That darn volcano in Iceland (this week renamed Warmland) disrupted a lot of things and a lot of people. Last weekend the London Book Fair proceeded with virtually no participants from North America.
The London Book Fair traditionally ends midweek, a day one correspondent tagged Volcanic Ash Wednesday. He reported the fair was quieter than usual, with many fewer Americans about. Some European publishers who ordinarily would not show up at the USA version of the event, BookExpo America, are now booking hard-to-obtain transatlantic seats in hopes of meeting the missing Americans in New York city next month.
We kept our noses in the news every day this month, because long ago we had picked this particular week to fly to London. When and if our plane does touch down at Heathrow we shall cheer and applaud, watching through portholes as our plane skids through volcanic debris. I've heard that most of the English now are permanently covered in Icelandic volcano dust. Anti-influenza masks are in fashion, and lemon-scented tea is served with a light covering of ash on each dainty cup.
We've packed extra lungs in our suitcases, so we should be OK, unless KwaklbakleLackle (or whatever the volcano is called in Warmlandic) should exhale again, or perhaps its sister exhale 12 miles away. Health care is free in Britain, so unless there's a queue we expect to have substitute lungs installed as needed.
The question was raised today on local radio: Is Mother Earth angry with us? She's busy, everywhere exploding, earthquaking, global warming, ocean rising, glacier melting. We dig her fossils for fuel (and she sets fire to oil rigs in Louisiana, blows up mines in China and Appalachia) and we drain her aquifers faster than she can refill. What did I leave out? Oh yes, we fight wars in her deserts and clearcut her forests. No wonder Mother is annoyed, especially today, the 40th Annual Earth Day.
Earth Day. Now there's a concept. What are the rest of the days -- Not Earth Days? Sky Day? Earth & Sky Day? No wait, that name's taken by an annoying radio program. Of course every day should be Earth Day, just as every day should be Christmas, New Year's and the Fourth of July. It's not yet possible, but we're working on this. You can fan us on Facebook.
In addition to lungs and masks, we're packing Britishisms as well, to get ready for the lift, the lorry and the courgette, whatever that is and please don't enlighten me.
Things that are singular over here, such as teams or companies, are plural over there. My sweater becomes a jersey; trousers are kecks, shoes are gutties or plimsolls or wellies. A fight is a row, scrumpy is cider. To swot is to study and if one is anti-social in a pretentious way, prepare for the oft-tossed epithet "toffee-nosed."
Some of these Brit terms are simply cute. The postman is a postie. A wanker you don't want to know. A wart, on the foot, is a verruca. If you develop a wart on the tip of your nose, it's still a verruca.
And as for food, there's toad-in-the-hole, don't ask, and clingfilm for your takeaway.
I'd love to get into the much larger selection of dirty words and insults, older terms such as blockish grutnol and grouthead gnat-snapper, but bollocks, we're out of time. Now don't get all argy-bargy on me. Back in June.
