driving in England

If I ever decide to write a memoir about my experience of moving to Britain, I will title it, 'Driving in England'. Driving is an apt metaphor, for me, for all that's unsettling about being an American in the UK. Last Friday, I got completely lost trying to find an address in Consett. I would have given up, except that I was looking for the house of the person from whom I bought (on eBay), Iain's birthday present: one wooden pirate ship, complete with canvas sails and wooden pirate figures.

Between setting out and finding the house I (a) nearly ran out of gas (um, sorry, petrol), (b) got lost, and (c) had a flat tire. No, I don't know how to change a flat tire. And yes, I was lost when I got the flat tire. No, I didn't have the AA (that would be AAA in the US) card with me. Fortunately Lucy was asleep in the back.  Even more fortunately, I stopped opposite two men laying large blocks to form a curb (or is it a kerb?) along a new, residential street. It was fortunate because even as I was on the phone to Lewis (who was at home working, while I was out with the car, yes, the one car), one of them tapped on the window and asked if I needed some help.

Did I ever. The two of them changed the tire for me in something like no time flat, amazingly. But then, they seemed like the sort of guys who were competent at that sort of thing. And I do mean that as a compliment of the highest order, since I am the sort of girl who is, shamefully, woefully incompetent at that sort of thing. As I drove away, I thought to myself that if I ever do write that memoir, I may just dedicate it to the two men who changed my flat tire.

If driving in England has been something of a challenge, the people who have stopped to help me with my various kinds of flat tires have made it possible for me to stay on the road. To those kind strangers, some of whom are now friends, I will always be grateful.

I will let you know how Iain likes his pirate ship.