In Which Our Heroine Joins the Pop Masses

My official joining into UK pop culture occurred a couple of weeks ago, when I walked into Waterstones (how I love that bookstore), put my £2 down on the counter and said to the clerk "I'm here to join the madness please and pre-order my copy of Harry Potter and the Whatever It Is This Time."

"Certainly, madam." The clerk was obviously quite used to the mass madness. Which was good, seeing as he had a big badge on his shirt counting down the days to the launch of Harry Potter and the Hound of the Baskervilles or whatever it was.

Filled out a form with my name, address and whether I wanted an adult printing or a childrens's printing, took my receipt and left without even knowing the price of the book, as Waterstone's had yet to determine what they would sell it for. All they knew at that point was that it would be less than the cover price, and that there would be a free second book ("Lion Boy" by Zissou Corder, if anyone cares) to go with it. Quite a marketing strategy if you can swing it "you've put a deposit on it, but we don't know what we're going to charge you yet. Mwahahaha!"

The countdown was quite a topic for a long time, with store displays in all the shops, news reports on who was selling the book for a loss to get customers in the shops, etc etc. And then the bombs went off on the Tube and no one seemed to care as much for a week or so. But by the time the launch came round, it was a rallying escape point for Londoners and a convenient excuse to show that they could relax a bit. Plans were still altered, however, when they moved the launch from Kings Cross Station (the station itself is re-opened, but it was felt that it would be quite tasteless to have a celebration above while they are still bringing up wreckage from underneath) to Oxford Street where people started camping out the night before to be into the shop at midnight to get their copies of the book.

Joined the masses I may have, but it was obviously just provisional membership as there was no way on the face of this earth I was going to be in a book store at midnight for a book launch. Well, ok, maybe someday when it is *my* book, sure. But not until then. Instead, as Friday came, a few plans were thrown together to go up to Nottingham to hang out with my friend Sarah and her parents for an evening.

I shocked her father. Not in my usual way of stating something that I really ought not to have said(that happens rather too much), but rather that after spending all this time in England I was not familiar with the works of Flanders and Swan. A trip to town the next day was in order.

And so we went. Flanders & Swan proved a bit tricky, but was eventually tracked down, and of course the now launched Harry Potter copies, sold to us by people who were forced to wear t-shirts with "Muggle" in big letters on the back. We made our way round the new sights of Nottingham (the tram, the sky mirror, things like that) did bits of shopping and eventually retreated back to the house for a cup of tea while Flanders and Swan sang away on the CD player about "The Bold Hippopotamus", and why the English are superior to all others. (Chorus: The English, the English, the English are best, I wouldnt' give tuppence for all of the rest.). Rather tongue in cheek, I hasten to add.

Back to the university to revisit halcyon days by wandering round the lake and then an attempt was made to catch a train, which after a 90 minute wait with no news, no instructions, and no train, we finally got word (via a totally different train) that it was cancelled. We attempted to make a dash to the pub but there was no room. Giving up (and facing a very early train the next morning) home was good and Gin and Bitter Lemon was even better.

Sunday trains. Ah. So much fun. To get to St. Albans in time for Matins (where I'd arranged to meet Sarah and Tati, who were visiting, and we were all going to watch Neil's daughter sing in the choir) I had to be on a 7:30 a.m. bus from Loughborough, change to train at Leicester, get different train at Bedford, hop off at St Albans. Every person on any of these modes of transport had their copy of Harry Potter and was reading it feverishly, as though it was some kind of requirement for being on the train at that hour. And yet, it all worked, even to the extent that having met up with S&T, when I heard a voice go "Do you need directions?" while my immediate thought was it was some exceptionally dodgy male preying on tourists, turning around to view revealed Neil, who while exceptional and male is most definitely not dodgy, and a tourist's friend (if they knew him, which thankfully for Neil they don't as a rule).

The thing about English choirs is that they're just unbelievable. I mean, you sit there and watch this incredible sound come out and you cannot match it up to the teeny kids you're seeing. This was no exception. If I had that kind of lung capacity, I'd be a much better rower. And if I could sing like that......well, I don't know what. I just wish I could sing like that. Amazing. They retire the kids out at 14, which is part of what the service we saw was about - kicking three of them out with a book, a cheque for services rendered, and then a party at the Dean of the Abbey's house. "As befits the ladies of the choir" he said "they will be bungee jumping in my back garden." He wasn't kidding either.

It is all just too English for words, the whole time. Even Harry Potter didn't get left out of church as Neil's non-singing daughter had her copy with her to read before and after the service. She's hoping evil's going to win in the end on that one. Impressive for someone who'd just sat through an hour of religious choir music, I thought.

But when it was over, it was back to the work week, back to the grind, and now back to the bombs. Still, the English are taking it with black humor and stiff upper lips. My friend Deborah has declared that these bombs (since no one has been killed) were by Very Dumb Terrorists who don't know how to connect the brown wire. She is laying the blame entirely at the feet of the comprehensive educational system, and calling for the return of compulsary national service.

The bombs do keep going off though, and every morning there's another security scare where large bits of London get sealed off. Everyone is on guard, and taking luggage on trains of anything larger than a handbag is liable to get you severe stares, not to mention glares as everyone is so wedged on with lines still out of service that bags take up too much room. And the lines get stopped during the rush hour all the time, which means that the buses get overcrowded, etc. People are turning more to bikes all the time which is a good thing I think, but the daily hassle and fear is hard to put up with.

I've turned to rowing. I'm finally out on the water, which is brilliant fun. At first it was a bit unnerving as I would go to the boathouse and no one would speak to me. This isn't rude - it is just English. The assumption is that you know someone and they will talk to you but it is rude to just start talking to someone you don't know. This bothered me as even though I knew what was going on, it was still rather excluding. But once in the boat and introduced, everyone couldnt be nicer. You have to kind of band togethre to fight the tides of the Thames (there's maybe a 15 foot rise and fall at Putney where we row, and it is a wet launch every day), and the debris which after the rains is like nothing I've ever seen. The damage caused to a blade by a floating fire extinguisher is pretty impressive.

There's a party at the boat house on Saturday. For some reason it is an 80s themed party (costume/themed parties are popular here) and I can't figure out what to where, although the friendly girls have invited me to the boat pre-party at their place before heading over and there will be plenty of prep time. Suggestions on a postcard please!

Love
Anne