Stu..stu...studio

A couple of weeks ago I was taking a shower. This was post scrubbing a Cat-In-The-Hat style ring from the tub (PS had no idea what the book was even talking about until I moved out of the family home because Mer is such an amazing housekeeper). There I was, shin-deep in shower water from the clogged drain contemplating whether or not I would have time to shave before the tub overflowed, when my thoughts were rudely interrupted by the showerhead slamming into my skull. After I gingerly reattached it by dangling it precariously from the screw (it would later fall off and hit me in the head 2 more times…) and stomped [splashed] out of frustration, fear shot through me. I could have died! Ok, I’m being dramatic… But seriously, what if that had knocked me out cold? No one would have known. My fall would have been muted by the foot of dirty – er, soapy? – water cushioning my tub. And then I would have drowned. Asphyxiated by my own abandoned filth. Gross. What a way to go… That very night I started looking online for a new flat. On my blackberry…because the internet that I pay for doesn’t reach my room. So, until I became cross-eyed I searched and searched for a new abode. Nothing. Whatever. I was being dramatic anyway… this was my year to be bohemian. My flat is cheap and in a great location. I mean, I just found a butcher! In any case, mostly what I hated was the bathroom. I dreaded it. So I found the perfect solution: shower less. [Mer just shuddered and closed her laptop in shame.] I’m sorry, Mom. I probably shouldn’t admit that this is the conclusion that I came since French Guy (FG) a colleague, friend, stalker and [after a weekend trip to Brussels last week] travel buddy, is one of the 3 subscribers to my blog and also happens to accuse me of smelling bad on a regular basis. He prefers to speak to me at work via communicator rather than approach my desk. He has also been dying for a cameo in my blog. Consider this your debut, FG.

This is a picture of the candlelit shower I had to take last night because the fuse blew in the bathroom almost a week ago and still no one has come to fix it... Please note the excessive number of bottles. That would be due to the excessive number of people sharing the bathroom (5).

So I decided to love my flat and maybe save money. Really, the only reason I hate my flat (besides the bathroom) is that I want to live alone. It feels selfish, but I do. I recounted the number of housemates I have had in the past 8 years since I graduated HS:

v Freshman year of college: shared a small room with a random person (who turned out to be great)

v Sophomore year of college: shared a tiny bedroom in a sorority with 2 people

v Junior year of college: lived in a sorority with 60 other girls

v Senior year of college: shared a house with 8 other people (8 great people…and a bunny)

v Mexico City: 5 male housemates

v London: 2 (very lovely) British housemates

v Current: 4 housemates aaand one freeloader

And I really loved all those experiences…and never really felt that I needed personal space, but now I am almost 26 and I don’t want to live in a mini-frat house. I actually would with the right people, but anyway I hope to have a future filled with housemates someday: husband, kids, dogs, free-loaders, convalescent parents…whatever - all welcome in my home.

I just want a moment to be alone and find out that I’m not that great of a person and need lots of other people to make me better. So… I found a studio! I know, studios are creepy. I agree. Like a dorm room for adults who, prior to realising they could only afford a dorm room, thought they made a decent living. But this studio isn’t so scary: it has a separate kitchen, separate bathroom, lofted storage and the bed area is slightly raised so, pending a sheet or Japanese screens, it’s a separate sleeping area. It has a bay window (double-glazed – KEY in this land of old house and drafty madness) that looks out onto a tree-lined street. It also came furnished. Which is a blessing and a curse since the furnishings involve lots of bamboo. Eeee. It was a really good deal. And when I say really good, I mean terrible. Rip off, really. But a great deal for London. So on 20 November I will finally be an adult. Maybe…

Cheers-giving

Quickie Complaint

I like to live like the natives: frizzy scarecrow hair, an alarming number of scarves and pashminas and a penchant for the occasional whine. Today's tutting has to do with my disappointment in the severe paucity of bank holidays. I mean, sure... I got 25 days paid vacation. Prospectively. With no prior work experience. Whatever. Wait, I digressed. I forgot I was going to complain specifically about the need for a "Thanksgiving" here. There is no buffer between Halloween and Christmas, thus immediately after Halloween (and often, just before) stores begin selling and suiting up in Christmas gear. It's horrifying. I am barely finished mourning the loss of summer and seeing the light of day before and after work and here they are... throwing Christmas cheer in my face. I love Christmas because, thanks to Thanksgiving, it is a rare little jewel that is unearthed for a very pleasant and moderate amount of time from the end of November to the beginning of January (maybe that is just in my house...because Mom takes down the decorations December 26th). Now it's not just a season...it's like a bloody semester. Anyway, I just can't help but wonder: can't they give me a long weekend at the end of November to thank the colonials for curry or something? I mean, the least you can do if you are going to oppress whole people groups and steal the best bits of their culture is take a day or two off work in their honour. My goodness. Have they no decency?

10 killin' metres

Note: A month from tomorrow I turn 26, after which I will be come a responsible adult and my posts will be amazing, insightful, mature and, more importantly, regular…because I will have my whole life sorted by then. Obviously.

Until then, my life and posts will remain erratic and shallow.

Epilogue…

Many moons ago I ran a 5k with people from work to raise money for breast cancer. I did without any training and it was a breeze…ish. So, like my other mistake (with the wardrobe), I took a simple task, overestimated my abilities and agreed to take on a more difficult task: a 10k. (Side note: when I was young and unemployed – ie 2 years ago – I had time to train and ran one easily…this was so feasible.) Not only did I agree to the 10k, I organised it: another run to raise money to support cancer research. Magnanimous.

Last Sunday I ran this race. I trained for it….lemmesee…1 time. No, twice: the 5k I ran mid-July and then one time when I ran for 20 minutes in Hampstead Health, got a cramp and decided instead to enjoy the lovely scenery, fresh air all the people walking their dogs…at a leisurely pace. The race was…well, 10 kilometres. I ran it in an hour. Which I thought was good considering there were so. many. hills. Especially at the very end, when I had just about enough ATP left in my body to not die. Let’s blame the course: Like my tidy rail, it was poorly designed. You couldn’t see the finish line until about the last 50 metres. The last km was killer. Probably because I’m pretty sure it was longer than a kilometre and someone had accidentally switched to miles when they were measuring it. It was also up hill. And you were all alone (no fans cheering, no friendly faces, just the odd volunteer wishing you a half-hearted “you’re almost there!” Wait. I take back the exclamation point). Suddenly, after lots of trees and grass, a dinosaur park, etc., you were running along on what resembled a highway on-ramp. No finish line. Just some empty promise that this was the last kilometre. Normally, (and when I say “normally”, I am drawing on the wealth of experience I have gained from the sum total of 2 races I have run) I speed up the last km and then sprint…ish the last 500m. Not this time. I felt like I was going to die on this on ramp alone right before the end. But I finished. Flo, who came 10 minutes late to the race, caught up to me and ran 7/10 of it with me, abandoned me at the end and beat me. We all rewarded ourselves with some Moroccan beer and so-so French-Algerian food.

Flashback: Saturday night before the race. To prepare for the big day that not one person in my office had actually prepared for in the physical sense, we performed the following recommended ritual: Met at my local wine bar (my choice…because the laundromat is next door so I could simultaneously bond, hydrate and wash my sheets) and prepped for the 10k by drinking 3 bottles of wine and then going out for noodles at a Korean place nearby at 11pm. Race started at 11am the next day and we had to leave our houses by 9am to be there.

Success? Indeed. Bring on the marathon...

DIY: The lyin', witch of a wardrobe

Basking in the afterglow of a one-off success with building the tidy rail in about 15 min + a tiny break to go to the wine bar down the street with my flatmates, I got a little cocky. The tidy rail might have begun collapsing inwards, but that nothing to do with my poor workmanship and everything to do with design and mammon. It was cheap and flimsy…and I put too many of my worldly possession on it. Anyway, my oasis of calm (ie my tiny bedroom) was beginning to become a bit of a misnomer as only one side of the room possessed zen-like features, whilst the other side was a pit of avaricious despair and chaos (see picture below). Instead of acknowledging that I have too many material possessions and giving them away, I very opportunistically purchased an additional giant wardrobe from Homebase when they had a 30% off sale. A slightly larger project, but I was a veteran. I had built a tidy rail whilst chatting about touring Japan (the others, not me)…without really looking at the directions. I was Bob the bloody Builder*.

*Fun Fact: Bob the Builder is totally British. Who knew? But it makes perfect sense. In the homeland, they don’t call people in construction “builders”… If he was American he would have been Carl the Construction Worker.

Anyway, wardrobe is delivered…by two men (because of the 2 large boxes involved). I offered them the obligatory cup of tea. Refused. I should have been worried by the fact that I have almost caused irreparable damage to some poor delivery guys’ vertebrae. But I am not. I am amazing. I will open the box after work because I can totally have this thing built and populated before I go to bed. I open the box after work and pull out some things. Whoa. I close the box. This will have to wait for the weekend. This is not as simple as they make it look online. Or as the tidy rail. I feel lied to. Deceived. I can't do it myself. Sheet.

Friday night: This is on. I got some music, my pocket knife from the Target dollar spot (my tidy rail didn’t even require that!) – I am ready. I spent the whole of Friday night completing one step. One. Out of 17. By the end of the day Saturday I have completed 5 out of the 17 steps and my pocket knife/screw-driver has been ground down to a useless peg. Sunday evening I complete step 6. I retire, leaving the pictured unfinished project very rudely in my living room for the rest of the week. (I was super busy an important last week.)

Thanks to my very wonderful and generous grandmother who heard my desperate plea via facebook status, a very kind donation allowed me to purchase the necessary tools to build my wardrobe. It’s a very imposing structure and, once I post a picture, you will clearly be able to see why it took almost a week and a half to complete it. Further, bar the giant gap between the two doors…and the nails that missed the wood and are sticking precariously through the back waiting to rip holes in my clothes, you can hardly tell it wasn’t done by a professional.

Home is where the hard water is...

Traveler’s Tip: If you see a puddle – any puddle...any...where... – assume it is urine. I really love London, so it’s out of affection when I refer to it as “the world’s urinal”. Sometimes I like to follow the stream (weird habit, I know) to see where it originated and am horrified by its extremely public genesis. In broad daylight.

Quote of the week: PPS Now in the V&A (Victoria and Albert Museum). Just saw mother and daughter dressed in matching floral dresses and gloves. But they were 30 and 50. It was creepy. –CJB via text

Dwelling on it...

Ah my flat, my new home. New...to me that is. My feelings towards the place are mixed. For the last month we have been in that kind of “is this going anywhere?” stage in our relationship. I really wonder if there is a future in it. N should welcome it – really deflects attention away from directing the same question at him. Lots of pros...lots of cons (none of them recently escaped or anything...that I’m aware of). Let’s start with the good. It has cut my commute down by 30-45 minutes...each way. The number of exchanges have been reduced from 3 to 0. And it’s way cheaper. (More money to travel? Shop? Donate? Er...save?) I have very great flatmates. One is a chef so I come home to big dinners and freshly baked cakes. But there are a lot of them – well, 3...but that is a lot of people on one small space. Sharing one bathroom. And the smallest “full-sized” fridge of all time. (It’s the kind of fridge people have as a backup...in their garage...to house their beer.) I have a nice, big window in my room (that never really shuts all the way) and lets in lots of sunlight and street noise (Cough: The #N28 and N31...running all night long! Every 15 minutes!). It really is nice in the morning. The big, sunny window and my nice, new neutral coloured, John Lewis sheets really make my room feel like a zen place. I stretch, I welcome the day, thank God for my blessed life and feel at peace with the world... Until I turn my head to the left. On the other side of the room is...chaos. Basically, I have too many material possessions (Where is Thoreau when I need him?). I came to London with 2 suitcases and nearly 2 years later I have...3 cab trips worth of crap accumulated from my time at the last flat. Storage in the new room consists of a bedside table, a dresser with 3 drawers...and a wardrobe (ie a giant faux wooden box with a hanging rail...). Solid. So I supplemented all that luxury by purchasing a DIY tidy rail with shelves. That organisational eyesore is now sagging either under the weight of my clothes or do its overall crappy design. Me thinks it is a combination of the two. I’m also sad because I used to have a whole floor (as in level of my house...not floor space) dedicated to guests at my old place (big, private and furnished with a very luxurious inflatable mattress on an as-needed basis). Guests will now have to rest somewhere between the zen place (my bed and window) and the collapsing tidy rail. Have I sold you? It’s fine though...I’m just keeping my eye open for something better – a very bad habit of mine...something that, again, N benefits from the deflected attention J. But it doesn't matter where I live... I will always have my beloved hard water, that minerally goodness that hydrates all of London - which also means a lifetime of fuzzy tea kettles and bad hair.

Break of dawn baking

Alas, we had to say goodbye to our interns – which doesn’t really affect me as I’m barely above an intern myself – so they took us all out to drinks at the The Fig Tree in Uxbridge. Expect no review on the place as no place in Uxbridge really merits a review... All a long prelude as to why I woke up and baked banana bread at 5am (the only thing that I had that was homemade all week – how sad and urban of me). I got home late from the aforementioned goodbye drinks and could not be bothered to make the banana bread I promised (out of the kindness of my heart... and desperation to eradicate the fruit flies that had begun congregating around the rotten bananas in my kitchen) to bring to the interns’ leaving lunch (needy little buggers... as if drinks weren’t enough!). Lucky for me, I could keep my promise; I woke up at 4 and could not go back to sleep (severe dehydration from the un-quaffable fruits of the Fig Tree?), so I finally gave up and got up at 5am on Friday morning to make said banana bread as the sun rose. It was romantic, in a desperate housewives kinda way...except that DHs have immaculate fruit fly-free kitchens...and dishwashers. And they shower more than 3 times a week. Kidding. Sort of...

Eating-out of Africa

The banana bread was pretty much all I cooked for myself last week. I was busy this week finishing up work before my holiday (next week) so I either scratched up old leftovers, picked up some nice ready-meals from M&S (3 for £5!) or went out. Last night I went to an Eritrean restaurant near Westbourne Park tube station with some of N’s friends: Mosob, 339 Harrow Rd. Highly recommend it. It is filed under London’s best cheap eats by many. Mmm... er, would we call it cheap? Ok, by London’s standards, it’s relatively cheap. But it’s not like under £5 cheap...or even under £20 cheap (it was £22pp). However, by the end of it, we were coma-inducingly stuffed by the surfeit of food...and we had drinks. The tab also included a really great atmosphere in a family-run restaurant. The servers were great (albeit slow), and they really don’t hold it against you that you probably did not even know that Eritrea was a country before you came. But you will know that it is when you leave...as well as the capitol city (Asmara) and the joys of injera, the traditional sponge-like Ethopian/Eritrean flatbread that is used to mop up all the spicy meat and/or bean stews, flavourful spinach, cabbage and other food piled on top of it. So much food. And if you’re a vegetarian...you need to order the vegetarian platter. Otherwise you will be stuck with a meal that a lot of animals had to die for. The best way to do it is to order huge sharing platters and scoop, sop, mop – whatever - up all the food that is piled on the injera with your hands...and some supplemental injera rolls. Not the best place for a first date...or dinner out with someone who is ill or cootie-ridden* (like we did - sharing with two sick people... And N had the gall to ask for me for hand sanitizer after we shook their hands after leaving. My response: Ummm you stuffed your fat faces with food from the same giant plate... using your bare hands – whatever.), but amazing for a group of people who don’t mind making a mess and enjoying really good ethnic food. One of my favourite things about London is the limitless number of ethnic restaurants serving food from places you probably didn’t know existed, let alone have tried the local cuisine before. And often they have amazing food that is not that expensive and is staffed by friendly, helpful people who love sharing their food and culture with you. Except in Chinatown. The food is great, but they really just want your money. You can worry about the culture somewhere else... J

*Fun fact: Cooties in England are lurgies.

This just in!: Male housemate just texted to say that the hot water in the flat is broken. But being the chivalrous man-of-the-house that he is, he has promised to take care of it. Swoon.

Up Next:

· Notting Hill Carnival: I’m going to be gone on the main day (Monday) so I will have to settle for the “family friendly” day (Sunday). Boo. But I am excited. North Eastern Africa last night, Carribbean tomorrow (http://www.thenottinghillcarnival.com) ...and Eastern Europe on Monday!

· Budapest: Heading off to Hungary for 4 days on Monday. It’s a bank holiday on Monday so I took off Friday to make it a full week which makes it 9 days of no work. It was much needed – I mean, I haven’t had this much time off since I went to the US for 2 weeks in July (I know, I know...but please, put away your violins...I will cope... I always do...)

Drama Queen

Fun fact: "Waldo" is "Wally" in the UK. Well no wonder I couldn't find him...

DID:

All My Sounds

A couple of weeks ago N and I went to see the Arthur Miller play All My Sons. An excellent Arthur Miller onion that started off like a Norman Rockwell painting, soon peeled away to American Gothic, and then eventually pared down to a tragedy highlighting the futility of serving the gods of American dream: family and fortune. I, myself, living the American dream in my 3 bedroom flat with 3 other people - white barred windows, 0 cars in the garage, 0 kids, pruning my window-box garden - can obviously relate to the whole scenario at this point in my life. Anyway, I love seeing shows, but when it comes to seating it’s quantity over quality. I would rather be sat in many different seats at many different shows than have good ones. Besides, the tiny baby swing-sized bleacher seats keep my diet and hips in check.

So there we sat, our seats hovering somewhere on the brink of an out of body experience and vertigo, watching over the show from a heavenly perspective. Nosebleeds. No matter- the play was amazing irrespective of the overhead vista. An amazing set; I actually forgot I was a cherub peeking down through an oculus in the Pantheon. And because we sit in the cheap seats, we compensate for not relaxing in a luxurious box by packing a somewhat luxurious lunchbox of wine, cheese, crackers, charcuterie and marinated olives, anchovies...basically any fruit of the earth that can be delightfully suspended in oil and spices. At one point it was a really intense moment; the whole theatre was silent. I leaned forward with bated breath. Heavy chink. No, sorry...heavy clank/thud. Our empty wine bottle (half-bottle, judgers...) is now rolling...grinding against the uneven ground. Horror. I'm totally the Philistine in the cheap seats ruining the moment with cellophane and empty bottles. But that’s what you get for entertaining the masses.

Sister Mary Halitosis

A little less cultured than my A.Miller adventure (in both theatrical splendour and absence of a my standard forbidden fare) I had dim sum at PingPong and went to Sister Act the musical with my former manager. Our last hurrah before she left me for abbey-brewed beer and a bigger salary in Brussels. There was also the Whoopi factor. The former Delores Van Cartier is working the musical in London for 3 weeks only. Obviously we had to get tickets for opening night. The musical was fun – not because it was the best musical of all time but more because everyone was so excited about Whoopi that the audience was very interactive and into the show. Also there were sequins habits. Enough said. The sparkling nun-suits were almost enough to dazzle and distract me from the only truly bad part of the show: the brain damage I sustained from lack of oxygen that resulted from the acrid puffs of suffocating fetor being exhaled by the large woman next to me as she yucked it up. The prolonged asphyxiation might have done irreparable damage to my brain- but it also probably helped me enjoy the show. You know, kept me lightedheaded...and hearted. The kind of constitution that is good for making whoopee...

DUD:

Shakespeare in line

I’m late for everything. Fact. However, I do respect 2 powers beyond my control. I always offer the sacrifice of my punctuality on the altar of the train and theatre timetables. They don’t wait for me. I can’t explain my way back into their good graces. They are unyielding like that. Rude. Last weekend N and I were going to see Shakespeare’s As You Like It at the Old Vic. I bought amazing tickets for £10 on lastminute. I also made the mistake (as I often do) of not checking the tube lines. Actually, that’s not true. There is always some line closed on the weekend. Or, since I moved to my new flat, every line closed on the weekends. But honestly, they usually give me at least one line to work with (the crappy, old met line) and shut down the jubilee. Not this last past weekend. Sadly, I even left an hour early (should take 30 minutes top) so I could shop and pack my usual prohibited picnic in my purse. I texted N to remind him not to be late. I checked the jubilee line- closed. Son-of-a shrew. I assumed the other was running. Mistake. Long story short, I knocked over a few old ladies, glared at mothers who let their babies run free as I hopped over them, I danced around and rolled my eyes as I waited in line to board the bus aaaaaand I missed the show. By 5 minutes. Fail. All was remedied by a hearty pub lunch and elderflower fizz at the glorious Anchor & Hope pub just down the street from the theatre on The Cut. So, £24 and two tickets later I’m going again this weekend.

DEEP...ish:

Here is the church, here is the steeple, open all the doors and flee from the people...

I’m not cool at church. I mean, being a churchgoer doesn’t make you cool in Europe, so the least you can do is be cool at church. Have friends, sharpen each other’s iron. All that good stuff. N and I have been attending the same church together for over a year (and me for almost 2) and we have, hmmm lemme count... 0 friends. We’ve mastered the art of the late entrance, back row skulking and surreptitious slip out the back somewhere between final prayers/ songs and charismatic healing/vision prayers. One time, as we were leaving, we looked around at the large number of diverse and cool people hanging around, talking, encouraging each other and we were like “Why don’t we make friends with these people? They believe the same thing we do? What are we doing?” That made me feel guilty for a couple of weeks. I recovered.

Then last week our friend Flo came with us (yes, point for me - bringing a work colleague) and as we left she was like “So... do you just...go in and then come out?” As in... why don’t we stay and talk to people? Um, probably because that would consist of us staying after and talking to...each other. So, after about 2 years and one - no, two unsuccessful attempts (i.e. I showed up once with incredibly good intentions, never to return)... I decided to get serious about joining a pastorate (aka Bible study, small group, etc.). Like stalking serious. I emailed the pastorate administrators, the church coordinator of pastorates. The coordinator gave a me a few names, I emailed and... Nothing. Lots of automated email away messages or...nothing at all. Crickets. Hmm. Wait. The pastorate is just not that into me?

I finally got a response. Great potential – perfect on paper: right by my flat, meets during the week, has room for 2 more people...leaving the church? This perfect pastorate that meets 2 minutes from my flat is actually leaving the church after this term to be a part of a church plant. Ummm, well that defeats the purpose of trying to get plugged in and make “church friends”. Hey look! These are my new friends...that go to a church. Not the same. But we mulled it over and thought hmmm, maybe we can be a part of the church plant? I mean, I really don’t want to – I like where we go. I’m not friends with anyone, but I can imagine what it would be like if I was... But the more I think about it the more I conclude that this situation - a tiny little baby church - could just be the push we need. I mean, it will be a lot harder to sneak out the back when there are like 10 people at your church. We’ll see...

The beginning...again...

I decided to start writing again- I miss it. I only write boring systematic literature reviews for work these days. Does anyone care about this decision? There are 2 answers:

1.) No.

2.) My dad, obviously. So, yes.

I was excited about my decision to resume blogging- prepping for my legions of fans, book deals and the obligatory humble, self-deprecating radio, TV and magazine interviews. You know, the standard dream for pretty much every other average nobody who started a blog or read a book about starting a blog and is now in the process of tending to their abecedarian online forums. Passion, wit, words...

Dilemma.

I hate people who write about themselves.

Double dilemma.

I love to write about myself.

(I hate myself?)

No matter. I can be better, I know I can. What annoys me about people who write about themselves? Whatever it is I can just not do that thing... or, at the very least, be a very self-aware hypocrite.

I decided to hate only a little about bloggers so as not to risk including myself.

Blogs, facebook statuses, tweets, etc. that annoy me usually are written by:

1.) People who talk about how great their lives are

2.) People who publically self-flagellate or share every detail of their miserable lives for pity and/or attention

So, I will try (with no guarantees) to fall somewhere in between. I’m almost 26, working at my first job and it took me a month to organise my tiny bedroom and stop living out of suitcases and reusable grocery bags in my new flat- so, naturally, I am going to write about how my life is in shambles (essentially, person number 2). Not so much for pity, but more to help other people feel validated about their own life decisions. My fledgling flight from the nest into the real...ish world must not be in vain. Mostly though- as the shambley bits tend to comprise most of my life- this section is a way to keep in touch with the 5 of you who will read this blog. Much cheaper than a transatlantic phone call.

At the risk of sounding like annoying blogger number 1, I am going to write about all the cool things to do and places to eat/drink/play/go in London (and perhaps the UK and continental Europe). Not so much because my life is great, but more because London is great. London and the myriad of lifestyles and experiences that are available here are much cooler my own. It is such an amazing city- this is my platform, my perpetual pitch to get you to visit. The last 2 years (and the next however many...) I have been, and will be, doing extensive research so that you will be well equipped for an amazing time in London. Magnanimous indeed. That... and the fact that somehow, some way, I ended up studying, writing about and working in the wonderful and chimerical world of health economics. So whilst all I really want to write about is travel, travel never saved any lives (bar the masses of newly enlightened devotees of the eat, pray, love author/philosophy and other such bourgeoisie soul-seeking), thus I am left with a simple side hobby. Or something like that.

Also, I really want to point out how weird England/English people are. We really do not speak the same language.