My Love Affair With English Food Culture: By Amalia Mathewson

  I'll start by saying that I don't particularly like traditional English cooking. The veg tend to be overcooked, the desserts a little too sweet, the spices a little too bland. What makes me prefer the English eating experience to an American meal is the description of this limp, often greasy cuisine. I think if we put the adjectival effort into labelling our own food, we'd be much happier in our obesity.

What do I mean? Here, let me give you some examples:

       

 People use the word "gorgeous" to describe things like fries and burgers. It is so appealing. Imagine the difference: 

1. Someone pushes a plate of fried potato wedges towards you and says, "Try these! They're good!" 

You may or may not try the fries. You'll know what to expect.

2. Someone pushes a plate towards you and says, "Try these! They're gorgeous!" 

You will try the fries, thanks. They'll probably taste like any other fry, but you won't care.

Everyone seems so excited when their food or tea is served. They say, "Oooooh, that's lovely!" And it sounds like the food or tea has genuinely surpassed their expectations significantly. Even if I've ordered the same thing they have, it makes me want theirs instead of mine because theirs sounds a lot more fun. 

 I have never particularly enjoyed animal crackers before. Digestive biscuits and rich tea fingers are basically circular animal crackers, and I eat them whenever I can just because it is SO FUN to dunk them in tea. It's like a sport! Will it dissolve before I can get it to my mouth? ONLY ONE WAY TO FIND OUT! 

 And sandwiches! Firstly, saying, "widge" instead of "wich?" Bingo. "Want a sandwidge, love?" YES I DO THANK YOU. Secondly, they're always cut into little sailboat triangles. It is very nice to eat something shaped like a sailboat triangle. Thirdly, they're simple, but so exotic! Cheese and pickle. Cucumber. Rocket and cheddar. Prawn on toast. PRAWN! ON TOAST! Again, this is a food that I usually ignore in the US. Sandwiches... psh. Middle-school shit. But not here! They're posh and portable and moderately yummy! 

  It's not dessert, it's pudding. Pudding is one of my favorite foods, so even though I know that what will be served for "pudding" will almost certainly not be pudding or pudding-like, I get very excited.

 Cakes. Let's talk about cakes. The pluralization of the word "cake" is enough for me, frankly. Cakes and coffee, tea and cakes... I feel free to have as much as I want because it's already assumed that I'll be having more than one of whatever it is. The word "cake," while never unwelcome, has previously conjured up images of large, heavily iced birthday confections slurred with slowly melting vanilla ice cream. It's a once-a-year kind of thing. If someone said, "tea and cake," I would probably pass because I'd be picturing a slightly stale version of the above. But adding that sweet little "s" takes a crusty party food and turns it into a light, airy dessert that can be had not once a year, but once a DAY. No longer is it thick and chocolate-y; now it might be flavored with orange or lavender.

Basically, the whole tradition of evening tea bodes pretty well with me. It's snuggly and pleasant, and it fits the weather. 

But most of all, my love of English food comes down to one glorious word:

Squidgy. 

Just say it out loud, I don't care where you are.

Squidgy. 

Feel that "squ?" S-kh-ww-. It feels like saying a hug. It is the hug of words.

This is used to describe a texture that I honestly haven't found elsewhere. There's a type of fruit bread called Soreen that is the embodiment of squidgy. I don't know if it's sold in the states or not. It must be felt to be understood, so I recommend checking your local grocer. 

I like my surgery like I like my eggs... ovaries-y.

I didn't spend the fourth running drunken through the streets wearing an American flag as a toga. I didn't even make my hosts classic American junk food. Instead, I spent Independence Day completely dependant on Great Britain and her National Health Service.

Sunday, I was admitted into Warwick Hospital's A&E. My body had been giving me warning signs of my impending womby doom as early as Friday, but by Sunday morning, I couldn't stand, sit, OR lie down. The best I could do was crouch in a worshipful pose and crawl from room to room like a lizard. At this point, after deducing that cutting beans from my diet wasn't going to put an end to the pain, I begrudgingly called a cab to take me to the hospital.

Never having been admitted to an American hospital, I can't compare the speed, price, or efficiency of the two health care systems. However, my time in Beaumont Ward brought to light two concrete differences between England's hospital system and all my experiences with medical care in the US. One; tea is administered as strictly as medicine. I was reprimanded for not finishing my tea on not one, not two, not three, but four separate occasions.
Two; awkward British politeness knows no bounds. Originally, I was admitted to the emergency room under the erroneous diagnosis of "bladder infection." This was because, as I crouched in front of the nurses trying to form coherent sentences, one had said, "Oh, love, is there something funny with your bits-and-bobs?" Thinking "bits-and-bobs" meant innards, I nodded feverishly. Apparently, in so nodding, I had just agreed that I was having difficulty urinating because of bacteria. The term "bits-and-bobs" was used to refer to my vagina and uterus by even the senior radiologist, who will enter this story in just a moment.

Since the staff thought I had a bladder infection, I was in the waiting room much longer than I should have been. By the time a doctor saw me, I was a literal hot mess. I stumbled into the cubicle and promptly puked on the floor. After several rounds of vomiting, the very surprised doctor told me he was going to get a specialist. I puked in relief.

I don't remember a lot of what happened next, though I do remember being obnoxious. Eventually, I got morphined and shut up a little. I had all the signs of appendicitis except infection in my blood (or something), and they were just gearing up to remove me old vestigial when one of the two specialists who were assigned to me (must have been a slow night) suggested that it might be an ovarian cyst.

You know how when you watch House, you feel like you're one of the doctors and it's really fun? Not as fun from the patient's perspective.

"Ithinkweshouldrunhertoradiologyandgetanultras..." "WHAAAAT'S HAAAPPENINGGGG. CAN I HAVE MR MORPHNNNN (sob)"

I would much have preferred to be the cool, collected doctor in the sharp pantsuit saying, "This is crazy, House. If it works, you're a genius."

So against EVERYONE'S better judgement, apparently,  because most of the staff thought my appendix was rupturing as they spoke, this one doctor convinced a senior radiology member to stay on his shift a few minutes late and do a quick ultrasound of my belly, just in case it was an ovarian cyst after all. I was whisked away, blubbering and tripping on pain meds. The radiologist was called Dr. Hughes. I heard it, I saw it on his tag, but what came out every time I tried to ask anything about the ultrasound? "EXcuuuse me, Doctor Who, but is that my lungs?" "Doctor Who, is that my kidney?" The staff couldn't stop giggling, which was infuriating and made me cry harder, which made them even more patronizingly tell me that my bits-and-bobs would soon be sorted out.

Thankfully, the other specialist was really kind, and while the rest of the team was busy looking something over, he took a few minutes to explain to me what was happening. A cyst had either formed around or near my right ovary. It had been growing for three to six months, and within the past few days, it had somehow twisted itself around the old eggsac and that's where my pain was coming from.

There was a good chance I would lose my ovary, because they could tell the cyst was pretty big. Mom and Dad were called and the next thing I knew, I was waking up and groggily trying to focus on a picture that was being shoved in my face.
"It was as big as a football! I've never seen one that big before!" The picture is disgusting. The cyst was over six inches and looks like an alien baby turned inside out.

From what I ultimately gathered, my body tried to released an egg which an Indian doctor referred to as "bery, bery stubborn." It clung to my ovary and grew and grew. I like to think it was trying to fertilize itself, the independent bugger. The surgery didn't damage my ovary. Yay?

Here's the weird thing -
You know those moments before sleep where you're not unconscious but you can't quiiiite control your dreams? Well, in the past few weeks, I've imagined myself in a hospital probably six or seven times during these pre-sleeping moments. I mean, I've had the thought before, what if I were in an accident, you know, but I don't remember ever vividly imagining myself in an intensive care ward prior to a month ago. I'd chalked it up to my subconscious processing being in a strange situation, trying to do something I've never done before, but after hearing a BBC 4 broadcast about the connection between nerves in your gut and nerves your brain, I'm wondering if my body knew something was seriously wrong before my mind was willing to accept the news.

Does this mean the end of this summer's show, everyone keeps asking? HELL NO, everyone. The show will be adapted, yes, but keep checking in with us.

Unfortunately, due to completely different but weirdly timed circumstances, our London venue fell through yesterday. So it's just the Warwick show.

I gotta go to bed, y'all. More updates later. I AM NOT UNHAPPY. 2012 BEST HAPPY SUMMER FUN TIME.  Hey, I'll get a cool scar out of the mix, anyway. Which is all a girl can ask for.

Depends on the hawk, depends on the handsaw.

This has been a wonderful week, in terms of both business and adventure.

Last weekend, Vicky and I decided to stay in the midlands again to save money. She suggested we go on a hike. My only real hiking experience being an infamous ascent of Half Dome last summer,  I dug through my gear to find the most comfortable socks, stretchy-but-not-too-stretchy pants, several layers of shirts for those waves of exertion, and band-aids.

I would have done better just to find some rain boots.

Hiking here compares to hiking in the US similarly to how snuggling a medium-sized teddy bear compares to snuggling a n eight-foot tall grizzly.
It didn't rain on us as we traipsed through cow fields and cozy wooded groves, but there were some nasty puddles for which my carefully selected running shoes just weren't equipped. In FACT, what we WENT on is, I believe, commonly referred to as a "stroll."

The following morning and afternoon saw us enjoying one of our many "duvet days," which consist of us, tea, various sundries and savories, and some sort of BBC period drama. The one in reference happened to be Pride and Prejudice, but we have since completed Bleak House and let me say, if you have yet to see it, bump it to the top of your list. I vouch whole-heartedly and so does the small pile of tissues that I blew through in the last two episodes.

But on to our London trip, lest you get the impression that all we do is posh out on the couch (I just made that expression up. Use it at your leisure).

We've been in a frustrating bind for a few months. Since February, we've had a location and performance dates dangling right in front of our faces with us unable to solidify them. The organization we've gone through to get a venue is a truly great NFP program called "somewhereto_" but they're swamped with the Olympics and just general, so although they out-and-out guarantee the venue will host us, conformation of the dates we've proposed keeps getting postponed.

Monday was our chance to see the space and ask any questions, and although we stiiiiiiiiill weren't able to confirm our dates, we did fall in love with the theatre. Honestly, it's more than either of us hoped for. We'd almost decided just to settle for a few shows here in Warwick and scrap the London bit, but seeing this space fired us up again.

Monday night, we stayed with a friend in Greenwich after seeing an angsty, vaguely racist coming-of-age flick for 60+'s called The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. If you feel a terrible urge to share the experience, I recommend going to your nearest Indian eatery and watching locals think they're more civilized than the wait staff. Simultaneously, listen to BBC 4.  That should produce a similar effect.

We spent the first half of the next day exploring Greenwich and its many cheap bookstores and vintage shops. There was a particularly dusty one that had all sorts of hats... I'll take this moment to say that sometimes, in our general youthful merriment, Vicky and I lose track of the volume of our united voices. Though it occasionally makes us friends, it often seems to unnerve people. Luckily, in this instance, we charmed an older gentleman who took to popping out behind shelves with different hats on, where he was received with gales of laughter, especially when he unearthed a red-sequinned showgirl's headdress.

A very embarrassing address mishap (someone had pulled up two pages on her browser and inadvertently google maps'd a random address instead of the theatre she was looking for) found us in the entirely wrong part of London, so we had to go into a library to use the internet. England THROWS library cards at you. They cannot WAIT for you to get library cards. I have three already. They also seem to only hire extremely strange and mystical librarians. My first day here, while I was dragging my jet-lagged carcass around to keep from falling asleep before my train got in, I stopped in a library in Westminster and was greeted by a delightful fellow named Neil that I, a layman in the field of magical woodland folk, easily identified as a bridge troll. In Angel Islington, Vicky and I met yet another enchanted bookkeeper. At first he just seemed like a sweetly nervous man. He had us fill out our card forms and was making small talk when I, off the cuff, referred to Vicky as Allington, which is her surname. We often call each other Mathewson and Allington, so neither of us could figure out why the librarian had stopped short.

"Did you just call her 'Allington?'"
"...Yes..."
"But that's her surname."
"...Yeah..."
"But ANYONE could be Victoria Allington. Anyone off the streets!"
"......"
"They used to ask for more forms of identification!!!"
"........"
"But now they don't!!!!! Do you see????"

The more confused we got, the more worked up he became. Understand, he was by no means angry. In fact, he seemed almost delighted. We had and have absolutely no idea what he was talking about or what brought it on, but we agreed afterwards that it felt like the start of some sort of quest; like he was the gatekeeper of some amazing journey and was about to hand us our faded canvas maps and leather satchels.

Buuuut he didn't. He just gave us library cards which got us refreshed directions to the theatre. Trains. Are. SO expensive. They're four pounds thirty for a ride, which is roughly equivalent to eight dollars. FOR A SINGLE RIDE. ONE WAY. ANYWHERE. COULD BE JUST ONE STOP. Woof.

The reason we'd stayed overnight in London was to see this show, which I mentioned before, called "The Rest Is Silence." It's part of the World Shakespeare Festival and premiered in Brighton, but now it's in London and it'll close in Newcastle. I badly wanted to go because the reviews were good and the press photos looked AMAZING.

The show was an adaptation of Hamlet. Elements of it were really interesting and some even were amazing, but overall it fell a bit short. The production was hailed as "ground-breaking" and "innovative," and the concept truly was, but the actual production was, honestly, a bit boring and timid. I had been geared up for 90 minutes of pretentiously absurd performance art, which I normally hate, so you can imagine my disappointment when after all the pre-show pep talks of, "Try to see THEIR vision, Molly," and, "It's good for you to branch out artistically, Molly, realism isn't the only way," the show was roughly 20% funk and 80% daytime soap. Womp womp.

The last two days, we've had a lot of good progress in rehearsals. I think seeing a mediocre show made us more excited to make the best thing we can. I feel very proud of what we've accomplished so far and what I think we will accomplish. Our reason for creating this particular piece gets more valid to me every day - it's our way of addressing our individual fears, concerns, and hopes of/for where privacy and human identity will go in the course of our lifetimes. (See? The Hamlet didn't need to be pretentiously artsy. I did it for them. Sorry, I really don't mean it in a douchy way. This is a big concern for me right now, especially after the credit card fiasco and recently learning that even this blog, which I THOUGHT was privacy-protected, can come up in a search engine for the whoooole wide web to see).

We're seeing Julius Caesar at the RSC tomorrow night!!

OOOOOOHHHHH. So. I really don't know who my readership here consists of, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and post a link to Vick and my youtube page. Look, you have to use your best judgement. If the very idea of me cross-dressing, parodying Christian folk music/the Irish, or graphically depicting menstruation makes you uncomfortable, I offer this advice: don't follow the link. If you DO and what you see upsets you, don't come back to the page because we'll be posting weirder stuff as the weeks go by.

Also, just for the record, the characters shown here aren't part of our show. These are sample videos for a very small recorded segment; we were hoping they'd inspire our friends to make some similar vids for us to use instead of these, but we've begun to surrender that hope.

http://www.youtube.com/user/musclefleaeffect?feature=results_main

Lay'aaaazzz.

Tree

ONE: Here is our official teaser synopsis!


"Fact: Somewhere in the ocean, there is a whale who swims alone, calling out to others. It cannot be heard by migrating pods because it sings at a frequency several octaves higher than any other known whale. Although never spotted, this whale has been tracked by scientists for twenty years. It has been dubbed, "the loneliest whale in existence." 

In a fictional (but familiar) world, Mister Max, the most successful mogul in the entertainment industry, has captured the whale because of it's beautiful song.

On display 24/7 and forced to perform to a steadily increasing public, "Lolo" the loneliest whale becomes star of "The Binji and Buddy Show," and is evolving into a huge pop culture phenomenon. 

When the story of Lolo's song's origin is revealed, however, Mister Max and his staff are forced to make a very tough decision.

"The Loneliest Whale" is a story of privacy in the modern world, the differences between being "alone" and being "lonely," and the need to be part of a community. The finalized dates and venues will be released shortly, so stay posted!

(Brought to you by Muscleflea)"


TWO: DMITRI KRYMOV IS DIRECTING A PRODUCTION OF MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM FOR THE WORLD SHAKESPEARE FESTIVAL. IT WILL BE PERFORMED IN STRATFORD, MERE MILES FROM WHERE I AM. I WILL BE IN THE BIGGEST ATTENDANCE. I'm seriously considering making an "I (heart) Krymov" shirt. I've known about this for a few weeks, but forgot to mention!


Three: Prince Phillip got hospitalized after the Jubilee and apparently several audience members suffered hypothermia. (Sound of crowd going, "oooooooooh...") Jubilee fail, Queen Elizabeth's event organizers. Jubilee fail.

Who needs trains? We've got a friendSHIP. (Cymbal crash... cricket)

So, as frequent readers may have surmised, it's been raining quite a bit. Vicky and I were getting really overwhelmed with working on the show, so we took a longer weekend than normal.

Friday, we spent the day in Leamington. We went to the old pump rooms, which have been turned into art galleries and are very well preserved, and we had some of the famous "healing" mineral water which was running from an old stone fountain. It made my teeth feel weird, but basically tasted like water, which is to say nothing (or everything. ooooommmmm)

Saturday, we went to London. We'd planned to go to Kew Gardens (not totally sure what they are; Vick swears they're amazing) but since it had been raining so much, we thought the British Museum might be a better choice. I didn't absorb very much in the museum. It was actually quite stressful! There are approximately a billion exhibits and we ended up sort of half-assedly rushing through. And then we realized that the whole time we'd been in the museum, the sun had been shining outside. So we promptly exited. My favorite bit, since I know you're dying to hear, was in the Roman invasion section of the Great Britain timeline exhibit (was that confusing? The exhibits are set up chronologically based on geographic area. They also have a little drop-down guide giving you a world context for whatever item you're looking at - "This Egyptian pot was being crafted around the same time Stonehenge was erected. To see more on Stonehenge, visit exhibit 3, room 5." USEFUL, ENGLAND. Well done.) ...I've lost myself with the parenthetical. My favorite bit. Yes. They had found well-preserved letters from, god, must have been 90 A.D. or something, written in Latin. Scholahs (scholars, but read it with a really pompous accent... ssss-kOHluuuuhz) translated them into English.

(To the best of my memory)

"Dearest Brother,
Father has been writing me about the location of the spindle. I have said to him that I do not have knowledge of it, but he will not believe me. Sparitus claims he did not even know the spindle was missing. Please send me four bags of grain so that I can replace it, or Father will continue to write. You owe me four bags anyway from your visit."

"Dear Sister,
I am writing to invite you most humbly to my birthday party, which will be held 11 September. Please respond if you are able to attend."

How humanizing. After 2,000 years, we're still pretty much writing about the same things.

After we left, after we loafed around a park for a while with Vicky reading sections of a cheesy 60's yoga book for housewives ("yoga can help develop your delicate feminine beauty, as well as give you strength to complete those stressful household chores!" -real quote) we met up with one of my best friends from days gone by. All the way back in little Athens, we used to watch Harry Potter and talk about how we'd go to London and Scotland, and it's so fitting that the first time we see each other in four years would be on Oxford Street. Sara's one of those friends - you know the ones - where there isn't the awkward re-get-to-know-you thing. It felt like we'd just seen each other a week ago.

So we left dinner early to catch our train, but hey, guess what? We missed it. Because that's what we do best. We were both a bit, "Whelp, time for the old hair shirt," but it's hard to beat yourself up for too long in a place as cool as London, with sunset as late as it is and the weather so nice. We met some cool girls from Athens, Georgia in the hostel and walked around getting snacks from various convenience stores until we felt sick. And may I say, Cadbury eggs and Ribena, though you'd THINK it wouldn't be, is a delicious combination.

Bop bop, we got back, all was well. Perhaps pockets a little lighter.

Our SHOW, which I've weirdly talked very little about, is taking shape. Vicky's sister found an article over the winter about a whale that sings higher than any other whale and can neither hear, nor be heard by, other whales. It travels alone, and has been dubbed, "The Loneliest Whale."
At first, we were drawn to it because of the romance of being a lone mammal, lost in the ocean. We felt like we, too, were lost in the waves of new technology, new ways to "connect."
The more we thought about it, though, the more we got interested in the glamorizing of... I mean, of a whale. It's "the loneliest." People write poetry about it. A group of deaf Americans suggested that the whale might be deaf, and a mother whose child has autism wrote about why the whale was autistic. People are projecting their problems onto this whale. And no one has ever seen the whale. For all we know, it might NOT be travelling alone. Maybe it's companions are just really quiet.
Anyway, that (and my credit card getting hacked) got us thinking about how even things and people who don't know they're being observed ARE being observed. Privacy in the age of facebook and all that.
We scrapped most of what we were working on before, very willingly, and now have a skeleton of scenes and characters that we'll be fleshing out over the next few weeks. We'd planned a showing on the 30th for friends, but NAH WAY is that gonna happen without us ripping each other's throats out, so it's the shows in August and then hopefully a few fringe festivals next year if we like what we've made.

I'm going to make a quick playlist before rehearsal, and I thiiiink I've exhausted our adventures anyway, so ta ta for the moment.

Love to you from across the blue.

My news update?

ALL IT EVER DOES IS RAIN.

The reign, the rain

Hay-On-Wye is sleepy, mossy, thatched, and perfect for splashing through on a chilly day. There are over thirty second-hand bookshops in the tiny village, one of which is inside a Norman castle. We, like hundreds of other from around the world, were drawn there by the Hay Festival. The festival spans over ten days and hosts hundreds of speakers who may be promoting a new book, debating a popular topic, or just lecturing on a cause dear to them. Stephen Fry is a yearly guest!

We had to get up around six in the stupid morning to get to our first event on time. We did catch our train, but it was raining and the train got stopped, so we had to journey by bus, a journey dripping with endless transfers and confused drivers.

So there we were, slowly rolling our way across the Heart of England (I just re-read that, and I've misrepresented the tone of our trip's first leg. We were having so much fun. We drove the rest of the bus crazy trying to harmonize "Ain True Love" from Cold Mountain, which has a really difficult harmony part. And our picnic was really yummy). The countryside is so green right now, it's unbelievable. I have tinted sunglasses, and usually they make my surroundings more colorful, but here? Nope. Can't outdo old Mama Earth in her glory.

Blah blah blah, Hay-On-Wye. So we're there now, we make it in time, we love it, it's full of FULL of full of old books. I bought some of you all really awesome presents there*! The festival was about a ten minute walk outside the village (did you guys know about the many distinctions between towns, villages, and cities? Because everyone here does, and they're happy to correct you). The organizers had built a makeshift... hamlet? out of enormous white tents, with open-air passages in between and large garden and lawn space in the middle. Very Grecian, she said pretentiously. We saw two presentations - one was by an author called Oliver Bullough on his new book, the title of which I forget (why am I not just googling it? Seriously, it's so easy... aaaaaaaah, fine, for YOU guys muttermuttermutter IT IS AS FOLLOWS: Just Send Me Word, A True Story of Love and Survival in the Gulag) and the other was a debate between a scientist and a journalist on the role science should be playing in informing the public about global warming/climate change; also, what terminology should be used when discussing it.

The Gulag one was really touching. I'm not ashamed to tattle on Vicky and say that she got a little misty (WHO ME NEVER I AM MADE OF IRON). The book archives the correspondence of Svetlana and Lev, two physicists who met at Moscow University and were growing into friends UNTIL! Lev was accused of being a spy and imprisoned in the Gulag! Listen, guys, calm down. He tracked down Svetlana through sneaky letters to his aunt inquiring about her and they finally started writing directly to one another, continuing to do so for the sixteen years of his imprisonment. The letters are definitely love letters, but since they're both scientists, the way they express it is really quirky and practical. Svetlana was incredible. She kept sending him really elaborate packages, but instead of the typical early romance chocolates and books or whatever, she sent underwear and wool socks. And eventually, herself. She befriended a Soviet officer and visited Lev five times before his release. How does it end? You'll have to read for yourself! Svetlana sounded like Abby (cousin Abby to you DeKalbians); fiercely loyal, very resourceful, smart as hell, full of love.

The debate was aaaaaaah! I don't know who I sided with! Vick loved the really passionate journalist, who was like, "PEOPLE HAVE A RIGHT TO KNOW" but British so "PEEP'W HAHV UH ROIT T'NEHW" but the scientist just kept re-iterating that it's unfair to make scientists milk more out of the data than is there, because the job of science is simply to present available information and not to emotionalize it. He made the more valid arguments, but he got screwed in terms of presentation - the journalist was a much better public speaker, more attractive, and seated in the center of the three people onstage, so even his lighting was better. The scientist? Reeeeally monotonous voice. Really, they were sort of debating different things. VERY eloquently. With LOTS of rhetoric.

Dinner at pub, train, guys do cocaine in train bathroom, walk home in pouring rain at midnight, sleep! Wake up! TODAY! The Jubilee!!!! Everyone's been going BONKERS about the Queen's Diamond Jubilee, celebrating her 60-year reign. Preparation has been happening since I arrived three weeks ago. Vick says that since the country's in a recession, the government and media are trying to give them something to get excited about with this and the Olympics. Anyway, maybe you heard about it, but they had this massive flotilla organized with something like a thousand boats flanking the Queen's, and music and fireworks, but it absolutely poured today. Warwick was planning an outdoor barbeque in the Town Centre, which they had to cancel. The proceedings as we saw them on TV were sweetly pathetic. Everyone was miserable, clearly. It's so fitting - part of the hype for the Jubilee has been in the form of red and blue posters saying, "Keep Calm and Carry On," (parodied on t-shirts and mugs with cheeky variations like "Keep Calm and Party On" and "Sod Calm And Get Angry") and that's exactly what everyone did, from crowd to Queen. They just stood there, patiently, in the rain, until the whole thing was over and they could go home.

Not sure what next weekend will bring! Send me news from home, my loves. I'm a little homesick this week.

*Awesomeness of presents is subjective