I worked my regular shift at the Bookshop on Thursday afternoon; I’m still loving it. The customers ask for advice or comments on specific books, and I’m certainly always chuffed to give my opinion, or recommend a title I loved.
Somewhat uncomfortably, the customers almost always ask where I’m from. Ever mindful of those wonderful folks at Immigration, I always say (truthfully) ‘just south of Naples’. They usually looked confused. (And I wonder why I am generally confused about something.) This starts an unwelcome conversation about ‘just south of Naples…by way of Philadelphia’. One customer didn’t need to ask. “East Coast?” he guessed. ‘Of course” I replied. “Do I look like the sort of person who would be caught dead on the Left Coast?” I mean…really. “South Jersey?” he went on. When I glared at him, totally insulted, (I mean, do I have big hair and tons of black mascara?) he hastily recovered, “Philadelphia? You have the accent.” Yo! Once and for all, I don’t have an accent.
One customer, a woman, was from Pittsburgh, the other end of Pennsylvania. I recognized her accent immediately. And a lovely mother and daughter were from Montreal, in Canada, our very boring next door neighbors. I couldn’t resist asking innocently, “have you read ‘aboot’ her next book?”
Cheese Boy picked me up for the Quiz in the evening. We had been deserted by the rest of the team, so our name was ‘The Bitch and I”. We didn’t do too badly. At least we weren’t in the bottom three for a change. I did fine on the ‘American’ questions, and actually knew the answer to a couple of the British ones. I knew – Lou didn’t – that the one pound coin is 25 years old this year. We figured out the theme to the ‘what’s the connection’ round, but didn’t get all five titles. We wiped out in the ‘Wipe-out’ round, but only because Lou is a bloke and never listens to me when I’m right.
BooBoo and I went shopping on Friday morning. Ostensibly the purpose of the trip was to buy a mop and a bucket. My cleaning lady gets all huffy when she has to pop over and borrow Pinkie’s. She suggested that I purchase my very own cleaning equipment. “Why?” I asked. “It’s not like Pinkie’s mop is always busy. And it’s not like I can wear it, can I?” But I went to Tesco’s to buy one. BooBoo picked it out, and advised the ‘best’ mop. There were so many to choose from, and such pretty colours. She mentioned that ‘ironing board & iron’ thing again, but I just pretended I didn’t hear her.
Of course we popped into Marks & Sparks (it’s next door). And they were having a sale. “We’ll just look” I promised BooBoo, right before I bought the skirt (stunning), white trousers (I look adorable), sweater (sooo Jappy), and some seriously sexy underwear (see: Scottish Guy).
I know that me shopping is not exactly news. What is important here is the fact that I am now wearing a size 10. Note to American readers: A British size 10 is an American 6! I am not making that up. I know a lot of you readers are now consumed by the green eyed monster.
I went to Friday night services this week, because the Oneg was a dinner after services, and because Scottish Guy was popping in on Saturday morning before I worked a shift at Sam Beare. I actually cooked a pasta dish for the dinner. And yes, it was Kosher. I haven’t heard anything on the news about an epidemic of Jewish deaths in Surrey…so far.
I was ‘in’ on Saturday night. I am embarrassed to confess that when Cheese Boy rang just to natter, I bitched about being home and not out having fun, especially on ‘date’ night. Lou was exasperated with me. I won’t share specifically what he said, but he pointed out that my diary is crammed with engagements, and that I’m not exactly a hermit since I’m back. He said ‘date night’ doesn’t have to be Saturday night; what was I, a teenager, and that I was being a self-centered JAP. “And your point would be…?” I said sulkily, “I am a self-centered JAP; I’ve got the tee shirt to prove it. And it’s part of my charm. And you forgot ‘selfish’. Moshe always got ‘selfish’ into his rants about me at some point.”
I did think about everything the Boy said afterwards; perhaps I am being just a teensy bit unreasonable. My return continues to be exactly as wonderful as I’d envisioned; in truth, it’s even better. I guess I can’t expect every single thing to go the way I want it to. But I kind of do. It’s Jerry’s fault. Naturally.
Oh, to be in England 