They Speak of the Green, but Not the Grey

Looking out the train window as I travel to Victoria Station, I am struck by an oddly comforting thought: "Yes – I was miserable here once." Admittedly, this may owe less to the environment than to a certain wildness of character the child-me possessed, but it is pleasant to recall that, on the whole, I do rather like Texas.

I mention this chiefly because most Americans have a falsely romantic attachment to England. I mean no disrespect to Fair Albion; it is simply that most of these "Anglophiles" have an inflated and false opinion of what it means to be English. As far as I can tell, they think it mainly entails speaking in upper-class accents, drinking copious amounts of tea, larking about on the tube, and possibly doing a spot of magic, Harry Potter style. Never mind the economic crisis poetically called "The British Disease," the dark layer of grime which coal-covers London and turns your snot black, the protracted class warfare, and the flats full of ancient plumbing.

The common level of idealization is quite beyond me, although I can understand its root. America is a desperately young country and we hunger for a history, an ancestral home. This longing is all the more protracted in an age when jobs and locations shift constantly, and it's the exception to live in a house that was your grandmother's.

Sometimes, it's nice to be jaded. It spares one a lot of disappointment. I will say this, though – it is pleasant to have escaped the land of the SUVs.

The Visitor

I am curled on a cracked leather sofa, surrounded by ivy and brown velvet, enveloped in the welcoming scent of patchouli and loose tobacco. By day, with the curtains drawn back and television playing against the pink walls, this room is unforgivable – but now, alone and dim, it has the air of the study I will one day create – dark light and golden shadow on a roll-top stuffed with oddities.

I met Turtle's chap today, and I thoroughly approve. He is charmingly gruff, with a fondness for aikido and ginger beer so strong you sneeze before it reaches your lips. When he holds Turtle, she fits under his chin perfectly. We have already argued over Tolkien and Blueberry pancakes. Turtle is very happy, and her happiness makes her beautiful.