Brits In LA

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been fortunate enough to be able to see a couple of British singers right here in Los Angeles.

Sam Smith - Greek Theater

I’d never been to the Greek before and it’s quite a small, intimate, open air venue (Oooh, don't I sound like a fancy music critic…?)  Although it's an outdoor arena, considering we are in Los Angeles in September we didn't need any blankets to keep us warm.  In fact, the Margaritas were perfect.  (Oh, that would be $15 Margaritas, by the way).

$15!!!

The opening group were 'Broods' a New Zealand band.  I've never heard of them, I think they might be quite new, but they were okay.  They sang for about half an hour and then the anticipation began ..

When Sam Smith came onto the stage, the crowd erupted and quite frankly, he was bloody brilliant. He has the best voice and it literally sounds like you are listening to a CD when he sings.  

He sang almost all of his songs as well as his Whitney Houston cover, La La La and Latch. (Even though Naughty Boy and Disclosure weren't actually there, you couldn't tell).  All of them sounded exactly like you would hear on the radio.  He sang for over an hour and chatted away to the audience and he seems just so, well, sweet (for want of a better word)

I found out the next day he was actually suffering from laryngitis! You can see why this boy is going to be MASSIVE!

Lily Allen - The Palladium

I thought the Greek was small and intimate – well, it’s flippin' Wembley stadium compared to the Palladium, a standing only venue on Sunset Boulevard.  Although at $15 for a beer, you won’t be getting drunk there any time soon.  We tried, we really did, but it just wasn’t going to happen at that price!

Pretty in Pink

It was all very girlie – the stage lit up in pink and purple and lighted baby bottles everywhere.  I’m not sure if that’s because she’s had a couple of babies or if it was something more subliminal.  Most of the songs were from her new album Sheezus, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t get to hear some of the favourites – LDN (which reminds me of home), Smile and of course, the brilliant F*ck You! As soon as the first few bars of that one were heard, the crowd went wild.  There's nothing better than jumping up and down giving the 'V' sign, although since this is America it technically wasn't the 'V' sign, it was the middle finger!

Where's the baby fat?

She may have taken some time off to have those babies, but she can still belt it out - and my God, look at those abs!  

I do like to see an English band play in LA – I’ve seen the likes of Simple Minds, Mumford & Sons and Madness,  but I just missed Jake Bugg.  I always have the fantasy they will ask “Is there anyone from England here?” and I will put up my hand and say “Me, me, me..” and I will get asked up on stage…. That’s pretty much where it ends as there is absolutely no way I would get up there and be in front of all those people.  It would just be really awkwardly uncomfortable…  And that’s probably why they don’t ask.  If they did, there would just be a lot of averted eyes in the audience while people prayed “don’t pick me, don’t pick me….”  in typical English fashion.

Screaming for Ice Cream

Ahh… nothing says summer’s here more than the dulcet sounds of the ice cream man.  A child can hear that music from miles around. 

Growing up, there were two ice cream men that we knew, Tonibell and Mr. Whippy.  Each had their own distinctive music and we always seemed to be able to distinguish who it was by the tune.  I couldn’t begin to tell you what the tune was, but having done a search on the internet, it seems that Tonibell had their own music that was specifically written for them.  (That's all very la di dah, isn't it?)  Mr. Whippy, however, played Greensleeves, in that tinkling, old cell phoney kind of a way. 

Mr. Whippy

Tonibell

As a child, it didn’t matter what you were doing when you heard that music, whether we were playing around the house, in the garden or down the road on our bikes, everything stopped and we would scurry in to our mums pleading for some ‘pennies’ for an ice cream.  “Mum, Mum, it’s the ice cream man – hurry, hurry before we miss him!!”  If we were ever lucky enough to get a few pence from her, we would run back as fast as we could to the van.  Invariably you were never the first there and you would have to queue because some lucky bugger had got his money first.

Depending on how much money you had been given, you then had to decide what you wanted.  My favourite was always the 99, but I would never seem to have enough money for one of those.  They were saved for special occasions, or when you were at your nan’s house, because she always seemed to give you more money than your mum.  If you chose the regular old ice cream you would always watch him twirling the ice cream into your cornet, hoping that he would pull the lever a bit far and give you too much.  [Never happened]  Or you could have a Rocket or a Fab ice lolly, a Popeye, which was an ice cream cone with the Rocket stuck in the top of the ice cream, or a Screwball which was a plastic cone filled with ice cream with bubble gum at the bottom.  Oh, those names bring back so many memories.

Those little vans, specially built to be a ice cream vans were wonderful and always looked really, really clean.  Not so much here in California.  The vans my children had to run out to were/are dirty old banged up transit vans with stickers all over them and dodgy looking men selling lollies they just got at the cash and carry and not a whippy ice cream in sight.  I think I've even seen some of them sell cigarettes!  *Sigh*

Creepy No??

Ohh....If only I could import a Tonibell [or Mr. Whippy] van to California – I think I would make a bloomin' fortune.  Hmm…. Food for thought.  Anyone want to go halvsies - I'll give you a 99?

The Not-So-Super Market

Last night I was sitting in front of my computer just looking around the world wide webs when I decided to "Stumble" for a while and see what English stuff came up.

 

After about half an hour, it dawned on me that there were an awful lot of Morrisons Supermarket stories mentioned.  Now, when I lived in England, I'm not sure I had even heard of Morrisons, but apparently they are taking over the world.... and they seem to attract bad luck, bad publicity or pretty much bad anything.  (In my opinion)

 

Take these, for example:

 

1.         A young girl was standing outside Morrisons Supermarket in Dulwich, London when a car ran onto the pavement and hit her.  She was taken to the hospital with a sprained ankle.  Bless - talk about wrong place, wrong time!

 

2.         The main offices of Morrisons are planning their very own Tour de France (in Bradford no less) as part of the Work Out at Work Day.  Who even decided this should be a day?  It doesn't sound like any fun - at all.  If it’s designed to make you want to go to work, they probably should have thought it through a bit.

 

3.         Morrisons in Gateshead projected a huge loaf of bread onto the Angel of the North and people have protested in a most British way, with the architect stating "I'd rather the angel is not used for such purposes, but it's out there."  Absolutely mate, no fuss - no fuss at all!

Is that a Baguette?

Oh and what about these headlines:

 

Supermarket swoop: Customers duck for cover as cake-craving Thamesmead bird flies around inside Morrisons

One irate customer declared "The staff were just standing there, watching and waiting while it flew around the fresh bread and cake aisle." He added: "It certainly put me off buying any cakes."    How positively rude of them.

 

Family Finds Live Lizard in Supermarket Salad Bag

After finding a live lizard in their bag of salad and having the manager at Morrisons believing he was being pranked, the poor husband (who only wanted a sandwich after all) said “They’ve not got back to me since and they haven’t been very impressive, to be honest.  Maybe I should have rung the RSPCA instead.  I expected a manager to come over and deal with it, but they just sent two young lads from the shop floor.”

 

The horror, the disappointment, the absolutely British understated anger!  Perhaps he should write to the newspaper.

 

The Lizard in the Lunch

Oh, you've just got to love the British!!

A Day in the Life

A real phone conversation:

Me:      Hello, I would like to make an appointment please.

Them:            Have you been here before?
             Yes, a long time ago...
                      Okay, what’s your name...
            Sharon Clark.
                      Shannon Clock?          
            No, Sharon Clark...
                      Shannon… can you spell your last name…
            SHARON… C-L-A-R-K...
                      C-A-L-C-K?
            No, Clark….C-L-A-R-K, Sharon...
                     Okay, Clark.. Shannon?
            No, Sharon, S-H-A-R-O-N...
                      Ok.. what is your date of birth?
            8^th of July 19.. (not giving that away) *smile*
                       September 10, 1953?
            No, July 8^th 19___
                       Oh, let me look in the computer… you said your name was Shannon?
            No… Sharon *sigh*
                       I don’t see you, and you said it’s not September 10, 1953?
            Nope...
                       Hmmm… I don’t see you Shannon, maybe you haven’t been here before, let me put you in as a new patient…..

(*bangs head on desk*)

Arghhh…. How hard is it to understand my accent, I wonder?

I don’t know if she was just really that dumb, or if I was speaking particularly Cockney this morning.  Bloody Nora, some days I just want to drink .. a lot .. really early!!  *Sigh*

 

A Little Etiquette Please

I have often wondered why Americans don’t use knives when eating.  Having been brought up to eat properly with a knife in the right hand, fork in the left, it continues to amaze me when I see people trying to actually cut their food with a fork.  Go to any restaurant and you will see it all the time. 

But what’s even more hilarious is watching them when they actually try and use both utensils.  Totally the wrong way round, they might as well be wearing boxing gloves!  The fork is always upside down and the knife, well, don’t even ask what they’re doing with the knife.  It looks a bit dangerous, as if the food is about to shoot off the plate at any minute.  You can watch this for agonizing minutes and then once the “cutting” is over, they go back to eating all their bite size pieces with only a fork, which they have switched back to the other hand.  A bit like cutting food up for your baby.



Right?

Wrong?

I have often sat and watched Dave try and cut a juicy steak with his fork, leaned over and said “You do have a knife you know, wouldn’t that be easier?”  I get “the look.”  Now I’m not saying it’s the wrong way to eat (it is), but it is just so, well, awkward and looks like a a lot of hard work. 

Here’s a short and possibly quite possibly ‘politically incorrect’ lesson in using a knife and fork the Downton Abbey way. 

 

 

I find it very peculiar and funny to watch the Americans, but I will admit I get funny looks when I’m eating Pizza and fried chicken (not at the same meal) with a knife and fork. I am told “That’s what your hands are for.” But it doesn’t feel right to eat with my hands.   That'll be my "stodgy" British upbringing. 

Oh and one more thing, when you’ve finished, America, please put your knife and fork together in middle of the plate. Thank you. That’s all.

 

 

Beside the Seaside (Part 2)

I previously did a post about our daytrips to the seaside here.  But I’ve been thinking it over and there are so many more things I miss that I can’t get, or just don’t happen in America.  Here’s a few:

The Shellfish Bar

I did a post about cockles and how they didn’t get to America here.  But it’s not just cockles they sell… mussels, winkles, oysters, lobster, jellied eels, shrimp, crab, whelks.  Oh how wonderful to see all that fishy seafood sitting in the sun.  Of course, it’s a British tradition to get your fish fix when you’re at the seaside.  It’s just that some of those things look a bit, well, nasty.  I will stick to my cockles.

Photo coursey TripAdvisor

Donkey Rides

How can you go to the seaside and not have a donkey ride?  We used to beg and beg our parents to please let us have a ride.  The answer was usually a “No,” but that didn’t stop us from begging.  Of course, you have to take the obligatory photograph of the donkeys, lined up in a row with poor unsuspecting children balanced precariously on their backs.  After being dragged and bumped down the beach for five minutes you were back on solid ground and your parents were out a few quid that they would never get back.  All because those donkeys are so lovely!

Doughnuts on the Pier

Ahhh… to walk along the pier and smell that wonderful scent of cooking batter in hot oil.  There was always a crowd around the window watching those sizzling little doughnuts fall into the mound of sugar at the end of the conveyer belt.  They were always tiny, but perfectly cooked.  It makes my mouth water just thinking about them.  We always ate them too fast and wanted more.  There’s nothing better than freshly cooked doughnuts still too hot to bite.  Krispy Krème try, but they cover them in slimy goop, so it’s just not the same.

Love to watch through the window

Punch and Judy

Although a great British seaside tradition, it’s a bit creepy if you ask me.  Always set up on the beach in a striped “tent” and always, so it seemed, the same storyline which includes Mr. Punch, his poor beaten wife, Judy, a policeman, who I have a feeling wasn’t there to stop her being battered and a crocodile with sausages(?).  There may have been more characters, but I could never stand it long enough to watch until the end.  It fascinated people who, in chorus, chanted “That’s the way to do it” while Mr. Punch was beating his wife black and blue.  It’s a wonder women’s libbers haven’t had it banned by now.  Used to scare the pants off me.

A bit creepy?

Saucy Postcards

How can I possibly remember the seaside without mentioning those oh so saucy postcards?  Every souvenir shop sold them and we, as children, would spend ages reading them all.  I’m not sure we actually understood many of them, but they were so risqué and so part of the British seaside experience that you couldn’t not stop and look at them.  Whether it was buxom women, fat women, skinny little old men, milkmen or doctors they were always very double entendre.   I wonder if anyone actually sent those postcards from the beach?  Something to give the postie a giggle!

My Favourite Shop

A few years ago, when I heard Tesco was coming to Southern California, I was so excited.  I was expecting to walk into my local supermarket and magically be transported back to England.  It turned out, it wasn't going to be Tescos at all.  It was Fresh & Easy, owned by Tesco, but designed for the American market.  Needless to say, I didn't bother going to see what the fuss was all about.


About six or seven months ago, it was reported that Tesco was leaving and all the Fresh & Easy's would be closed down.  Well of course, that peaked my interest and I just had to go and take a gander.  [they have since been brought out by an American supermarket chain, so are still here.] So off I went, with my fiancé in tow.  We walked a few aisles and I was a bit impressed.  They had great fresh ready-meals, fancy stuff and all kinds of food you didn't really see in other supermarkets here.

My New Favourite

But then I walked around the corner into the International aisle and TA DAH... the wind went out of me, my chin dropped, my knees were weak and I nearly cried (this may be a slight exaggeration).  There, right in front of me were shelves and shelves of British food.  I could hear angels singing and I'm sure there was a glow around that section of the shop.  Heinz Baked Beans, Heinz Tomato Soup, Salad Cream, Heinz Spaghetti, Bisto Gravy Granules, Paxo, pickled onions - I truly thought I had died and gone to heaven (or at least England).  I think I even squealed a little bit and I may have done a bit of a jig!

I am in Heaven!

My fiancé was a bit embarrassed and backed away a few steps.  A lady who was stocking the shelves was giving me a funny look too.  He told her "Oh don't mind her, she's English."  Of course, being outgoing Americans, they got chatting and she told us how wonderful it was at Christmas when tins of English biscuits, Christmas crackers and other wondrous (my word, not hers) items were for sale.  (I would have sheepishly smiled and moved away and never known about the Christmas goodies)   I kicked myself for not shopping there before.  What a waste of four or five years - I could have been eating spaghetti on toast all that time.  What had I been thinking?

Marmite too!!

I spent a lot of money that day, my trolley was heaving with all that English fare.  I make a point of going there at least once a month now to stock up on "my" food.  Still can't get my fiancé to try Marmite though, but I keep trying.    

I'm Not Irish!

March 17. When I lived in England, that date meant nothing to me, I didn't even know anyone who had a birthday on that day. But apparently, it's St. Patrick's day. It's the day where the whole of America believes it's Irish.  You have to wear green, possibly a badge professing you are Irish, that you need to be kissed or pinched or that you need a drink. And of course, everyone eats corned beef and cabbage.

Now, my late mother-in-law was Irish. Very, very Irish. So much so that when I was going to meet her for the first time, I was told I "wouldn't be able to understand a word she says." Very reassuring and a much needed confidence boost!  Anyway, she was extremely Irish and in all my time knowing her, I never once saw her eat or cook corned beef and cabbage. I never saw her drink Guinness either, I didn't actually see her drink anything, but that’s a whole other story.

Corned Beef I remember

Corned Beef and Cabbage??

 

 

 

My point is, I had never heard of corned beef and cabbage, nor seen so much celebration of St. Patrick’s day until I came to America. My definition of corned beef was the meat that came in a funny shaped tin or in little square slices at the meat counter in the supermarket.  And St. Pat’s day was for the Irish to get drunk in the pub.  Us English wouldn’t get involved.  I think it might be different now, but when I lived there it was just another day and there was certainly no cabbage involved!

So what is it with America that they celebrate so much? I can understand those on parts of the east coast celebrating a bit since most of the immigrants from the potato famine settled there and there are huge Irish communities, but really, California, how Irish could you possibly be?  It’s all very confusing to me.  But I think I may be able to force myself to have a Harp or two.

And yes, I'm jealous. Why isn't there an “I wish I was English” day?  Couldn't you once, just once, celebrate St. George's Day (does anyone know when it is?)  Don't you know America, that we helped you settle here and we pretty much created your government.... Oh, never mind, that makes sense then. *smile*

But just so you know, you may celebrate your independence on July 4th, but the English are sneaking back in - one family at a time!

[And by the way, St. George's Day is April 23, although it's usually celebrated on the first Monday after Easter week, which changes most years... confusing?]

The Two Fingered Salute

Being English I do love a good hand gesture. 

 

Unfortunately most of them don’t translate over the pond.  On a few occasions, I have given other drivers the fist shaking, circled thumb and forefinger sign (known as the ‘tosser’ or ‘wanker’ sign anywhere in Britain).  This rarely gets a reaction from an American driver – they just think you are shaking your fist at them.  I tried to elaborate by sticking my tongue in my cheek at the same time, but that just makes me look strange and feel a bit stupid, if truth be known.

I have now taken to using the middle finger or “flipping the bird” as it’s called.  I have no idea why it’s called the bird – I have done extensive research (i.e. I Googled it) and couldn’t find any answers.  It’s supposed to represent a phallus, so the bird doesn’t make sense to me.  But that gesture is now my go-to hand signal while driving.  Not that I’m driving and flipping people off all the time, but there are moments when you just need to express your opinion or distaste for others' driving habits.

 

People who know I’m English do still get the ‘V’ sign.  It’s so much nicer than that solitary middle finger.  And it has a great history.  Also known as “the two fingered salute,” “The Longbowman Salute,” “The Agincourt Salute,” “the Rods” or a number of other names, it's believed to have originated during the Hundred Years War at the Battle of Agincourt when the longbowmen used the gesture towards the French, showing they still had their bow fingers and could still shoot arrows.  It is said the French would cut those fingers off any captured Brits.   This may not actually be true, but in good English tradition, it sounds brilliant so we’re keeping the story.

Oops Mr. Churchill - wrong way round!

It just feels so nice to shake the good old ‘V’ sign with both hands now and then that I just don’t want to give it up.  So whether anyone understands it or not, I won’t stop!

Shepherd's Pie

I’m not professing to be Gordon Ramsay – heck, I’m not even Fanny Craddock.  I can’t cook.  I give it a good old British try, but some things just aren’t for me – cooking fancy stuff being one of them.  I’ve never made a cake that doesn’t sink in the middle and cupcakes, well, we won’t even go there.

So when people ask me to cook English food, I go to my staples.  I can do blinding roast potatoes and a Sunday roast.  I can make curry (with the help of Patak’s sauces) and I make a brilliant Shepherd’s Pie (even if I do say so myself).  The thing is, and I’ve never told anyone, I cheat when I make Shepherd’s Pie.  There it is – it’s out there now. 

I don’t use herbs and spices or fancy seasoning in my meat – I use a packet mix.  But not even a Coleman’s Shepherd’s Pie packet mix – it’s just a supermarket own brand stew mix!  I use half a packet and dissolve it with an Oxo cube.  Very un-English (except for the Oxo). 

This is how Jamie Oliver would make it right here.  And he says it’s simple!

Well, this is how I make it:

• 1 pound mince
• 1 tin carrots
• 1 small bag of frozen peas
• Half a sachet of Stew Mix
• 1 Oxo cube
• Mashed potato

 

 

 

Brown the meat; mix the Oxo and Stew Mix with 1 litre of hot water.  Empty peas and carrots into meat with Oxo and stew mix, cover and simmer until water has reduced.

Meanwhile, make your mashed potatoes.  Put the meat in a baking dish and put the spuds over the top – fluff with a fork.  Pop in the oven for an hour, or until the top gets crusty and/or brown.

And now I’ve given away one of my biggest secrets, my American friends will not be pestering me to come to dinner so often – but maybe that’s a good thing  *smile*

Be My Guest

I was recently asked to do a guest blog for http://ukdesperatehousewifeusa.com.  I had contacted Claire to let her know how much I liked her blog and how I had been through the same learning curve - although it seems like ages ago now. 

I'm loving the stories about her son and can remember quite clearly when my son, after his first day in Third Grade, came home and disgustedly informed me he didn't want to go to school here because "They can't even find England on a map"

Oh joy!

Oh, there we are!

Beans Means Heinz

Last night I had a wonderful tea.  I had baked beans on toast.  Not just any old baked beans – curried baked beans.  Heinz Curry Beanz!  Who could ask for more?  It took me right back to my childhood.

Now, I had never had Heinz curried beans before so this was a treat.  I had recently found them in a local shop and I was so excited.

 

I poured them into the saucepan and they looked kind of funky… very dark, not at all like the Heinz baked beans I remembered.  Obviously I had to lick the spoon and they were, yes I’m going to say it – Awful.  I felt like a traitor.  How can I not like curried baked beans?  They are Heinz Baked Beans, and they are curried – who could ask for more?  I felt as though I was losing all that is British within me.  *sigh*

Oh, and they had raisins in.  It took me right back to those awful school dinners when it was curry day and you had to pick the raisins out of that slop they said was curry, but clearly wasn’t.

A very English tea

But, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away, after all they were Heinz Baked Beans.  The more I ate, the more I realized they weren’t so bad.  I did, in fact, eat the lot, even mopping up the sauce with my toast.   By the time I was finished, I think I had convinced myself that I liked them. I probably won’t buy them again, but I was an experience (to say the least).

  

Did you ever find something you had craved since moving from England only to find you don’t actually like it?

 

Beside the Seaside

Photo Courtesy: Tony Ray-Jones

When I was growing up, to go to the seaside was a major adventure.  Although it was only about 40 miles or so, it would seem to take hours to get there.  We would pack sandwiches and a flask of coffee for the journey.  And on a Bank Holiday, forget it - it would feel like days of sitting in traffic.  When you got there, it was cold!! 

We always had to look for that one particular parking space which was close to the beach, close to the shops and of course close to the funfair or the pier.  We were so excited to get onto the beach.  The wonderful beach – ahh those perfectly formed round pebbles in every size, some big enough to stand on, while others were just the right size to get into your shoe or between your toes to create the most pain.



Get to the Water Dance!

Children learn to run to the water and into the waves to find that illusive bit of sand so you can actually stand still for a while.  Everyone else does the “Get to the Water Dance”… arms out to the side, elbows pumping, knees jerking up and down, eeks and ahhs squealed.  Hilarious to watch, but we all do it! You get to the water and stand for just a moment before your legs go numb from the cold… and then the dance begins again, back to your spot (if you can find it).  And you shiver, wrapped in a towel behind your windbreak, on your rented deck chair, eating cheese sandwiches which somehow manage to have sand in – although you couldn’t find any sand on the beach if you tried.  Where does it come from?

IF you can find your spot!

Every trip ends with a walk along the pier and a stick of rock – or my favourite, a seashell full of sweets in the shape of pebbles. Oh those were the days…..








And now, here I am living in sunny California. To go to the beach is a spur of the moment thing. Grab a towel, jump in the car and head west for about 40 minutes (or less). When you get there you sink your feet into the golden sand and “walk” to the water, which is warm! Pure bliss!!

I just wish I could find a stick of rock!

Gor Blimey Guv'nor

I’ve been here quite a long time now and I am still managing to keep my English accent – kind of.  According to relatives back home, I sound like a “bloody Yank!” 

During the first few years it was a struggle – especially on the phone.  While working my first job, I’m not sure I should have been the receptionist.  Typical telephone conversations would sound like this:

 

How do you do?

            “Hello, Law Office…”
                        “Hi, Can I get your address”
            “Certainly, It’s  (blah, blah) Road, Suite K”
                        “What”
            “Suite K”
                        “A?”
            “No, K”
                        “What did you say?
            “K, for Kettle”
                        “What?”
            “K.. for Kettle….. Oh never mind, hold on…”

I also try to avoid drive-throughs, ordering over the phone or putting my name on the list in a restaurant.  Something definitely gets lost in the translation.  I stopped giving my name as I would get Sherry, Shary, Sean, Karen … nope – it’s none of those!  So I tried Dave… easy, you would think.  Um.. not so much – now its DIVE… even when I spell it out.   Oh dear…

But it seems everyone in America, no matter who or where, loves the English accent.  Even though there’s quite a lot of them who have absolutely no idea where I come from.  Over the years, I have been asked if I was from “the South,” Texas, Scotland (close, but not really), South Africa, France (wait, what?) and of course…. Australia!  Everybody thinks I’m Australian!  *rolls eyes*

Now don’t get me wrong, I have absolutely nothing against Australia – but it gets really annoying to be mistaken for an Australian all…the…time.

And the worst thing ever (and it happens on an extremely regular basis) – talking to someone and having them mimic your accent in the most god awful Dick van Dyke-ish London accent. 

 

Stop it!  Stop it now!!! Please……

 

 

Nice Weather for Ducks

Rain… it’s piddling down, it’s raining cats and dogs, it’s drizzling, pouring, bucketing down, pissing down, spitting… I think us English have about the same amount of words for rain as Eskimos have for snow.  But then we are used to the rain, it’s a way of life for us.  It could be lovely when you leave home, but you better take your brolly as it could tip down any minute.  Arrange a BBQ?  Better make alternative plans – just in case.

So when it comes to rain anywhere else, it’s quite funny to see the reaction, especially in sunny southern California.  Oh dear – it’s a disaster – Storm Watch 2014!!

I’m driving on the freeway, well not actually driving, just basically sitting because it’s raining.  No, not pouring, not piddling, not even spitting, it’s just a little bit of hazy, drizzling rain and the freeway has ground to a halt!  I know California is the land of never ending sunshine, but really.  The tiniest little drop of rain and every head automatically goes up a bum.  There are two classes of people – the “Oh no, I must drive really, really slowly in case I have an accident” and then there’s the “Oh, I better drive really, really fast because I’m a California speed racer and I know how to drive in the rain.”  WRONG!  And accidents abound.

Tsk, tsk California.  I would really like to see how all these people would cope having to stand at a bus stop for 30 minutes in the rain, getting soaked to the skin.  We do it, we have to and we all complain about the weather, we are English after all – it’s a national pastime.  But of course we do have that stiff upper lip which prevents us from being too outspoken.  We just mumble “bloody weather” and get on with it.

But I do have one question.  When did rain change it’s name?  Why is it that every weather forecaster now calls rain “precipitation?”  “There’s a bit of precipitation coming in the next few days…”  Is it supposed to make us feel better, give us a sense of security that actually, you don’t have to be an idiot on the freeway because it’s precipitation and not the dreaded R word…. R-A-I-N!

Where I come from, rain is rain!  No fancy names, just Rain!

 

What Happened to 'U'?

How do you attempt to get a job in a new country?  That was my dilemma.  I knew I could do it, but it was so incredibly frightening.  What if I can’t?  What if they don’t like me?  What if I screw up so badly that I will never get a job?  Can I go home…. Please??  (*sad face*)  After a fruitless couple of months looking, one thing was becoming exceedingly clear to me – Americans LOVE the English accent!  Every person I spoke to, every interview I went to, everyone - without fail - said “I just love your accent”…. Oh joy!   

So, I was finally able to convince someone to give me a job.  And then a whole new frustration started.  New country, new job, new …. Language?  What the?  American English is not English English.  I had to learn to spell all over again.  It seemed like every single word had a different spelling than I was used to.  We all know the “U” is missing from almost every word in the US.  In fact, the American keyboard only has 61 keys instead of the 62 on a UK one.  I presume it’s because the U is hardly ever used. 

‘Our” becomes ‘or’; “re” becomes “er”; “ogue” becomes “og”; double “L” becomes single; or then again single “L” becomes double; “ise” becomes “ize”; “ce” sometimes becomes “se”….good grief.  And on top of all that, the bloody keyboard is arranged differently.  What is a girl to do? 

SPELL CHECK – Spell Check is Your Friend.

That was my mantra for at least a couple of years.
 

I think I’ve got it now, although for my own purposes I still use all the “U’s” I can.  I refuse to conform. I will not write American English.  So there Noah Webster, you and your silly new fangled American spelling dictionary!  Trying to get us all to change because you were too lazy to write the whole word!

 

Hello New World

 

August 12, 1994…. That fateful day when we (the family) boarded a plane at Heathrow Airport and started on our journey to our new life in California, where the streets were paved in gold…. Or so we had heard. It’s been nearly 20 years and I still haven’t found those pavements, but I’m still looking!

 

It was weird, that first year. Moving from a fairly busy town in South London to, basically, the middle of the desert. For a while we were living in the 'high desert,' on a two mile dirt road with no television and just, well dirt…. What a culture shock! It didn’t take long for us to look for the nearest civilization and get the heck out of that dust basin. We moved down the hill –that’s it, not far, but you wouldn’t believe the difference – oh joy, actual grass, no horses, no dust!

 

I could have done with this for the first two years!

The biggest hurdle? Trying to remember to drive on the wrong side of the road. Now, I’m not saying I’m a brilliant driver (I am), but I do have a problem with my right and left. Tell me to go right and I will invariably go left – I’m sure I’m not the only one with this problem, but try getting into a car and driving on the “other” side of the road, especially when there are no lines down the middle. A couple of near misses didn’t even phase me, I still managed to get it wrong. I think over time I’ve been quite successful.

 

However, there are still times I get in the wrong side of the car… try driving off when you realize you’re sitting in the passenger seat.

 

And I would like to ask WHY? Why America do you need to drive on the wrong side – this isn’t Europe. There’s no need to be fancy. I can understand the French wanting to confuse us, but aren’t England and the US supposed to be related, cousins or something… now that’s a dysfunctional family - stop being mean to us.

 

Oh well, I’m here and it looks like it’s for the long haul, so I had better just get used to it. Oh if only I could….