*Warning* If you haven’t seen the film Love Actually, I don’t recommend reading the following, as it’s full of spoilers.  And while we’re on the subject, why haven’t you seen it yet?  It was released in 2003!  Please go watch it.  Posthaste.

Dear Love Actually,

It’s Christmastime once again, and this year I just wanted to take a moment to tell you how much I love you.  I really do.  To be honest, I love you all year round, but especially during this time of year.  Whenever I’m feeling sad or cynical about the world or about love, watching you always reminds me of the good in people, and how beautiful life can be.

Your writer and director, Richard Curtis, is a bloody genius.  But I’m sure you already know that.  He’s behind some of my other favourite films of all time, but he especially did a brilliant job on you.  He filled you with so many characters and moments that are so memorable and beloved, it’s easy to lose count of them all.  I recently asked some of my friends (who also love you, by the way) to share their favourite memories of you with me.  This is what they said.

Crystal loves the scene when Jamie and his Portuguese housekeeper are having a conversation, each in their own native language, and neither of them comprehends what the other person is saying.

Emily loves the surprise rendition of All You Need Is Love during Peter and Juliet’s wedding, when David and Natalie are kissing backstage at the Christmas concert and the curtain goes up, and when little Sam runs through the airport after his first love, Joanna.

Jonathan loves the moment when the Prime Minister, David, finally tells off the President of the United States.

Shanna loves John and Judy, the timid porn stand-ins who shyly flirt with each other whilst enacting illicit scenes, and when Billy Mack realises that his manager, Joe, is the real love of his life, and they spend Christmas together rather than partying it up, rock star-style.  She also loves the funeral for Daniel’s wife/Sam’s mum.  Although she’s never actually on-screen (other than in photographs), she’s her own character, and the love, tenderness, and humour associated with her, Daniel, and Sam (and later, their evolving father/son dynamic) is just beautiful to watch.

Brooke loves when Jamie goes after Aurélia to tell her he loves her, and then proposes to her in broken Portuguese in front of her family as well as the patrons and staff at the restaurant where she works.

Shaw loves watching David dance to Jump (for My Love) by the Pointer Sisters inside 10 Downing Street when he thinks he’s alone, and the powerful, raw emotion of the scene when Karen is by herself in her bedroom listening to Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell, trying to process how her husband has betrayed her.  Her pain is palpable, and the performance by Emma Thompson is stunning.

As for me?  Well, I love when Sarah asks Karl to excuse her for a moment after they finally kiss, and she slips around the corner in her flat and silently does her happy girl dance.  And my most favourite part of all: when Mark shows up with those heartbreaking, romantic signs to tell Juliet how he really feels about her.

Can you feel how loved you are, Love Actually?  Can you?  I surely hope so.

In closing, thank you.  Thank you for being one of those rare films that I can watch again and again at various times in my life, never growing tired of you.  Thank you for the laughter through tears.  Thank you for getting Christmas Is All Around, All I Want for Christmas Is You, and God Only Knows stuck in my head for days on end after I watch you.

Most of all, thank you for giving me hope.  You see, despite my proclivity for sarcasm, I’m really a sap and hopeless romantic at heart.  And I’m quite sure it will seem ridiculous to some that a rom-com of all things could actually give someone hope, but I don’t really care what anyone else thinks.  You do that, and so much more.  You illustrate so beautifully the ebbs and flows of life; our losses and triumphs as human beings, our sadness and our joy, our weaknesses as well as our strengths.  Most importantly, you remind us that love truly conquers all. Sometimes, in the midst of this crazy world we live in, it’s easy to forget.

I’ll leave you now with the profound words of your Prime Minister, David. Um, not Mr Cameron, but rather, the one charmingly played by Hugh Grant:

“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport.  General opinion’s starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don’t see that.  It seems to me that love is everywhere.  Often, it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it’s always there—fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends… If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion… love actually is all around.”

Best wishes for a very Happy Christmas.  Mine will be happier because of you.  And thank you again.  You’re lovely.

Much Love (of course) and Affection Always,

Amie xx

Chuffed to Bits: The Best British Christmas Movie? – A Love Letter to “Love Actually” is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Several months ago, I ordered a copy of the acclaimed British music magazine, MOJO, to be sent to me in the post.  The particular issue I ordered also came with a compilation CD featuring artists on the London music label, Communion.  Communion is of great interest to me, not only because the label was co-founded by Ben Lovett, a member of one of my favourite bands, Mumford & Sons, but also because they specialise in working with very talented singer/songwriters, many of whom I’ve recommended in previous columns (such as Daughter, Pete Roe, Marcus Foster, and Johnny Flynn).

Once I received my copy of the magazine and gave a cursory glance at the names on the back of the accompanying CD, I put it on, turned up the volume, and went about tidying up my kitchen.  Then, I heard a voice that made me stop dead in my tracks.  I heard this:

To my ears, it sounded like the second coming of Otis Redding, and I actually got goosebumps on my arms whilst listening to it.  So I picked up the CD jewel case once again, and checked to see who the voice that had floored me belonged to.  Michael Kiwanuka was his name.  I put the song on repeat, finished up my chores in the kitchen, then headed straight for my computer to find more of his music.

The next song of Michael’s that I stumbled upon—as a result of my Internet search—was called Bones.  The video I found for it was of a performance he’d done at Union Chapel in London.  I fell in love with the song, and even more so with his voice.

Every song of Michael’s that I came across thereafter thrilled me.  His voice and sound reminded me of the great soul singers my parents had loved and had raised me on, like Otis, Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke, Bill Withers, and Curtis Mayfield.

A bit more Internet sleuthing led me to additional information on Michael.  He grew up in Muswell Hill, London and his parents are from Uganda.  He’s only been writing songs for about 3 years (which I found simply stunning, considering he’s only 23), and I learnt he had recently opened for the incomparable Adele on her summer tour, and would also be opening for my beloved Laura Marling.

I checked his gig schedule, dying to know if he’d be in my neck of the woods anytime soon, and discovered that he was scheduled to play a free show in Birmingham during the same time I’d be on holiday in England.  I decided that a day trip to see him perform live was absolutely in order.

And so on a fine Tuesday afternoon in October, I boarded a train to the hometown of Ozzy Osbourne and Duran Duran, checked myself into a nearby Premier Inn upon arrival, and ventured off to see Michael perform at a tiny jazz club near the city centre called The Yardbird.  Here’s just a taste of what I witnessed that evening:

Getting the chance to see an incredible talent like Michael perform in such a small venue before he really hit the big time… I can say, unequivocally, that it was absolutely worth the trip.  Michael sings with a wisdom far beyond his 23 years.  His sound is a mix of soul, folk, and jazz that he melds together so beautifully.  He truly makes what he does look effortless.

Michael is garnering all sorts of attention in the music industry these days.  He was recently nominated for the BRITs Critics’ Choice Award, and is also one of 15 artists nominated for the BBC Sound of 2012 Award.  He’s been featured on BBC Radio 1, as well as on Later… With Jools Holland.

Currently, he has released two EPs, with a third coming out at the beginning of 2012.  His full-length, debut album, Home Again, will be released on the 26th of March, 2012.  He’ll also be playing live throughout the UK through February.  If you get the opportunity to see Michael perform live, don’t hesitate.  Do. It.  I promise that your ears, heart, and soul will thank you profusely.

You can find out more about Michael Kiwanuka on his official website at http://michaelkiwanuka.com/

Chuffed to Bits: British Music Artist on the Rise – Michael Kiwanuka is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Okay.  I admit it.  I’ve got a sweet tooth.  To be honest, death by chocolate sounds pretty good to me.  You know that scene from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, where Gene Wilder is singing Pure Imagination?  You know the one…

Who didn’t dream of visiting a place like that when they were a little kid?  Well, minus the creeptacular boat ride that came afterwards.

Fortunately, we don’t need a Golden Ticket or the excuse of childhood anymore.  These days, desserts are in vogue, and from couture cupcakes to gourmet brownies to the resurgence of the classic whoopie pie, you can enjoy delectable sweets anywhere and everywhere.  In moderation, of course.  Moderation is key.  I mean, one cannot live on simple carbohydrates alone, right?  Right…

On my most recent trip to the U.K. this past October, I came across a few places where you can indulge your craving for sinfully delicious sweet treats.  All I can say is thank goodness I did a lot of walking around the city after trying them out!

Outsider Tart.  I attended a dinner party in London recently, and one of the other guests brought a box of delicious goodies from Outsider Tart for dessert.  The brownies were decadent as well as massive, and instead of our original plan of cutting them into quarters to share them, we decided to slice them into slivers instead, because there were just too many tasty looking options to choose from and we all wanted to try a bit of everything.  I don’t think we ever came to a consensus on an overall winner (there were a lot of contenders), but we all agreed on one thing:  the American ex-pats running this bakery in Chiswick are masters at what they do. 

Ben’s Cookies.  I’ve talked about this place before in previous columns, and it’s certainly worthy of another mention.  Simply put, Ben’s Cookies are divine.  They have many tempting flavours to choose from, but the one that blows my mind every single time is their Double Chocolate and Nut cookie.  So.  good.  So good.

Ella’s Bakehouse.  I recently discovered an English chef named Lorraine Pascale on the Cooking Channel here in the States.  Lorraine is a former model who hosts a baking show in the U.K. (which is now being broadcast here across the Pond), and she also happens to be the owner of Ella’s Bakehouse, a cupcakery located directly across from Ben’s Cookies at The Piazza in Covent Garden.  During my visit to Ella’s, I tried the Nutella cupcake.  Nutella is what I refer to as a Category 5 dessert all on its own because of how dangerously addictive it is, so I never stood a chance once I saw those little gems in the display case.  I was floored by how moist and delicious it was.

The Hummingbird Bakery.  A friend and I happened to pass by the Soho location of the Hummingbird Bakery after dinner one night whilst en route to a concert, and we just couldn’t resist the urge to pop in for a pre-show treat.  We both concurred: their cupcakes (especially their red velvet cupcakes) are just to die for.  They also sell brownies, pies, cakes, and whoopie pies. They even make a red velvet whoopie pie.  Can you imagine?  Gah!  Heavenly.

Paul A. Young Fine Chocolates.  Well, my friend and I were feeling really naughty whilst in Soho that same evening we visited the Hummingbird Bakery.  So naughty in fact, that we just couldn’t help but notice a delectable display of brownies in the window of the Paul A. Young chocolaterie on Wardour Street.  So we didn’t fight it.  We went inside.  As we were chatting with a very nice salesman who was sporting a fabulous pompadour, he kept referring to the shop’s namesake as if he was in the room or something.  Well, imagine our surprise when he introduced us to Paul A. Young himself, who was wearing an apron and actually helping out behind the counter!  Paul could not have been nicer, treating us to some samples, telling us about his new cookbook, an upcoming visit he’ll be making to N.Y.C. for a chat show appearance, and he even accommodated our silly request for him to sign the labels on our brownies.  He also pointed out some Thanksgiving truffles on a display table, to which I quirked an eyebrow and asked why they had Thanksgiving truffles on offer in England of all places.  Paul smiled and explained that there were several American ex-pats living in an area near one of his shops, and he created the truffles with them in mind.  We waited until the following day to try our treats (mine was a limited edition, sea salted caramel pecan brownie—Holy YUM!), and I can honestly say it was the densest, fudgiest brownie I’ve ever had.

Harvey Nichols.  Yes, this is a lovely, high-end department store boasting such lust-after brands as Chanel, Burberry, and Marc Jacobs.  But what I also love about Harvey Nichols—and many other department stores in the U.K.—is that they have a superb food hall, where they boast some seriously delicious baked goods.  I’ve yet to visit their flagship location in Knightsbridge, but I did pay my first-ever Harvey Nichs visit to their store in Edinburgh recently, where I introduced a Scottish friend of mine to the beauty of red velvet cupcakes for the very first time.  I’m not exactly sure what bakery makes and supplies them with these tasty little creations, but they certainly do a brilliant job.  We were there on Halloween, and they had the cupcakes tricked out with elaborate ghosts, skeletons, and pumpkins made of sinful, buttercream frosting. 

Where is your favourite spot for sweet treats in London?

Chuffed to Bits: Cookies, and Brownies, and Cupcakes – Oh My! Sweet Spots in London to Indulge Your Sweet Tooth is a post from: Anglotopia.net

It has been awhile since I’ve posted an update on my pregnancy. Things are so busy and I recently took a very long trip stateside, but now that I am back home in the UK and find myself taking a bit more time off my feet, I can finally make a little update! I’m glad I got to take a trip home and thoroughly discuss my antenatal care with friends and family, it has brought to my attention so many misconceptions about the NHS and antenatal care in the UK and I am happy to get the opportunity to clear up some of those misconceptions here.

Again, before I get started I think it is important to point out that each woman’s experience will vary quite a bit depending on which NHS Trust is treating them through their pregnancy and what facilities and services are available in their area. While one of the big advantages of the NHS is that a lot of the advice and care is similar, my experience could be very different than a woman living in a different NHS Trust.

I’ve read many varying accounts of experiences with the NHS here, some very negative and some very good. However, I have found that most women who have had negative experiences find out after the fact that there is a specific problem within their NHS Trust and there are steps being taken to resolve these issues, so their experiences aren’t indicative of a system-wide problem. Even in some cases I have read, many women who have negative experiences having their first child find that by the time they have their second child the issues within their NHS Trust have been identified and resolved.

I also wanted to start out by clearing up a common misconception that I encountered quite a bit during my trip home, many of my friends who had heard me referring to appointments with a midwife assumed that midwife = home birth. This is most certainly NOT the case. In the UK all basic antenatal care is provided by midwives, they are medical professionals who provide the majority of care to pregnant women and babies in the UK, both in the hospital and at home. In my Third Trimester post I will go into more detail about different birth plans and options, but midwives deliver babies in hospitals, in midwife-staffed birthing centres, and at home. Most births the midwives oversee in the UK are in the hospital. Some women also see obstetricians, but only if there are specific risks and issues that require extra care. Basically midwives are the primary caregivers, and OBs are involved as consultants.

16 Week Appointment

During the second trimester most mums-to-be visit their midwife every 4 weeks. My 16 week appointment was amazing because it was the first time I got to hear my baby’s heartbeat. We got to see the heartbeat on the screen during the 12 week dating ultrasound, but it wasn’t until my 16 week appointment that I got to hear that miraculous sound. It was such a reassuring appointment, as many mothers will probably agree that the beginning on the second trimester can bring with it a bit of uncertainty. The first trimester symptoms have usually subsided, as they did for me, and you don’t “feel pregnant” since there isn’t much of a bump to speak of, the flutters and thumps of fetal movement haven’t started yet, and you pretty much feel normal. Hearing my baby’s heartbeat was such a wonderful reassurance as I looked forward to my 20 week ultrasound.

At this appointment my midwife also went through all of the test results that came back from screenings during my 12 week scan and my first appointment at the antenatal clinic. (I was referred to the antenatal clinic because of my above average BMI.) The obstetrician ran some additional tests and my midwife entered these into my handheld notes and explained the results to me.

This is another place where I have found my care very different from friends in the states. My friends have had A LOT of babies over the past 3 years and they all seem to know every little detail of every step of their pregnancy. Here in the UK, unless you are seeing a fertility specialist, midwives don’t typically get into the details of test results unless something comes back abnormal. Basically, I am told that my tests came back in the normal range, sometimes shown a chart of where I fall within the “normal” range and that is it.

Now some people might see this as a disadvantage, certainly more information should be better. However, I feel that in the hands of someone without medical training, these numbers and figures in many cases can be cause for unnecessary worry and comparison. I hear a lot of my American friends comparing hormone levels and other test results, and even though their results are completely normal, it can cause a lot of unnecessary worry if their numbers don’t match up with someone else’s. I think this goes back to the more natural approach to childbirth in the UK. Pregnancy isn’t treated as a medical procedure, so while some medical tests and checks are necessary to be sure the pregnancy is progressing as it should, I’m not burdened with medical details as long as everything is normal. I’m left to enjoy my pregnancy without obsessing over this or that hormone level.

20 Week Anomaly Scan

My next appointment was at the hospital maternity ultrasound department. Again I came equipped with my handheld notes so the ultrasound technicians could enter their findings. My husband and I decided quite early on that we wanted to know the sex of our baby if we could find out (and no, as much as people loved telling me I am going to ruin the surprise, I don’t think knowing is going to dampen the experience of meeting my child for the first time). This experience was one of the best of my life, the 12 week scan was great for peace of mind, but on this scan my baby looked like a baby and was moving around, squirming and wiggling. We were lucky to have a very clear shot of “the area in question” and the technician told us that she didn’t see anything between those little legs, so our baby is most likely a girl. Everything was checking out normal, but because she was curled up they couldn’t get the view they needed of the chambers of the heart so they scheduled me for a second scan the following week in hopes that she would move. We came in the following week and the technician was able to see what she needed to see and also got another very clear look and double confirmation that I’m carrying a baby girl! Most importantly though, all of the measurements came back fine and they did not find any abnormalities.

Our baby at 20 weeks

As long as everything continues to progress as it should, this was the last time we would “see” our baby girl until her birthday. Most women in the UK just have 2 ultrasound scans, one at 12 weeks to date the pregnancy and another at 20 weeks to do a thorough check for abnormalities. (Parents who want one of those new-fangled 3D scans can get one, but they aren’t provided by the NHS and you have to go to a special centre and pay for it.) Some women will have more scans if they previously suffered a miscarriage or are seeing a fertility specialist, or if early on if there are any complications in the first trimester, or  a growth scan may be required later in pregnancy if there are any concerns about how the baby is growing. This is certainly much different than in the US, but for women with a normal pregnancy free of complications, 2 scans is really all that is necessary. From here on out my midwife will use palpation to check the growth of my baby as well as listening to the heartbeat and measuring my uterus.

 Maternity Clothes

My search for maternity clothes in the UK was pretty fruitless. I found a lot of stuff both unattractive and expensive. There wasn’t a single store in my town that sold maternity clothes, so I had to drive to a nearby retail park to look, and I still didn’t find much. Some major high street brands like Next and New Look do carry maternity lines, but they are pretty limited. I found a lot of the New Look stuff seemed geared toward VERY young mothers, tight fitting snug-to-the-belly tops that had tacky slogans printed across the belly, so I didn’t find much other than a couple very basic items. Next had a bit more mature styles, but the prices were just too much for things I was going to wear for just a couple months and the fit wasn’t great.

I decided to wait until I got to the US to buy maternity clothes and I am glad I did, I found plenty of stylish and comfortable maternity clothes in US stores and got enough to last me through. For pregnant expats I would definitely suggest finding a way to get some American maternity clothes shipped over from friends and family if you can!

24 Week Appointment

After returning from a 3 week trip the the US, and receiving tons of adorable baby girl clothes from friends and family, I had a glucose tolerance test to check for gestational diabetes and my 24 week appointment with my midwife. The glucose tolerance test was no fun, but my results came back normal so I am glad it is over with! At my 24 week appointment my midwife felt my uterus to make sure everything is growing as it should and we had another listen to Baby Girl’s heartbeat. Then we sat down and briefly went through the findings of the ultrasound scan and confirmed that everything is looking as it should. We also booked my next couple appointments, which after 28 weeks go from every 4 weeks to every 3 weeks and I will also have some additional appointments with a health visitor and at the antenatal clinic. I’ll also have a visit to the hospital maternity unit and then I can begin thinking more in detail about my birth plan. I’ll be updating on all of these appointments in the Third Trimester post.

Maternity Leave

Of course one of the first things my American friends want to know is how much maternity leave I can get. It is widely known that European maternity leave is typically pretty awesome. There are some variations depending on how long you have been working for your employer, your income, and specific policies, but I will try to break it down to the basics as much as I can, and how they apply to me specifically.

In accordance with UK law and my employer’s policies I could take up to 52 weeks off from work. Of these 52 weeks, the first 39 weeks are paid. The first 6 weeks are paid at 90% of my average earnings and the additional 33 weeks are paid at the statutory maternity rate which is adjusted annually by the government. It is up to me how long I want to take, but I am required by law to take the first two weeks following the birth of my child. My average earnings are determined using the wages I earned between my 17th and 25th week of pregnancy. If you would like to know more about maternity leave and Statutory Maternity Pay (SMP) in the UK, the UK government website has a very good comprehensive guide to all things related to pregnancy and maternity rights in the workplace.

I had to notify my employer by my 25th week of pregnancy when I planned to begin my maternity leave and when I planned to return to work. Since I work in retail I decided to start my maternity leave at 36 weeks (December 28th) and I will be taking about 32 weeks off, returning to work in early August. I’m really looking forward to spending the time I need with my child while still getting at least a bit of basic income until I’m ready to return to work!

Thanks for reading, in my next update I’ll tell you all about my first meeting with a health visitor, my visit to the hospital maternity ward and my preparations for the fast approaching big day!

Dispatches from the North: Pregnancy in the UK- The Second Trimester is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Recently, I watched George Harrison: Living in the Material World, the new documentary directed by Martin Scorsese.  As a lifelong Beatles fan, I was fascinated to learn more about George Harrison’s life before, during, and after his time with the Fab Four.  If you haven’t yet seen it, I highly recommend it.  Here’s the trailer for the film.

To be honest, Paul has always been my favourite Beatle, with John coming in a close second (sorry, Ringo). However, I learned a few things about George that I wasn’t aware of prior to seeing this documentary that may have just moved him to the top of my list.

He put his mark on some of the Beatles’ best songs.  I have no idea why I thought Lennon and McCartney were the ones who wrote Something, but it was actually George who wrote what Frank Sinatra once called the greatest love song ever written.

Harrison also came up with the memorable guitar riff for And I Love Her. Paul McCartney says in the film that he didn’t write that part at all, that it was George who thought the song needed a little something extra. That 4-note riff (DO, DO, DO, DO) made a great song even better.

Upon further research, I also discovered that it was George who sang the lead vocals on my favourite Beatles song of all time, Do You Want to Know a Secret.

He was a producer of cult films such as Life of Brian, Time Bandits, and Withnail and I.  Harrison was a big fan of Monty Python and according to Eric Idle, he mortgaged his house to finance the movie Life of Brian because he really wanted to see it.  I happen to love Withnail and I, so I was really chuffed (to bits!) to learn that George was also a producer on that film as well.

He did a lot of the work on his country estate, Friar Park, himself.  George loved nature, and was an avid gardener, doing much of the landscaping and renovations on his 30 acres of land and 120-room gothic mansion in Henley-on-Thames himself.  In the film, his son Dhani (who bears a striking resemblance to his father) talks about how his father used to look out at the grounds in the moonlight because the shadows would mask all of the weeds and imperfections, and in that light he could visualize how he wanted the estate to look.  Interviewed recently by Rolling Stone, Dhani shared some thoughts about his dad, stating that when he was a small boy, “I was pretty sure he was just a gardener.” Harrison would work 12-hour days planting trees and flowers at Friar Park, pursuing his vision.

He had a great sense of humour.  In the documentary, Harrison’s wife Olivia recounts the harrowing experience they both survived in 1999, when a crazed fan broke into their home and attacked them, stabbing George as many as eight times.  Eric Idle shares a side note to this story.  Apparently there were some new household staff members at Friar Park around that time.  These people had only been working for Harrison for a few days, and as he was being carried out of Friar Park on a stretcher by the paramedics, George looked over at the new employees and said, “So, what do you think of the job so far?”  Ringo Starr also shares a very poignant moment about when he went to visit Harrison at the end of his battle with cancer.  Starr had to leave to fly to America to be with his daughter who was having a brain tumor removed.  Ringo gets visibly emotional as he recalls George asking him, “Do you want me to go with you?”  He may have been known as the quiet Beatle, but George Harrison certainly didn’t take himself too seriously, even under the most dire of circumstances.

He was extremely spiritual.  I’ve always known from listening to his music as a solo artist that George Harrison was a spiritual person, but I had no idea how deep his belief and faith in spirituality really was until I watched this documentary.  George was a devotee of meditation, studying with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, and was also a devotee of Hinduism and the Hare Krishna tradition of japa (chanting a mantra).  In addition, George produced the Hare Krishna Mantra as a single, and even included the actual mantra in his hit song, My Sweet Lord.

George Harrison was an incredible human being, and George Harrison: Living in the Material World certainly illustrates this in a fascinating, beautiful way that pays great tribute to the man, his life, and the legacy of music he left behind.

Chuffed to Bits: Living in the Material World – 5 Things I Learned About George Harrison from the Scorsese Documentary is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Music means everything to me.  My friends will tell you that I always have a song in my head and my heart that I’m dying to talk about and share.  Albert Einstein once said, “…I often think in music.  I live my daydreams in music.  I see my life in terms of music…  I get most joy in life out of music.”  I think Einstein and I would have been great friends.

Like most people, there are many songs that hold a special significance in my life.  There are songs that remind me of certain individuals, and songs that remind me of particular feelings or events I’ve experienced.  And there are, of course, songs that remind me of certain places.  I’m a big fan of the shuffle feature on my iPod, and more often than not, a song comes on that reminds me of England, and I’m instantly transported by it.  The sights, the smells, who I was with, how I was feeling… all of it comes flooding back.  So I thought I’d share some of the songs that always remind me of my life and times in Blighty.

LDN by Lily Allen.  Cheeky and fun, this song is a favourite of mine.  Before my first visit to England in 2009, my friend and I used to listen to this and joke that we’d meander through the streets of London on bicycles like Lily does in the song, whilst singing this out loud.  Well, once we arrived, it turned out that we weren’t very good at even crossing the streets without nearly getting hit by a car (LOOK RIGHT!), so that pipe dream went straight out the window.  But despite our lack of pedestrian prowess in the UK, this is still a marvellous tune, and it will always remind me of that inaugural trip.

London Skies by Jamie Cullum.  This is the song I listen to without fail when I’m packing for a trip across the Pond.  I’ve also been known to listen to it on the plane ride over, and I have fond memories of listening to it whilst wandering through Green Park.  It always makes me happy.  Keep in mind that I’m a native of a state where the sun shines 300+ days a year.  You know what they say; you always want what you don’t have.

Ticket To Ride by The Beatles.  I was listening to this song when I saw English countryside for the very first time.  My friend and I were travelling on the Eurostar from Paris to London, and when we cleared the Chunnel and I caught my first glimpse of those gorgeous, green, rolling hills… there just aren’t words for how I felt in that moment.  My friend glanced at me and said, “Look at you! You’re lit up like a Christmas tree!”  I could not stop smiling.  I was on a train, listening to The Beatles, in England for the very first time in my life.  I will never forget it.

Can’t Be Sure by The Sundays.  The Sundays were my favourite alternative band when I was a teenager.  A Doc Martens-clad, pensive teenager who gobbled up any and all music from the UK that I could get my hands on.  And now as an adult, this song reminds me of people watching in Trafalgar Square.  I sat on the steps in front of the National Gallery last year, and listened to this during a solo trip to London.  A brilliant track.

There Is A Light That Never Goes Out by The Smiths.   This is another song that conjures up people watching memories from Trafalgar Square.  I lost count of how many double-decker buses actually passed by (safely, thank you very much) as I sat there, sipping Earl Grey tea from a paper cup, marvelling at the fact that once again I was in my favourite city in the world.  I adore The Smiths and Morrissey, and I loved this song long before it was made famous by (500) Days of Summer (which is a fantastic film, by the way, if you haven’t seen it).

London Calling by The Clash.  This song is on a mix CD that I have in my car.  Last month, during the London riots, it flooded my speakers unexpectedly, and it gave me chills.  However, I have another, much happier memory associated with it.  Last year, I went to see American singer/songwriter Joshua Radin perform at The Roundhouse in Camden.  As I stood inside the venue waiting for the show to begin, a group of young Englishmen passed by me as this song was playing over the sound system.  They were obviously several pints into quite a fun evening, and as they careened past me in a single file line, train-style, they loudly sang out in unison, “Cause London is drowning and I… I live by the river!”  I laughed, savouring yet another amazing moment in the Big Smoke.

Baker Street by Gerry Rafferty.  My only memories of this song up until last year were of hearing it on the radio when I was growing up, and then hearing it featured in the playground fight scene of the film Good Will Hunting.  Then one day, whilst trying to find the London Beatles Store, I found myself on the Baker Street. And, musical sap that I am, I immediately found it on my iPod, and let that infamous saxophone hook fill my ears as I walked.  This song will always be a part of the memory of my Beatles Day in London.

Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles.  After my walk on Baker Street and my rather successful visit to the Beatles Store, I headed to Abbey Road Studios in St. John’s Wood and the infamous crosswalk.  I got lost in the surrounding neighbourhood, but I didn’t really mind too much because I was listening to some amazing music.  I’ll give you three guesses as to what album I had playing on a loop whilst I was there, and the first two don’t count.

Little Lion Man by Mumford & Sons.  These guys are one of my favourite bands of all time.  They are quintessentially English, and I genuinely believe they can’t make a bad record.  I was in Brighton last year, eating lunch at a pub, when this song came on.  In fact, the next three songs were all by Mumford & Sons, and I soon struck up a conversation with the owner of the pub about the band.  I’ve been lucky enough to see them live twice: the first time was in a small club where they played to a crowd of about 150.  The second time was earlier this year, where they played to a crowd of 10,000.  They’re obviously doing something right.  Note: There is an expletive in this song, so if that sort of thing offends you, keep calm and carry on…

England by The National.  I’ve only just discovered The National.  I highly recommend checking them out; their album High Violet is simply brilliant.  I first heard this song as a cover, actually; Mumford & Sons did a magnificent version of it on VH1 Unplugged.  I loved it, but of course I sought out the original, and promptly fell in love.  This American band has somehow captured the essence of England that continues to enamour me more and more each time I visit.

Which songs remind you of England?

Chuffed To Bits: Songs On My Brit Music Playlist – British Music I’m Listening To Now is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Today will be my last working day at Camphill Milton Keynes.  I can’t say that working with adults with disabilities has been harder than I thought it would be.  I knew that it would be challenging.  I knew that it would test the bounds or my patience, and frankly, I think I needed that in my life.  I worked a lot in the weaving workshop, and my sewing skills have been greatly improved by that.

While a year in Camphill or Milton Keynes as a city hasn’t been particularly “British,” there are a couple of things that may cause a culture shock when I return to my home in the US.

Milton Keynes is a very culturally and ethnically diverse city, much more so than my town, and most any other American area with the exception of New York.  On the street where I lived this year, there are a house of Pakistani taxi drivers, two African families with small children, the family that runs the Chinese takeaway, and straight up British folk.  On a trip to the Shopping Centre, I might hear conversations in Hindi, Russian, Korean, Urdu, German, or something else I can’t identify.  Peace Pagoda associated with the Japanese Buddhist temple is a meeting place for yearly festivals that invite and celebrate people of all faiths and races.

They do like their tea breaks here.  And snacks.  During the work week, we break for tea at least twice a day, and perhaps have another cup at lunch and again after supper.  Birthday parties are all the same here, with “packet of crisp” and sausage rolls, something chocolatey and “fizzy drink” to wash it down.  The snacking shows up on every Camphill co-worker’s waistline.

Complaining is a national sport here.  Most of the time, British people address their moans to no one who can help, and receive that golden answer: “Typical!”  Groan and bear it.  However, I have been on a crowded bus, where a woman took the opportunity to call the posted comment line to complain about said crowded bus.  Perhaps some seeds of proactive discontent are growing?

Besides queues and the rules thereof, British people adhere to a lot of unwrittens.  One of these I call the “stick to the path” mentality.  People in Milton Keynes remind me of woodtrolls from “The Edge Chronicles” series by Uk author Paul Brown and illustrator Chris Riddell.  If there is a paved footpath to be found, pedestrians never stray from it.  They don’t take shortcuts through the grass or walk on the traffic island.  Another taboo is to eat and walk.  You would never see anyone (besides this blundering American) eating a sandwich on the go.  Ice cream is the only exception to this rule.

It’s been a great year, full of travel and new experiences.  I’ve got two weeks of backpacking ahead of me.  I managed to book myself into all the places that riots are happening at the moment, and then I’ll be flying back home.

Note: I will probably have lots of videos and pictures to post when I get back home and onto a proper computer.  My netbook proved unsuitable for editing large videos, and I may or may not have lost half a year of material from a corrupted SD card.  Here’s really really hoping that I didn’t.  Meanwhile, please enjoy this video about Camphill that I made in December for the YouTube “Project for Awesome.”

Project for Awesome: Camphill Milton Keynes

Dispatches from Milton Keynes: Reflections on departing Camphill Milton Keynes is a post from: Anglotopia.net

One late Friday afternoon in October of 2009, two American girls visiting the UK for the very first time found their way by bus to Camden in North London.  The rain was sporadic, as it often is in the Big Smoke, and we enjoyed racing through it, finding solace under awnings, a newly-purchased hat from a street vendor, and a free copy of The Evening Standard as we pub-crawled our way through some of Camden’s edgy watering holes.  At one point during our adventure, we decided to ask for a recommendation on where to go next.  We happened upon a rather handsome looking bloke standing next to a motorcycle and, being the flirts that we were, engaged him in conversation.  He looked amused as he gave us a sideways grin and responded, “Right…You should go to The Hawley Arms.  Amy Winehouse goes there.” 

Both of us, being huge fans of her music, decided that was an excellent idea.  After receiving some directions from our motorcycle-riding friend, we were off.  Just moments later, we walked through the doors of The Hawley Arms, a cosy pub that boasted an eclectic crowd milling about inside and out, and a bar staff with a very dry wit.  I remember thinking that we were getting just a tiny, PG-13 glimpse into Amy Winehouse’s world.  We were frolicking at Amy’s local for the night, partaking in a few libations, meeting interesting people, and having a grand ol’ time.

Fast-forward to Saturday, the 23^rd of July, 2011.  I awoke to the news that Amy Winehouse had been found dead in her London home.  And as inevitable as that fate may have seemed to those on the outside looking in at her troubled life and her long battle with addiction, it still gutted me to hear that it had happened, that it was real.  I didn’t know her personally, and yet I did; she laid herself bare in her music, her voice dripping with the pain she was trying to find her way through, not unlike so many genius artists before her.  Her music got me through some extremely difficult times in my life—times where I was feeling as low as a person could possibly feel.  And there was Amy, her incredible voice flowing out of my speakers like honey, wrapping around me like a warm blanket and reminding me that someone, somewhere had felt some of what I was feeling in those moments, and had lived through the pain to tell others about it in her own, unique way.

The 23^rd of July got exponentially more dismal as the day went on, as I heard about the horrors of what had occurred in Norway.  And the day also got meaner and more judgmental.  As I read articles about both stories on various news outlets and watched the commentary pour in from people on different social networking sites, my heart ached to see things like “She got what she deserved,” “They tried to make her go to Rehab, but she said no, no, no,” “Who cares- stupid druggie and drunk,” and also comments that everyone should be more concerned with the real problems in the world, and not the self-inflicted demise of some overindulgent celebrity. 

Reading things like that… It made me angry.  Of course, what had happened in Norway was absolutely devastating; no one would ever, ever dispute that.  And of course, my thoughts and prayers were with the innocent victims of that tragedy and their families, praying for their peace and solace in the face of such unexpected, abject horror.  But that didn’t mean that I didn’t have the capacity to feel sadness about ALL of it.  I shouldn’t have to apologise for feeling sad that one of my favourite singer/songwriters had left this world far too soon, nor should anyone else for that matter.

The thing is, Amy Winehouse was more than just some celebrity with a drinking and drug problem who regularly made the tabloids.  She was a human being.  She was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s friend.  She represents the loved one in your life or the acquaintance that is struggling with the disease of addiction.  She represents the person you get so angry with because you love them so much and can see them destroying themselves, but there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, because they have to want to be helped.  No amount of pleading, wishing, praying, and crying will change that fact. 

One thing that really got me was I had just been listening to Amy’s debut album Frank on the Friday afternoon before she died, listening to her belt out Take the Box, shaking my head at how bloody talented she was as her voice flooded my ears, and hoping she would be able to get her life together and put out more music. 

And now that will never happen.  That is a tragedy in and of itself, but the real tragedy is that her family and friends will never see her again.  They, and the millions of fans of her music around the world, can only hope that her death will act as a wake-up call to others who are struggling with the disease of addiction, and compel them to get the help they so desperately need before it’s too late.  As her friend Russell Brand pointed out in his poignant tribute to Amy, “When you love someone who suffers from the disease of addiction, you await the phone call.  There will be a phone call.  The sincere hope is that the call will be from the addict themselves, telling you they’ve had enough, that they’re ready to stop, ready to try something new.  Of course though, you fear the other call, the sad nocturnal chime from a friend or relative telling you it’s too late, she’s gone.  Frustratingly, it’s not a call you can ever make; it must be received.  It is impossible to intervene.”

The name of this column is Chuffed to Bits, which is an English expression for being delighted or excited about something.  I write about all things English that delight or excite me.  The musical legacy that Amy Winehouse left behind will always have me chuffed to bits.  I will never forget the way her music has touched my life, and how it has inspired me.  I hope her life’s work serves to inspire artists and fans of music in the generations to come, and my heart goes out to her family and friends, grappling with the loss of their loved one.  Rest in peace, Amy.

Chuffed to Bits: Thoughts on Amy Winehouse is a post from: Anglotopia.net

I’m the first person to admit that I’m late to the party when it comes to The Tudors.  I’m an HBO kind of gal, and don’t have Showtime (which is the cable network that originally aired it here in the States, prior to BBC America showing edited reruns).  But I’ve been hearing about this show for years from friends who absolutely loved it, and were completely addicted.  And if I’m honest, the show already contained three elements that sold me on it right from the jump: 

1. Jonathan Rhys Meyers.  I’ve adored him since first seeing him as the footie coach in Bend It Like Beckham, then his portrayal of Elvis in a television miniseries (for which he won a Golden Globe), and also his role as a young musician in August Rush.  He’s incredibly easy on the eyes, he’s a hell of an actor, and he sings, too.  The thought of seeing him as King Henry VIII intrigued me.
2. Henry Cavill.  This man is so handsome, it hurts to even look at him.  He was Stephenie Meyer’s first choice to play my beloved Edward Cullen in the film adaptation of the Twilight saga (although, those who know me are well aware that I have a very strong, erm, admiration for Robert Pattinson).  Henry was wonderful in I Capture the Castle and Tristan + Isolde, and his role as Charles Brandon, 1st Duke of Suffolk on The Tudors is no exception.  A dear friend of mine and fan of the show says of Cavill, “He’s my TV husband.”  Superman never looked so good.
3. It’s a sexy, English history lesson.  This show goes well beyond the Herman’s Hermits song, I’m Henry VIII, I Am, which is forever embedded in my brain—courtesy of my parents’ fondness for oldies radio—and beyond what I learned about the Tudor Dynasty in school.  Whilst it’s not 100% factually accurate, it’s pretty damn close.  Of course, it’s also dramatised and sexed up for the telly viewing masses.  And I’m totally okay with that (see elements #1 and #2).

So there I stood at my local Target, the box set in my hands.  I did what I often do when I’m debating a retail purchase; I placed it in my trolley and continued on with my shopping, arguing interally with myself about whether or not to buy it.  With a trip to the UK just mere weeks away (and the thought of all the cheesy Royal Wedding memorabilia I would undoubtedly want to acquire upon my arrival), I ultimately decided against it.  I sighed wistfully as I put the box back on the shelf and walked myself to the register, with only my travel-size toiletries in tow.

But the universe has a funny way of working things out.  Upon returning from my trip, I spotted a notification about a deal of the day from Amazon.com: the very same box set I’d been lusting after just weeks prior was now on sale at 60% off the original price.  After a squeal of joy, a few clicks of the mouse, a self-administered pat on the back for demonstrating patience, and a handful of days for shipping and handling, I was finally the proud owner of all four seasons of The Tudors.  Huzzah!

The rest of my telly viewing habits have suffered ever since.  I’ve had a few marathons, finishing entire DVDs in one sitting, and enjoying every scandalous, juicy, lascivious moment.  Well, with the exception of the beheadings and the stake burnings.  Yuck.

As I write this, I’m up to Season Three.  I’m really impressed with the box set bonus features as well (Yes, I’m a nerd and watch that sort of stuff).  And as much as I want to finish it up so I have a sense of closure, I’m savouring every remaining episode, because part of me doesn’t want it to end.

I have another trip to England in the works for later this year, and my inner history buff is very keen to visit some of the locales that were included in the show.  Hampton Court Palace, Hever Castle & Gardens, and the Tower of London are on my agenda.  Now if only a Henry Cavill/Jonathan Rhys Meyers sighting could also be arranged…

Chuffed to Bits: Discovering “The Tudors” is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Several months ago I took a sabbatical from blogging, mostly because I found I was well settled and there were very few things that were new to me anymore. Well all that changed in mid-May when I found out I was pregnant with my first child. I’m 13 weeks pregnant today, and already have been thrust head first into the thick of the NHS.

I should preface this series of posts by pointing out one thing, each woman’s experience will vary quite a bit depending on which NHS Trust is treating them through their pregnancy and what facilities and services are available in their area. While one of the big advantages of the NHS is that a lot of the advice and care is similar, my experience could be very different than a woman living in a different NHS Trust.

I’ll start at the beginning, after taking a pregnancy test (okay, three) I rang my GP, and they referred me directly to the midwife service. Here in the UK, most antenatal care is given by midwives. For women who have no risk factors or need for any extra consultations, they may never even meet an obstetrician. This is probably the single biggest difference between antenatal care in the UK and the US. After the brief call to my GP, I called the midwife service and booked a date for an “early bird” appointment the following week.

My “Early Bird” Appointment

When I was only 5 weeks pregnant I had my “early bird” appointment. Depending on where you live in the UK, your appointments with your midwife could be at a Children’s Centre, in the antenatal unit of a local hospital, or wherever your local midwife service might be located. In my case, my appointment was at a Children’s Centre which is such a different vibe than a doctors office. I quite like it, instead of going in and sitting on an examination table, my appointments with my midwife are in a very comfy and laid back setting. This first appointment was just a 20 minute intro where I was given lots of stuff to read and the main purpose of this visit was to meet my midwife and also for her to explain to me about the Down’s Syndrome screening test, identify the section of the information packet I needed to read and to prepare me for my “booking appointment” where I would need to make decisions about what tests I wanted.

One thing that is paramount in NHS antenatal care is choice. Women are encouraged to make informed decisions and must consent before pretty much anything is done. The early bird appointment is just to make sure the mother has enough time to consider all the information and make informed decisions at the booking appointment when the tests must be ordered and scheduled. Not a single scan will be taken or vial of blood drawn without the mother being completely aware of why and giving consent.

Another thing I was given at this appointment was the NHS packet on pregnancy. This booklet was extremely informative. It would be a great tool for a woman who maybe can’t afford to go out and buy a bunch of baby books, this packet has all the information needed from a week by week guide of pregnancy, to information on different options for birth plans, and explanations about each appointment and what to expect. It is incredibly well written and illustrated and I found it great to have early in my pregnancy before investing in my own baby books, and I still refer to it as a resource along with other books I’ve purchased.

The other thing that is included in the packet is the NHS list of what woman should and should not eat during pregnancy. I found this especially helpful because there is just one list, and every pregnant woman in the UK will get this same list. I have heard so many of my American friends going around and around about the list from their OB, and I’m glad it isn’t something I have to worry about. Every OB seems to have their own recommended list of foods to avoid, and it can be very confusing for a woman. They often are left thinking “Well, my friend can eat this, why can’t I?” or else the even more worrying question “My friend has been advised by her OB to avoid this, should I be eating it even though my OB says its fine?” I don’t envy women who are left with these types of contradictions and its nice that the NHS makes this simple for women and its quite black and white.

My Booking Appointment

My booking appointment took place when I was 8 week pregnant, again with my midwife at the Children’s Centre. At my booking appointment (the name comes from a time when women had to literally book their bed in the hospital to give birth) my midwife took a full medical history of myself and my husband and asked all the relevant questions. All of this information was entered into my handheld notes. This is a binder that I will carry with me to every appointment from now until well after the baby is born, so instead of the midwife and hospital staff passing around information, I carry around one folder and they all fill in the information at each appointment to build my file. It is definitely a new concept to me, but I like that I’m in control and not reliant on the various people who I will see to communicate with each other.

After this she took blood samples (again explaining to me what each vial of blood was testing for and asking me to sign off on the tests before taking the blood) and after about an hour of questions and tests and generally getting to know me and my husband, my booking appointment was complete and I was left to await a letter in the mail confirming when I would have my first ultrasound scan.

The Twelve Week Scan

After what seemed like the longest four weeks, my husband and I finally showed up for the twelve week ultrasound scan last week. It was one of the most amazing experiences of our lives. The ultrasound scan took place in the women’s wing of my local hospital, I brought my handheld notes with me for the ultrasound techs and midwife assistants to fill in all the necessary measurements and sign off on tests that were run after I had blood drawn. We were also given the expected due date of January 25, 2012! And of course, we got to take home the first photo of our little one.

After about three months now in the NHS antenatal care system, I’m left with a few conclusions. First of all, the approach to antenatal care is a very natural one. For women who need extra care it is there, but for women who have low-risk fairly typical pregnancies, care consists mostly of regular appointments with a midwife and very little time spent in a hospital or doctor’s office.

Also, pregnant women are very well taken care of through both the NHS and other government agencies. During pregnancy and for a year after the baby is born pregnant women receive free prescriptions and NHS dental care. Also, policies regarding pregnant women in work are excellent and go to great lengths to protect women and their jobs, and maternity leave is also excellent, something I’ll touch on more in later posts.

I’m really looking forward to sharing my experiences with you over the coming months!

Dispatches from the North: Pregnancy in Britain- The First Trimester is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Once again, this is being posted after the East Coast premiere of the second episode “Torchwood: Miracle Day” and talks about the plotline of the episode. If you haven’t seen the episode yet, it’s recommended that you do so before reading this post. If you are in the UK, you won’t see it until next Thursday and yes, it’s unfair. Please come back, read and comment afterwards.

Compared to the shocking turn of events in the first episode, which dealt more with the worldwide realization of the “miracle”, the second episode of this series was definitely more minimal. Much of the action took place aboard a plane bound to Washington, D.C. from Heathrow, where Jack and Gwen (no Rhys?!? Is this the end of him for this series? NO!) were being forcibly taken to the US by Rex to help the CIA uncover the reason that no one’s dying. Or at least that’s what Rex intends.

Accompanying Rex was a female CIA agent who might as well have been wearing a huge sign around her neck saying, “I’m up to no good” when she entered the action. She was in communication with Rex’s boss at the CIA, played by Wayne Knight, and let me add my name to the chorus of commentators who say that yes, it’s hard to take Newman from “Seinfeld” as seriously as I should’ve here. However, he possesses the first clue of something that looks like a link to a greater conspiracy or alien link – a device that looked like a cell phone with a 3-D triangle screensaver-looking thing that told him to “remove” Jack, an order relayed to the other CIA agent.

And that’s where that flight across the Atlantic got interesting. It’s a little strange – presumably the CIA “baddies” know all about Jack’s history from the files that were deleted, including his immortality, and Rex presumably had a few minutes between the end of last week’s ep – where he showed Gwen that he’s not healing and is now mortal – and getting on the plane to fill them in on what he’d found out. But Rex didn’t seem to comprehend that Jack was dying himself after the other agent poisoned him, so it’s safe to assume that he did not and whomever is behind this conspiracy/alien action already knew that Jack could be killed. So could killing Jack Harkness, the man who couldn’t be killed, be part of the motive behind the “miracle”? Something to ponder.

All of this lead to a whole bunch of “Con Air”-type action – Gwen figuring out Jack was poisoned, that the other CIA agent was behind it and that lead to the finding of arsenic in her purse. Which subsequently lead to Gwen, Rex, the “I’m not gay!” flight attendant and the rest of the flight crew managing to cobble together formaldehyde with assistance by phone by Dr. Juarez, who is rapidly becoming my favorite new character in a Dana-Scullyish way. Jack is saved, the baddie CIA agent continues to try to take him out despite a right ass-kicking by Gwen, and finally after Rex figures out something is afoot, he attempts to knock her out of the picture entirely. Which leads to one of the creepiest single scenes ever at the end of the episode. Just in case anyone’s reading this who hasn’t seen it, I’m not even going to describe it here because you’ve gotta just SEE it. Ick.

Beyond all the “Human Snakes On A Plane” action, there was Oswald, creepy as ever, making his first TV appearance on a show that I couldn’t decide if it was a ripoff of Nancy Grace or Piers Morgan, and inexplicably making the viewers instantaneously forgive him for child rape and murder by crying on television. He then meets Jilly, the PR flack with an agenda, who tries to talk him into hiring her to manage his career. To his credit, he immediately seems to catch on that she’s up to no good.

Jilly then randomly shows up at a conference that Dr. Juarez attends about how to handle the growing medical crisis caused by the “miracle”, where Juarez has just made the point that the priorities have changed from “saving” people to managing the pain and misery caused by their inability to die. Jilly clues her into some stockpile of medication that had been established by the government and is not being utilized in the crisis, and then tries to talk her into employing her. Clearly, once again, she should be wearing that “up to no good” sign.

The episode ends with the aforementioned creepy scene, as Rex and the Torchwood crew were rescued by Esther in her Mini – “I thought Americans all had SUV’s,” Gwen hilariously moaned – and she then utters the words all us longtime fans wanted to hear, “Welcome to Torchwood.” Because, really, this is where the Torchwood action we know and love should really start kicking in, at least in the way it did in “Children of Earth”, where the crew spent the whole series on the run and hacking into the system to find out the real answers.

It will now basically turn into their own version of “The Amazing Race”, and that’s how it should be. I just kinda hope that we something resembling an alien soon, because if Newman and the president from “Independence Day” are supposed to be the scary ones, then things are going to get boring fast.

Talking Telly: ‘Torchwood: Miracle Day’ Episode 2 – WITH SPOILERS is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Note: I am writing and posting this after the first airing of “Torchwood: Miracle Day” on Starz on the East Coast. If you haven’t seen it yet, this post contains spoilers. If you’re in the UK, you have a week to wait and it sucks, I know. Please come back and read this after it airs there.

I expect that the experience of seeing this new series of Torchwood is completely different for two distinct groups – those of us who have been longtime fans of the BBC version and those who are just getting into it for the first time since Starz signed on and has done a promotional blitz here in the US. I wonder what the newbie reaction must be, because on the surface and judged only by this first episode, it can’t seem that different from your average cable thriller. Lots of guns and explosions, quite a bit of grossness, but no aliens yet. And the absence of that last thing was the main thing that gave me, the longtime Torchwood fanatic, a bit of a pang.

But on the other hand, even though it took about 20 minutes to see them, it’s so good to see Jack and Gwen back and kicking arse in the Torchwood way of old. And Rhys and Andy! For the most part they really are the characters we knew back in the olden days, with Gwen getting restless and Jack being secretive and protective, and Rhys really not happy with the lot of it. It was interesting to see the parallels between Jack and Esther, the young CIA agent, to how he treated Gwen in the very first Torchwood episode. Even down to the retconning!

That leads to the new characters. Rex is complex and not a hero in the least, and it looks like he and Jack are going to really hate each other. Which is nice. I actually might like Arlene Tur’s character, the doctor (bodes badly that I never caught her name) the best, because she has nice chemistry with both Rex and Jack. Oswald….boy, the week after the Casey Anthony verdict was probably not the best time to meet him, was it? Instantly blood-curdling, and they didn’t back off on the child-molesting and killing part of his character. No redeeming qualities whatsover. So it’s going to be interesting to see how he apparently becomes this huge cult-like leader for this newly weird world.

And weird it is. No one’s dying, the Somalians aren’t killing each other, the guy who had rods rip through his heart is taking the world’s fastest plane ride from the US to the UK while popping Vicodin and mopping up the blood from his chest, and Jack is injured. Strangely, the last part was the least shocking to me – it only makes sense that if the rest of the world becomes immortal, the immortal man would become fragile – but it freaked out Twitter. I guess we now have to add Jack to the list of potential RTD-kills-them-all victims.

In all, I am pretty satisfied with what they did to Torchwood. It was a very slow episode because I didn’t need the 40 minutes of “What is Torchwood?” explanation before the 10 minutes of real action before it ended 10 8 minutes earlier than expected (grrrrrrrrr.) So I sincerely hope that next week has a lot more action, some actual evidence of alien involvement and a few less explosions. But the characters are the same, there’s already decent references to previous series (Gwen’s parents!) and the newbies don’t suck. Plus next week is the debut of Oswald’s PR flack, Jilly, whom I hear is possibly the best character of the whole show. So, to steal a phrase from another science-fiction show that sadly didn’t age as well as Torchwood seems to be, I want to believe.

Talking Telly: Week 1 of “Torchwood: Miracle Day” – MANY SPOILERS is a post from: Anglotopia.net

I missed pantomime season around Christmas, but I did manage to squeeze in one panto during my year in England, even if it was a little less traditional.  Directed by theatre master Teo, a group of Camphill residents and coworkers had been working hard on Robin Hood since January.  Six months may seem like a long practice time, but not when you consider that with only one day a week or practice, the residents themselves had a hand in creating the script, choosing the costumes, and picking the songs (including YMCA performed by the Merry Men).  All that commitment culminated in two nights only at our Chrysalis Theatre.

The base of the play was the traditional Robin Hood panto, but from the start, there were distinctive Camphill twists.  Residents dressed as bakers offered bread and jam from our bakery and food processing, a few in overalls called out, “WE WORK IN TOOLS!  DOES ANYONE NEED ANY KNIVES SHARPENED?”  And when Maid Marian needed a token for her beloved to keep near his heart, she offered a beetroot from the Camphill garden.  Jokes about Camphill community life made the play all the more hilarious to those of us who live here.  When Robin Hood proclaimed (in thick Brazillian accent) that the organic beetroot had saved his life, I nearly fell out of my seat with laughter!

Musical support for the play came from the always entertaining Bolivian Sunshine Dogs Band.  There were no dogs nor Bolivians in the band, but they did come in fancy dress and play a saw and spoons.  The live band really added a lot to the performance and provided bits of their own humor from the sidelines.

What panto would be complete without a man in drag?  Luke, a tall English coworker in frills and colorful beehive was Robin Hood’s mother, Mother Hood (groan!).  He led the “boys and girls” in our cheers and boos, and tricked the Sheriff of Nottingham into marriage.  More than once, he had to be reminded of his lines by a resident!  The resident who played the Sheriff had clearly seen many pantomimes in his life, and I could tell by the way he struggled to keep a straight face that he really enjoyed being the baddy. Residents in the audience also enjoyed booing him without being told off!

While my first British pantomime might not have been flawless, I found it charming and representative of the creative things that our residents can do.

Dispatches from Milton Keynes: My first pantomime…Camphill style! is a post from: Anglotopia.net

We’ve been working hard behind the scenes, prepping this super secret project.

Anglotopia has worked with TheTelly.net for a few years now and they approached us about launching a dedicated British TV Blog – they would own it and we would run it for them.

We jumped at the opportunity!

We’ve covered British TV pretty heavily here on Anglotopia – and we will continue to – but there’s been a lot we haven’t covered so we didn’t overload the site with just Brit TV stuff.

So, now we have a place to talk totally about everything British TV.

We’re pretty excited about it and we hope you like it.

Check out TheTellygraph here.

New Site: British TV Blog – The Tellygraph – The Website for People Who Love British TV is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Coming up to the 4^th of July now, one of the two holidays that never fails to make me nostalgic for the States (the other is Thanksgiving).  I supposed that’s because, unlike a lot of the other holidays, rather than being celebrated, but in a different fashion, they are totally ignored: no parade, no Independence Day barbecues, no pool parties in 90 degree heat and, most noticeable of all, no fireworks.

There is nothing like sitting on 15^th green of the local golf course with 437 of your closest friends, stuffed with hotdogs and potato salad and feeling the glow of a soon-to-be-major sunburn, and watching the fireworks light up the sky across the Hudson river.  Or, if you choose to brave the crowds of downtown Albany, you can watch the show exploding and booming directly over your head while “Proud t o be an American” blares over the loud speakers, and there is nothing like that, either.

Of course, in Britain there is, quite literally, nothing like that.

So thoughts of home are in the forefront of my mind these days, but this year the weather co-operated by giving me a tiny taste of a real Upstate New York summer in the form of a two-day heat wave and a thunder storm.

Summer, in Britain, usually consists of about three hot days.  We just had two so we’re looking forward to an early autumn.  The heat wave came at the end of a protracted period of rainy, cool weather, so we were all ready for it, expecting it and looking forward to it.  The Met Office promised it for this past weekend, and when my wife and I went shopping last Friday, the store was noticeably crowded with shopper buying a remarkable amount of groceries.  I can’t be sure whether this was to stock up on backyard-party fare, or to get the shopping out of the way before it was too hot to be arsed, or a mad dash to buy anything before the abnormal heat brought the British Empire to its knees (again), but whatever the reason (my money is on option number 3) they were all there and a sense of anticipate hung in the air.

Saturday, however, dawned disappointingly cloudy and drizzly and did not improve much until the evening.  Then Sunday made up for it with full-fledge, hot, humid, stifling summer weather which lasted through the night and into Monday (just to give the people a who had complained to their families all day Sunday about how hot is was a chance to complain to their work-mates, as well).  Then, at 4 o’clock Monday afternoon, summer ended with a five-minute (but, admittedly respectable) thunder storm.

Still, it did me good; the stifling heat hung around just long enough to remind me why I like the summers in Sussex, and the booms, cracks and lashing rain were reminiscent (however briefly)of the thrills and excitement of an actual thunderstorm.  An hour later, as I walked to the bus, the air was cool and thick with the scent of recent rain.  It felt good; it felt like New York.

Then I arrived home.  The news was on.  The top story was about “the storm.”  They reported on the storm’s path, showed where lightening had struck, displayed photos people had sent in and cut to on-location cameras for eyewitness interviews.  In all, they devoted ten minutes of air time to a storm that had lasted half that long.  Admittedly, they do cover storms in New York, but they have to be something special, although, given the rarity of thunder storms here, I supposed that was something special.  It was, however, not like New York.

So summer is behind us, the temperatures are back in the more seasonal seventies and Monday is the 4^th of July.  Experience tells me it will be much like any other day and will likely pass by without any notice.  It would be nice to see some fireworks, but I think those five stormy minutes of yesterday afternoon brought all the flashes and bangs I am going to see for some time.

Enjoy the 4^th of July, where ever you are; and if you are an American, enjoy your Independence Day celebrations.

The paperback version of my book, More Postcards From Across the Pond—dispatches from an accidental expat, is being released on the 4^th of July (how patriotic of me).

Find it on:

Amazon.com

Amazon UK

Smashwords

Dispatches From the South – Not Like New York is a post from: Anglotopia.net

I might have titled this post “2012 Olympics-Bound” or something similar, but I didn’t want to be sued.  Seems the UK Olympic committee has copyrighted the term “2012 Olympics” (darn, now I owe them another fiver). (Editor’s Note: I’m not afraid to use 2012 Olympics)

(Side Note: As I write this, it is 407 days until the, um, Big Event in London.  If you want to know how far away it is now, check the countdown clock:  http://www.theolympicgamescountdown.com/.  And have a look at the text beneath the counters.)

This came to my attention some time ago in an article about a guy who wrote a book with the words “2012 Olympics” (oops, ka-ching) in the title (“The Incredible Lightness of Being at the 2012 Olympics,” “Winnie the Pooh and The 2012 Olympics,”  or “Debbie Does the 2012 Olympics” or some such thing) and the resulting lawsuit by the UK Olympic Committee.  The results were predictable: he sold a lot of books, and the UK Olympic Committee looked like a bunch of muppets, especially when it came to light they had also tried to copyright the words “Olympic” and “2012” as well.  (I would put the link to the article here but I read it in an actual magazine, you know, those things made out of paper that you can fold up and stuff in your briefcase or leave on the train so you don’t have it handy when you finally get around to writing about something you read in it.)

It’s a good job they failed in their attempt to copyright the individual parts.  Imagine having to go all next year writing 2012© on your checks (sorry, cheques), or having to pony up a royalty every time you needed to describe something of Olympic proportions; it’s bad enough we can’t use “2012 Olympics” without committing a copyright infringement (dear UK Olympic Committee, Want my money? Call my lawyer!).  I suppose we might have found a way around it: referring to “2012” as “not quite 2013” and “Olympic” as “really big, you know,” with a sly wink to let the other person know what you really mean.

But exclusive rights and violations thereof aside, I’m looking forward to The Games.  Over the years, the bar has been raised higher and higher, to the point where an average country like, say, Greece, for instance, would go bankrupt holding The Games.  To raise the spectacle to new levels would require a country that is unconcerned about spending vast sums of money it doesn’t have just to impress its neighbors and is in possession of a huge reserve of people willing to work for next to nothing.  But, alas, the US has hosted The Games recently so they let the UK take a shot at it.  (And, truth be told, we didn’t really want it, we just wanted to beat the French.)  So it is up to Britain to host the games in such a manner that the next country won’t have to try so hard to go one better.

I believe we are up to the task.

So when you’re watching the outdoor athletic events finals at three in the morning (while I’m watching at a more civilized time) and you notice that the landing pit for the broad jump looks an awful lot like a sandbox, and there appears to be a swing set and a jungle gym in the background, and you realize they are holding the event in the playground of the Upper Beeding Primary School, just remember, the next country to get the games could be yours.

Preparing for the 100 metre Hop-Scotch relay

Sadly, I have not been fortunate enough to be sued by the UK Olympic committee (yet), so I have to flog my book the old fashion way:

More Postcards From Across the Pond on Amazon.com: http://tinyurl.com/6gzfez7

More Postcards From Across the Pond on Amazon UK: http://tinyurl.com/63kq4u5

Dispatches from the South: London 2012 Olympic Dreams is a post from: Anglotopia.net

My lovely, new tea cup. A girl can dream, right?

Tea is a beverage I’ve enjoyed for much of my life.  I grew up adoring the sun tea that my mother would make, poured over ice on a hot, summer’s day.  As an adult, discovering tea lattes was something of a treat as well.  Side note: Did you know that an Earl Grey Tea Latte, also known as a London Fog Latte at Starbucks in the States, is called a Smoggy Foggy if you order it at a Starbucks in The Big Smoke?  The funny things you discover whilst abroad…

I also drink green tea, in the hopes of taking advantage of its health benefits.  Hurray for antioxidants and flavonoids!  In addition, I used to sing with a women’s a cappella group, and I often used Throat Coat tea to soothe my voice before performances.  I’m also a big fan of the flavoured iced teas at some of my favourite restaurants.

When I visited London last October, some friends took me to The Tea Box, a modern tearoom in Richmond, on a Sunday afternoon.  It was not unlike the modern tea establishments I’ve been to in America (the musician Moby’s teany in NYC is one that comes to mind), with a vast selection of loose leaf teas and delicious baked goods to nosh on. During that trip, I found out that not all English people enjoy and drink tea, which, while being a silly notion to have had in the first place, did come as a bit of a surprise to me.  I’d liken it to believing that all Americans drink Coca-Cola, which, of course, we do not.

When I visited London this past April, my travelling companions and I discovered a wonderful tea haven: The Tea Palace in Covent Garden.  We quickly became smitten with their fabulous Madagascan Vanilla loose leaf tea (it smells divine!), and we purchased some to bring home with us.

I dig tea.  A lot.  And there is a point to all this tea talk.

I recently visited an English tearoom, but it wasn’t in England.  Actually, it wasn’t anywhere near the UK.  It was here in my own backyard.  The English Rose Tea Room in Carefree, Arizona is situated in the heart of the desert, and is owned and operated by Jo Gemmill, herself a transplanted English Rose.  Her lovely establishment was my Anglophile dream come true from the moment I approached the entrance and saw the life-size, cardboard versions of William and Kate welcoming me.  It’s also worth noting that this visit took place during the weekend following the Royal Wedding, so I was even more chuffed than usual to be amongst such things.

A good friend of mine accompanied me (it was her idea, actually), and we even dressed up for the occasion. We were delighted to discover that the tearoom had a selection of hats for us to choose from, and this added even more charm and humour to the experience.  It was a tea party for grown-ups, and I loved every minute of it.

We enjoyed a delicious lunch served atop fine English bone china, and of course, a pot of tea accompanied by some tasty scones with jam and clotted Devonshire cream.  But my favourite part of the afternoon was after we finished our lunch, and did some shopping in the adjacent tearoom boutique.  The English Rose has an incredible selection of tea accessories and memorabilia from the UK, and I did a bit of retail damage with my credit card.  I am now the proud owner of proper tea accessories, so I can attempt to replicate the experience at home.  However, my scone baking skills still need some work.

With my next trip to London slated for October of this year, I reckon I need to take my tea appreciation to a whole new level.  Afternoon tea at the Ritz, perhaps?  I’d better remember to pack a posh dress and hat.

Where is your favourite place to take tea?

Chuffed to Bits: A Spot of Tea – An Ode to a Lovely Drink is a post from: Anglotopia.net

This week, I am reporting to you from the south of Scotland, the very south of Scotland.

At the tip of the Mull of Galloway is the Gallie Craig Rock, reputed to be the most southerly point in Scotland. We were staying n Kurkcudbright, which was only 60 miles away, so we couldn’t resist going to see it.

The site, in addition to a big rock, also has an RSPB Nature Reserve, a working lighthouse (that allows visitors on weekends and Bank Holidays—which this happened to be) and a nice gift shop and café.

A True Scot

To get to the Gallie Craig rock, we followed the A716 down the Mull of Galloway toward Drummore. Even I couldn’t get lost; it is the only A road on the peninsula. This road ended at Drummore and turned into a series of what could accurately be called “paths” that led us closer—via a winding and scenic route—to our destination.

As luck would have it, we ended up following another vehicle, which was good because it sort of paved the way for us. We were behind it from Drummore all the way to the car park at Gallie Craig. The two people got out of their car, and we followed them up the path to the light house.

The Mull of Galloway Lighthouse is the main attraction, providing a small, informative museum, an invigorating walk up 114 steps and a 360-degree view which includes—on a clear day—the Isle of Man, the Lake District and Ireland. The lighthouse was built in 1828 by Robert Stevenson, a member of the family of engineers responsible for most of Scotland’s lighthouses, and used a kerosene lamp until electricity was installed in 1971.

Overall, a fascinating diversion to discover at the end of long drive. However, the man ahead of us, who had driven and walked all this way with his wife, when stopped at the gate and told it would be two pounds each to visit the lighthouse, replied:

“I’m na’ paying tha!’” and walked away.

You have to admire them, sticking to their principles like that. But this is what they missed; surely worth two quid, even if only for the exercise.

Signs of the Ancients

Not far from the lighthouse is an ancient chalk drawing, smaller than the ones I’ve seen in Sussex and throughout the south.

It’s a strange hieroglyph—a large H surrounded by a circle. It’s reputed to be a hunting symbol meant to bring good luck to prehistoric hunters. (Hunting was important to the ancient inhabitants of the Mull because—living on a thin peninsula—they were getting really, really sick of fish.)

Dispatches From the South – South of Scotland, that is is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Enjoy England — the agency in Britain responsible for promoting England to tourists — has released one of the best British Travel iPhone apps we’ve seen to date (and we’ve seen them all).

The app features thousands of things to see and do, where to do them, how to get there, and much more.

It has a locate feature so that the phone will locate you and show you things to see and do right around you. Perfect for busy areas like London or other major U.K. cities.

There’s a helpful way to save favorite attractions so you can build a trip itinerary. I played around with the app quite a bit, and I love it. This will definitely come in handy on my future trips.

Best of all, it’s completely free.

Here’s a gallery of screenshots from the app:

Click here to download the app for free.

Enjoy England Releases Gorgeous and Useful iPhone App is a post from: Anglotopia.net

One of the major differences between living in Sussex and living in Clifton Park is that, while I was living in New York, I rarely ever left my apartment and walked into town to find it teeming with men and women dressed in all manner of strange get-up, festooned in jingle bells and prancing about whacking at each other with big sticks. In fact, I don’t recall that happening at all. Here, it’s just another day.

Or, to be precise, the Day of Dance, a yearly festival my town hosts that brings out the Morris Men (and women), cloggers and the occasional Scottish Sword dancer.

Getting ready to whack at each other with sticks

Morris is the traditional English folk dance. Where it came from, no one knows but, depending on who you choose to believe, it is either a modern (by British standards) affectation or a mysterious ritual passed on from the misty depths of time.

Women can be Morris Men, but an All-Woman Morris troupes are called Magogs

Whatever. It’s a hoot. And a fun day out.

And how can you not admire a dance that includes drinking in the choreography?

The all-important drinking step.

Morris Dancing is changing a bit, to make it more appealing to the younger generation. Here we have Morris Goths...

... and here, some Morris Punk.

Dispatches from the South: Dances With Ales – Morris Dancing is a post from: Anglotopia.net

What’s the use of having a column if you can’t use it to your advantage once in a while. I don’t have much to say these days because I’ve been busy working on another book. Just for you (yes, you).

This book covers the second half of my first decade in Blighty. If you liked the first book (Postcards From Across the Pond) you’ll love this one.

(What, you haven’t read the first one yet? Well now is your chance.)

More Postcards From Across the Pond is available on:
Amazon Kindle US Amazon Kindle UK
And
Smashwords

If you are a troglodyte like me and have not yet bought a Kindle, you’ll have to wait for the book. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you when it comes out.

Sorry to use this column for shameless, self-serving promotion but I didn’t have much else on offer anyway and you probably would have ended up hearing about my breakfast or something.

I’ll try to have something exciting happen to me over the next fortnight.

In the meantime, you know what to do.

Dispatches from the South – The Latest Expat Must-Have – New Expat Book is a post from: Anglotopia.net

It has been no ordinary week. The wedding, as you are well aware, went off with nary a hitch and I was able to sit and watch it in the comfort of my own sitting room (drinking tea out of our commemorative Kate and Wills tea mug) while Jonathan braved jet-lag (as well as a crowd of more than a million revelers) not 30 north of where I was.

As predicted, the Brits rose to the occasion admirably, and I managed to annoy a few republicans by stringing bunting around my desk at work, and then on my balcony on The Day. This earned me just a bit of disapproval (just a bit) for being too American, or not British enough, or too much of a Royalist—I’m still not sure which.

But the glow had barely dimmed before The Other Big News hit (well done, America, for holding off until after the wedding weekend—what a downer that would have turned out to be). That, too, was a big day, especially if you were an American; I basked in the collective victory along with my fellow countrymen but with a bit (just a bit) of caution, reminding myself and others that this really doesn’t bring anything to a close.

For this, or perhaps something else, I was labelled an “American Basher” by an old and dear friend. This, of course, gave me pause: you can do many things to an American, but you do not question their patriotism.

We’re heading into a new week now, and one has to hope that it is not so eventful and filled with passions. As the Tweeters have been observing, “The girl married the handsome prince, the dragon has been slain, it’s all very Disney.” To add to that, we’ve also had unbelievably stunning weather to accompany all of this. So I am ready for some uneventful days, a return to the drip, drip, drip of real life, and rain.

Have I really been in Britain so long that I have forgotten what it is like to be an American? And am I so brashly American, despite my longevity here, that I can never hope to fit in? That’s a sobering prospect, to be a man with a foot in two countries—and passports to both—but to belong to neither.

Don’t get the idea that I am planning to throw myself off of Beachy Head over this, it’s just something the flurry and fervor of this past week have brought to mind, and I welcome a bit of time to digest it.

I see the previously blue sky is clouded over this morning. I really hope it rains.

Dispatches from the South: A Week of Contrasts is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Instead of a passion play for Easter, Camphill Community presented, in parts by various households, a story called “The Fourth Wise Man.” The story, written only 100 years ago, tells the tale of Artaban, a cohort of the Magi of Christmas fame, who was supposed to join the others on their journey to find the newborn Christ Child. As each household performed part of the story, different actors played Artaban, but the costume stayed the same, while others pulled together what they could from the costume room in our theatre. At the part of the story when Artaban was a young man, he was played by my young coworker from Germany. At the end of the story, just before he dies, the oldest resident in the community played the part.

As Artaban attempts to find the Christ Child and his friends, he gets distracted by people who need his help. He misses his rendezvous with the Magi because he stopped to give healing herbs to a sick man. He saves a baby from the Slaughter of the Innocents by paying off a Roman soldier with a gift that would have been for Jesus. As an old man, Artaban goes to Jerusalem one last time, just in time for the crucifixion. He hopes he can save Jesus, but he gives his last pearl to save a young woman from slavery (played by myself), and the sky goes dark. In the earthquake that follows, Artaban is fatally injured, but as he dies, a voice tells him that his service to the needy was the greatest gift he could have given in his lifelong search for the King of Kings.

The Artaban skits are often comical. A house coordinator narrates while co-workers and residents act out the scenes. When certain residents who have naturally loud voices cheerfully play angry villagers, the audience laughs out loud. But despite the lighthearted attitude about the plays and their lack of perfection, the residents tend to take holidays and celebrations pretty seriously. Easter, like Christmas, is a source of consistency in the residents’ lives, a way for the people who can’t tell time to know how the year is passing.

After Good Friday (a public holiday in England), my house decorated Easter eggs. It was the first time I had done egg-blowing. I decorated mine with graffiti, and my house coordinator showed me eggs from past co-workers, especially intricate ones from Czech co-workers. On Easter morning, the community had breakfast together, with bread, cheese, and jam, in true Camphill style. Afterward, my household took a trip to where the Concrete Cows are planted and hunted chocolate eggs in a patch of forest. Below is a video with some scenes from my Easter in England

Scenes from a Soltane Easter

Dispatches from Milton Keynes: Easter at Camphill is a post from: Anglotopia.net

Photo by Amie Taylor

I recently returned from my third trip to London—my second trip there in the past 6 months. And even though I was only there for a few days this time, it was long enough to make my heart ache once again with a deep and serious yearning for the city and the country I love so dearly.

As I sat on the plane headed back to the U.S. with what has now become my usual, self-assembled, Leaving England Kit (consisting of a pocket pack of tissues for the ridiculous tears I always shed, a bag of McVitie’s Mini Milk Chocolate Digestives, copies of the latest issues of Time Out London and Glamour UK, and a Beatles playlist as well as an episode of Gavin & Stacey queued up on my iPod), I made a list of a few new things I learned during this go-round in Blighty. I thought I’d post them here for posterity, and perhaps for the reading enjoyment of someone, somewhere (Hi, Mom).

1. Proper girls drink half-pints. A friend of mine who lived in London for a few months last year for work actually mentioned this as something she’d learned during her time there. I filed it away somewhere in the recesses of my Anglophile mind, figuring I’d haul this little factoid out at some point and put it to good use. Well, on this trip I did. And let me tell you, the blokes in London definitely notice!
2. William and Kate’s faces can be put on just about anything, and I will want to buy it. The cheesier and campier the better, in my opinion. On this jaunt, I found paper dolls, tea towels, silver plated spoons, a bone china loving cup, a mini collector plate complete with display easel and keepsake booklet, and my personal favourite, a poster of them dressed as punk rockers. There is fantastic shopping to be had in England right now for any fan of the Royal Wedding.
3. I actually like mushy peas. Although I love most vegetables, I’ve just never been a fan of peas in general. Consequently, I’ve always steered clear of this traditional English dish. However, I sampled a forkful of these on this trip, and I have to say, I’m now a fan. I’ll definitely be ordering some up on my next trip across the Pond.
4. The London Eye is a must-do. On my last visit, I had an English friend acting as my tour guide. As we walked by the ridiculously long queue for the London Eye on a Saturday afternoon, he shook his head and exclaimed, “This is f*#*ing mental!” Needless to say, we didn’t ride it that day. But I did on this trip, and it was incredible. The views of the city it affords you are unparalleled. I went on a Monday afternoon, and I didn’t have to wait more than 15 minutes in line. I think the trick is not to go on the weekends. Highly recommended.
5. Few things in life are as delicious as a Ben’s Cookie. Actually, I learned this during my last trip in October, but it was further solidified on this trip. This English cookie chain seriously knows what they’re doing. Give me a Ben’s double chocolate and nut cookie fresh out of the oven … le sigh. One of these days, I’ll remember the location of another one of their stores beyond the one at Covent Garden, but for now, that’s my go-to spot when I’m in London. My work colleagues are so smitten with these little gems that I now take a plastic container that I purchased from Poundworld and fill it with cookies to bring back to them each time I visit the Big Smoke. One of my co-workers gets so chuffed about them, that his facial expression can only be described as what he might look like if he got married and witnessed the birth of his first child on the same day.
6. I will never take the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow ever again. I know this is what smart Londoners do to get to and from the airport; that’s precisely why I did it this last time. However, I nearly missed my plane, even though I left several hours in advance of my flight. There were severe delays on the line as it was on that particular day (it was a Tuesday). But to top it off, the train I was riding actually broke down and was put out of service, leaving us to wait almost 30 minutes for another one. By the time I got to Heathrow, got checked in and made my way through security (the woman checking me in recommended that I literally run to my gate), I had about 15 minutes left before my flight began boarding. To be honest, after that harrowing experience, it’s worth the extra money to me to take one of the express connections to Heathrow to guarantee I make it there in plenty of time.
7. You haven’t had Indian food until you’ve eaten at Veeraswamy. As the oldest Indian restaurant in the UK, Veeraswamy on Regent Street is absolutely fantastic, and the provider of one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten in my entire life. We were lucky enough to get a table without a reservation, but call ahead if you want to experience some serious deliciousness. I cannot recommend it enough. YUM!
8. I really, really, really, really want to move to England. This will happen one day. Not right now, and probably not in the next year, but one day. The logistics of how exactly this will happen, I haven’t a clue, but I do know this: I belong there. I feel it in my bones each and every time I visit. The people, the culture, the history, the ironic sense of humour, the pubs, the music, the accent which has become my kryptonite, the smell in the air when it rains… All of these things. I miss all of these things on a daily basis. I am a silly, sentimental, England nerd. And damn proud of it.

Until next time…

Chuffed to Bits: My Latest London Lessons Learned From a Recent Trip is a post from: Anglotopia.net

These are exciting times to be in Britain. In addition to the exhilaration that comes from living on the knife-edge of national bankruptcy, we have a Diamond Jubilee and the Olympic Games coming up. Oh, and a Royal Wedding.

This is a new thing for me (Charles and Camilla don’t count) so I am looking forward to it, and if my anticipation falls somewhat short of unbridled joy, it is at least a notch or two above “mild interest.” The country itself doesn’t seem to know how it feels about it; they know they should be excited, but with everything else going on and being so busy helping out with the Easter Pageant, there just isn’t the time to get excited.

They’ll come around, I’m sure of it. A lot of people are moaning of late about the Monarchy and how much it costs and thinking we’d be better off with a republic, but as the day draws nearer, I see more and more bunting going up and a little more heightened interest. They’re British, after all; and when their Queen or one of her close relatives does something interesting, their inner-royalist comes to the fore and they take an interest, whether they want to or not.

Despite our proximity to London and our readiness to go (well, mine, anyway; in our household, I’m the royalist while my wife—the natural-born Brit—is a republican) we have not yet received an invitation. I’m sure it just got lost in the post, but if we do have to stay home and watch it on the telly, at least we have the proper trappings, thanks to yet another exciting circumstance:

I’m calling it my Tin Jubilee—the celebration of my ten-year anniversary. It’s still nearly a year away but, like the Queen, I need time for a big build-up. It also means that I recently passed my lesser-significant nine-year anniversaries. The first of March, nine years ago, was the day I arrived in Britain to stay, and a few weeks after that I was married. We have, therefore, recently celebrated our nine-year wedding anniversary, which gave me more trouble than usual because the traditional gift is pottery.

What sort of romantic gift can you buy a woman that is based around a pottery theme? A flower pot? A new casserole dish? What I ended up buying was a new tea mug, but not just any mug, I got her (lucky woman), an official, commemorative, Royal Wedding mug.

We pondered what to do with it for a while; it was relatively expensive and obviously a collector’s item but my wife still didn’t feel she wanted to display it on the bookcase so she could see it every day and dust it once a fortnight. In the end, we put it in the cupboard with all the common mugs to allow the privileged class see what living in the work-a-day world is like.

But come The Day, we will make certain The Mug is put to use while we are watching the Royal Wedding.

Dispatches from the South: Tea with Kate and Wills is a post from: Anglotopia.net