Of pork pies and driving lessons...

After a month in this United of Kingdoms, the huz and I took the leap and bought...Drum roll, please...

A pork pie.

And not just any pork pie, ladies and gents. We bought the gastronomic equivalent of a Rolls Royce with this Waitrose Sunday Special....

And it really wasn't good. At all.

I am now of the opinion that the pork pie is something to be endured rather than enjoyed. My stomach doth protest. Too much.

And so we now turn to driving lessons.

I hate driving. I have nightmares where the car spins spectacularly out of control, and I crash into people, signs, buildings...It's horrifying. But. Now I live in the sticks, I feel as though I have no choice. And so begins the driving lessons. (Here, I must admit, I do have a driver's license acquired back when I was 17. I am not a total novice. Just a bit of a freak.)

Luckily, the huz is a patient and virtually shock-proof teacher. Take today, for example. Even though I almost drove our Volkswagen Rabbit through our kitchen, he remained almost virtually unfazed. Almost. (Like any sixteen year-old new to driving, I became conflustered and confused the gas with the brake. I'm still shaking, and I can only imagine the images that will visit me tonight in my dreams.)

So. Good people of America, of Britain. Pray for me, that I might not be found in a twisted wreck of metal. In a ditch. Outside the beautiful scenic village of [insert here].

Pray real hard.