A Texan Abroad

I wish I had a pound for every time someone said "That doesn't sound like a local accent". I don't mind it really, but after being in England for almost seven years, I tend to forget that I have an accent. Most of the people around me are used to hearing it and don't comment on it.

Usually when I tell someone I'm from Dallas, I hear "So who did shoot JR?". I don't know if they honestly don't know or just can't remember. Fortunately I do know who shot him because if I didn't, I would probably have to find another way to prove I'm from Dallas. I mean, come on, someone from that city who doesn't know that it was Sue Ellen's sister Kristin who shot the bastard.

Yesterday, however, I had a pleasant surprise. A salesman who came into my shop commented that I didn't have a local accent and asked where I'm from. When I replied "Dallas", he commented that he was in Dallas only a few months ago. I've heard that one before, too, but so far from no one who has been there in the past 30 years or who never left DFW airport. Much to my astonishment, the salesman asked me what the name of the Italian restaurant with the cable car in the middle of it is called because he enjoyed eating there. That's Spagetti Warehouse, and it was one of my absolute favourite restaurants when I was a kid! I can remember my dad having spagetti with butter and garlic sauce and wishing I could have the same, only my mother wouldn't let me.

I haven't been back "home" to see my family and friends in Texas for over four years, so it was really nice chatting to someone who has been to some of the places I grew up seeing. We had a long conversation about Dealey Plaza and who shot JFK because, of course, when you grow up in Dallas, you grow up with the assassination. I wasn't born until 1967, but it was still a major event when I was in school. The first field trip I can ever remember was to Dealey Plaza, and I remember my teacher telling me that we had just driven over the spot where Kennedy was shot.

I don't get homesick for Texas very often, but it happens. And it's nice to know that when someone tells me that they enjoyed the Texas hospitality and their visit to Dallas, I still swell up with pride.

My "I'm a Celebrity" Update

I lasted as long as I possibly could, but after a week I decided to jot down my thoughts on the happenings in the jungle. It's definitely not as gripping as the last series, but it's not too bad. At least it's one reality TV series without Simon Cowell.

Brian Harvey, former East 17 singer. Well, he's outta there. He did a runner and fled to the comfort of a four star hotel on the Gold Coast. To be fair, when he was on the flight from the UK to Australia, his grandmother died, and he still chose to go into the jungle. Unfortunately he was driven crazy by the flies that one tends to find in the wild, and he drove Janet Street-Porter crazy by farting constantly.

Fran Cosgrave, nightclub owner and model dater. I didn't expect to like Fran because he seems to be one of those people who has earned his "fame" (I never heard of him before this) by dating people who are actually famous. I do like him though. He's charming, funny and seems to be a gentleman. Apart from that I can't say much because he's kinda quiet, or at least the editors aren't showing much of him.

"Huggy Bear" Antonio Fargas, former TV actor. I grew up seeing Huggy Bear on the telly, and now he's transferred his cool to the rainforest. Most of the comments I've heard have said that he's lazy, but face it, everyone stuck in that jungle is lazy because there's not much to do! He's done a wonderful job of looking after the pet baby emus.

Janet Street-Porter, gobby journalist. Well, if she can call herself a "moaning old cow", then so can I. I alternate between liking her and hating her. She had a point when she told Brian off for farting next to where she was trying to cook the camp's dinner, but I think she's out of line by saying there are others who talk just to hear their own voices. That's the pot calling the kettle black. But most of the time she seems to have a great sense of humour.

Joe Pasquale, comedian. Awwww, Joe seems a real sweety! I know he's the current favourite to win, and he's probably deserves it. He doesn't take sides, and he tries to keep everyone happy.

Nancy Sorrell, underwear model. I don't usually like the models that ITV sticks in the jungle, but Nancy seems like a nice person. She hasn't done any of the trials or anything like that, but every time I've seen her on the show, she's been pleasant and friendly.

Natalie Appleton, former singer. The less said about Natalie the better. She whinges, whines and complains. She's a big baby. She needs to get out of there and go home, except evidently she was airsick on the flight Down Under so she might consider a slow boat ride back to England. Or Canada. Or America. Or wherever she's decided she's from. The accent alone changes faster than her mood.

Paul Burrell, former Royal butler. I didn't think I'd like this guy either. Honestly, I don't usually make judgments about people I don't know, but you know how you just get a sense whether or not you would like someone? I always thought of Paul as an opportunist, making money off the fact he used to be the butler to Princess Diana. But I loved the story he told about catching the Queen in her bedroom trying on her crown before the State Opening of Parliament while wearing her pink fuzzy slippers.

Sheila Ferguson, singer. Bossy old bat. She's nosy and seems two-faced to me. I hope she's the first voted out of the jungle.

Sophie Anderton, model. Natalie went ballistic at her for being a "prima donna", but she's been a hard worker. Okay, so she has a good figure (which I would love to have but no chance of that) and looks pretty for the cameras. As far as I can see she's not doing anything the rest of them aren't doing. I'm on Sophie's side in this one.

Vic Reeves, comedian. Well that was a big surprise, having an 11th person join them in the jungle, and it was even more surprising that it was Nancy's husband. It'll be interesting if we get to see a domestic between them, but so far the only thorn in the domestic bliss has been Janet shouting at Nancy for sneaking off for a snog with the hubby.

And out of all of them, I still prefer the koala.

Teenagers

My mother used to tell me "Insanity is hereditary. You get it from your kids." I didn't find it very amusing at the time, but now I know exactly what she meant. I have been blessed (or cursed, depending on my mood) with three teenagers. At the moment, all three of them are sitting in my living room making fun of each other, laughing hysterically and driving me nuts.

Malorie is the oldest at 15. I should add that she's 15 going on 30 but acts like she's 5. I try not to refer to her as the stereotypical blonde, but some times I just can't help it. We even tried colouring her hair because she thought that maybe if her hair were darker, it would give her confidence not to act like a blonde. Instead of brown her hair turned a lovely shade of auburn, and she refused to speak to me for 24 hours. I thought it looked nice. It didn't work anyway, and now she wants to go back to being a blonde. She's boy crazy as well, and I have yet to meet a boy she doesn't fancy.

Braden is the next down the list at 14. It's a good thing he's such a mild-mannered and loving son because he's grown to the point where he towers over me. A few weeks ago he tried to hug me and nearly knocked me down the stairs. He's intelligent and comical. So comical in fact that he either has me laughing hysterically or shouting in exasperation. When he is pushing me to the point of screaming, I just call him "Stud Muffin", a nickname my mother gave him when I told her how many girls walk past our house hoping that Braden will come out and talk to them.

The youngest of the teens is Daniel, who is 13. He's not actually mine by birth, but he's mine by marriage, meaning I had to marry his dad to get him. Daniel is hard to work out sometimes. When he and Malorie are in the house on their own, they get along like bosom buddies. A few weeks ago they even sat and worked on French homework together, even though both of them are hopeless at the subject. They managed to trick me into translating Daniel's homework. But once Braden enters the mix, it's the boys against the girl and chaos breaks out. The funny thing is that Braden doesn't get involved as much as Malorie and Daniel, who suddenly act as if they'll never speak a civil word to each other again.

So it's a typical Saturday night tonight with the three of them trying to outwit each other, out insult each other and generally drive me to the brink of insanity. And this is a quiet weekend. Next weekend not only will it be the three teens here, but the two little ones will be back from their dad's.

The Ex Husband Remarries

At first the proceedings were so secret they rivalled the arrangements of Britney Spears and whatever the name of the guy she married is. After spending a weekend with their dad, my kids would come in with juicy bits of gossip designed to put me off the scent. The first was that Richard and Donna were getting married in the big church in Chesterfield (the "Crooked Spire"), but I knew that wasn't true for two reasons. Firstly, both the bride and groom have been married previously (twice previously in the groom's case), and therefore they cannot have a church ceremony in a Church of England church. Secondly, the groom hates church weddings because of his lack of religious beliefs.

I suppose my reaction to each new piece of wedding planning disappointed him: "Who cares?"

And now the wedding is tomorrow. When I remarried, we most definitely had to keep all the arrangements a secret because things were, shall we say?, tense back then. Now that it's his turn, what is my reaction to the impending nuptials?

I did all their wedding flowers.

Yes, the ex-wife has not only found pillows for her sons to carry the rings on during the ceremony, but she's also made buttonholes for the family members to wear as well as the bride's bouquet. Ironic isn't it?

Don't worry. I charged him. It's about time I got some money out of the man.

Remember, Remember the Fifth of November

Okay, so I'm twenty days late. I can't help it if I'm slow. My excuse is that I didn't even start this blog until a few days ago. The point is that this year the Fifth of November -- or Bonfire Night or Guy Fawkes Night or whatever you want to call it -- was one that I won't forget in a hurry.

I'll start with an explanation of why the British celebrate Bonfire Night in the first place for those of you outside the UK. Once upon a time, Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament, with Parliament and the King in the building. The plot was foiled, the King and Parliament were saved, and now Bonfire Night is a yearly celebration.

As a side note, my American-born oldest son came in from school one Fifth of November really excited because he had a history lesson that day and had learned the significance of the holiday. "Mum, it's because Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the King in the Houses of Prostitutes." I'll never let him live that one down.

Anyway, back to the year 2004. Lots of people go to firework displays or huge bonfires put on by organisations, pubs or towns, and lots of people have their own firework displays or bonfires. Our friends Marie and Graham spend a small fortune on fireworks to set off in their back garden this year, and they invited us to come watch. For a home display, it was great, and Graham took all the safety precautions possible. He didn't even injure himself, which is great for the English version of Tim "the Tool Man" Taylor.

Unfortunately, there is no test of how much common sense a person possesses prior to selling him or her fireworks. Our neighbours, who I would classify as true rednecks if they lived back in Texas, don't seem to have a brain cell to share between them. Not only were they setting off fireworks in their back garden, but they were aiming their rockets at other houses, mainly the house next door to Marie and Graham. After two misses, they hit the house twice. Rocket number five is the one that will be in my memory forever. It went low. Very low. Six inches to the left and I wouldn't be here typing this. Instead I ended up with short-term hearing loss in my right ear.

I'm a law student, and I could think of a half a dozen ways to sue them under tort law, but I decided against that. People think Americans are too fond of lawsuits as it is. Besides, being "rednecks", they don't have much worth suing for apart from a few tins of lager and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.

Happy Thanksgiving For Tomorrow, You Yanks!

I haven't quite decided whether to be jealous or not. It's Thanksgiving in the US tomorrow, and after experiencing 30 Thanksgiving dinners in my lifetime, I have to admit that the idea of sitting around the table with a turkey dinner and all the trimmings is mouthwatering. Then again, I'm supposed to be on a diet. ("Supposed" is the operative word there because I'm not sticking to it.) And to be honest, the last few Thanksgiving dinners I had before moving to England weren't traditional. My family ate one or two in restaurants. While it definitely cuts down on the stress and hard work, it's just not the same.

A friend in the US asked me why I don't try to import the idea of having Thanksgiving to the UK. It's an interesting idea, though thoroughly impractical. For one thing, I've been asked by many Brits what the point is of having Christmas dinner a month early (then having to do it all over again on the 25th of December) when you don't even get any presents! Good point. I try to explain that it's to give thanks for the fact that the Pilgrims survived a long hard winter thanks to their bountiful harvest. That works to a certain degree, until I'm asked "What is a Pilgrim?" Bit of a touchy subject since the Pilgrims fled religious persecution in England. That's when the idea of Thanksgiving in the United Kingdom gets a thumbs down.

On the other hand, Brits are fascinated by the idea of the Fourth of July. I've been to many pubs who have Independence Day celebrations. When asked why they're celebrating a war they lost, most don't realise that that's why Americans celebrate the 4th to begin with. When they do, they don't seem to care because most feel that King George III was a bit of a plonker anyway and deserved to lose the Colonies.

So to all you Yanks celebrating Thanksgiving tomorrow, have a good one! And don't worry. I'll make up for it when I celebrate Boxing Day.

I Always Knew Chocolate Was A Miracle Drug!

A recent article from Reuters citing a study by Imperial College London states that chocolate may hold a cure for coughs. Evidently there is a chemical called "theobromide" in cocoa, which is "more effective in stopping persistent coughs than codeine, currently considered the best cough medicine" but with no adverse side effects such as drowsiness. I won't go into any more detail. This article can be found here.

My reaction to this news was "I knew it"! Hey, millions of women can't be wrong. We've said for years that chocolate makes us feel better, and here's proof that there might be something to it. Now if I can manage to catch a cough and cold to coincide with the one week a month that I eat enough chocolate to fill the back seat of a compact car (I haven't quite reached the people carrier level), I'll have it made.

Once the scientist are finished studying the medical properties of chocolate, do you think they could come up with chocolate that doesn't lose any of the taste but doesn't make you gain weight? If I win the lottery, I'll fund it.

Formula One For Men Only?

I grew up without the benefit of Formula One, apart from occasionally watching the Monaco Grand Prix with my dad when it was shown on American television. Boy, am I making up for it now! And heaven help the man who tells me that women can't properly understand motor sports. The phrase "verbal castration" comes to mind.

Recently one of my problem questions in criminal law was a scenario concerning "Mike" who was a big fan of "Allan Frost" so he sabotaged the cars belonging to "James" and "Stewart", leading to "Stewart's" death because of an engine explosion on track, etc. I think my seminar tutor got more than he bargained for.

First of all I pointed out that because of park ferme conditions, Mike would probably be unable to get anywhere near the two cars. Secondly I explained that the most appropriate charge in regards to Stewart's death would be manslaughter because it was not reasonably foreseeable that a death would occur in the present time with modern safety standards. In addition, there hasn't been a death in F1 since that of Senna in May 1994. Besides, anyone who has seen an engine "blow" knows that there is rarely a fire, let alone a fireball that would engulf the driver. It would be even more unexpected if the damaged engine in question was a Ferrari.

Okay, I didn't expound on my answer to this question in as much detail in class, choosing to discuss more of the legal ramifications, but it still left my male peers dumbfounded.

Of course now I have quite a "tomboy" image. It's not possible for a female to be interested in motor sports without being a tomboy. The fact that I'm the opposite just doesn't make sense to many men. I belong to two of the drivers' supporters clubs, and I can tell you that most of us are as feminine as can be. I recently stood in the queue for an hour so I could get Martin Brundle to sign my copy of his new book, and there wasn't a single tomboy in sight. Plenty of women though.

So the moral of this story is: guys, don't stereotype us or put us down because we're female and F1 fanatics. What we don't already know about the sport we're quick to pick up on. You're welcome to join my forum along with the ladies. I don't discriminate.

Other People's Blogs

A great big thank you to my mate of the Garrulous Grumbling for the warm welcome and link he put on his own blog, as well as for being the person who directed me to this place to begin with. You, too, can either thank him or blame him as you see fit. He has a second blog which can be found here.

After being pointed in this direction, I, in turn, showed "the way" to my Aussie mate of the Shoklet Olfactory variety, so I have likewise placed a link to his blog on my page. You will most definitely find some topics of great amusement, interest and fascination if he is true to form.

Well ... Here I Am!!!!!!

It's not much of a start, but it's my blog, and I'm sticking to it. Where to begin? I could begin with my life story for those of you in need of a bed time story to use as a tranquiliser. However, for those of you tuning in hoping to read anything of interest, that's as useful as an ice cube maker in Antarctica.

Instead I will begin with a topic of slightly more interest: a new series of "I'm a Celebrity ... Get Me Out of Here!" To be perfectly honest with you, I hate reality TV shows. I despise them. I avoid "Big Brother", "Fame Academy" and their counterparts as if watching them will make me even more warped than I already am. "I'm a Celebrity" on the other hand, is strangely addictive. After all, what appeal do ten celebrity wannabes have?

Perhaps I'm sadistic. During the last series, I took great pleasure in watching Jordan (aka Katie Price) eat slugs and tease Peter Andre so that his trousers looked like a tent. Now they're engaged and they can annoy each other as much as they annoy me. It was also a real laugh see John Lydon (aka Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols) build campfires and storm around like a prima donna.

And here we are again. Ten people famous in varying degrees in the heat and primitive conditions of a Queensland, Australia, rainforest. It will be interesting to see if Natalie Appleton survives one more day after a temper tantrum on her first night (she thought she had a spider in her bed so woke everyone up crying for one of them to remove it) or if Paul Burrell can survive without mentioning Princess Diana for 16 days after he was certain he would be joining her when he discovered that he would be parachuting into the jungle.

Nah, it's because they've got a mascot on the set with Ant and Dec: a koala named Hogan who is threatening to upstage them all.

Here's a link if you want to share my addiction.