My love affair with all things British

Much as I am embarrassed to admit it, I read one of the British tabloids on occasion. Okay, every day. Online. Some of the stories are appalling. Disgusting, disheartening or just plain sensationalistic. And sometimes badly edited. For the most part, though, it's just funny and harmless. Unless you're one of the celebs being skewered or embarrassed. There are unflattering stories about "unrecognizable" celebrities, photographed after a bad night or without makeup.  It begs the question, though: If  they're really "unrecognizable", how did the photographers know to snap the shot?  Still, it's my guilty pleasure, this rag. And it's not a complete waste of time;  the knowledge I've gleaned from my daily glance actually came in handy at a recent trivia night; I was one of the only non-Brits to recognize Lord Sugar and Peaches Geldof in the food-related name photo round.

This indulgence keeps me up to date with my British celebrities, too. I've become quite a fan of British TV. It started with our trip to the UK in 2005. We went in December and as the days were short and we packed a lot of sightseeing and activity into the 7 hours of daylight, we spent many of evenings curled up on the bed watching TV. Space Cadets. The show, not us. Christmas specials. BBC shows. When we got back to Canada, the CBC started broadcasting the new Doctor Who series and we were hooked.  Then it was Little Britain, Catherine Tate, Torchwood, The Thick of It, The Hour, QI, and Jonathan Creek.  We went into the back catalogues for Red Dwarf, The League of Gentlemen, Blackadder, Jeeves and Wooster, and French and Saunders. Then there was Miranda and Mistresses (Bill wasn't on board for those last two at all).  Hamlet with David Tennant. And, last but not least, Downton Abbey.

As a result of this Brit binge, my speech has become embarrassingly, and quite accidentally, dotted with British-isms like: "If I'm honest" and "at the weekend" and "in hospital" and "as such". Instead of: "To be honest/to tell the truth" and "on the weekend" and "in the hospital" and....well, I don't know what the equivalent of that last one would be.

My friend Karen and I even went on a spur of the moment "mini-break" to London in November 2011.  It was one of those perfect, magical moments in time. We met up with my friend from Hastings and shopped in Bloomsbury and visited Persephone, the wonderful bookstore on Lamb's Conduit. We went to Fortnum and Mason for tea and then tested hand lotions at Molton Brown on Regent Street. We visited Liberty, where Karen bought a gorgeous print. We walked and talked and laughed in the chilly autumn air and truly enjoyed every minute.

But it was actually over thirty years ago that I first visited the UK.  1978, with my parents and brother.  We stayed at the Royal Lancaster hotel at Lancaster Gate, where, by coincidence, the Faberge World Trade Show was being held.  It was the era of Farrah Fawcett and Farrah Fawcett shampoo. And Cary Grant was the honorary chairman of Faberge International. Being a chatty, friendly little girl, I made friends with the head of Faberge UK somehow and subsequently was introduced to Cary Grant. And got his autograph. Didn't really know who he was at the time, just that he was famous, but my mom was understandably thrilled. Cary Grant was white-haired and wearing black-framed glasses at that time.  When told that we were from Victoria, he joked "That's not their fault, Gerry". Oh, stop it, Cary; you are outrageous! Later on, when my parents were out on the town and my brother and I were heading back up to the room after eating dinner at the hotel restaurant, Cary Grant got on the elevator with us.  He remarked to us, "I've really got to take a leak".  Or something very similar to that. Now that I'm writing this, I realize how odd that was. I kind of wish he'd said something dashing and clever, not something so "human".

I got two autographs from Farrah.  Well, actually, Gerry, the Faberge executive got one for me and I got one myself, intercepting Farrah as she breezed out of the tradeshow and into the hotel lobby. Notice how she incorporated the year into the end of her name. When I got home, I gave one to my classmate and friend, Chuck Bell. He loved Farrah. Not unusual for a 13-year old boy in 1978.

Farrah and Gerry and Cary were not my only brushes with Faberge-related celebrities, but more on that later. Hint:  theres a Hemingway involved. Seriously, my six degrees of separation pedigree is pretty damn solid.

I dream about moving to England and drinking tea and being completely surrounded by the loveliness of all things British. All the good stuff, I mean, like the museums and the castles, the gorgeous store windows, the history, the stripy scarves, the ubiquitous curry shops, and the British wit. And the chocolate and the biscuits. And the pudding hotel in the Cotswolds  Not the class system or the social problems, though.  Or the asbos and the high cost of living.

I suppose I'm lucky. I grew up in Canada's "most English city": Victoria. Lots of Brits and British-ness there. Many of the older generation settled in Victoria from Scotland and England, including my Granny Vickers. Victoria had double-decker buses, the Tudor Sweet Shop, Craigdarroch Castle (where I took piano lessons in the basement), the cricket pitch at Beacon Hill Park and many, many tea rooms. My grade 12 graduation dress was inspired by Princess Diana:  royal blue, taffeta, ruffled and accessorized with replicas of her engagement ring and matching earrings.  My "rebellious" teen years saw me hanging out at the Blethering Place tea room, drinking tea and eating scones after school with my friends.  Really. It didn't even seem weird at the time. So, I come by my anglophile nature honestly, I suppose.

I'd better stop writing now.
I'm off to bedfordshire.
Okay, I'm going to bed.