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Because I’m pregnant. Bit of a surprise, but a happy one.

I must say, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen Sir Ian McKellan as a lecherous, freeloading writer of soft porn novels on Coronation Street.

So, Brendan broke his arm. That’s the reason for the current posting lull. Two weeks ago, April 3, he went off for the regular Sunday morning mountain bike ride with a group of friends. Right about noon, the phone rang. I expected it to be Brendan, calling to say we were going to lunch with the other bikers, but it was Epsom Hospital, to tell me that my husband had fallen off his bike and broken his arm. They wouldn’t let me talk to him.

I managed to get a ride to the hospital. They had already sent him up from emergency to the ward and he was waiting to go into surgery. It wasn’t just a little break; the bone broke completely just above the elbow and came through the skin. They’d gone down a trail called ‘Deliverance,’ which is basically a ledge with a 30-foot drop onto the forest floor. He went over too fast, lost control, and there you have it.

He came through the surgery fine. They gave him one of those morphine clickers, so he was a little out of it at first. Epsom Hospital is about 45 minutes from Kingston, but Brendan’s godparents live quite close to it, and they were kind enough to have me stay with them while he was in the hospital.

He came home after 4 days in the hospital with a foot-long scar down the back of his arm and two plates inside. Things have been a bit busy since then; hence the lack of posting. It’s his right arm, so he can’t really do anything for himself at the moment. It’s not in a cast, so besides having only one arm to work with, he has to be really careful of the other one. 6 weeks out of work to start off with, and more if he needs it.

He’s doing really well, very cheerful and surprisingly energetic.

If anyone would like to purchase a nearly-new, very nice mountain bike, let me know.

I know there are people out there who will understand when I tell you that I almost burst into tears upon finding Martha Stewart Living at Borders yesterday. It took some willpower not to buy the whole stack.

Took a walk in Richmond Park. It’s beautiful and very English, with gnarled trees and people wearing wellies walking their dogs. The weather is really changing here–it was a beautiful warm day and everyone who didn’t have to be at work was out. There were buds on the trees, the grass was violently green, etc.

We live near Kingston Gate, and it’s a short walk to King Henry’s Mound, the highest point in Richmond Park. Apparently Henry stood there while Anne Boleyn’s head was being removed.

On a clear day, you can see St Paul’s Cathedral. You can’t see it here, because it was not very clear and my camera’s not so hot.

I’m working on a scholarly essay on Henry’s obsession with his mound.

All right, folks, I found my camera, which means that you’re going to be subjected to all kinds of boring pictures of things I’ve made, places I’ve been, sunsets, cats, ponies, etc.

So here’s the first picture. I knitted this hat. It’s very useful if you don’t mind looking like a dork, which I don’t. Especially when it comes to being cold. We went to Hampton Court Palace two weeks ago, and it was sleeting or something, and the hat came in very handy.

It’s a modified balaclava–kind of looks like chain mail. But!

You can pull it up so it looks like a normal hat OR

pull it down around your neck.

God, I am so bored. Why won’t anyone give me a job?

I have a U.K. driving licence. Well, it’s technically a learner’s permit, but whatever. The point is, after 3 or so years of gripping the armrest and trying not to do that sharp intake of breath that makes people hate you, I’m back in the driver’s seat. Who wants to bet Brendan’s a nervous passenger?

Today it suddenly warmed up. While I was walking back from the gym. I generally employ the two-sweater system to deal with the creeping damp cold of England, and today, somewhere on Elm Road, it became too much. Now the clouds have just, well, evaporated and it’s almost sunny. This weekend it was very cold and windy, and you could feel the weather changing. We’ll see what happens next.

Last night I made Lemon and Rocket Risotto. Rocket is what the English call arugula. The recipe was on the back of the rice box, as all the best recipes are. It wasn’t so hard, I was getting by fine until I realized that none of my measuring cups measure grams, and I needed 300 grams of arborio rice. Brendan found a conversion chart, and it turns out you need to know the specific gravity of an item before you can convert ml to g. If anybody out there knows the specific gravity of arborio rice, I will send you 30 pounds of Cadbury’s mini eggs.

There were 500g in the box so I ended up measuring out 3/5. The risotto ended up quite yummy. Today I went to John Lewis and bought a kitchen scale.

People, it’s almost Easter. This means that for the last month, drugstores across America have been full of jelly beans. The stores here are all full of Easter candy, too, but it’s all chocolate. I’ve got nothing against chocolate, and the English do great chocolate and there’s a post coming about that, but it’s the time of year for jelly beans. Please, send me some jelly beans. Just the plain ol’ Brach’s Jelly Bird Eggs, nothing fancy. Here’s a picture:

Apparently, you can buy 30 pounds of them from candywarehouse.com, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

In return, I will send you whatever British candy your little heart desires–or an assortment of my favorites, if you don’t know what to ask for. My address is available upon request. Thank you.

We live at the top of a very steep and winding street. There are a few blind corners and you have to drive pretty slowly to be safe. Yesterday we went to lunch and did a little shopping. As we were coming home, we rounded a corner and a Saab pulled out of his driveway and almost hit us. Brendan managed to swerve around and gave the guy a dirty look. He hadn’t even been looking as he’d pulled out; his face was turned the other direction. So we got home, parked the car, and here comes Saab guy. And he started telling Brendan off for making a face at him. It was so strange.

It took me a minute to figure out what was happening. You just don’t expect random bad drivers to follow you home and tell you that he almost caused an accident but somehow you’re in the wrong. So I said, “Dude, did you follow us up here just to yell at us? Because that is fucked up.” My crass American accent stopped him cold for a minute and then he started off again, all about how you shouldn’t give people nasty looks or something. I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about; Brendan was driving very carefully and the guy pulled out without looking. At one point he asked me if I had a UK driving licence and then said, “Excuse me, but I was talking to the driver.”

Eventually we just went in the house and shut the door on him. What a freak. And that was my Sunday.

So, here it is, the picture you’ve all been waiting for. You might know that our cat has been quarantined for six months because England likes to torture innocent kitties. He’s doing all right, though. He’s got a decent room with a window and toys and comfy places to sleep. We can only visit him once a week, and the kennel is out in Staines, near Heathrow airport. Anyway, here’s his little kitty face for anyone who’s interested. He’s a big cat; Brendan says that in this picture it looks like I’m riding him.

So I’ve been looking for a job, and it’s not pleasant. Today I sent in an application to a good-looking job via monster, and the recruiter called me back within half an hour. ‘Your resume looks good,’ he said, ‘but the last place you worked was in New York. Do you have a U. K. or E. U. passport?’ I don’t, but I have this great spouse visa that allows me to work here. Apparently there’s a lot of paperwork that goes with hiring an American, so they weren’t interested. I wasn’t quite sure what to say. Over here they’re not happy with simply ignoring your emailed resume; they feel the need to call you or email you back to reject you personally.

Also news to me: you can’t get a National Insurance number unless you have a job or have letters of rejection from 3 employers. Interesting.

Coming later: Kelli’s advice on how to clean without Ajax.

I can totally smell what the people downstairs are cooking. I think they’re boiling up something in traditional English fashion, 10 kinds of potatoes together with brussel sprouts and broccoli. And they might have just added pork to the pot.

So you can’t buy Ajax here. I have it on good authority that there is no scouring powder in all of England. The thing is, this country has the hardest water I’ve ever encountered, so there is ‘limescale’ everywhere. How do you get it off without Ajax?