*This is a typical, pretty, English village house. It’s not mine. Yet.*

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

On my flight back to the UK I sat next to a Swedish man who had been in DC discovering a secret vaccine. It was kind of like the start of a Criminal Minds episode.

I’m always mindful not to be too smiley to my next-door plane passenger because the last thing I want is someone chatting to me for seven plus hours. I always make a point of throwing my NR headphones on the seat whilst I store my bag in the overhead locker. Visuals make a point. But not in this case. Thankfully, he was a very sweet and interesting man but the Camp As Christmas cabin boy couldn’t understand his broken English and I had to act as interpreter when it came to dinner choices and drinks.

Taking The Biscuit

I would like you to know that trying to explain ‘Millionairre Shortbread’ to someone who doesn’t understand a deal of English is incredibly difficult. It’s much harder than charades or Pictionary.

“What is…?” Swedish man picks up the British Airways tiny pot of millionaire shortbread. We’d already been through the salad, how balsamic vinegar works and why the chicken curry looked like the contents of a baby’s nappy.

“It’s millionaire shortbread.”

“Drink?”

“No. Pudding.”

“What are pudding?”

“Dessert.”

“ I eat now?”

“No, after dinner. You know, like a sweet. It IS sweet.”

He was still somewhat confused so I opened mine up to reveal chocolate.

“Just chocolate?”

“Kind of but not. At the bottom is shortbread.

“This is bread?”

“No it’s a luxury biscuit.” I spooned out the chocolate in mine to show him.

“Why is millionaire?”

“I don’t know. The marketing department of this product want you to feel important when you eat it. And it’s very rich.”

“Rich?”

“Excessively sweet and overpowering.”

“Like millionaire!”

“Not in my experience. The one’s I’ve met tend to be arrogant arseholes.”

After all that he only bloody fell to sleep and didn’t eat his millionaire shortbread and there was mine all ruined and splattered about my dinner tray. I’m really getting sick of Karma.

Back On The Road

Thankfully, having got used to the proper cold temperatures of Virginia the London weather didn’t come as a shock to me. In fact, it was milder. There’s a lovely scent to the English air that I am unable to describe but it smells like home.

I got picked up from the airport and hit the  full of traffic motorway and remembered what a joy that was. I’ve witnessed some horrific driving in America and can’t believe how some people have passed their driving test. Our lane rules are a lot stricter and people tend to follow them but you still get the occasional numpty. Some even have a number plate to prove the fact incase you missed it.

And then there’s the comedians.

In and out of the car.

Ah yes, it all started flooding back to me in a ‘I’m back home but slightly tinged with fear’ kind of way.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

Whoever came up with that saying was sprinkled with fairy dust and half cut on a bottle of Tequila. Whilst I love seeing my famalam and friends, walking back into the house always annoys me.

Someone has completely used my English Rose Yankee Candle. Kill them.

The Wheelie bins are full.

The next door garden centre has decided it is Christmas and sprayed everything white outside. Hate them.

I have more mail than Santa gets at Christmas and I know that most of it is hateful.

My dog ignores me for abandoning him. Nice.

The microwave has exploded and completely destroyed the circuit board. The blown up microwave, for some reason, is at the bottom of the stairs.

Outside there are more empty bottles than an alcoholic can get through on a weekend bender.

Is there milk in the fridge for a much needed cuppa? No.

Let’s Play Hide And Seek

Turns out I’m as stupid as they come. Before I go away on my adventures I hide some of my cards. Things like the card for my current bank account that takes care of all the bills and so on back in the UK. Taking that to America is not a good idea so I leave it behind and take others used for special “Jules’ occasions. I hide this in a special place where nobody will find it along with store cards, driving licence, gym membership, Costa coffee points, car relay membership, car keys and so on.

One of the first things I do when back home is sort out my finances. Firstly I double over in anguish at how much money I’ve haemorrhaged in the States, berate myself, have a cup of tea and get over it. Then I swap out my dollars in my purse for tenners and then I retrieve my hidden cards so I can function in the UK.

Couldn’t bloody find them.

I turned the house upside down looking in all the secret places that I am likely to / or have hidden things before. Nope. Nada.

Then I remembered I have a special fireproof box where I hide very important things. Maybe I put them there. However, I forgot where I hid the keys that open the tin box where the keys for the firebox are kept. Took me three hours to find them. It took three hours because on my hunt for the keys that open the box for the other keys, I found loads of other things that I’d forgotten about and got distracted. When I eventually found them and opened the firebox, my cards weren’t in there.

Most confused. Onset of panic. Start to think of culprits.

Maybe I’ve been burgled? Surely not. My savage “bred to kill” terrier would have had them by the throat.

I’m six days into this fiasco and still haven’t found where I’ve hidden them. I know it’s somewhere very clever but it’s far too clever for the likes of me.

Brussels Are For Life Not Just For Christmas

Nobody’s getting any Christmas presents until I find my cards ~ just sayin’.

However, on the subject of Peace on Earth I will leave you with the following picture. I’ve been wanting to take a photo of this for a couple of years as it makes me laugh and I remembered to do so on my way back from Heathrow.

It’s a slogan sprayed on a bridge by a genius graffiti artist, around junction 16 of the M1.

That’s right, my friends. It’s not just about sprouts. Give Peas A Chance. Keep ‘em mushy.