Life in England

First and foremost, my daughter Elizabeth should be with me...she loves all things British. Most entirely. And for my friends who may never or will never make it across the pond, I am your eyes, blurry, bloodshot, glazed eyes. The English respect your privacy. You will be left alone, and they would appreciate the same courtesy, thank you. The young ones won't acknowledge you, they've got headphones in and are listening to a soundtrack of their lives. The older ones, my age, don't need headphones. They've seen you, judged you, and now are avoiding you. No nod of acknowledgment, no tip of the cap, no Iowa how do you do. They're on their way somewhere and you're in their way...step aside and mind the gap. It keeps things simple. The English invade your dreams. You can expect to hear words like mili-TREE, and GAIR-odge right away, in your very first night's dreams. And that wonderful lilt that makes every statement a question. Statements like- I bet this is the smallest hotel room you've ever stayed in. Or the water in your teapot is the same hot water you'll use in your shower. It always sounds like a question. The English style. Whether the Englishman has the prototypical greyhound body type of Hugh Grant, with the mop of tussled hair, or the body type of Ron Weasley's dad, the bowling pin, one common irrefutable thread is woven through all. Tweed. Tweed caps. Tweed coats. Tweed vests. Tweed trousers. Yesterday I saw a whiskey flask with a tweed cozy wrapped around it. By God do they love their tweed, perhaps because it goes so well with milk pale skin and a drippy nose. But no complaints, the cozy shire of Ludlow is quiet, understated, and reserved. Shops close predictably at 5:15 or 5:18 or 5:21. They drink their pints standing up. The dogs are welcome wherever their human owners are, and the village gets completely, peacefully disconnected at sunset. Which is nice- if you've forgotten the sound of church bells.