I drag myself around the supermarket in the middle of the night buying huge foods, enough to feed a small pod of whales. I remind myself that it's really four o'clock in the afternoon for West Coast Americans but my brain is still mid Atlantic, awash with minutae.
I have mislaid my sense of perspective and everything seems too big. There again, after 22 days in England I have regained the ability to use a stick shift and parallel park, so it's all a trade off.
I think fondly of my beloved ex sister in law. She would scoff with derision at paultry English coupons, but we ignored her as she was a barmy American. I decide to entertain the checkers as they pack my bags with expertise. It's the very least I can do as they hand me a wad of money off vouchers as thick as a house brick. I use my own highly honed skills of international exchange rates, imperial/metric comparisons, and trans-Atlantic language differentials. "Do you know the price of petrol in England?"
"Gas? Yeah, real expensive."
"That's right, it's $10 a gallon or thereabouts."
"Shoot! Is that for real?"
"Really real. What's more, when I went to the supermarket there, they had an offer on."
"What kindofan offer?"
"Spend 50 pounds, which is 100 dollars in the store and then get 5 pence, which is ten cents off a gallon of petrol." I skip the bit about litres to avoid any further confusion.
"Geez. Kinda makes ya think!"
Doesn't it just.
13 hours ago
