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Okay, so a couple inches of snow fell overnight, but honestly, the roads aren’t that bad! I think bringing the tractor home and parking it in the driveway was a little dramatic. There are no HOAs to speak of in England, but the Brits are notoriously fussy about anything detracting from the visual beauty of their landscape, near or far. Neighbors complain if you don’t weed your flower beds, and rally to prevent brand new play parks from opening because the slide and jungle gym are too brightly colored and not in keeping with the muted tones of the village. A TV satellite dish can cause a row if the neighbor can see it from his conservatory (ask me how I know), cell phone towers rarely rise more than two stories lest they ruin a scenic vista (can you hear me now?), and you haven’t seen wrath until you’ve mentioned wanting to erect wind turbines in an empty field. So tell me, how is this guy getting away with parking an enormous John Deere in his driveway?  Maybe he’s on call to transport the homebound to and from the surgery (doctor’s office) next door…

In the past few weeks, I’ve seen foxes slinking around in broad daylight in several local fields, and the first thought that’s come into my head is, “I wonder if they have rabies.” Foxes are known for their skills as nocturnal hunters, and my perception of them as night creatures is reinforced any morning I drive to work and see a dead one on the side of the road that was not there the previous evening. But apparently it is not uncommon for foxes to be just as active during the day—guess the population is just denser here than I’m used to in Virginia, so I’m liable to see more. And besides, rabies has been eradicated from the United Kingdom’s animal population.

That doesn’t mean foxes are harmless, however, especially the 10,000 or so urban ones in England’s capital city.  Reminiscent of the infamous cry, “A dingo ate my baby,” a neighbor reported hearing a mum screaming, “A fox attacked my baby” just last week in the suburbs of London. A four-week old baby boy was reportedly snatched from his cot by a fox and dragged to the floor, where the infant’s mother kicked the animal until it dropped the baby’s tiny arm from its jaws and fled. For me, this story begs the question, how did the fox get into the house in the first place? The weather has been wet and cold for the past several weeks, so I wouldn’t think a conscientious mom would leave a window open in the baby’s room. (An window open to the summer—I use that term loosely—breeze was indeed the culprit in a June 2010 attack, in which nine-month old twin girls were mauled by another urban fox.) After much digging, I found one news agency that stated the fox had entered through a broken back door, and that the family has been rehoused by the council as a result. (Council housing is provided to low-income Britons, who often end up paying little or no rent thanks to a government Housing Benefit scheme, and with regards to upkeep and general aesthetic appeal, the properties generally fit your stereotypical image of low-income housing.) Happily, Baby Denny was moved from intensive care to a regular ward at the hospital today, where he continues to recover from last week’s four-hour surgery to suture lacerations on his face and arm and to reattach a severed finger on his left hand.

Experts say fox attacks are “incredibly rare,” but as more and more of the animals inch closer to humans and the easy food source of unprotected garbage cans, the likelihood of finding the cunning critters in one’s suburban home increase. Whether they are dragging last night’s chicken carcass out of the kitchen bin or hauling small children off to feed the kits waiting back at the den, it’s bound to be a nasty surprise. Just one more reason the Brits should consider adopting the American practice of putting screens on their windows!

(To the tune of “I Fought the Law” by The Bobby Fuller Four)

Printin’ pages for my lesson
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I need to hurry, ‘cause it’s time t’ run
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won

I lost my footing and it feels so bad
I guess of grace, I’ve none
Well, it’s the worst fall that I ever had
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won

I got a big bruise and it looks so bad
I guess I’m blessed it’s one
Well, it’s the worst mouse I’ve ever had
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won

(Instrumental Break)

Throbbin’ muscles sure are no fun
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won

I’m now just sittin’ on my good bun
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won

I know I’m klutzy and I feel so mad
I guess this tale is done
But won’t be the last, I’m sad to add
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won

Don’t tell me I can’t, because I can.
Don’t tell me I am unrealistic, because I believe anything is possible.
Don’t tell me I shouldn’t, because I need to learn from my own experience.
Don’t tell me I am a failure, because I grow more determined by not succeeding.
Don’t tell me I can’t, because I will.

I don’t know what you call the female version of the man-cave, but in my house it will look something like this. One whole wall will be dedicated to a lattice of floor-to-ceiling bins stuffed with skeins of yarn in every color, texture, and weight imaginable. Even if I never get around to crocheting it all into afghans, throws, scarves, or socks, the yarn itself will be art, a kind of woolly 3-D wallpaper that will embrace me as soon as I enter the room.

Opposite the yarn, an old pine farm table will be shoved up against the wall below a wide leaded glass window. I could go for an easy-to-clean, tilt-in double-hung sash window, but I love the pattern of elongated hexagons balanced between tipped up squares. The morning light will spill through the beveled panes and tickle the yarn wall, teasing out colors that can’t be seen in the artificial glare of CFL in the ceiling fixture.  The honey-colored pine table is solid, the pegged joints of the understructure showing no signs of loosening despite its age. It’s been well-used, some might say abused, during its long life, the top a motif of dings and water rings, one of its legs a victim of some mischievous terrier. Next to the paperback with the feather sticking out to mark my place, I’ll have an electric kettle and my favorite mug on one of my mom’s quilted placemats, because I do love a spot of tea. There will be a couple of baskets on the table, catching pens, sticky notes, crochet hooks, and any little items that have found their way into the room but don’t have a proper home.

Connecting the yarn and window walls will be built-in cases filled with my favorite books. Some will be pattern books so I can justify the need for all that yarn, several will be antique leather-bound classics that make me look well-read but are, in fact, just for decoration, and the rest will be books I’ve read and loved or have collected in anticipation of loving. A couple of framed family photos will peek out between the spines, and knick-knacks will perch along the shelves—beach rocks, glass insulators, and an army of turtles.

There will be a fireplace near the door on the last wall, into which I can toss a three-hour fire log on a gloomy day to ward off the chill. On the hand-hewn oak beam that serves as a mantle, the faithful tick-tock of the clock will be the heartbeat of the room, a constant, comforting companion. The hardwood floor in front of the fire will be covered by a rag rug, which cushions the runners of my wooden rocking chair. My greyhound and my cat love to curl up together on the rug, their sleepy eyes tracking my movements as I put the kettle on and exchange a half-finished afghan in favor of a half-finished novel.

This room will be my haven, far from the responsibilities in the kitchen and laundry room, the siren call of the television in the living room, or the accusatory glare of the blank computer screen in the office. Visitors will be welcome, as long as they check all foul moods, harsh words, unkind thoughts, and argumentative inclinations at the door. In this room, I’ll be channeling Jason Mraz: peace in my mind, peace in my heart, peace in my soul.

If you are on the Atkins Diet, England is not the place for you. It is my theory that dreary weather drives people to crave carbohydrates, and I blame the fact that 2012 was the wettest (i.e. greyest and gloomiest) year on record for the fact that I am now participating in the gym’s “Biggest Loser” weight loss challenge. The Brits do comfort food really well—porridge, crumpets, bacon baps, pasties, jacket potatoes with all kinds of toppings, chips (big, fat hand-cut French fries—the ones made from Maris Piper potatoes are the best), mac and cheese (with a side of chips), and oh, yes, pies (think potpie, not apple pie–with a side of chips).

You haven’t had a British pie until you’ve been to Puddingface at the Crown & Tuns in Deddington. The pies are huge and homemade, so the selection changes daily based on what’s available from the local suppliers. The menu is listed on a chalkboard near the bar, and it’s often difficult to choose just one from the range of ten to fifteen pies. Is it a sausage and bacon kind of night, or perhaps turkey with sage stuffing, or traditional English steak and kidney (uh, no thanks)? The chef will happily cater to vegetarians, but Atkins dieters should just stay home—there’s really no lesser of two evils when you have to choose between short crust or puff pastry. Carbophobics also have to make a dreadful decision on side dishes between a basket of chips or a crock of mashed potatoes.

Tonight I ate a “chicken and mushroom with white wine, double cream, and parsley” pie, and I finished every last flaky crumb. I also managed at least one potato’s worth of chips, with malt vinegar, and topped it all off with a couple chunks of carrots and parsnips, because people on a diet are supposed to eat vegetables. I didn’t have the warm chocolate fudge cake with ice cream, not because I wasn’t tempted, but because there was just no…more…room. The button on my fat jeans is straining, so I’m sure I’ve just undone all the progress I’d made at last week’s weigh in, but my days here in England are numbered, and sometimes you’ve just got to say, “Calories be damned, carpe pie!”

A long time ago, I told Jim I’d happily live anywhere with him, even if it was in a cardboard box on a street corner. What I was trying to say is that he is my home, and the shelter in which we actually reside just doesn’t matter so long as he’s with me. While I still mean every word of that sentiment, I look at these gypsy wagons and think that a life moving constantly from place to place in a horse-drawn wooden barrel might not be so good for our relationship. I am fairly adaptable to most situations and would love the opportunity to see the countryside at such a relaxed pace, but I tend to get cranky when I’m cold or if I have to go more than about 24 hours without a hot shower.

Travellers can refer to either of two nomadic ethnic minority groups legally recognized by the British government–Romani Gypsies or Irish Travellers. There are no reliable statistics for the number of Travellers in the UK, but based on a 2006 census of local caravan counts, the government estimates the population at about 300,000. The Gypsies have been living in the UK since the 1500s, and their origins have been traced to India (hence the famous dark complexions in gypsy stories).  On the other hand, Irish Travellers came to England from Ireland in the 1800s to escape the potato famine. Both groups have a history of self-employment, and moving from place to place in order to find work. Today, the traditional horse-drawn wagons have been replaced in many cases by SUV-towed campers with more modern conveniences, but the idea is the same. Many Travellers are not on the go year-round…there are semi-permanent Traveller communities all around the country, some sanctioned by the local councils and some illegally established which causes bad blood between the Travellers and the locals. Often, the mother and children will stay in one place while the father travels to find work, yet Traveller children have the poorest school attendance records of any ethnic minority group in the UK. Travellers inspire a mixture of curiosity, fear, romance, and hatred among “settled people,” as their history, culture, and lifestyle are often misunderstood; in fact, Travellers are often the target of prejudice that no other ethnic or racial group would tolerate (try substituting “blacks” or “Mexicans” instead of “travellers” in this actual news headline: “Winning the war against travellers”). Jake Bowers, one of Britain’s only Romani journalists, has written an online learning guide that explores the facts and debunks the myths about this interesting sector of British society.