Bawwwwston

When I chose my classes for my American Studies degree, I was, like any other student, picky about which periods in history I looked into more closely. I had a broad, if vague, understanding of the full history of the US (that is, from the Jamestown landing in 1607 onwards) but I never really studied the period before the Civil War in 1861 in much detail. Obviously I knew there was a revolution against the British ruling power, and that some guys chucked a lot of tea in Boston harbor, and that a white haired man called George Washington was the first elected President of the United States of America, etc etc. However, before the weekend just passed, I never really cared. That sounds bad I guess. Perhaps it’s a patriotic thing, me not wanting to know in minute detail how we got our asses handed to us by revolutionaries who were essentially descendants of the men they were rebelling against. I've also never really had that much interest in periods of history that are too old, an odd claim as a self-professed history lover maybe. Anyway, last weekend, I travelled up to Boston, and had a three day opportunity to immerse myself in the tales of revolution that had previously left me so uninterested.

One of the first things I liked so much about Boston was its age. The architecture was amazing; you could tell that it was an old city, much more like London or Oxford, where the old churches and restored houses are mish-mashed in amongst the new office blocks and high rises. There is a famous walk you can do in Boston called The Freedom Trail. That’s right, I said the word ‘walk’ and I was talking about a city in America! The Freedom Trail is basically a 2.5 mile long path through the city, which tells the story of Boston’s past through various significant sites and buildings along the way. It starts in Boston Common, which is just a big park in the middle of the city, and ends up at Bunker Hill, an infamous battle site which was considered the turning point of the Revolutionary War (note the turning point was not in our favour). Along the way there are churches, graveyards with notable people buried there, important buildings where the revolutionaries gathered to discuss rebellion, and the USS Constitution, a ship originally launched in 1797 which is still in use now, making it the oldest commissioned navy ship ever. Incidentally, it is most famous for its actions again the Brits in the War of 1812 where it apparently sunk 5 of our warships. Loved being surrounded by Americans when that story was told by the guide!

We did half of the trail on Friday afternoon, after lunch at WAGAMAMA!! There are only three Wagamamas in America, and they are all in Boston, so was very excited to have a katsu curry after so long! We then set off on the trail, feeling very satisfied with our full tummies, and I proceeded to take approximately 1 million photographs of everything in sight. I am not a very inconspicuous tourist. We went to the site of the Boston Massacre, which apparently happened when a mob attacked a British soldier in the 1770s and he and his soldier friends shot into the crowd to try and stop them, and killed five men in the process. Now I personally am not sure that five deaths constitute a massacre, nor am I sure that if this was to happen in present day America, that the soldiers would be the ones found guilty; they actually would most likely get off on self-defense, because that’s what everyone else seems to say when they shoot someone in order to get away with it. HOWEVER, it is not my story to tell, so I suppose if they call it a massacre, it was a massacre.

Anyhoo, we also went to the burial place of John Hancock and Sam Adams, who were both signers of the Declaration of Independence. We saw the oldest non-Puritan church in the US. I learned that Massachusetts was the first state to abolish slavery, which made me like it even more. We saw the meeting house where the rebels planned the Boston Tea Party, which for those that don’t know, was the dumping of millions of crates of tea into the harbor, rather than a small meal with finger sandwiches and scones. We also saw some other old buildings whose historical significance was not always clear to me, but whose photos I took anyway, because that’s the kind of person I am.

That evening we went to an AMAZING Italian restaurant, where I stuffed myself once again (lucky I’d done so much walking around to counter the eating-until-I-couldn’t-move attitude I so lightheartedly indulge in). Then we went back to the hotel, which was a historic site of its own, as it used to be the Boston jail! It’s been done up really nicely, but they've incorporated the building’s past too, which made it really cool inside.

I climbed that

The next day, Ian did some work while I went off touristing again; this was the day I saw the old navy ship and was reminded of its glamorous past as a Brit-killer. I also walked up to Bunker Hill, the battle site, which has an enormous needle monument on top. I was told by a naval officer at the pier where the ship was docked that the monument was nearly 300 steps high, so the equivalent of 15 storeys, and really tiring and hard to climb. Naturally, I decided to climb it, because even though the navy man would never know if I had done it or not, being stationed at a completely different site to the one which I was now heading towards, I still felt I had something to prove. 294 steps later, up a narrow spiral staircase with people passing me coming back down from the top, and I was feeling anything but triumphant. Claustrophobic, nauseous and a bit faint, yes, but definitely not triumphant. The top room was tiny; there were ten of us up there at one time and it was cramped. It doesn’t help that there is a circular metal grate in the middle of the room, probably a meter in diameter, which is there to cover the hollow center of the tower. It is a 220ft drop to the bottom, and you can see right down to the ground below through the thin grid – it’s a loooong way down. So everybody is not only squashed into this little room and fighting for breath from the climb up, we are also all trying not to be the one who has to brave the strength of such a small piece of metal, in case one of us happens to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. It did not do well for my lightheadedness! On the climb down, I refused to let go of the rail, and if I passed people on their way up, to hell with them, they could be the ones to let go, and squeeze past me! (Chivalry is dead, OK?)

After a ten minute sprawl on the grass at the bottom of the monument, where I recovered from my climb and decided that mountaineering was not something to pursue as a hobby in the near future, I headed back to the hotel to change for the event which had been the reason to come up to Boston in the first place: Katie’s wedding! It was a gorgeous ceremony, up in New Hampshire, at a winery/vineyard. Katie obviously looked amazing, and it was a really fun evening.

Katie as a beautiful bride

On our final day up north in Yankee land, we went to Salem. Salem is pretty much only famous because in 1692, a group of little girls were caught by their strict Puritan minister playing and dancing in the woods near their houses. Dancing, or anything that might cause you happiness, was forbidden by the Puritans, so the girls pretended they had been possessed by the devil, and accused local women of being witches, and setting evil spirits upon them. There was a huge trial, and 19 people were hanged in total, with many more imprisoned for being witches. One man was crushed to death with rocks. We went to a museum where they reenacted the trial of one of the local women, then went down to a replica dungeon where the prisoners had been kept. Salem now thrives on its morbid past for tourism, much the same as Roswell, NM thrives on the fact that someone once saw a ‘UFO’ there. If anyone has seen or read Arthur Miller’s ‘The Crucible’, that was based on the Salem witch hunts.

Our final stop before the airport back to Dallas was a trip to the beach! It was about 10 degrees outside so not sunbathing or swimming, but the Atlantic looked gorgeous, and there was a lighthouse so it looked very authentically New England. There was even a cute little man with a metal detector and a spade. Bless.

And thus concludes my trip to Boston. I really liked it there, it’s definitely in my top 5 American cities, although I’m yet to find one to knock Chicago off the top!

Hometime

So here I am, back in Dallas after a rather longer trip back home than anticipated. Home was wonderful. I hadn’t realized quite how much I had missed it until I got there, which is understandable I guess. Surprisingly, the weather was pretty nice on the whole, which certainly made leaving the glorious heat and sunshine in Texas easier!

Josh picked me up from the airport, which was lovely, although slightly anticlimactic as we somehow missed each other completely which resulted in me wandering round Terminal 3 looking for him for 15 minutes, only to find him standing at the arrivals gate after all, leaning on the barrier, waiting for me. I stood next to him and smiled, and he vaguely smiled back then turned to look at the arrivals door again. He didn’t even bloody recognize me! Obviously he did then turn back and it was fine, we laughed, but yeah, not quite the romantic reunion I’d anticipated after 4 months apart!

My first three weeks back consisted almost exclusively of trying to fit in seeing everyone, while making sure I spent a lot of time with Josh, and my family. There were people I didn’t manage to see, and some I only got to see once. It’s hard when everyone has jobs, and can only meet up in the evening; mum was still on summer holidays at first, so I could spend the daytimes with her, but after she went back, I spent a lot of time watching daytime TV!

My darling grandfather was diagnosed with cancer a few days before I went back to London. It kind of seemed fated that I was coming home at that time, to see him, just in case… Well, I could not have been more glad to be home, to see him, spend time with him, and make sure I got to say goodbye. He was taken into hospital about 10 days after I got back, and unfortunately, never left. It was not an easy time, but the whole family came to see him as much as possible, and the nurses were very patient with us when we broke the ‘only two visitors at a time’ rule. I got to see pretty much all of my extended family a lot more than I’d expected too, and despite the circumstances, and the fact that we were spending a lot of time in Watford General’s café ‘The Spice of Life’, it was still really nice to see them.

Sadly, after three weeks in hospital, and only 28 days after diagnosis, Babar passed away peacefully with my grandma and mum (his eldest) at his side. (FYI Babar was what my grandfather was nicknamed ever since my oldest cousin first started talking and couldn’t say Grandpa, so said Babar instead.) I was in Italy when I got the news, cried a LOT on Josh’s shoulder, and that evening we toasted our drinks in his honour. I was obviously devastated, but I knew he was at least out of his pain and misery; it had not been easy for him to remain in the hospital that long. At least he is at peace now.

Italy had been wonderful until that point - gorgeous weather; amazing food and wine and rum and pretty much anything else with an alcohol percentage on the bottle; a lovely little apartment in small town Tuscany, close to the beach. That last point was actually a massive point of contention for us. I don’t know if anyone else who has driven in Italy noticed this, but the Italians like their fun and games when it comes to road signs. They just stop signing a place after a while, y’know, for jokes. There were 3 beaches near us that we’d been recommended and were promised that they were all within a 15-20 minute drive. The first one took us an hour and a half to reach because all the signs for the bloody place just kept stopping, then we’d take a wrong turn, and end up about 15 miles from where we’d planned to be. No joke, you’d reach a roundabout and it would sign the town you wanted as left, then at the next roundabout, 100 metres later, there is NO SIGN FOR THAT TOWN! Absolutely ridiculous.

I obviously got badly sunburnt because, well let’s face it, I’m the whitest person you know. I was wearing factor 20 as well, so to add insult to injury, I burned through suncream, which I had been applying once an hour. (I’m so unbelievably white.) It was the kind of sunburn where I had to take cold showers every quarter of an hour to reduce my body temperature, but it was isolated to my chest, so at least I could still tan my legs while hiding my upper body under a parasol. Josh was mean about it, laughing while applying his factor 4 tanning oil, but then he got a bit burnt too which quite frankly proves that karma exists. We spent our last day in Pisa, which consists of a leaning tower, and not a lot else. Still, it was a really lovely holiday and I did not want to leave, especially to face the reality of a funeral :(

I ended up staying for an extra ten days in England, helping with speech writing and pretending nothing had happened. The funeral itself took place on a sunny day, which was nice in an odd way. I find funerals really weird occasions. I remember at my other grandpa’s funeral when I was about 7, at the wake, everyone was standing round chatting, and drinking, and laughing. I was outraged; did no-one else think it was disrespectful to laugh? We’d just been to a funeral, why were they smiling?! I stormed over to my mum and she tried to explain that everyone was celebrating his life, instead of mourning his death. I told her that everyone was rude, and that I’d just be sad on my own, because obviously no-one else cared about him.

But I get it now. They really are the most juxtaposing events, because you are so sad that someone you loved has gone, yet you’re really happy because you had a chance to know them. You cry, you can’t believe such a thing has happened, you wish it could be different. But you also laugh, and smile, and remember good things, things that you probably hadn’t thought about in a long time. And in general, as far as funerals go, it went well. It was a nice day, he had a great send off, a huge amount of people came which, considering he was 81 and had attended his share of funerals himself, was pretty impressive. He was a lovely man and is still sorely missed. And with a wife, 5 children, 12 grandchildren, 2 step-sons and 5 step-grandchildren left behind, his legacy lives on.

And now I’m back in Dallas, where the temperature is in the mid-20s, and people eat Krispy Kreme cheeseburgers for lunch (yes it’s exactly how it sounds, and no I’m not kidding). I’m missing home of course, but only because I know I’m not going back for a while. Plus, they sell PG Tips here so I’ll be fine :)

Floating the River!

I just got back from an amazing weekend partaking in a very ‘Texas’ activity: floating the river! This essentially means getting in a tyre, on the river, and floating downstream for 8 hours, while drinking and soaking up the sun. Hard life, right?

It was such a fun weekend. The river Guadalupe - which, in typical American fashion, is pronounced 'Guadaloop', rather than the actual Spanish pronunciation 'Guadaloopay' - is apparently descended on every summer to be used as a public urinal while thousands of people laze their way along, sipping Coors Light and  listening to Willie Nelson.... It. Was. Awesome!

Lazy days

We headed down on Friday morning, driving about 4.5 hours to New Braunfels, which is in South Texas. Our home for the weekend was a cute little cabin up in the trees, it was awesome!

Treehouse!

Inside the treehouse

Tony and Beverly immediately rewarded themselves with a beer upon arrival

 The first night we just settled in, had a BBQ and played some beer pong. I won two games out of three!

Tony looking special

VICTORY!!!

 We sat out on the balcony for a bit until this ENORMOUS STICK INSECT landed near me. I only noticed it because I actually heard it fall, the thud was so loud that I thought it was a branch! I nearly wet my pants, the thing was about 7 inches long!! Needless to say I made myself scarce shortly after.

Why did Noah let two of every insect on that ark of his?! Bastard

 On Saturday morning, we got up and headed for the river. We each got a tube, plus a ring for each cooler, and clambered down into the water. The air temperature was probably close to 40°C but the river was freezing so it was an odd sensation being half too hot and half too cold. We soon settled in though, making friends with other floatees, and trying not to think about the fact that all these people around us are peeing in the water we're currently sitting in. Lovely.


We had been warned before we started floating that the river was low at some points, and we might have to get out and walk over the rocks as it was too low to float over. However, I was not prepared for how much walking we were going to have to do. My flip flops were useless and slippy, so had to navigate the rocks in bare feet. The rocks were a delightful combination of slimy and jagged, so you slip and slide all over the place, only to be forced onto a particularly painful rock. A couple of times I fell over, and then somehow ended up stuck underneath a tube, with someone still sitting in it. I have grazes all up my shin, my knuckles look like they've knocked the living daylights out of someone, and one of my wrists looks like I tried to damage myself. Battle scars!


We heard some hilarious red-neckery on the river too. Two guys got in a fight over a girlfriend who had apparently gatecrashed their boys weekend. They were throwing punches and getting really lairy, which was unfortunate as my tube had decided to float over towards them at this point, and I was desperately trying to discreetly paddle away so they wouldn't round on me. One of their friends, 'Randy' (I kid you not) was also concerned about their behaviour. Not so much for their well-being, however: "You two can kill each other anywhere else, but not on the river. No-one is dying on this river." We met an old woman who had clearly drunk enough alcohol to strip paint off a wall, searching for a lighter. (I personally think this was unwise as she looked highly flammable at this point). Quite a few people very intelligently identified that, judging by my accent, I was not from Texas. Well spotted Sherlock.

I know I keep repeating myself but it was really was so much fun, injuries and near death experiences by Randy's angry friends aside. We were out there for about 8 hours, but I managed to avoid major sunburn, which for my pasty-self is a massive result. The five hour journey home was less than enjoyable, mainly because I hate long car journeys and wish someone would hurry up and invent the teleporter already - it's the 21st century people, we should have flying cars and holiday homes on the moon by now!!

Treehouse sweet treehouse

Childhood

I loved being a child, mainly because all kinds of crap can come out of your mouth and people think you are imaginative, rather than clinically insane. I’ve been feeling fairly reminiscent of my childhood recently, mainly for my creativity to turn any inanimate objects into endless entertainment. I was a very imaginative child; I loved make-believe games, writing stories, acting, pretty much anything which put me in the centre of attention while simultaneously letting my insanity run wild.

Looking back I absolutely crack myself up with some of the things I used to play with my friends. For example, most playtimes in Year 3 (so age 7 or 8?), Oriel and I used to play Magical Clock. It consisted of me holding a hula hoop up around my face, because I was a magical talking clock, and making Oriel plates of imaginary sausages. The game always resulted in the same one-liner from Ori: “that’s a lot of tomato ketchup Magical Clock”. And then we’d die laughing and play it again the next day. And the next.

Another thing that I only remembered recently was when our family went to visit our friends, the Foxes. They had this amazing stream that ran through their garden, and Lucy and I would basically go and play with the mud/clay in the riverbed and pretend we were making a whole world out of treacle. We were the Treacle People. I think it was based on a TV show at the time, but really, we made mud our plaything. Our imaginations knew no bounds.

Rachel Easter and I were always the craziest though. We’d always both had a ridiculous sense of humour, which half entertained and half scared our parents because, well, essentially we were insane. One day we decided that we needed powerful titles, and became self-designated Overlords of the Mutant Chickens and Cows. We’d write each other cards and letters and sign them ‘OOTMC’. I’m sure if we had been seen by a child psychologist we would have been diagnosed with something but luckily it never came to that.

One of my favourite games to play was schools. I was a bossy child (see my point below about arguing with friends at sleepovers – this was undoubtedly due to me telling people what to do) so playing schools seemed an obvious choice of game: being a teacher, the ultimate authority in a ten year old’s eyes. I used to write out maths sums and make my friends complete them ‘in the game’, then I’d take great pleasure in pointing out their mistakes when they handed it back. Given that the people I played schools with most frequently were Bryony (1 year younger), Flora (2 years younger) and Hugh (4 years younger), it was unsurprising that the times tables I knew were going to be near impossible for them to do. Especially as I was the only one allowed a calculator. Check mate.

Being imaginative was the main entertainment of my childhood. I rarely watched TV (apart from the Treacle People apparently), I wasn’t interested in Ben’s various game consoles – all I did was read books and live in a fantasy world. It was a fun place to be! I kept pretend wolf cubs under my bed as pets; they used to follow me to school and I’d have to tell them off and make them run home (I love how I just specified that these pet wolf cubs of mine were imaginary, in case anyone actually thought I might really have had wolves living in my bedroom). I do feel sorry for kids who have no imagination. And I hate it when children nowadays say they don’t like reading (says she, up on her high horse). Books can be fun! My children are going to read, and they will love it, goddammit.

I used to love writing stories. I still remember the creative writing part of my Year 6 SATs: I wrote a story about a girl called Abby Quire who sang in the Abbey choir. There was a policeman in the story called PC World. I was even the winner of a city-wide creative writing competition when I was 10 – we had to write a poem in honour of the millennium about something environmental. I wrote (and subsequently performed) a rap about recycling. Yes, I rapped in front of people. My prize was the have a giant poster made of my poem which was then displayed at the St Albans dump. I even drew the illustrations myself – a giant bottle bank wearing sunglasses and a backwards baseball cap. Word.

Some fun facts about me as a child:

·         My earliest memory is waking up on the bottom bunk in the first house I lived in and seeing a tarantula on my pillow. I was actually still dreaming, and when I really did wake up there was nothing there, plus it was probably not a tarantula because I would have been about two and it’s unlikely I had ever seen a tarantula in order to then imagine one on my pillow but still, I remember being terrified either way. I’m not sure if I am scared of spiders because of this dream, or if I dreamed it because I was already scared of spiders, but yeah, what a great first memory!

·         My second memory is not being allowed in the ball pond at IKEA. My first few years on this Earth were traumatic to say the least.

·         My celebrity boyfriend (you know, the guy who played your husband in all your games) was Stephen Gately. That’s right, I routinely chose to ‘marry’ the gay one from Boyzone.

·         I was a chubber. Seriously, I did not shift my so-called ‘puppy fat’ until I was about 16. I have actually been told by a couple of adults that knew me as a youngster that they were worried I wasn’t going to ‘blossom’, and they were relieved when I grew out of my ugly duckling phase. Unfortunately for me, this ugly duckling just grew up to become a duck. None of that ‘swan’ shit that was supposed to happen.

·         When I was 9, my older brother tricked me into watching the Sixth Sense, by telling me and my parents that it was a 12 and ‘not even a scary one’ at that. I am consequently still afraid that there is a dead girl who lives under my bed who wants to grab my ankle if I stand too close to her in the dark. No joke, ask Josh.

·         Every time I had a sleepover with anyone until about the age of 11, we ended up getting in an argument and would fall asleep in angry silence. I’m not saying it was always my fault but I do seem to be the common denominator in all of these scenarios…

Ahh youth, it really is wasted on the young! :)

Fourth of July!

Yesterday I experienced my first Independence Day and it was fun. A few Americans asked if I’d be celebrating, considering the history of July 4^th – essentially the anniversary of America breaking away, fairly violently, from British rule. As this was back in the late 1700s, I decided I wasn't going to let it get to me lol. I’m pretty sure most Brits are over it by now!

Independence Day is a public holiday, so we had the day off work. As it was a Wednesday, it was a nice little break in the middle of the week, and resulted in quite a lot of drinking – a tradition that luckily spans both cultures ;)

There was a big firework display on the night before our day off, so I headed to watch with some friends. I was pretty impressed, I absolutely love fireworks (big kid at heart) so was very excited. I have to say, the best fireworks I’ve seen are the ones in St Albans for Bonfire Night, but these were still a good show. 

We then went back to a friend’s house, where the conversation took an argumentative turn as we began to discuss religion and the rights and wrongs. Rather unfortunately for Melissa, she was the only person present who defended it. The debate grew rather heated on both sides, fuelled by red wine and vodka (not mixed) but always fun to get involved in!

On the actual day of Independence, we all gathered at Brooke and Ken’s house for the all-important feature in any backyard: a pool! We had a BBQ and swam all afternoon, in wonderful 38°C heat – I can’t get enough of the weather here! 

Ian, Jack, Brooke and Logan

Independence Day cookie pizza

Then we played beer pong. I hadn't played since I lived in Albuquerque, over two years ago, but apparently it’s just like riding a bike because I still had all the skills! There was a very competitive game of UK vs. US, with Ian and me playing against Brooke and Ken, and sadly we lost, (just). I suppose it was fitting, fairly reminiscent of our defeat in 1776, but like we pointed out, we let you win then, and we’ll let you win again now. 

We didn’t want the damn colonies anyway :)

Six month summary

Goodness gracious me. I have been living in Dallas for HALF A YEAR! That is pure madness, it seems to have flown, yet also feels like Christmas and my leaving drinks were so long ago… Time is a funny thing.

Here is a quick summary of my life since living in Texas y’all!

·         First and foremost, I have a tan. That’s right my doubtful readers, a goddamn SUNTAN! I love Dallas weather (discounting the fact that it rained on July 1^st which was not appreciated in the slightest). The suns shines a lot here, and the heat… oh man, it is fabulous! We had our first 100° day a few weeks ago (that’s 38° for the people who work in celsius) and it has continued in a similar fashion ever since. Most people who have lived here longer than six months hate this time of year, and bless the lord above for inventing air conditioning. When I first got here and reveled in the fact that I would actually experience a real summer, rather than the crap offering of drizzle that England provides, everyone scoffed and said, ‘just you wait’. They thought I would become one of them, who appreciate rain, a cool wind, and overcast days. Yeah right. I’m from ENGLAND, where sunshine means whipping out the shorts from the back of the wardrobe, regardless of whether it’s actually warm or not.

·         I like my job. I don’t know if this is unusual or not, but thought I should throw it out there in case I’m in a rare situation. And since it’s why I came over here in the first place, it deserves a mention. I’m a marketing manager, to anyone who didn’t know or actually cares, and to be honest, I was a little nervous before I started as I didn’t know much about either marketing or managing. But I’d like to think I do now! To my great relief the ‘manager’ part means I manage all the marketing work, rather than other marketers, which was my initial impression. I had been worried that I might be in charge of managing other human beings in their jobs which was nerve-wracking due to the aforementioned lack-of-knowledge-in-the-marketing-area. Incidentally, I like to think of myself as a ‘marketeer’ rather than a marketer as I think it sounds more fun.

·         I have an unhealthy relationship with food. This isn’t much of a revelation, as I’ve always been greedy. But still, it is no surprise to me why America is the fattest nation on earth – food is everywhere here. EVERYWHERE! Great big billboards on the side of the road, screaming YOU ARE HUNGRY! COME AND EAT AT OUR RESTAURANT. TRIPLE-SUPER SIZED-FRIED DELICIOUSNESS THAT YOU MUST HAVE NOW! Complete with huge yummy pictures that make you drool a bit. All restaurants give you free unlimited chips and salsa, or free bread. If you order a drink of coke, sprite, etc, you get free refills. And supersize isn’t just an option at restaurants, it’s a standard. All the fast food places advertise similar deals – 32 cents for a 32 oz. drink, which translates to 20p for just under a litre of liquid sugar. I don’t know why I keep going on about fizzy drinks because I barely touch them, but you get my gist. Food is a bargain here. Enormous portions of beautifully fried foods, and so so cheap. It’s dangerous. Seriously, I have very little willpower. I ballooned up when I first got here and thankfully have lost most of it again, but it worries me because I love to eat. And when free food is put in front of me, I don’t say no.

·         I think I’m in love. This one is probably the one that worries me the most, mainly because the man in question is 1 year old and already way out of my league. Ladies and gentlemen: Jack Dailey, heartbreaker.

Ready for the pool <3

I've run out of points for now, you’ll be glad to know. I miss London but I love that the sun shines all the time here. I miss everyone back home, but I've met a lot of fun people here. I miss not having to go to the gym to justify the huge meals I eat, but I know it’s good for me (stupid gym). 

It would be nice if my two homes weren't 4,751 miles apart though…

Healthcare, schmealthcare

I’ve been planning this blog for a while but have never quite worked up to writing it, as it is a ridiculously complex topic which both confuses and angers me greatly (in equal proportions). As a citizen of a country where we pay slightly higher tax and receive healthcare either at a hugely subsidized price or for free, to be living in a country where this access to doctors/dentists/opticians etc is limited either by price or availability, I am baffled. Why would people not want an American equivalent to the NHS?!

When I lived in Albuquerque two years ago, the subject of free healthcare was a hot topic as this was around the time that Obama was trying to level the playing field in terms of affordability and accessibility. Basically, he had a vision that people who lived below the poverty line in America should still be able to get prescriptions for their children; get a filling from their dentist; take a trip to A&E if they fell down and broke their leg; and not have to stress about how much it was going to cost them after their visit, especially if they didn’t have insurance. I know, what a cold-hearted bastard.

Anyway, I spoke to a lot of Americans about it, because believe it or not, propaganda in the States paints the NHS as evil and wrong. It will raise taxes, and no-one wants that. It’s going to help drug-addicts, and homeless people, and immigrants, and no-one wants that. People are going to abuse the system and cost the country a fortune… you get my point here. What people don’t seem to understand is they still spend that money, but it goes to their insurance companies! Insurance companies make a FORTUNE off healthcare, yet you can’t afford not to have it. I pay about $130 a month for health insurance, so roughly £85. And that still doesn’t entitle me to see a doctor without paying a further $25 per visit. There’s no prescription cost cap here, so if you have to take antibiotics it could cost you anything from $10 to $60, depending on your insurance. Think of it as an excess; you pay the first amount, and the insurance company covers the rest. Compare that to the £7.20 for prescriptions in England. Well, needless to say, it makes me glad I have not been ill enough to need a prescription yet! The company I work for pays for 65% of my health insurance, so that $130 a month is only 35% of what it could be costing me! (If my calculations are correct, which chances are, they’re not, it costs $371 a month to insure me. That’s $4457 a year. If I was in the UK on the equivalent salary, I’d be paying about the same in taxes. However, our tax includes healthcare plus everything else; roads, street lights, and policemen to name but a few. I pay tax on top of that $4457 here.)

My point is, it’s damn expensive to pay for health insurance, but if they can, people do it because they have to. Recently, a friend of mine took her son to A&E because he had a ridiculous temperature, and it cost her $150 just to be seen by a doctor in the emergency room. She didn’t have to pay upfront, it’s not like they wouldn’t admit her unless she handed the cash over right there, but that was what she was billed after her son was seen by the doctor. And she has insurance! So imagine what people without insurance would have to pay.

Like I said above, no-one has to pay upfront, so if you really are in trouble medically, you will always be seen by a doctor, they won’t turn you away if you tell them you have no insurance (in A&E that is). But most surgeries make you register with them before you make an appointment, to ensure you have insurance, to ensure they are going to get paid for their work. I’m not blaming them, business is business; they need to make a living as much as the next person. What angers me is that it limits people’s access to a basic human right if you don’t earn as much as someone else. Why should a well-paid job mean you are more entitled to see a doctor about an illness than someone who earns minimum wage? There are free clinics, where doctors work pro bono, or are funded by either local governments or non-profits, but you can’t book an appointment, so you walk in and wait in line with everyone else. If you can’t afford health insurance, chances are you can’t afford to take a day off work to sit in line at the doctor’s surgery either.

I went to the opticians the other day to get my eyes tested and get some new glasses, as the ones I have now are about 7 years old and I thought maybe it was time to branch out from my free NHS frames… Anyway, I got there and signed in for my appointment by filling in seven different forms, I’m not joking, all of which had me write my social security number and insurance details on, then took a seat in the waiting room. AN HOUR LATER I went and asked at the desk what the F was going on and that I’d been waiting for ages (I didn’t actually swear.) She looked at her list and said I was next. She then asked me if anyone had told me that my actual appointment was going to take up to two hours, once I was actually seen by the optician. TWO HOURS! To look in my eyes with a bright light and make me read small letters off a chart! I said that no-one had informed me of that, so she asked if I wanted to reschedule to another time. Hell no. I told her that I had been in that waiting room for an hour already, and that I most certainly was not going to reschedule so I could come back the week after to waste more of my time in the same seat before someone decided to take care of me. She looked a bit taken aback at my outburst, and repeated that I was next on her list.

This was a lie. Two more people got called before I did, and my grand total of time wasted in a waiting room was 90 minutes. I was seen by one woman, who did all the letter tests, and looked at my brain through my retina, or whatever it is that opticians do. She then put these eye drops that dilate your pupils in my eyes, in order for the next doctor to come see my brain through my retina too. I looked like I was on crack! Here is a scary picture of my crack-eyes. I was told I looked like I was about to kill someone.

Serial killer

So that was my wonderful experience of using the healthcare system in America. I sure am glad I pay my hard earned dollars for this fine delivery of service. Pssh, give me the NHS any day.