As a teacher in England, do not ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER ask a female student to, 'Sit on your fanny!' and think she will assume you mean 'bottom' or 'bum'.
Why?
Evidently, when asking such you are in fact asking them to 'Sit on your vagina'.
I may just be referred to as 'that perverted american professor' for the remainder of my career.
Moving to England from America should come with a manual of some sort or a life line....
A few items I am smitten with currently
I like the feel of this decor - the birds happily perched on the walls and the towering birdcage-like iron bed.
Burlesque Birdcage Tropical wallpaper.
Esty shop adorapop. This little treasure is a favorite of mine - a birdcage locket and sweet birdy inside.
Velocity bird cage lighting
In pecking order - mirrored bird hooks from Graham & Green.
Sticker clock by Graham & Green
This September will mark my fourth year living in charming England. My experiences have been beyond any expectation I have ever had. When I first met handsome man ‘o mine in 1996, I was completely taken by his demeanour. He was chivelress and any friend that has met him will confirm he continues to live up to that description – without fail. That meeting changed me. It is the reasons why I lead the life I currently lead. My braveness, I owe partly to the man I fell in love with over ten years ago – through letters written by hand and then that special meeting in person.
As a teenager, I would dream how my life might be if I could ever muster the courage and take the plunge. A plunge into the unknown world of living amongst British life of red letter boxes, dainty tea cups and weekend trips to villages so very quaint and picturesque. Dreaming about such excited me yet I often had questions of, ‘Why on earth would a girl uproot herself from America’s southland of cotton fields and stately homes when she did not even have the slightest clue as to what a creamed tea consisted of?”
I had a family tree rooted in the southern states of America and my childhood family vacations were planned around whether or not we could drive there by car. I had not stepped foot onto an airplane, fingered foreign money or even own a passport. Yet, long before I met handsome man ‘o mine, I knew my life would consist of more than what Mississippi had to offer. I fell in love with the idea of immersing myself in a culture that was not my own. Perhaps this dream was a wanted escape.
I remember family trips in my parent’s Jeep Cherokee tearing along the highways, my legs wedged behind my father’s seat, feeling the very bounds of my belly hurling forward amongst the bends in the roads, images playing vividly on the back of my eyelids. I imagined running, leaping over the cracks in the highway, feeling the burning sensation of the hot pavement through my glittery jelly shoes. I scampered through corn fields, darting through back yards of green bladed turf. It was as if I longed to go somewhere but at the time I wasn’t sure where or even when.
It was four years later, that I met Russell. A friend from my church youth group so fascinated with the Beatles, he insisted I love them equally. Listening to ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ amongst stacks of CD and magazine articles, I found an instant infatuation with the accents of the British. This obsession eventually cultivated to that of an anglophile.
It wasn’t until the winter of 1998 that I boarded a plane to London. One year after my first embrace with handsome man ‘o mine. That single trip planted a seed - a seed that later after years of nurturing grew uncontrollably like ivy to a stone wall. Tears flowed, curving my face and plummeting to my lap as I waved goodbye to the city and travelled back to Mississippi. I felt that leaving London was like leaving home. I had found a new place to hang my hat. Eventually, not even the fear of the unknown could stop me from beginning a new life in a new and different country five years later after marrying my first love.
I am still amazed I am here and each day is faced with a brave heart and a new outlook on life. I no longer fear life. I simply live it well and am happy that my life now suits me just fine. I owe it all to a few love letters - that handsome man 'o mine keeps safely in a decoupage box - and two hearts with one hope.
At times I can walk along the streets of London and completely become lost in culture and nearly forget the country in which I roam. The diversity of those in which I brush elbows so incredibly vast I am amazed at what the city offers.
The streets buzzing. A kaleidescope of colour and sound nearly overloading my senses and get I crave more as if an addiction I simply cannot kick. London is an incredible place. I am thankful I have the opportunity to experience it all, whenever I feel inclined. I am gradually becoming accustomed to British holidays like the celebration of St George's Day [pictured above]. It all adds so much to an already lovely experience.
A sneak peek at what I fell in love with today. I am on such a high after viewing this precious thatch cottage - absolutely on cloud nine. The thought of bunnies in our back yard, a place for my very own garden, wild flowers, fresh laundry drying in the sunhine, toasty winters in front of an open fire. Our very own Hansel and Gretel cottage (we found out that this property is owned by the Countess of Errol.... a countess....I am gobsmacked). It even had two small stables for that cream coloured pony I always wished for as a child...
It needs a little tenderness, love and care and we have just that. Whatever will be will be....
I adore London, the roaring city streets, the panache-ness,
glossy haired richness of Kensington, for instance. I adore the occasional trip
to overpriced salons where thirty-somethings parade in designer labels,
clutching their blackberry while a uniform of stylists and colourists are
circling like vultures and hankering for generous tips. How I adore the thought
of travelling lattes and lunch dates with conversation of European trips and
long stays in family owned villas. Four years on, I continue to feel slightly tourist-ish,
trying to refrain from impulsive photography of landmarks I have seen a dozen
times more.
And yet, at the same time, the English countryside captivates my heart and
momentarily, I forget the city.
'I cannot justify someone paying that kind of money in London for a glorified port-a-potty,' by this time I am relentlessly clicking my mouse,
hovering over websites homing properties selling for prices that I just cannot
get my head around.
"Who on earth can afford these properties?" By this time my voice is
reaching ultrasonic pitches.
With conversations like these smothering our weekend dinners of red wine and pasta, we may have come to the conclusion that country living and commuting may be our answer. My arm does not have to be twisted, please understand this to be true. When I think of living amongst small villages, quaint enough for a postcard - the idea sounds idyllic. Compelled to invest in wellies and a large dog for rambling walks is high on my list already and having miles of greenness excites me to no end. I shall need no convincing. One half hour train ride and we are back in the city. It is ideal.
Tomorrow, we plan to view a two bedroom character property – it could be our very own little thatched roof cottage. Yes, a straw-like roof. It’s incredibly Shakespeare and I am smitten at the idea.
Perhaps I am a country girl at heart. One thing is for sure - since living in England I have learned it is not the size of your home that makes it special.
[Pictured above are nearby cottages in our county for your viewing pleasure. The second photo once homed George Orwell from 1936 – 1940, when he was not travelling. He wrote Wigan Pier here and it is said the farm a few yards away is the one he had in mind when writing Animal Farm.]
At last, the weather is turning and the sun and all of its
charming glory has made an appearance - a promising appearance. For months on end I have longed for wine and
book reading in
Several weeks ago, I mentioned how being away from my family, especially my sweet niece can be difficult. The fear that she doesn't know me, that I am not a good aunt across the miles brings thoughts of sadness.
Those thoughts were quickly revived a few days ago when I received these photos of her...
How adorable is she? :)
These photos made me incredibly happy. Somehow, she knows she has an aunt and uncle far, far away that care for her immensely.I have to believe that. And, judging by these photos, she seems to like her princess castle we mailed for her birthday. I knew she would :) My kind of girl. :)
This morning we awoke to an April treat!
And, while I am incredibly ready for Spring, I cannot complain about such a lovely blanket of snow. It made our trip to the Ideal Home Show even more exciting.
I crave to be younger again. Not teenage youthful. You couldn't shell
out enough money for me to experience my teenage years again. Yes, Billy Madison
managed to get to live it again and become cool as well as get the girl
in the end. Despite his Trans-Am and nostalgic 80's t-shirts. Yet,
having been enlightened by Hollywood, I still say, no thanks. I mean
young and fresh as in an age where you are attaining some independence
and freedom, yet your mother is still a prerequisite. As I was walking around my local high street before my coffee date with Rach, for some peculiar reason, I reflected on my
favourite childhood possessions. I had recollected memories of my
purple and pink leotards that had matching legwarmers. Everyday after
school (and watching The Mickey Mouse Club), I would put those on and grab my ribbon wand and head to the backyard. My father is a man of few words.
However, the things that he did for me as a child, I will never ever
forget. One being, running an extension chord for my purple boombox to
my swing set so I could comprise dance routines to the Tiffany album in total costume. I was also a colossal fan of Debbie Gibson's Electric Youth and Three Dog Night (god knows why). My Glamour
look alike neighbour, Lori Hallmark (weird and wonderful how some names
you never put out of your mind), sold me her blue bike with seahorses
on the fenders and a massive white banana seat. I appreciated that bike. Second-hand or not. To
me it was the equivalent to a Delorean or Ferrari. Forget Barbie's pink
sports car. I had a banana seat. Not to mention, sparkly jelly shoes to
wear (and a leotard with legwarmers, don’t forget.) All the while,
I rode my bike with the banana seat. Are you getting a visual? Life was
good. Eventually, I was too grown up for the ribbon wand and nicked the
latest trend of glitter wands. I was one fashionable princess until the
day I tried to transform my banana seated bike into a unicorn with my
wand and it shattered to a million pieces. My life has never been the
same. I still look for glitter wands and unicorns on eBay to this day.
I would still do it all over again. Forget "Thirty and flirty and
thriving." I want to be eight.
