Squinting

Dear all,

R is back in the spotlight again and it’s not a very flattering light.  He has taken his mock common entrance exams (his mock senior school entrance exams).  We had some differences of opinions while he prepared for these exams, namely WE thought he should have his nose in a book and HE thought he should walk around with a book, singing Led Zeppelin songs.  Finally, we agreed that we’d let him do it his way and see how it all worked out.  Or not.

The one thing you can say about R is this:  he is NOT your average student.  There is nothing average about him at all.  He is either above or below (in direct correlation to how much he likes his teacher), but he is certainly not average.

It was a little tricky congratulating him for his magnificent triumphs when he needed a kick in the pants for his, well, below average work. 

One night J and I lay awake wondering what to do with R.  I was feeling desperate and was running out of ideas to motivate R.  J reminded me that two years ago M was a huge worry.  It seems like ages ago, but yes, I worried day in and day out about M for years. Maybe it is R’s turn or maybe it is his age or maybe in time, kids will all turn out just fine no matter what…

When the kids were toddlers and even into grade school, I’d find that at night, when the room was dark, I could squint my eyes, stare at them sleeping in their beds and see them as babies.  I could remember their soft breath and how they felt in my arms.  There they were, these big kids, but with a little darkness and just a bit of squinting, those babies were right there.  I still stare at A as he sleeps. 

Those small, pudgy babies of mine disappeared and now I step over piles of muddy grown up shoes by the front door.  I feel robbed of precious moments.   

When the kids were small (and still with A), exhausted, we’d practically limp upstairs to put them to bed.  We read the same favorite books over and over until I thought my mind would turn to soup.  I figure somewhere around fourteen years of reading Cars! Cars! Cars! can do damage to your brain.

Time is smooth and seamless.  Each day spent with our young family was noisy and chaotic, however change came about silently:  babies became toddlers and toddlers became kids.   Preferences evolved.  How could I have known the significance as I placed The Runaway Bunny back onto the shelf that one particular night, that I would never be asked to read it again?  Well over a decade of reading this tattered book and I placed it along side the other books on the shelf without thought or notice, without ceremony. I wasn’t aware at the time, but this simple act of putting away a book was profound:  an end of an era.  In that small and seemingly insignificant motion, part of their childhood, and my mothering, was over.

I had an epiphany recently, just days after I worried so much about R.  M and S were in the kitchen talking, laughing and helping out.  I watched them in a way that I hadn’t before.  I stood back and really had a good look at them, like they were some sort of experiment and I was a scientist extracting data.  I noticed how they interacted.  I listened to their voices and to the intelligent and funny conversation they were sharing.  And then I did it:  I squinted.

In that moment I discovered something even MORE magical and MORE joyful than seeing babies in big kids.  Squinting in the full light of day, right there in our kitchen, I saw an amazing sight:  our twins were nearly adults.  It didn’t take much to see that they are almost there. 

As I processed this in my mind, it surprised me just how much, through watery eyes, I liked what I saw.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Somerfield

Dear all, 

When J and I flew to England to find a house and school, our relocation agent took us down Bath Road in Cheltenham.  He suggested that we try to find a home close to this shopping district, because we would be spending a lot of time there. It is THE place to shop for everyday essentials:  a chippy (fish and chip joint), 2 chemists, 2 butchers, 2 grocery shops, 3 Indian restaurants, the post office, a kitchen store, a green grocer, a deli, a bakery, an office/art supply shop, an old fashion shoe store and a repair shop like on Sesame Street except I’m pretty Luis wasn’t laundering money like these owners are.

The sidewalks were crowded with merchandise for sale, parked bikes, shoppers, window washers and postmen.  I couldn’t imagine myself there.  Essential shopping?  Really?  There was no Target, Old Navy or Barnes and Noble.  There wasn’t a single drive through or bagel shop. Not a Mattress Giant or Korean nail spa.  No Petsmart.  No Starbucks.  No TGI Fridays.  No seagulls hovering above an urban sea of blacktop and minivans.

We found a house just a couple blocks from this shopping Mecca.  I shop on the Bath Road nearly every day. 

My first venture to Somerfield, a grocery store, left me digging around my bag for hand sanitizer.  It was dirty.  The floors were grimy, the shelves crusty, the choice paltry.  The bucked toothed, greasy haired carnies that manned the tills didn’t look at all like the nice moms who worked at Target.  I suspected I wouldn’t last long in this country.

It didn’t take long, though, before I got used to the sticky floors and the awe-inspiring lack of service.  I kind of like that I can shop in a place five or six days a week, year after year and never be offered so much as a knowing glance.

Shopping there is like snooping through the grade school janitor’s closet:  Standing at the altar of organized filth, with its dirty contents neatly organized on shelves, is exhilarating.  Exchanging nervous glances with the tattooed bad ass in charge, electrifying. 

I feel a kinship to Somerfield’s patrons:  we are a slightly anti-social people and we are lazy.  We shop at Somerfield simply because it is a block closer than the other cleaner grocery store.   We’re a pretty pathetic lot. 

When an enormous hairy spider climbed out from behind some bananas, Somerfield emptied; its patrons fled, all screaming and arms flailing onto Bath Road.  They stopped traffic and the event made the front page of our local paper.  It made me delight in this grotty place all the more.  

I see a faint look of concern pass over our visitors’ faces when they enter our little shop.  I see their lips curl ever so slightly, a combination of wonder, disgust and pity.   They ask if Somerfield is a convenience store. ‘Nope. It’s Somerfield. It’s where I shop’, I say proudly, ‘And where YOUR next meal is coming from.’

And now it is closing. 

What a drag.  I will now have to shop at the Co-op, which is brighter and fresher and has a better selection. The cashiers at the Co-op are lovely people and they do not possess any of the freak show qualities I find charming.  For instance, the Co-op cashiers bathe and the women are clean-shaven with a low rate of tattoage.  Plus, they are downright pleasant which I find terribly grating, but in time, I’ll get used to that, too, I suppose.

With love from England,

T-Ann

Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road Part 2

Dear all,

In my second and final installment on driving, I would like to delve further into the joys and sorrows of driving on the wrong side of the road.  I have been living in England for so long now, that I get confused when I go home and drive in the US.  Pretty much, in either country, I just like to follow the car in front of me and hope it knows where it’s going.

In England, despite the strict testing and training of drivers, the rules of the road, are really more like guidelines.  One glaring example is that the Brits drive into oncoming traffic.  A lot.

The main reason for driving into oncoming traffic is to snag a parking place before anyone else takes it, which seems perfectly legitimate to me.  Parking is at a premium and no one is going to let a little thing like the threat of a serious accident, prevent them from getting a parking space.  Cars are parked in every which way, including on the sidewalk or perpendicular if it’s convenient.  Looking at the direction of parked cars on a road offers no indication as to the flow of traffic. 

The children’s orthodontist is on a congested road.  The preferred method of parking in that part of town is for one car to park on the sidewalk, another car parallel to it on the street.  If the car on the sidewalk needs to leave before the car on the street, the driver simply proceeds down the sidewalk until he reaches a lane from which he may emerge onto the street.  So what if cars are driving on sidewalks directly across from a grade school?   Those little kids just need to keep a heads up. 

The other legitimate reason for driving into oncoming traffic is if, say, you want to drop groceries off in front of your home (houses don’t come with garages conveniently attached), but you happen to be driving on the opposite side of the road.  Or you see a friend across the way with whom you’d like to chit-chat. There is no need to go around the block and pull up in front of the house or person.  You simply pull into oncoming traffic and park (as a courtesy to other drivers, but not to pedestrians, you pull onto the sidewalk, forcing moms with young children or the elderly to walk into the street to get around you). 

You can’t just fly down the street in the manner of a drunk driver.  There is a subtle art it.  In order to NOT to frighten oncoming traffic, you mustn’t jerk the car over quickly or swerve.  Instead, you must drive confidently into oncoming traffic for quite a distance before pulling slightly to the right and jumping the curb.  Driving half on the sidewalk and half on the road into oncoming traffic is the universal signal that says:  I-mean-you-no-harm-I-simply-want-to-catch-up-with-an-old-friend-or-drop-off-my-potted-plants-thank-you-very-much.  Often this snarls traffic, but no one minds or shouts obscenities. Very civilized.

Maybe the Brits are higher up Maslov’s hierarchy of needs than we are? 

We live on a fairly busy road.  There are pedestrians of all sorts:  elderly people with elderly dogs, university students, and children on their way to school.  Consider that there are bicyclists, double-decker busses, cars and that vicious old lady in her electric wheelchair all sharing the road, swerving around illegally parked cars and quinces that R tosses into the street.  No one cares that you are driving straight at ‘em.  Ever.  It is amazing.

Last October when I was back in the US, I was at an unfamiliar and unusual intersection.  I could go straight or turn left, soft right, or hard right.  I wanted to make a ‘soft’ right hand turn. I was the first car in my turn lane, so I couldn’t simply follow the car in front of me.  While waiting at the light, I took a moment to access the situation and verify exactly which lane I needed to turn into.  The light turned green and I drove, without hesitation, into a turning lane of oncoming traffic. 

If ever you are feeling like your life holds no thrills, I urge you to drive into oncoming traffic at a busy intersection in the US.  One moment I was tearing up to a John Denver song playing on satellite radio in the rental car and the next moment I was witnessing looks of horror on the faces of all the drivers I passed.  Their attempts to communicate my error were both animated and surprisingly easy to decipher. 

In one beat of my heart, I became very aware of every hair follicle on my head and neck and every sweat gland in my body.  I was alive!  I was awake! I was in need of fresh undergarments! 

By the grace of God there were no cars heading towards me and I was eventually able to swing into the proper lane.  Because there was so much traffic in the opposite direction, this took what seemed like miles.  I pulled over, parked the car and shook for about a half an hour.  And sometimes people wonder why coming home for visits can be stressful…

I’d just like to say that as frenetic as driving in England is, it suits me just fine.  Sure it is startling to see people reversing down a street at 30 mph, but they are only doing that as a courtesy to allow another driver to get through a blocked road.  You see, what inevitably happened is that Mrs. Smith was out clipping her roses when the vicar drove by and he stopped to congratulate Mrs. Smith on her daughter’s recent engagement.  As it does, a five-minute discussion ensued (date, dress, flowers, etc) and other drivers were forced to reverse or drive onto sidewalks to pass.  No road rage.  Everyone knows one day THEY’LL be the one who wants to talk with the vicar while he is passing down the street.  In this country you just need to leave plenty of time.  And if you don’t and you are late for an appointment, that’s fine, too.

Lastly, I’d like to point out the one thing the UK does take very seriously is speeding.  England has, last I counted, 5 trillion speed cameras.  They are everywhere, all knowing and without any sense of compassion.  Twice I have gotten a speeding ticket, once going a WHOPPING 4 mph over.  Between fines and points on your license, you pay dearly. Ask J.   J, is one ticket away from losing his license altogether because he has been caught by speed cameras so many times (please refer to my previous entry for further details on how I encourage him to slow down).

With love from England,

T-Ann

The Wrong Side of the Road, Part 1

Dear all,

The next few installments of T Time, will be dedicated to driving on the wrong side of the road, something I do frequently when I return to the US.

In the UK, you are able to get your license around your 18^th birthday.  As foreigners, we were allowed to legally drive on our US licenses for up to one year, so, of course, J and I drove for over TWO years before finally getting motivated to get our UK licenses.   All of our British friends offered encouragement and even J’s work friends joined in the fun.  He was offered ‘an incentive program’ whereby Human Resources took away the keys to his company car until he could produce a valid UK license.  We love the Human Resources Department.   They are always thinking up kooky things to keep us on our toes:  taking away car keys one week and forgetting to transfer J’s paycheck the next.  What jokesters. 

Like so many other worthwhile and wonderful things, procurement of a UK license takes time. A UK license is for life so they do not mess around when it comes to testing.  You are required to take the written Theory Test first, and then a couple months later, you take a driving test.  The written test is more difficult than you might imagine because, for one, speed limits are often not posted; you need to learn what the national speed limit is on every type of road.  Also, all the distances are in metric, which I have never bothered to learn.   But above all, the exam is tough because the employees at the Driving Standards Agency are just barking mad. 

Here are some sample questions:

1. You are checking your trailer tyres.  What is the legal minimum tread depth over the central three quarters of its breadth? 

2. Where may you overtake on a one-way street?

3. You are signaling to turn right in busy traffic.  How would you confirm your intention safely? 

4. Where would you see a contra-flow bus and cycle lane?

5. At puffin crossings, which light will not show to a driver?

6. How long will a Statutory Off Road Notification (SCORN) last for? (bad grammar, by the way)

7. There are no speed limit signs on the road.  How is a 30 mph limit indicated?

8. Powered vehicles, such as wheelchairs or scooters, used by disabled people have a maximum speed of?

9. Which three emergency services MIGHT have blue flashing beacons? 

10. You are waiting to emerge at a junction.  Your view is restricted by parked vehicles.  What can help you to see traffic on the road you are joining?

Just for the record, I got 100% on my Theory Test.  J did not, but you can bet I was very mature about the whole thing.  It isn’t about who got the better grade, it is just about being safe.    

You study for your written exam and while doing so you must get drivers training.  It isn’t enough that you have been driving for 25 or 30 years.  You will not pass without help.  You must hire a meek and mild man with thinning hair and loads of patience to re-teach you how to drive. 

The cornerstone of the UK driving test is reversing down a road and into a side street.  This is frowned upon in the US, but in the UK it is necessary to perform this maneuver nearly every time you get behind the wheel of a car, so it is a pretty important skill.  You will be tested on parallel parking.  If you so much as touch the curb, it is an automatic failure.  It’s considered loss of control. You will be taken down several different roads and you must know the speed limit of each.

It is worth noting that I passed the driving test on my first try.   For the sake of comparison ONLY, you may be interested to know that it took J THREE times.  I think it’s important you focus on J’s eventual success, not on his NUMEROUS failures.  As I said previously, it is all about safety, not about who is the better driver (me, obviously). 

I continue to be a resource for J whenever we travel together.  I’m like a walking, talking Theory Test Study Guide.  When I note that his driving isn’t at the 100% marker or I sense he is feeling too shy to ask for my driving advice (which I encourage), I like to help him by pointing out ways he could improve his driving skills.  Peppering him with facts from the theory books is very effective. 

If that doesn’t correct an unsafe situation, I engage a three-pronged approach wherein I first take the Lord’s name in vain, then use a strong and offensive swear word (depending on the extremity of the situation and how much time I have to get my point across, I might choose to combine these first two steps).  Lastly, I ask a very pointed, leading question in a cheerful, but firm voice.  It goes something like this, “Jesus H. Christ!  F**K!  Would you slow down?!” 

Often this technique works, though often enough we end up skidding off the road.  This method has the added benefit of greatly increasing our marital communication, thus killing two birds with one stone.  Lots of heartfelt and lively banter ensues.  Everyone wins. 

With love from England,

T-Ann 

P.S.  The answers to the questions above are:

1. 1.6 mm
2. Either on the right hand or the left hand
3. Arm signal (as if…)
4. On a one way street
5. Amber flashing (assuming you know the difference between a zebra, puffin, pelican and staggered crossing)
6. 12 months
7. Street lights
8. 8 mph (which I know for a fact is WRONG, because there is an old lady in our neighborhood who cruises in her wheelchair, doing about 40 mph in the rain while smoking, talking on her mobile phone and shouting vulgarities at anyone in her way)
9. Coast guard, bomb disposal, mountain rescue
10. Reflections of traffic in shop windows

 

  

You'll Wish You Were Me...

Dear all,

Why is it that some days life can be utter rubbish, others, a study in perfection?  Today is one of those splendid days when not only is it warm and sunny, but I am caught up with my laundry.  Perfection.

I was forced to do laundry around the clock this weekend because we were expecting a visit from our landlords who were invited by me to smell the bouquet of our latest home ‘glitch’.  We are suffering from the vexing problem of a basement that smells as if it is well past its Best Before date, not unlike the contents of a container of fish pie that has gone missing in the fridge for a few months.  I thought I’d extend an invitation to our landlords so they, too, could enjoy the pong (smell). 

The laundry was done simply to give the impression that I am not a lazy sloth.

I am well aware that others could look at my life in England and think, gosh, I wish WE could get a sweet deal like they did and leave these Frozen Red and Blue States for someplace a bit more civilized: a place with less snow, less SUVs…less Oprah.   Well, my friends, I am here to tell you life isn’t half bad on the other side of the pond when the sun shines and you have no laundry on the floor.  You should definitely come. 

I admit that part of the thrill at the moment, isn’t that the sun is shining, but has more to do with the fact that I have no laundry.  ‘What a loser,’ you are thinking to yourself.  Well, yes, of course, THAT is part of it, but mostly, I am just so happy I have an electrical dryer.  You know, the kind of dryer that you can’t fold up and tuck behind the door when company comes or the kind that isn’t hung in the back yard and doesn’t subject your neighbors to the sight of your ‘smalls’.  I mean a dryer with a plug.  The kind with a big drum that you put wet clothes into, press a button and they come out dry.   I mean the kind of dryer that dries your clothes even if you live in England and it rains 85% of the time.

My intention here is not to make you envious.  It is just that I simply cannot begin to tell you how this machine has revolutionized my life.  We no longer have laundry hanging all over the house on clotheshorses, in doorways and on the radiators.  Kitchen chairs are used for sitting, not drying laundry.  What it does to soften a towel cannot be described.  Brilliant!  

I had promised to keep my mouth closed about this luxury (which obviously I’m not) because more than one husband I know said he’d really catch it if his wife found out J had indulged me in such a luxury, but I can’t help it.  This dryer makes my heart sing.  I may have a fridge the size of a shoe rack, but, by God, I have an electric dryer.  I may start to write poetry…

We got the dryer months ago after discovering that there are dryers that do not need outside ventilation.  You just have to empty a water container, similar to a dehumidifier.  We got an electrician to pull power into one of our two closets and, bang, just like that, I had a dryer installed.  Like my washing machine, it can only handle 5 shirts at a time, but I don’t mind.  I treat it like a child:  filling it well beyond its capacity and pushing it far beyond its limits.  It likes that.

I’ve thought a lot about it and I’m pretty sure this dryer is the best thing that has ever happened to me.  If you don’t have one, you should really think about getting one.  Maybe for Christmas.  Certainly all the really cool people have them.  I hear that some people actually have a washer and a dryer IN THE SAME ROOM, but for sure, that’s an urban myth.

To celebrate this moment, the simultaneous event of both sun and no laundry, I think I’ll go shoe shopping.  Or read a book, if you are J and you are reading this.

With love from England,

T-Ann