One man's trash...

Final post for today, and this concerns our morning activity: the great Yard Sale. In the next month or so, our litle community will see great upheaval as this is the major personnel-moving time, where families shift around the States to new postings. So every year at about this time there is a huge yard sale (read car boot sale, only from your garage instead of your car) where everyone sells all the stuff they won't be able to take with them to their next posting because of weight restrictions. They have it on the military base, where hundreds of people live, and visitors come from as far as Nebraska, hiring coaches and coming in parties to try and get their hands on the stuff people want to be rid of: everything from washing machines to furniture. Although it officially started at 6am this morning, some eager beavers were on the hunt last night poaching the best stuff - we have British friends who were selling things at one of their friends houses and got there at 6am this morning to discover they were already about $20 up.

I was hoping for some nice outdoor furniture for our litle garden, but we didn't arrive until 8am, by which time most of the vultures had swooped. I did, however, manage to pick up some DVDs and a pair of brand new riding boots for $5 - bargain! It was highly entertaining to watch - people driving around in their enormous Kansan trucks with the flatbed part full of random things, like blow up boats and pushchairs. Our friends only had a couple of boxes worth of stuff to get rid of - books and some clothes and things - and they made $120. Brilliant. This time next year I'll be out there with a stall of my own.

A murderous night

I'm not over for the day yet. Because yesterday (and today) were eventful. After buying my chickens and cream and milk and eggs from Dana, I went home to prepare for a dinner party.

It might sound frightfully old school and 80s, but dinner parties are pretty big out here - in fact for us and our friends, they are pretty much the entertainment staple. There are several reasons for this:
1) Going out to eat round here is a) not that cheap and b) not that tasty (unless you trek into Kansas City and frankly, who can be bothered?). It's much easier to all get round to someone's houe, crack open a few bottles of vino and enjoy some good chat and good food.
2) If you go out, someone's got to drive. If you go round to someone's house, you can usually stay over if you have too much to drink (we all live in ridiculously large houses, so there are plenty of spare beds). If you host, you can just roll into bed at the end of the night.
3) We've pretty much exhausted the options of properly going out locally. There's always the High Noon Saloon, but Thursday nights are the best (karaoke night) and you've still got the driving problem.

So we all pretty much pile round and take it in turns. Last night I decided to mix things up a little. Lingering on our bookshelf was a Murder Mystery party kit that I had been given as an 18th birthday present (yes, it really has been hanging around for 11 years). What better time to make use of it than on a rainy night in a strange place with a bunch of good mates? So I issued invitations and everyone duly turned up in full costume. It was great fun - we solved the murder adequately enough, everyone had plenty to eat and drink and we all retired happy. Roll on the next one.

Eating healthily...or trying to

If you're a fan of my blog on The Lady website, you may have read my latest blog for them, which details the difficulty of eating healthily out here - despite living in one of the major agricultural states (Kansas is the number one wheat producer in America). Not only is it difficult to find organic meat and un-messed about with milk (unless you go to Whole Foods) but I'm convinced that the alternative - artificially altered dead animal and 'vitamin enriched' milk - is actually making me fat.

So I was overjoyed when a friend emailed me about Bryant Family Farm, which strives to produce "Christ-centered service in all areas of our lives and business." The bit I was excited about was the organic, free range chickens, beef, milk and eggs that they sell - not to mention goats milk and local honey.

So I took a trip. And it was so fun.

We (I took a friend along) were greeted by the garrulous Dana, a rosy-cheeked, smiley woman who is the matriarch of the Bryant family and mother to Sarah (18), Nathan (14), Jonathan (12), Rachael (10), & Samuel (8), all of whom are home-schooled and carry out the chores, which including feeding the baby goat kids, making pens for the chickens and collecting the eggs. We saw the baby kids, their mothers, chickens in various stages of development and happily munching cows. Then I bought three chickens (dead, to eat), a gallon of goats milk, some honey and some eggs. And Dana, bless her, threw in some home-made goats milk feta (powerful stuff, good on baked sweet potatos) and an enormous jar of cream, half of which was whipped into a pavlova and the other half of which is sitting in the fridge, waiting for me to make butter with. Yes, butter. Apparently it's really easy and all you need to do is bung it in the food processor and blend it for a bit, and it turns into butter. Dana gave me a piece of muslin to rinse it out in afterwards. Then you salt it and shape it and presto, homemade butter.

I left feeling inspired and hopeful. My total shop at Bryant's cost me less than $50 - significantly cheaper than it would have been to buy the same amount of food in the local supermarket, and worth ten times more for knowing that what I was buying hadn't been messed about with in any way. There are people out there doing it, you just have to find them. And then you go home and make butter. Simples.

Flying the Flag

I think I may have put my foot in it last night. The Major and I were round for dinner at a new friend's house. She runs a stables, he is something to do with defence - lovely people, lovely place.

Anyway, post-dinner and over coffee we got talking about 'yard art' - how some people seem to think it's really classy to fill their gardens with life-sized sculptures/statues of all and sundry (c.f. the giant, malevolent-looking blowup Grinch I spotted in one yard over Christmas). All very funny and we were having a good laugh, but then I said - "and round us, some people have full-on flagpoles with spotlights to light the flags up at night!"

Silence.

It turns out that in America, if you fly a flag outside your property (which most people round here do, mainly being the patriotic ex-military types), you either have to lower it at sundown or make sure it is lit - legally. If your flag gets old or tattered meanwhile, or accidentally gets dropped on the floor, you have to burn it.

America is serious about its flag. You have the pledge of allegiance in schools, the aforementioned legalities concerning the flying - and of course, those who fly the flag upside down if they're protesting against something, which always causes a great furore.

I find it all faintly amusing, not to mention quite ridiculous, but think from now on I'd better shut up on my views about flags. Along with religion, politics, sex.... Not a lot I can talk about these days.

On blame and recriminations

My mother didn't make it, but the aeroplanes are at least starting to fly again. As I write, hundreds of stranded passengers are being returned to the UK and Europe by means of through the night flights and 24-hour train services.

But inevitably, the recriminations have already begun. You would have thought that an erupting volcano was truly an Act of God - and admittedly no-one as yet seems to have come up with any conspiracy theories (it was Al Quaeda what dunnit, innit?) - but nevertheless, the blame has already started to fly in earnest. It chiefly seems to be aimed at governments, for failing to get everyone flying again soon enough. Many airlines are saying they will be asking for compensation.

Understandably the airlines are pissed off. After all, the aviation industry was losing some £150m a day while planes were grounded, and some airlines are apparently now perilously close to bankruptcy as a result.

But governments were only following the instructions of plane manufacturers, which specifically said if there's ash, don't fly. Imagine if they ignored this advice. Imagine if they'd just said, hang it all, let them fly - and a plane had gone down? Then we'd be in a whole lot more trouble.

It's a tricky situation - human being always want someone to blame. But this is a crazy situation. When I first heard on the news that Ryanair was planning to fly in the face of EU law and not reimburse passengers for anything more than the cost of the flight, my first reaction was disgust at Michael O'Leary's penny pinching ways. But on reflection, although I feel nothing but pity for those who were stranded, it's not the airlines' fault either. And if you get on a plane, you accept you are taking a risk. Hmmm. tricky one.

Competitive Hospitals: Good or Bad?

One of my greatest pleasures out here, and a small link to the motherland, is a subscription to The Spectator, given to me for Christmas. I don't consider myself a raging Tory, but there are always some thought provoking articles to be found, and although I sometimes shudder at the overtly partisan nature of the politics, I forgive it nevertheless. Of course we are grossly behind because the magazine gets sent out, via our BFPO address in Washington, from England, which means I am currently reading the April 10 edition, which is a little frustrating. But getting it sent out is a lot cheaper than paying international subscription rates.

Anyway. Despite usually taking the more strident political articles with a pinch of salt, I was a little disturbed by something in an article in the aforementioned April 10 edition by Michael Heath entitled The Case for Cameron. Heath refers to the Tory offer of independent education for all, specifically allowing anyone to set up a school. "...it is encouraging that Mr Cameron would adopt this model more generally," writes Heath. "Under his government, public sector workers would be allowed to stage what is, in effect, a management buyout of their own division. They could operate for a profit, offering services to companies as well as government. There are increasingly hopefully signs that this will be adopted in health, too. As Oliver Letwin recently put it, 'Hospitals compete for patients, schools compete for pupils, welfare providers compete for results in getting people out of welfare and into work.' Such a vision is nothing short of revolutionary."

Well actually, it's not entirely. Because the one part of that statement that worries me the most already exists here in America: the part about hospitals competing for patients. Over here, it is not uncommon to see giant billboards at strategic intervals along the motorway, advertising, say, Lawrence Memorial Hospital as the place to go for cardiovascular experts, or Children's Mercy Hospital as the best place to take your sick child. On the radio there is a particularly odious ad featuring a syrupy sounding woman talking about how much she loves playing with her grandchildren - but how she nearly didn't get a chance to after a heart attack several years ago. Luckily she was taken to the Blah Blah Hospital with its expert cardio care and her life was saved, etc etc etc.

I find such adverts distasteful in the extreme. Perhaps it's my NHS upbringing (my father is a doctor and yes, he does do private work but the bulk of his patients are NHS) but I have a firm belief that a certain level of care should exist at all hospitals, and that the most important thing in an emergency is to get to the nearest one, not worry about telling the ambulance men as they load you up that you want to go to xxx Hospital please, because it's got the best surgeons. Of course there are some doctors who are more skilled in their particular field than others, but to advertise the fact seems unnecessary, somehow - not to mention playing on the fears of the often worried well - because after all, if it really is an emergency you probably don't care where you go. But over here, healthcare is a business - and a pretty dirty one at that. To contemplate the NHS going the same way is fairly horrific, not least because it is a slippery slope to some of the horrors that exist within the American healthcare system: doctors recommending surgery because it means they can charge a higher fee, or inducing babies so they can get back onto the golf course. I exaggerate, of course, but there's a truth to it. Oliver Letwin should watch what he says about free markets when it comes to healthcare.

Frustration, frustration, frustration

It's a beautiful sunny day here in Kansas, I've been to the gym already and am all set for a day of goodness. Except I'm all of a twitter, and can't settle my mind to anything.

This is because tomorrow, my mother is due to fly out to the U.S. to come and stay for a week. Except she might not be able to, because a volcano in Iceland is currently spewing ash into the air and all UK airports are on complete shutdown.

Naturally this has caused chaos - for those of you who have been living in a black hole for the past five days, the airline industry is losing some £130m a day and there are roughly 150,000 Britons currently stranded abroad, according to the BBC.

Of course my mother is only one of those facing travel chaos, and her situation is relatively unstressful - she is still at home, at the time of writing her flight has yet to be cancelled and she is not about to get married, attend a funeral or be at the birth of a baby, like many of those stuck. But it is frustrating nevertheless - and I cannot settle to anything until I know for sure whether she is coming or not. Cue frantic scouring of the web to see if I can find any sort of definitive information whatsoever.

There is a part of me that simply holds up my hands and shrugs. Because there is nothing that we can do about all of this. Despite the desire to point the finger at someone (note the rising chorus of airline bosses pointing the finger at Europe's governments for continuing to allow airport shutdown when they say it is actually safe to fly), but in reality, we cannot stop the volcano spewing and nobody actually wants to risk passenger safety without very good reason.

So I sit and wait, unable to settle and checking, checking, checking. I'll keep you posted....

On Vehicles

Not long after we arrived here, the Major and I concluded that we needed two cars (you'll remember our search for a vehicle back in January which involved test driving ex-police cars - we finally settled on a fairly ancient but serviceable Acura). Let me explain: he goes to work every day; I go to work two days a week and the other three working days don't really fancy being stuck at home with only a bike for transportation (anyone who tells you that Kansas is flat is lying). Eventually, after a week or so of me grumpily getting up at 6am to drive him to work in order to have the car, we were given an antique Chevrolet which a fellow Brit and his wife had bought for their daughters to learn to drive in. Her name was Marge, and she coughed and spluttered and farted like an old woman; her brakes didn't work properly, her windscreen wipers were even less reliable and the handbrake was null and void. Nevertheless, she did for us, and although after one particularly hair-raising drive down the I70 at night I would never take her on a highway again, she got us around.

Alas, however, Marge eventually became too decrepid to even get the Major to work and back. We were left vaguely muttering about getting another car and desperately coaxing Marge to life every morning when one day, the Major came back from work in a zippy little Jeep. Looked pretty good from the outside: a nightmare to drive. You could feel every bump and pothole, and cornering faster than 10mph would have had you tipped over onto the side. I was not a fan.

But guess what? The Jeep is now ours. Marge has disappeared (I think the Major just left her somewhere) and we now have the choice of smooth Japanese engineered comfort or rough and ready American bumpiness (did you know that Jeep stands for Just Enough Essential Parts? I've been longing to use that little gem of a fact for ages). Initially, I picked the former over the latter any day, but now the sun has come out, and the Jeep's true potential is beginning to emerge: because the doors and the roof come off. Bring on the summer tan.

Growing things!

Spring has sprung! It is delightful. The sun shines almost every day (apart from when it's thundering), and suddenly there are people everywhere - walking their dogs, mowing their lawns, waving at me when I go by. It's so Wisteria Lane. I love it.

So, now that everything is in bloom, I have vowed to grow myself a garden. I am not a natural gardener. In fact, most plants I touch seem to die. The only thing I have success with are those peace lilies, the virtually indestructible ones, which droop terribly and then you water them and they perk immediately up again. However. Despite my obvious lack of green fingered-ness, I'm going to give it a go.

I've already started, in fact. Last week I planted a bunch of sees - courgette, tomatoes, coriander - in little pots, ready to transplant, and they have sprouted! It is very exciting. Now I just need to remember to water them.

Alas, with gardening comes hard work - I need to dig over the soily bit and also do a fair bit of weeding. But I hope to become almost entirely self sufficient this summer (cue visions of me wafting outside to pluck a few sprigs of mint in order to whip up the perfect mint-flavoured something). Whether this will, in fact, work out, remains to be seen. I'll keep you posted.

Just returned from a weekend in NYC. Arriving there on Thursday evening, straight into the heart of the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, was like waking up from a drug-induced haze. It was so cosmopolitan. So alive. There were people walking, running, talking, shouting, laughing. No-one asked me where I was from, or commented on how much they loved my accent. Nobody looked at me strangely when I strolled down the street. We sat outside in the sunshine, at cafe tables on the edge of the pavement and people-watched. It was fascinating. So many different shapes, sizes, colours, races. It was wonderful.

Would I want to live in Manhattan? Yes, yes and yes again. Although only if I had enough money. The friend we were staying with lives in the heart of Soho - in a one-bedroom apartment that is about the size of our bedroom, bathroom, walk-in wardrobe combination. His sitting room window looks onto a wall. His kitchen is almost small enough to be able to touch all four walls at once. And it's bigger than his old apartment. I found myself feeling almost smug about our enormous bedroom, plentiful spare rooms and spacious garden.

But I did love just being able to pop out - to a cool bar, or a great restaurant - and being able to walk around the city and explore. Not once did I wish for the car. Not once did I miss the slow pace of life.

We arrived back to a flooded kitchen floor (the tap had been knocked by something propped against it) and a clean--up operation that lasted until midnight. My brain was buzzing when I finally flopped into bed, so I did pop a sleeping pill. Today I'm back into the drug-induced haze again. How much of it is drug induced I'm not sure. But it is rather restful to be surrounded by green fields again (in our absence, the world seems to have turned green), and to hear birds, rather than cars. Am I turning into a country girl after all?