[Blogger’s note: I was born and raised in America, moved to Canada for love in the early 2000s, and recently relocated again, in my 50s, with my British-born spouse to the southern coast of his homeland. This is an occasional series about learning new tricks in Merry Old England.]
I Marmite, But Then Again, I Marmite Not: British Food from Delicious to Distressing
Recently, my partner and I were reminiscing with two old friends about our year-and-a-few-weeks of living in the U.K. when one of the chums turned to me and said, “By now you must have formed an opinion on British food. What do you think?” A good question, and one I could answer succinctly with “It’s a mixed bag.” But I’ve never been a huge fan of brevity, as my infinitely patient readers—all 12 of you—can attest. So here’s a supersized blog post to binge on; it might be wise to keep some antacid tablets at the ready. Continue reading
When it comes to getting from point A to some faraway point B, I’m an avowed overland man. I get no kicks in a plane, what with fares ballooning in inverse proportion to shrinking seat size and leg room, and airline meals, never Michelin Star-worthy to begin with, now so inadequate that you count yourself lucky if you’re served a lukewarm pizza pocket in a cardboard sleeve. With ships, ferries and other waterborne craft, my fascination is strong but my sea legs and stomach are weak. But take me there on terra firma, via steel wheels or rubber tires, and I’m one happy pilgrim. Some may find the incremental nature of land travel, the steady procession of miles/kilometres one after the other after the other, to be about as exciting as a PowerPoint presentation on navel lint. I find it can be soothing under the right circumstances, traffic jams and jabbering fellow travellers notwithstanding. The opportunity to take in vivid, varied scenery at one’s leisure while allowing the mind precious time to roam, free from distraction, is better stress therapy than a thousand fidget spinners. 
Here I am, 11 months into my first year as a resident of the United Kingdom—how time flies! —and so far in this blog series, I’ve covered various and sundry aspects of my nascent British life, including, most recently, battling 
It’s a question 
Here we are, halfway through 2017 already—okay, okay, halfway plus two weeks; I’ve been busy, all right? — and so far this year, my earbuds seem to be partial to past favourites. Three of the acts listed here have graced my annual top 10 lists in recent years, while a fourth put out one of my go-to albums of the decade a while back. And my number one pick? I’ve been listening to him off and on for decades. Damn, that must mean we’re both old! I’m hoping some fresher sounds will catch my attention in the remaining months of 2017, but for now, here’s a tried-and-tested top five. 
“You look to be a man of rude health,” a colleague of my spouse told me when we were introduced at a pub one evening recently. From his genial tone, typical of the Brits I’ve met since moving to the U.K., I guessed that he meant I appeared outwardly robust with no discernible signs of pestilence. But the use of the word “rude” threw me. After all, I was born and raised in the Southern U.S., where rude is never a good thing. He must have noticed the puzzled look on my face because he hastily added, “Oh, sorry, you don’t say ‘rude health’ in America, do you? You say ‘ruddy health,’ I think.” I replied with a noncommittal shrug. After his compliment, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that few Americans apart from jut-jawed New England matriarchs and Teddy Roosevelt have ever boasted about being in “ruddy health.” We’re more partial to “fit as a fiddle,” or “right as rain,” or perhaps just exclaiming “I feel good!” and then attempting a few spirited but clumsy James Brown dance moves. 
“You only have five minutes to order,” cautioned the server at our neighbourhood Japanese restaurant to three newly arrived lunch seekers. “And then you have a maximum of half an hour to finish eating. We do close very soon.” As I gouged at my bento box with chopsticks at a table nearby, the would-be patrons weighed their desire for the restaurant’s good-but-not-great sushi and teriyaki fare against the time constraints and decided to try their luck elsewhere. They shuffled toward the exit, the server following impatiently inches behind. As soon as the last of the interlopers cleared the threshold, he crisply flipped the Open/Closed sign on the door to the latter. 
dugoutdiscs 