Deerlicious Dinner

My Mum and Dad have made it overseas!!

Currently, 50% of my family is in London, and I am loving it!

It is so nice to have my sister and my parents to frolic the streets and eat sticky toffee things with!

It is my dad's first time in London, and my mum's second - but really more like her first since she doesn't remember a thing about the few days she spent here as a 20 year old on a European tour. My mum's main concern is getting on the double decker red tour bus, and riding past Buckingham Palace. My dad's is how to avoid spending all day on the double decker red tour bus, riding past Buckingham Palace.

Sadly, I am at work all day so I won't be riding anything.

I am in charge of the evenings. Dinner, drinks, late-night walks. 3 things I can do very, very well. I started planning this week of food months ago, making sure to get reservations at all the best places. Since it was their first meal in England, I decided we needed to have dinner at a typical, British pub so they could try the world-infamous cuisine of England.

I heard several sources that the pub of all pubs was the Harwood Arms, and good luck getting a reservation unless you are the Queen mother. I may not be the Queen, but I am Lady Anna. So, using my charm, wit, and powers of persuasion, I secured a reservation - amiss the protest from my family.

My mum was worried the street wasn't cute enough and the reservation was too early. My sister thought it was a big mistake after looking up the sample menu, which did sound horrible with many strange animals poached or grilled with odd bits and bobs. But I trusted the raves reviews and insisted we go. And thank jolly goodness we did!

We arrived at the Harwood Arms to find the most adorable, dimly lit pub with flickering candles, worn wooden tables and mixed-matched patterned cushions. Moments after sitting down, we received two cloth baskets filled with warm bread and a slick slab of salted butter: 1 a potato loaf from Bourough Market, the other Irish Soda Bread made fresh in house. I started drooling from the smell alone.

We went through 4 bread baskets - that's a basket each. We could not stop eating this bread! I think the waitor found the whole thing quite amusing, as we theorized to him how delicious the bread would be as toast, as french toast, with nutella, on a pb&j....and how they should sell it to go. Our new BFF waitor kept bringing us basket after basket and drink after drink while we evaluated the menu...

Venison Steak, Pigeon Pie, Roasted Brill.... oh, how to choose when everything sounds so yucky yummy?

It really all sounded quite awful in the description. But the menu changes everyday, based on whatever is fresh and in season. So even though things don't sound appetizing, we knew they probably were. So we decided to divide and conquer. All try something different so we could taste more things.

I went for the poached cod, mum for the beef rib, dad for the pork belly, and Amanda planned on being very adventurous, and getting the pigeon pie.

But before doing so, she asked the waitor what pigeon tasted like.

His honest reply, which was an attempt to convince her to order this dish was,

"Imagine if you could taste the color grey"

Needless to say, Amanda went with the roasted brill instead.

We also tried the venison sampler as a starter, which arrived first on an enormous slab of tree, arranged like an art exhibition. The venison scotch egg was perched high on a nest of egg creates above 2 vension pates on toasted brioche. On the other side was two mini venison chops, and pudgy sausages adorned with sprigs of rosemary. To wash it down, 2 mini cups of venison broth.

Oh my, it was deerlicious! Who knew Bambi was so tasty?

After inhaling the bread and starter, we knew we were in for a treat when our mains came round. Anyone who says English food is bad has not been the Harwood Arms. We were in stange-meat heaven.

Of course, a Kloots would never stop there.

Next up was dessert! Fresh mint ice cream with bourbon cookies and candied popcorn for mum and dad, and cold rice pudding with elderflower, pears, and lemon curd donuts for me and mands.

Again, it sounded gross but was in fact, nothing short of heavenly.

Just when we thought things couldn't get any better, our waitor brought over a to-go bag with a huge hunk of their Irish Soda bread in it! There aren't even words to describe our joy and admiration. I can't get my mind off the loaf of bread wrapped up a few feet from me. I will certainly be having Irish-Soda dreams, and certainly be going back there often!

After all my doubt, I'm glad I trusted my instincts and gave this amazing place a shot! It was the perfect, welcome to London dinner to share with my family! I wish I could give the Harwood Arms a giant handshake and happily declare, "WELL DONE YOU!"

Willkommen to Munich!

Guten tag mein friends!!

After years of dreaming of eating a soft pretzel larger than my head, I am finally in Bavaria - and the Brezen and Beer are flowing like the Isar River!

My sister, Henrietta, and I arrived this morning, our blonde hair pulled back into braided buns, and looking sehr, sehr, German.

We are trying to fit in like locals here, and so we have given ourselves German names to aid us in our quest.

I going by Norberta, which means "Blonde Hero."

Amanda is Henrietta, which means "Ruler of the House."

We thought these names were extremely fitting. And to everyone else, this is a clear sign we are German, because what kind of lunes would pretend to have German names?

Henrietta took German in high school for 4 years, so she is especially convincing as a local Municher. Her German is fluent as long as we only have to say "hello," "thank you", and "2 pretzels please!" Unsurprisingly, we have not had to say much else yet!

Mein German is not so guten. I am just adding rt, ien, über, and frau to the english words for things.

We arrived and headed directly to the Marienplatz, where we planned to pick up Mike's Bikes Tours, to embark on a 4 hour bike ride around Munich. But first we needed a quick pre-bike breakfast, so we popped into the delicious looking Rishcart bakery to order our first Brezen.

We were overwhelmed with choices! Cheese brezen, croissant-brezen, brezen sandwhiches... the brezen options were amazing! But since it was our first day, and our first brezen - we went with the traditional, and it was das gut!!

A real, fresh, German bakery pretzel blows a dirty, stale New York streetcart pretzel out of the water! It's not even the same animal. This brezen was fluffy and chewy inside, with big chunks of sea salt adorning the golden crust. It was überdelicious!

We walked our brezen-filled bellys over to Mikes Bikes and took off on our tour, our braids blowing in the wind and clear blue skies!

James, our guide, biked us around the beautiful Bavarian streets, and into all the majors platzs, while sharing bits of information and history. We learned about various Konigs, all of which were named Ludwigs or Hans, and the churches and monuments. We eventually stopped in someplatz, and James told us to take 5 minutes to walk down a little street with a monument and then pop into the church. However, on the way to the street we spotted a good looking bakery and had a detour of picking out a knugen instead.

Krapfen, Lebkuchen, Baumkuchen, Gugelhupf .... how to choose! We kept getting passed up in line because we couldn't decide what we wanted to try, and didn't know how to order it. Finally Henrietta took charge by waving down the Frau, pointing at the strudel, and saying "ein"!

As we re-grouped, we had half an apfelstrudel in our hands and faces covered in powdered sugar, which gave James quite a laugh. Oh vell! Everyone else was sehr, sehr überjealoustein of our strudel.

Our glorious bike ride continued through the English Garten.

Who knew Munich had a garten bigger than Central Park? There is a beautiful stream flowing through the center of it, large bits of lawn, and various biergartens strewn throughout. It is uberpretty! The first thing we saw, however, was a group of men stripping down nude in the meadow! überyikes!! Our guide ensured us this was not unusual, particulary on a warm day.

We eventually hit the Chinese biergarten in the park, where we stopped for lunch. Extremely excited for our first biergarten, we jumped in line and got one of everything!

1 Weisswurst, 1 enormous dumpling swimming in a pool of gravy, salad, a big clump of Ozhban cheese, my first German beir and of course - an enormous Brezen. Everybite brought made us squeal in delight! German good is übergute!!

I have hated beer my whole life, but oddly upon arrival in Germany, it was suddenly delicious and refreshing and the perfect beverage to accompany a brezen! I got a Radler, which is a light beer mixed with Lemonade. A good starting point for a non-beer drinker.

Our plates started full to the brim, and ended licked clean. By the time our bike ride ended we were completely in love with Munchen, and had made friends with everyone on our tour, including our guide James.

Munich has a unique charm and a vibe unlike anywhere else I've been in Europe. The giant glokenspiel, the grown men walking around in Leiderhosen, the cross-thatched buildings and obsession with schnitzel.... it is überfun for two sister fraus to wonder around for the first time!

After an afternoon of pratice, Henrietta gave her German a real go at dinner. We arrived at the Austingliner Brewery, where James recommend we get some good Bavarian food. The place was packed with locals in their leiders! Even in our braids, we were clearly out of place. There appeared to be no hostess stand, so Henrietta bravely approached the nearest nice looking Frau and proudly declared "Enschulagen sie bitte, ich sprechen Englisch?"

The Frau gave her a look of disgust, shook her head no and fraued off. She sheepishly wandered back and we were so sad that we felt like leaving and finding another place for spatzel, when a nice herr came along and showed us to a quaint table for two in the back. Danke goodness for the herr!

We had so yummy German cuisine, including cheese spatzel, that tasted like mac n' cheese. But the highlight of our dietary diaster was of course, dessert.

We ordered the blueberry german pancake with ice cream and whip. We figured it would be delicious, and probably big enough for us to share, though we were doubtful.

30 minutes later, out came this.

The head of every frau turned and starred as the world's largest pancake passed by, and landed in the middle of our two jaw-dropped faces.

As he put down the pipping hot 5" high pancake, still in the skillet, covered in a thick coat of powdered sugar, and enclosing a giant scoop of quickly melting vanilla ice cream, we couldn't believe our luck. It was essentially an enormous popover filled with blueberries and ice cream.

To the shock and horror of everyfrau in the bierhaus, we ate it in it's entirety in 5 minutes flat.

We rolled ourselves back to our hotel room, and I passed out instantly and dreamed of world where nothing existing aside from brezen and pancakes.

Willkommen to Bavaria my friends!!!

Malshanger Murder Mystery

I spent the week-end in Malshanger House, a large manor home owned by Lord and Lady Coleman. And no, I am not kidding.

Lord and Lady Coleman are in fact title-bearers, and are heirs to the fortune of Coleman mustard, which is apparently a famous mustard brand. I had never heard of it, but I have never like mustard. I googled it and found this advertis-ment.

Their Lordships are kind enough to lend half of their home (and several jars of their mustard) out to the church for week-ends away. So I was first on the list when the country getaway was announced, and I spent the past weekend living a la Downton Abbey.

The lovely, massive, home we stayed in was purely for our use. I think it must have once housed servants, judging by the massive kitchen stocked with everyone to cook in bulk. Lord and Lady Coleman live next door, in the proper house. The house was massive with a lovely dining room, living room, and 10+ bedrooms all with proper names, like "The Rose Room" and such. I was in the Chinese Room, which I called the Chinese Torture Room because it was freezing. I forgot to pack my hot water bottle.

The 20 some of us on the weekend arrived to a roaring fireplace, homemade pizzas popping out of the oven, and what seemed like an unlimited supply of wine. We spent the evening carb-loading and chatting and playing games.

I joined in for a friendly round of Articulate!, which is basically the same game as Taboo except without the list of taboo words. There are cards with people, places, things, actions, etc on them that you must make people on your team guess, but you can say anything but the word to get people to guess it.

I thought this would be ridiculously easy, since there was no forbidden words! But imagine my shock when the first card I drew said "Stinging Nettle."

I have no idea what a stinging nettle even is!

It only got worse from there, when I got

"Snowdrop", "Duke of Wellington", and "ladybird"

How does one describe things when they haven't clue what they are?

I thought it might be easier when someone else from my team was doing the describing and I was simply guessing. But I failed to guess "paddling" when my teammate described it as "sort of puttering about in the shallow bits of the water"

It all made for a quite a laugh. I was a pretty Rubbish teammate, but I did get one English thing correct - Delia Smith. She's a big chef here who I know because of her insane baked goods recipes. My sugar obsession proves to be useful from time to time.

I was nearly ready to retire to my room, when someone cheerfully announced, "who's up for a midnight ramble?"

Although I thought, "a what?" something possessed me to say "me!" and that's how I ended up scared to death on a pitch black walk through the forest surrounding the grounds at 2am where we saw deer, owls, and bats. Or vampires - depending on what you believe.

At least the next time I play Articulate I will be set if "ramble" is on my card.

I was only tucked in bed a few hours before I had to wake up to help prepare breakfast.

There was quite a dispute between the group leaders about having a "proper cooked breakfast" or just cereal, toast, and fruit. The English consider a morning with a cooked breakfast a morning lost, but I did not mind setting out some yogurt rather than cooking up fatty sausages and frying eggs. I have tried to like an English breakfast, I really have, but it just gross. Everything about it is gross.

See below, starting from noon and going clockwise.

Black Pudding - blood cooked with a filler until it is thick enough to congeal when cooled. Now doesn't that just sound delicious?

Greasy Sausage, and fatty slices of cooked ham that they call bacon.

Eggs. Usually fried, but here they are scrambled. This is the only bit I can stomach.

Fried bread. Bread that has been sliced and fried in bacon fat. Also known as a slice of heart attack.

Fried tomatoes and mushrooms. Why not take the only healthy bit on the plate and destroy it's chance for adding nutritional value by frying it?

Baked beans. Keep them by the camp-fire, please. They don't belong at breakfast.

Needless to say, I was most grateful for a banana and granola in lieu of proper English breakfast.

The schedule made for the day was pretty full, but we had actual 20 minute breaks for tea time where tea and biscuits were served. It is still hilarious to me that the English would never consider planning a schedule without allotting a slot for "tea team".

We also had a few hours of free time to do whatever we liked in the afternoon. So since it was the most beautiful, clear blue skied day, I joined in on the team going on an afternoon run - which was only 5 of the 30 of us. The others hung around chasing the sheep on the grounds, drinking tea, and napping.

It was so wonderful to breathe in clean country air! The run, although creating jabbing pains everywhere in my body, was beautiful. The path we ran down was surrounded by massive, spanning fields with horses nibbling on grass and ancient trees rising high up, we passed a barn with roosters clucking about, and a little cottage that looked like it had popped out of a fairytale and onto the road.

It was such a beautiful and picturesque place, it made me never want to come back to London. I could be very happy becoming a Lady myself and living in a manor house like Malshanger. I wouldn't even need a maid or a cook or a chauffeur, like they have in Downton Abbey. Just the title and the land would do.

My Downton Abbey fantasy was taken a step further as the evening approached, and we all put on our 1920s fancy dress and began the Murder Mystery Game and Dinner.

I am always impressed with how in-character men can get. Everyone of the guys was dressed in a suite or tux, hat, one even wearing an old tails coat that was his "gran-dads." Simply brilliant.

We had quite a good time wineing and dining and pretending to murder each others. Since the characters were all mobsters in New York, I got to hear everyone's (crap) American accent. The game, that should have only been about 45 minutes went on for hours and ended with a dancing of the Charleston in the common room.

The weekend away was such a lovely and much needed escape. To leave the hustle and bustle and be able to run through green fields with sunshine on your face and farm animals running about was heaven. I even heard the Rooster cock-a-doodle-do this morning. I wasn't sure if that was even a real thing before today.

I live in a house full of Brits, but spending the weekend in a massive, English manor house with 30 Brits took it to a whole different level. I was in constant laughter as ridiculous things were being said left and right and the cultural differences became more and more apparent. You'd think after 4 months the novelty of the accent and language would wear off, but all it takes is someone to refer to a minivan as a "people carrier" to send me into a fit of laughter.

It's certainly a different world over here. With manor homes and midnight rambles, whetabix and blood-themed cusine. I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to some of the things or feel I am at home, but I could definitely get used to scheduling a time to sip tea and eat biscuits every afternoon - so I'll cheers to that! With my pinky out, of course.

A Victorian Afternoon

So much for Spring - yesterday it was bloody freezing and pouring rain!

As an added bonus - the boiler in our flat is broken, so there was been no hot water or heat since Friday morning. Jolly Good!

I thankfully have the gym to shower at - as unclean as a shower there is. My flatmate's however have resorted to several trips to the kitchen to warm water in the kettle and dumping into a tub to draw a bath. It's just like the olden days.

I only got 4 hours of sleep Sunday night, was woken up at 7am by the plumber who failed to the fix the boiler, and then endured an hour-long, particularly excruciating total body conditioning class taught by a trainer who I refer to as the polish pain-inducer. When I walked outside hoping to find sunshine and daffodils, I instead stepped into a giant puddle that throughly soaked my little, black oxford and promptly turned my 5 left toes into popsicles.

That all would be enough to send most people right home, into bed, to curl up with their hot water bottle and drink tea for the rest of day. But I am not most people.

I grabbed my umbrella, shook out my shoe and headed for the tube.

I had realized yesterday was the first Sunday of the month. And, on the first Sunday of the month, and only the first Sunday of the month - I found out it is possible to go back in time. Back to 1882 to be exact. The Victorian Age of London.

Back to the age of Dickens and Darwin and Gothic Revival architecture. Back to an age of bustles, and riding habits, and gaiters. Of prudery, strict moral conduct, and debauchery. In London - Queen Victoria was leading what would be the longest reign of a monarch in history, and in Paris Gustave Eiffel was getting ready to whip up the Eiffel tower! So I figured it was worth battling the rain out to Bethnal Green, to the historical little building called the Ragged School Museum.

The school opened in 1877 after a wealthy doctor named Thomas Barnardo, saw a need to help the poor children in the East End of London who were working as chimney sweeps and matchbox girls. So, he opened this "ragged school" where children could get a free basic education. The school functioned for 31 years before it closed and educated thousands of children, giving them a chance for a better life until government schools finally opened in the area.

The buildings that were the school were turned into a museum in 1990. Today, you can visit the museum and for a mere £2, travel back to 1882 for Victorian-style lesson in the classroom at the Ragged School.

I was the only person that was not under the age of 5, or accompanying someone under the age of 5, in the class. But that didn't stop me from taking a front row seat at the worn, wooden desk and taking in the perfect details of the room around me.

Creeky floorboards, an abacus in front of the yellowing map of Britain, a portrait of Queen Victoria on the wall, and large blackboards framing the podium-like desk where the teacher, Miss Perkins, stood in full, Victorian costume.

We were to be Victorian-age children. Chimney sweeps and matchbox girls, too poor for any food but the pea soup and bread we got for lunch at school, with tattered clothes and a thick layer of dirt under our fingernails. Thankfully, I took high school drama.

Class began with attendance, each person standing and clearly stating their name and receiving a compliant about their untidy appearance, followed by an inspection of everyone's hands to check for cleanliness.

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness" we repeated aloud after Miss Perkins.

Though I was freshly manicured - my Essie polished nails got disapproving stares.

"It must be removed by tomorrow - along with the finery. No finery in school," barked Miss Perkins in my face.

"Yes Miss, " I replied, eyes downcast in shame.

Many other students got in similar trouble for their finery (jewelry) as well - so I felt better.

Class proceeded with a posture check, and the passing out of pencils, boards, and rags for our writing lesson.

After reciting the alphabet forwards and backwards, we had to copy it exactly as it was written on the board. I was quite pleased with my copying of her curvy letters, assured I would be praised - but Miss Perkins did not approve.

"Were you so pleased with yourself when you got to the end that you decided to make the Zed enormous," she asked me through pursed lips?

The adults all had a laugh in between each of her snippy remarks, but it was so cute to see the little children, sitting with their backs perfectly straight, staring forward, and visibly terrified to talk, even though they knew it was all a game.

Miss Perkins continued about the room with her short wooden stick, slapping it suddenly on the desks she passed as she reprimanded us.

"No Fidgeting"

"Back Straight"

"No frivolity"

After reading and writing, we worked on our speech by repeating some phrases....

"Silence is Golden"

"There is no fun like work"

"Procrastination is a thief of time."

And our spelling, by spelling aloud items of clothing...

"SASH. S-A-S-H"

"SHAWL. S-H-A-W-L"

We ended with a short arithmetic lesson, and a review of the Sterling Money Chart.

We were encouraged that should we learn our arithmetic, we could have a chance to become a clerk, which is far better than sweeping chimneys.

The lesson was a full 30 minutes, and Miss Perkins did not break character for a moment.

I was melting inside it was all so cute.

I have always had a serious case of the golden-age syndrome. I've always wished I could live in a different time, and thought how much more charming life would have been back then in the days of perfect manners and fancy outfits. But I left class quite thankful for growing up in Ohio in the 1990s instead of Bethnal Green in the 1880s.

Although I thought I left 1882 when I left the Ragged School, I came home to find my flatmates bundled in scarves, hats, and thermal vests because of the total lack of heating, and found the same thing tonight when I got back from the gym. I literally don't need to put my perishables in the fridge because the house is the same temperature, and the part needed to fix our boiler is on order so there is no end in sight.

So the four of us are cuddled up on the couches in our common room, wearing several pairs of socks, coats, sharing blankets, and clutching our hot water bottles, shivering. We've all made space-heaters out of our hairdryers by putting them sideways on a book and aiming the nozzle at our faces while we sip tea. We also all haven't been able to use the shower since Friday, so we're a sorry sight to see and stinky bunch to smell, to say the least.

I'm so close to my office, I briefly considered taking some blankets over and sleeping at my desk, but decided instead is just to take some sleeping pills and keep the hairdryer on until they kick in. Hopefully they will knock me out for the duration of the night so I don't wake up because of the sound of my own teeth chattering.

Sweet, frosty dreams everyone.

London in Bloom

March is here, and it was an incredibly gorgeous day in London town with clear, blue skies and sunshine like I haven't seen before here.

Living in constant grey skies, you forget how the sun feels on your skin; how it warms your whole body within seconds and instantly improves your mood. I wish I could bottle it and keep it in my purse for daily use.

March marks the 4th month of my life in England, and the beginning of spring.
Goodbye, winter - I can't say I'm sorry to see you're frosty winds and chilly nights pack up and head for the hills for the duration of my time in the UK.

I love spring. I love the slow shedding of wool coats, knitted scarves, and pom-pom topped hats that it brings.
I love the sight of flowers popping up where you never knew they were, and cheerful pinks and greens appearing in the shop windows - even though they replace giant SALE signs.
My shopping sights shift to bikinis and sandals, even though it will be months still before I can wear them, and I have a sudden desire to freshen my blonde highlights, wear oversized sunglasses, and fake bake.

I have so much to look forward to this Spring, that I find myself especially excited for what's in store.
Starting with weekend at a manor home in Baisingstoke, complete with a 20s-themed fancy dress party. My boss from New York visits afterwards - which sounds like a weird thing to be excited about but since I adore her I am thrilled, and I foresee a lot of fun while she's in town. Then my sister comes, and we head to Germany to have pretzel-eating adventures as we skip all over Munich with our hair in braids and our arms linked.
My parents will be here to welcome the month of April, and off we will fly to Holland, where I will fullfill my lifelong dream of frolicing through the Keukenhof Gardens in full bloom, wearing wooden shoes and a bonnet and a belly full of panoekoen!! Bring on spring!

I'm excited to see the life that Spring brings in London too. To explore Hyde Park in sunny splendor instead of winter wrath. To see outdoor tables appear on the quaint streets and drink my Strongbow at the wooden benches outside the pub instead of snuggled near the fireplace inside.

I am also looking forward to spring because I am already dreaming of the end of lent.
I have chosen to give up sweets of all kinds this year, and thank goodness I did because some recent events would have usually sent me straight into several pints of Ben n Jerrys, but I resisted and went for soothing tea instead. I am totally becoming English.

I am officially 10 days sugar-sober. Don't ask me how I'm doing it - because I honestly have no idea.
I survived in France by just eating absurd amounts of cheese in lieu of sweets, but since I have been back in England I have been eating as I normally do, just without dessert. I have found rice cakes helpful in my withdrawl. I think this is mostly because they have the word "cake" in them so I on some level I can trick myself into thinking it is a dessert, even though it tastes like air. But it's been a daily struggle.

I had a meeting in South Kensington yesterday around lunch time, so I was excited to go somewhere exciting to get a tasty, healthy lunch. I wandered into a lovely little spot called "Muriel's Kitchen," which is known for healthy, homemade food, and found myself starring at the following....

homemade berry meringues

warm raisin scones

banofee and chocolate chip cupcakes

jam-filled "duffins" which stands for a donut/muffin

Raspberry and cream cupcakes

Heavenly looking Victoria Sponge Cake

mini lemon meringue pies

Can you imagine how I felt leaving with a salad instead of one of everything above?

Empowered, yes. But also extremely depressed.

Today at the Borough Market things weren't any easier. Not only was I surrounded by drool-worthy brownies, ice cream, fudge, and turkish delight, but everyone was giving free samples! Shoving bits of sponge in my wide-eyed face and loudly shouting, "fancy a tester miss?"

And I had to say no, thank - really, no I don't want any free chocolate- covered things, when inside I was screaming, "YES I FANCY A TESTER!!!!"

Instead I left with loads of fresh fruit, and a rather tasty Veggie Burger, and walked all the way along the Embankment home to Chelsea, which took nearly two hours but was so lovely it felt like 2 minutes. I stopped at the Satchi Gallery for a taste of some culture - attempting to curb my sugar craving with art. It worked for a few minutes.

After living here for nearly 4 months now, I feel like I really know my way around and I've come find a lot of the staples of British life essential. I wonder how I ever did without them...

Like amazing, free museums on every corner that you can pop into for a dose of culture.

Like the hot water bottle I purchased a month ago at Boots, that may well be the best £7 I have ever spent, and is the only reason I didn't get frostbite in my sleep in my freezing flat.

Like a hot cup of tea with a splash of milk and sugar cube or 4, drank with your pinky out, of course.

Like the friendly phrase, "cheers!" which is the perfect way to say thank you.

Like Marks & Spencer. Where one can buy perfectly portioned little meals (and sticky toffee puddings) for every night of the week. I have not cooked a single thing, or had to do dishes in 4 glorious months.

Like the local pub, where you go after every event in life here to bond over pints and chit chat with strangers who are quite literally mad.

Like living with flatmates, who have become a sort of mix-matched family to me when my own is so terribly far away.

Even the Chemist, who's knowledge of "capsules" is un-riveled, and who has sold me so many various pills in the past 4 month, that I had to convince him for a full 20 minutes that I am not a drug addict before he would sell me some Nyquil. Slightly irritating - but it's good to know that people are looking out for you.

And most of all I've found essential the wonderful phrase, "Keep Calm and Carry On," which is applicable to nearly every situation in life.
Chin up, pinky out, carry on through the chaos.

And so I do.