A common complaint of Americans in London (especially those Americans who used to live in the Southwest) is that it is impossible to get good Mexican food here.

As proof, I submit the following “Recipe suggestion,” copied verbatim from the back of the tortilla wraps we bought at Tesco (an English grocery store chain):

Fill 2 wraps with shredded lettuce or mixed leaves and then top with the following. Wrap and serve.

As proof that I haven’t forgotten the ways of my native land, I would like to wish all my fellow Americans a very happy Fifth of July. I know that today, all across the US, Americans will be playing football, eating apple crisp, and flying the Star-Spangled Union Jack. God save the President!

(Actually, Lauren and I spent the Fourth of July in the traditional way–by hanging out in a London pub while the Germany/Italy World Cup match played in the background.)

Those of you concerned about the shocking decay in the discipline of goats serving in Her Majesty’s army will be pleased to know that the Crown has finally taken action. Billy the Goathas been downgraded from lance corporal to fusilier.

I shall sleep more soundly tonight.

I took a cab on Monday. When I buckled up, the driver buckled up, too, and said, “Thanks for buckling up. It reminded me I should buckle up, too. I’ve been in two crashes where I didn’t buckle up, and both times my head got smashed against the window, but I still don’t remember to buckle up.”

Two British couples are sitting at the table next to mine.
One woman says to the other: “You’re pregnant? That’s fantastic! We should all go have a drink to celebrate! (PAUSE) Well, I guess you can’t, but the three of us could.”

Spotted over the weekend:

(Yes, that’s a real school.)

Alas, while Lauren and I were traveling in the US, we missed the chance to taste the world’s most expensive sandwich: £100 worth of “rare Wagyu beef, the finest fresh duck foie gras, black truffle mayonnaise, brie de meaux, rocket, red pepper and mustard confit with English plum tomatoes in a sour dough bread.”
As Selfridge’s points out, “for real food lovers this represents a remarkable value.” By failing to purchase one of these–or, indeed, dozens of these–value sandwiches, we have displayed a shameless disregard for frugality. Where will we ever get rare Wagyu beef at such a reasonable price?
(Thanks to brainy reader Adam Price for the link.)

I will probably not have the chance to post much for the next two weeks.
So let me leave you with this important piece of breaking new, courtesy of Jeanni Sager:
British Lawyers Build Case Against Wigs

Yesterday was “Mothering Sunday” here in the UK. This is exactly like the American holiday of Mother’s Day, except that it takes place on a different date, and has a much cooler name.
In fact, I have decided that from now on, when I need an impressive-sounding but non-obscene interjection, I am going to use “Mothering Sunday.” As in: “Ow! Mothering Sunday! I just stubbed my toe!” Or “Some mothering Sunday broke my car mirror and didn’t leave a note.”
Yesterday was also notable, by the way, because it was the day on which Britons set their clocks one hour forward. For the next week, the UK will be six hours ahead of New York time, and not merely five. I ask that my friends in the US keep this in mind when calling me, lest I be forced to answer the phone with, “Do you know what mothering Sunday time it is?”

I suppose it’s a bit late to be reporting on something that happened on Valentine’s Day, but since February 14 fell during the Great February Yankee Fog Silence of 2006, I hope you’ll indulge me.
Lauren and I spent Valentine’s Day swing-dancing in the underground bunker from which Winston Churchill ran the British war effort. Whether or not the PM ever suspected that one day, his top-secret enter of military operations would be one of London’s best museums, and that this museum would host a Valentine’s Day dance, I like to think that he would have approved.
The band was terrific, playing all the swing classics you’d want them to. And then, well into the evening, when everybody was loose from the dancing and the bar, the singer told everybody to gather in a circle and follow the lead of the dance instructor.
And then the band launched into the hora.
Based on their hora-dancing abilities, the other couples there had been to few if any Bar Mitzvahs, but they gamely followed the instructor’s lead. The result, I can safely say, was the single-finest hora ever danced in Winston Churchill’s underground war bunker.