A World of Cliches

Well, just about two weeks have passed in Britain and so far my days have been an unending stream of British cliches. Villages are filled with tiny roads and identical houses, all the homes have decorative fireplaces, everyone is obsessed with football and train stations are tremendously huge and overly ornate. 

Oh look, a castle!

Days and nights have been both rainy and chilly and I'm told it will snow soon! And as promised on television: the Brits speak in a variety of dialects that range from classy to posh to adorably quaint to completely impossible to understand. The British coast is long and pretty but seems to be without the sand and sun I typically associate with the seaside. Castles are big and majestic and old and... full of old stuff. Halloween (Not just an American thing! Who knew?) promised small children in teeny tiny monster costumes but instead delivered dodgy teenagers with jackets over their faces trying to bung some free candy. Bonfire Night involved a dangerously large fire and a disracting display of fireworks to make sure everyone turned their backs on the blaze to give it a chance to get out of control.

British pubs contain cheap beer (or cider if you're me and therefore weak) and jolly locals getting scarily hammered. Tea rooms are staffed by middle aged women (probably the jolly locals' wives) who bake cakes and slices by the dozen and serve tea in pretty china pots. Oh, and Sunday dinners are epic. 

All in all, it's been very gratifying to know that my vaguely insulting expectations for this country are coming true. It's always nice to be proven right, over and over again. Although it's not helping the dear boyfriend's attempts to make me stop calling the UK a quaint, itty bitty island. But hey, he can't win 'em all.