Out and About

After a few more fits and starts (most roads here are not signposted), we got to the local Hertz and returned our rental Vauxhall. As much as Vauxhalls are rebadged General Motors pieces of shit, I liked our car. Like many things British, it's a bit lacklustre and could use a kick in the pants, but is still charming enough to win you over.

Like the food. Today I've had a full English breakfast and fish and chips. While the breakfast at our B&B is made from fresh, local ingredients (there's a huge organic/local/slow food movement under way here at the moment), traditional food here is still generally colorless. But it will still win you over with its simplicity and flavor - and its ability to clog your arteries. Hardly a resounding endorsement, I know, but that's how it is. At least the people out selling this food are resorting to wit:


Although all the wit in the world can't make up for poor grammar, especially on official signage. I thought these guys invented the language! What the hell is with this extraneous apostophe?


Anyway, now that the car's back in its rightful place, we've been walking. A lot. I feel compelled to. We were walking to the City Centre and happened upon the rental shop where I'd be picking up my morning suit for the wedding tomorrow. We figured we'd stop in and check things out, and they let me try on my suit. Waistcoat? Good. Jacket? Perfect fit. Trousers? Uh oh.

I've come to terms with the fact that I'm not slim. And I'm pretty barrel-chested. So it didn't seem at all odd to me to send in my measurements for a suit in 44 Short, with a little waist size of 32 - like most Yanks under the age of 40, I wear my pants low slung, even when wearing a suit. Apparently, Brits don't wear their suits that way. No gangsta lean here. No showing off the undies. They pull the shit halfway up to their chest like old men at a golf tournament. So it wasn't much of a surprise, I guess, that I couldn't even button up my rental trousers. I embarrassingly had to get measured around the ol' beer belly and get up-sized 4". Which means getting a new set of pants tailored and sent in by courier by tomorrow morning. Which means I'm out an extra £25.

So my gut has cost me $50. And my dignity. Oh well. At least I can apply this indignation in my new job: As the Bridge Troll of Exeter.