A con turned pro

It’s not hard to believe that, as an expat, I keep a running list of pros and cons about my new (ish) country.

My list goes something like this:

Yorkshire pudding – pro

Sky + – pro

Washing machines – con

Dryers – con

Washer/dryer combo – CON

General lack of appreciation for peanut butter – con

Public transportation - pro

The overuse of the phrase “bless!” – con

Public transportation is also on our list for the US but it’s under cons.  Sure, if you live New York City, you’ll be all right but for me, if I’m moving to the US, I’m living in a big house in the suburbs. The kind of neighborhood where yellow school buses roll past the house, children set up lemonade stands on the sidewalks, and neighbors bitch about the house down the street – you know the one with the slightly overgrown grass. I can’t wait.

But for Scott – and truth be told, for me too – one drawback would be the lack of nights out. It just wouldn’t be that easy to orchestrate without good public transportation.

You might be thinking we probably wouldn’t be moving back to the US for quite some time and that when we do finally get back there we’ll be in a totally different stage in our lives blah blah blah. I can see where you’re coming from – even though I’m not sure kids are in our future, they certainly feature in my American Dream – I imagine them with those bunk beds where the bottom bunk is a double bed. I always wanted one of those.

Anyway, I understand that when you have a kid you’re too tired/too poor/too busy gushing over this itty bitty being you created, and honestly! you tell me, honestly! you’d rather stay home and watch Dancing with the Stars.

But right now, it’s a con.

However, that could change. Especially if we live near my parents. You’re thinking free babysitter. I’m thinking designated driver.

Example #1

Last year we totally intended on getting the metro home after a night out for my sister’s 28th birthday. But then the birthday girl almost lost her lunch/dinner/drinks all over tired DC tourists so we had to get off the metro and call mom. My mom – always telling us, “Don’t drive if you’ve been drinking, call me” – jumped in the minivan and an hour and many wrong turns later, pulled up to Virginia Square metro station, with that slightly crazed soccer mom look in her eyes.

Example #2

This year we didn’t even pretend to get the metro. We just asked my dad to pick us up at 2:30 am after my cousin’s bachelorette party. The Colonel arrived right on time, armed with towels and buckets. He escorted all six of us into the car and nestled trash cans and buckets between us. He also turned a blind eye to the penis whistle around my cousin’s neck and ignored the requests to bring the leftover phallus shaped cake in the car.

Stay where you are

I intended to write a lot more often when I was in the US. I figured I’d have the time since I’d probably be up early with jetlag and Scott wouldn’t be there and I was sure I’d have more downtime. But somehow, I didn’t.

Or I did but I chose to spend it watching TLC, reading on the deck, getting reflexology*, and spending way too much money at the outlets.

*(Who knew by squeezing your toes you could ease pain in your sinuses? I tried to do it myself but it didn’t work. I plan to show Scott how to do it tonight.)

Speaking of Scott, him not being there only added to my busy schedule. Suddenly I found myself in stores without him saying, “Do you really need that?” and “Where are you going to put those?” and “No more shoes!”

So, that’s why you haven’t seen me on here more often. I was buying shoes and replenishing my supply of Bath & Body Works hand soap and paying extortionate rates for someone to squeeze my little toe while Enya plays in the background.

Oh, and I was spending time with my friends and family. Every minute I could. You see it’s not so easy anymore. Turns out my friends and family have their own lives and they aren’t just waiting for me to come home. The nerve!

This was the first visit home where I stayed with my parents without at least one of my sisters living there. It was so much easier when they lived at home. They may have still worked during the day but at least we got to hang out at night. Now it’s all about scheduling their free nights and working around HOV lane openings and battling DC traffic.

A lot of my friends from high school have moved away and I am lucky whenever I can see any of them. I actually do get to see some of them more than I ever thought I would. I should really be grateful.

I can’t help but be selfish. My sisters are talking about moving away and I find myself thinking up reasons for them to stay. The unspoken truth is that as my friends and relatives get new jobs, settle down, break up, move away, have babies, just simply live, it makes this harder. When I’m the one coming and going, it’s easier. I want them all to stay just as they are. I’ll always come back. Don’t go. Don’t change.

I never come right out and say it though. I know how unfair that would be. Why should I be the one allowed to move away? Why should they stay?

So I keep my mouth shut and wait to guilt them with a blog post.

The eagle has landed

Surprise! I’m back in the US, writing this from the comfort of my bed, in the comfort of air conditioning. It’s 5 in the morning and although my body is tired, my mind is all abuzz with thoughts of artificial cheese products, Target shopping bags, and the possibility of returning to England with a bit of a tan.

You have no idea how hard it was not to tell you. This has been in the works for months. I still can’t believe we pulled it off. My mom was absolutely shocked when she saw me sitting at the table with my sisters when she and my dad arrived for her birthday brunch. She burst into tears and just cried and cried. She said she hadn’t realized just how much she missed me until she saw me which is pretty much one of the saddest things she’s ever said. God, this living-4000-miles-away thing is really hard.

But.

Target!

Tan!

Cheese-flavored Puff’n Corn!

I arrived on Saturday and spent the day with my sisters and cousins at the Kenny Chesney concert. I don’t know his music (other than the one about his tractor being sexy) but it was the perfect way to assimilate to summer time in Virginia.

I find myself thinking ‘This is so American!” and “It really is just like the movies!” I am thinking a lot of the same things Scott thought when he first came to visit all those years ago (and actually still thinks). Just as you can’t really know about life in the UK by just visiting London, you can’t really understand life in America by only visiting New York City or Washington DC. I feel so privileged to know both countries.

I refuse to let this become a weepy post where I sentimentalize about expat life so I’ll just show you some photos of my surprise trip so far.

You’re never too old to play flip cup:

But you are too old to wear this:

Still crying at her birthday brunch:

After brunch we went for pedicures. Even the Colonel had one:

And then we sat outside on the deck and ate homemade peach pie:

It’s good to be home.

This is for the German Girls

We lived in Alabama for a year when I was in the sixth grade. The base had an elementary school but not a high school so my older sister, Amanda, had to go to a private Christian school because the schools around the base were too dangerous. (No joke. We went on a tour of the middle school and the teacher told us a student stabbed another student just the week before – with forks in the cafeteria. This was after we walked through the metal detectors and heard the lock-down alarm. Twice.)

At this private Christian school, Amanda was constantly referred to as the German Girl. Even after she explained multiple times that she was not German, she just lived in Germany. It’s a good thing they didn’t catch on to the fact that we lived in Korea before Germany or their minds would have exploded trying to come to terms with this strange, new girl.

It didn’t stop at German Girl. They didn’t have nice things to say when Amanda brought in her yearbook to show them that she went to an American school abroad and they saw that she went to school with lots of different kinds of people. You know what I’m saying.

I’d like to say that they didn’t know any better but the truth is, a lot of them had the money to travel and the brains to learn about other cultures and good Lord, you’d think they had the sense to accept all kinds of people. They just chose not to.

(I don’t know if I have any readers from Alabama but here’s a disclaimer – I’m just talking about the stuck up a-hole teenagers that went to school with my sister. Everyone else is cool. I love your sweet tea.)

I was reminded of the German Girl comments when I got an email from a reader – someone I don’t know at all – who said I was turning my back on America (the greatest country in the world) by getting British citizenship. I thought it was a joke. Or maybe it was from my mom.

(Just kidding! She is ok with it really.)

But it wasn’t a joke. This person told me that I should be ashamed especially since they knew -from previous posts- that my dad was an American soldier and didn’t I feel proud of my country? Didn’t I feel like I should support the US economy by working in America or at least for an American company? Didn’t I feel like I was turning my back on America? How do I put up with socialism and freeloaders?

I laughed when I read this. I think I’m still hoping it’s a joke but I know that there are crazies out there and when you share your thoughts on the web, you have to accept that sometimes people will disagree with you. Sometimes you get a mentalist.

I rant quite a bit in real life, and on this blog, about the things I miss about the US, how things just aren’t the same here. I miss home a lot. I am proud of being American – anyone who knows me here would say that.

But this email from a “proud” American- it is embarrassing. I am embarrassed for you. It did not shame me. It made me even happier about where I am. (There’s a woman in Virginia not very happy with you right now. She was banking on me moving back sooner rather than later. I might give her your address.)

Thank you.

Your email really helped me.

It makes me want to hug the American tourists in London who ask where Ly-sess-der Square is. Thank you for coming. Thank you for wanting to see the world.

It makes me even more glad to have a socialized healthcare system. Freeloaders? Yes, we’ve got them. But I am happy to pay a little more out of my pocket to ensure everyone gets the help they need. If I had only read that last sentence, I would have thought I was talking about the American mentality. We love this kind of help-your-fellow-man thing, don’t we?

It makes me all the more eager to get my British citizenship (still waiting by the way). I get to have both. The British government doesn’t want to take away my American citizenship – they are comfortable with what they have on offer. They don’t make me choose.

It makes me grateful that because my dad was an American soldier, I grew up all over the world. His father was an American soldier too and they lived all over the world as well. My dad would rather live in Europe than in the US. (I can feel another hate email coming my way.)

I think I addressed all your points…except about supporting the US economy. But you haven’t seen my credit card bill so you can’t possibly know how much money I pump back into the economy when I’m in the US for a visit. And I didn’t even get one of those handy stimulus checks from the President! (I file US taxes so… nope, that’s not the reason.)

Oh, and just one more thing:

It makes me disappointed in you. The America you love so much – the America I love so much- is built on the idea that you can do and be anything you want. I’m disappointed that this is all you could come up with.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got to show some American tourists how to get to Ly-sess-der Square. I wonder if they, by any chance, brought some Velveeta.  I could use some cheese after your whine.

Speaking American

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: we might speak the same language but there are soooo many differences in pronunciation and words/phrases.

Let’s forget the pronunciation because we would be here for days listing all the little (and sometimes huge) differences in how Americans and Brits pronounce the same word.

Instead I’ll just point out a few differences in terminology:

Cell Phone vs. Mobile Phone

Mostly mobile these days – pronounced mo-bile, not mo-bull. At first I felt like a complete tool pronouncing it the way the Brits do but it had to be done. I still slip up sometimes, in the US and in the UK, and get temporarily confused as to how to properly pronounce it. It comes out something like “mo-by-be-uhhh-blah. My phone!”

Call vs. Ring

I use both but probably “call” more. With so many British phrases I feel like a pretentious idiot trying to use them.

Take out vs. Takeaway

I always had this vision of living in an artsy loft in NYC, working as some super creative professional, and on my way home, I would call my boyfriend to suggest we get take out – the kind that came in those little white boxes. Take out will always have a special place in my heart.

Now, “to go” is a different story. Whenever I say this in the staff canteen at work, the lunch ladies get even more confused than they already are and I end up using my hands to gesture towards the door. It would be easier to use “take away,” I’ll admit.

Braids vs. Plaits

They are braids to me and always will be. I understand though that some people in the Deep South say plaits so maybe that’s not a British thing? I think it comes back to the pronunciation thing again though (plates vs. platts) so if you ask me, it’s easier to call ‘em braids.

Pants vs. Trousers

Pants are underwear in the UK. So if you say “Oooh, it’s cold out. I should have worn pants today” you’ll get a lot of funny looks. My Irish friend says pants so sometimes when we’re talking, she’ll say, “I was wearing those grey pants, er, trousers” and I’ll smile and we both understand. We can speak pants freely.

Butt vs. Bum

While bum definitely sounds more polite, I just can’t switch over. No buts about it!
(OMG, you guys! There is a how-to article on “How to do a sarcastic laugh.” This is heartbreaking.)

Sweetie or Honey vs. Darling

I don’t actually use any of these terms of endearment but if I did, I’d use the more American ones – sweetie and honey. In my accent, ‘Darling’ reminds me of the middle child in Roseanne. Not good.

Cash register vs. Till

Till? Never have, never will.

Dishsoap vs. Washing up liquid

I think I use them both. I don’t know. I try not to think about doing the dishes.

Laundry vs. Doing the washing

Laundry. For some reason when I hear “I need to do my washing” or “I have washing to do” I imagine women hunched over washing boards with a bar of soap. Plus scented candles wouldn’t sell as well if they were called “Fresh washing.”

Store vs. Shop

I shop at a store. I might say “go to the shop” if I am actually talking about a little, specialized store but it’s more natural for me to use “store”. In America, I usually just say where I’m going. Target, Giant, Nordstrom, TJ Maxx, Bath & Body Works, the mall. You get the idea. (Can I get a moment of silence while I think about these stores?)

Bathroom vs. Toilet

I can’t stop saying “bathroom.” I realize I’m not actually looking for a bath but I struggle to say toilet. It sounds vulgar. It always surprised me to see a “TOILETS” sign in restaurants. I don’t want to think about a toilet while I’m eating my dinner. Powder room, Ladies’ room, restroom, bathroom. Any of those will do.

“Loo” is a definitely a nicer way to refer to it but it doesn’t sound natural when I say it. I like it though.

There are so many terms for the bathroom that I just can’t bring myself to use. Don’t even get me started on the term “bog roll.”

(Have you ever looked up “toilet” on Wikipedia? They are so specific with what people use toilets for.)

About the word “gotten”

I don’t really get why Brits have such a problem with this. They don’t object to forget/forgot/forgotten, so why get/got/gotten? If it was good enough for Shakespeare, it’s good enough for me. Any Brits reading this? Please explain yourself.

Swear words and name-calling

My swearing is still very American. Bugger and bollocks and shite just sound ridiculous when I say them. But I do love all the different British swear words/insults.

Idioms derived from American baseball

I’ve been known to say a few of these. Cover all bases, ball park figure, step up to the plate, etc. I also say “He dropped the ball” – is that baseball? I never caught the ball when I played so I’m a bit clueless.

At any rate, these idioms may be used occasionally by Brits (and usually always understood) but they are most definitely American phrases. The baseball metaphor I am asked about the most is “bases.” I’ve done my best to explain first, second and third base. Striking out, batting for the other team, the list goes on.

Oh, it’s times like this when I feel most proud to be American.

Take me back, Britain

Yeah, so…um, Britain? About that whole Independence thing back in 1776? I was kinda hoping you might…you know…look past that and grant me citizenship. I married one of your own. I work in your country. I pay all my taxes. (In fact I paid way more than I should have the last two years. You paid me back but still.) I invested in property here. I eat Curiously Cinnamon cereal rather than importing Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. If that is not a sign of my dedication to being an upstanding citizen, I don’t know what is.

So, whaddya think? You’ve got my details. Call me! Whenever, of course, that’s cool. I included a photo on page 9. I couldn’t smile because they told me not to but if I could have — uh, yeah, sure. I’ll just wait here.

——————

This week I had my nationality check (good news everyone – I am who I say I am) and sent off my application to become a British citizen. It was a long application which required I record every time I exited and re-entered the UK in the last three years, two written references, a declaration that I am of “sound mind”, and my pass certificate for the Life in the UK test, among other things. Oh, and let us not forget the whopping fee of £750. On top of the thousands of pounds I’ve spent on visas. (I’m not bitter, Britain.)

So now I wait. And I hope. Because although I never really thought about being another nationality, I can’t see any drawbacks here. I get to keep my American citizenship. I get to be both.

British citizenship means I can come and go whenever I want. I won’t have to worry about visas. If we have children, they can be dual citizens as well. I can move anywhere in the EU. I could go to Cuba if I wanted to.

(I just asked Scott what else I can get with British citizenship – above and beyond the right to vote and serve in the military. And he said, “Prestige.” So I get arrogance as well.)

This doesn’t mean I’m not American anymore or that I won’t feel American. But today, on the 4th of July, I’m a little bit more sad than previous years. Because even though I say British citizenship means I can move back to the US for a period of time and return later and forget about visas and all that hassle, there is a sense of permanency that comes with it.

It is something that I experience more and more each day I am here. I am settling here and I can truthfully say I am letting myself. And it feels good.

Most of the time.

Today I’m missing my family who have all flown to Florida for a family reunion. I couldn’t go because I was applying for citizenship and wouldn’t have my passport to leave the country. I’m telling myself that next year I can go and hey, cheer up! Next time I can go in the fast immigration lane in both countries.

But now I just wait.

I’m going to bake an apple pie and make Scott take me to see My Sister’s Keeper (because that’ll cheer me up.) I think we might even squeeze in a trip to Costco where I can buy Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup and Skippy Peanut Butter in bulk. I’ll buy myself a chocolate soft serve ice cream because – and this is not an exaggeration – it tastes exactly the same as a Wendy’s Frosty.

See, I’m still an American.

(But I can love you both, Britain. Pick me, pick me!)

I say tomato

Have you heard about Word Time? Basically someone set up a flickr group and came up with a list of words for people to record themselves speaking and then share on this here nifty interweb. Over time the group has grown, hundreds of videos have been added and many more lists were created.

I had wanted to add a video but I never got my act together to actually do it. Which is ridiculous when you think about it because all I needed to do was turn my camera on and say a few words. And words have never been a problem for me!

But then I thought that since the group is a real study on all the different accents around the world, it would be a crying shame not to include Scott.

Of course when I pulled out the camera and told Scott I needed to film him reading a list of words, he was not amused. It may have been down to my impeccable timing – he was nursing a hangover and in the middle of watching tv.

One of the effects of living abroad is that I get really confused about how I say certain things. For example, I forget if I say pay-tronize or pa-tronize. Both sound right and I usually have to ask Scott how he pronounces it and then I know I say the opposite. We probably should have also said the words at the same time because after hearing Scott, I got all screwed up.

We did a few takes, mainly because Scott got very agitated and kept saying, “Why are we doing this again?” and “What is the point of this?” and then I’d burst out laughing. (I laugh when he gets mad. It’s a coping mechanism.)

I decided I’d share the two best takes with you. And by best I mean the only ones with minimal laughter and just one swear word.

(Apologies for the camera work. I blame’s Scott’s complete lack of interest in sharing his Yorkshire accent with the world. But damnit, I won’t be silenced!)

more about "Wordtime – Take 1 on Vimeo", posted with vodpod

more about "Wordtime – Take 2 on Vimeo", posted with vodpod

Cheaper than couples therapy

Scott has a famous recipe for salsa, which is pretty much my mom’s recipe for salsa, minus the tomatoes and the addition of cucumber. Scott’s salsa is very easy to whip together but it takes some serious chopping time, especially since he makes truckloads of the salsa at one time.

He is so proud of the salsa that no matter what dinner party I have planned he suggests his salsa. The last time we were visiting my parents, they hosted a party and Scott served his salsa and the three kinds of chillis nearly killed a few unsuspecting guests.

This salsa inspired my sister to give us a gift certificate to the cooking school, CulinAerie, on 14th Street in Washington, DC.  She chose the Knife Know How class since we would both find it useful in our cooking adventures and we went to the class back in January.

Unfortunately on the way to the class, we got in an argument. We were early to the class so we sat for awhile in a Starbucks, still upset with one another.  We walked into the cooking class, not speaking to each other, which was actually ok because for the first hour the instructor is taking you through all the best knives and chopping techniques.

Then it was our turn to work together to debone a whole chicken. I don’t do chicken on the bone so this was a very challenging task for me and not one I really wanted to do while Scott sat back, watching me, judging me. It didn’t take him long to see that I was about to do it all wrong (I’m sorry but I could barely look at that blue-ish chicken skin, nevermind touch the damn thing.)

The truth is I needed Scott and he saw it. He took the knife and came to my rescue just before the instructor arrived at our table to inspect our techniques. At that moment, Scott was my Jack Bauer of the culinary world.

We cut oranges and onions together and Scott cut my portion of carrots. We made a great team. Then it was time to cook the chicken and make a thick creamy mustard sauce. Finally my chance to shine!

I took over the sauce and then we watched the chicken pieces closely, waiting and hoping to get it right. We managed to only burn one piece, which we were able to conceal from the instructor* by quickly flipping it over.

Then it was time to serve up the food and it was delicious. Way more tasty than any chicken I’ve ever made and maybe it had to do with the fact that we made it together and actually had fun doing it. Or maybe it was just because it was covered in creamy goodness.

We ate our entirely homemade meal and left the class with some awesome chopping skills, a great recipe, full bellies and content hearts.

Most people wouldn’t suggest handling knives when you’re fighting with your spouse but for us, it was the perfect way to get over it quickly, have some fun and work together to make something we can both enjoy.

Bottom line: Go to a cooking class. It’s cheaper than therapy and you get to eat and drink your way through it.

* Our instructor, Susan Holt, was great. She was so kind and encouraging and she entertained us all night with stories from her restaurant days.

My kind of post-college spring break

Living abroad, for me, usually means spending a great deal of my vacation time visiting family and friends in the US. I’m fortunate to have parents and sisters who love to travel and get to come over here at least once a year.  However, this year my sisters and I decided to do something a bit different and meet…well, not in the middle, but somewhere new.

There were eight of us in total – two Brits and six Americans.We rented a villa on the Costa del Sol in Spain. It sounds impressive to the Americans but to the Brits, Spain is pretty much their equivalent of Florida and the Costa del Sol is Daytona Beach.

We weren’t really looking for that Spring Break experience so we chose to stay in a new development outside a small, sleepy Spanish village called Torre del Mar. The house was great (minus two Spanish plumbing issues) and we mostly spent the week lounging around the pool, bbq-ing, and laughing. Lots of laughing.

As always, it was really sad to say goodbye to my sisters and cousin but I was so grateful to have had a week with them and we’ve vowed to do it again soon. Only this time we’ll know to use less toilet paper.

Now we’re home and I can already see my tan fading. I’ve had enough chorizo to last me for quite some time but definitely not enough Sangria. Never enough Sangria.

I tried to think of something that would make this post more exciting and it seems giving people shiny photos usually works. But you need a cute baby or kittens sleeping in a basket or something equally awww-worthy. I’ve got nothing.

I attempted to post a video of us playing charades because I think there is nothing more entertaining than being forced to watch other people’s home videos. Lucky for you, our Internet connection is too damn slow and I keep getting frustrated/distracted/hungry/thirsty to persevere. Maybe tomorrow.

——————–

UPDATE: Here is a video of the guys playing charades. They just could not get The Bourne Identity.

My husband went to Africa and all I got was a trip to A&E

Scott spent the last week in Gambia where he was Best Man for his friend’s wedding.  I had planned to go but when it became clear it was fast becoming a lads holiday, I decided to bow out.

He survived a week of heavy drinking, sunburn, and petting crocodiles but came back with much more than a tan.

When he returned on Saturday, he told me he wasn’t feeling well and complained of cramping.  I gave my best “there, there” and offered to get him a bowl in case he felt the need to puke.

When he said the cramps were really bad, I resisted telling him he doesn’t know the first thing about cramps. And let’s face it…men can be big babies.

But the cramps didn’t stop and he was really, really sick. Like the kind of sick you can only deal with because it’s your husband and you promised “in sickness and in health” in church. In front of God. And you thank your lucky stars it isn’t you but if it ever is, you hope your husband is so overwhelmed with love and worry he doesn’t mind the vomit. Because no one, and I mean no one, looks good when vomming.

(I imagine this is how it is when you have a child too. Only probably – hopefully – in smaller amounts.)

I knew it was serious when he asked me to take him to A&E (equivalent to the ER) since neither of us ever wants to go to the doctor’s. And it’s free over here! We prefer to self-diagnose and self-medicate.

Going to A&E was my first experience with a NHS hospital (not the doctor’s office). Now, I know you’ve all got opinions on socialized health care. I am a unique case though as I grew up with the military health care system which is similar to the NHS – or at least similar in the aspects I notice like wait times, hospital interiors, and oh yeah, the quality of care.

I’m not going to go into all that because right now we haven’t had any issues with it and we are lucky to have the NHS as well as private health care if Scott and I ever needed to go that route. Right now I am glad that everyone has access to medical care in this country and I’ll leave it at that. Until I decide to have a baby and then I’m sure I’ll rant about something because I haven’t heard good things.

But for now, I’ll just rant about one thing – the parking situation.

Outside A&E, you have to pay to park. I can understand paying. I suppose they don’t want people who aren’t patients taking advantage and parking there whenever they want. But charge us when we leave, when the emergency is over! Don’t make us scramble to find enough coins and run around like a headless chicken looking for the machine so we can Pay & Display while our loved ones are bleeding to death. (There was no blood in our situation but there could have been!)

I told Scott to go in and register while I fumbled with the coins. Of course the machine kept spitting out my coins and I turned around, exasperated, and told the woman waiting behind me that it wasn’t accepting my money. She told me the trick is to put them in slowly.

Hmm. Let me get this straight. I am outside an emergency room. I have just parked in the lot for emergency room patients. You’re telling me there is a trick to operating the ticket machine. You’re telling me I have to move slowly. It’s an emergency for crying out loud!

I finally got the ticket, ran back to the car to display the ticket and ran inside to see Scott.

Yes, all right, fine. Back to Scott. Where were we?

Turns out he had a “serious bacterial infection” (gross) and after his fever came down a bit, the doctor prescribed antibiotics and sent us on our way. We were there for about two hours which I think (and hear) is not so bad for A&E.

He’s feeling a lot better now. Just in time for swine flu to strike.