The English winter.

In Saty’s words, the English winter is far more honourable than its Canadian counterpart … more honest, more reasonable, doesn’t throw sand in its opponent’s face while it’s fighting them. In contrast, the Canadian winter is unnecessarily windy and spiteful, kind of a arsehole. So, I’ll quit bitching about it here, I suppose.
It is a Sunday. It is almost Christmas. We spent our afternoon in our local (charming!) pub, with a local (charming!) friend, plotting world domination while children and parents and friends sat around drinking Bloody Marys and dining on Sunday Roast. The sun went down ludicrously early.
On our way home, we picked up a chicken to roast, and walked past people carrying Christmas trees. Everyone has teeny apartments here, and so the trees were the teeniest we’ve ever seen. Darling, stubby Charlie Brown ones! Once at home, we watched a program on British packed lunches (“the difference between a cake and a biscuit is that cakes go hard when stale, whereas biscuits go soft!”), and another on the Manifold Valley. I am completely obsessed with the Peak District now. And feeling like a local. I want to eat England with a spoon.

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