Don’t be absurd 

 

I moved here from America nine hundred and ten days ago and I’ve hated every single one of those days, each one a little more than the last 

 

If I could get a hold of a gun in this country I would have blown my brains out a long time ago 

 

Why? 

 

Um, maybe because you have a better chance of seeing Bigfoot driving your grandmothers’ Oldsmobile than you do of actually seeing the sun. Or how about because every single public bathroom you step into will have more urine on the floor than all of your family’s bladders combined. You think I’m joking? I am not joking. I have two sets of stitches in the back of my head to prove it. Or how about because there is an actual law forbidding people from speaking on or near public transport. That’s right. It’s called the “Let’s Be Zombies” law. I am not kidding. Smiling at someone you have not known for at least your entire life can get you 5 years at Brixton. Laughing out loud is punishable by death. I know an Irish dad from school who’s awaiting sentencing for having the temerity to tell a story to a stranger on the platform at Charring Cross. 

 

You’re seriously asking me why? 

 

In America it takes nine minutes to open a bank account but here in the UK it takes nine months. Yes, that is correct. You can create a living breathing human baby faster than that 

 

Prescriptions over here are written out under candlelight with a feather pen and then sent by horseback to the pharmacy that is only open one day a week from 10–1. 

 

And at some point a royal decree was issued forbidding the creation of parking spaces larger than the Queen’s thumb 

 

Yes, I’d like to book a plumber to come out. Will you be around next week? Um, I guess, I mean. Great we’ll pop round next week. Right Ok — but when exactly? Will you be round Monday or Tuesday? Um, I can be. Great, we’ll pop round then. Wait wait! When exactly? You around in the morning? MY GOD JUST TELL ME WHAT DAY AND SPECIFIC TIME! You around supper time? I HATE THIS COUNTRY!!!!!!! Click 

 

What about Trump? What’s wrong with you guys and Trump? Trump is an idiot! Trump, Trump, Trump. What do you think of Trump? How about Trump? Trump Trump, Trump, Trump, Trump. What about guns? I don’t get the guns? What is it with you Americans and your guns? Guns guns guns guns. I don’t get healthcare. I mean, what about healthcare. I don’t get healthcare. What’s the deal with healthcare? Healthcare, healthcare. Trump, guns, healthcare, Trump, guns, healthcare, Trump, guns, healthcare, Trump, guns, healthcare, Trump, guns, DON’T YOU REALIZE THAT EVERY SINGLE PERSON ASKS ME ABOUT THOSE SAME THREE INCREDIBLY DULL SUBJECTS EVERY HALF HOUR ON THE HOUR EVERY SINGLE DAY OF MY MISERABLE BRITISH LIVING LIFE? 

 

Lord, Sir, Dame, Duke, Duchess, Earl, Dowager, Princess, Princess Royal, Prince, Viscount, Baron, Baroness, Countess, KBE, GBE, CBE, OBE, MBE. WHAT THE FUCK? THIS IS NOT THE 12TH CENTURY YOU PRETENTIOUS TWATS! DROP ALL THE FANCY PANCY MAKE BELIEVE AND DO SOMETHING WITH YOUR LIVES! 

 

He’s not in. He won’t be back until tomorrow. He doesn’t work Tuesdays. He’s on holiday. He doesn’t work mornings. He doesn’t work evenings. He doesn’t work afternoons. He doesn’t work weekdays. IS THERE ANYONE ELSE THERE WHO CAN HELP ME? I’m sorry everyone’s on holiday 

 

As I write this, while sitting in my torn three legged Victorian chair that nobody wants to fix, in the bathtub size living room of my nine thousand year old house built my gnomes, with a hissing toilet taunting me from the hallway and my expired residence permit collecting dust on the mantle my housekeeper would be cleaning, if I could afford one. 

 

Yes, as I write this, I realize now that my struggle with England must come to an end. No, it won’t end with a Virgin Atlantic flight back to America because, after paying 98 percent in taxes for the last three years, I simply can’t afford it. And it won’t end with a car escape over to mainland Europe because, sadly, I’ve taken my pointlessly difficult UK drivers test six times and failed all six times. And it can’t end with a bottle of sleeping pills because I can’t get a prescription without going to the NHS and, well… 

 

So without any money or the patience to wait forty seven months to see a doctor, it will simply end in surrender — surrender to the certainty that on whatever day I die, it will be dark and cold and wet and miserable, and nothing - not even the morgue — will be open