A Fortnight (or, “Who Do You Have to Shag to Get a Phone Line Around Here?”)

Well, as of tomorrow we will have been safely ensconced in our new home in Bath for two weeks.

Some things haven’t changed. Josie still calls everyone “Monsieur” and “Madame.” Jeff still walks past the (now gnome-sized) dishwasher to put his coffee cup in the sink. And I am still terrible about blogging, but now I have an excuse. After two weeks we still have no internet service. I have still not proven sufficient allegiance to Queen and Empire to qualify for an iPhone. And SkyTV isn’t coming to bestow our satellite television service for another week.

My world, as you can imagine, is torn asunder. I only have the pay-as-you-go surf time to peruse the last fifteen minutes on Facebook. I don’t know if Tori and Dean have been able to work through whatever has created this painful distance between them. And don’t get me started on what is apparently Britain’s most important and exciting election in two generations. Since I can only watch cable news at the gym, I left Fitness First on Monday with the distinct impression that the Liberal Dems were trying to work out a coalition government deal with the Labour Party, only to return to the elliptical machine on Wednesday to have found Gordon Brown completely transmogrified and dapper, Eton-educated Doublemint spokesmodels dropped into the Rose Garden at 10 Downing. (“Why did the guinea fowl cross the roundabout?” “Kirk Cameron!” What???)

I could perhaps, as in days of old, learn of the latest haps by strolling the town square, perhaps peeking into the tearooms and boarding houses for travelers with news from London. Unfortunately, I can barely leave the house and brave the Somerset weather patterns due to my dearth in waterproof, ankle-length, triple-lined outerwear. Thankfully – through the use of five minutes of my daily BT Notyournet allotment – this is a situation I could quite quickly rectify at LandsEndUK.com (that’s right, a company I would never dream of patronizing in either New York or Paris, even before their acquisition by the Sears, Roebuck Co., will now get the lion’s share of my clothing business). Three clicks took me to a sturdy-looking “squall jacket,” only available in Petite, Small in a spicy pumpkin orange. Hmm – think again.

That’s right – please park over there in Aisle 3-G. Take your ticket with you, and have it validated for a free hour.

Jeff took his first overnight trip on Tuesday to attend a leadership training, leaving me to re-learn how to sleep in a house left vulnerable to elements both natural and supernatural via three separate openings. Creeeak! Wraaawwwk! Rattle rattle. At one point I was awakened by a distinct and persistent rapping. Was it Jane Austen herself, knocking at the French doors leading through the mist to to my already overgrown Secret Garden, or just Nicolas Cage looking for a few quid to make the mortgage payment on his Brock Street abode? Ay, Bathian Beth, snap out of it! It was merely the heat kicking on.

In other news, Josie started “school” this week, at a lovely nursery about fifty paces from our back door. She’ll be going two mornings a week (all they had available) with her lovely teachers, Sally, Jo, and the Twelfth Helen We’ve Met Since Moving to England. They’re all nice, encouraging, and repeatedly call Josie “brilliant,” which we all know she is, yet each time I pick her up she is wearing the same Snow White costume, varying only the headgear (Bobbie helmet, cowboy hat, bowler). Josie declares that this educational institution is far superior to both of her Parisian alma maters, and if she can put on a princess dress and make play-dough cupcakes she’d rather go to school every day, merci beaucoup and thank you very much. Boy, is she in for a rude awakening in September when she arrives at the all-girls’ school on the hill in her uniform and blue jumper to begin French (and ballet!).

Well I think I hear Princess, er- Officer Snow White waking up now, and as the sun is beginning to peek from behind the drizzle we’ll suit up and hit the playground or guide aircraft or some such nonsense.

Charles de Gaulle is that way. THAT WAY!

Bon week-end, everyone!