It’s been another round of Leaving Dos this week, as I prepare to leave the United Kingdom, once again. Not to fly home; Weybridge is home, as Cheese Boy keeps reminding me. "Philadelphia Girl" (his latest name for me) "You are home."
Next week I shall be an exile, somewhere in the North Atlantic.
I am unaccustomed to not having my every desire and whim satisfied immediately. I don’t like being told "no" when I want something, and I particularly didn’t like hearing it from the British government. They probably should have checked with Jerry, via seance, to hear all about the ‘Wrath of Cohen’ when I don’t get my own way.
I would snarl: "You’ll be sorry!" but that would probably sound juvenile. Screw that. "You’ll be sorry!" (Said in a very snarly American accent.)
I’m primarily concerned that all this crossing the pond business and Leaving Dos will result, exponentially, in less extravagant Arrival Dos when I return. As if I didn’t have enough on my mind, what with hot Evil Nazis and blog editing chores.
I am coffee-d, tea-d, and lunch-d out. Luckily, I am not Zinfandel-d out yet, but I expect this will happen on Friday night, when we celebrate Cheese Boy’s birthday at the Grotto. Honestly, I don’t know why the people here are not just born at their local, to save on commuting time and parking. My present to the Birthday Boy: a cheese fondue set, and the ‘Deluxe Cheese of the Month’ package from the Wisconsin Cheesemaker.
My fellow Tea Ladies had a lovely luncheon for me at Hester’s house. Who knew those girls could party so hearty? Luncheon finished around 8:00 at night. However, Allison was driving, and she knows where I live. Lots of tears, and lovely Parting Gifts.
There was a special luncheon at the Senior Center, too. Fortunately, my food did not get run through the Industrial-sized Blender before hand. I got to chew it myself. All my ‘old dears’ said goodbye. There were coffee dates, and a lavish Breakfast Party at my friend Netta’s house.
In another of those ‘Twilight Zone’ moments, when Peter, who is a particular favorite, was paying for his sausage roll and ‘nice’ cup of tea, I looked at the coins he handed me, and said:
"Peter, this is a quarter, not a 10p."
"Are you sure?" he asked. "It looks like a 10p to me."
"Trust me, Peter. I’m American. I know a bleeding quarter when I see one. See George Washington’s little head and his tiny wooden teeth?" (A bit of fabrication on my part, I know.)
"I say! Well, you keep it, Jeano, and spend it in America."
"Ta, Peter. Now can I have the 10p?"
Gee. How much does a pack of Juicy Fruit cost in the States these days?
In another odd coincidence, Paula and Jack are going to America. For three months. That’s all they’re allowed to stay. The US of A does not hand out visas willy-nilly to dangerous subversives from the United Kingdom. Note to readers: That was an insult, directed at the Immigration and Nationality Directorate.
Unfortunately, they are going to the Left Coast, which is not actually considered America, but, happily, not to LaLa Land. They are going to Fresno, to stay with Heidi and Dominic. I gave Paula a crash course in American, over a bottle . . . okay . . . a couple bottles of wine, including some useful tips on what not to unwittingly ever say to Californians. I was quite amused to learn that Paula is taking driving lessons, to learn how to drive an automatic. Aren’t we all born knowing how to do that?
I told Paula that the first time I speak to her in California and she says anything such as "It was . . . like . . . totally awesome", I will have her deported. And if she ever says "Have a really nice day", our friendship is . . . like . . . over.