F***ing F*** it's COLD!

Holy cow. (That's the nice introduction.) You know, how they say, when you are about to experience/are experiencing hypothermia? And how, when you are wet and you are cold you can accelerate the process?

I attempted that today.

So it's Tuesday, which means I run to work and from work. I do this Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and take Friday off. (A girl has got to pub - though it's one drink because I run on Saturday and Sunday.) I made the mistake of stuffing my clothes back into my backpack instead of sticking them in the drawer to sort of 'dry up.' So, when I got dressed to run back, they were damp.

It's raining today. Sometimes, it sleeted, but for the sake of my running it just rained. It did the wind thing too which made me feel (but not look) like I had Angelina Jolie lips. So by the time I got home to walk the Finley-dog I was warm but damp.

I quickly, on the puppy walk, became cold and damp.

Just for giggles, I became even colder when deciding that I wouldn't bother changing before running to the shop quickly for milk.

Which meant, by the time I was home and running the bath my fingers COULDN'T FEEL THE HOT WATER.

I would like to point out (other than my blatant sponsorship plug) that Rome will be toasty warm when I run. This whole freezing fingers bit will not exist. In fact, I'm training by most standards in a totally wrong climate. But, as of right now I'm currently not of the wealthy sort and thus I must train in this climate - and holy cow, f***! It's F***ING COLD!

And yet I run. My, I am weird.

Goal #1 = 6 miles in one go = DONE.

This is the easy part.

Man, how incredibly wacky nuts is it for me to type that?

This is the easy part.

When I first started running, 6+ years ago, I couldn't make it around a block without wanting to die. The security guard at my complex used to watch me as I slapped the side of the gate to count my turns. Sometimes I would get a thumbs up.

I remember coming back from 3 miles and my shins feeling like they were going to explode. Mornings of getting up and not being able to walk to the bathroom without the feeling that I just may not make it.

There was a picture, one I should've purchased, from my first 20K. I was part of a knot of injured and run/walkers - there were ... maybe... 5 of us total. The toned and tough group had passed us and I was there in my red running gear (still my favorite) in the heat of Houston sick and tired and scared out of my wits. When I saw the finish I worked my legs up a little and tried to be positive. Around me they were taking down the timing signs and picking up the cones. Just then I saw a photographer and tried, in vain, to smile and give a double thumbs up. What came back was a pained expression, nearly beat red with exhaustion, and thumbs pointing halfway down, as if at any moment I would drop.

I didn't, though. Somehow, I have managed to get better at it.

So much so I can write that 6 miles for running is, in fact, the easy part. So much so I can write that all the way up the half marathon point is, in fact, easy-peas-y (as they would say here). But I know that there is the darkness up ahead. The 17 miles, the 20 miles - who knows?

I guess I won't know until I do it.

Oh yes, and while you're here - Sponsor me.

Two things:

1. I got 15 miles completed this week. Yay.

2. I didn't know that Christmas Eve = Male Liberation to Pubs. As I was jogging up Queens Street at 5:00 PM a drunken man vomited right onto the bike racks while about 10 of his buddies cheered on. Turning to go to George Street I had to dodge incredibly happy groups of testosterone as they crammed the last bits of bitter down their throats.

Almost made me feel slightly jealous to be estrogen-based. Almost.

Happy Christmas, everyone. Traditions (some more interesting than others) abound but the one constant is love. If only for today, forgive your enemies and pardon those who have caused you grief. Life is short, live it fully.

The Training Plan

So, I added three miles to my run today. This means, should the world not turn into ice tomorrow, I will have 15 miles for my regular week.

Plus I have 6-mile run to do on Sunday in order to follow THE ALMIGHTY TRAINING PLAN.

For those who have never decided that running long laborious distances is a fun thing to do, a training plan is a sheet of weekly activities which culminate in a series of milestones in order to reach an optimum race goal.

My race goal? Finish. (Preferably within the time limit to get a medal.)

Based on my reading of the 6.7 million race plans (amended) that exist on planet Earth, in order to run a 4:30 marathon (total time) I must put in 30 miles of running per week.

And, based on the Marathon for People Who Have No Time to Train for a Marathon Plan (this exists) I need to run 5 days a week plus hit 'race' goals - aka go 6, 13.1, and 20 miles in one fun fashion.

So, I will need to commute to work, by foot, all 5 days + hit race targets.

I also have less than 90 days to do this in.

It's a lot to take in, mentally. But, I figure, it's Rome. It's going to be like power touristing.

Did I mention I need sponsoring?

Reason #1 to Sponsor Me.

Ahem.

I didn't sleep well last night. I dreamt of weights attached to my ankles as I stood under the Colosseum with people running past. I had visions of being late, overwhelmed. My mind was processing that - yes, Cristin - you have signed up to run 26.2 miles.

WHY ON EARTH DID YOU DECIDE TO REGISTER TO RUN 26.2 MILES?

The challenge.

Gawd, that's such an actor answer. "Why did you do the project, famous person?"

Oh, the challenge.

Wow, that's deep.

But then there is Mikey. There's a reason. National Autistic Society. When Mikey was diagnosed as autistic it seemed like the world was all strange. Here was my youngest brother who by all standards normal claimed abnormal. He didn't look it, and for a long time he just seemed a bit slow. But as time progressed so came the fixations and speech issues and desire to do as he felt regardless of society.

And from that grew the variations, or the "spectrum." The sudden understanding that autism isn't just one thing. After awhile, you sort of envy cancer. Cancer can kill you, and there is a series of treatments which almost everyone can comprehend. Sometimes you live, sometimes you die. It all depends on type and severity. But with autism, well, there is such a broad level. They don't know what causes it for sure. They don't know if there is a cure. But what they do know is that these people, and all their levels, need patience, understanding, and support.

So NAS exists for that reason. And not just for Mikey. It exists for family like me. So I can explain the condition to others and hope people not only understand but appreciate it.

*Cough*

Eating shortbread, signing up for marathons...

So, I did it.

I'm running this: Rome Marathon 2010.

I'm doing it for this: NAS.

Which makes me this: crazy.

I have 90 days from today to get ready. I've never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever run a marathon before. Ever.

Ever, ever.

But, I've committed. I'm doing this.

Oh.

Ma.

Gawd.

Open letter to Mother Nature.

Dear Ms. Nature, (I'm in England and I don't know if you are married so you are a Ms. here.)

Oxford is a city located in a valley.
Because of this, we generally don't get severe weather.
Sure, it can be cloudy.
It can drizzle a bit of rain.
But, for the most part, we are spared downpours.
This means that while lots of England is getting snow we get a bit of fluff.
I want snow.
If I'm this far north I should get it.
Even if it's just enough to roll a snow ball and go, "Yay, everything is white!"
So, if you're not busy or anything.
Or, at least, if you could please put off some horrible storm somewhere.
I would like snow.
Please.

Your friend who is freezing but getting no known benefit.

Cristin

One of those proud moments.

I spent about three years in politics as a campaign manager. While I never got to hold a high ranking position in a glamorous campaign I did hold the reigns in several local ones.

If you ever in your life want a lesson in humanity, go work in politics. Not for senators or governors, no. Go work for a council seat, a local seat, something that seems unimportant - that is where you learn. Because once a candidate has reached the upper echelon, then the race is anywhere from 25% - 75% won. But when you go out with a first time, scared-to-pieces person, you learn first hand how to really fight for a cause.

I would tell people at times that I was in marketing. When they would ask what area I would smile and say I market a person and their ideas. Because if you said politics you very well could be staring down a gun barrel. It's a job that doesn't get the lawyer jokes but gets a lot of lawyer distain. But, every so often, one of your people gets through. And when they do, it's as if your world just went into a full on confetti parade of joy.

Because when you work in something so severe as politics, you find yourself a lot more sincere. And seeing someone you believe in take hold of their dreams and hopefully turn a reality - that's pretty incredible.

Several years ago I was a green house party manager being introduced to City Council Member Annise Parker. She was running for her second term as At-Large and I was to clean up her artwork and go out and call and work events for her, as well as process all the mail. I remember that day I knew she was one that would climb the ladder and do so the way it's supposed to be done. With intelligence, thoughtfulness, and drive that anyone of any age, sex, race, or belief would respect and admire. Not to mention my dog thought the world of her.

Today, she's the first openly gay mayor elected to the city of Houston.

I'm so proud... and I'm so grateful I have a small part in making a real difference in the world.

Overload.

*Fuzz* POP!

That would describe the sound of my brain.

Coming back it's like being tossed into a world of ice and darkness. Though the fact that some people around the neighborhood go all Griswold on their homes makes me feel a bit better. Granted, I shouldn't complain. More often then not our Christmases were warm if not practically a beach affair.

When I had the flu at the age of 12ish it snowed in Panama City. I remember seeing it out the window and yanking myself from a drug-induced fog into a London Fog and out the door. I remember being fascinated over making snow balls and going so far as to put cups of snow in the freezer. (Sort of like we do those glow necklaces. Tell me, who amongst you has ever gone back to the freezer, pulled out the glow necklace, and worn it about?) On Christmas day there was a tiny patch of snow next to the fence that got shaded enough to keep the ground cold. I remember staring at it, burning into my brain the only white Christmas I had in memory.

*Fuzz* POP!

Flash to now, where we were at freezing and the weather alternates that we will be snow or slush come Monday. The twinkle lights and cold noses are only a prelude to my dire need of mulled everything. And even though I know that England will, in short, shut down and cry out "WHY GOD??" to the world if it snows again, I kinda... sorta... want it to. I don't want to commute in it, per se, but... well...

It's just that being brought back in or plopped as it were, I want things to slloooowww down. I want to enjoy and savor and float. I don't want to lose my excellent flatmates to their homes now that their fellowships have wrapped up. Don't want to lose my colleagues to their holidays just yet. I want to giggle and laugh and smile my way through mince pies and sparkling this and that and make sure that I enjoy it. Like the little patch of snow under the fence. I want to remember it.

So take a moment, if you read along, to go and give hugs to people. This is overload time but good time. Make sure everyone knows they are special.

American on the outside, looking in.

So I'm safely back in England. Safely through customs, safely assured another year, safely here.

Boy, I'm different.

December 17th will mark my one year anniversary as an immigrant (I'm not quite yet the expat). In that time I believed I had changed, but not nearly to the extent of change that greeted me whilst roaming through my former home states. (I note my use of 'whilst' and my utter fascination with 'fortnight' as words denoting minor change.)

Firstly, I hate having to drive everywhere. Now that was fairly common knowledge before, but the seething passion that came out at thinking about 30 minutes here and 1 hour there was apparent. I recall once that I had a fantastic colleague over from the UK when I lived in Texas. Their shear shock at how far things were puzzled me. "We could've been in Scotland by now," were the words they used when we were on our 3 hour trip to Austin. In the time I spent on the road and in traffic I could have conceivably visited four to five European countries. Instead, I spent it driving hither and tither to see people...

Which leads me to another thing - I appreciate space WAY more. Sure, I had to drive, but man there are ceilings that are high in the homes I visited! Aisles that are wide in the stores I browsed! Selection which is long like the wall of salsa! When going to grab some cleaning solution for our tenant maintenance I nearly had a panic attack when denoting the 10 different varieties I had to choose from. Sure, I do like the two (if that) choices you get at the local Co-Op for the sake of simplicity, but what I cherished most was approaching an aisle of bread which looked stocked and fresh - not raided like post-hurricane clean-up.

Though the one thing that really, really got me was how much more active I am. Sure, I noticed when completing my first 10K here that 10 minutes evaporated off my time based on my lifestyle, but looking at the American population - wow. The number of people waddling along and looking poorly based on a lifestyle of sitting and eating horrible foods - I never really saw it until now. I keep a pedometer with me to get points towards a yearly award from supplemental insurance. On average I get my maximum points in 18 days. In my two weeks there, between driving and moving, I only have 1 day worth of points out of the 14 traveling. One day.

If there is anything that really, truly shocked me - it was that.

Standing on the outside and looking in on my old life I know there was good and bad to it. America is a wonderful place despite it's flaws and most likely one day I will return to roost. But for now I like my little Oxford existence, even though it's not perfect either. My goal is to one day be in Florida acting like a Brit/American hybrid - walking all over town but instead of beet red slathered in sunscreen. And as the people drive by, confused about my skin tone but my ability to transport via foot I will know I have indeed brought two different worlds together as one.

Hello, Goodbye, Texas.

So I've been back in "The States" for five days. As I sit here now, in a house with more than 1,000 square feet, insulation, and stupid high ceilings, I am content. Content, but at the same time I know I must move on to the second half - La Florida.

But before we go there...

Thanks, Texas.

Seriously, though, thanks. I forgot to tell you that when I left how much I appreciated you. Specifically I wanted to mention Houston. Houston is this thriving, living, pulsing city. It can get on your nerves (it and the UK can compete for worst traffic), it can frustrate you, but rarely ever is it extremely bad to you. Houston gave me my degree in hard knocks, it propped me up on being self-reliant, but it also gave me the best mentors I've ever had. People who have and still truly believe in me. People how have a million different backgrounds and beliefs but who have cared for me and sometimes carried me through. It's a city where if you want to attempt it you can. It's a city who will soon have Annise Parker - who I consider a mentor - for mayor. That's the caliber of people I have met in Houston. That's the standard of excellence that I've renewed on my being here.

I also got to close some bad doors. Got to say things I wanted to say months ago and let demons out. I'm happy that some things can be put to rest so when I return on future visits I will do so not carrying around heavy weights. I can move on, move forward, and not sit around dwelling on things.

Thanks, Texas. Really. I promise I won't let you down.

I would like to thank my colleagues.

I am officially on holiday.
Yay.

Prior to my departure several people, on more than on occasion, stated they were fairly sure that they would descend into madness within a few days of my absence.

Another kept repeating something to the effect of, "It will become Lord of the Flies without you." Which, of course, prompted visuals of people in rags beating each other with coffee pots.

What I want to know is why I can't put this on my CV. "Cristin's organizational strength is so strong that during her holiday all her colleagues went from working in software programs and consulting to trying to build fires out of server parts."

I hold sway over people in evolutionary proportions. How awesome is that?

Regardless, I want to thank all the people I work with for wishing me well, being all excited, and expressing that they will actually miss me for the two weeks I'm not present.

I will miss you too. Moon pies and pralines for everyone!

Enough with other people, here's what to buy me for Christmas

Growing up in the warm territories and buying people things like slippers, socks, or anything fluffy or warm such as a robe or sweater (aka jumper) was asinine. For those two weeks that show up sometime in March, maybe, it's great. For even when you whip out your outerwear in triumph and recall what a deal you got at JC Penny's with joy in your heart, the other 50 weeks you bemoan the space that damn coat is taking up in your closet.

Not here, though. That peacoat and those boots I purchased on whim a few years ago have been nearly worn to the nub. Slipper socks have suddenly become a perfectly valid Christmas purchase.

But what really excites and thrills me is the sparkle items. Or, as they sometimes refer, the spangly items. And these shiny bits are also valid, because there are Christmas parties and concerts and various random get togethers that state that if you are covered in sequins, this is perfectly acceptable. (So long as you bring bubbly, of course. And that is a small price to pay.)

Right now the stores are covered in glitter. I can purchase a full glitter dress with glitter stocks and glitter shoes at the classiest store in the universe - Primark - for £20 total. If I wanted I could also deck my neck in neon rhinestones, that's how classy the place is. (Let's not talk pants... underpants. I could go on a blog revolution on Primark pants.)

But for all the silly I just wrote, if it showed up tomorrow in a box with a bow, I'd be all over it. It's something that cold countries take for granted, while they moon over our beaches and blazing sun. For try as we might, we cannot match the Christmas spirit nor need for massive spangly like the places in lack of daylight.

So I will revel in dazzle. I will twist and spin in sparkly. Because it's valid here. And thus, I will enjoy.

What to get people for Christmas from England.

I'm less than a week and a half away from returning to The States.

The States. In my kingdom we'd call that Florida or Texas. Here, it is generically referred to as "The States."

Do you know, lots of British people go to "The States" to buy shoes? I bet you didn't. I can name three people who have. But I digress...

One of the key problems I am running up against currently is what to purchase for Christmas. Now seeing as I am going home I figure I should complete Christmas well before Christmas. No mad dash Christmas Eve run for me... if that were possible here... but that's another story. My goal is to be done with all shopping for people in, as I have so placed quotes around, "The States."

Sitting at the pub this evening I discussed at length what to purchase. I've been referred to Harrods (http://www.harrods.com/HarrodsStore/Default.aspx?CID=ppc). But, I will say this and so will countless others... no person in their right British mind shops at Harrods. You buy tourist gifts from Harrods and that is what you do. Unless you are wealthy and therefore can afford the other items at Harrods which include... no joke... £1,000 Christmas crackers. They are there... seriously. But they do have an excellent card shop, which I recommend. (and all the posh people shop at Harvey Nichols) I have also been directed to Fortnum and Mason ( http://www.fortnumandmason.com/). They have been in business longer than the United States has existed. And they have tea and various English things that no one ever purchases each other if you are in England. Except, again, for Christmas crackers. Which, based on my state of wine, is currently the most awesome thing in England ever. How paper crowns and bad jokes and cheap gifts qualify as awesome is beyond me, but alas I am American... therefore they are awesome.

What we decided, in our incredibly inebriated state, was that I should create an authentic English experience. Thereby consisting of dragging them out to the closest bar/restaurant, plowing them with beer, making them sing and or scream rants at various sporting events, and eat chips (which in my kingdom are referred to as French Fries) as a means to soak alcohol between pints. We will then go on a 3 mile march in the rain to a random outdoor food vendor and eat kabob - or sandwich made of who knows what. At about 2 AM we will stumble home and either drink whisky or collapse, based on alcohol tolerance. Sometime about 3PM the next day a person will yell, "Oi! Get up you lazy bastards" and thus the experience will end with a nice cuppa and a warm bath followed by nibbles.

And that will be my Christmas gift. Though I doubt my grandmother would be into it. But it would be real. I could do a hybrid and serve whisky in lovely china, but it's not quite the same.

Fall.

If there is one thing I've had to get used to, quickly, it's Fall. Where I come from Fall is a nonevent. But so is Winter. And Spring. Here, Fall actually happens. The leaves turn, it gets windy and crisp, and you actually want hot drinks. The problem is, it comes with something that I'm not too fond of: DARKNESS.

Pitch black, can't see, 4PM - DARKNESS.

Now, if you talk to my dog (and he could talk back) he would tell you that this is the coolest most awesome thing ever. This is because we get to take our ball out to the pitch black park with a flashlight and play with it. After one attempt my dog now wears a bike light so I can find him, and I don't throw the ball very far at all. Not that it matters. Instead, if you ever happen to wander into our park you'll see this blinking red light bouncing all over the field and a flashlight frantically looking for wherever I may have tossed the ball.

I can't complain, though. Because for the first time in a really long time I actually feel the holidays coming. I actually get the whole candles and cider and twinkling lights deal. I also am looking forward to the English version of 4th of July - Guy Fawkes. By December I'll have marked my first entire year of living abroad, and I couldn't be happier.

Unless, of course, someone can tell me where to find a dog friendly light up squeaky ball.

Envy.

I wish all joy in life were attached to a little rattling toy which I could slide all over the floor and chew on.

Seriously.

Contemplations and a Flat Fellow Named Stanley.

I got the red jacket of rejection.

About a week ago my London Marathon ballot came in as bust. As a person just coming off a half part of me was gloriously relived, and the other part of me felt like poo.

But, I got a red jacket. It's really nice and not bright yellow (which is my normal biking jacket). All the pockets have zippers and there is a big, white, London Marathon hello-I-got-rejected logo on the front.

Now I have to consider charity. My dilemma is this: fundraising. Okay, yes, for three years I did fundraising for a living. I know how to fundraise. But:

1. I have to believe in the cause.
2. I have no real fundraising base here.

Trust me, when the red jacket of rejection arrived I immediately started looking up the charities I know I would support. Result? Almost every single one of them had already given out their places or their closing date was in a day or two. It was like being beaten charity bats while zipped up tight into the red jacket of rejection. Seriously.

So now I'm in a mental block about it. Knowing I HAVE to decide something, but worried to pieces I won't make the fundraising goal. This is on top of all the training I know I need to do to succeed.

Thank goodness I have Flat Stanley.

For anyone who ever gets the opportunity to be a Flat Stanley host, take it. Not because people will think you are strange carrying around a little paper person colored by you hometown third grader. . . or that you have to explain to the museum docents that sticking it next to the case of shrunken heads at the Pitts Rivers is educational for said third grader. . . or even because you spend up to thirty minutes positioning said paper person in such a way that he looks 'natural' in a shrub. . . do so because it's way cool.

My Flat Stanley is into wearing earth tones and has a pocket on his shirt. I've taken him all over town today and spent a lot of time adjusting him. The teacher, in her wisdom, laminated him for safe travel. Problem is that means glare if the sun catches him. Thankfully England is a cloudy place, but nonetheless there are some pictures I will need to redo on some of our more common gray days. And with it being zero week (yay Oxford speak - go look that up) we have people climbing the walls. There was a line to get into Christ Church! I've never seen that before, ever.

So mercifully all the walking and photos with Stan got some of the rejection off my mind. . . yet makes me think that if I put as much passion into the fundraising as I am into Stanley, then perhaps I should just choose a charity and make the leap.

On the eve of another running thingy.

It's been awhile I realized, so I deeply apologize to the two of you who so avidly subscribe to my blog.

I'm running a half marathon tomorrow. I think this will be my tenth. It's my second overseas, and my very first in the city of London.

When I started running 6 years ago I really didn't think that I would complete one, let alone ten half marathons. People look at me like I'm a crazy person since I willingly run commute to work and willingly placed myself for consideration to run London's marathon.

I will tell you this now: I suck at running.

Seriously, I'm awful. My technique is crap. I keep a water belt fixed around my waist. I walk, most likely, 50% of it. I have yet to crack 2 hours 45 minutes.

But I will only give up on it if my legs are physically removed from my body. It's been the constant, and in this world you need constants. (Though I wish everyone's constants were as cool as Desmond and Penny constants.) I hope, before I turn in to fertilizer, to have run on every continent and gotten medals from a host of incredibly odd and far fetched races.

And I will do it poorly. I will do it knowing that I might have a chance to qualify to run the Boston Marathon when I'm 105 and they don't have time limits because no one that old has ever run it before.

I am the poster child for people doing things they aren't good at with joy and happiness.

So tomorrow, at 9:45 AM GMT I will trot off knowing that 80% of the people I started with will finish well before me, and I will be glad. Because even though those 80% went before me, there are lots of people who are going to be in their beds or sitting around thinking, "I could do that."... and don't.

But I do, even though I'm crap. And if you find something you're crap at and you love it, then I say to you go... go and be happy.

Because tomorrow is my day for happy.

Lessons from a Gatekeeper.

Gatekeeper.

If you go through any sort of training in cold calls, the person who answers the phone is called the Gatekeeper. They are the ones who decide whether or not a person will pass through to whomever it is you are trying to reach. The best way is to charm them. It works better if you are the opposite sex or have an interesting accent. But really, a good Gatekeeper is just that. A Gatekeeper - we keep people out.

Recently I have experienced some horrible sales calls. They had all the spunk and happy in the world, but completely fell flat. Here's what they did wrong:

1. Stated they were the Ambassador to France and know Britney Spears personally. Well, not exactly but they dropped so many names and countries and whatever else I had no feelings for them. Long introductions can mean you are literally forcing a sale on me. I know you want to be legit and all, but really.

2. When I ask if this is a sales call, you tell me it's an opportunity knocking. The fastest way to screen calls from a Gatekeeper's perspective is to ask if this is a sales call. Don't get offended, we're doing our jobs. On average I get five calls a day (and I'm small business people) asking to speak to the owner of the business, or better, a mispronunciation of one of my executives names. I have a protocol to deal with it, and it's evil. I'm not sharing it but let me tell you now - Gatekeeper's have evil protocol. You spin on us, we will potentially result to evil protocol. You continue to spin, we hang up on you.

3. Call us back and tell us we're rude and horrible people who have single-handily destroyed your life. I worked in grassroots politics for three years. It was the toughest job I have ever had, but the rewards were what kept me in it until there was no longer a place for me. I did phone banks, I did side-along calling. I experienced hang-ups - yelling - rejections galore. I empathise with you, seriously. But to take the Gatekeeper rejection personally is the largest no-no in the world. When you phone back one of us and decide to attack us as being horrible, it will get you no where. You do it enough, you will get nowhere in your business. Don't take your frustrations out on a voice on a phone line - it's referred to as abuse. Do it to the wrong sort, you won't be working in your chosen field for a long time.

So what should you do? This is so stupid simple it will make your head spin:

1. When we pick up state your name and your company. There. You have nothing to hide. And you're being professional while not letting us know your average sales intake. Oh yes, practice so you don't sound like you're reading off a sheet. And for the love of God, go somewhere quiet! Those two things shoot you down faster than you would believe.

2. Ask us if we can help you. Write your pitch to the effect of a problem you need solving. Ask if they know who can address your problem. I state this now - a good Gatekeeper will still know your end game, but may throw you a tiny bone. We hear it all day, all the time, and will sometimes reward the creative. Here's where you have to brush up on your charm and your ability to converse with people. This is more an art than science but at least you may be able to open doors 25% of the time.

3. If you get shot down, don't go shooting. Cold calling is a business. You have good days and bad days. But the last thing you want to do is attack a person for doing their job on the other end. Continue to strategize and work on a pitch that will benefit a company or individual. Look at new ways to communicate. And try, try again.

But not with me... I know your game. :P

Flora and Fauna Report

I have to give England massive props for their public gardens. I mean, yes, the United States has parks - big, huge, massive parks - but in England they wander around in fields and build gigantic glass houses for fun. (Okay, and medicine and science research, but they are fun.)

I finally visited Kew this weekend. It's merely 250 years old and sports two massive glass houses, a palace, a Japanese Garden, a tree walk, and an assortment of other items, all in one place. The fact that they've been at this sort of thing on this little island is astounding. Palms, cedars, various garden types - all replicated for the world to come visit.

I think you could feasibly spend a year wandering all the trails and parks and gardens that England has. For instance, yesterday as we bused into London I watched people - in misting rain and terrible wind - willingly walking along little hillsides, many stopping and looking out on the roadways and hills beyond and probably thinking, "Why couldn't we make indoor malls the source of all our wonder like Dubai does?"

Or something similar, I don't read minds.

But what got me is that I was wondering how you get up there, how long it takes to wander, and if I should pack a lunch and a snack. See how England is getting to me? Soon I will have a multipurpose windbreaker and waterproof hiking shoes. Kew alone calls practically for a camp site it's so big.

But that's just another wonderful part about England. Although I could use with a bit more sun.

Inspiration.

I know why so many books have been set in Oxford, or parts of Oxford. It's a place where you really can let the imagination run free. There are so many odd and wonderful aspects about the city, the longer you spend here the more sense things like Tulgey Wood and Ents and Hobbits can be.

Or it may be something in the water. We do have a high population of eccentric geniuses here.

Anyways, I've decided to write a story. It may be short or long, don't know. But it's all Oxford's fault.

There is too much a thing as blackberry crumble.

Dude, things produce fruit here.

It's like, whoa. You walk down a path and like, *bam* there's blackberries.

And plums, and passion fruit.

Just, you know, like, THERE.

Coming from a land of ever greens and fried dead formerly blooming plants, it is the experience to see things grow and flower - not struggle then wither. I have herbs in abundance. I go out with kitchen scissors and cut what I need for dinner.

Freaky.

Even though apparently England has had a water shortage since breaking off the mainland we don't have to worry about watering the plants. We don't have to worry about sprinklers. At worst, it mists. Just like the little fruit and veg misters in the super market (sans the "Singing in the Rain" interlude).

Right now I have a blackberry bush that is producing berries in waves. I take a small bowl out and can harvest what would be equal to about £2.50 in a store. It's mental. It's insane. And I can do it every day. A guy at work had such a zucchini bumper crop I made zucchini bread for two weeks solid and there is STILL zucchini.

Nearby the park cherry trees, plum trees, and apple trees just sort of drop fruit around. You can even buy a book that tells you what bushes, shrubs, trees, and tall grass produce stuff you can eat.

And the English practically boil and eat everything. There is this show where a cook constantly is brewing wine from flowers or eating various stinging plants. I'm waiting for him to start waxing eloquent on river pebbles as a soup you can make in three or four millenia.

Downside is I have to work through my baking. I feel a bit like Bubba in Forest Gump... we got your blackberry pie...blackberry crumble...blackberry yogurt...blackberry ice cream...

Ugh, so full of blackberries. Yet, so happy. So, so, happy.

Oh my gawd I went clubbing in England.

I promised my colleague, who is here on training assignment from Australia, and I quote this, "a quiet night out."

I was wrong.

Had he been there earlier, it was quiet. It started out quiet. Laughing, a beer or two being consumed, a night garden evening in Jericho... and then it all went a bit off center. At first we frolicked at the Victoria, then the Jericho Tavern - home to Radiohead. I thought that this would be a lovely evening where he, our neophyte for new work, would relax and chat with people from all around the world.

However.

By the time my dear, beloved, adored colleague arrived they (the group) had decided we were done with quiet. We were done with Jericho and it's art scene and it's party groups dressed in sequins and Island Party wear, (this is subdued people) we were going to a cocktail bar. His arrival hailed with drunken waves and random hellos, we were off to Angels. Which, I believe, means you have to physically be a spirit of some holy nature in order to actually fit into this shoebox of a cocktail bar.

It's been awhile since I had to scream in order to maintain a conversation. I believe at one point he screamed at me he had gotten a phone call from his best friend saying that they had just had a healthy baby girl. I would like to send them my sincere apologies along with my congratulations. I think the last time I did anything like this was Goth Night at the Florida Theatre. I believe I was 20.

As soon as we managed to wedge ourselves into the place we were pushed out, headed to a ... dare I say this without a laugh or a cringe... dance club. One of the group knew a door person, and suddenly, seemingly in a blink of an eye I was plunged into the sickly sweet meat market smell of so many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many

many, many, many years ago.

For those who don't know me I grew up in a beach town full of these dance clubs. They were interesting to me when I was 13. By the time I hit college people wanted to go to my home town to party for Spring Break. Not my bag. If I had gone home it would have been, well, odd.

There we stood. Me, this 30-something holding a beer standing next to a 30-something quiet, nice person I had met a week ago and promised an equally quiet night out. I applaud the fact he took it all in stride. We screamed comments about the crowd. The barely dressed women. The overly self-conscious men. The people who you could tell wanted just to be loved. The ones you hoped that wouldn't regret tomorrow. All amongst the throbbing bass and popped collars and cheap cocktails and glowing puffer fish light fixtures.

I can say with absolute conviction that clubbing is officially universal. The same people with different accents working their mojo. I honestly marveled at being there the way I marveled at the first time I realized I was in Rome, Dubai, or working and living in England. A whole new scene, a whole new culture.

He decided to stay, my colleague. I left him in the glow of neon bracelets and people who were constantly feeling him up on their way to the loo (I stopped counting after 5). At that point they were spinning C-n-C Music Factory and I began feeling truly ancient. I hope he makes it out of there in one piece.

Oh please or I will never hear the end of it.

Pedometer Fixation

I think I may have found something to help me with this whole purpose running deal. My company is nice enough to supplement me with private health insurance, which is good for when things need to go beyond the GP. They have this whole points program for if you go to a certain gym or get certain screenings done - and the rewards include the almighty British Pound.

So I've gotten their pedometer and have to reach the goal of 12,500 steps at least 4 days a week. It's been a bit of a curiosity for me to see just about how much energy I expend living in a town where a car is not horribly necessary... and here it's not all that hard to hit the goals. My running helps, but just walking to center of town and back gives great results. I've learned in a short span that I do take good care of myself, and that I do a lot more than most.

So hopefully I'll get the points and the cash and the discounts in time. Still I realize it's the long term benefits of healthy living that are much more important. That, and I have a massive chocolate addiction that has to be counterbalanced by something.

Hmmm... Social Media...

I was so into it when all the social media stuff started. Honestly, I don't regret being into it, not in the slightest, but as the stream has diversified (as such interesting technologies do) I have found myself becoming more centralized.

Why?

I used to maintain enough social media accounts to completely take up all my free time. But as things became more complex or as they were slowly overtaken by spam and recruiters, I found myself backing away. I only maintain two social site accounts now and this blog, anything more and I find myself in a certain state of annoyance. On top of this, there is the new problem emerging - the professional vs. the personal social media site. I've rigorously maintained that whatever I put up on my site has to be something I wouldn't be ashamed to show my grandmother. Now I have to ask if what I put up is professional enough.

Seriously.

I don't really edit these blogs. I don't sit around for days upon days and work out grammar and spelling issues. If something comes along that I wouldn't be ashamed to tell my grandmother about, I put it up. There are things about England which fascinate me, annoy me, and despite all are something I would like to look back at and remember. So I have photos and videos and all sorts of things - much of which I share with people who are very far away. Still, does that mean big brother is watching me?

On the flip side there are people who completely stay away from social media altogether. That raises two questions - #1 Are they technologically with it? and #2 What have they got to hide? It's like you can't really win - you're sort of in this place where you need to maintain something, even if it's nothing. But how much is enough?

We're all part of the TMI Generation now, it seems. The next part of all this is the control of information. It used to be just Googling someone was the way of it, now there seems to be so much more. It's something to think about, even though I firmly believe this personal in the world of digital is still going to grow and thrive. It's only my hope that as it does, it doesn't eat us alive.

Purpose to Feet

So, I supposed to be training for a half marathon. Thing is, I'm pretty sure I'm training for a half marathon, and yet I feel lazy.

Even though yesterday I walked an estimated 6.73 miles to get all the shopping done. This means not only did I tromp around (and poorly dressed - it was freakishly warm yesterday) I also tromped around carrying 5-15 pounds of things.

I was supposed to go out again today, but England was all, like, "yeah... we don't do sunny days two in a row..." and I was all, like, "yeah...cool... I'm totally worn out from yesterday." So instead I stayed in and understood Alan Moore's argument to not have any graphic novels of his turned into movies.

I bike to work three days a week and run to work twice a week. All said it's 18 miles of biking and 12 miles of running. When I lived in Houston I was happy to get through 9, usually because the overwhelming heat made it a walk during the summer. And everyone knows that in the US if you see someone walking it means their car must've broken down. So vast improvement on my lifestyle? Yes. Heck, the last 10K I ran I ran so far under time that people missed my finish. Sure, here in the UK running is a SPORT. I mean, people FLY. It's actually encouragement to me to see others, little packs strapped on their backs, chugging to work the way I do.

But still, lazy. I feel lazy.

I wonder if I've gotten used to my good fortune. I run through cow and horse fields, then past some of the most respected college architecture in the world. Down past cafes, pubs, and through people who look in the morning shocked to bits to see someone willing to haul themselves - rain or shine - through the streets of Oxford.

Seriously, someone smack me!

Maybe it's a goal I seek, but it's not defined. It's good to have goals. One of mine is to run 50 half marathons by 50, yet I think in approaching this particular one I'm not looking to it like I looked to all my others. I look with indifference, even though I searched hard for a good one in London. Something I hadn't run before. Granted, about the time I run I will know - really know - if I'm running the London Marathon. A whole different beast, a whole different goal.

Have my eyes shifted off the 50 by 50 prize? Am I taking my home for granted?

It's something I need to sort, that's for sure. I find great solace in my slow by steady runs and bikes, but now I ache for purpose. Time to do some inner exploring...

On staying.

I have now spoken, independently, to two non-English about how they got over to England.

"Oh, I was supposed to be here for (generally a week, a month) and 11 years later, here I am."

Seriously, both of them supposed to be here for short term and they never left.

I've been asked how long I want to be here. Honestly, I'm up for any amount of time that is allowed.

When I didn't live here I would often spend a few days in London. This was often because I was done with whatever project and wanted to get out of the way of whatever colleague had housed me. I would wander down to the water, and stare at the London Eye. Now, people can complain all they want, but I really like the London Eye. For those who don't get to visit every structure during their brief pass through it's a great thing. Plus, it's well engineered considering the English wind.

I digress.

There are these benches that I think (memory failing) serve as nice little statues to the Queen's Jubilee. They have sphinxes propping them up, and are actually not that comfortable. I go and sit there anyway because it's a lovely view. However, right above the London Eye, right dead center, is the inward flight pattern for planes to Heathrow. (One of them, anyway.) Every time I look up at it, my heart literally sinks. I suddenly wish I could merge myself into the benches. I don't want to leave.

Now, you would think me having visited, worked, and lived here for six months would mean that I would eventually not feel this way. But sitting here, typing about it, I want to find a way to bolt myself down and not go. Maybe it's because I feel like I haven't finished whatever I'm here for. Maybe it's because I am supposed to stay.

I don't know.

But whatever I do know is, it's not time to go yet. So I need to get over this homesickness/sad thing.

I get by with a little help from my 100+ friends

Walking home last night I realized I'm in a unique place. And when I talk about place, I mean Oxford itself as a city. When I first came here my closest friends where all Londoners, and all of them moaned. "Why are you coming over here?" was a really common question. It was too expensive, too crowded, to inconvenient, too this... too that...

But, I'm in Oxford. Oxford is a transient town. It's very youthful because of the university, but it's also very accepting. People come here from everywhere, whether they are a tourist or someone wanting to learn English. Because of this you wind up with a much more open community. For instance, I can walk into the local pub frequented on Fridays and without fail will find someone to sit with. Even if I only know them through a friend of a friend of a friend. They don't care, they'll let you sit with them because of that encounter you had a few weeks back where you said hi.

So long as you position yourself with the same open tendency you can't really ever run out of things to do or places to go. You don't have to run around with loads of cash, nor think you'll be crammed and inconvenienced. Sure, sometimes I miss my car and the stores full of stuff I don't need, but perhaps the reason the bike paths and long walks were put into place is to remind you not to rush.

So, despite the bad few weeks I've had (which I'm pulling out of in case you were worried) I have to be grateful to the 100+ people I've met, sat with at a pub, apologized to when I bumped, crammed in on a bus or train with, and lamented when they were biking so slow ahead of me - thank you. Last night, after being very internal and miserable and feeling foreign I was reminded that most of us here are foreign, but we're here. Wherever I go, there I am.

I will not give up...

If there is one thing massive international upheaval has taught me, is that in order to survive one must remain flexible. Living and working in England is not a total cakewalk. There are standards I don't quite meet or understand, and times when I feel lost. Somedays I just wish I was home, but then things would pretty much be the same as England, but with words I understand and a massive heat index.

Words suck. Seriously, there is something to be said about those people who got together and decided to build the Tower of Babel. It would be nice if we could all just speak one language and get on with it, but even when you speak one language you can get tone wrong or not be descriptive enough and *poof* things can still come crumbling down.

I'm particularly good at that. I have a note that sits on my computer that says, "Read it again." Not that I do, but there is a note there. I am particularly bad with words at times, and even worse as a reader who generally skims.

Despite, I know that I'm still willing to struggle. Willing to pour over words like 'fine' and 'quite' and 'pants' and whatever they are willing to throw at me. To not want to scream at them when they tell me how cute it is when I say 'awesome.' Willing to read it again, to try again, and to hope that one of these days I finally master it. I'm just frustrated right now. Frustrated and feeling acutely foreign.

But I don't know how long I'll be here in England, so I have to take the good with the bad.

Anyways, I just got my super duper special members tour thing for the Royal Palace somethingorother I just joined. I can climb scaffolding next to stuff older than America. Seriously. So I gotta take the bad, because stuff like that is really 'awesome.'

Tourist in Mourning

I've been a tour guide or tourist for about three weeks now.

Honestly, I'm pretty pooped out. Not that the sea of people that have been coming through aren't welcome. It's almost as if I just wish I could have a whole day to myself and then resume.

Whenever I can't sleep I pretend the whole world belongs to me for a year. No one is in it but me. (There is a host of rules and things to keep it sustainable for a year, but we won't get into that.) I can go in any door, drive any car, even fly a plane around for fun.

Right now, I would dig that.

The problem is I know that in two weeks I would be lonely. Suddenly all those people would be greatly missed. The sidewalk rage I feel down St. George's Street would even be missed. And I would also think of my friend who is gone, which would in the end make me a little ball of pathetic in the middle of whatever palace I had decided to take over that week.

A while ago I had a friend whose father passed away. He said that he felt like the whole world should've stopped as it had all stopped in him. Yet everything kept going, his kids kept growing, you can't freeze time. So I am a tourist in mourning. Next to me dear friends and loved ones I want to cling to, while at the same time wanting to go back and grab at something gone. Like forgetting to take a picture of yourself in front of some important building that gets destroyed the next day due to a natural disaster.

This is a difficult ride right now. But tomorrow is work and some bit of normal. I have to grasp for normal, and appreciate what is here right now.

On travel, broken promises, and hellos and goodbyes.

It was foolish, really, to think that in the span of five people visiting I would blog fiction everyday. I wanted to try, and by day four it became impossible.

Not that I won't try again, I have lots of material to work with.

I've discovered the Pitts River Museum. It was under renovation when I moved here, but now it's open and wonderful. It's full of whistling arrows, models of who-knows-what, mummies, shrunken heads, you name it. It's dimly lit. You go in, get a torch, and just find weird stuff.

I've also rediscovered Paris. It's highs and lows, and it's glorious outer world of Versailles. I got to see an old friend and marvel at 'sparkly Eiffel Tower.' Seriously worth a look once in your life.

I got to say "Hey" to London again. To see it through the eyes of someone who has never had such the chance. To remember being scared of Tube maps and constantly overwhelmed and awed at such an intense city.

I said goodbye to someone I care for dearly due to life, mercifully, not death. People change, people move on and do different things. It wasn't the way I really planned for it to happen, if you can plan such a thing. I will mourn this for a long time, but will be grateful for the time I had.

And now I have my last little group of people. We've gotten them through their stay awake phase, now to let them rest and take them about in the morning.

And then, then, back to life. Maybe.

Day Three: SHOWTUNES!

I stepped off the bus, holding the red envelope. Terminal 5 has this lovely smell of diesel fuel that reminds me of my youth. Strange, how it is, when you realize that diesel fumes can provide a happy memory. No cars are allowed to drive around in arrivals. They have to park. If you want to get picked up you have to clamber all the way up to departures.

Heathrow. I'm horrifically familiar with Heathrow. I was the Queen of Terminal 4 once, back when there was only four terminals and people were chaining themselves to the construction of Terminal Five. Those were the days. It was my three hour waiting session for a colleague to pick me up (only recently surpassed by a four hour session waiting for the dog to clear immigration) that put me on a more than personal level with Heathrow.

Plus there was this overnight stay I did once there that I will NEVER EVER do again.

I digress. Red envelope. In it was the following note:

You are here to pick up your brother. He will arrive at 10:10 AM from Atlanta. Do what he says and nobody gets hurt.

I looked over the card once, twice, three times a lady and pondered. Cops regularly walked the Terminals. (I should know, I had to explain myself several times.) All I needed to do was find two and...

"Nobody gets hurt," came a voice from behind me. I started, turned, and there was Nana.

"You're reading my card," I said back to her, matter-of-factly.

"Yes, but I can also tell you that despite what you might think, dear, you should do what it says."

I was puzzeled. This woman had more mood swings that Lana Lange on Smallville. What was it now?

"He's watching you, that gentleman," she didn't point, she sort of looked over my shoulder. "He was on the bus. He didn't help you on the bus, but he was there. I think... I think that if you don't do what it says, then dear, if you have family or friends or loved ones. They are in trouble." She then walked up, smiled, shook my hand and patted me on the shoulder. "I'm doing this because I don't want to be one of them. Goodbye and good luck."

I turned and walked away from her with purpose. If this was all about the £40 difference on the contract I was writing, then obviously this man was crazy. But maybe I was missing something. Maybe I needed to change perceptions, look at the world with the happy diesel smell. Whistle, shuffle my feet, maybe twirl or jump or do jazz hands.

It was obvious who the 'man' was. Another pressed suit. Granted, black is the color for England. I remember sitting in the lounge looking at all the black jackets, black dresses, black, black, black. But he was just too neat and too tidy to be there. This was not a harried businessman, this was security. I tried not to stare as I wander into the Terminal. International Arrivals, there would be two exits he would immerge from. There I would wait against the cold metal pole and crane my neck, knowing only I was looking for a male.

Day Two: Mystery

I woke up, shaken, disoriented.

"WelcomeaboardtheHeathrowExpresstobuzzbuzzbuzz..." suddenly mumbled out above me. It was light. When the metal hit me it was afternoon. Surely I had not lost a day. I tried to scoot upwards. I seemed to be smashed between two blue seats, and I was definitely moving.

Above my head I heard a voice. "You alright there, love?" I turned myself over, facing a kindly English woman who looked like she would be a kindly English Nana. She gave reason to the word Nana, which only prior had applied to my Great-Grandmother. I checked myself once-over, and was grateful I was at minimum, still fully dressed.

"Yeah," I mumbled back. She held me steady as I pulled myself up and got wind of my surroundings. It was the Heathrow Express bus. A bus I was overly familiar with in my last line of employment.

"Friends were nice to get you on. Said they were all worried you'd miss your brother's arrival," Nana was keeping a chat going, though her eyes suggested that my 'friends' were anything but. I felt my face, it was swollen. "Must've been a nasty accident," she said. I am sure she was poking at the reason I had most likely been hauled, bloody and semi-conscious, aboard a bus to the airport.

"It was," I said as I hauled myself to the bathroom in the back.

The light flicked on over my head and I sealed myself in. A quick check in the tiny mirror suggested that I had decided, on a whim, to bruise the left side of my face for fun. Outside of that I had everything that I was supposed to have on me. My trousers, my shirt, my jumper, but zero ID and cash. I wasn't going to be getting back on the bus to go home. This was a one-way trip.

Stumbling out of the bathroom I made my way back to Nana. Her wide eyes suggested she would miss every plane, train, or vehicle of transport to see me to the authorities if needs be. So I risked it.

"So who escorted me on?" I asked, no joking in my face.

"Well, a nicely dressed man, and what appeared to be a younger male, though he was just in his trousers and jeans," she trailed away, "He didn't look like a hooligan or anything so I don't think..."

"I'm fine. Just the bruise," I reassured.

"They said you had a few, took a fall, but that your brother was coming and if you didn't meet him your Mom would kill you. So alcohol poisoning or no, you were going to Terminal 5. They even gave me his flight and all that in this little envelope." She pulled a red envelope from a folder and handed it to me.

I pulled it open and noticed that there were things inside besides the flight information. I looked back at her. "Anything else they say?"

"No, no. You were in the seat when we started, nasty turn we hit. Why they didn't buckle you I have no clue."

Nana started to look more shaken. She was deliberating, I could tell. She was concerned for me but worried about her safety as well.

"No worries, ma'am," I said, mixing English and southern properly. "I have everything I need. I can find my way to my brother just fine. Honestly, I just don't know what got into me."

"No dear, I'm pretty sure you didn't."

Over-dramatization of Life: Day One

I have decided, somewhat oddly, to spend the next 30 days writing overly dramatized accounts of some part of my day. The events are based in fact, but fictionalized. Why? Because it sounds like a challenge.

Day One: Horrors.

"I am defeated... humiliated... stalled... and forelorn..." and that was the start of the email. Staring at the screen I couldn't help but laugh. Here, before me, was a plea for maybe £40 more towards the contract. "I beg... I plead... this is an insult to me."

Surely, this man has nothing better to do than look up the alternatives to suffering in the theasurus. Give it enough time, and you would think that the lack of a week's free maintenance would equal the hallocaust all over again. I slammed the laptop shut. That was enough.

"What terrors alight in the man whose contract is not what they wish!" I exclaimed, to no one imparticular. Next to me, the System Administrators looked up briefly from their bank of computers. With what would be considered a sort of group ritual they stared bewildered at me for a moment, then returned to their PuTTY screens. I had be yabbering about this man for days, they were out of quips.

Air, I needed air. Before I could start typing back the moaning client with words starting with "Dear Mr. Butthead, Shove it. Kind regards..." I needed a walk. There was mail, and down the street, a postbox. I would go there and back and by then a nice, civial response would form in my head.

"Be back!" I yelled as I jabbed the green 'Exit' button. The door opened and then locked shut right behind me. Three flights of stairs, three letters, and a 15 minute walk and I would be right as rain. Of course, I never really understood that phrase until moving to England. Where if it didn't rain after a day people became paranoid and declared an Earth emergency.

I stepped into the gray sunshine and instantly felt the gravel begin to invade the £4 Primark shoes. I had them on because they were flat and fit into my gym bag. Days I ran into work I never had to think about clothes. Not that I needed to think about clothes in a software firm where most of the 90% male population wore the same 5 shirts, but I did strive to be clean and match.

Up ahead of me was this masonry company whose parking lot read like a luxury dealership. I wasn't quite sure if they were really a masonry shop, but there were blocks of things were were trucked in daily, and apparently if you sold enough you got a Mazaradi. I was particularly fond of the red one, which, of course, is cliche. But there it was - front and center, outshining all the other cars that were worth more than my life.

Clutching the letters and the jumper on my form, I acted as casually as possible as I moved as close as possible to the vehicle. "One day," I said in a whisper, "I will have nothing better to spend my money on than a vehicle. Screw world hunger." I could see my reflection on the polish. The messed bun, the Primark shoes, and a man, who was standing right behind me.

"Ohmagawd!" I screamed out and turned. He stood there, patiently, black suit perfectly pressed. "I swear, I swear I was just looking. I wasn't going to do anything to it." I stumbled out. I was a good 20 feet away from the car, had I been heading there so purposefully that he had to ensure it's safety?

His silence rattled me more. He wasn't tall or imposing or the kind of power figure you would think owned a car like this. I really didn't know who actually would outside of the 80s jerk characters in movies. The highest I have ever gotten up on the luxury car rung was a Land Rover.

"It's not a problem," he said back. But that was all. There was no approach, no retreat, nothing. A man in a perfectly pressed suit was staring at me intently. Inviting me to converse.

"It's a nice car." I said, shifting and grinding more gravel into the cheap shoes.

"Hmm." came the response. Still standing. Still intent.

"I'll just go. Sorry. I wasn't planning to touch it," and with that I turned, though I could feel his stare on my neck. I had worn my 'fat jeans' that day, so it wasn't like my butt was looking particuarly recognizable today. Though, still, I didn't feel that the look was sexual. It was more, well, intentional.

I walked towards the postbox. Turning briefly and noticing he was gone. Thank God. Apparently the Mazaradi set includes well dressed, soft spoken lunatics. And to the postbox I went, all the while feeling the gravel grinding out the bottom of my tights. I had had enough of loonies this week, having dealt with the mother of all over such a small amount of funds that it would bring you to tears. In the phone conversations he wailed away about his numerous problems, as if somehow I would eventually bend to what I considered excuses. In the last conversation he spoke of 'pressing me to consider before it all went wrong.'

I gave a wide bearth to the car lot on my way back, and the moment I opened the main door I realized I had forgotten the keys to my floor.

"They are going to give me hell for having to press the buzzer," I thought. Shaking the shoes outside, I slipped them on and headed back in. When I reached the top stair I noticed the light over the hall had gone out. Standing in the dimly lit cooridor I realized I would need to tend to that right after I got back into the office.

As my hand headed to the buzzer I could here the ladies room door opened. This was weird, as I was the only one who used it on this particular floor. I turned, but as I turned I only seemed to help along the metal bar coming in the opposite direction. The connection was painful, direct. Cold metal against bone. Crack. And as I slid down the wall facing opposite the door I heard these words, "I am humiliated...stalled...forelorn...but I will not be defeated..."

Homesickness.

Home is a place where in order to go outside you must first put on your sunscreen 15 minutes in advance, pack water, and upon stepping outside hose yourself down in deet and remember that you can breathe the humid air.

Home is a place where the sand squeaks, the water is blue, and you can get a free t-shirt with airbrush design. Oh, and it's not populated by anyone you actually know, but people from Canada.

Home is a place where, when you see someone walking down the street you wonder if their car broke down.

And while I don't mind this mild weather (great for running), the pub nights, the ability to walk or bike everywhere, the international and glorious nature of people... sometimes I miss home. And that is perfectly okay.

June. It's coming.

Again with the holiday weekends. It's like the gods must love me, and I love them. Though I must admit this one I'm squandering on movies and picnic and lazing around the house.

All the while June in knocking at the door. June, the official busy month of the year. In a span of four weeks I will be invaded by loved ones, each staying long enough so that we won't kill each other.

Hopefully.

My first visit is from my baby brother, now 17 (almost 18) and a high school graduate. It will be his first trip abroad and I look forward to his observations. I'm almost like an anthropologist with observations. There are people who I've taken to places just to watch their reaction. Ever since I was in college and learned all about watching and gauging reactions in theatre it's just overwhelmed me. Taking a cynic to Disney, bringing anyone not from Texas/Louisiana to a crawfish boil, that sort of thing. Fish out of water stuff. I actually do it to myself when I can, because taking on something new - even for a short experience - can be enlightening and liberating.

But, I'm fretting. Or worrying. Or going a bit barking, depending on where you are from. Because even though I am sure my baby bro and my friends will enjoy wherever we take them, I want it to be special. Spectacular. I'm so grateful that somehow I was programmed to want to make sure that everything goes so well. At least I am sure the hair dye industry loves me, considering how I love fretting over just about anything.

So as I laze (and feverishly read books on Paris... and websites on bus fares ... and contimplate castles and manor houses...) I just want to give a big shout to the people who thought up these holiday weekends, who remind me that I do need to work on this lazy thing just a little. Because soon enough I'll be a very busy bee.

The slow poke is speeding up.

I is so proud of self. Today I ran my first British 10K. Let me say this much, the British people are fast runners. Perhaps these runs are still more sport for runners and not how they are in the US - which is for runners, joggers, walkers, and variations thereof.

But despite all, I need to thank the British population, those of actual citizenship and not, for somehow inspiring me to pick up the pace. Because of you I actually beat my best 10K time.

I'm sure this has something to do with the fact that I'm also not risking heat exhaustion, as I was in my previous hometown. I'm also well aware that having my ass kicked by a person in a full gorilla suit, or frog suit, or cricket kit, or etc. is also an incentive to continue to put one foot in front of the other. I used to dread the person (I never knew the sex) who would show up, year after year, at the Halloween Fun Run in a complete pumpkin suit. All you ever saw were the legs. Every year they beat me. Every year. If the pumpkin suit only knew how many full size cavemen I had to overtake to clear my memory of the horrible loss I suffered every year at the hands of him/her, I'm sure they would poop pumpkin seeds.

So, the race. Oxford Town & Gown. Benefiting research for Muscular Dystrophy. A run around the glorious city of Oxford. It was pouring and cold at first, which was very properly English, but since I was racing along I felt more for the poor little race marshalls who had to stand out there and make sure we didn't go wobbling off course. I must admit that this is one of my faults, and probably several others, when I get going on a course I sort of become direction stupid. I would probably run to my impending destruction if someone waved me in that direction or placing a brightly colored arrow. Along the way they had these signs which I am sure read one thing but all I kept reading was 'bollocks.' That's how horribly out of sorts I let myself get. (Seriously, I'm sitting here now trying to think what they actually read and that's all I'm getting.) My only goal is to get to each mile or kilometer marker in one piece, and know what point is halfway so I can have my Gu. I hung at the front for the first 2K and then let myself slip to the back as I hate running in crowds. I hung with some pretty fit pensioners who kept each other going and insisting on faster paces. Near the end they slowed but I sped, joining two girls who kept having to rush past me the moment I passed them. When I rounded the finish I went to high five the announcer but then realized that I had a chance to complete the race at an hour 15 exactly, so I put in the kick and made it across in a time I had causally thrown out as being possible. All in all it was a good race.

The English are bigger on medals than t-shirts, so I own a nice bright orange and blue one now. Now that I know I can run as fast I as I did I figure that I'm probably getting closer and closer to considering running the whole entire time. When I think back to about 5 years ago and starting this whole running mess I never would've placed my thought process at running the whole time... but maybe I should try it.

But first, I think I'll nap on that suggestion.

I hate wind.

I can put up with hurricanes.
I can deal with gray days.
I can cope with drizzle.
But I hate wind.
I hate how it pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
I hate that it makes me feel slow on a bike.
And slow on my feet.
I even hate the pretty kites that have been flown in the wind.
Markers to say, "Hey, guess what? You ain't going nowhere fast today."
With the wind at my back I feel erratic.
With the wind at my side I feel like a drunken cyclist.
With the wind at my front, well, it pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
And pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
So, right now, at this moment.
In this place.
With the current mental state that I am exhibiting.
I hate you, wind.
Hate, hate, hate.
Pppppppffffffffffffffffffffffttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt.

All the reason to run.

I'm a slow runner. By most accounts I'm a walk/jogger, more emphasis on the jogger part. It takes me nearly 3 miles before I feel warmed up, and since most races you can sign up for are 5K, that means that for .15 miles I'm really in the zone.

The one thing about moving to England is that I can now, with happiness, sign up for lots of different kinds of races all year long. I don't have to do what I did in the states, which is avoiding running altogether (unless really early or really late) during the summer months. But I do have to fight for spots on runs, which I had never had to think about before.

Today I went through my first 7K, which was at Blenheim, and was A-MAZ-ING. It was actually warm today, which was VERY exciting, except for the fact that I didn't wear a matching running kit, which really only bothered me. It's a partial off-road and hill course that goes all over the property, and for someone like myself who hasn't really been in Blenheim's hiking grounds, they could've put me over a cliff and I would've gladly run straight into oblivion. One thing I have to say is hill courses are tough, though that statement is not a really profound one. I've run Austin TX's half marathon, where mile 12 is uphill, so as I hit the off-road inclines I had to chant to myself, "Austin is worse, Austin is worse." That helped me truck on by the stragglers who were beginning to feel the most 'fun' part of a 'fun' run.

The best part about this run is the scenery, which is truly spectacular. I was just awestruck not only with the nice woods and the little lodges I saw tucked away here and there, but the simple fact that people like Queen Elizabeth I went riding around the area HUNDREDS of years ago. Where I started running 6 years ago they were all keyed up that a marathon had been taking place with regularity for 25 years, and that it's history was that it started with people using a station wagon as a turning spot. I'm sure in the year 2107, when they've reached their 125 year and cars are flying, that station wagon will be revered.

I finished near the back of the pack, which was fine. And I did pass the man in the bananna suit, which suited me well, though the guy in the cricket kit really booked it and I never saw him again. Oddly enough there was this woman I was sorted of paced with, who near the end started to weave the course, but then at the finish she cut me off to 'beat' me. Yes, even us slowpokes have a bit of competitive nature in us.

Next week I run Oxford's Town and Gown 10K, which I hear is going to be a kicker. 4,000 of us tearing through the streets. Perhaps they will shove bicyclists in our way and make it interesting. We'll see. We'll see.

The ritual.

What is it about toast and tea in England?

Why is it that, in the morning, I find this little joy in making dry toast? I never cared much for dry toast in the states. When it's gray, as it likes to be for stretches here, there is something about warm, dry toast, that stokes some sort of inner fire.

Couple it with tea. I go to work and set about a tea ritual, which I do twice a day. First, in the morning, when it's quiet and I have the electric kettle all to myself. I set about picking up in the kitchen and making the developers coffee, and once that is sorted the hot water is ready. I stick the little bag in and put a spoon on top to push it down. Then, I look out at the bike racks and watch the cars and people peddle in. In the afternoon almost witness the opposite. Developers cleaning their coffee cups and seeing the cars and people peddle away. Sort of like some little cycle of life punctuated by hot beverage.

All the while I am taking in some strange English comforts. Things like this I know I won't do once it's time for me to go home, whenever that is decided. Nonetheless, like the grass being so green here and picnicking being a type of leisure sport, I will take it on. I will relish it. And that, as they say, is that.

The Merry Month of May

May is the time for new beginnings. For marveling at the wonders of nature. Drinking in the long days. Planning holidays and picnics. Jumping off bridges at 6AM, watching tortoises race, and then picnic while people willingly hitting each other with sticks.

Yes, May. Within my first four days of it here in England, I have witnessed a lot.

Take, for instance, May Day itself in Oxford. It's highlight: Waking up stupid early and going down to Magdalen College to hear people greet the morning in song from the topmost tower. Now I say wake up, as I am 31 and therefore old. If you are in college you stay up all night at the pubs who bravely allow themselves to be open. Then, at about 5:30 AM you stumble out, screaming incoherently at your friends. Afterwards you sort of stumble, in a chain, towards the bridge where you want to jump from into the river Cherwell. However, there are police there blocking the bridge, as the water levels can be very low and you could do something like break your back. But, as the grand rap group of the 80s proclaimed, &*(^ the police, right? You're invincible, and barely dressed! And mafakulllllrghhhh! (I think that is what the guy said before they simply arrested him.)

People did eventually jump from the bridge, I've been told. But no injuries. Apparently in the past it's been a light policing, but that usually ends up with 40% of the jumpers needing to go to the hospital. In ye olden times the bridge jump was an actual tradition, but the water level has changed. Personally, I'd be all for rushing into the Cherwell, not jumping. Have you seen how far it is from the bridge to the water? That's freaking high!

The second of May this year was dedicated to the Oxford College tradition of racing tortoises. This is an event held by Corpus Christi, who held a fair, and then let us cram into a corner of their courtyard to watch tortoises from other colleges race to the outside lettuce ring. Now all colleges do not have a tortoise, though several do. Those who don't send people dressed as tortoises, who hold their own competition of seeing who can eat a head of lettuce fast enough. This year Christ Church's got dirty, mounting several other competitors and eventually leading to disqualification. Oddly enough, it was Corpus Christi's tortoise, Oldham, who seemed to pull through and win twice. Tortoise enhancement drugs?

I shot most of my pictures through people's legs. Standing next to me was a man, maybe 20, who was in a full summer suit.

"I say!" he said to a man in front of us. A bearded chap with a bit of a bald spot. "I say good sir, how are you?"
"Fantastic," the man with the beard and the bald spot responded back, "Doing a dramatic reading for the kids in the courtyard in an hour."
"Truly splendid," the summer suit man responded, "Tell me, do you Facebook?"
"Surely I do." he replied.
"I shall search for you then."

Only in Oxford would the politest means of Facebook exchange ever take place at a tortoise race between a 20 year old in a summer suit and a dramatic literature reader.

May the Third was given over to jousting. It's bank holiday here (WOOT!) and Blenheim Palace holds jousting during this weekend past the cricket lawns. Blenheim is still a family home, so sometimes I wonder what it would be like to actually be a person who lived there and could call it their home. I could imagine a sulky teenager all angry because it's jousting on the lawn this weekend and he has to stay rather then jet to Paris or something strange.

They are quite smart during the jousting events, inviting children out to do a knight's parade and play shrubs for the falconer's birds to fly over. I think 80% of the attendants were children, which of course makes me wonder to some level how they still managed to be on rather good behavior. We got there for second round, squeezing in a picnic blanket at the front so we could watch, but keeping a row back so kids could sit in front. It was actually quite fun, as the knights really seemed to enjoy their work, and the competition was pretty real for some of the events. I also salute the fights, and with that highly recommend heading out to a jousting weekend should you have the chance.

And May 4th? Well, it's being spent cataloging all this craziness. But there you have it. I hope that we get a rest break of sorts... who knows... may there is ferret racing at Baliol followed by ninjas on the lawn at Windsor... Hooray for May!

Manual

Something I have noticed since moving here: I don't mind the manual labor so much.

I'm not digging ditches, nothing like that, but the things that I thought I could never do without I am doing without. I don't mind washing the dishes. I don't cry over hanging clothes out to dry. I shred my own cheese, I chop my own vegetables. I make my own sandwich fillings, it's crazy like that.

Before I would've been searching in vain for pre-packaged, pre-shredded, pre-anything, and now I'm fine with it taking a bit longer. I notice that even when there are times I miss the mega super duper pooper scooper stores, there is some weird joy in having to search. For example, last week I went to an ironmonger (which is their word for hardware store) that specialized in doors, door hinges, and all things necessary for a door to open and/or close. Down the street was the other ironmonger, that held sets of screws and nails. And it all lives together like that, happy for some reason.

I also yesterday pronouced basil as they do here, which is baz-ill, so I guess I'm transitioning.

Now if you don't mind me, I have to go dig that ditch that I hadn't dug before.

Summah and Long Runs.

Today, for about 30 minutes, I went without a jacket. This is very exciting. For, you see, that means it is soon to be summer. And in summer, you can be without a jacket for maybe an hour. And sometimes, maybe sometimes, you can be without a jacket for TWO hours.

I went to ice cream. Because when it's 60 degrees out, it's ice cream weather. I got two scoops and a waffle cone. It was from G&D, which is like Amy's in Texas, all home made. It's not as good as Amy's (as nothing from home ever is as good as when you are technically not home), but it's close enough and excellent quality. They also make bagel sandwiches, which is nice, as I miss my bagels from my proper bagel shop.

I noticed today people were literally traveling across the parks with the sun. If the sun moved, so did they, quietly packing and moving their blankets like little sun dials all around Oxford. Myself, I'm still shopping picnic gear. With some events and visitors on the way I figure we must be proper English people and picnic. Preferably after pushing ourselves around on a punt all day. Or, at least, making my younger brother push us around. I believe that is the entire point of having younger siblings.

In other news, I am going to queue for the London Marathon. I've run numerous halvsies, and will run at least one halvsie this year (though I want to run two). Surely this to is one of the stupidest things I've ever done, but I've been at the halvsie game long enough that I should mark a marathon, before happily returning to halvsies until without any rhyme or reason, signing up for another marathon. Preferrably in Antartica. We'll see if London takes me, I hear it can be tough, but I'm sure I will run for charity, which should make it slightly easier.

This all sort of wraps itself around and back to summer due to the fact that in the interviews after the finish people were complaining it was too hot. It is those people I feel need to be given entry into the DisneyWorld Marathon, which can either end at 40 degrees, or somewhere closer to 90. It's like the seesaw of races, as it takes place in this incredibly odd transition point where, for no known reason, a bout of winter hits. Thing is, you don't know if it will hit that week, or the week after. It's a toss up. It's the only race where I pack both winter and summer running clothes. No joke. I think everyone needs the experience of going 40 to 90 or the other direction, once in their life.

There is also the Dubai Marathon, but I digress.

The short of it is as thus - today was another lovely day in Oxford and I'm foolishly going to attempt to run in the London Marathon next year. And that, as they say, is that.

Not following a pattern.

I'm getting sick. This stinks. I was told that within my first year I will end up ill a lot, all those "British Germs" invading my system. But what they didn't tell me was this whole new pattern of illness thing.

I've been ill once before and it didn't follow the same pattern as this one, which is a sore throat and weird light-headed feelings. In the states I would have it the other way around. Before this I just got really sleepy and then sneezy. It's if my body is going, "Okay, this is not a good thing. I'm ill, but this is not something I've experienced before so I'll switch around all the feelings I normally get until something stands out as familiar. Err go, I start reaching for meds."

Or something like that, I really shouldn't be writing, feeling as I do.

I could get into the whole doctor thing here, which I'm immensely grateful to shove part of my paycheck to knowing I can see someone - but - for some reason people in the UK are less apt to medicate. I've argued in the past with colleagues, obviously ill, who will swear up and down that a bit of aspirin will do them fine. Like they WANT to feel the pain. I recall specifically one colleague who insisted on taking only half a set of over-the-counter meds because we were traveling. It amuses me greatly. Outside of that I was purchasing honey in droves.

Anyways, I'm just a bit miffed because of this, as there is that since that comes now and then of being 'foreign.' Just when I've figured something out or felt a bit more British (I did postage today and learned all about weight and mailing types) I get something strange knocked at me, like weird illness.

Okay, to bed with me.

Weather.

I shouldn't ever complain about English weather. I have no right to. When coming from two of three states where you have two seasons: Summer and Not Summer, actually experiencing seasonal change should be relished.

On Thursday walking to an early pub lunch one of my colleagues bemoaned the weather. "Oh, it's that might-rain weather. I hate that." I, of course, can think of the anywhere from 3-7pm daily shower and rain so hard you can't see an inch in front of you. "This isn't bad! I had to work the DAY after a hurricane at a water park, that was bad." And I lived 10 days without power, and I resided in a flooded city, and... and... and...

England has some rough winds and overcast days that stretch on a bit longer than they should. But, then again, they are an island. They have snow sometimes, and rarely but occasionally, warm sunny days. I did notice not too long ago that I was becoming paler than normal, and that the area where my running top used to leave light tan lines is gone. I recall mentioning to my best friend how his hair seemed darker. It was never darker, he said, he just doesn't get much in the way of sun when he goes out.

But you can go out without first not checking if this is an 'Ozone Warning' day. For those not in the know, an 'Ozone Warning' means that there is a pretty good chance that if you were to die of heat exhaustion, or fancy that opportunity, now is your chance to take it. There is also that whole knowledge that you can go out in England at nearly any time, where in my home states, if the sun is up then you may need to think about it. You also may want to consider the purchase of a vat of DEET, which is the substance you bathe in in order to ward off the numerous flying insects. (Did I mention Oxford has a lot of birds? I really like them because they eat the bugs, thank you.) I've had a few bee problems here, but that is because they were wandering around flowers, which bloom here, rather than wither and die.

What this all really points to is that for the past two days I've been grumbling about the weather. The almost-rain and windy weather. I've had to keep my winter jacket out, and realized that the pictures I've been posting feature this jacket almost exclusively. But nonetheless, I went out. I wandered about. I didn't have to hose myself with sunscreen and DEET and make sure my water was near and that the Ozone Warning would fry me to pieces. So I will take almost-rain thank you. And cold, and windy. Yes, I will take it and I will relish it.

Hooray for the British / European Holiday System.

Chalk up another reason why I may never move home again: HOLIDAYS.

In the US there really aren't any holiday laws. By all account you are able, should you wish to sign up for it, to work every single day of your life until you die. There are no laws stating you should get time off. Though, when you do, HR makes a fuss over the fact that you are using it.

Of course I believe that this has eventually lead to the "use it or lose it" policy. In which you, as a person who is made to feel horrible requesting vacation, must take vacation or it will disappear. This sort of rule came into effect after people, realizing that they would be subject to guilting if they took vacation, horded hours (which is money technically owed to you). Then, when they left the company the company would have to cough up months of vacation never taken. I recall a professor at my former school was owed a years pay on top of his retirement when he left. I had never thought I had seen a man so happy he messed with the system.

Fact is, on holiday Europe has it right. People need time off. People need to be able to go places, or go nowhere. In short, people need to live. In the US it's all about work. Work, and apparently, accumulating debt. Here I have never been so happy to join in Friday pub sessions and realize that I could plan long weekends driving/busing/walking around England and exploring because I could, no guilt needed.

My brother will be making his first trip to Europe in June, and I can take time off to wheel him about. In the US, having been on the job less than six months I would've had to beg for a long weekend. It's so great I can't even describe it. I think it should be mandatory everywhere. While now I'm happily on a government sanctioned holiday (4 days! Woo!) I know that in a short while I'll have about two weeks where I can watch my brother be surprised and shocked and awed and everything with the UK.

And that is just wonderful by me. :)

British Shopping.

So they say that the British are all about queuing. That if you stick them in a neat little line they will stand there, obviously miffed about it, but enduring it. The queue is, after all, the English way.

Put them in a supermarket, or shopping mall, or anywhere else that people have to go to purchase things, it's mass pandemonium.

This is most obvious in the supermarket. Mostly because, unlike in the US where we have large and well spaced aisles, you are looking at a store the size of most US living rooms. Within that you have the aisle listings, often found in strange places, and often listing things you don't actually want. I have run across the 'Canned Fish' aisle, for instance. So what you do instead is roam the aisles, looking at each shelf for whatever they might have, and often doubling back because you later find out that the canned fish is right next to the rice, which last week was next to the bread but they aren't carrying that much bread, so they put chocolate there.

If we were to place English markets in the land of Buddhism, then we would be looking at change and change acceptance at it's highest level. Nothing is constant in the super market, and if you accept this, you are a far better shopper than most.

The other shopping experiences are what I would refer to as 'flocking.' You go into a mega store, ex. Primark - land of stupid cheap clothing, and you go to a rack. It could have the most horrific neon yellow belts with orange and puke stripped bags, but go there, and just look as if you are mildly interested. Within moments you are flocked to by shoppers, who obviously are drawn to your mild interest, who then push their way in front of you and grab and snatch at these items solely because they are there. Moments later, as you wander towards the exit, you will see those items deposited randomly on top of a pile of riffled through but decent shirts. It's the way of shopping in England.

Outside of, of course, the closet store.

The closet store comprises the majority of all independent shops in England. This, of course, is actually quite fun if you are in the mood for it. Usually you have to shove your way in and are greeted by 15 other people, who have been trapped there since who knows when, and a cashier at the till, who carries the greatest amount of space behind him or her. It's best to know what you are coming in for, because if you don't know then you will be there for days on end. This is because only the cashier knows where things are. They are the keeper of knowledge. So, unless you really just want to browse and find a full tea set under a stack of newspapers, go in with knowledge of your end game. And best of luck in getting back out. Oh, and by the way, mind the step, because all these shops have steps, either up or down or both ways, because that is the rule.

I suppose I wouldn't consider this a ranting, just sort of a catalogging of my shopping experiences so far whilst here. When you come from mega huge store land, like I do, it's an adjustment. I'm getting the hang of it. Now, if you don't mind me I need to go to TopShop. There are some things other people are looking at which I need to look at too, right now, and I hope there is stairs.