we had left for vacation and more like we fled: dishes on the table, life's equipment strewn everywhere, crumpled party dresses on the floor. Somehow, we managed to make our early morning ferry out of Portsmouth.

The ferry was decidedly better than flying. It had restaurants, shops, lounges, a movie theater and, most importantly, cabins. Thankfully, we had the foresight to book a cabin. It was the beginning of half term break and the boat was crawling with kids. By 6 a.m. that morning, we were VERY tired of our own kids and had no interest in sharing space with anyone else's. We were able to rent a couple DVD's and rest as we made our six hour journey to Normandy, France. When we disembarked in France, we were a ten minute drive to the hotel and, from there, a half a block to the sea.

The hotel was a family run, simple and charming place. It was not the huge American chain hotel normally preferred by J, but it did the trick and the non English speaking owners and their darling school age daughter were wonderful hosts. We dropped our cases in the room and headed to the sea where I was immediately ripped off by a pimply faced French youth who refused to give me the correct change for a bucket and spade (an A Englishism). I was glad we had refueled on various French fried doughs. It eased my anger. And, after collecting shells and tossing washed up star fish back into the sea, we were witness to the pure ecstasy of A on a bungy jumping contraption. His unbridled joy, which is a side that his guarded self rarely makes public, melted my bitter heart and I let the pimply youth incident drop. Sort of.

We hit the historical beaches of Normandy on Memorial Day. At Pointe du Hoc, we walked through craters left by bombs and climbed through the gun encampments and even through a couple of bunkers. On Omaha Beach, it was hard to imagine the horrors that took place here in 1944. It was one of the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen. Soft sand surrounded by those infamous cliffs and hills. We played for a long time in the sand. We thought about what it must have looked, sounded, smelled and felt like to those brave men who fought there.

We visited the American Cemetery and arrived just in time for a small Memorial Day ceremony. A general in charge of all the national cemeteries, gave a short speech. He spoke of the bravery of the US soldiers who died in all parts the world. "These soldiers have died protecting other countries. Has the United States ever asked for money or colonies or slaves in return? No. We have only ever asked for a place to bury our dead." It was so powerful as we looked out over a cemetery, technically American soil as the land was gifted to us by France, with well over 9,000 white crosses and the occasional Star of David, all pointing to America. It left me breathless. We went to thank the men and women who spoke, but the only words I could choke out were, "thank you" before I completely broke down, my pride, gratitude and love of country just overcoming me. There are those that worry that by living abroad our children will not be fully American or patriotic. Moments like those we shared at the American Cemetery will be forever suspended in time. I doubt the kids will forget it. Even A was silent and in awe. I have no doubt that our children are immensely proud of their nation.

An unfortunate situation arose while we were wandering around the cemetery. It is, of course, a solemn place. We were disturbed by 15-20 French youths (15-16 years?) who were shouting, laughing, throwing pine cones at each other and leaning and jumping on the headstones. One employee ran some of the kids off, but they all congregated elsewhere. Finally, I couldn't take it and I marched over. Seeing an angered adult made them disperse, but J came up behind me shouting at them. They left then and M walked over to one headstone where boys had been gathered laughing at the name cut into the headstone. M who has such a strong sense of justice, was overcome with emotion when he realized this soldier had died the day after Christmas, 1944. He was outraged. Having recently toured Auschwitz, M could not believe these French boys could be so ungrateful. Did they not appreciate what these men gave up to liberate France from the Nazis? No. I do not worry about his patriotism whatsoever.

The following day we headed to the middle of nowhere to see Mt. St. Michel. It is a monestery/politcal prison/castle which remains a monestery today. It is magnificant pile of rocks that protrudes literally out of the ground. It is a tremendous castle and church with a small quaint town at its base. At high tide, it becomes an island. It is the second most visited site in France behind the Eiffel Tower. We arrived quite excited to navigate the 500 plus stairs to the top. R saved the day (it was R's second trip to the site) by directing us the back way and thus avoiding a huge crowd, but not before we could have another unfortunate situation with the French youth. In the crowded entrance, we were bumped and jostled by crowds of tourists. We ended up close to some kids on a school trip (16 years? Same group?). R accidentally walked into a picture one boy was taking of his friend. Without a moment's thought, this boy took R by the shoulders and shoved him hard. Again, I was disciplining French youth who seemingly had no supervision. It marred the day which was a shame.

On Wednesday, we visited St. Therese's Basilica in Lisieux. St. Therese, The Little Flower, is my patron saint, so we stocked up on those items necessary to ensure my safe passage into heaven: holy water in a plastic bottle molded into the shape of a saintly woman. A plastic jar candle with a picture of St. Therese printed in wildly vibrant colors, a laminated picture of St Therese one could keep in her pocket (in order to remind the owner just how much God loves those who shut up and put up), and a charm or two. St. Therese was a silent sufferer. Just like me. She never complained. Just like me. Even when she didn't like people, she studied them to find the face of Jesus in their soul. Just like me. She ate food she didn't like and was completely grateful. TOTALLY like me. The similarities are uncanny. Obviously, to name me after St. Therese was a profound act by my parents. Too bad I ended up with a goofy nickname ('Are your parents hippies?' I was once asked by a neighbor.).  Sadly, even in front of St. Therese's church, we ran into trouble with poorly behaved children. This time grade school kids were outside running around (nearly knocking A down) pushing over garbage cans, screaming, etc. I have never seen anything like it, not in the US or else where.

So. My thoughts on France? It is the MOST beautiful country. I SO want to love it! A French friend of ours assures me that all these children were probably just nasty Parisan kids on school trips. He tells me that everyone outside Paris is likeable. Anyway, the French butter alone may make me want to go back. And the baguettes. I won't say I'll never go back. It is just that being in France is more work than being in Italy. Bring on Tuscany.

Thursday, we arrived home at 1:30 a.m. and got M to school at 5:30 a.m. for his trip to Belgium. How many World War memorials can you take in before you want not to wake up in the morning? Ask M.

With love from England,

T-Ann

June 4, 2008

Good morning.  

I'm tapping away on my new lap top, an anniversary gift from my desperate husband (16 years of bliss, by the way...5 houses, 4 kids, 3 dogs, 2 countries, 1 cat.  Our life together has the cheer and rhythm of a Peter, Paul and Mary song, don't you think?).  J, a normally undemanding sort, has all but chained me to this computer, basically telling me not to get up until a book is published.  God, I hope my weak bladder holds out.

So much has gone on since my last newsy email.  We have had visits from my friend Devon and her darling baby, Hollis.  My friend Cindy popped in as did another high school friend, Colleen, during Gold Cup week.  I am still trying to recover.  We managed to come home for a short time and head to Florida for sun and thrill rides on the back of my cousin Mike's Harley.  Our garage roof has collapsed countless times.  We got a dog.  We managed to live through our first heart arresting heating bill for this big, old beautiful house of ours (hence the urgent need for book royalties).  All this without so much as an email home.  

So I got to thinking.  Actually, I am following the advice that my dear friend, Elizabeth, has been giving me for over two years:  blog.  Yes.  That is it.  I need to blog.  It makes sense for me to plop all of these stories into cyberspace and not necessarily into your inboxes, which, to be honest, makes me feel like a pest.  So going forward I will write with much more frequency and less length and post my entries to a blog.  This way it is a win-win for everyone:  I can record our lives in greater detail (which is really what this whole thing is about:  capturing this experience of living abroad) without the guilt of clogging up my loved ones' emails.  You can access my blog when and if it is convenient for you.  My blog address is  http://englandtoprairie.blogspot.com

 Add it to your favorites and tell everyone you know to read it.  It would be a treat if the book that is inside me is simply a running commentary of my life and not some novel that would actually take research and perseverance to crank out.

Having said all that, I will fill you in.  My parents returned home recently after a two week visit.  It was so good to be with them.  I sat the kids down before they arrived and begged for cooperation:  Their grandparents would be here for only two weeks.  Could everyone please be on their best behavior because it would be great to not have to yell at anyone in front of Maga and Bompers.  Within two days every kid had committed some heinous grievance, yet somehow my parents found it all a bit charming. During their visit, they saw R ski the dry slope and play cricket (even my mother had to agree that cricket is tolerable and even pleasant with enough champagne). They held long conversations with the kids who, to my parents' delight, are grown up enough to have opinions and senses of humor.   A pretty much just bossed them around.  It was an especially meaningful visit for M and S who had my parents as confirmation sponsors as they made their confirmation May 4.  Their confirmation was lovely in the chapel at school.  The bishop of Tewkesbury presided and S was the reader.  We lunched afterwards with our friends, the Spades, at the Greenway Hotel in Cheltenham, an old manor home.  Posh, posh.  If the weather had been kinder we no doubt would have enjoyed a few Pimms while playing crochet on the lawn which was enclosed by massive topiaries in the shapes of trains and such.  So English it hurt.

So now that M and S are adults in the eyes of God we can get down to the serious business of preparing for Speech Day at Cheltenham College Senior School.  It is a day of competitive picnicking and, for once, this is an arena in which I can compete (as long as I purchase all the food).  I am nothing if not able to make the back of the Volvo look like a glossy magazine photo shoot.  Call it a gift.  So the day is as follows:  chapel, followed by the awards ceremony, drinks at the houses, picnics and cricket watching.  We are looking forward to the awards ceremony.  Many and most students go a full five years at the school without receiving a single award.  S has received FOUR (for history, religious studies, chemistry and one secretive one to be announced.  M suspects it is the Biggest Brown Noser Award).  Four awards is unheard of. My reaction was one of pride, awe and wonder.  And by way of congratulations, I bellowed, "Man, M.  It must really SUCK to be her twin!"  Good thing M has a strong sense of his laid back self.  The pressure could crush a weaker individual.  

In the early hours of the following morning, we will drive to Portsmouth to catch the ferry to Normandy, France in order take in the WW2 history.  We will duplicate parts of the school trip that R took last year including the American cemetery and hotel (As best we can guess, we have made reservations.  Hard to say.  The French would be much more endearing if they spoke English).  We will then race back over the Channel to get M back in time to climb into a bus, headed to a ferry so he can again cross the Channel, this time destined for Belgium.  He is participating in a WW1 class trip.   

I will update you on our trip to France via my blog.  I'll send out emails to let you know my blog has been updated and will be sure to include a daily running total of my combined butter and cream intake as well any freak friendly encounters we have with the French.  

With love from England, 

T-Ann