Wet, wet and uh wet

The weather in England is so unpredictable. Well, any local could tell you that. But me, myself and I are so unbelieving, we need it to be proved without a shadow of doubt that what they say about its unpredictability is in fact true before I take it as truth.

Its true.

From just days ago wearing shorts, I scampered back into my woolies, namely my tried and true guernsey– a gorgeously handmade jumper – uh sweater– with all the stitching telling a sailor's tale. To coin Timex, "it takes a lickin' but keeps on tickin'." An expensive investment for me, but it has paid off several times over with the amount of usage its gotten. It looks brand new even after five years of incredible abuse.

Saturday for example, started out promising— lovely and sunny. Then we decided to go to Felixstowe. Apparently the clouds heard this so they started to gather. However we've learned not to let that put a damper on things. So my trusty companion– my husband– and I ventured off to the seaside town of Felixstowe— the premier port in England I'm told by all the signs upon entry.

Surprisingly finding a parking spot right on the main drag, we immediately went to the chip shop and grabbed us a bag a'chips– de rigueur if you're to take a looooong stroll along the boardwalk. Hell, it wouldn't be Felixstowe if you didn't have a bag a'chips.

Also let me be the first (of many) to dispel the myth of chips being served in newspaper. They are not served in newspaper– well not anymore I'm told. Because I am no longer a virginal chippy, I can meticulously report that they do not come in printed newsprint paper, but do come in newsprint nonetheless. The printed newspaper parts are used to hold it after the grease has gone through the unprinted part. Get it? Its also an unfortunate reality that because of this preponderance of grease, some chippies have gone to the dreaded stirofoam container.

But that's another soapbox.

I have to admit, I've become an every so often devotee of the English french-fry. Forget Micky D's– ya just can't beat these delicately chucked and fried spuds. Some people are so well versed in Chippology that they can tell you if its an old spud, a new one, whether it was produce in the whatever-region, or one that was well-we-won't-go-there-but-still-edible-one just by looking at it. Cholesterolically speaking (yes my word), I also like to tell myself that a looooooong walk whilst devouring them will undo some of the damage you know these fat-vat fried beauties do.

"Lotsa vinegar – oh– and a side'a statins please."

During our boardwalk stroll, the clouds continued to threaten but only pathetically spit. The wind (and I'm not talkin' about my husband's) was another story. Needless to say, my guernsey was held close. I think I even used some of my husband's. Still, the hour walk was briskly leisure and energizing. I'd earned my guernsey stripes that day.

On a sidenote (yes tangent), I've decided that once my husband retires and becomes a man of leisure, I will put him to an additional use and book him as the local rainman. Well not locally really – I thought more like Ethiopia, or the Sahara– places were it seldom rains but could use a few drops. If my husband goes there, it will surely rain. It has so far– in every port of call. And I ain't kiddin'.

Sunday was moderately better. The day– as most days– started out clear, blue and comparatively warm. So we decided to check out the Caravan Club we've booked for late June in Cromer (yes, this city girl camps now). So off to Norfolk we and our guernseys went...and so did the clouds. Ironically (and I say that optimistically), the clouds did follow us again, but surprisingly didn't produce. Even better, upon crossing a few millimeters over the Norfolk county line, it miraculously cleared.

Is the curse broken?

I'll tell ya in June.

Than'Gawd Ima Cuntree Gurl!

For some reason I have John Denver's classic Thank God I'm a Country Boy! filling my head— modified of course, with me belting out "GIRL!" on que every time.

Who woulda thunk it – me, a glorified City Girl, more Mary Tyler Moore than Sarah Jessica Parker really, but a city girl nonetheless. God forbid you caught me out of makeup or dressed up but instead in the dirt especially with wellies. Now it's part of my new uniform. My wellies stay close to the office door, just in case I have to do a mad dash to spontaneously plant something or pull out more never ending nettles– which as a side note (my family loves tangents) nettles make a very nourishing tea for plants. Mine is currently brewing as we speak. I guess you'd say I was a cross between the English Rose gardener and Dr Jekyl with the amount of concoctions I –uh– concoct.

Speaking of concoctions (double tangent), my mother is Queen of Concoctdom. My childhood was spent trying to analyze what type of 'ickkies' she put in the dinner soup today.

"Not bad..." we'd all node to each other, secretly conferring after one taste. But after 3 spoonfuls, we were stuffed. It wasn't long after in my early adulthood I had the courage to ask, "...what exactly went into those soups?"

After going through the long list of veggies, liver and gelatine– and me going "ugh" "yuk" "ohhhh bleck" to every ingredient– was I sorry I did asked. Everything but the kitchen sink went in. Luckily she would try it first, so if it tasted good to her, she knew we'd eat it. Now I know why I used to hear strange giggles from the kitchen in between the wrrrrrrrrr of the blender... or was it– nahhhhhhhhhh. Nevermind.

What was I talking about?

Is THIS Spring?

It boggles the mind the weather we're having. I'll call home and ask what weather they're having and you'd think they were living in England. Here I am— in the office with the door wide open— in my moderately Daisy-Duked cut offs, the sun is shining, the temperature is sea-breezy and mild, and the birds continue to sing... and propagate. Boy are they a'propagatin'.

Encouraging the birds and the uh nudge nudge wink wink propagatin' is one way— the green way— of keeping the bug population down though. From midges (nasty little flea-like things that attack when the-everything-harvest is in full swing) to the big ol' flies, its me wee li'l friends that keep the pests at bay. Well, tolerable at least. So I find little ways to entice them to our lovely garden. From the top-knotch cuisine ("They'll like sausages right?") to the roman style bathing facilities (gotta love those plastic mushroom containers), I'm never a day without them. Even my cat enjoys the bird tea my bathing guests leave behind. Now if I could only find a way to keep the bird excrement down... hmmm....

Speaking of pests, mosquitos have found their way to this little island. Mosquitos???? Hell these things are so big and vicious you'd think I was back in Taiwan.

Bugger.

No pun intended.

Ahhhhh lov-a-lee

Its come to my attention— by my subconscious— that I've been a tad negative... and I've only written 2 entries... so I thought I'd write about the things I love about living in Suffolk, the province I consider the "51st State".

This village for one-- stunning views of low lying green valleys, flowing yellow rapeseed fields gleaming in the sun, fresh clean air.... and the people. Absolutely love the people. Can't fault them—okay well, maybe a few— but that's what makes it rich (I was gonna be positive, remember?)

Take for instance this morning. Walking to the post office, I bade a "'Mornin'" to everyone I met— and they responded! Try doing that in Florham Park, New Jersey. Even chatted to the local "Ban the Bomb" bloke— lovely fellow— who the burgermeister (yes he's back) deemed "a dangerous fellow" for his environmental views (99% of them of which I subscribe to). And all this poor man wants to do is make more wild flower meadows to enrich the ecological growth. Hmmm, sounds dangerous to me.

Right now the sun is still shining at seven in the evening. Our well-fed robins, black birds, finches, thrushes, doves and wood pigeons have stopped knicking the cat's food and are happily singing. Can't fault that.

Love it— love it.

Hell Would've Been Better

Right-- just came back from a week in the Isle of Wight. Shouldn't been called the Isle of Wrong. Well that's not entirely true. The natives were friendly but the hotel (and I use that word loosely) was a nightmare. Spending the week in hell would've been more hospitable than a week there. Unfortunately, it was a packaged holiday-- all paid for-- and no chance of getting the money back. We were trapped like rats on a sinking ship.

The manager had more time for cashing in her check than for the guests. When one of the guests asked why they advertised TV in every bedroom when they clearly didn't work (in ANY room), the manager quickly answered, "Well you have a TV, right? We didn't say it would work."

Between moldy toasted bread for breakfast and surprise vegetarian options (the menu option was one thing but one was served some completely different slop with an indescribable sauce covering up the evidence), the food was barely edible. Serving sizes also diminished as the week progressed (perhaps a blessing in disguise.) Drinking copious amounts of overpriced, mediocre wine was the only option one had to avoid food poisoning.

Speaking of mold, black was a very popular color in (not on) their walls. We won't go there.

One night we were honored to have been served cheese with a bit of our over zealous waitress's blood on the cheddar-- yummy. And to think that on the last night, the other waitress tried to convince us that we couldn't have cheese and biscuits because "...then everyone else would want some." No problem. We'll skip the Hepatitis C tonight.

Also on the last morning the Marmite (similar to Vegemite) was not on the buffet table so we asked for more but were told there was none. Fortunately for us, a young lad found one on the floor of the kitchen which he proudly presented. What a nice boy. And to think that he found it amongst the cockroaches the kitchen is purported to have. Good eyes.

If you should decide this is the place for you (the Sherw@@d Court in Shanklin, but you didn't hear it from me) one would highly recommend getting every imaginable vaccine against all known diseases.... or plan on drinking substantial amounts of gin and tonic. For the quinine of course.

On the other hand, if you decide to visit the Isle of Wight, camping in the rough would be enormously more hygienic. THAT you heard from me.

In the Beginning...

Something told me I wasn't in Kansas anymore. The drifting waft of real ale and gangrenous smoke enveloped my every being... or was it just me passing out? Dunno.

I do know that I arrived to this little English village to hails and woes about Americans-- how they terrorized the local female fauna during 'the war' (but the 'fauna' will tell you otherwise). And yet others spoke about all the free rationing they bartered off American servicemen (who would've thought Spam would become a delicacy?) I'm often greeted by, "From where do you hail from?" in an effort to extort their accent, then proceeded with long exasperated tales of their own American adventures. All this before I even get an introduction.

"I'm gonna need a backup", I think to myself. "Another pint please."

Take the current elections-- seems the villagers know more about my country's electoral progression than I do. "Who would want to elect a man who's name sounds like Bin Laden?" demands the village's self-proclaimed burgermeister (spelling intended). He's one that never asks-- only tells you things. His repertoire consists of more statements than queries. Not a day goes by where a comment about Americans passes my ears.

Yep Toto, we ain't in no Kansas no 'mo.