This Is England

On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, 511 said goodbye to life in the States to give living the dream a go in England.

That was one month and fifteen days ago....

Commuting here is beyond awful. It's ridiculously expensive and the service is atrocious. A leaf on the track causes chaos for hours. Those of us in the house who can handle the o'dark thirty wake up call, bravely face the dawn and the leaves..I take back every bad word I said about Metro North.

I've become a pro at standing in-line. The Brits do love a good queue, bless them.

I take immense pleasure in the fact that gentleman still exist. A large number of them can be be found scattered throughout the underground. Sadly none can be found on the 6:13 or 6:49 London-Midland train. As a result, I've become bbfs with the floor of Coach C, aka the bathroom car.

Saying that, I find it deeply disturbing that a great number of gents run around dressed in extremely tight clothing. There's nothing remotely attractive about a man in super skinny trousers - never mind the risk to securing future generations..

Cosmos in a can are a thing. I'm pretty sure I saw Lance Armstrong with one.

There are beautiful people everywhere.

I've raised a glass with the Lemur of Leicester (the poor man's Wolf of Wall St), met a British sailor who renounced his British citizenship and now lives in Cali - he owns three homes and a horse named Star - he's taken to life in the States like a pro, an x convict - his claim to fame and the best thing from Wales that's ever happened to London - there was very little in the way to support this, but gotta love the enthusiasm.

A whole month went by before I saw a Ginger. It was Ed Sheeran singing his new song on the X-Factor - my heart simply melted. Two days later, I saw a real life Ginger - damn that Ed Sheeran.

I've resigned myself to never having a good hair day again :/

Casual Fridays bring out some interesting outfits.

A case of Saturday homesickness led me to being the proud owner of an American flag onesie.

Love me some Free (pronounced fwee) Radio.

I Wanna Dance With Somebody continues to withstand the test of time and distance; never fails to get the crowd going. The DJ and I killed it on stage. Meghan Trainor's All About that Bass has similar results. My cousin was highly impressed with my performance. The good people of Rugby are eagerly awaiting an encore.

Miss Kitte and Griffith have adjusted well to clean, simple living, although they miss Friday date nights and Sunday Fundays. They've grown fond of the country life and have vehemently expressed their opposition to going back to city living.

It feels as though I've been with my team for years. I couldn't have hand-picked a better group of nutters if I tried.

My first week in London, I was repeatedly told how how amazing my Irish accent was. Now I'm accused of being Canadian almost daily.

I live for the weekends. One of my little cousins give me sh*t for being a Red Devil and my other little cousin hijacks my runs. We go to the playground. I offer no resistance.

Gogglebox.

I'm so over getting confused or dirty looks when I explain to a cashier that my card is a sliding kind and I need to sign.

Reconnecting with an old friend is awesome, but dancing to nursery rhymes with an old friend's baby is priceless.

I now drink Peroni when I'm out. The pubs of London need to get on the Coors Light train.

My rent is more than I wanted to pay. I've been forced to do manual labor and assaulted by a frog and raspberry bush. I'm out of Chapstick and Advil. I would pay good money for a sip of a Dunkin Donuts hazelnut coffee or a brief stint behind the wheel.

I smile all the time.

To answer the inferred questions in The National's epic anthem England, Yes I'm somewhere in London loving my life in the rain; Yes, I'm somewhere in London walking merrily.