I'm not sure what to write about tonight. However, I feel like writing and so I shall ramble. I just watched the BBC version of Henry V with Kenneth Branagh and Emma Thompson. I wish they were still together. They are such wonderful people and I hate seeing such love go to waist. Well, what a movie that was. I liked it. Branagh never fails to bring clarity and confident understanding to Shakespeare's lines. He's brilliant at exposition and digging up all the clever wonderful nuggets of nuance. It’s also nice to see a play about a Henry end somewhat peacefully and happily. Henry’s tend to be ill-fated stars. I can’t remember my history well enough to remember what happened to this one. But with that time period I have to sadly agree with the pessimistic saying that goes: all happy endings are just stories that haven’t ended yet. I don’t always like living in this time, but at least I did not live in his. I enjoy reading about it, watching movies about it, and soaking myself in the myths and fantasies of those times, but the realities of them always come back into my mind and make me happy to be so far removed and at a safe distance with my rosy glasses firmly in place.
England is such a wet country. Having lived in California for so long, I forget that I can’t always just go outside whenever I want to. I forget too that I can’t always count on the sun to shine when it is day. I do like the romance of the rain and the fog, but I am still getting used to my own realities that this means I must also like walking the streets in a thunderstorm in order to bring some groceries home and that I can’t just wait for tomorrow because it will probably be raining then too. This makes it rather less romantic; especially when the wind is cold, and the man at the check out is cranky.
Talking about cranky clerks. I went into a McDonalds on Sunday, as I told myself I would never do here, because I desperately needed a cheap cup of plain coffee to wake myself up. The place was packed! Apparently McDonalds is still a novelty over here and not a word that makes any grown up grown. When I finally got up to the register the male clerk could not have been more rude. He made it abundantly clear with his incessant eye rolling, hurry it up hand gestures, and barking commands that my patronage was not appreciated, that my order was unworthy of his time, and would I just pay and go already. My resolution to not enter another McDonalds is more resolute than ever.
However, my attempts at trying the foreign foods here is at a standstill as well until my poor stomach has a chance to regroup. The final straw was a harmless looking little cup of “Goat Milk Yogurt.” I stood in the grocery isle staring at this and thought, well, I really like goat cheese. This is probably good. So, I brought it home, peeled back the lid, stuck my spoon in, and brought it to my mouth. The first bite seemed odd, so I put a second bite in. Then I proceeded to make such faces that surly have never been used in C. S. Lewis’ kitchen ever before! Think of the worst barn smell you’ve ever smelt, combine that with the smell of soured milk, and then imagine what that would taste like and you get close to the retched flavor of Goat Milk Yogurt! That was yesterday, but my poor stomach is still giving me grief over that one.
And now I must go because the biggest bee I have ever seen just flew by my head and is rapping at my lamp stand. Off to my next adventure!