Well…wait a sec.
It seems likely that if you’re reading this, you are a friend or relative of mine. But maybe you’re just a passing acquaintance who went all googly-eyed when you learned that I was going to either, generally, England and Wales, or, specifically, the Doctor Who Convention. Hi there.
(Yes, knowing that I’m going to be in the same room as Stephen Moffat makes me feel googly-eyed too. And now that I’ve bought the tickets: googly-eyed and poor.)
Of course, there’s the chance you’re a stranger who’s landed here by accident, hopefully through some means other than a search for ‘LITTLE BLUE PILULES FOR SIZE ENHANCE!!!’. Hi to you as well. You probably have no interest in my travelogue about going to the UK for two weeks, which will undoubtedly be like every other travelogue about Americans going to the UK for two weeks. If you haven’t already hit the ‘back’ button with your lightning finger of doom, this way to the egress.
No? Not you? All right…I guess I have to concede the possibility that you might be a stranger who’s here on purpose. Probably because you’re interested in what the Doctor Who Convention is like, having chosen the ‘not-poor’ option over the ‘attendee’ option. (I applaud you for that.) Unfortunately, it’s not for three weeks, so you’ve come too early. While you’re waiting, may I suggest a spot of xkcd?
Good. Now we’re sorted! Let’s start over.
Hello, friends, acquaintances, and random strangers who are for some reason choosing to read my blog instead of snortling over nerdy comics about stick figures!
In just over a week I’ll be on the way to England for the first time. (As foreign countries go, I’ve only been to Canada and…er, Utah.) In planning this excursion I’ve spent a considerable amount of time bashing my brain against the Internet. A plan can seem good in theory, but you don’t know until you look that there will be little glitches in execution, such as:
‘Well, yes, Jane Austen’s House and Stonehenge are only about 50 miles apart. But if you haven’t got a car, to see them on the same day you will have to take the tube, then a train, a bus, walk half a mile, walk back, call for a taxi which you may or may not be able to get promptly, ride for 35 minutes, catch a bus, walk again or catch another bus, then repeat the last two steps back in the other direction to catch a different train, then the tube again home to your flat.’
Let me just utter quietly: Argh.
To relax after that, I’ve been constructing a playlist for the plane. It seems to make sense, at least to me, that I should listen to British music. And because I am a nerd: in chronological order.
This of course has turned out to entail another good chunk of brain-bashing. Does ‘Lust for Life’ count as British since it was co-written by Bowie? What year should I sort the Beatles’ Past Masters under, since it was recorded from 1962-1970 but released in 1988? Is it imperative that I include this tedious stuff from Frederick Delius? And would the Proclaimers, Franz Ferdinand and Boards of Canada (who are Scottish) mind being called British?
I am anal but also lazy as hell, which makes for snap decision-making skills. The answers were ‘no’ (sadly), ‘1962,’ ‘not if I get rid of the CD before I go,’ and ‘I don’t know but they probably wouldn’t mind being on my playlist.’
Ideally, one would take off to Elgar, spend most of the ocean with the Beatles, and land with Adele. Ah, ideals. They’re nice, aren’t they?
Then there’s reality. When I was done, it turned out that the list consisted of almost exactly one-third of my music library, and had a running time of two days, nine hours and ten minutes. Oops.
It’s going to be a long flight…but not that long. Please God.
I think I’ll listen to this to recover from my relaxation:
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