True Brit

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It’s the little things you forget. The British don't seem to believe in garbage cans or clocks , they love their cancer sticks, and they seriously need to import some plumbers renowned in the art of water pressure. But there’s also the good…nay, the fantastic things, like taxes included in all prices and stall doors that go all the way to the floor. Yes, while the Brits have always treated things like customer service and general courtesy with a slight indifference, there is a basic practicality and straightforwardness to everything they do that is wholly refreshing. While they are by no means without their vanities, things like service, commerce, and even news broadcasts all have a ‘just-get-the-job-done’ mentality that thoroughly increases efficiency in a way that our shallow and phony ways seems to prevent back home. But I still give Canadians the edge on amiability.

I have also been reminded of how superior the British are with style. While I can get caught up in the new fads at home in its Canadian context, things like plaid and stripeys, the obsession with hair gel and tanning, are all welcomingly absent over here, replaced by blazers and collars, sweaters and dress shoes. The essence of English dapper. And it is so much more…normal (and fetching).

On that note, I’ve always felt that there should be a certain criminality for how hot British girls are. Seriously, it’s like whenever they shower, hotness comes out instead of water. They dress slightly more conservative, but in a winning kind of way. It’s the type of thing that emphasizes natural beauty and downplays the whole manufactured self-importance. It’s probably also why they are much less prudish. Natural is natural, after all.

Ok, I’m done. Please let me back into Canada.

My jet lag has had me up at the crack of 6 every morning, so I’ve been catching the 8 o’clock train in to town. It’s nice at that hour. I actually feel like I am amongst, well, the British, and not the surfeit of tourists that battle each other for the best shot of Tower Bridge. That wave of people doesn’t seem to get going till noonish. It seems that late June is especially overflowing with school groups. End of the year trips, obviously, and they know how to jam a sidewalk well.

Strange, I didn’t visit the National Gallery last time I was here. Did this time though. It’s free after all. Interesting, it was, but ultimately I was most awe struck by the fact that they put a bank machine right next to a Bellini.

I went to the National Archives yesterday to do some reading, which is in a stunning area of West London called Kew Gardens. If you have a couple billion dollars lying around I strongly recommend buying a home there. It also features the Royal Bontanic Gardens, fresh with glasshouses, landscapes, and apparently the best flora and fauna the world has to offer. Uh huh. But I walked over and found that it was 15 pounds to get in. Screw that! I can see plants in my own back yard, literally.

One thing’s for sure, I can’t go as hard as I did five years ago. The last two days I’ve been completely done by 3pm, amassed with sore feet and fatigue. I stopped in for a beer at the Chandos last night (the pub my Grandpa frequented during the war) and literally almost fell asleep on the stool, the wit of Billy Bryson not even able to reinvigorate my oomph.

Got home around 6. David has me watching a Brit comedy called the Inbetweeners. Laugh out loud funny, but still not enough to keep me going past 10. Aaaaand asleep.

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