Being British

On the playground recently (not today, today it looked like the Arctic tundra out there), in discussing who actually had the coldest house, one of the mums looked at me and said: “Part of being British is being generally uncomfortable.”

I can understand this. Electricity is far more expensive here than at home, so it pains me to turn on the heat during the day. It pains me to run the little space heater, too. I find myself yelling “Close the door, do you live in a barn?” – or something about not wanting to heat the outdoors – when the kids leave the back door open. Our house, lovely as it is, is very drafty, and let’s face it – 40 years in Chicago did NOT turn me into a winter-lovin’ girl. I’m permanently cold.

I’d put on another sweater, but I’m starting to look like the Staypuft Marshmallow man as it is.

If I could figure out how to vacuum while wearing my slanket, that would be great, too.

In the meantime, I’ll just be uncomfortably chilled as I iron my husbands shirts and handkerchiefs, and toss back one more cup of tea in a futile attempt to warm up.

All this British influence is starting to rub off on me.

Crikey.