Oh yes, my new favourite unabashedly liberal satirical news show is on the BBC again. I’m not exaggerating when I say that this is the only way I can cope with watching video footage of the sitting American president. Or watch commentary on the current status of Brexit negotiations.

Top moments so far:

( Transcription, so spoilers )

AND FINALLY, and outside the cut because I really want everyone to watch this, from Episode One, Catherine Bohart: “As an immigrant in Britain*, sometimes it’s not enough to merely contribute to the economy or prop up the NHS. It’s also your job to make British people feel more comfortable with your existence. So, here’s my handy guide to Being the Kind of Immigrant British People Don’t Mind So Much.” (Seriously, y’all, watch the rest of her Handy Guide. I was crying with laughter. And also crying.)

* She’s Irish

[Screenshot of a rainbow around a Pokéstop at Parkrun.]

I wish to shoehorn in this screenshot from our Pokéhunt at our (not so) local Parkrun, so a brief Pokégo progress update:

• I finally caught a Shuckle! Sadly, it is not a good one, but I will walk it as soon as I've got enough candies to evolve Quilava as I don't have much faith that I'll ever see another.
• I'm Level 35 and slightly-more-than-a-half. It feels like progress has been happening more rapidly over the past month. I'm guessing this is at least partly due to the Friending process. I mean, if you pop a Lucky Egg just before becoming Ultra Friends with someone, you get 100,000 XP for the pleasure. That's not to be sneezed at.
  
• I love that Pokéfriends make an effort to send me geeky Pokégifts. Thank you. I try to reciprocate with gifts I know people will like.
  
• My only regret with my Pokéfriends is that I'm never physically close enough to anyone to trade.
  
• I have solo-raided with the children. Somehow it's more fun with them? They like battling in the gyms way more than I do. It's very cute. Keiki: "Can I foyght?***"

I have impending end of holiday lethargy. There are dozens of things I should do before I go back to work, but mustering up the will to do them is a herculean effort. I've just about managed bashing down the laundry Everest to a mere foothill, rearranging the wardrobe, essential shopping for the children, non-essential shopping for the children, and (with the bloke) figuring out what to do with the gigantic crop of courgettes which flourished during two weeks of neglect. So far, lentil & courgette dal in the slow cooker has been achieved. Tomorrow I'll make zucchini bread*, and courgette and potato soup to put in the freezer. I can probably fling the overgrown runner beans into that as well.

We got the car thoroughly cleaned. I had washed the children's car seat covers** after the mountain pass puke-a-thon but the full sparkle-shine service made it feel like even the faintest trace of vom had been banished.

In practical terms I'm fairly sure we're ready to go back to the usual routine. I can't shake the feeling that as soon as I go back to work, I'm going to be able to magically prioritise all the other things I should have taken care of whilst I was off, except I won't have time to do them.

* I still can't bring myself to call it "courgette bread". It just doesn't sound right.
** By hand because Center Parcs lodges don't have washing machines; all hail the cleaning power of Daz.
*** This is my attempt at phonetically spelling the Midlands pronunciation of "fight", which somehow has an "o" in it.

Okay, so getting here was not exactly the dream journey from camping to luxury Center Parcs lodge we were hoping for. We did encounter some shockingly delicious waffles at a hipster cafe in Windermere. That is the first time in ages that I've had crispy streaky bacon drenched in maple syrup. It is just not a thing in this country. Keiki only wanted some of the waffles, not the bacon, so I happily hoovered up all three slices.

Unfortunately, the waffles came back to revisit us about an hour down the twisty winding mountain roads. ( TMI for vom )

Anyway, we got here, and fortunately one of the lovely things about Center Parcs is that before you check into your accommodation, you can use the massive swimming complex. So we got out, walked up to the changing rooms, showered very thoroughly and enjoyed splashing around in the pools until we could get to our lodge. Once we were allowed in, we bunged in all our stuff, put the groceries in the fridge, and headed out to go bowling.

Now the kids are down, a fire is blazing, Barry is on the stereo, and I gotta go. <3

A couple of weeks ago, I took my usual bus on my usual way back to my usual Place of Sleep in London. As usual, I was busily spinning Pokéstops and occasionally popping a ‘mon into a gym as we pootled slowly through the traffic.

As we passed a couple of friendly gyms, I noticed that someone else, someone whose handle I recognised from almost two years of playing along the same route, was simultaneously adding their Pokémon to defend them. And I thought to myself, this person is on the bus with me.

There were only twelve people left on the single-decker bus. Fortunately, I had chosen a seat which gave me a good view of the exit doors, and I snuck peeks at people’s phones as they disembarked at the remaining stops. No dice.

Until we got to the terminus, which is where I disembark. Four people were left on the bus. I pretended to be hunting around for something in my bag so that everyone else would have got up by the time the bus stopped. It paid off. I surreptitiously scanned phone screens and the unmistakable PokéGo map jumped out at me from the hand of a middle-aged blonde woman, whom I was tickled to discover looked nothing like her in-game avatar.

Now, friends. What do you think I did? Did I bounce up to her in cheerful American fashion, introduce myself and reveal my shared love for the game? Or did I, in the fashion of my adopted country, almost work up the courage to squeak a timid hello in the hopes that she wouldn’t quite hear me and then scuttle off to the nearest friendly gym to pop in another ‘mon before I dashed to Place of Sleep?

Yesterday I ran a meeting all day, which was productive but not the best way to celebrate Thanksgiving.

But then! Then, I went to have kamayan (Filipino feast) at a restaurant in Earl's Court, as organised by kake. Also in attendance were owlfish and tiny baby aka Tonic, oursin, kaberett and someone whose Dreamwidth handle I don't know, if they have one. All A+ company, would nomnomnom with again.

We had kamayan, which included lechon, chicken adobo, bangus and pinakbet, served on a bed of rice and with corn on the cob on top. The veggie among us had the tortang talong (aubergine omelette), which I didn't try but am assured was delicious. For the meat-eaters, the fish and the pork were definitely the winning entrees.


The feast laid out on the table. Kamayan is eaten with the hands, hence the lack of utensils.

Many sighs of contentment were uttered amidst the conversation.

And then, joy of joys, afterward there was halo halo with ube ice cream.


Halo halo topped with ube ice cream, leche flan (caramel custard) and purple twirl. Also note dueling dessert photos. The nice thing about this is that we then we get to eat our desserts. Everyone wins! \o/

I think this might be the best way to celebrate Thanksgiving outside of the USA that I've tried so far. Many thanks to kake for this. Also to Tonic, for being a tiny baby at whom I could gaze adoringly across the table.

And now, my friends, the 15-year LJ-versary celebrations continue, with the flip side: The Five Best Things About Being an Immigrant.

5. You get to act as sole representative of your entire country

If you’re thinking, oh hang on though, don’t worry, this isn’t going to be a pattern for the entire list.

I have discovered, after many years of developing thick enough skin to see this as an opportunity to get a little of my own back, how to turn people’s perceptions to my own advantage. For instance, if I tell an English person I’m from Hawai’i, there is a 35% chance they don’t realise that Hawai’i is part of the United States. I’m not kidding. Americans have a reputation for being bad at geography, and deservedly so. But even though the current US President is from Hawai’i, there are a lot of people who think, “fabulous foreign holiday destination!” and don’t connect it to the USA. So they get to tell me, “I thought you looked exotic/Polynesian/etc” and then squee to me about beaches and honeymoons, and I sit there smiling and imagining what I could get away with telling them now that they have literally no idea that I’m American. I don’t do it, but it is fun to think about.

Assuming, however, that they do recognise I’m American, I can get into conversations about their perceptions of the USA. 90% of the time, if they’ve been there, it’s to New York or Florida. Their memories of those holidays are almost overwhelmingly positive. If the conversation is long enough, I sometimes have the opportunity to point out gently that prejudices about Americans don’t correlate well with their actual experiences of the people or the country. Or, more subtly, by sharing my love of England and travels in Europe, I can in a small way help to combat the assumption that all Americans are nationalistic xenophobes who believe blindly in the superiority of their way of life.

4. Your relationships with natives are hard-earned and incredibly precious

As you no longer have local friends with whom you’ve grown up, gone to school, worked, played sport with or otherwise spent leisure time with, you are starting from the beginning with everyone you meet. You have to build on the shared experiences you generate from the moment of your arrival. You also have to be conscious that the cues you’ve used in the past to pass judgement on, for instance, how welcome you are in a gathering or how worthy a person is of your confidence and affection, might need re-calibration for your new culture. And of course, the usual general social rules surrounding not being too clingy or emotionally demanding of your nascent circle of acquaintances still apply, at a time when you’re probably feeling intensely lonely. So you tiptoe cautiously around, hopefully reaching out to people, sometimes being rebuffed or ignored and trying not to take it to heart. Eventually your weekends are booked up and you have people you can ask to the pub or the theatre or the cinema without hesitation. Or who might even desire your company enough to invite you along. Perhaps you won’t recognise that you’ve made friends until you start to be able to choose to be alone if you want to be, rather than having solitude be your default state.

I can still very clearly remember the first time that I realised I had actually succeeded in acquiring a group of trustworthy, kind, generous British friends whose company was richly rewarding. I’m not going to write about it in a public post, but suffice it to say that it reduced me to tears.

3. Your resilience and adaptability are strengthened beyond what you thought possible

It’s commonly believed that among the most stressful occurrences in adult life are moving house, changing jobs, ending relationships and having children. Immigrating lets you inflict the first two of those on yourself simultaneously whilst putting tremendous pressure on your relationships. (It doesn’t force you to have children, thank goodness.) And - assuming you’re not a refugee or victim of forced migration - you’ve volunteered for it. On the positive side, you have time to prepare as much as possible in a physical sense. If you’re moving at the behest of your employer, you likely have financial and practical relocation support. Once you’ve arrived in your new home, though, you’re largely on your own. You have to forge a way forward into the vast unfamiliarity that stretches around you on all sides. So you do it, every day. You wake up and the wave of uncertainty and panic and isolation crashes over you, but you shower and dress and you make yourself go outside into that unknown territory full of worryingly unknowable people. With the right combination of determination and luck, eventually you win yourself a measure of comfort and a sense of community.

The most difficult test of my own resilience and adaptability with respect to the decision to immigrate permanently is ongoing. Every day that passes is another day in which my children are immersed in my adopted, not native, culture. I am hopeful that the environment that my partner and I have created for them is a rich and diverse place, and that they will be able to pick and choose elements of their nationalities and associated cultures that make them kind and happy people. But only time will tell.

2. You get to redefine yourself

As you learn about your adopted culture, you can embrace the elements that you enjoy, from tiny things like putting milk in your tea and going to the pub after work (without setting off a slew of concern trolling about what must be incipient alcoholism), to big ones, like believing in the ultimate good of a socialised health care system. You can revel in the pleasure of throwing off the oppressive shackles of your native culture and past experience. You can carve out a new identity, one which integrates the desirable remnants of your old self with the traits and behaviours you admire in your new culture and are trying to emulate. While striving to understand those around you, you are becoming more accepting of yourself.

Before this descends into a morass of woo (maybe it's too late...): you also get to smoothly and relatively painlessly sever communication with those irritating acquaintances and relatives whom you could never shake off when you lived thousands of miles closer, as part of this redefinition. I’m definitely not advocating immigration as a first-choice method for selective bridge-burning, but there is a certain petty satisfaction in it being an inevitable side effect.

1. You are living your dream

I must caveat this as well: it does not apply to refugees and victims of forced migration. However, for those of us who have always wanted to live in our adopted countries, it is a hard-won accomplishment and an honour and a pleasure to be admitted into it. You have achieved a thing: immigration. It was a difficult and painful thing as well as a joyous and a valuable thing. You made a dream into your reality.

Last week* on my London evening I went to BBC Broadcasting House with one of my work colleagues, because I had tickets to a recording of The Museum of Curiosity. The idea behind this radio show is that three eminent guests donate exhibits to the imaginary museum after being interviewed by host John Lloyd and the curator. The curator position rotates between comedians. At the time of this recording, it was Noel Fielding. Phil Jupitus and Sarah Millican have previously curated. The guests on this occasion were another comedian, a composer and an architect.

The show seems to make an effort to have at least one woman as an eminent guest, which is rather nice. Unfortunately, I found the one female guest - the architect - actively cringe-making.

She was the last one of the three guests to be interviewed. It turned out that she had originally trained as a medic and practised for a short while as a GP. Then she went to India to spend a month in a leper** colony on an island, and it was there that she determined that she needed to completely change her career and become an "experimental architect". So she could revolutionise the way Western people live, because all our buildings are "dead" and we're locked into worship of machines and we need to learn from people who can make amazing things out of sticks and shit because they've got nothing else, or something. I don't know. Anyway, she actually didn't say the words, "Desperately poor and ill brown people are, like, so inspiring." Make no mistake, though, that was exactly what she meant. I didn't stand up and scream your racism is unintentional but it is not benign, but believe me, it took every ounce of my strength not to. Instead, I withheld my applause when she concluded. I also left a sardonic review of the event in the survey I was e-mailed after the recording, mentioning that they might want to make an effort to vett their guests for offensively colonial 19th century views.

Sometimes I think I've assimilated into British culture a bit too well.

* I've been wanting to post about this since that evening but every time I sat down to do it, nothing but a stream of incoherent rage would come out. So please don't make the mistake of thinking that, because the tone in this is pretty level, that I'm not still very bloody angry about it.
** I did glean some small amusement when one of the other guests - the composer - gently rebuked her afterward for referring to it as leprosy instead of Hansen's disease.

My friend Holly (cosmolinguist) is writing a book about being an immigrant. Like me, Holly has lived in the UK for many years as an immigrant and has written poignant posts on the subject, as can be seen the foreignness tag on her DW. She has a gift for voicing thoughts for which I often struggle to find the words.

The Kickstarter for her book, Duel for Citizenship, has just 12 hours left. It can be found here. Most levels of support include a copy of the book as an incentive. If you can support her project, which I see as a vital response to the clamour of toxic and xenophobic anti-immigrant/refugee rhetoric currently dominating the public narrative, I would appreciate it too.

Today's Unscientific Poll was prompted by the realisation that after all these years in Britain, I still (not-so-)secretly prefer thin, crispy, streaky bacon to the thick-cut back bacon that gets served with a full English.

On Martin Luther King day (yesterday)

Me: “My work inbox is quiet today. You can tell it's MLK day in the States.”
Him: “Who's he?”
Me, after a long pause: “This is like that time you got me to explain bukkake to you, isn't it.”

At the dinner table. We are having an assortment of leftovers. I have also cooked the remainder of a packet of streaky bacon.
Keiki, pointing: “Mmm! Mmmm! Mmm!”
Me: “What? Mashed potatoes?...No. Pasta?...No. Beans?...No. Oh, but you've never had bacon before. Are you sure?”
Keiki: “MMMMMM!”
Me: “Okay, okay!”
(He ate two slices.)

In Norfolk

Humuhumu, laughing (age 3): “Bum Bum!”
Cousin, laughing (age 4): “Bum Bum!”
Adults: “Stop that! It's not nice to call people bum bum.”
There is a pause.
Humuhumu: “Cousin! Let's go upstairs so we can say it and they can't hear us.”

At home, a couple of weeks later.
Humuhumu: “Mummy, it's not nice to call people poo poo, is it.”
Me: “No.”
Humuhumu: “Or bum bum.”
Me: “No.”
Humuhumu: “You're not a poo poo or a bum bum.”
Me, gravely: “Thank you.”
Humuhumu: “You're a silly billy.”