I am writing this in the bathtub, because the tornado alarms are going off and the weather is a bit frightening. But I thought I should report that I got some stick for that last post, especially from Junior, who told me that if I thought English food was bad, I needed to go to the local supermarket here and look at what Americans eat. He’s right, of course, and my intention was not to condemn English food so much as to poke a little fun at what my Publix supermarket thinks English people eat. To be fair, they have stock control people who must be on top of what gets ordered, which means that someone in Nashville is buying Bird’s instant custard powder and Bisto Gravy Granules. I figure there are a lot of down-at-heel musicians around town from places like Newcastle and Dundee, who are too young or too busy or too broke to cook from scratch, but homesick for the Mother Country, nevertheless. God bless you, one and all. If you get in touch, I will make you the real thing and that’s a promise.
It was when my friend Roger got in touch though, that a chill went down my spine. He suggested that the customs officials at Heathrow might not let me back in on the grounds that I was undermining the Special Relationship. Hell, they can throw you into the Tower of London and chop off your head for lesser crimes. As I am heading back to London in a week, I am getting kind of worried about it. Besides, Roger is my trusty and reliable crew. I had better explain, and for those of you who have innocently wandered into this blog, well, brace yourselves.
I had a mid-life crisis about eight years ago and resigned from my academic career. Junior, who was 14 at the time, found a Dutch Barge for sale on the internet and so, in a fit of madness, I sold my house in London, cashed in my chips, and moved onto the river Thames.
Owning a boat is like having a love affair, except that the boat is always the woman. And I say this as a self-confessed communist feminist kind of person. I admit it, I have been having an eight-year long relationship with my barge, Calamity Jane. And she is quite a lady:
Like all great love affairs, it is hard to stay away. It is also the time of year to get painting and scrubbing, so now that Mother and Big Daddy are doing alright, and Junior and Miss Pearl are around to look after things, I am heading back across the pond for awhile. There will be alot to blog about — I will be reporting from the Royal Wedding, of course, but seeing as how I am the only southern woman with a cowgirl barge in England, it tends to get just as interesting over there as it does here in Nashville. Besides, they don’t get tornadoes in England, and I am kind of a weenie.
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