When my friend Kevin was heading to the airport and was waiting on the platform in London for the train, there were delays upon delays, and finally someone came over the intercom to say that there was a swan on the track, and as swans were the Queen's birds, or rather protected under her decree, the swan couldn't be shooed or coaxed off the track, much less forcibly removed. This was charming at first, at least to some of the other people standing on the platform, but within five minutes everyone's sympathies gave way to cries of "Forget the swan!" and "Just run her over!" The tube employees, being loyal subjects, didn't give in, and finally the swan moved of her own accord. Kevin made his flight, but just barely, and everyone else got on with their day.
You might wonder what has possessed me to spend the winter in a nation that stops its trains for swans. And spells beans "beanz" on the Heinz can (ok, maybe that's a virtue). And is going to give me a total complex about saying "pants." It's a hunch, really. Plus I miss the shipping forecast.
I set out this weekend, and this is how I'm going to try to keep in touch while I'm gone. Like postcards, kind of. But without the post or the card. More like across the pond semaphores about eating curry, trying not to be the worst at pub quiz, and attempting to mind my manners.
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