I would like to offer my services to this ongoing series, and my offer is that I become the series’ official translator.
Now, I’m American, and we all know that my ancestors didn’t push a bunch of crates off a bunch of boats just so we could learn how to pronounce silly town names like Worcestershire and Shitterton. Actually, I think I’ve got that second one locked in, but the problem is people in the states need to know what the American equivalent to Shitterton is so that we can get maximum enjoyment from these books.
We could use celebrity equivalents, government equivalents, town council equivalents (sounds like an HOA to me, but with a dedicated meeting space instead of Patricia’s living room, which she calls a “parlor.”
Okay, yes, this is our fault as Americans because we know nothing about the world. But, c’mon, guys, did you know I can get in a car, hit the interstate (or “motorway”) and drive for 8 hours at 75 mph (like 40,000,0000,0000 km/h) and still be in the same state?! Which is one of FIFTY! This place is really, super big.
I followed a thread online once that was started by a few people from the UK who were coming to America, planning to drive straight through from New York to Los Angeles, and were asking if there was a good spot between the two…for lunch. You know, break up the 41 hours of driving with a nice club sandwich.
Also, did you know that we work like all the time? Our bosses basically force us to work because we have the audacity to want a walled structure to live inside of (which we rent from a person who owns many) and to occasionally visit a doctor. So it’s hard for us to jump on a plane and hit France or whatever, it’ll take us a full day to get there, cost $1,000, and we’ll need to be back at the ol desk a roonie on Monday, so we’ll have about 17 horrendously jet lagged hours with which to enjoy an entire country and its rich history.
Then we return and do our best to hold on tight to those memories, because you won’t be doing THAT again for another decade. But it’ll be 10:45 am and you’ll already have forgotten what French pastries smell and taste like, and you’ll have to settle for looking at a few pictures. Which, oddly, seem to be of strangers…oh, no, wait, that’s me. I just didn’t recognize myself, what with that weird thing I’m doing where the corners of my mouth go up instead of downward.