I want to get back to my Moving to England series, but have hit a bit of a block. I wrote a whole post about childbirth and then realised it was total crap. Back to the drawing board.
Things aren't as dire for Hubby as they could be, but there's still time for that. His job won't end till the end of March and maybe in April. That gives him a bit of breathing room for finding another job. We got through February, and nobody died. I keep telling myself that.
In the meantime I'm learning who my friends are and aren't. Remember the whole Edna, Mildred, Gladys soap opera? I was worried because I was going skiing with Mildred, a longstanding friend, and her friend, Gladys, who is mortal enemies with Edna, a friend of mine. Well, I got on fine with Mildred and Gladys on the holiday. When I returned I met up with Edna, who wanted to know how I got on with Gladys. I said fine, no problems. Well, Edna was very upset by this and burst into tears and said Gladys always does this and takes all her friends away. I said Gladys hadn't taken me away, and Edna said, "She did. You like her now." And, yes, it was as childish as it sounds. I tried to comfort her and reassure her, but in the back of my mind I was thinking, "I've just told you my husband is about to be out of a job, and this is what you do to me?"
I don't feel I was in any way disloyal to Edna. I did not discuss her with the other two. I was relieved to get on with the other two because it's an awfully expensive holiday to go on and have a bad time. I didn't hang out with them all the time. But Edna is trying to make me feel guilty. She emailed me later to "apologise" for her behaviour, but it didn't exactly sound like an apology.
I feel bad for Edna. I told her no one should have that much control over her emotions. And I can see myself a bit in her behaviour. Yes, I have felt upset enough with people to want to prevent others from being their friends. And I can see now that that is wrong. My mother did the same thing to a longstanding friend of hers. One time my grandmother was visiting my dad and my stepmother. My stepmother asked her if there was anyone she wanted to see, and she said yes, this friend of my mother's. My stepmother took her over there, and this friend, being a very generous person, entertained them both. My mother found out about it and cut the friend right out of her life. It's self-destructive behaviour, the kind my mother specializes in.
I wish I could help Edna come to terms with her anger and hurt. Sadly, I think she is the only one who can do that. Also, sadly, I think she will lose more friends -- perhaps even me -- before she will do that.
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
Friday, 29 February 2008
When It Rains.....
But Hubby found out yesterday that his job is going as of March. As one "friend" said, there are people more unfortunate out there. But my February has been one shithole of a month. Come on March!
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
Just a Quickie
Because I don't like to throw out all my concerns and then not follow them up, here's the latest on my mother.
THE BIOPSY WAS CLEAR!!!!!!
Hallelujah! One thing less to worry about!
THE BIOPSY WAS CLEAR!!!!!!
Hallelujah! One thing less to worry about!
Monday, 25 February 2008
Moving to England: Driving Lessons
You'd think I would have picked a better time to decide to drive on the wrong (actually it was the right) side of the road than during my British driving test. Up to that point, I'd been doing all right. Needless to say I failed.
I'd been having driving lessons for about three months with a short, mustachioed man named Barry. I have a thing about the name Barry. I once worked for a short, mustachioed managing editor named Barry. He wasn't a bad man, not on purpose. He was just ineffectual and ball-less. Anyway, driving instructor Barry and I had what you might call a failure to communicate. He thought I was a worse driver than I was and I thought I was a better driver than I was. He once told me our next lesson would be 10 to 11. I thought he meant 10 minutes to 11 so when he rang the doorbell at 10 I wasn't ready. He went off grumpily and came back later.
I'd been driving fine since a week after I'd moved here. HTB had shown me how to shift with my left rather than my right hand. I had to remind myself to look over my left shoulder and to get in on the right side. But I'd negotiated the streets of Liverpool OK, aside from one or two incidents with buses. In New York I would have screamed and shot a bird at the drivers. Here in England, though, they use two fingers and in the heat of the moment I'd forget which two fingers.
Barry, knowing better, decided I needed to learn how to drive all over again. Three-point turns, emergency stops, reverse (parallel) parking, reversing round corners. He talked to me like I was 17. I actually disliked him intensely. Still, I needed him to get me through the test, the most nerve-wracking minutes in anyone's driving history. Here I was, with about 20 years of driving under my belt, nervous as hell about this man beside me scribbling away on his notepad. I failed the first time, but a few weeks later retook it and passed, though my reverse parking was a bit dodgy.
Having had all those driving lessons, I learned that there are things they don't teach you about driving in the UK. Following are a few tips.
First of all, the British seem obsessed with checking the mirror. So before you put your key in the ignition, put on your seatbelt and check your mirror. Then, check your mirror, look over your right shoulder, check the mirror again, then signal, then pull out into traffic. Coming up to a traffic light, check your mirror in case someone is following you too closely (although what you're supposed to do about it, I don't know). Check the mirror again as you accelerate. At a roundabout, check your mirror, then watch the oncoming traffic, then check your mirrors, etc.
So, Mirror, Signal, Maneuver (I can't spell it the British way). Very important.
Here's something else to remember: Me in the Middle. If I'm not in the middle, I'm on the wrong side.
I got my license before the laws changed, making the whole process even more nerve-wracking. The biggest difference, besides being on the opposite side of the road, between the U.S. and the UK is the size of the roads. In the U.S. they tend to be wider and straighter. In the UK cars are often parked on either side, turning a two-lane into one or one-and-a-half lanes. A certain finesse is required in negotiating these roads and knowing when to give way and when not to. Who legally must give way is rarely the issue. It's who is in a bigger hurry or is more polite.
Something else to know is when to flash one's lights. You flash your lights at oncoming cars to let them know you're letting them pass. They might flash back to say thank you. You flash your lights when you're behind a slowpoke on the motorway and you want to get past them NOW. You also may flash your lights if someone has pissed you off bigtime and you want to let them know without giving them two fingers (or maybe you do that too). And sometimes you flash at cars going in the opposite direction to let them know of the speed checks up ahead. None of this is on the driving test, by the way.
You also need to know your animals. There are pelican crossings and zebra crossings. These are pedestrian crossings. The pelicans have buttons that pedestrians push to change the traffic lights (eventually). The zebras just have flashing lights. As soon as a pedestrian steps onto the road, cars are supposed to stop in theory. In reality the zebras can be very dangerous as many drivers zoom through them, oblivious to the poor people they've very nearly killed. Also, don't expect pedestrians to walk five yards to the nearest pedestrian crossing when they can take their lives in their own hands by crossing where they feel like it. And when in London look out for American tourists who are always looking the wrong way (and you can include me in that category).
Roundabouts are rather clever ways of keeping the traffic flowing. Something I've learned the hard way is to always look at the car ahead of you rather than your stupid mirror or the oncoming traffic. You might think they're seeing the break and and are moving when they're not. Then you might actually hit them and they might sue you for tens of thousands of pounds, but hopefully you're insured. Hypothetically speaking, of course. Not that this ever happened to me (well, maybe just the once).
Having grown up in Florida next to one of the great elephant burial grounds for old people (St. Petersburg) and then living in Fort Myers, another elephant burial ground, imagine my surprise to find myself living in the British version. Like the senior citizens in Florida, the OAPs (old-age pensioners) in the UK can be a menace on the road. As in Florida, the old men always seem to wear hats or flat caps. Unlike Florida, they don't drive tanks. Instead, they opt for cheaper, smaller cars that can't go very fast. But, oh, can they make them move when they want to. One time I was caught behind an old dear in a green Mini (before Minis were trendy). I tried to pass but every time I made my move, she swerved to the right, blocking my way. Another time when my children were very young, I packed us all up to go to the supermarket to buy some essentials. It was raining. I was very, very tired. I waited patiently for a woman to back out of a parent with children spot. As I was about to pull into the spot, an old dear in a (you guessed it) green Mini swerved in and took my spot. In a rage, I got out of my car and ran up to hers whereupon I hit her window with my hand. I think I nearly gave her a heart attack. "This is a parent with child spot and I've been waiting for it," I spat at her. "Well, I'm handicapped," she replied, neatly stepping out of her car. I got back in my car (other drivers were honking at this point) and drove 20 minutes to another supermarket, got the essentials, got in the line to pay, whereupon another OAP, a man this time, cut in front of me. I started laughing because what else can you do?
Something the UK has introduced in previous years that has proved wildly profitable and unpopular is the speed camera. Now, some of these work and some don't. How do you know? Either you've already received your speeding ticket in the post or you watch the other cars. Do they suddenly brake and go at a snail's pace? They probably know something so you should do the same.
In some ways driving in the UK is easier. On the motorway, for instance, you know that you will always be passed on the right. Slower cars, for the most part, go in the left lane. Anticipating other drivers is easier. When I drive in the US, I get very nervous about being passed on the left, the right, anywhere really. It takes me about a day to get used to driving U.S.-style or UK-style usually.
Now back to that driving on the wrong side of the road. You might think I am tempted to do that all the time. I am not. I have done it about three times since I've lived here, one being during my test. The last time was about four years ago. I had the kids in the car and we'd been to a pub for lunch (but I didn't have an alcoholic drink). As I was coming round a curve, for some inexplicable reason I went over to the other lane. An old dear in a green Mini (no lie) was coming toward me. I pulled over quickly onto some grass that conveniently had planted itself there to save my ass. I took a deep breath, tried to figure out why the hell I'd done that, reassured the kids, and drove very carefully home.
Am I a good British driver? Well, I don't wear a hat or drive a green Mini, so I can't be that bad. Can I?
I'd been having driving lessons for about three months with a short, mustachioed man named Barry. I have a thing about the name Barry. I once worked for a short, mustachioed managing editor named Barry. He wasn't a bad man, not on purpose. He was just ineffectual and ball-less. Anyway, driving instructor Barry and I had what you might call a failure to communicate. He thought I was a worse driver than I was and I thought I was a better driver than I was. He once told me our next lesson would be 10 to 11. I thought he meant 10 minutes to 11 so when he rang the doorbell at 10 I wasn't ready. He went off grumpily and came back later.
I'd been driving fine since a week after I'd moved here. HTB had shown me how to shift with my left rather than my right hand. I had to remind myself to look over my left shoulder and to get in on the right side. But I'd negotiated the streets of Liverpool OK, aside from one or two incidents with buses. In New York I would have screamed and shot a bird at the drivers. Here in England, though, they use two fingers and in the heat of the moment I'd forget which two fingers.
Barry, knowing better, decided I needed to learn how to drive all over again. Three-point turns, emergency stops, reverse (parallel) parking, reversing round corners. He talked to me like I was 17. I actually disliked him intensely. Still, I needed him to get me through the test, the most nerve-wracking minutes in anyone's driving history. Here I was, with about 20 years of driving under my belt, nervous as hell about this man beside me scribbling away on his notepad. I failed the first time, but a few weeks later retook it and passed, though my reverse parking was a bit dodgy.
Having had all those driving lessons, I learned that there are things they don't teach you about driving in the UK. Following are a few tips.
First of all, the British seem obsessed with checking the mirror. So before you put your key in the ignition, put on your seatbelt and check your mirror. Then, check your mirror, look over your right shoulder, check the mirror again, then signal, then pull out into traffic. Coming up to a traffic light, check your mirror in case someone is following you too closely (although what you're supposed to do about it, I don't know). Check the mirror again as you accelerate. At a roundabout, check your mirror, then watch the oncoming traffic, then check your mirrors, etc.
So, Mirror, Signal, Maneuver (I can't spell it the British way). Very important.
Here's something else to remember: Me in the Middle. If I'm not in the middle, I'm on the wrong side.
I got my license before the laws changed, making the whole process even more nerve-wracking. The biggest difference, besides being on the opposite side of the road, between the U.S. and the UK is the size of the roads. In the U.S. they tend to be wider and straighter. In the UK cars are often parked on either side, turning a two-lane into one or one-and-a-half lanes. A certain finesse is required in negotiating these roads and knowing when to give way and when not to. Who legally must give way is rarely the issue. It's who is in a bigger hurry or is more polite.
Something else to know is when to flash one's lights. You flash your lights at oncoming cars to let them know you're letting them pass. They might flash back to say thank you. You flash your lights when you're behind a slowpoke on the motorway and you want to get past them NOW. You also may flash your lights if someone has pissed you off bigtime and you want to let them know without giving them two fingers (or maybe you do that too). And sometimes you flash at cars going in the opposite direction to let them know of the speed checks up ahead. None of this is on the driving test, by the way.
You also need to know your animals. There are pelican crossings and zebra crossings. These are pedestrian crossings. The pelicans have buttons that pedestrians push to change the traffic lights (eventually). The zebras just have flashing lights. As soon as a pedestrian steps onto the road, cars are supposed to stop in theory. In reality the zebras can be very dangerous as many drivers zoom through them, oblivious to the poor people they've very nearly killed. Also, don't expect pedestrians to walk five yards to the nearest pedestrian crossing when they can take their lives in their own hands by crossing where they feel like it. And when in London look out for American tourists who are always looking the wrong way (and you can include me in that category).
Roundabouts are rather clever ways of keeping the traffic flowing. Something I've learned the hard way is to always look at the car ahead of you rather than your stupid mirror or the oncoming traffic. You might think they're seeing the break and and are moving when they're not. Then you might actually hit them and they might sue you for tens of thousands of pounds, but hopefully you're insured. Hypothetically speaking, of course. Not that this ever happened to me (well, maybe just the once).
Having grown up in Florida next to one of the great elephant burial grounds for old people (St. Petersburg) and then living in Fort Myers, another elephant burial ground, imagine my surprise to find myself living in the British version. Like the senior citizens in Florida, the OAPs (old-age pensioners) in the UK can be a menace on the road. As in Florida, the old men always seem to wear hats or flat caps. Unlike Florida, they don't drive tanks. Instead, they opt for cheaper, smaller cars that can't go very fast. But, oh, can they make them move when they want to. One time I was caught behind an old dear in a green Mini (before Minis were trendy). I tried to pass but every time I made my move, she swerved to the right, blocking my way. Another time when my children were very young, I packed us all up to go to the supermarket to buy some essentials. It was raining. I was very, very tired. I waited patiently for a woman to back out of a parent with children spot. As I was about to pull into the spot, an old dear in a (you guessed it) green Mini swerved in and took my spot. In a rage, I got out of my car and ran up to hers whereupon I hit her window with my hand. I think I nearly gave her a heart attack. "This is a parent with child spot and I've been waiting for it," I spat at her. "Well, I'm handicapped," she replied, neatly stepping out of her car. I got back in my car (other drivers were honking at this point) and drove 20 minutes to another supermarket, got the essentials, got in the line to pay, whereupon another OAP, a man this time, cut in front of me. I started laughing because what else can you do?
Something the UK has introduced in previous years that has proved wildly profitable and unpopular is the speed camera. Now, some of these work and some don't. How do you know? Either you've already received your speeding ticket in the post or you watch the other cars. Do they suddenly brake and go at a snail's pace? They probably know something so you should do the same.
In some ways driving in the UK is easier. On the motorway, for instance, you know that you will always be passed on the right. Slower cars, for the most part, go in the left lane. Anticipating other drivers is easier. When I drive in the US, I get very nervous about being passed on the left, the right, anywhere really. It takes me about a day to get used to driving U.S.-style or UK-style usually.
Now back to that driving on the wrong side of the road. You might think I am tempted to do that all the time. I am not. I have done it about three times since I've lived here, one being during my test. The last time was about four years ago. I had the kids in the car and we'd been to a pub for lunch (but I didn't have an alcoholic drink). As I was coming round a curve, for some inexplicable reason I went over to the other lane. An old dear in a green Mini (no lie) was coming toward me. I pulled over quickly onto some grass that conveniently had planted itself there to save my ass. I took a deep breath, tried to figure out why the hell I'd done that, reassured the kids, and drove very carefully home.
Am I a good British driver? Well, I don't wear a hat or drive a green Mini, so I can't be that bad. Can I?
Sunday, 24 February 2008
I Interrupt This Series To Bring You A Dose of Real Time Real Life
I decided this year that I would try not to moan so much in this blog. But events this month are such that I can't hold back anymore. Sorry.
I'll start with Jake and work backwards.
Jake: our lovely six-month-old border collie has been diagnosed with severe hip dysplasia. I thought he was just reserved and grown up. Nope. He was in agony with two severely dislocated hips. He is now on painkillers, starts supplements next week, and is having hydrotherapy twice a week in the hopes of building up muscle mass in his back legs. Hopefully, in a year's time he'll be able to have an operation in which the tops of his leg bones are sawn off to create false hip sockets. But he can only have this operation if he's below 30 kilos. He weighs 17.1 kilos now. The vet initially suggested hip replacements, which costs a lot of money. Darling hubby said he'd rather put him down that pay for that. I'm putting money aside in case. And no, we don't have pet insurance because Darling hubby said it wasn't worth it.
My mother: Having told her the lump in her breast was a cyst, her doctor now wants her to have a biopsy. It's on Tuesday. I'm hoping he's just being ultra cautious. My sister has been emailing me saying our mother should go to Florida to have this done. My mother said she scared her by saying a needle biopsy can spread cancer cells. I emailed my sister that I don't think it's a good idea for my mother to go to Florida because she'll miss her husband, should be in a comfortable environment, and I suspect my sister's kids would use my mother as a baby sitter. But, I also told her, what I think and what my sister thinks are secondary to what my mother wants. She makes the decision and we work around that. My sister got defensive, and I don't think she's talking to me right now.
Skiing: As you might have suspected if you read a previous post, I lost my son's, daughter's and my passports. I wasn't being careless, or thought I wasn't. We left our luggage in a room at the hotel and went walking around the village. I thought the passports would be safest in the bag I'd worn all week long that contained my money, credit cards, and phone. Nothing had been lost. After we emerged from the Mont Blanc tunnel on the way to Geneva Airport, I checked my bag. No passports. Our taxi driver who spoke no English understood those two words. After some frantic phone calls we got good news: the passports had been found and turned in to the hotel. But I'd have to pay 150 Euros for a taxi to bring them to us. We waited about an hour in a rest stop. The taxi driver appeared, I hopped out with the money, but only two passports were there. More frantic phone calls. My husband called the British and U.S. embassies. The taxi driver called his boss who explained that we'd be best off going to the airport, crossing our fingers that the Swiss border patrol didn't stop us, and sorting it out with the airline. I held my breath as we passed through the border. As we were waved through, I exhaled. The driver just shrugged, like of course they let us through. The airline, EasyJet, actually were very nice about the whole thing. My husband had spoken to someone in Immigration at the airport we'd be landing at. EasyJet got permission to allow us to land. When we went through Immigration, I got the guy who hadn't read the memo about us (yes, there was a memo). But he went and got the LS01 form and was pretty decent (and also made the point that I probably wouldn't be treated this well in the U.S., which I had to agree with though it was someone in the U.S. Embassy who was the most helpful). Oh, and I got a whiplash-type injury and damaged knee ligaments when the pink terrorist skied into me. And I didn't have a very good time with my friend who joined us from New York, but perhaps the less said about that, the better.
The car crash: My husband and daughter were in a serious car crash on Feb. 2. That they both walked away with no noticeable injuries was a miracle in itself. A few days later my daughter complained of back pain. I phoned my GP to make an appointment. After 20 minutes of trying to get through, I finally got hold of the rudest receptionist in the world. Her attitude was that I was a neglectful parent and it wasn't her problem to sort out. She told me to take my daughter to the out-of-hours clinic because she had no more appointments and she wasn't going to treat it as an emergency. At 6:30 I phoned the out-of-hours clinic and was told that all road traffic accident victims go to the emergency room. My husband took my daughter. She saw a wonderful doctor who identified a problem in her back. She's been to see a physiotherapist since who is slowly working the problem out. As for the driver who caused the crash, she is uninsured and unlicensed. She is being taken to court.
Now for a little good news. I have been given the following awards from the following people: from Kaycie, Sparx, and Jenny I received this
From Rotten Correspondent, I received this:
Thanks, guys. Now all you other bloggers out there who deserve this award, and you know who you are, just go ahead and help yourselves.
I'll start with Jake and work backwards.
Jake: our lovely six-month-old border collie has been diagnosed with severe hip dysplasia. I thought he was just reserved and grown up. Nope. He was in agony with two severely dislocated hips. He is now on painkillers, starts supplements next week, and is having hydrotherapy twice a week in the hopes of building up muscle mass in his back legs. Hopefully, in a year's time he'll be able to have an operation in which the tops of his leg bones are sawn off to create false hip sockets. But he can only have this operation if he's below 30 kilos. He weighs 17.1 kilos now. The vet initially suggested hip replacements, which costs a lot of money. Darling hubby said he'd rather put him down that pay for that. I'm putting money aside in case. And no, we don't have pet insurance because Darling hubby said it wasn't worth it.
My mother: Having told her the lump in her breast was a cyst, her doctor now wants her to have a biopsy. It's on Tuesday. I'm hoping he's just being ultra cautious. My sister has been emailing me saying our mother should go to Florida to have this done. My mother said she scared her by saying a needle biopsy can spread cancer cells. I emailed my sister that I don't think it's a good idea for my mother to go to Florida because she'll miss her husband, should be in a comfortable environment, and I suspect my sister's kids would use my mother as a baby sitter. But, I also told her, what I think and what my sister thinks are secondary to what my mother wants. She makes the decision and we work around that. My sister got defensive, and I don't think she's talking to me right now.
Skiing: As you might have suspected if you read a previous post, I lost my son's, daughter's and my passports. I wasn't being careless, or thought I wasn't. We left our luggage in a room at the hotel and went walking around the village. I thought the passports would be safest in the bag I'd worn all week long that contained my money, credit cards, and phone. Nothing had been lost. After we emerged from the Mont Blanc tunnel on the way to Geneva Airport, I checked my bag. No passports. Our taxi driver who spoke no English understood those two words. After some frantic phone calls we got good news: the passports had been found and turned in to the hotel. But I'd have to pay 150 Euros for a taxi to bring them to us. We waited about an hour in a rest stop. The taxi driver appeared, I hopped out with the money, but only two passports were there. More frantic phone calls. My husband called the British and U.S. embassies. The taxi driver called his boss who explained that we'd be best off going to the airport, crossing our fingers that the Swiss border patrol didn't stop us, and sorting it out with the airline. I held my breath as we passed through the border. As we were waved through, I exhaled. The driver just shrugged, like of course they let us through. The airline, EasyJet, actually were very nice about the whole thing. My husband had spoken to someone in Immigration at the airport we'd be landing at. EasyJet got permission to allow us to land. When we went through Immigration, I got the guy who hadn't read the memo about us (yes, there was a memo). But he went and got the LS01 form and was pretty decent (and also made the point that I probably wouldn't be treated this well in the U.S., which I had to agree with though it was someone in the U.S. Embassy who was the most helpful). Oh, and I got a whiplash-type injury and damaged knee ligaments when the pink terrorist skied into me. And I didn't have a very good time with my friend who joined us from New York, but perhaps the less said about that, the better.
The car crash: My husband and daughter were in a serious car crash on Feb. 2. That they both walked away with no noticeable injuries was a miracle in itself. A few days later my daughter complained of back pain. I phoned my GP to make an appointment. After 20 minutes of trying to get through, I finally got hold of the rudest receptionist in the world. Her attitude was that I was a neglectful parent and it wasn't her problem to sort out. She told me to take my daughter to the out-of-hours clinic because she had no more appointments and she wasn't going to treat it as an emergency. At 6:30 I phoned the out-of-hours clinic and was told that all road traffic accident victims go to the emergency room. My husband took my daughter. She saw a wonderful doctor who identified a problem in her back. She's been to see a physiotherapist since who is slowly working the problem out. As for the driver who caused the crash, she is uninsured and unlicensed. She is being taken to court.
Now for a little good news. I have been given the following awards from the following people: from Kaycie, Sparx, and Jenny I received this
From Rotten Correspondent, I received this:
Thanks, guys. Now all you other bloggers out there who deserve this award, and you know who you are, just go ahead and help yourselves.
Thursday, 21 February 2008
Moving to England: Nipples at Nine and All That
When I visited the UK, keeping up with the news was not exactly top of my list. Indeed, there had been a coup somewhere, and HTB and I hadn't had a clue about it. But when I moved here, I found myself with LOTS of time on my hands. What to do with it?
Well, being a recently retired journalist, I took to reading the newspapers. And what a variety of newspapers the UK offers. Unlike the U.S., the local newspapers are either not very good or not very influential. The national dailies are the real players. For the more intellectual members of the population there are in no particular order: The Times, The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, and The Guardian. These are broadsheet newspapers, except the Times, Guardian, and, I think, Independent are now tabloid size during the week, the easier to read on the train. Each of these newspapers has a particular slant on the news, and a particular type of reader and that reader has a particular political bent usually. For example, the Daily Telegraph is also known as the Daily Torygraph because of its support of the Conservative party. The Guardian appeals to more left-wing readers who might usually be supporters of the Labour party. The Independent is an excellent newspaper, though boring at times, that appeals to Liberal Democrats and Labourites. The Times, now owned by Rupert Murdoch, is more middle of the road with middle class readers.
I was a bit taken aback by the decided non-neutrality of the news reporting and the habit of reporters putting themselves in the story. I was trained never to do that. The reporter is just that -- a reporter of events. He or she should not editorialize on the news. That belongs on the editorial page. But in the UK, the boundaries between editorializing and reporting are more blurred.
This is never more apparent than in the tabloids, or the red-tops. Red-top refers to the background colour of the name of the newspaper. Papers that fall into this category are the Sun (probably the original), the Express, and the News of the World. On Sundays, there's the Sunday Sport. Many of these feature pictures of topless women. Not all tabloids are red-tops though. Like the Daily Mail. What they all seem to have in common, though, is a reactionary bent and ability to stir things up. You'll see headlines like "Children of Working Mothers More Likely to Fail in School" in these papers. Or "Love Cheat David Beckham Caught Texting Lover." The latest celebrity scandal will feature heavily.
As much as the broad sheets may hate to admit it, these tabloids have a great deal of influence on the news that people read or want to read.
So I would read a different newspaper every day. I couldn't be pigeonholed by my reading choices because I read everything back then. I also read some of the weekly "ladies" magazines. These also have a wide range of titles, from The Lady to Bella to Chat. The Lady usually includes classifieds advertising for lady companions in the old-fashioned sense. Bella, Chat and the rest have stories about women who marry their stepsons or daughter's boyfriends, women who were married to men who beat them, etc.
I would watch TV too. Back then there were four channels: BBC1, BBC2, ITV, and Channel 4. Channel 4 had a racy reputation of producing programs that were a bit risque. The BBC then and now had the reputation of producing good costume dramas. ITV was the home of the much-loved and much-watched Coronation Street, a soap opera set in Manchester that began many moons ago. I would try to watch it, but it just wasn't to my taste.
Before I moved to the UK, I took to watching old British sitcoms on the Arts & Entertainment channel. These included the classic Fawlty Towers, something called Butterflies, To the Manor Born, Keeping Up Appearances, and Are You Being Served? Too bad they didn't have Only Fools and Horses and Rising Damp, two of the best British comedy programs ever. Anyway, I watched these thinking they would give me an insight into the British people. But just as no Americans are like the characters on Dallas, so no British are like those on Fawlty Towers.
These characters are caricatures, not real people, and it would be a mistake on both sides of the pond to assume otherwise.
Daytime TV had the usual chat shows like This Morning with Richard and Judy, a married couple who somehow defy the odds. She is Mrs. Frump personified. He is Peter Pan, and her toy boy as he is eight years younger. I was quite amused by the people who managed to make a career in TV in the UK. Many news reporters were so ugly that there's no way any U.S. network would have taken them on. That's a shame because they are some of the best TV reporters I've even seen. It was such a relief to get away from the blow-dried Barbies and Kens on U.S. news programs. The UK news had meat and issues and, most important, time. Yes, time. No ads barging in. No 21 minutes to fit all the news, sport and weather. Time to actually give a perspective on an issue.
I soon discovered an interesting phenomenon that I dubbed "Nipples at Nine." Nine p.m. is the "watershed," that is, the time after which it is deemed acceptable to show certain parts of the anatomy and use certain words. A woman named Mary Whitehouse was responsible for this, I believe. She rallied for moral standards on TV. Still, her influence must have been waning. I was amazed by the amount of nudity allowed on TV. No way would that be allowed on U.S. network TV. On the other hand, there was a refreshing lack of violence on UK TV.
When the wedding was over, I had a big slump. Nothing to look forward to. So I took to watching Oprah in the afternoons. This was before Oprah had discovered her conscience and influence. She still had people on who screamed at each other. Oh, I would cry and cry at the predicaments of these people. I should have been doing other things but I wanted and needed to hear the American accents. Over the next couple of years several U.S. imports would make their way to the UK. ER and Friends were among the first. My hazy, sleep-deprived, new mother mind would come to life during ER. I would never go out on Friday nights in case I missed Friends.
I felt like I had the best of both worlds because I got to watch Pride and Prejudice and other costume dramas as well. When our daughter was a baby our Saturday night treat was a program called Don't Forget Your Toothbrush, an inane game show that only the British could produce.
I was quite resistant to British culture at first. But slowly, ever so slowly, it was wheedling its way into my life and heart.
What should I write about next? Driving lessons? Childbirth in the UK? How and what I did to make myself feel more at home? You decide. Let me know and I will write about it.
Well, being a recently retired journalist, I took to reading the newspapers. And what a variety of newspapers the UK offers. Unlike the U.S., the local newspapers are either not very good or not very influential. The national dailies are the real players. For the more intellectual members of the population there are in no particular order: The Times, The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, and The Guardian. These are broadsheet newspapers, except the Times, Guardian, and, I think, Independent are now tabloid size during the week, the easier to read on the train. Each of these newspapers has a particular slant on the news, and a particular type of reader and that reader has a particular political bent usually. For example, the Daily Telegraph is also known as the Daily Torygraph because of its support of the Conservative party. The Guardian appeals to more left-wing readers who might usually be supporters of the Labour party. The Independent is an excellent newspaper, though boring at times, that appeals to Liberal Democrats and Labourites. The Times, now owned by Rupert Murdoch, is more middle of the road with middle class readers.
I was a bit taken aback by the decided non-neutrality of the news reporting and the habit of reporters putting themselves in the story. I was trained never to do that. The reporter is just that -- a reporter of events. He or she should not editorialize on the news. That belongs on the editorial page. But in the UK, the boundaries between editorializing and reporting are more blurred.
This is never more apparent than in the tabloids, or the red-tops. Red-top refers to the background colour of the name of the newspaper. Papers that fall into this category are the Sun (probably the original), the Express, and the News of the World. On Sundays, there's the Sunday Sport. Many of these feature pictures of topless women. Not all tabloids are red-tops though. Like the Daily Mail. What they all seem to have in common, though, is a reactionary bent and ability to stir things up. You'll see headlines like "Children of Working Mothers More Likely to Fail in School" in these papers. Or "Love Cheat David Beckham Caught Texting Lover." The latest celebrity scandal will feature heavily.
As much as the broad sheets may hate to admit it, these tabloids have a great deal of influence on the news that people read or want to read.
So I would read a different newspaper every day. I couldn't be pigeonholed by my reading choices because I read everything back then. I also read some of the weekly "ladies" magazines. These also have a wide range of titles, from The Lady to Bella to Chat. The Lady usually includes classifieds advertising for lady companions in the old-fashioned sense. Bella, Chat and the rest have stories about women who marry their stepsons or daughter's boyfriends, women who were married to men who beat them, etc.
I would watch TV too. Back then there were four channels: BBC1, BBC2, ITV, and Channel 4. Channel 4 had a racy reputation of producing programs that were a bit risque. The BBC then and now had the reputation of producing good costume dramas. ITV was the home of the much-loved and much-watched Coronation Street, a soap opera set in Manchester that began many moons ago. I would try to watch it, but it just wasn't to my taste.
Before I moved to the UK, I took to watching old British sitcoms on the Arts & Entertainment channel. These included the classic Fawlty Towers, something called Butterflies, To the Manor Born, Keeping Up Appearances, and Are You Being Served? Too bad they didn't have Only Fools and Horses and Rising Damp, two of the best British comedy programs ever. Anyway, I watched these thinking they would give me an insight into the British people. But just as no Americans are like the characters on Dallas, so no British are like those on Fawlty Towers.
These characters are caricatures, not real people, and it would be a mistake on both sides of the pond to assume otherwise.
Daytime TV had the usual chat shows like This Morning with Richard and Judy, a married couple who somehow defy the odds. She is Mrs. Frump personified. He is Peter Pan, and her toy boy as he is eight years younger. I was quite amused by the people who managed to make a career in TV in the UK. Many news reporters were so ugly that there's no way any U.S. network would have taken them on. That's a shame because they are some of the best TV reporters I've even seen. It was such a relief to get away from the blow-dried Barbies and Kens on U.S. news programs. The UK news had meat and issues and, most important, time. Yes, time. No ads barging in. No 21 minutes to fit all the news, sport and weather. Time to actually give a perspective on an issue.
I soon discovered an interesting phenomenon that I dubbed "Nipples at Nine." Nine p.m. is the "watershed," that is, the time after which it is deemed acceptable to show certain parts of the anatomy and use certain words. A woman named Mary Whitehouse was responsible for this, I believe. She rallied for moral standards on TV. Still, her influence must have been waning. I was amazed by the amount of nudity allowed on TV. No way would that be allowed on U.S. network TV. On the other hand, there was a refreshing lack of violence on UK TV.
When the wedding was over, I had a big slump. Nothing to look forward to. So I took to watching Oprah in the afternoons. This was before Oprah had discovered her conscience and influence. She still had people on who screamed at each other. Oh, I would cry and cry at the predicaments of these people. I should have been doing other things but I wanted and needed to hear the American accents. Over the next couple of years several U.S. imports would make their way to the UK. ER and Friends were among the first. My hazy, sleep-deprived, new mother mind would come to life during ER. I would never go out on Friday nights in case I missed Friends.
I felt like I had the best of both worlds because I got to watch Pride and Prejudice and other costume dramas as well. When our daughter was a baby our Saturday night treat was a program called Don't Forget Your Toothbrush, an inane game show that only the British could produce.
I was quite resistant to British culture at first. But slowly, ever so slowly, it was wheedling its way into my life and heart.
What should I write about next? Driving lessons? Childbirth in the UK? How and what I did to make myself feel more at home? You decide. Let me know and I will write about it.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Moving to England: My British Wedding
"So tell me, why did your marriage end?"
The elderly vicar of our local Church of England didn't beat about the bush. He wanted some answers before he was going to approve a divorcee getting married in his church.
The British love irony, and this is a very rich one. The Church of England, founded by Henry VIII so he could divorce Catherine of Aragon and marry Anne Boleyn, does not approve of divorcees getting married in their churches.
I could have lied and said my ex-husband beat me and cheated on me and spent all our money. Then he might have approved the marriage. But I told the truth -- we just weren't compatible. Not good enough. So we could have a wedding blessing, but not a marriage. That would have to be done at the town hall sometime before the blessing.
I felt bad for my fiance. This was his first marriage, after all, and he wanted it to be perfect. If we'd had the wedding in the U.S., we wouldn't have encountered this attitude. We could have gotten married anywhere. But here in the UK, we had to settle for the dingy town hall. At that time there were stricter laws about what places were licensed to hold weddings. It's changed a lot since then. I decided to treat the town hall ceremony as just legal mumbo-jumbo. The big event would be the wedding blessing. Our banns were duly published. This is another quirky British custom. The vicar of the local parish church announces the banns, the declaration of two people -- one of whom lives in the parish -- to marry. It is done three times before the wedding.
Now we needed a venue for the reception, or "wedding breakfast." As we only had four months to plan the wedding, we didn't have a lot of choice. Most of the places around here had been booked the year before. We found a village hall that would serve the purpose. It wasn't fancy. In fact I was disappointed, but decided to make the best of it. We hired a DJ on the advice of one of the aunties. We found a florist through another. And the cakemaker through another.
Ah, the cake. In America this is a confection with layers of white cake covered with
mounds of sickly sweet icing. In the UK, it is fruit cake laced with brandy covered with marzipan covered with Royal icing. It's the same recipe as for Christmas cake. I don't like fruit cake or marzipan or Royal icing. But I went along with it because that's the tradition here. And the cake lady was so nice.
The printer of the wedding invitations was one of our pub buddies. I bought a second-hand wedding dress (seemed rather appropriate since I was a second-hand bride). I bought another outfit to wear to the town hall and to change into when I got tired of wearing the wedding dress. The chef from my husband's firm agreed to do the catering but we had to hire all the equipment as the village hall wasn't equipped at all. I met with him to discuss the menu. I wanted veal. Uh oh. Veal is very scarce in the UK. Something about the way they're raised and the British don't like it (why aren't they upset about chickens? Oh, that comes a few years later). Never mind, the photographer who is also a butcher agreed to supply the meat.
I sent out invitations to all my American friends and family. Only one friend and seven members of my family could come. Well, that made it easier to put them up. Our next-door neighbours housed my friend, and my family stayed with us. My parents, who had been divorced for nearly 20 years at that point, stayed next door to one another with their respective spouses. They behaved themselves impeccably. It was like a family reunion in a way. We took them on trips throughout the UK, but I was exhausted by all the emotion and behaved badly.
My future mother-in-law was still trying to separate HTB from me whenever possible. On our wedding day, she told him to come stay with her for some chill-out time. I was incensed by her implication that my family was stressing out her son. Before I moved to the UK, I told HTB I'd need support. "Don't worry," he said optimistically. "My family will support you."
I like to think he truly believed this and wasn't lying through his teeth. Sadly, my in-laws were anything but supportive for many years. I came to see that it's in their genes. My mother-in-law's family feud over the slightest nuance, miscue, forgotten thank you. The summer we got married there were three family weddings: my husband's cousin, also marrying a divorced man, us, and another cousin. At the first wedding a bust-up started to bud. One uncle said something uncouth to the cousin about her husband. By the time of our wedding, the feud was starting to bloom like crazy. The relatives all came but stayed out of each other's way. By the next wedding, it was in full force. Sides were drawn. We tried to stay out of it, but neither side speaks to us now. Not that I care.
During our wedding blessing, apparently there was a gasp across the church. We hadn't bothered to tell any of my husband's relatives that I'd been married before. It wasn't really any of their business was my view. Some of the more faithful churchgoers, however, detected a difference in the service.
We arrived at our reception after the photos had been taken. In the rain. With an umbrella over my head. The ground was so sodden, I sank two inches. My lovely satin shoes were ruined. I was given a glass of sherry upon arrival. I put it down to stand in the reception line. When I reached for it again, it was gone. My husband's grandmother had quaffed it. I got another glass, put it down, same thing happened. I gave up on the sherry. I danced and danced and danced. One of my husband's cousins complained that I wasn't making the rounds of the guests. I retorted that I barely knew most of the guests. And so it went until it was over. Then we had to clean up and make sure all the houseguests made it back to our house. We were staying the night in a nearby hotel. After dancing all night in shoes a half size too small, my feet were feeling a bit delicate. But we had wedding presents in the car and had to pass them through the window into our room. What a sight that must have been.
Our wedding was probably my family's finest hour or hours. Both of my parents desperately wanted me to have a good day and in their way tried to make sure it happened. They did this by behaving like adults and not like the warring infants they had been over the past 20 years. My sister and brother also were troupers. It was an uncommon show of support which I appreciate to this day.
Next I shall write of the media, a very important way of familiarising oneself with a new country.
The elderly vicar of our local Church of England didn't beat about the bush. He wanted some answers before he was going to approve a divorcee getting married in his church.
The British love irony, and this is a very rich one. The Church of England, founded by Henry VIII so he could divorce Catherine of Aragon and marry Anne Boleyn, does not approve of divorcees getting married in their churches.
I could have lied and said my ex-husband beat me and cheated on me and spent all our money. Then he might have approved the marriage. But I told the truth -- we just weren't compatible. Not good enough. So we could have a wedding blessing, but not a marriage. That would have to be done at the town hall sometime before the blessing.
I felt bad for my fiance. This was his first marriage, after all, and he wanted it to be perfect. If we'd had the wedding in the U.S., we wouldn't have encountered this attitude. We could have gotten married anywhere. But here in the UK, we had to settle for the dingy town hall. At that time there were stricter laws about what places were licensed to hold weddings. It's changed a lot since then. I decided to treat the town hall ceremony as just legal mumbo-jumbo. The big event would be the wedding blessing. Our banns were duly published. This is another quirky British custom. The vicar of the local parish church announces the banns, the declaration of two people -- one of whom lives in the parish -- to marry. It is done three times before the wedding.
Now we needed a venue for the reception, or "wedding breakfast." As we only had four months to plan the wedding, we didn't have a lot of choice. Most of the places around here had been booked the year before. We found a village hall that would serve the purpose. It wasn't fancy. In fact I was disappointed, but decided to make the best of it. We hired a DJ on the advice of one of the aunties. We found a florist through another. And the cakemaker through another.
Ah, the cake. In America this is a confection with layers of white cake covered with
mounds of sickly sweet icing. In the UK, it is fruit cake laced with brandy covered with marzipan covered with Royal icing. It's the same recipe as for Christmas cake. I don't like fruit cake or marzipan or Royal icing. But I went along with it because that's the tradition here. And the cake lady was so nice.
The printer of the wedding invitations was one of our pub buddies. I bought a second-hand wedding dress (seemed rather appropriate since I was a second-hand bride). I bought another outfit to wear to the town hall and to change into when I got tired of wearing the wedding dress. The chef from my husband's firm agreed to do the catering but we had to hire all the equipment as the village hall wasn't equipped at all. I met with him to discuss the menu. I wanted veal. Uh oh. Veal is very scarce in the UK. Something about the way they're raised and the British don't like it (why aren't they upset about chickens? Oh, that comes a few years later). Never mind, the photographer who is also a butcher agreed to supply the meat.
I sent out invitations to all my American friends and family. Only one friend and seven members of my family could come. Well, that made it easier to put them up. Our next-door neighbours housed my friend, and my family stayed with us. My parents, who had been divorced for nearly 20 years at that point, stayed next door to one another with their respective spouses. They behaved themselves impeccably. It was like a family reunion in a way. We took them on trips throughout the UK, but I was exhausted by all the emotion and behaved badly.
My future mother-in-law was still trying to separate HTB from me whenever possible. On our wedding day, she told him to come stay with her for some chill-out time. I was incensed by her implication that my family was stressing out her son. Before I moved to the UK, I told HTB I'd need support. "Don't worry," he said optimistically. "My family will support you."
I like to think he truly believed this and wasn't lying through his teeth. Sadly, my in-laws were anything but supportive for many years. I came to see that it's in their genes. My mother-in-law's family feud over the slightest nuance, miscue, forgotten thank you. The summer we got married there were three family weddings: my husband's cousin, also marrying a divorced man, us, and another cousin. At the first wedding a bust-up started to bud. One uncle said something uncouth to the cousin about her husband. By the time of our wedding, the feud was starting to bloom like crazy. The relatives all came but stayed out of each other's way. By the next wedding, it was in full force. Sides were drawn. We tried to stay out of it, but neither side speaks to us now. Not that I care.
During our wedding blessing, apparently there was a gasp across the church. We hadn't bothered to tell any of my husband's relatives that I'd been married before. It wasn't really any of their business was my view. Some of the more faithful churchgoers, however, detected a difference in the service.
We arrived at our reception after the photos had been taken. In the rain. With an umbrella over my head. The ground was so sodden, I sank two inches. My lovely satin shoes were ruined. I was given a glass of sherry upon arrival. I put it down to stand in the reception line. When I reached for it again, it was gone. My husband's grandmother had quaffed it. I got another glass, put it down, same thing happened. I gave up on the sherry. I danced and danced and danced. One of my husband's cousins complained that I wasn't making the rounds of the guests. I retorted that I barely knew most of the guests. And so it went until it was over. Then we had to clean up and make sure all the houseguests made it back to our house. We were staying the night in a nearby hotel. After dancing all night in shoes a half size too small, my feet were feeling a bit delicate. But we had wedding presents in the car and had to pass them through the window into our room. What a sight that must have been.
Our wedding was probably my family's finest hour or hours. Both of my parents desperately wanted me to have a good day and in their way tried to make sure it happened. They did this by behaving like adults and not like the warring infants they had been over the past 20 years. My sister and brother also were troupers. It was an uncommon show of support which I appreciate to this day.
Next I shall write of the media, a very important way of familiarising oneself with a new country.
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