After a very full week of emotionally and mentally exhausting work, we ponder what to do with our night. Â The evening has passed already, but the streets are still full with people and the restaurants will be serving for hours… Â It’s Saturday night–we should be tearing up the town–but we’re very tired. Â We’ll definitely eat. Â We may wander the streets a little and could even see a movie. Â There are a couple that look quite good.
Though I am feeling a bit like a novice at everything concerning life in London after my first week on the job, I have learned a few things. Â I have a moment to share a couple of my simple observations with you.
Big purses must have come into fashion because women taking public transport have to carry their wallet, passport/id, pen, grocery list, tube map, tube card, bus ticket, grocery bag, regular map, hat, light jacket, umbrella, sunglasses, hair brush, chapstick, change of shoes, maybe dry socks, possibly a scarf, a book to read or a journal, a bottle of water, and a snack. Â Small purses are only carried by the wealthy women being driven around.
Using the dryer is bad. Â Invest in fabric softener and litter your flat with wet clothes.
A Londoner’s perspective of personal space is very small compared to a statesman’s. This seems to be reflected everywhere. I am sure this is due to obvious reasons. It’s just such an adjustment and something you don’t consider before you come. You just accept that the place you’ll live in London will be small and storage will be at a premium. However, you have to learn what side of the sidewalk to walk on (we still don’t know), how to squish in to the train or the bus, how to stand at stations, how to queue, and how to mind your own business with someone breathing down your neck in a restaurant. There’s nothing bad about it. People actually do nice things like walk arm in arm and kiss each other on the cheek as a greeting, all related to this personal space thing, I think.
Londoners do not all know where Nashville is. Â Just say Elvis, Justin Timberlake, and Johnny Cash. Â That’s the ticket.
One response to “The Saturday Evening Post”
hee hee… this reminds me of when I lived there and worked in the pub. Every time Elvis played on the jukebox, my boss would find me and accuse me of playing it. Since the English *love* Elvis, this happened every day.
Also I once told someone I was from Nashville, Tennessee and he replied, “So you’re a Texan?”