Jolly good, then

At long last, the post you've been waiting for. And by you, I mean my sister, since she keeps bugging me.

This post is brought to you by jet lag (except not really), a balky camera card and unseasonably (OK, un-ever-ably) mild weather.

I tell you, if you believe in omens, then this whole thing is going to go swimmingly well.

Let's go back to the airport on Friday night, shall we? Actually, we can go all the way back to the driveway, where we crammed all four of my suitcases (OK, yeah, it was a lot, but it's MY. WHOLE. LIFE!), plus my father's small carry-on, plus my duffel bag, plus two laptop cases, plus a jacket, plus three people, two of whom aren't fun-sized like my sister, into a 2004 Kia Rio. Yeah, it was pretty amazing.

Once we got to the airport, though, that was where the good times started. Of those four suitcases, three (THREE) weighed in at 49.5 pounds. If you've traveled internationally, you know the weight limit is 50 pounds, with a $50 charge for anything over that. So yeah. Apparently I pack better than I thought. (Or, you know, I stood on the bathroom scale with suitcases in my hand, so I knew roughly what they weighed.)

On the plane? I was assigned a middle seat. Dear Old Dad had the window. The aisle? Claimed by NO ONE! Huzzah! Not to mention touch screen video entertainment, better than one might have hoped for on a 757.

And on our arrival? Holy beautiful weather, Batman. 25 degrees, bright sunshine, clear skies. (What's that? 25 doesn't sound warm? Celsius, young grasshopper. OK, it was something like 78 or 80. It was nice.) If the weather was like this all the time, everyone would live here. Naturally, it isn't. I'm sure we'll resume regular service by the end of the week.

I'd include pictures of the drive back from the airport in Bristol, featuring winding country roads and a detour down a single-lane really country road, courtesy of the idiot reading the Google Maps directions. (Said idiot will remain nameless, but I hear he has a blog.)

Welcome home.

Don't act like you're not jealous of the key on the right there.

Having survived the English countryside, we opened the doors and windows, gazed upon the splendour of the four-foot grasses in the back and settled in for the final football match of the season, the legendary FA Cup Final. Of course, having tuned in in the third minute, I managed to miss the fastest goal in Cup final history, scored after a mere 25 seconds.

But I digress.

Look past the tall grass. Look right on past it.

A fish-and-chips dinner followed (also photographed for posterity and eaten by my camera), and then we passed out. In my case for 12 hours. Time change accomplished.

Sunday, we started clearing up the front garden, a multi-stage task to be sure, then celebrated the sunny weather in fine English fashion by going to the seaside. And sitting on the beach. The beach of rocks. Who needs white sand? Besides, it'll be white sand in another, oh, million years or so, right?

Pub night followed. It was good. Umm...that's it, really.

As of today, I now have a bank account (devoid of money for the time being), car insurance (thanks going to Dear Old Dad) and an application for a National Insurance number (mmm...socialized medicine. It's good for what ails you. Allegedly).

And I've driven my new ride, the 1997 Renault Megane. Oddly, it was made the same year I actually visited France.

The Renault Megane enjoys being driven on the left side of the road,
fine wines and cheeses and being snooty to Americans.