Today, right at the end of work, I suddenly couldn't believe I was in Emeryville and not in England. I'm not sure what brought on the sudden bout of Anglophilia; it might have been the realization that it's been almost a year since I visited, or the sight of Heather, who just got back from Scotland. Maybe it was the English "summer" weather we're having. Anyway, I suddenly wanted to be in London, at this one pub Christine and I went to, or in the Lake Country, where I didn't even get to the other side of Windermere, and can't believe I didn't go to Beatrix Potter's house (though I did hit up both of Wordsworth's, and I don't even like Wordsworth all that much).
As a compromise, to make myself feel better, I felt like going home to watch Pride and Prejudice, listen to the Clash, read Cold Comfort Farm, and drink tea, all at the same time. (Instead, I went home to watch the 5:00 ABCFamily rerun of Gilmore Girls, knit on the baby blanket, and eat Ginger Cats, all at the same time.) I did manage to track down some pub food for dinner, sausages and mash and cider at Kensington Circus Pub, though who makes sausages and mash with a) no gravy, and b) a side of black beans and salsa? (Oh, California. You kill me.) It did in a pinch, I guess. It was cheaper than a plane ticket to Heathrow, anyway, as well as practically everything else of the British/travel/money-related persuasion. I guess, once the price of gas goes down enough that I can afford to go anywhere farther than Walnut Creek, I'll have to go back. After all, I may have been to the lame faux Jane Austen Centre in Bath, but I totally missed the real Jane Austen house in some out-of-the-way Home Counties place, and I didn't even buy any yarn when I was there. Or books. Clearly, this must be remedied. What kind of tourist was I?
Anyway, until then, I'll be in my corner with some Blackthorn and, I don't know, some Bronte or another? I'll let you know how it turns out. (Hint: Crazy wife in the attic. Duh.)