Tricking the English

yankeebeanI first moved to England when I was 16 years old with my whole family (in fact, that’s how I met my husband, who I’ll call Mr. NiceGuy).

My brother and I used to see what random facts we could make up and convince English people were actually true. It was an AWESOME game and you wouldn’t believe some of the things that people believed.

Once my brother convinced a group of his friends that ‘United States of America’ was prounounced ‘ooo-NIHT-ed STAAH-tase of aah-mare-EEE-caah’

And once I told some knob-head in the pub that I wasn’t allowed to date British men because they teach American women sex secrets that only American men can know about and understand. And he BOUGHT IT…

I know I know, it’s a little mean, but I was only 16…

I must admit, I’m still tempted to try it sometimes. For example, I was tempted to tell people that the it’s againt the law to vote in the American Election outside of US territory. So the US government provided absentee voters with ‘Voting planes’ that pick us up and fly us over America air-space to cast our vote legally.

But I didn’t tell anyone that… I swear…

No sex at this Bed and Breakfast, honey!


I once read a quote that said:

“Bed and Breakfasts are for people who want to pretend they have fun friends in cool places”

Oh the bed and breakfasts of Britain!

When I arrived on this little North Sea island I used to love going to a bed and breakfast. “Aren’t they quaint?” I would sigh with contentment. Oh, and the owners sooooooo friendly!! I would look forward to long weekends of bed and breakfast-wholesome goodness. I would chat, smile, get up early and act amused at the owner’s dog/collectible teapots/field of sheep.

Fast Forward 8 years on—-

Give me a cheap hotel chain any day!

What I have learned is that usually a stay in a Bed and Breakfast goes like this:

Upon arrival the old lady (always after several buzzer rings) manages to greet Mr. Chill and I and needs to know:

a) my entire life story from birth, “oh where is that accent from?” type hoopla

and b) “what are your plans for tomorrow?”What she really means is “what is your social class/are you going to rob me?” and “when are you leaving so I can get my tax-free cash?”

I walk to my room lugging all my crap up those old Victorian steps–usually a teenager’s room that has been converted since they have left.

I am usually apprehensive of what my room is going to look like… (should I have paid for the upgrade for the en-suite?) But no surprise —it usually it looks like all the fabrics that Laura Ashley sold circa 1980 have been shook up in a blender, and then vomited on the walls, carpets, duvet and lampshade. Oh and don’t forget the nasty tea kettle that was bought around the same time as the Laura Ashely fabrics.

We come in at night and we feel like naughty teenagers who have been out too late. After all, no one else’s lights are on. I always imagine the owners tut-tutting in their own Laura Ashley hell and and thinking “that couple, right party fools they are!”

Then, of course there is no sex on tap because its usually way to cold (gotta pinch those pennies says the old lady owner who refuses to heat the place properly) and again you feel like your parents are listening in. I try to make a cuppa but the never been descaled kettle is scary. Plus who likes UHT milk anyway?

Fast forward to breakfast. I feel guilty because I refused to have sex with Mr. Chill, and we’re even on holiday so double guilt!! Then I get annoyed because why did I choose to stay at a place to only get a full breakfast between 8 and 8:30? So we arrive at 8:29… not good. The other guests stare with their plates already cleaned.

The old Lady looks annoyed and says “tea or coffee?” with a sigh.

I can’t wait to get home already. Then at least I can have sex¬† with Mr. Chill and sleep in to my hearts content.