Today I strolled around Oxford and had brunch at the farmer's market. An apricot almond tart, puff pastry stuffed with goat cheese and watercress, and a ripe plum. Mmm.
Last night I participated in my most quintessentially English activity so far. Cricket, you think? Football, a fox hunt? No. Did I have fish and chips or tea with scones and berries in clotted cream? Nope. Did I author dramatic masterpieces or poetry or prose? No, no, and no. Last night I had a pint at the pub. Being that this was my first time visiting an English 'public house', and that the regulars at this particular pub have in years past included Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, I needed to get it right. I discussed my options for local beers with the bartender, and by that I mean that he talked in my general direction for ten minutes regarding each selection on tap while I struggled to look: a.) smart b.) interesting c.) like I could understand more than every sixth word that came out of his mouth. Apparently I failed, because after a long skeptical look at me he broke it down into 'lady terms' and suggested I try the cold, pale, bubbly one, which sounded to me like an infinitely more palatable choice than the beers on tap which are served flat and warm. I slapped my five pound note on the bar and said, "I'll have a pint, please!"
I hate you! And where are the pictures!
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