I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but Elaine has been in a bit of a huff for the last couple of weeks. She’s barely speaking to me at the moment.
People can be strange, and sometimes it’s important to warn others. But surely it’s wrong to point out individuals’ physical differences in public. So I take exception to the sign I saw on the I-89 in New Hampshire yesterday.
I am currently staying at a highly eclectic hotel in Quechee, Vermont, where the food is nothing short of fantastic. The crispy duck I had on my first night here was, quite possibly, the best thing I’ve eaten since moving to the US in 2005.
I know this will come as a surprise to many, but I have noticed that sometimes my opinions don’t seem to be widely shared. The last time Becky publicly agreed with me, for example, I felt compelled to note it in my diary. (Yes, I really do have the date: March 20th.)
Fish and chips. Three words to gladden the heart — or, more accurately, the stomach — of any Brit. It’s now a month since I left St. Pete, so it shouldn’t really be too surprising that I have started to pine for some homely comfort food.
Man cannot live on bread alone, they say. In my case, though, as I have previously explained, I rarely live on bread at all. I do, on the other hand, apparently drink so much tea that Nia has asked me before why I don't just take it intravenously and have done with it.
When I decided to spend a few months in New England, I wondered how different it would prove to be from living in Florida. Obviously, I was expecting the weather to be much more pleasant at this time of year. And so it has proved. Another big difference has been the food.
I haven’t watched much TV while I’ve been away, but I did catch a game on the opening weekend of the new English Premier League football season. One of the adverts caught my eye particularly.
I don’t know whether everybody else does this too, but I have developed several rules of thumb to be relied upon whenever I meet someone new. One of these is: “Never trust a person who can’t spell or pronounce their own name.”
It’s a well-known fact that everything in the US is bigger than the equivalent in the UK. Except for Dorset. And Manchester. And, curiously enough, eggs. American hens must be quite slim, lithe things that are out running at 4.30am in the morning, while their British cousins are still slobbing about in bed, because “extra large” hens’ eggs in the US would only qualify as “large” at best in the UK.