Nos

She and I are going into Portland to see Never Let Me Go this evening, for once permitting an intravenous dosage of the algia for the nos. I don't allow nostalgia, as a rule, but sometimes a little slippage is manageable isn't it? At least, I reckon so. Never Let Me Go is a movie adaptation of a book I've never read (one of the idiot's favourites), but I'm told a pleasing amount of screentime is devoted to the English countryside and boarding-school politics. The idiot burst into tears during the trailer. I thought about cricket bats and matron. I think both our needs will be satisfied.

She hasn't been too homesick yet; we both think of England in a wistful, happy sort of way, rather than with the agony of a gut-wrench loss. She keeps in touch by Skype once a week - midnight chats in the laundry room, every Wednesday after Henry James - and she has that revolting Possum puppet thing from home to keep her company. Like she needs another figment of her imagination. Sometimes she makes-believe that Possum can talk. There's also Masterchef USA on youtube to compensate for the lack of BBC iPlayer and 4OD: Gordon Ramsay with high-fives and hissy-fits. We've barely watched a television since arriving, apart from Nancy Grace or The Daily Show in the gym.

With regard to Englishness, the accent hasn't got me as far as I would have liked. In fact, it is rarely mentioned. Back at home everyone assured me (with different and prettier metaphors) that an English accent in America is like a small, precise fish hook in a pond full of easily-led salmon. The idiot even thought it might compensate for a certain lack of bosom. Alas, there has been little salmon - and none of it smoking. Even so, we make great efforts to maintain the Englishness. I deride any hint of an American inflection, creeping into her classroom chat from time to time, and am so far keeping on top of things. The other day I caught her pronouncing Chopin like show-pah instead of shop-ah. Pretty embarrassing. In writing, a proliferation of zs has become an issue, but I forgive her on this count because it pleases the professors to be correct.

Two additional revelations about Americans:
- They don't know about bacon sandwiches, oh so different from the BLT, and seemed genuinely appalled at the notion of ketchup with white bread.
- They don't put x kisses at the end of their messages, unless you are the other half and they would actually kiss you in real life.

I can assure you that, in spite of my habitual 'x' sign-off, I would kiss none of you in real life.

Consette x