This morning, I made a significant advance in my Englishness: I bought a pair of green wellies. The weather has been miserable this past week, and the footpaths have become unpassable by mere Americans in relatively porous hiking boots. I haven't had a good walk in yonks, and the lack of exercise has begun to affect my mood as well as, to a limited extent, my waistline (fewer walks has meant fewer pints, which has balanced things a little). But this morning, Clara and I made an excursion to Leamington Spa and bought wellies as an early Christmas gift to each other at a camping goods shop on the Parade. As soon as I got home, I took a walk in the squelching fields around Kenilworth Castle for the first time in over a week. Then I came home and made myself a lovely cup of tea and ate a chocolate digestive.
A tricolon crescendo of physical deformities, from the point-of-view of an Englishman (from R.C. Sherriff, The Fortnight in September): "They had a small servant girl called Molly, who, being squat, bow-legged, and red-haired, had remained with them faithfully throughout the years."