So, today marks the day that is exactly one month away from the day that I depart with my dear old mum to that most wonderful of places in the world, the United Kingdom. It has been eight years since I’ve visited the country, and so naturally I am eagerly anticipating this day’s arrival.
For me, the UK draws up images of police boxes and red telephone booths, Tower bridges and stone circles, lonely lanes in the country and webs of streets in the city, damp, grey skies and bland, tasteless food, stiff upper lips and slowly rising lifts, car boots, tyres, indicators and chips, marmite, and wine gums, all wrapped in newspaper meant for fish with scents of lagers and images of druids.
Of course, all British people embody this exact description, just as, for me, the US draws up images of police cars and blue telephone booths, suspension bridges and four corners, highways in the country and symmetrical grids in the city, sunny, blue skies and zesty, flavorful food, really loud lips and high speed elevators, car trunks, tires, and blinkers and fries, peanut butter, and Dots, all wrapped in ridiculous plastic for things we don’t need with scents of jazz and images of cowboys.
(No, really. This is exactly how things work on both sides of the ocean. Really. I’m totally serious right now. 100%.)
So, when I’m there, I totally expect to be served corn flakes in the morning without requesting it, to be asked why I drive a car everywhere and why I have so many guns, and to be admired for my perfect teeth and ridiculed for my ignorance of other cultures.
(No, really. This is exactly what happens whenever we venture over there. Really. I’m totally serious right now. 100%.)
So, “Eeep! I’m so excited! I can’t wait!”
It will be a topping holiday, what.