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January 03, 2005

How I Spent My Christmas Vacation, Part III

In which the author wraps it all up so as not to bore you further. Amen.

I arrived in London on the morning of December 23rd, well-rested from my flight of reading, movie watching, and wine drinking. My father-in-law met me at the airport, being my ride to the village; we headed off to his car, and - sensing I would probably need something to wake me up - he allowed me to drag my own bag along behind me and up a flight of stairs. Self-reliance, I told myself, and the ghost of Thoreau smiled upon me.

I gave Henry David the finger. Sodding bastard.

Dateline: Gamlingay.

It's a village of three-and-a-half thousand people, give or take some nebulous amount I can't be bothered to calculate; not because I don't love each and every one of you like my very own lil'chirrens, but because I honestly don't know.

It's a village, let's leave it at that.

'Twas there that I was reunited with Mrs. WWR and the wee Fiona in the home of my in-laws. It was good to be back, as several years had passed, and, as their home had been my first introduction to British life, it still held a special place in my cynical heart.

Quit your "awww"-ing and move along, would you?

Spent some time catching up and settling in, and then it was off to the town of Biggleswade. You heard me: Biggleswade. I can't make this stuff up, folks.

At three times the size of Gamlingay, it's a veritable metropolis, with culture and community and a red-light district consisting of a really flirty cross-dresser with a lisp, but the bright lights and big city were not the reason for our arrival. Rather, we were there to pick up fellow-blogger Monica and her husband (and apparent blogger) Matthew from the train station.

Which we did.

Long story, Emmanuel Lewis: We drove back to the village, went to the local pub, had lunch and conversation, and then put them on a train back home.

I should comment that both Monica and Matthew had luxurious locks of cascading follicles and that they both were... well... tall. Given that the Mrs. is a mere five foot, and I'm but a Coney-dog-and-a-half taller (I think, trying to be creative here, folks), I felt wholly inferior in the imposing shadow of these Brobdingnagians that come from a land-down-under (except that in this case I'm more like Colin Hay than they are).

Of course, then I remembered that I am American and can do no wrong and am perfect in all ways and my, oh my, all was better at that point.

Truthfully, we didn't have nearly enough time together to just converse and challenge and explore ideas and opinions. My trip was far too short to allow for it, and my jetlagged, trip-trashed brain was the neuronal equivalent of Alpo, so even now it all seems a bit of a blur to me. I hope they didn't take offense - I sincerely wanted to work a meet-up into our schedules, but unfortunately my body clock was in sleepy-sleep lands while the brain wanted to be on full-alert.

The two conflicting forces called a cease-fire as I fell onto the bed around 5:30, down and out for the count. Morning came. Miracle of miracles.

I've often heard it said that the British savor their irony; I guess that explains this particular event in the WWR-in-law household. Rather than spend my morning looking out the window and mournfully sighing the lack of sun yet again, I had decided to sleep in, resulting in my having a late breakfast.

As I dined on a bowl of Cheerios and what I can only guess was rehydrated milk product, my young niece "E" entered the room and declared that my even-younger nephew "M" was in a very bad mood.

"I am not in a bad mood!" cried "M" as he stormed into the room, offering up as evidence of his obvious perky demeanor the following: "And you're an UGLY POO HEAD!"

See, irony.

Even if you are an ugly poo head.

After that delightful exchange, Mrs. WWR and I headed out into the village to do some final Baby Jesus Birthday shopping for the feast to follow. A lengthy route of walking and waiting-in-line took us to the Butcher, the Baker, and the Chemist for all of our supplies (although the "Chemist" was for diapers and such, not that we eat them, but Fiona likes to have them on her bottom).

Because presenting the "Christmas Turkey and Huggies" at the table might not be a good idea for entertaining.

Anyway, being American (see above for my righteousness), I informed the wife that if we moved to this village, I would analyze what products sold best at the Butcher, the Baker, the Chemist, and the News Agent; I would then open a store that catered to the most commonly needed products only. I'd have higher turnover, lower costs, and within six months I'd run the rest of them out of business - with a cackle even.

She didn't find it amusing. Damn socialist limey wife of mine. I can see I still have work to do.

While out, I also purchased some postcards for the good folks back home. Unfortunately, Gamlingay is a small place and thus only had one postcard for sale - well, six copies of the same postcard of the "essential" village properties.

I bought the News Agent out of their stock of this rare commodity. I imagine right now they are pulling at their hair and wondering what they will do in six months when the next tourist pops in.

Pushing ahead, I've thought long about how best to describe an English Christmas - and I realize it can really be done in just four words. So, here they are:

drink drink drink drink drink eat drink gifts drink drink drink drink drink drink drink

Sometimes there is an elegant beauty in simplicity, don't you agree?

The drinking tended to come about because the father-in-law had stocked his cellar with a fat cask of real ale. Anytime that either I, he, or my brother-in-law felt the time was "just so," one of us would offer to get a beer for the others while we were down there filling our own glass - as a courtesy, of course. To do otherwise would be rude.

After the beer came the wine with dinner, and after the wine with dinner came the whisky, and after the whisky came the sand. You ate sand? We ate sand.

Sorry, wrong movie.

The whole eat drink bemoan the tsunami ritual continued on for a few days until the crowd in the house wound down. In time, 'twas just the parents-in-law and myself, the Mrs. WWR, and the wee Fiona. And in even a little more time, it was the day of our departure.

We bid farewell once again to Gamlingay, with Biggleswade in our thoughts, and headed off to Heathrow, soon to be sleeping in our own bed in our home with our own stomach bug and our own Mazda that wouldn't start in our friend's carport, but those tales have been told.

Note: You can find Part I here and Part II here.