I have a ghost.

I have a ghost. Albeit a helpful one. And this morning he helped me make my coffee.

This is what happened. And there's really no other explanation other than the intervention of a spirit with unfinished business: I pulled the shots for my coffee and poured milk into the steamer, but didn't push the button to steam the milk because I wasn't ready for the cup JUST yet and wanted it to be as hot as possible. I turned my back to finish washing the dishes, and when I turned around again, not only was my milk steamed, but the lid to the pitcher was on top. Now I know what you are thinking: surely you capped the pitcher without thinking about it, AND pushed the button. I can see how this would be possible, as when one makes repetitive motions every day, it's easy to make them again without thinking or noticing. Except I NEVER put the lid on the pitcher because I love to watch the steaming process, the milk swirling around and around, faster and faster, gradually growing taller and frothy and smooth as air. It's one of the greatest pleasures of my day. In fact, I haven't used the lid EVER. So I certainly would have noticed a motion that would involve me putting it on. Apparently my ghost, though, was thinking Safety First.

Northern England Reveals Its Charms

Jane Austen lived here.*

In her letters, she referred to her estate as 'Hot Toddy Hall.' She did this in an attempt to protect her privacy as well as to offer her correspondents a revealing glimpse into her personal life.**

This was Jane's local church. She rarely set foot inside, as she was usually nursing her hangover from Saturday night's festivities in Hot Toddy Hall.***

This was Jane's local butcher and deli. She loved their duck liver pate and could often be heard on the children's swings after dark, whooping into the wee hours.****

And so concludes my tour of Northern England. Please let me know if you are interested in any more of my tours; there are many neighborhoods in London I would love to walk you through.

*I'm making this up. I really have no idea where Jane Austen lived.
**This is also not true.
***This is probably true.
****'Whooping' is not a metaphor.

I carried a watermelon?

Slim Jim's Liquor Store was recently rated in the Top 5 London Bars 2008 by Urban Junkies. When I told the manager, 'That's cool,' while sipping a brandy during a break in the day's shopping, he proceeded to put in on the bar's outdoor sandwich board. Quote, unquote.

Another Brighton recommendation

A long overdue return trip to Brighton was last weekend's pleasure...this time with personal recommendations a la Isabel, a fanciful girl who used to live there and knew the ins and outs of the shopping, eating, and shopping. Armed with the list she gave me, this Brighton itinerary expanded to include The Lavender Room, Cath Kidston, One in the House, and Bert's Homestore. None of these shops was a disappointment and it took all of my restraint not to blow my bank on the goodies inside. (Please note: I would have photographed each of these shops, except the weather was roughly thirty degrees below zero and I couldn't get my frozen fingertips to grip the camera, let alone operate the tiny dials.)

I did, however, photograph Bill's Produce Store, yum incarnate. The walls were lined with produce for purchase, and if the brunch I ordered was any indication of their quality, then I think little on the shelves would disappoint.

This was my eggs benedict. Please note the sumptuous bread, the thick slices of ham, and the about-to-explode poached eggs...the whole thing was absolutely taste-tastic. I can't wait for my next visit so I can return for their peppered steak sandwich, served on housemade onion foccacia with horseradish and mustard creme fraiche. Brighton hooooooooooooooooo!

HERE I AM!

When I first sat down to this post, I thought, 'I wonder if people think that I've fallen off the face of the earth or died or something?' Then I thought, what if I WERE dead?? Nobody would know! Should I prepare a post-mortem post for a close friend or family member to put on my blog on my behalf after I'm gone?? What would I say? What would my Facebook status be and who would change it for me? Should it be 'Sharona is...no longer inhabitating this earthly realm'? Is that too obscure? Does it just sound like I'm high? Maybe I should I be witty about the whole matter: 'Sharona is...preparing a lightning bolt with your name on it.' Will people post loving farewell comments? Will they say a word about me at my upcoming high school reunion? As I started to sniffle over my loss, I suddenly thought, 'What is WRONG with me?'

Less related to death:

My boxes finally arrived from San Francisco. I am alarmed to find that I packed three jars of organic peanut butter and two large costco-sized containers of tylenol p.m. As a friend says, 'That's a helluva sandwich.' On the bright side, the winter is now going to FLY by.

So far London hasn't been as rainy as expected. It's cloudy every day, to be sure; the sun a darting mistress, but in terms of wetness, I've had to open my umbrella a mere half dozen times in the past three months--always on a Saturday afternoon and always when I want to take a photograph of something. The rain has not yet been combined with a blustery gale, which is a small but appreciated blessing having dealt with the sideways-rain of San Francisco on many saturated occasions. When I express this 'dryer-than-expected' sentiment at parties, however, I am always warned: 'You haven't seen January or February yet!' So I am NATURALLY looking forward to that. I will let you know how it is in t-minus-two days.

'How are you finding London so far?' is the number one question I am asked--by curious Londoners, by American ex-pats, by anyone and everyone I meet, from the line at the cafe to the holiday dinner party. I struggle with this one on many levels. If I sing the city's praises ('I love it! There are endless places to go and see and so many restaurants I want to try!') I end up sounding a bit delirious. So to lend some sincerity to the sentiment, I feel the need to express a 'point of struggle.' Most people expect the weather to be the most difficult acclimation, so I stick with that: 'But the cold! I am having a terrible time getting used to the cold!' As a result of this bizarre dance this question always puts me to, I am beginning to wonder, how DO I find London? And how should I best answer this question? Perhaps literally is the way: 'Using the tube map. And you?'

I'm off to develop the photos from the week I just spent in the fairy tale that is Scotland...land of castles, pints, and grazing sheep. None of which I actually photographed.

What's in a name?

Her email is the sort of address that one is assigned: jenn435@maildotcom. You never pick this address. And yet, I never thought you settle for it, either, when the domain suggests it as a viable alternative to your first choice, 'jennlastname.' Even 'jennbirthday'--while impossible for anybody else to remember--makes sense.

Alas, when jenn435 sends an email, I don't need to open it to know what it's going to say: 'You're an amazing woman,' it reads. 'Now send this to nine other amazing women, including me, for good luck.' In Monotype Corsiva, size 18, hot pink. Lime green blinking graphics remind me that kittens are cute and purple angels wish me blessings. I think about forwarding this on to my grandmother and aunt before realizing that they sent me the same thing last week and consequently already have wealth unforetold.

So what do you do with these mass emails from friends so old you no longer have any connection with them? Do you let them know that you first became friends with them when you were eight, an age at which you taped together empty toilet paper rolls to make binoculars, trampolines were all it took for street cred, and any friend big enough to pull you in your wagon was worth hours of your time? Notably when their grandmother lived across the street and rejoiced in making an endless stream of molasses cookies, which meant you could turn down your parents' offering of an after-school apple? Do you tell them that things changed when they dropped out of high school to have their first baby while you opted to get a degree, leave the state, start anew?

You hit 'reply.' You type in the e(mail)quivalent to the secret handshake you shared to get into The Club in which your sisters weren't allowed: 'Luv you! Ur amazing, too!' Hitting 'send,' you realize that while this may be your lifelong e-burden, it was worth it. Because of her, you know pig latin, and how to throw pine cones at cars from the safety of a hidden tree branch. These are the lifelong blessings she's given. What's a forward full of fairies?

Pub Cricket

I got into a discussion with a Welsh gal named Marie on Saturday night on the subject of road trip games--or 'car journeys,' as they call them here. Apparently where she hails from they don't seek out 50 states on license plates, or yell at cows, or poke their siblings when the parents aren't looking. No, in Wales-land, they play a game called Pub Cricket. In Pub Cricket--and stick with me here, because it's about to get convoluted--the first person to spot a pub gets the number of points that the pub has legs. 'What?' you are saying, in baffled confusion, as did I. 'LEGS? Pubs have LEGS?' 'Yes!' she replied. 'For example, say you pass a pub called The Horse and Carriage. That's an eight-pointer! You have to figure it takes at LEAST two horses to draw the carriage. And how many legs do two horses have? Eight! So you get eight points!' 'So...if you pass a place called The White Lion, you get four points?' 'Exactly! And the Crowned Prince would be two!' 'What if it's called The Queen's Head? How many points is that?' 'It depends. If *I* see it, it's two points, because the Queen's Head used to have a body. If my brother sees it, zero.'

Now I can't pass a pub without counting its legs. I am currently TOTALLY winning this game, though 'technically' I'm the only player...