What Do I Know?

Things I Miss About England, Enumerated

A walk in Black Park

Someone asked me what I missed most about England, a question that seems impossible to quantify. I miss National Trust properties, but I also miss the walks, and I miss Black Park a little more than I miss Burnham Beeches, but I'd give anything to walk through my Common and smell the moldy leaves.

So I thought I would make a list: Top Three Things I Miss About England. (The answer would not be "all of it" because that would include the plumbing and I definitely don't miss the plumbing, despite discovering that plumbing in America isn't all it's cracked up to be either.) 

1. The walks. The circular walks, the rambles, the hikes—call them what you will, but walking was my favorite past time in England. Almost every Sunday we laced up our boots, snapped a harness on the dog, and headed out to a favorite spot. My early years in England were spent exploring the countryside with my dog and my hiking group. By the time Sparky came along, we had to confine ourselves to wooded parks and areas not likely to contain livestock, but the familiar became even more beloved. A Sunday afternoon at Black Park, once we'd escaped the crowded areas near the carpark, was the best gift we gave ourselves and our dog, who loved racing up and down the paths. If I moved back tomorrow, that would be the first thing I'd do. 

2. The day trips. From where we lived, the range of options for day trips—a destination less than two hours away, which allowed us to be back home in time for dinner for both us and the dog—was simply inexhaustible. National Trust properties, English Heritage sites, Royal Palaces, historic homes, gardens, ruins, museums, cities like Oxford and Winchester and Cambridge—all could be done in a day, and even further destinations: Wales, Derbyshire, and even France, could be squeezed in for a determined road warrior like me. I got to know the back alleys of Oxford after dozens of trips, and again, the familiar was all the more beloved. If I moved back tomorrow, a day trip to a National Trust property would be a top priority. 

3. The timezone. I didn't spend all my time walking, or exploring historic homes and castles and gardens. No, I spent most of my time doing what I'm doing now, writing, tweeting, catching up on the news of the day, being a part of the world. And living in the zero-hour time zone of GMT allowed me to wake up before most of the world, the world of my Twitter timeline anyway. I always felt like I had a head start on the rest of the English-speaking population, especially since I would start my days early, often at 4 am. Oddly, I miss that feeling very much, although there are compensations: I watched the State of the Union last night in real time, something I haven't been able to do in a decade. And I enjoy having an extra hour of daylight in the winter, now that I live at a lower latitude. I'll regret that in the summer though, when I lose precious daylight from the longest days of the year. 

Runners Up:

The feeling of safety I had in the UK, where the stranger you meet in the woods isn't likely to be armed and the shops you visit would never be the scene of an accidental, or otherwise, shooting. Friendly Americans aren't so friendly when they're packing heat, and far too many of them do.

The driving. I'd trade the massive I-495 for the more manageable M25 any day, and I'd even trade the GW Parkway for a narrow country lane. Driving was just more fun in the UK.

The weather. Yes, I said it: I like English weather just fine, especially the temperatures: never too hot, never too cold. Here we've already had temperatures ranging from the teens to the 100s in less than six months. English weather is, usually, much better behaved, although I wouldn't relive the summer of 2012 for anything.

The coins. Much more efficient coinage. America needs to get rid of the penny and make $2 and $5 coins to keep up with inflation.

Things that didn't make the list: 

Pubs. I was never that enamoured of pubs. The food was really atrocious at most, merely okay at others. (I can only vouch for the vegan fare, and the occasional sticky toffee pudding.) Many of the pubs in our town closed down or were turned into upscale restaurant chains, and I wasn't disappointed at all, perhaps because I still think most beer tastes like piss. 

The people, or at least most of them. The English deserve their frosty reputation, but there are many exceptions. I made lots of casual friends there but few I keep in touch with. Most of my close friends turned out to be foreigners like me, Canadians and Americans and others who clung together in what was often a rather chilly, unwelcoming country. And by "people", I mostly mean UKIP voters. 

Parking wardens. For one thing, it's alliterative, and for another, they're just evil, no matter on which continent they practice their wickedness.  

Plumbing the Depths

What used to be a shower, now in disarray. 

No, the plumbing issues still aren't solved, though I'm happy to report I have a new toilet (a crappy toilet with a flimsy plastic seat) and a new water softener. 

But the shower, leaking since February, in case you've just joined us, is still in bits and pieces. The tile was removed, along with the cracked shower tray, and now the tiles are cracked and can't go back in, which was a problem anyway since the new tray is shallower and needed another strip of tile. Since the house was built in the early nineties, finding matching tile is impossible; the best they can hope for is to blend in with the rest. And with the entire bathroom covered in the rust-colored tile, it's turning out to be a big project. 

We've resigned ourselves to never using that bathroom again. We've moved most of our stuff into the guest bathroom, and only go in there to brush our teeth, and to marvel at the mess that is British Plumbing. 

The room smells like a sewer too, so I really am just as happy to never go in there again. 

And there are rumors wafting from across the pond that we may be moving this summer, which, frankly, can't happen too soon. (Although I'm not putting too much stock in them, since those rumors have been squelched before.)

Have you read my book yet? In it I offer some insight into my frame of mind when these maybe-moves occur. The plumbing problems are all part of an effort by the gods to convince me I no longer want to live here, and just when I'm convinced, bam! They pull the rug out from under me and I suddenly find myself facing another few years with British plumbing.

So when I find myself longing for a proper sink, a single handle faucet, and a bathroom that doesn't smell, I remind myself of all the lovely bits of Britain I'd miss. In other words, I just lie back and think of England.

It's just as well I've not had to entertain the repairmen for the last few days. On Sunday I hosted a garden party for a friend who's moving back to the States (where he will no doubt enjoy proper plumbing) and then I faced a deadline—for my next book, coming out (hopefully) in the Autumn. 

Oh, and did I mention that the kitchen sink started leaking? I opened the cabinet underneath on Sunday and discovered water pooling inside. We put a bucket underneath the pipes, offered a prayer to the Plumbing Gods, and tightened up a connection. Sorted.

And so I soldier on with a stiff upper lip, holding my nose against the sewer gas. 

The Worst Thing About England Is Not the Weather. It's the Plumbing.

The tell-tale sign of a leaking shower. Or possibly a murder took place there.

People who know me know that when I'm not griping about the weather, I'm complaining about the plumbing. And right now, the weather is gorgeous, and my plumbing, well, my plumbing is in disarray. 

It started in February, right after we returned from Italy and noticed a stain on the living room ceiling that could only mean one thing: the shower was leaking again. The three showers in this house have continually leaked, one after another, for various reasons. The living room ceiling has been patched twice after it was cut through to get to the drain from below. 

I told the estate agent, Frost, who handles the property for the landlord. (Our old property manager had just retired, leaving two new employees in the office, who clearly weren't on top of their game.) And then I waited for a plumber to call. Meanwhile, the downstairs toilet stopped up. The toilet had been installed last January, and had never worked properly. I called again, waited some more, and finally someone was sent to look at both. 

I didn't hear anything for a couple of weeks, so I called the property manager, using my American voice (Angry New Yorker version), to find out when the shower and toilet would be fixed. I was told a new toilet needed to be put in and a drain specialist was required to look at the shower. But meanwhile they needed approval from the landlord.

Again, I waited, and finally called after a week or two to see what was up. 

"Someone was supposed to call you," I was told, "to set up appointments to fix everything." Once again, a plumber was called out to "look at" the problem. By now it's April, and the water softener has started to leak.

Another plumber (Number Two, we'll call him) came, poked around, and left. I have yet to hear anything from him. Then the drain specialist (aka Number Three) came to look at the shower. But now I've diagnosed the problem myself: the shower tray has a ten inch crack in it. Apparently this escaped the notice of the other two plumbers.

Number Three agreed with me, but had no idea how to go about fixing it. But when I casually mentioned the stopped up toilet, he offered to take a look inside the manhole in the front garden. (This is Britain, where you certainly may have a manhole or three in your garden. Don't ask me why, I only live here, and occasionally comment on the plumbing.)

He popped it open, after first erecting a safety barrier, and discovered it was filled with muck. He flushed it out with the garden hose, and my toilet, which had been inoperable for weeks, suddenly worked again. Apparently neither of the plumbers who'd been by before had thought to look in there. 

Score one point for Number Three.

A few more weeks pass as the shower tray crack is pondered. And pondered. Blogs are consulted. Landlords are presented with proposals. (They were happy to pay for a completely new bathroom, if needs must, it turned out.) Then, I called Frost again in frustration, wondering why I still couldn't use my shower and the water softener was still leaking. (By now, my Angry American voice was off the charts.)

That's when the Plumbing Gods really decided to stick it to me. When I went to wipe down the bathroom, in anticipation of Number Three coming to look again at the shower, what did I discover but another leak, this time from the toilet, which was already cracked in exactly the same way the downstairs toilet had been previously. Water was pooling on the floor, water that was soon mixed with my tears as I wiped it up, knowing I would have to call the property manager again. 

(I realized this is getting to be a very long story, and we've still got another couple of weeks and two more plumbers to go. Go ahead and get yourself a cup of tea and a hanky. You'll need it.) 

Number Three, the drain specialist, returns for another look at what must be the most befuddling plumbing problem in Buckinghamshire, and then I get another call from Frost: they're sending someone else, this time a decorator named Number Four. (For you Yanks, a "decorator" in BritSpeak is someone who paints, wallpapers, and puts in tile. They usually show up in paint spattered coveralls.) The decorator came by, I showed him all my broken plumbing things, and he promised he'd do something. Anything. He seemed like a real can-do chap, plus he made funny jokes. And then while he was inspecting the living room ceiling he saw a copy of my book What Am I Doing Here, in which I complain a lot about weather and other oddities of British life, such as the deplorable plumbing. 

He seemed impressed that I'd written a book, so I gave him a copy. Partly this was a bribe, since I am not above bribing repairmen at this stage, and partly, I figured it was a good idea if he knew I'd write scathingly about him if he didn't fix my shower.

Because I am not above threats either.

But then my tale took a rather dramatic turn.

That night Number Three called, wondering why he'd been cut out of the job. I played dumb; I'm really good at that. Then he asked where my husband worked, and if my dog bites*. I was frightened enough to tell everyone on Facebook just in case I turned up dead. And to give my friends who write murder mysteries a new plot idea: In the shower, with a wrench, by the plumber. 

Since then I've had almost daily phone calls and visits from Funny Number Four, who's been trying to arrange for someone to come install a new toilet, or possibly he's just attempting to cheer me up. Thursday I waited all afternoon, but the promised plumber (who'd have been known then as Number Five) never showed up.

But Saturday, I was assured, was the day! I had tea and biscuits ready. And once again, I was stood up. Apparently that guy lives three miles away and it's too far to drive. I am not making this up, that's what he said. (Note to UKIP: An influx of Bulgarian plumbers is just what this country needs.)

Later, I heard a loud truck outside, which set off my vicious dog, of course. It was Number Four, the decorator. He wanted to leave the new toilet he'd bought in my garage, which is where it is now. But he had some good news: He'd contacted the plumber I'd been asking for all along, the one who replaced my boiler last year. Number Five, as he'll now be known affectionately, was on holiday, but promised to be here on Tuesday at 4 pm to fix my toilet. 

I think I'm going to lock him in there and have him fix the shower while he's in captivity. 

Meanwhile, someone is coming in the morning to turn off the water softener, since apparently no one wants to actually fix it. Fine with me; they're not my pipes. 

To recap, this catastrophic plumbing failure started in mid-February with a leaking shower, progressed shortly thereafter with a stopped up toilet, then a broken water softener, then another cracked toilet. I'm still waiting for three of those four to be fixed. The biscuits are no longer on offer.

But the good news is, I now have a title for my next book. It will be called The Ins and Outs of British Plumbing: An American Perspective.

A friend also suggested I call it "Toilet In Vain," seeking to find the humor in the situation. Honestly, I wish I could laugh at all this. But it seems my sense of humor has sprung a leak. Maybe it's hard to be funny when you can't remember which of your toilets works and the sound of dripping water sends a cold shiver of fear down your spine. 

Not to mention possibly homicidal drain specialists. 

*Note that, in the interest of brevity, I may have conflated one or two characters and combined their comments. But if anyone asks, yes, my dog DOES bite. I'll make sure of it.

You've Read the Blog; Now Read the Book: What Am I Doing Here?

New release!

For the last few months, I've been working on a non-fiction project called What Am I Doing Here? I've kept it under my hat, since I wasn't sure I'd be able to pull it off. It's self-published, under my own imprint called Lavender House Publishing. (More about that later.) 

What Am I Doing Here? is a collection of blog posts from this site, plus a few extra bits, including a glossary. It focuses primarily on my experience here as an expat, an American slightly bewildered by Britain. There are chapters on the assimilation process (rocky), driving (smooth), language (still incomprehensible at times) and, of course, my dog.

In fact, I've dedicated the book to Bailey, my Golden girl and I'm donating the proceeds to the cancer charity Animal Cancer Foundation. Cancer in canines is similar if not identical to the same cancers in humans, so research in one species adds to our knowledge of cancer in other species. 

What Am I Doing Here? will be available in both print and digital. If you buy the print edition at Amazon.com, you can get a digital copy for only $.99 through Amazon's MatchBook program. They don't offer that at Amazon.co.uk yet. But the digital edition has some really colorful photos (as long as you have a color-enabled device), which aren't available in the print edition. 

I got the idea to compile my blog posts well over a year ago, and around that time I designed the cover, using a stock photo from iStockphoto.com. The rest of the book I edited, copyedited, and proofread myself, which I would never recommend to anyone. I used a Word template for the print edition, and made modifications to that as needed. The ebook editions were made using Jutoh, a program I highly recommend. 

In order to avoid the dreaded "Sold by Amazon Digital Services" in the product listing, I decided to create my own publishing imprint. I'd intended all along to call it Canterbury House, since that's the name of my house (isn't it charming how houses in Britain have names?). But when I searched the internet, I discovered there was already a Canterbury House Publishing.

So I scrambled for an alternative. While pondering several possibilities, I looked outside my office window at the row of lavender I planted, right in front of my house. Thus was Lavender House Publishing born. 

One day I may publish more non-fiction through Lavender House. I doubt I'll ever publish my fiction there, as I value the editing I received from my publisher far too much to want to go it alone.  

Here's how to find WAIDH?: 

Print:
Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk

Digital:
Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk,  Kobo, Barnes and Noble Nook, and iBooks USA / iBooks UK

Since "Slow Down" Isn't Illustrative Enough...

Another edition of "British signs are funny sweet." 

This sign is located on the railroad bridge where I walk most days. It's a narrow bridge, with a curve on either side, so walking across is treacherous. Yet there's a school not too far away, and as regular readers of this blog are aware, there are no such thing as school buses in Britain (not for primary aged children, anyway). So mums and their offspring have to walk across this bridge during the school run, when cars are trying to get to work or taking other kids to school. 

I try to avoid crossing during the school run, but when I do cross this bridge, I make Sparky heel. He does a pretty good job of that, and it's good practice for him. 

Not long after I took this photo a windstorm came and knocked the sign sideways. It's been put back now, thank goodness. Now if they would only make a sign that has a person walking a dog alongside. That would seem like a very British sort of sign, don't you think? 

Blinded by Language

Today's eye charts are computer generated, so don't bother memorizing the letters.

I went to the optometrist yesterday, since I'd noticed my glasses weren't working as well as they should. I have a "complex prescription" as they say here, which means that the diopters of correction, including myopia and astigmatism, are equal to or greater than 10. 

Needless to say, I go several times a year to the eye doctor, for either glasses or contact prescription updates and purchases. (In the UK you see a different specialist for each.) Yesterday, as I sat in the chair reading the eye chart, I struggled as usual to see the tiny lines on the bottom. At one point the eye doctor, a new one I hadn't seen before, corrected me: "Zed." 

Oh. The "Z" was a "zed" not a "zee". Or an "H", as I'd mistakenly thought it was. And no, an "H" is not an "aitch" either; it's a "haitch" at least in Southern England. (I've been told up north they refer to it as the Americans do, an "aitch," but I haven't travelled much up there. Or rather, traveled.)

That's when I realized that I'd been misreading the chart all along, all these nine years I've been living in Britain, subconsciously absorbing the local English dialect. I can usually manage to get "lorry" right, or "boot" or "garden" (instead of "yard") but I'd not been mindful of the letters, probably because I don't attend first grade (or "year one") at the local "grammar school". 

I do hear the announcer on the Bakerloo line reminding people to "alight here for Zed S L" which stands for the Zoological Society of London. (It has a funny name because it was founded in 1826, before zoos were called zoos.) And I silently chuckle when people say "haitch" as if they're in a Victorian drama. I remember to call it a "zeb-ra" crossing instead of a "zee-bra" crossing, maybe because that actually makes more sense phonetically. And there's a famous map book of London called "London A-Zed" that's been replaced by map apps now.

So I finished my eye exam, remembering to use "zed," but I couldn't bring myself to say "haitch." My life here is a series of phonetic compromises: I say "to-mah-to" but not "shedule". I use periods instead of "full-stops" and place them either in front of or outside of the punctuation, as I see fit. 

It turns out my eyes have gotten slightly better, at least one eye has, while the other is worse. But with correction I can see 6/6, not 20/20. And I need something called "occupational" glasses, a combination of computer glasses and reading glasses.

But not even the most up-to-date prescription will make that Zee look like a Zed to me. 

Boilers, Garages, and Torches

Sparky tries to stay warm under a blanket.

Yesterday I woke up to a cold house. Not that unusual, since I get up before the heat kicks on at 5:30, but by 5:45 I noticed the radiator still wasn't growing warm. I put it down to the time change, but later my husband investigated and discovered the boiler was out.

I only had a vague idea what a boiler was, but I knew it was a bad thing when they went out. I'm still not up on where they go when they "go out" but I've heard horror stories about what happens when they do, especially if it's over a holiday. And it wasn't just a simple matter of relighting the pilot light (which would be something I'd call in an expert for, frankly) but the thing was really, truly, "out". 

It meant that the water that flows through the radiators wasn't being heated by the boiler, which is apparently its job. The boiler is equal to a furnace in the States, then. Without one, the house doesn't have heat.

The house was already starting to chill. I called the aptly named Frost (our estate agent, which is like a real estate agent), who sent a plumber out to discover what the problem was.

That's right; a plumber, not an HVAC specialist, which is what would happen in the US. Because the boiler uses water, it's a plumbing problem. 

Fortunately the plumber isn't an ordinary Joe Plumber; this guy is really good at what he does. He's identified plumbing problems before and fixed them, after other plumbers were stumped. It's almost enough to make me take back every bad thing I've said about British plumbing. Almost.

He got to work and made some calls, wrote down some part numbers, and identified two parts that needed to be replaced. But there were other problems with the old boiler, which caused it to exhaust carbon monoxide to the outside vent. As soon as he said the word "carbon monoxide" I swooned. Not really, but I did stop listening, and apparently the landlord did too, or else saw lawsuits in his future, so the plumber was quickly given the go ahead to replace the whole thing with a newer, energy efficient model. 

Except not so quickly after all. Not-Joe the plumber will have to re-route the gas lines from the laundry room to the garage, where the new boiler will reside. It will be Tuesday or Wednesday before the thing is up and running. Meanwhile, he's loaned us two space heaters. 

And that's not all: The hot water heater, which runs from the same boiler, has an electric immersion backup, which blew up when the plumber tried to turn it on, creating a shock in the tank—fortunately, the fuse box did what it was supposed to do and averted disaster, though not a nasty scare when we heard the "pop!". After our discussion about carbon monoxide I was in swooning mode again, frankly.

Fortunately, Not-Joe the Plumber was able to find a new electrical immersion element and replace the old one, which was corroded and twisted. He seemed to think that was awesome, and even took a photo, so I did too: 

An electrical immersion element. At least I think that's what it's called, in one language I speak anyway. 

Here's the thing: I'm always a bit nervous when repairmen come to the house. It's hard enough for me to convey what's wrong with some gadget or another, not knowing the least thing about boilers and toilets and other residential mechanical ailments. But add to that my ignorance of the language, and I hesitate to say anything. The first time anyone came here to fix something he asked to see the "loft". "We don't have a loft," I replied, wondering if he'd mixed our property up with a chic London flat. He was incredulous, since clearly, we had an attic. It took both of us a few minutes to realize we weren't simply ignorant; we were speaking two different languages.

Even after all these years, yesterday I stupidly offered the plumber a flashlight. I quickly backtracked and offered him a "torch" instead. Which still strikes me as a bit ludicrous. A torch was the last thing I wanted to light, with possible gas leaks about the place. 

And then there's my reluctance to say the word "garage", the source of most things mechanical, including the "consumer unit". (That's a fuse box, for those of us who prefer a more descriptive English.) The word "garage" has a funny pronunciation here, as if someone who hated the French tried to pronounce it in the least French way they could, so it comes out "gair-ridge". That's just a sound that's fundamentally difficult for my American tongue to wrap 'round.

So I ended up handing the garage door opener to the guy, pointing in the direction of the "gaRADGE" and told him to open the "door". The word door is easily understood by anyone, I've found. 

Since I'll be spending three days with Not Joe next week, I'll have to brush up on my British English and figure out new ways to avoid saying "garage". Maybe from now on I can call it the "boiler room". 

In the meantime, I'm rethinking that torch idea. Some old fashioned fire would feel good just about now, but if I want to light my fireplace I'll have to call the gas service man, and who knows how that conversation would turn out. 

If Hugh Grant Worked for BBC...

I just loved this interview between Mila Kunis (she's an American actor, but I'd never heard of her before) and a BBC reporter who's apparently doing his very first interview. 

He's like a young Hugh Grant, bumbling and charming and incredibly fresh. 

I also wonder how long he's going to last if he invites every actress he meets to his friend's wedding in June. I kind of think Horse and Hound might be a better fit for him. 

Anyway, do watch, especially if you're interested in the differences between American English and British English.

Charming. 

One Thousand Guns

When police on a weapons raid swarmed a housing project after London’s 2011 riots, they seized a cache of arms that in the United States might be better suited to “Antiques Roadshow” than inner city ganglands. Inside plastic bags hidden in a trash collection room, officers uncovered two archaic flintlock pistols, retrofitted flare guns and a Jesse James-style revolver.

These days, that kind of antiquated firepower is about the baddest a British gang member can get. Spurred to action by a series of mass shootings — including one startlingly similar to the Sandy Hook school tragedy in Connecticut — Britain entered an era of national soul searching in which legislative bans on assault weapons and handguns were pushed through and background checks for other types of firearms dramatically tightened.

It's interesting that it's the Washington Post, not the Guardian, that breaks down the facts about gun ownership in Britain. I suspect that the British public just isn't that interested in hearing about their gun laws. They work, and that's that.

This week I learned about "time-share" guns, weapons owned by criminals that are borrowed or rented, then flashed around to show other gangsters that someone is capable of acquiring a gun. That's what happened in the Mark Duggan case, whose shooting by police sparked the London riots in 2011. 

The number of weapons that were removed since the 1997 school shooting in Scotland that spurred strict gun laws are astounding:

In the U.K., a nation of 62 million people, more than 200,000 guns and 700 tons of ammunition have been taken off the streets during the past 15 years, with offenders in search of firearms now resorting to rebuilt antique weapons, homemade bullets and even illicit “rent-a-gun” schemes. Legal guns — including some types of rifles and shotguns largely suitable for farms and sport — must be kept in locked boxes bolted to floors or walls and are subject to random police inspection and vigorous inquires about the mental health and family life of owners.

Would a scheme like this work in the US? I'd like to think so. However, I can't help but notice this: 

Police officers in England and Wales, for instance, now routinely contact the physicians of new applicants to inquire whether they are being treated for mental illnesses including depression.

I'd like to see gun laws in America that include this crucial step. However, until Obamacare kicks in, (and even after, for millions who'll fall through the cracks) many Americans don't have a family doctor. They'll have had access, if at all, to a patchwork of medical providers, including emergency room physicians who aren't equipped to treat mental illness. We (still) need a more comprehensive health care system in America before widespread mental health checks can be as effective as they are in Britain. 

Despite the quote at the end of this piece by a so-called gun rights advocate, there is no clamor from the public who long to have guns. I've never heard anyone, in person, or in the media, state that gun control has gone too far here.

The British public like the tradeoff they made: far fewer guns in circulation equal far fewer deaths. Those who have a genuine need or desire can still access them, but they're kept safely locked and out of the hands of the mentally ill and criminals.

Here's another astounding statistic:

Today, law enforcement officials say ballistic tests indicate that most gun crime in Britain can be traced back to less than 1,000 illegal weapons still in circulation.

A thousand guns. And 59 deaths last year. That's fewer people than are killed every day in America by guns.

An Heir, Possibly a Spare, and a Royal Discombobulation

Ever since it was announced that Duchess Kate was pregnant and suffering an extreme form of morning sickness I haven't been able to sleep. No, I'm not lying awake at night in sympathy with the poor retching Duchess, nor am I trying to win the betting on the name chosen for our future monarch. 

I'm actually pondering what will happen if the royal couple find out they're having twins, which more often, I'm told, results in the type of morning sickness the Duchess is experiencing. 

Twins? The more the merrier, right? An heir and a spare, something all fruitful royals aspire to. 

Ah, but no. Twins would be a disaster, double trouble. Not even Bond, James Bond, would be able to dive through the murky complexity the birth of twins would set up. 

This could be a more serious threat to the throne than poor Catherine of Aragon's inability to provide a male heir to Henry VIII. (And no, it hasn't escaped me that the royal mum is also named Catherine, nee Kate.)

Here's the crux of the problem: Twins are often delivered by c-section, which means instead of the certitude that comes with a definitive first born (even if by minutes), there would be the disconcerting situation of a royal gynecologist (there is such a thing!) choosing the next heir to the throne. Since there is quite a huge difference in the status of the first-born child of a monarch compared to his lowlier brothers and sisters, this would be rather earth shaking. 

Loyal British subjects believe in the divine right of kings, whether or not they want to admit it. They may be atheists, or even Irish, but still, they are fairly certain that despite a rather shaky family tree, the true, rightful heir to the throne is the person who currently sits on it. The very idea of a monarch rests on the fact that destiny is not negotiable, and that might equals right. (Unless you want to marry a divorcee, of course. Then your destiny lies somewhere in the south of France.) 

I've had conversations before with Brits, and when I pose a counterfactual such as Harold winning the Battle of Hastings, I get blank looks. They wouldn't have happened, I'm told, since William the Conqueror was always the rightful king. That was no chance arrow in the eye.

(Insert the sound of me retching.)

I think it's all nonsense, but then I'm American, and my forefathers rebelled against the idea of a divinely settled monarch rather strenuously.

I suspect a monarch chosen from an open womb by a gynecologist, in whichever way they choose such things, would force the British people to examine the whole question of who sits on the throne in a way that the recent constitutional upgrade, re: female progeny, never could have. First born means first born, but first chosen? First pulled? 

How could such a thing possibly be, well, fair? (We'll leave off the idea that anything at all about the British aristocracy is fair.)

Perhaps they'd have the gynecologist wear a blindfold, hoping his hand—or whatever tool they use for such purposes—would be divinely guided. 

Perhaps they'd have a committee (I hear Lord Leveson is available), peering over the operating theatre, tasked with the charge of choosing the infant who's to inherit the throne, relegating the other to a life as spare, rather than heir. 

But there would always be questions, questions a little more perplexing than the possibility that a sheep farmer in Australia, a descendant of James II, is actually the true King of the Commonwealth.

I'd be pretty pissed if I were the child not chosen. Or maybe it's the other way around—Harry always seems to be having a much better time than Wills. 

You see why I lie awake at night. This is the perfect plot for a novel. Passed-over: the Story of the Last Twin. Or alternately, The Princess Who Came First. High concept, family saga, glitz and glamour, all in one. 

Maybe a mini-series? Julian Fellowes wouldn't touch it, unless we could work the Titanic into it somehow. Perhaps the "rightful" heir could be lost at sea, and return wearing a bandage around his ravaged face. 

Seriously. Someone needs to amend the constitution before such a contrived situation is again thrust upon the world. 

England's Green and Pleasant Land

The BBC's breathtaking opening to their coverage of London 2012 Olympics opening ceremonies, narrated by Benedict Cumberbatch.  

My, what a difference an opening ceremony makes. 

Seven years ago, when the Olympic Committee announced London as the location of the 2012 Olympics, I yawned. Great, but I wouldn't be around to see it. I'd be back in the United States, where I belonged. It would be painful to watch, I figured, seeing the familiar scenes, hearing the familiar accents, spotting the familiar landmarks. 

But a funny thing happened to our plans. They changed. And changed again. And with my constantly changing plans, my love for England waxed and waned. Familiarity breeds contempt, they say, but even more, the thought of parting breeds careful condescension. 

When our five years were up, I decided it would be helpful if I didn't like living here anymore. So I began finding things to dislike about England and her people. Too inept, I decided, when Heathrow closed for five days after receiving five inches of snow. (That was an easy one.) Too anti-American, I argued, after reading yet another list of "most hated Americanisms". Not innovative enough, not warm enough, not flexible enough—and all the nonsense about the Olympic committee's determination to protect their sponsors at the expense of our crisp packets played right into that, I must say. 

I went on like that for two or three years, expecting to leave here with a not-too-heavy heart, any month now. Twice we came close to moving to the States, and twice our plans were cancelled at virtually the last minute. 

And now, in the summer of 2012, I've found out there is no plan to move, not in the near future. We are here for a while yet. 

But my love for England had not waxed at all this summer. Until a week or so ago, we were trapped by a perverse jet stream, locked in a monochrome weather pattern of non-stop rain and clouds. My mood was grim. This god-forsaken land, no longer green but 50 shades of grey, no longer pleasant but muddy and damp, could no more enchant me than that silly Olympic mascot. 

But the jet stream turned. The countenance divine shone forth on these clouded hills, as William Blake would say. Or as I would say, the sun came out, in all its 30 degree glory. 

Summer in England was always my favorite season. 

And so last night, I watched the opening ceremony of the Olympics, my windows and doors wide open to let the evening breeze in, BBC on the telly, and my Twitter app open on my phone, ready to share my cynicism with the rest of the viewing world. 

They had me at the source of the Thames.

I remember searching, once, for the source of the great River Thames, the first spring I lived here. With a couple of friends, I puttered around in my little red car, my chariot of fire, through Gloucestershire—the Shire, crossing footpaths and wandering around lush fields. We never found it, but we all fell in love with this green and pleasant land.

Last night's ceremony moved me, with all its not-at-all understated special effects, its improbable landing of the Queen—as in Her Majesty—and its reminder of that other Queen, those other pop legends. Its inclusiveness, its innovativeness, its lack of timidity, were a timely reminder of what Great Britain, this "peculiar and contrary" country, means to me, if not to the world.

I won't go on: there are reviews aplenty. Director Danny Boyle explains it best in his statement on the ceremony's purpose, beginning with a quote from another great Englishman, William Shakespeare: "Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises."

But we hope, too, that through all the noise and excitement you'll glimpse a single golden thread of purpose—the idea of Jerusalem—of the better world, the world of real freedom and true equality, a world that can be built through the prosperity of industry, through the caring nation that built the welfare state, through the joyous energy of popular culture, through the dream of universal communication. A belief that we can build Jerusalem. And that it will be for everyone. 

Including me, it seems.

Our Long, National Drought Continues

The other day I drove through the pouring drought to Folkstone, my windshield wipers furiously flinging the water away so that I could get to the train on time. And when we came home hours later, we drove back through the drought-parched jungle of southern England while more drought clouds dripped sprinkles on us, taunting us with our inability to use a hosepipe. 

See how I've adjusted my language to the dialect of my adopted country? I know now that a "drought" is really a fancy British word for "malingering showers". And a hosepipe ban, a necessary component of a drought, is more of that wry British humor Americans seem incapable of understanding. 

We spent Tuesday in France, where they seem to be having a drought on, too. The fields between Calais and Boulogne-sur-Mer were verdant and green, and the whole time we were in the Nausicaa aquarium the cold rain poured outside. Even the fish were glad to be indoors on such a day.  

Some water companies lifted the hosepipe ban yesterday, in a fun little twist on irony. Yet my water company, Veolia, is determined to stick to the script. No hosepipe relief for its customers, no sirree! We'll suffer through this drought thingy, come hell or high water! 

High water it is, then. 

Americans watching our damp Jubilee celebrations were probably wondering why on earth England scheduled a Jubilee during a "drought". (Scare-quotes necessary to clue in you Yanks to the ironic use of that word.) Since the Jubilee celebration seemed entirely arbitrary, why not schedule them whenever they could do some good, tempting the gods to rain on our parade—literally—and ease dry conditions much more effectively than cloud seeding? 

We could ease any future recession at the same time, by increasing sales of bunting. 

Bunting and brollies! We'll have a right jolly olde time! (On the other hand, our rain butts will sit swollen and useless, alongside our limp hosepipes. C'est la vie!) 

Long live the Queen! May she reign—or is that rain?—indefinitely. Or at least until we get some proper weather. 

Weather, Or Not

 "It was very wet, we were just driving … and looked up and realised one part of the sky was moving in one direction and another in the opposite direction," he said. "I thought: 'That looks like a tornado!' 

We've had a spectacular run of bad weather here in not-so-jolly England. The wettest April ever is, apparently, being followed by the wettest and coldest May ever. Last weekend saw temperatures lower than those on Christmas (Saturday's high here was 46F) and this weekend is predicted to be only slightly warmer. The sun did pop out for an hour or so yesterday afternoon, but I'm pretty sure that's the only time he showed his bright face since May Day. 

And there's no end in sight, according to this piece in the Telegraph. I've discovered that when it comes to weather news, the Telegraph is the place to go. The Guardian and The Independent can't seem to be bothered, unless they can tie the bad weather to the Tories in some way, while the BBC website has sparse content compared to the national newspapers.

But for some reason, the conservative Telegraph seems to be as preoccupied by the weather as I am. Perhaps that's because many of their readers live in the countryside and are old, and everyone knows old people have nothing more to talk about than the weather. 

Since I live in the countryside, sort of, and am old, sort of, I've been spending an inordinate amount of time gazing at the Met Office radar page, wondering just when and where the big blue blobs will strike. 

A few weeks ago I planted grass seed. Our lawn is looking really straggly, what with the drought we're having—that's right, a drought! That's one of those words that doesn't quite mean the same thing here as it does in America. Last year had about 5 inches off the normal yearly rainfall of 32 inches (as near as I can tell, having made rough conversions from mm to inches in my head). Which still gives us about three times the yearly average rainfall of New Mexico. Yet we're in the midst of a two-year drought and are now, despite record rainfall in April, living under a hosepipe ban. 

It's mindboggling. I wish I knew exactly why we're having so much rainfall, but when I read stories like the one in the Telegraph, all I see is that the "unsettled" weather will continue.

Where's the low pressure? How many millibars? Any high pressure in sight? And what are the chances, in percentages, that I'll see rain between 2 and 3 pm? In other words, where's the science and specificity we Americans are used to in our forecasts? Are all the meteorologists busy tweeting for the Met Office?

And what's this about a tornado in Oxfordshire, filmed by a couple in their car as they "pretty much drove right through it"?

Forecasters believe the tornado was caused by a "supercell" storm — a weather phenomenon more common to the US than the UK — in which the air in the storm spins.

"In which the air in the storm spins." That's The Guardian, talking to its readers as if they're three-year-olds. 

I don't think the word "tornado" means what you think it means, either. You don't drive through the "spinning air" of a tornado; you get the hell out of the way, and if you don't have a storm celler, you start praying, regardless of the fact you're a Guardian-reading heathen. 

But I must confess, I'm to blame for the unsettled wet weather we've had. You see, I had the audacity to order new garden furniture in April. It's still sitting in my garage, in boxes, waiting for summer, since spring, apparently, is skipping 2012.

On the other hand, my grass seed is coming along quite nicely, despite the hosepipe ban. If only I could figure out how to wash my muddy wellies without a hosepipe—because I'm sure my nosy neighbour would rat me out if I pulled out my watering hose, even for a few minutes. 

I suppose I could tell them I'm American, and the word "hosepipe" doesn't mean the same thing in my language.

The Hazards of Living in a Nanny State

A perfectly legal Chinese lantern blasts off in a Buckinghamshire garden. 

Not long after I moved here I noted the many contradictions of living in a supposed "nanny state", a term used to describe the sometimes extreme measures taken by the government to keep its citizens safe and healthy. 

For instance, I heard about a town that cut down all its lime trees because a limb had fallen, and it was feared that the trees could fall on unsuspecting passersby. Graveyards are also seen as places of potential fatal hazards after an old leaning tombstone fell on a child once, thus requiring notices to be put up. And then there's the size of Teddy bears: mustn't encourage our tots to gamble at the Fun Fair by offering too-large bears as prizes! 

But anyone who's ever called Great Britain a nanny state obviously never endured a night of anything-goes fireworks. The three weeks of pyrotechnic frenzy around Bonfire Night sound like Baghdad during Shock and Awe. BOOM! Welcome to Buckinghamshire during Diwali.

Recently, a friend on Twitter mentioned that New Jersey didn't allow any fireworks at all for home use. I was surprised to hear New Jersey was even more health and safety conscious than the UK, with its Teddy-limiting laws. New Jersey?! Isn't this the birthplace of concrete shoes?

Yet the law in the UK seems to allow celebratory fireworks year round. A few months ago, my daughter took the dog on a walk and came home with a strange story about some twenty or so weird glowing apparatuses she'd seen in the sky. Since she had a friend along for confirmation, we believed her, and it wasn't until an American neighbor put on a Fourth of July fireworks show in his garden that I realized what she must have seen: Chinese lanterns. Apparently it's entirely legal to send flaming bamboo and paper balloons into the atmosphere. As we watched our Chinese lanterns disappear over the M25, I wondered if there were any thatched cottages nearby.

Surely these must be safe, I reminded myself—I live in a nanny state! I'm not even allowed a damper in my gas fireplace, or an electrical outlet in my bathroom! No worries. Right?

But today I read in my local paper that over New Year's, two fires were caused by Chinese lanterns. A car caught on fire when one blew underneath, and a tree went up in flames after one was caught in its branches.

I found this comment interesting: 

Chris Bailey, head of Buckinghamshire Fire & Rescue Service’s community safety team, said: “You can’t control the direction they take or where they will land.

“There is no guarantee that the fuel source will be fully extinguished and cooled when the lantern lands, and that’s a real fire hazard.”

He said unsuitable locations for flying lanterns included areas near telephone and power lines, areas near standing crops, anywhere near buildings with thatched roofs, areas of dense woodland and areas of heath or bracken.

That pretty much describes all of England. 

A nanny state that can't be bothered to regulate dangerous fireworks, yet doesn't allow dampers on gas fireplaces, in case citizens kill themselves? It's one of those contradictions that make me more certain than ever that political labels are meaningless. I live in a theocracy, where the state media broadcast church services, yet much of the population never attends church or even thinks about religion very often. 

It would be enough to make my head explode, except for the fact that I'm sure the Health and Safety Executive has issued a guideline against exploding heads.

So bring on the nanny state. I'd like more of it, please—just don't tell me how big my Teddy bear can be.

A Not So Modest Proposal

A couple of snow plows make short work of snow in Missouri. (Photo via)

Once again, much of the UK has come screeching to a halt due to what, in any other advanced country, would be a relatively low-impact snowstorm. Much of the southeast, East Anglia, and the northeast got a few inches of snow, some places as much as 15 centimeters yesterday, with more having dropped last night.

Gatwick Airport will be closed for another day. The M20 is closed to Folkestone, diverting to the A20. (Follow @kent_police on Twitter for up-to-date road closure information, and personal replies to your queries.) Thousands of schools are closed, some for a fourth day, which means parents are forced to stay home from work to look after their children. So offices, shops, and other businesses are operating at diminished capacity.

And don't think public transportation will save you—trains have ceased operations in some parts of the country, and the airwaves were full of stories last night about stranded commuters. 

I've lived in places in the US which get about as much snow as the UK. Ohio is a good example. I remember once driving through Ohio to Pennsylvania, just as a snowstorm was expected to hit. We admired the legions of snow plows poised in the median of the interstate, armed for battle with overflowing salt dispensers and sword-like plows pointed toward the ground. (In fact, I think we waxed poetical about them, odes which are, thankfully, long since lost.)

Such a sight doesn't happen here. Oh, they grit the roads, with a mixture of sand and salt. But I've never seen a proper plow, with a giant shovel in front for shoveling away the snow. And from the hundreds of traffic cameras fixed on the motorways, you can easily see that that's the problem: too much snow in the roads, despite the grit. (There is no shortage of traffic cameras on UK roads. Which says something about priorities that should be saved for another post.)

What they need here is proper snow removal equipment.

Which leads to my proposal: The UK should buy snow plows from the US. Thousands of them. 

This will help the trade imbalance in the US, a vital step toward full economic recovery, as well as provide a stimulus for the economy. Since trained snow plow operators would be needed, unemployment would be eased as well. Meanwhile, here in the UK, productivity would increase as millions of workers could continue to show up for work. Travelers, like me, would carry on with their travel plans and continue to stimulate the economy of Europe. 

It's a win-win proposition, no? 

I've even done the research for you. The TowPlow has received high compliments from the state of Missouri, which uses them to clear their motorways. You can go here to buy one. Or a few thousand. 

Although you'll probably have to wait until the civil servants are able to return to work. 

Failing this, perhaps they could recondition the up-for-sale aircraft carrier HMS Invincible (ha!) into much needed snow plows. 

In Defense of America and Its Isms

"Why can't they use British English which we all understand, instead of American slang which in my view spoils otherwise interesting articles?"

This is getting routine. Yet another article on those dang Americanisms! This time in The Guardian, not known for its defense (defence?) of America on any issue, yet now oddly mounting a tepid defense of so-called Americanisms it's allowed to creep into its copy. 

I've been here six years, and I've never had a Brit insult me to my face. Yet every few weeks I read another insulting tirade against my language. Faceless Americanisms are a favorite target of letter-to-editor writers, most of whom I imagine as slightly creepy old men ranting about "kids these days" (except they'd never use the word kid unless talking about a young goat). "Mojo" seems particularly offensive, ironically. Likewise "brownstone", a term used almost exclusively in New York City. Someone from the American South would never live in a brownstone, but they'd happily "duke it out" over their right to use the term. As for "lickety split", well, I don't think I've heard that one used since I was a wee lass.

Oops. Pardon that Scottishism. 

I'm convinced these rants against our version of English is simply a socially acceptable, non-confrontational way to express one's dislike of the United States and its inhabitants in general. I don't hear rants about Germanisms, only the word "kindergarten," which they attribute to our side. I don't hear rants about Frenchisms, indeed, I'm forced to order courgette and aubergine rather than zucchini (an Italianism) and eggplant. 

And don't even get me started on idiotic Britishisms (I'm surprised they haven't changed the expression "hoover the floor" into "dyson the floor"). Yet, my countrymen back in America have no problem with their media's embrace of Britishisms. I've never read a letter complaining about cute British expressions like "arsehole" or "gobsmacked". And "snogging" seems to be pretty popular on both continents.

No, Americans aren't threatened by encroachment to their language. Only to their borders—but then that's another topic. (I'm really tempted to suggest that those Brits offended by "ugly and unnecessary Americanisms" ought to be subjected to a TSA screening.) We weren't once the world's greatest military power, with colonies spread on four different continents, now reduced to losing at the World Cup (the sport Americans, by the way, refuse to refer to as football). But perhaps that's just schadenfreude.

Oops.

I find all this defense of British English—an amalgam of Anglo-Saxon and Norman French—tiresome, and when I'm feeling particularly prickly, downright insulting. Read the comments in this article, and then dare to reply "Natch!" instead of "Naturally!" One reader wants to "open up on your ass" for speaking such slang (I think he meant "pop a cap on your ass"). Really? Our American slang makes you feel murderous? Hmmm...I can't say I've ever felt the same emotion reading the word "nappy" in reference to diapers, but then I don't typically feel road rage toward lorries, either.

Maybe it's because the Scots and the Irish and even the Welsh are finally taking back their languages from the English and their Anglo-Saxonisms. That leaves little territory for proper British English these days. Do the math...err, maths.

Apparently British English has lost its mojo. It's high time they woke up and smelled the dark roast Americano. Or maybe they should just step up to the plate. Whatever!

Meanwhile, I'll defend to the death my right to "vacuum" my floors instead of "hoover" them. And I might have to: Britain, remember, has no right to free speech. A man has been prosecuted for something he dashed off on Twitter—will the use of Americanisms one day become a capital offense? That would really suck...err, I meant to say, I wouldn't be too keen on that.

Oh, and have a nice day! 

Six Years Later: An Ex-pat Looks Back

Clearly marked road sign: Turn left for London. 

Six years ago today, the first wave of the Flake family arrived on the shores of modern Great Britain. Daughter Number Two and her dad arrived first, followed a week later by Daughter Number One, and then, on the second of October, I arrived with the dog, who managed to get through the defenses set up by Defra. 

I look back at those days with amusement. Being driven up the M23 from Gatwick, I swore I'd never drive here—not only were the cars and trucks (which turned out to be lorries) all going the wrong way, but the road markings made no sense. A month later, I got behind the wheel of my car and managed just fine. 

Driving isn't the only skill I've acquired. I've learned a second language, too: British-speak. I now know that people can be "pressurized" and women have "the mee-nopause" which has something to do with "ee-strogen". I know that commas don't behave properly over here—they can turn up, literally anywhere in a sentence (or not) and spelling is often accomplished by adding some silent vowels here and there. I try not to say the word "garage" if I can avoid it, since I always pronounce it the French way, but on the other hand I buy aubergines and courgettes. 

I am very keen on aubergines. I am brilliant at maths, since "brilliant" here simply means pretty good. And I violate trademark law every time I hoover my carpet. 

If I ask a shop "clark", not clerk, for corn, I am directed to the chicken feed. "Berkshire" is pronounced "Barkshire", likewise "Derby" is "Darby". Fortunately I will not go to jail for mispronouncing "gaol" or "Nike" or "Adidas". 

I have learned to ask for "water", not "wadder", and I even specify plain, not sparkling. My daughter is at "uni", not college, since she's already graduated from high school. I buy a "return" ticket or a "single", but never a "single return", clearly an oxymoron. I cannot bring myself to speak of collective nouns in the plural, however, so my government are not doing anything about the economic situation. Which, by the way, is referred to on these shores as the "credit crunch" rather than a recession.  

I am learning new things all the time. Recently, I learned that a "stremmer" is a weedwacker—not nearly as descriptive. Prepositions are still surprising me: I've run across the construction "bored of" twice in the last 24 hours. The letter "R" is elusive, even in the highest elocutionary circles: Bwitish people should pwactice saying it more often, especially if they're being interviewed on the wadio. (I should offer to trade my R's for their T's.)

The lessons go beyond language, of course. There are subtle behavioral differences between our two cultures. Losing one's temper in public is not done, which makes me very angry. (This was not well done of me.) Complaining about poor service is considered improper (not rude, nor mean, since one means vulgar and the other means cheap), which makes me lose my temper. In the face of adversity, one must pretend as if nothing is wrong, especially if the adversity is medical. Extra points if you can explain away the cast on your arm with a cheery, self-deprecating tale, preferably involving the phrase "pear-shaped".  

On the other hand, complaining about the weather is encouraged. (Unless, of course, you're in Malaga, then you should be getting pissed—no, not a violation of the first rule above, but rather falling-down drunk.)

Not all is English roses. I've discovered the dark underbelly of the English psyche, which the Irish, Scots and Welsh surely were on to long ago. Now it's the Eastern Europeans and Asians who are unwanted here, and the baldness of the anti-immigration rhetoric surprises even me: I've been told all of the problems here began when they let in "those foreigners". 

Foreigners like me, I suppose, since there is also a streak of anti-Americanism here, usually on display in the Daily Mail. If I read one more article about how Americanisms like "24/7" or "have a nice day" are destroying the social fabric of England, I think I'll lose my temper. In public.

As an ex-pat, I am aware that the minute I open my mouth, I am immediately identified as a North American. I try not to let down the home team. 

I admit, however, to feeling a certain amount of schadenfreude when my home team managed to hold England to a 1-1 draw in (or is it at?) the World Cup. 

That's football, not soccer. Played at Wembley—yes, Wembley, really—with a W. I drive past there quite often, and the road markings couldn't be clearer. 

Just Imagine If There Were An Accident...

I suspect most of my American readers don't realize the extent of the Marmite love here, so when I saw this tanker truck on the M40 the other day I snapped a photo. (Fortunately, my camera was right next to me and I was in the slow lane, getting ready to exit, so I managed to do it without causing an accident. Don't try this at home.)

That's right, Marmite comes in tanker trucks. Now you know.

Tall Man Invades Town

On our walk yesterday we came across a very tall man. 

At first we thought he was breaking and entering:

Which, admittedly would have been difficult given his size. Plus, I don't think they would have any lingerie that would fit him.

But it turned out he was just drumming up business for a new bespoke furniture shop in town.

(If you don't know what bespoke means, you haven't lived in Britain long enough.)

I'm not sure I want to buy furniture from a man wearing a striped suit, though. Not even a bespoke striped suit.

Dear America: Britain Is Laughing At You

The Brits are having a field day over the comments in the US about the National Health Service, Britain's health care system. Apparently some anti-health care reform groups in the US have produced some adverts which distort the truth and flat out lie about the NHS. The result is the misconceptions on view in this BBC video.

For the last two nights, Radio 4 (which is sort of like NPR) has reported on the controversy, and this morning they covered the dust up extensively. Apparently a Tory MEP went on Fox news to diss the system, and he immediately was contradicted by his party leader, David Cameron. David knows there's no way he'll get elected if the public fear he's not four-square in support of the NHS. Tossing aside the customary diplomatic silence, PM Gordon Brown and his wife both spoke up about their support (they have a child with cystic fibrosis and have seen more than their share of NHS waiting rooms). The general reaction seems to be "There go the Americans, being stupid again" but this time, there's a bit of national pride thrown in.

The issue has become a trending topic on Twitter, with the hashtag #welovethenhs. Here are a few sample tweets I pulled up just now:

@Gibbo68 Nobody ever claimed the NHS was perfect but I'd rather live under UK Healthcare than US. I'm proud we of the NHS today #welovethenhs

@Rollo87 Fact: The WHO ranks Britain's healthcare as 18th best in the world and the US 37th http://tinyurl.com/oehtlk - #welovetheNHS

@PG_Rule #welovethenhs Pity that US healthcare (hardly an integrated system delivering value to all stakeholders) has not a cure for myopia

@willshome Let's get this straight: in the Bible does the Good Samaritan care for the man set upon by thieves, then sent him a bill? No. #welovetheNHS

@kathyf The NHS must be great; look how long it's kept The Archers alive. #welovethenhs (That was me, picking on the poor old Archers again.)

Here's an interview with Graham Linehan, who started the hashtag. Sounds like he understands how the American right-wing attack machine works:

"Glenn Beck thinks he can spread lies and no-one will notice but it is a very connected world now."

Also via Twitter, I came across this American ex-pat's experience with the NHS, an honest comparison between the US system and the British system. It's a great article, and gives a better picture than I could of how the NHS works.

Here's the writer on the issue of choice:

"I had my choice of doctors. My small rural town had two GP offices (a GP is a General Practitioner, a family doctor) with about 5 GPs in each office — I could choose either office and any GP in that office I chose.  I could choose to go to the GPs office in a neighbouring town if I prefered (though some offices limit the regional area they’ll cover). I could change GPs at anytime for any reason, no questions asked."

Quite a different experience than what you've been led to believe, right?

The irony is, no one in the US is proposing a system anything like the NHS. The fundamental difference is that the NHS really is a government-run system. The government hires doctors and medical professionals, builds and maintains the hospitals, and administers the system. This is actually rare in Europe—most European health care systems are either single payer or a combination of single-payer and private heath care insurance, only with the insurance much more regulated than it is in the US. Every European country offers universal coverage, meaning all citizens are covered, regardless of ability to pay.

There is no one in Britain who'd swap their system for the one that exists in the US. Just as they lied to you about death panels, they're lying to you about the "terrible" government run health care system in Britain. You've been duped, and the Brits are laughing their asses off.