This entry is brought to you by the letter "P"
January 12, 2002 ~ 10:24 a.m.
LONDON, U.K.�I woke up with a headache around 2 a.m. today. Worse yet, it was one of those annoying little aches at the back of my head, seemingly in a place that not even painkillers can touch. If even a big 500-milligram pill of ibuprofen can�t help, you know you�ve got a headache that means business. Most tension headaches are of that stubborn nature. Considering that I�d just had about nine hours of sleep, more sleep didn�t seem to be the answer. How about a glass of orangeade with brandy? Nope, that didn�t work either. So, with all else having failed and finding myself at a loss, I did what I always do.
Yep. I ran. Six miles. I could feel the knot in my head loosening, and by the time I�d knocked three miles off, I knew I�d killed the sucker. Ah, the irrefutable benefits of exercise. I have a feeling the bastard won�t be returning.
For those of you who read either this entry or perhaps this one, you are well aware of the fact that I am always running random thoughts through my head during my runs. (Why do I always seem to write about this in my diary? Lack of new ideas, perchance?) Anyway, this time it occurred to me that the Brits have a real affection for adjectives that begin with the letter p.
If I�m seriously annoyed with you and think you�re a complete idiot, I can call you a prat, which is quite a strong word, or a plonker, which, although once slang for the penis, actually doesn�t have as high an obscenity factor. Customers are normally referred to as punters. If it�s cold outside, you will hear about how parky the weather is. My co-worker Peter is forever referring to things that he finds distasteful as poxy. When you fancy a bite to eat, you could be said to be feeling peckish.
Speaking of that word (peckish), I�ll never forget my first attempt at using it. It was during one of my first few days in England. I was acting show-offish and put my foot in it big-time. I was in the kitchen with my wife, and I was feeling hungry. So I smiled and announced to her that I was feeling �peckham.� The wife looked at me askance.
�You know, peckham?� I prodded with a dumb grin.
�Of course I know Peckham, it�s a part of London,� she replied. �I believe the word you�re looking for is peckish.�
That�s what I got for trying to be a smart-ass ...
The trip back went OK�security has been tightened up a bit, but luckily the man at the Virgin Atlantic desk liked me, so I didn�t get a big �S� marked on my ticket stub, and so didn�t have to bother with getting my suitcase searched. Aside from the military policeman at the gate who asked me questions about my carry-on and having to take my boots off for inspection, my experience at the airport wasn�t that much different than anytime I flew before September 11. Considering this is Logan Airport, where the two planes that attacked the Twin Towers originated from, I was nervous at the thought that going back to London meant suffering a thorough probing. Logan has been shamed so thoroughly in light of 9/11, that I figured Massport would put passengers through all sorts of indignities in order to show that they meant business. Instead, everyone was friendly and the security measures, while stringent, allowed me to keep my dignity.
Better yet, my seat assignment was right by an emergency exit, which allowed me ample leg room and very easy access to the toilet. My video screen wasn�t working, so Virgin awarded me �25 ($33) compensation, which I used to purchase a nice travel bag for exactly that price from the duty-free catalog. I read Baseball Weekly, drank three mini-bottles of red wine and fell asleep. I have a visa in my passport which allows me to live in Britain indefinitely; not exactly as good as a British passport, but enough to let me stroll through immigration. An easier trip back I could not have imagined, not without thinking that I might be going crazy, so I was very pleased.
� M.E.M.
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Copyright � 2001-2007 by M.E. Manning. All material is written by me, unless explicitly stated otherwise by use of footnotes or bylines. Do not copy or redistribute without my permission.
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