I hate my hair.

No, really. I know everyone says this, at some point or another. But I think I have a real argument for at least exasperation if not full-on anger. Let me explain.

When I was young, I had pin-straight hair.

I know. I was pretty cute too. See those cheeks? I still have them. Meh.

Anyway, my hair was so straight that my mom let me get a perm every so often. I won't post those photos, cuz they are pretty tragic. But that meant my hair flipped from straight to 'fro throughout my pre-teen years. Post-puberty, my hair got really thick and puffy, and I developed a really annoying jeri-curl in my bangs that I could not blow-dry out to save my life. This should have been my first clue. 

So my solution to a lot of these issues was to chop my hair off. I spent quite a lot of my high-school self with a pixie cut. Hey, it was the 90s. I loved it. It was so cool! I don't have any pix of it, but I would share if I could.

When I got to college, I grew my hair out and straightened it religiously every day. I can't even imagine how much damage I did with that flat iron. But I had a mane of straight and lovely hair and I loved it.

Please disregard the horrible glow off of my shawl-thing, but focus on how straight my hair is. Le sigh. 

But then I moved to New York. And I found Paul, the most fabulous hair dresser in the world. He cut my hair and discovered that the frizz I battled for so long was actually natural curl! And lots of it! So I ran around New York for many years with bouncy waves.

I thought I had a better picture of my lovely curls, but this will have to do. Also enjoy my 27th birthday crown, courtesy of my lovely friend Rietje.

Soon after this picture was taken, though, I moved to the UK. And there started the downward spiral of my hair – pun SO NOT INTENDED. I lost my hairdresser, my styling routine, and access to cheap hair products. Even though I went to see Paul every time I went home, I soon ran out of products that I was used to using and couldn't quite find the right replacements. Over the years, I've used so many – Redken Ringlet 07, Deva-Curl AnGel, Schwarzkopf Osis+ Twin Curl 2, MOP C-Curl cream – but none seem to do the trick of shaping and defining my waves while cutting down on the frizz. Then, last summer, I got an unfortunate shag cut that, while cute, was actually heavily thinned.

As it grew out, it looked increasingly limp and straggly and was losing a lot of its curl. In search of a solution, I bounced from hairdresser to hairdresser, seeking a good cut as well as someone with whom I could build a hair styling relationship, as I balanced waited for my hair to grow out. Meanwhile I was using up all of the remaining product I had in my cupboard, trying to economically get to a place where I could start over, as it were, with fresh product and a fresh outlook on my hair. Not only was I dealing with the poor haircut, though, I was also battling some dry scalp, the general feeling of thinness to my hair, and a lot of hair breakage.

Cut to now. I've just had a haircut where the guy did something weird, something I've never seen before: he twisted my hair into sections and cut perpendicularly into it. Curious, I started doing some research into the best way to care for and style curly hair and discovered a whole lifestyle devoted to caring for natural curls. Reading sites like Naturally Curly and British Curly Girls is just exhausting me with the amount of time and energy to required to "do" my hair. When I think back to deciding to wear my hair curly, the number one reason was definitely so that I wouldn't have to dry and straighten my hair for hours anymore!

So. Where to next? I've switched to low sulfate shampoo and conditioner in the hopes of really cleaning my scalp and preventing breakages, and I'm trying Trevor Sorbie Curl Cream (a cheap Boots product) because I've had a travel size bottle of it for a couple years now and my hair ALWAYS looks good on holiday. So far, mixed results as washing my hair has made it feel even limper (yet softer)! and the Curl Cream is disappointingly a different formula. I've also discovered that hard water is to blame for my dry scalp and thin-feeling hair (great) but I can't quite solve that in a rented flat. I think that over the summer I will treat myself to a cut at a salon that specializes in curly hair, and in the meantime commit myself to the scrunch. 

Any curly-girls out there have any hard-earned advice? Melizza over at Sifting Through just wrote a post about liberating her curls, and she's reinspired me to keep up the quest to keep my curls happy – c'mon girls! We can do it!

Le sigh

So I'm back in my apartment, waiting for the heat to kick in. Why, you may ask, as I was supposed to be halfway across the Irish Sea by now. But I'm sure you can guess - Dublin got EVEN MORE SNOW and closed the airport at 7:00, just as I was about to settle in at the Stansted Wetherspoon. After lugging our stuff all the way to the airport via two trains and dealing with security, we got a phone call from The Irishman's brother saying that the airport closed so they could clear the runways. Ryanair then cancelled all of the remaining Dublin-bound flights and we had a comical few minutes trying to figure out how to get out of the airport - one can't just go back through security! (they have to lead you out a secret passage to baggage claim, in case you were wondering).

So we came home, dejected, and ran through all of the potential possibilities - ferry from Holyhead (after a 5 hour train ride), or flights from Manchester or Liverpool to Belfast. We decided not to wait to see if Ryanair would put on more flights tomorrow from London as apparently there is supposed to be really bad fog in Dublin tomorrow. The Irishman is sitting at his laptop cursing Easyjet as our new flights that were supposed to be £75 per person were hiked to £96 per person at check out.

We're leaving tomorrow first thing for the train station to go to Liverpool and then getting a flight from John Lennon International Airport (the silver lining - what a rockin' airport to go to!) to Belfast where The Irishman's brother will pick us up and drive us home (only apparently a two-hour drive).

SO. Watch this space. I'm now going to crack open my Christmas cookies and try to relax. Hmph.

Ash-hole!

Poor Iceland is really getting it on the nose here. The FT is calling it their revenge for the banking crisis and the UK busting them on defaulting, and everyone has a story about someone they know being stuck somewhere (usually fabulous, like my colleague who has been in Barcelona since Thursday and won't be able to get back until THIS FRIDAY!). Everyone's in a tizzy about the economy and the money that is being lost, and businesses suffering, etc etc. But you know what, I think it's pretty great. My passport is with the Home Office at the moment so I can't travel, so I feel a bit of sweet satisfaction that everyone is grounded with me. And I think once in a while it's good to have a reality check. Someone said something to me today about there being a run on fresh fruit because we won't have bananas flown in for a while. You know what? People in the UK didn't have bananas for hundreds of years, and I think they did okay. It sometimes takes volcanoes whose names you can't pronounce erupting for days on end with bad wind directions (read: THINGS YOU CAN'T CONTROL) for people to slow down and chill out.

Girls don't cry

I try to keep the public/private divide intact on BloodyBrill, despite what you think after having read my previous post about poop, which is why you don't know much about my work or where I work or what I do. I allude to my job and my career, but I don't believe in sticking my foot in my mouth virtually. Plus, come one - everyone can find everyone these days on the ol' interweb.

But I will share my frustrations in this forum more often than not, and I think that's acceptable. My latest is that I just had my performance review (or appraisal, or whatever). I haven't had one since this time last year, and so much has changed at work and in the economy and my life in general that frankly I sort of didn't want to know. It didn't turn out too bad - definitely could have been worse - but the number one piece of feedback I received was about crying. I am considered, across my office, to be overly emotional and prone to crying way too often.

Now. I'm not saying I haven't had to duck into the loo every so often, or gone behind closed doors to let out my frustration, both here and in New York. I know it's considered a sign of weakness for women to cry in the workplace and that generally it's bad for one's career if they're seen to constantly break down at the drop of a hat (which apparently is the general consensus about me), and yes, I get it. But dammit I am so angry about the really ridiculous double standard that exists in British culture. Women shouldn't cry, shouldn't have any emotional response at all to anything in the workplace, but also are treated like second-class citizens even when they do show a characteristic stiff upper lip. I've never seen a culture so crude, with all female PAs and EAs, where the all-male old-boys club is still going strong, and where women more often than not carry the bag in the colleague relationship - and not the handbag. It's absolutely disgusting and one of the biggest disappointments I've had since moving to the UK.

In New York, if you're a confident, strong, articulate, smart woman, you can go anywhere, do anything (with ok maybe a bit of luck). But here, no way. Even in a creative industry women are still weak and still volatile, so men have to run the show. The head of my company is a woman, and I'll bet she still encounters the same crap I do. I feel for her, and for every other woman in business in this country. I know that my sometimes frequent work breakdowns (becoming less frequent, but still) don't help crush the stereotype. It's probably been the hardest thing for me to overcome since moving here, because it's a vicious circle: treat a confident girl like crap, even she will cry - and then you'll treat her more like crap, because she's acting like a girl. It's not fair, but I suppose life isn't fair.

I had an interesting conversation last week with an old New York colleague, and relayed this Catch-22 to him; he sympathized, but reminded me that I did want international experience and this was the dirty underbelly of it. I didn't like hearing it, but I know he's right. I guess it's up to me to prove to the world that us Jersey girls can take their poop and throw it right back. With an English accent.

Damn you, Ryanair!

So we've all heard about the devious, diabolical way that Ryanair treats customers like cattle, refusing refunds for anything and considering charging passengers to use the toilets on-board. But you can't deny that sometimes they are the cheapest way from point A to point B, and that their "FLY FOR £1" ads are pretty damn enticing. I've never flown Europe's love-to-hate budget airline, but yesterday I bought my first ticket with them and I can honestly say they are RIGHT BASTARDS.

The Irishman are headed back to Dublin at the end of February for a wedding (what, back so soon?) and hoped to find some dirt cheap flights due to the fact that the Irish rugby team and all of their fans would be in England for the Six Nations rugby match. But the major airlines never got that memo and all of the flights were upwards of £70 roundtrip. On a whim, I checked Ryanair and low and behold, flights on the dates we were looking to travel were all of £35 roundtrip including all of the ridiculous fees they tack on at checkout. So we decided to lower our standards just this once, and went ahead to book.

Well! The Irishman's payment was accepted just fine but when I pressed "Purchase" it took me to a screen saying my payment couldn't be processed and that I had entered my credit card information incorrectly. I freaked out, naturally, as Ryanair won't do anything nice for anyone and I didn't want to get charged twice; there would be no hope of a refund! So I pressed back to reenter my credit card info and correct the mistake, but the boxes for payment entry were greyed out. I checked my email, no confirmation email, and proceeded to start the whole process over. THAT was when I found out that the whole reason it didn't work the first time is because there were no seats left for that price! When I went to select my return flight the second time, the original price of £14.99 was no where to be seen and it was replaced with seats for £21.99! RUBBISH! This time of course my payment (which was 100% correct the first time) was processed just fine and my flight cost, roundtrip, £42 total.

Okay, I know it isn't exactly a big increase - a whopping £7 - but it's the principle of the thing. Not only was the price of my flight selection more money, but so were all of the other flights that day priced higher as well. Ryanair doesn't have to be so sneaky; I mean, luring people in and then switching the cost of a flight leg during the checkout process is wrong. I always knew they were ruthless, but frankly, Ryanair is just mean. Hmph. I'll remember this, O'Leary. Your Irish eyes are NOT smiling!

How the Grinch stole my laptop

So friends, I had big plans to catch up on some Christmassy blogging over the past weekend but they were foiled by some punk who stole my laptop out of my bag at the pub on Friday night. Luckily it is a) my work laptop (which unfortunately doubles as my laptop since I'm not minted enough to have my own), b) all of my photos and music are backed up on my external harddrive here at home, and c) the thief only took my cash out of my wallet as well. It actually was really strange to see my wallet intact - all credit cards there, even all of my £1 coins - and I even questioned whether I had cash in there at all (I definitely did). The Irishman consoled me by reminding me that it could have been SO MUCH WORSE; imagine losing all of your credit cards and ID the weekend before Christmas - what a nightmare that could have been. But it doesn't change the fact that some punk took my stuff. I hope he drops the laptop on his foot, breaking both the laptop and the foot, therefore cannot reap any benefit from his sad behavior.

Halloween, Jose, a new silk dress and a beer

Hi kids! It's been a bit quiet round these parts due to the fact that I'm in the midst of prepping a huge presentation for Thursday and then zooming off to Paris for a long weekend to visit Jon and Alix (more on that later). But I thought I'd take some time out to tell you the tale of last Saturday night.

Halloween here is pretty low-key; little kids trick or treat until sundown and there isn't much in the way of parties or dressing up – or so I thought. Perhaps because it was a Saturday, this year was chockablock of Londoners donning their fancy dress best and barreling down the sidewalks with abandon. I've never seen more vampires or dirty Girl Scouts! What a shift from last year's very boring Halloween.

I, of course, did NOT dress up, thinking that no one else would, and headed to the Jazz Cafe in Camden for a gig. The Irishman and his mates are firm fans of Jose Feliciano, a blind singer-songwriter who sings in both Spanish and English and does a really mean version of "Light My Fire". Here's a little taste for you:



The show was fantastic, and the venue pretty cool. Jose entered and exited dressed as the Phantom of the Opera, and after the show the club turned into an 80s dance party. Unfortunately, somewhere in that mix the Irishman's dancing got erratic and he spilled half of his beer down the front of me. I, of course, was wearing a brand new raw silk dress. You might ask why I was wearing a brand new raw silk dress out to a gig; I am currently asking myself the same question as my dry cleaner informed me this AM that the factory is "trying a second time" to get the stains out.

So I guess Halloween was a trick and a treat.

The Apprentice in Covent Garden

Saturday the Irishman and I were walking through Covent Garden, and we saw something suspicious. Two men in weird bakers outfits were hawking £1 muffins, and they were being filmed. The Irishman investigated, and determined we had happened upon a filming for one of next season's Apprentice challenges.

I don't watch the Apprentice; I think it's sort of dumb, and all of the people seem a bit ridiculous, and it just reminds me a lot of what I do for a living in a really bad way (I am, after all, in marketing). But these guys looked so dumb, and I was so curious, so I bought one.

And guess what: it sucked. It was stale, stodgy, not nice, and frankly was probably mass produced in a factory somewhere and taken out of plastic to be sold to witless suspects like myself. So, lesson learned - trust your instincts, the Apprentice is terrible television, and they're bad bakers too boot.

You're fired, Sir Alan.

Crufts

Full disclosure: I used to show dogs.

It's not big secret; if you know me well or have known me for a while, it will come up in conversation (usually in February, when Westminster takes place each year in New York). How I got started in the sport (yes it is a sport) is a long story, but let's just say that it has been a girlhood dream of mine to attend, and eventually show at, Crufts.

Crufts is the largest and oldest dog show in the world. Held by The Kennel Club in England, this year it drew an entry of over 22,000 dogs – compared with the limited entry of 2,500 at Westminster in New York. The show was for many years held in London at the Olympia Exhibition Centre in Earls Court, but moved up to Birmingham a few years ago. Since Crufts is always held in the beginning of March, when I looked into going this year and saw it was my birthday weekend I knew I had to go.

Luckily the Irishman is a tolerant and supportive chap, and Birmingham's finest boutique hotel and balti definitely gave him incentive to tag along with me to the show. We went on the Sunday, the final day of judging, so I could see the breeds I used to show (Herding dogs, which The Kennel Club calls Pastoral dogs) and Best in Show. Crufts doesn't come cheap; the tickets were £15 each for the general admission ticket, and £17.50 for the seats for Groups and Best-in-Show.

I was adamant that we arrive early in the morning on Sunday, as the judging commenced at 9am and I was unclear how many entries there were or how long it would go on. In the US, if a breed is on at 9, one gets there at 9 because the judging will be done by noon (even earlier depending in entries). But Crufts is not a champions-only or limited entry show, and since it is so prestigious the entries for each breed were huge. My breeds were still being judged into the afternoon, so apologies were made for dragging the Irishman out to the show so early on a Sunday.

Besides the odd times and length of judging, The Kennel Club does a completely different type of judging system. It seems similar enough in how the judging goes, males then females, picking the best of each class and then the best of the winners, but I'm not quite sure how Challenge Certificates work or how one finishes a Championship on a dog. But no matter. Crufts is a benched show, which means that even when the judging for a breed was complete the dogs were there until 4pm for us to coo over. The Kennel Club recognizes tons more breeds than the American Kennel Club, so I saw a lot of dogs I'd only heard of but never seen in person and I learned about so many amazing breeds that I'd never even known about. There was also a Hall of Breeds, where each breed of dog shown at Crufts had a stand with representatives and dogs for the public to meet. This is where I took most of my pictures.

Unfortunately Crufts was in the midst of PR push after the BBC aired a documentary in 2008 called Pedigree Dogs Exposed that supposedly showed how purebred dogs are inbred and highly susceptible to genetic abnormalities that preclude them from living long, healthy lives. I didn't watch the documentary, because I've seen this thing before; it centers on dogs with shorter, compressed muzzles (Bulldogs, Pugs) and German Shepherds with their notoriously sloping hips. As a result of the controversy around the documentary, the BBC refused to broadcast Crufts this year, The Royal SPCA and Dogs Trust did not have booths at the show, and Pedigree pulled its sponsorship; meanwhile, every other sign and pamphlet and commentator's speech was centered around "Fit for Function" and a "long healthy happy active dog's life." It was hard to see The Kennel Club trying to prove the worth of these dogs and damage control the problems created by relatively few breeders of relatively few breeds.

On a similar note, possibly the oddest thing about Crufts were the strict rules about cropping and docking. Seeing Dobermans with both drop ears and tails, Australian Shepherds with tails, etc, was disconcerting. The Kennel Club passed these rules a few years ago in answer to public outcry about the "harmful practices" that subjected animals to unnecessary pain. It seems like a particularly British sentiment to regulate and protect and create rules around issues that the public is up in arms about - even if the public doesn't quite understand the complete issue. Arguing whether dogs should have cropped ears is a non-issue; people in England enjoy taking a stand and fighting for what they believe in, and it is easy to vilify a practice that doesn't affect a person but seems to be cruel. There is a point to be made that a civilized society doesn't need to crop the ears of dogs that aren't working, but one could also argue that one doesn't need to preserve cultural heritage because we don't use chamber pots or mulecarts anymore. It's a complicated subject, with a lot of deep-running emotion on both sides, and it just seems like The Kennel Club hasn't quite figured out how to defend itself – or better yet, deflect the argument.

All of this controversy didn't damper my enthusiasm for the show, and the Irishman and I really had a great time. My one main disappointment, though, was the Best in Show (BIS) winner. I was excited to see that the BIS judge was a Welshman who has been a professional handler in the US for nearly 50 years. He recently retired and is now a well respected judge who made his name in terriers. So imagine my surprise when the BIS lineup appears and at the front from the terrier group is an American dog, a Sealyham terrier. A gorgeous dog, no doubt about it; the dog won the terrier group at Westminster last year and is really a great little showdog. But I did not travel all the way to Birmingham from New York, really, to see an American dog I've seen win before win the biggest international dog show. It smacked of typical dog show politics and I for one was annoyed.

Overall, however, going to Crufts was a childhood dream come true. I'm glad I went, glad to see so many cool and fun dogs, and glad to see the International Junior Handling Finals (which I once qualified for the preliminary), and even glad to see the dog dancing with his owner to Riverdance (complete with Irish dancing girls). It was a spectacle, alright, and me in my dog-patterned scarf absolutely loved it.

London Christmas Markets

Are a big sham!

I love a good Christmas market, and in Europe they are really popular. Flights to eastern European cities like Vienna, Salzburg, Berlin, and Prague (to name a few) skyrocket during the weeks before Christmas as each city puts out handmade craft and food stalls. Nigella even filmed part of one of her episodes at the Salzburg market!

Of course London tries to get in on the game, with Christmas markets set up in and around its existing markets. But I'm here to tell you that they stink. They're all the same vendors selling the same junk, and the same food. The Irishman and I went to the Cologne Christmas market at Southbank last weekend, and I was highly disappointed in the lack of actual GERMANS that were working the stalls - as well as the lack of GERMAN ITEMS for sale. How does the genuine wooden tie count as a German Christmas craft? The most authentic thing for sale was the bratwurst!

We also stumbled upon the Slow Food Market, which was disappointing as well because it was the same vendors as in Borough Market and Spitalfields. At some point one has to ask, what is the point of having all of these markets, if the people selling in them are all the same? I wonder if there is a market mafia in London, like the street fair people in New York, making millions off of produce and gift markets. If so, then I say FEH and I boycott them all out of principle!

VOTE, you twits

Today, I was reminded, marks the final 2 weeks before the US Presidential election. Today, I also voted.

Way back in June, I requested an absentee ballot from Brooklyn but I still haven't received it. Worried about the time and the Warden's message on the US embassy website that I should have voted by Oct 14, I downloaded an Emergency Federal Write-in Absentee Ballot. I put it in the mail today, and if I get my Brooklyn absentee ballot in the meantime, I'm to send that as well.

DK, my token Friend In Politics, chided me for not calling Brooklyn's Board of Elections and asking where my ballot it. I did call, but didn't get through after 3 minutes of a phone tree. At this point, I sort of gave up - New York will swing for Obama, and my vote, if it ever gets there and is actually counted, won't (really) matter. But in the end, it's the principle of the matter.

This is taking a lot more work than just standing in line at my polling place and pulling the lever to exercise my right, as an American citizen, to vote. I am annoyed by this process, and now have a sense of what it must feel like (in a very peripheral way) to be disenfranchised. If I stay here for an extended period of time, will I have to go through this for EVERY ELECTION?

So. Grumbles aside, I voted, I wrote in BARACK OBAMA/JOSEPH BIDEN on my absentee write-in ballot, put it in a security envelope, which got shoe-horned into another envelope, and mailed it off. Now you homekids back in the States who have the luxury of the polls being open from 9am-9pm on November 4th better go vote too.

Followup: Read Jezebel's post about voter disenfranchisement. I found my emergency absentee ballot here: somehow I feel this website is part of the Help America Vote Act provisions. I hope my ballot actually gets counted…

Followup II: Even Ben & Jerry want you to vote! So DO IT!

Cold weather means soup time!

Since I moved to London, I've turned into an old woman in more ways than one – but the most apparent is my new love of soup. I think I've tortured my roommate with at least four pots of soup over the last four weeks. But making soup in England is – well – odd. The biggest hindrance is that you can't buy pre-made stock. No broth in cans, no stock in cardboard liter containers - the only option a budding chef has is bouillon. I tried some weird chicken goop in a packet, and I gotta tell you its kind of really gross. It is a high viscosity brown stuff that you're supposed to mix into boiling water. It tastes okay, but it is so weird that I think I'll just stay with OXO cubes, thankyouverymuch. Also, I will say right here that metric is SO much easier to use than the English system - but how weird is it that in England, they don't use the English system. Um, hello? It's really frustrating when most of my recipes are American, but I have other ingredients that come in Metric measurements. For instance: said Oxo cubes make 700 450 mL of broth. But my recipe calls for 5 cups of broth. So how many mL is in a cup? Um? Help? I feel like I did these conversions in 6th grade, but fuck if I know how to do them now. I've mentioned conversions.com before, and that website is really helpful, but it is slightly odd to be cooking and have your laptop next to you on the counter. But despite these hindrances, I'm currently enjoying a lovely bowl of White Bean and Vegetable soup, courtesy of the Simply Recipes blog. Yum.

Finally

One of my most annoying traits is that even with a baby hangover, like the one I have this morning, I cannot sleep past 7am after a night of drinking. So I'm up stalking the house with not enough energy to do anything remotely useful, but there is no way I can go back to sleep.

This is what the internet is good for. I have been sitting here for about 2 hours stalking people on Facebook, learning the latest goss about Brangelina's ridiculous commune of children, and FINALLY LEARNING THAT BARACK OBAMA CHOSE BIDEN FOR VP.

I've been waiting with baited breath for this news all week, and I'm quite pleased with the decision.

So now I will retire to my couch with my laptop and coffee, as my brain has sufficiently woken up for me to read the indepth and exhaustive analysis on nytimes.com.

There's something fishy about this...

It's called, cooking fish you don't know about. One of my favorite things to cook is fish en papillote. It's a really easy and tasty way to cook fish, consisting of putting a fillet in a piece of parchment paper (or tinfoil if you're cheap like me) with vegetables, spices... pretty much anything you want. You cook it for about 10 min on 400 deg F, and the fish cooks in its own juices and the spices you include. It's best with a light, delicate fish like tilapia or sole.

I realized the other day that I don't really eat fish here unless it's fried, so I decided today that I would make a quick easy papillote dinner tonight. Only, its been about a half hour. I'm currently sitting on the broken chair in my kitchen (the one where you fall through the seat if you slide around too much) staring at my oven. For starters, tilapia and sole are unknown in Britain. They must be farmed mostly in the States, or more warm-watered fish. The best I could do is get a loin of haddock. I'm sure I've eaten haddock before, but I've never cooked it - so I don't know what "done" looks like. After the first 10 minutes, the fillet still looked like jelly, so I stuck it back in for another 5. I also consulted www.onlineconversion.com to find out that 400 deg F is 200 deg C - something I should have probably discovered before I started cooking. (Nevermind that the cooking instructions on the fish wrapping said 180 deg C)

I last checked about 10 minutes ago, and I was peeved about this whole situation. But then I thought to myself, man, Danielle, you've had it EASY lately. Things are going WELL. You should stop having a WHINGE because guess what, you live in a foreign country. Just because they speak English doesn't make them American, and doesn't make this automatically your HOME.

Right.

So, carrying on with this bloody fish, and hopefully I don't die of food poisoning when I finally deem it done.

TEN QUID FOR A BLOODY BROLIE!

Speaking of getting fleeced, but not getting an umbrella out of the deal...

I lost my umbrella at some point a few weeks ago. This is not surprising. I go through umbrellas like people go through napkins. I've successfully navigated the raindrops without getting soaked until this morning, when it was evident I wouldn't make it to work without getting drenched. I got as far as the tube station and bailed out to Boots, the British equivalent of CVS, figuring I'd get a cheap umbrella there.

NO.

BLOODY £10 for a freaking UMBRELLA.

This thing better last me at least through the rest of the year!!!!