I've been feeling a little inattentive to my poor blog recently - mainly because I've been so busy in the past few weeks. Far from a life filled with idle contemplation - of the view from the window, the many channels of our new TV or simply the rest of the bed, I have, in fact, become inundated with daily tasks. Since arriving here, I have:

1) Started teaching a class in journalism at Kansas University

2) Started taking two classes myself, in Feminist Political Theory (scary) and Non-Fiction Writing (wonderful)

3) Joined a choir, the Kansas City Chorale

4) Joined a gym and started taking yoga classes

5) Started skiing regularly at Snow Creek, a small and hilarious 'resort' close to here

6) Hosted my first dinner party - and made pastry by hand.

On Wednesday, I start quilting classes.

So, plenty of food for writing - but so little time to write. Terrible excuse. I will do better. I also notice that my critical edge seems to be softening. Perhaps, dare I say it, I am becoming acclimatised to the American way of life? I've noticed it no longer frustrates me so much to drive at the cripplingly slow speed of 35mph, for example. Horrors. I need to discover my inner bitch again, immediately. Perhaps quilting class will help. I'll keep you posted.

I'm beginning to get seriously annoyed about something: specifically the packing of my groceries in the supermarket.
Granted, they do it for you here, which makes a nice change from wrestling with your wallet while trying to squeeze everything in to the least number of bags possible to carry home, all the time conscious of the beady-eyed woman behind you in the queue with the mountain of family pack-sized shopping and three squealing children.
But oh, the waste. Everything is double bagged - but everything, even if it's just the lightest of items. Today I was handed a double-bagged portion of kale. That was it - two bunches of kale in two plastic shopping bags, one inside the other. Another double bag held a single frozen pizza. And so on.
It's symptomatic of the general waste to be found almost everywhere in America - the fuel-guzzling cars that do 12 miles to the gallon, the endless packaging on everything you buy, the enormous plates of food to be found in every restaurant. It is the least 'green' place I have ever lived: you can even still buy tungsten bulbs.
Admittedly the vastness of the U.S makes you feel that perhaps it doesn't matter quite so much, this squandering of natural resources. It's hard to worry about your fuel consumption when the nearest shop is a 15-minute drive away, or bother that you're not painstakingly recycling everything when your garage comes equipped with three huge wheelie bins to bung everything in.
But surely that's why America is such a culprit as a nation, when it comes to making commitments to living a little more lightly on the earth? It's very easy to forget the damage we do, when the world around you seems so vast that you are little more than an insignificant ant crawling around on its surface. I know I leave lights on with more impunity here, turn the heating up higher (it is bloody cold after all) and don't feel the least bit guilty about jumping in the car at every opportunity - there's no public transport so basically no other way of getting around, other than walking, which is impractical on such a large scale, or cycling, which again, would take an age. But I do demand fewer bags in the supermarket - that, I will take a stand on.

This morning, I went to a gym class. "Morning stretch and tone", the blurb promised. It started at 7.30. Envisaging a group of dynamic, thrusting young things eager to get their daily exercise in before starting work, I hauled myself out of bed.

Oh what a shock I had. Instead of a group of twenty and thirtysomethings, I encountered a motley crew of what can only be described as Silver Surfers. Had I inadvertently missed something? Apparently not. The work people go to work earlier - 7.30 is far too late for them.

So I was left to the ministrations of Tina, the instructor. Again, something of a disappointment. Not a stretchy, life, inspirational being in figure-hugging lycra, but a middle aged woman with one of the largest arses this side of the Missouri. Into the CD player went one of the least energising CDs I have ever had the misfortune to listen to and off we went - on the dullest routine known to man. Excuse the superlatives but it really was that bad. Clearly if I want a pumping gym class, I'm going to have to get up an hour earlier.

Last night, our doorbell rang. I was sitting at my desk and couldn't see who was there. My first thought was 'Jehovah's Witnesses'. But no, this is America. It was our next door neighbours, come to say 'Howdy' and bring us a plate of home-baked goodies (disgusting, utterly sugar laden, but strangely addictive).
"Are you Australian?" they politely enquired. Clearly, in this part of the U.S., anyone else who speaks English must be antipodean. They were anxious to assure us of their neighbourly support in any matter. They have tools, they have cats, they have maps and local knowledge. Maybe next time I won't be so reluctant to answer the doorbell when I don't know who's there. Oh boy, I really am a long way from London.

Positive thinking: good or bad?

A very interesting article in a recent edition of The Times here. Barbara Ehrenreich is an American who has just brought out a new book on what she terms the 'cult' of positive thinking. Diagnosed with cancer, Ehrenreich was bombarded with messages of 'positivity', urging her to envisage herself not as a victim but as a survivor, which sparked off a train of events that let to her writing the book - something of a counterbalance to say the least.
Have I encountered a cult of positive thinking since arriving here? Possibly not to its fullest effect yet. But the theory makes sense - it ties in with the get ahead, do it yourself mentality that seems to be the prevailing mood of most Americans. The Major has been prescribed a book to read, called American Ways. In it, the author discusses this attitude held by many Americans, that our destiny is entirely in our hands, and nothing to do with economic or sociological situations or backgrounds. A good way to live? Yes, to some extent - but it can go too far. Yesterday the Major took a tour around Kansas City with a group of colleagues. They were shown by their guide an area which had been at the bottom of the food chain, economy wise - until local authorities decided to raze it to the ground and build a brand spanking new shopping centre on the site. Their tour guide apparently then started something of a diatribe against poor blacks in America: that they have no-one to blame but themselves, that they are lazy, wanting to rely on a welfare state that doesn't exist.
Sure, people should take responsbility for themselves. But the fact remains that some people are born with more disadvantages than others: whether it's because their parents are poor, they live in a socially deprived area, or one where the local schools aren't so good. As Ehrenreich is quoted as saying in the article, when discussing an Oprah Winfrey show: "she [Oprah] made some comment on the show about how it was all just a matter of attitude whether you get ahead in life and I just said, ‘No! I think that’s victim-blaming’.”
"Isn’t Winfrey, the prototype self-made woman, entitled to hold such an attitude?," the article asks. “I think it’s the most wonderfully selfflattering thing to believe, if you are rich and famous and successful, that ‘I did it. I did it all by myself, through my own essence.’" replies Ehrenreich. "I can imagine it would be a good thing to feel. We don’t as Americans tend to acknowledge interdependency. The debt you owe your parents, free public education and so on. It’s all ‘me’.”

Possibly all a bit full-on for a Thursday afternoon. But having just started teaching an undergarduate class in journalism at the University of Kansas, it will be interesting to see to what extent my students feel that their destiny is in their hands, and how much of it they owe to others around them. Once more, I'll keep you posted.

Today I really felt as if I was in a foreign country. And it all came about because of a trip to the post office.
Granted, visiting the post office in England can feel a bit foreign at times. Fine if you're going to buy brown paper, or string, or any of the myriad of small but useful things they sell. A nightmare if you're trying to work out whether to send your parcel special delivery, registered post, next day express - ad infinitum.
And so it is here. I had a number of things I wanted to do, from posting some thank you letters to sending documentation informing the Inland Revenue I had moved abroad. I dithered for ages by the rack containing different sized envelopes, typed with different things. The handy chart on the wall was no help at all - it might as well have been written in Icelandic.
"Excuse me, but could you tell me which of these envelopes is cheaper to send?"
The man looked at me as if I was a freak. "There's no difference at all," he said, before hurrying away from this mad Englishwoman who clearly couldn't even read.
Finally, I managed to select the right envelope. Then there were forms to fill in, my name to write over and over again and finally, money to pay - lots of it. Counting out the quarters and dimes, squinting at the writing on the coins, I couldn't have felt more foreign if I'd tried. Truly, I am in a different place.

In America, as in Britain, when something electrical breaks down one has to spend inerminable hours on the phone, listening to pre-recorded messages, pressing various random buttons and finally, maybe, managing to get through to someone who inevtably will not be able to help you.
Out here, it is common to buy packages for your TV, phone and internet from one provider. Only one number to call, yes, but when one thing breaks down, chances are the other two will as well.
The cable box that sits under our brand new, shiny TV, has been on the blink for days. Today, I finally got round to calling the company. Cue interminable button pressing. Only in America, it turns out there are different issues at stake.
1) When you finally get through to them, they can't understand your accent. Which means you have to speak V-E-R-Y S-L-O-W-L-Y. Which makes the whole phone call take twice as long.
2) Whereas in England you're likely to be speaking to someone either based in India, or in the darker reaches of outer Birmingham, here you do at least get to speak to an American. Although this means the whole conversation has that added spice of American positivity. So even though you are patently not having a good day, because your TV has stopped working and so you can't watch the re-run of Dallas on channel 305 that you had been so excited about, you have to put up with all the false cheer and bonhomie.
3) Americans are not very good with silence, which means that despite the fact that there are lengthy pauses in the conversation, where you wait for the result of the unplugging and re-plugging scenario to kick in, they feel they have to fill them. "Why do you keep say 'Okay'?" I asked the woman on the end of the phone, after she had made the utterance for about the fifth time. She muttered something about wanting to know what was happening. What's wrong with waiting for me to tell you?
On the positive side, I now have a specific appointment where someone will turn up to fix my TV, on Friday, between 11am and 2pm. What's more, they will call to tell me when they're on their way. Beats sitting at home from 7am to 7pm, as some British companies expect you to do. Just means I'll have to put off my channel 305 watching for a few more days. Sigh.

I'm now blogging on a regular basis for The Lady magazine - England's first and finest weekly. Check out their website here.

If ever I was inclined to follow in the footsteps of Desperate Housewives' Gabrielle and have myself an affair with a sexy young gardener, today was probably my opportunity (albeit with an electrician, rather than a man of the soil - cue electric/sparks flying etc etc jokes). What's more, my electricians came as a pair, which meant I could have chosen between Luke (younger, clean shaven) or Lance (bearded, intense in a curiously sexy sort of way). Naturally I am desperately in love with the Major, which means I am not going to translate the antics of Wisteria Lane into my own life, but it is strange how a TV show which I never even really watched seems to so spookily parallel my new life (or at least it surroundings). Let's point out the similarities:
- Cast: 5 women, plus a narrator. Well I'd be the narrator, natch, and am sure I could pull together a motley crew of women complete with attendent neuroses, no problem. It's only a matter of time.
- Setting: suburban bliss in small town America, complete with white picket fences and chocolate-box houses. If you came to my new home, you'd be doing a double take. OK, so there are marginally fewer picket fences (they don't really go into enclosing their land round here), but my neighbourhood is like a Barratt Homes executive director's wet dream.
- Themes: suicide, floundering marriages, sexual infidelity. Well I can't say I'm experiencing any of the above myself as yet, but it's only a matter of time before I discover other people who are.
Erm - that's about it really. Perhaps not as identical as I'd first thought, bar the suburban setting. I'll keep you posted on the rest.

Sitting at the kitchen table, in slob clothes, drinking tea, checking emails...and listening to the Today programme via the web. I MISS John Humphreys. It's just not the same faking it in America.

The day we nearly bought a cop car

One of the great things about living over here is BBC America, ergo unlimited access to Top Gear - and not just the ones you don't want to watch, but the ones where Jeremy Clarkson et al have a laugh at the expense of the Yanks.

Anyway, to cut a long (and drawn out story concerning one particular episode of Top Gear involving the team buying cars for less than $1000 each), we discovered that it is possible in America to buy former government cars at a fraction of the cost of one from a regular dealership.

There are only a handful of licensed ex-government dealerships in the country, but luckily there's one in KC. So we got ourselves down there, pronto.

The first car we tried out was a sweet, long, low, lean black and white machine, with the words 'Wichita Police' still faintly visible on the side. Inside was a birds nest of tangled wires where the cop radio had been detached - but it still had 'the cage' in place for criminals - a thick perspex screen securely bolted between front and back seats - and if you were sitting in the back, you weren't getting out of there.

Next to it, however, was a complete beauty - a white Police Interceptor, which came complete with flashing lights on the roof and fullly equipped radio with two mikes. Of course if you really tried to stop someone using the loudhailer, or test out the siren you'd probably get arrested, but it would be pretty fun.

Of course we could have bought the crappy car and kitted it out. Inside the dealership were piles of radios, lights - the works. One man was in there with his two sons. He owned a former detective car, which he'd bought directly from a cop. He was going craxy - buying lights, an antennae - the works - for his car, which presumably he was planning on cruising around in posing as a policeman and frightening all his friends into obeying the speed limit.

To be honest, he was pretty scary - and, tempting as the cars were, we didn't want to turn out like him. So we left - sadly just before I spotted the full-on plice van standing in one corner...

Baby it's cold outside

It is bone crunchingly, ball achingly, head freezingly cold. As I write, it says on the BBC website that the UK is bracing itself for what could be the coldest night of the year, with temperatures set to plummet to -20 degrees. Well, in Kansas City it’s -40. The snow has been here for a while already – we’ve already suffered one of the worst blizzards to hit the Midwest for over a decade, where at least 17 people died (on Christmas Eve, nice). Since then, the temperatures have been plummeting almost daily, and now the wind chill factor has kicked in, hence the super-minus temperatures.

I don’t walk anywhere any more, I scurry, in a hunched-neck, rigid posture designed to get me from the car to the nearest indoors as quickly as possible. My face has become reptilian, such is the damage the wind and cold has done to my delicate epidermis. My nose has a constant drip hanging from the end of it (again, nice), and the handkerchief I tossed into my handbag just before leaving England has seen more action in the past two weeks than in the last five years since my mother placed it lovingly in my stocking, since when it has mostly lain crumpled at the bottom of my sock drawer.

Earlier today, we decided to go and look for another second hand car - of course - what else would you do when it's cold outside? The garage owner said he had already worked his way though several spare car batteries as they were dying in the cold weather. This was amply demonstrated when we decided to test-drive one car - which promptly died on us when we tried to turn it around. We had to be rescued.

Prior to that, I went to the gym - as much as to try and warm up than anything else. A hardcore bicycle did nothing to de-thaw my toes, so I decided to hit the sauna. Twenty minutes later... I still had cold toes.

Right now I'm sitting in my warm room, about to hit the hay. My feet are still freezing. Tomorrow, I'm staying in bed.

To Waldos Antiques, where the proprietor, David - or Dave as I now like to call him - has become my number one fan thanks to my English accent and knowledge of all things ancient. Never mind that the knowledge is confined to a hazy notion of what is Georgian and a knowledge of when said thing is, in fact, reproduction Georgian (determined largely by the price tag) - Dave is convinced by me. I've already bought a desk from him - reduced for me from $110 to $85.



We're furnishing our new house, you see - and although we have some basic furniture at our disposal it is lacking in a few elements. Today I spotted a couple of nice lamps and a beautiful (although, once more, repro) Georgian sideboard which would look just perfect in our new dining room.


Tomorrow we're going back to look at some side tables we spotted just as we were leaving. I foresee myself spending quite a lot of time with my new mate Dave.

A further thought on my earlier post: this time on the subject of tips, and so indirectly related.

In the U.S., tipping is an innate part of the culture, so much so that to offer anything less than a 15% tip ina restaurant signifies that you were actually mortally offended by the level of service you received. Accustomed as I am to the rather more stingy attitude of the Brits when it comes to tipping - i.e. 10% if they were particularly attentive or if you fancied the waiter(ess), this has come as a severe shock to the system.

Nowhere is the custom more adhered to than in restaurants. The common assumption is that this is to make up for the abysmal pay per hour - understood to be about $3. Tips, then, go some way towards making a pay packet that makes it worth taking home at the end of the day. So you are showered with the aforementioned blandishments, and, rage of all rages, enquired as to whether you require change when you leave your payment - to which the answer is generally understood to be no, you don't, but that you have left a generous tip for them.

However, in the interests of research, I have just discovered that the minimum wage in Kansas (it varies from state to state) currently stands at $7.25 per hour, or £4.50. OK, so it's not quite the £5.80 an hour that British workers over 22 enjoy, but it's significantly more than the £3.75 than under 18s are entititled to. Which means that either Kansan restaurateurs are paying their employees illegally low wages, or else said employees are actually cleaning up quite nicely, thank you. Given that eating out here is not all that cheap, it becomes quite galling to add an extra 20% on top of the already hefty bill one has been presented with.

One English friend simply ignores the custom, and tips as he would in Britain - i.e. not at all most of the time, and 10% if he feels like it. I am tempted to follow suit. Which means, having established British standards in one area, perhaps I can re-establish them in others - again, see previous post - ?

The upbeat attitude of seemingly all Americans everywhere is beginning to seriously irritate me. A brief foray into a shop today to browse through the discounted lingerie in the hope of sexing myself up a little had me gritting my teeth with barely suppressed rage after about 10 minutes. All that "how are you today?", "can I help you with anything?" and, even worse, if I dare to mutter out a negative, "oh I love your accent" makes me want to swear ferociously and even spittingly, up close, and in their faces. Honestly, the next time someone comes out with some bland and patently false enquiry as to my general well being, I might actually punch them.

Back in England, I was able to sate my periodic (actually, make that pretty much permanent) bouts of hatred towards coyly gushing members of the human race, aka PRs, by dint of my job - as journalist and therefore necessary continuation of their livelihoods. On being asked by some hapless press officer if I had received their press release on, say, anti cruelty to hamsters week it gave me the greatest pleasure to ask them, in icy tones, if they had ever actually read the publication they were calling, and then to inform them, in even more glacial terms, that it was something we were not, and would never be, remotely interested, before cutting them off abruptly by putting the phone down. My inner bitch received lessons in the art of PR handling from an occasionally stunningly abusive colleague, whose put downs had reached legendary status in the office.

Out here, however, the inner bitch has had to be firmly leashed. Because, not only am I no longer in my previous position of power, but I am an ambassador for my country, a virtual flag-bearing embodiment of all that it is to be British. And while one could argue that a fierce bout of rudeness would not be an inaccurate representation of the standard Brit, I have to live here for the next two years, and feel that at this stage of the game, to earn myself a reputation as a foul-mouthed harridan would not do me any favours. Not to mention the fact that the Major gets cross with me when I'm rude, and as I am currently reliant on him for cash, I would do best not to irritate him either.

So I am stuck with grinding my teeth as quietly as possible, looking into anger management lessons and maybe trying to learn a few lessons from our friends across the pond about politenes...expect gushing blandismhments next time you see me.

Have just returned from the first genuinely delicious meal I've had since coming to America. By delicious I don't mean that initial, gorge yourself sugar rush of a crisply coated donut hole, or the satisfying first mouthful of a plate of bacon, eggs and home fries. I mean a meal where you come away having genuinely savoured flavours, rather than everything just being coated in a sticky, sugary, overly seasoned gloop.
The cause of the celebration? An Italian restaurant called Lidias. Lidia is the doyenne of Italian cookery around here, and her reputation is well deserved. Lightly seared octopus over a warm salad of potatoes, onions and olives, followed by delicious lumps of gorgonzola, the freshest, pepperiest rocket and the sweetest pears. Mmmm.... beats Wendys, Mcdonalds, brunch at the local cafe and everything else I've eaten out here into a cocked hat. And the portions weren't even too big. I'll be going back.