The British Lady-Cackle, and other odd observations

I'm supposed to be finishing an essay right now. But because Quentin is passed out in my lap, exhausted from a morning of deliberate pouncing on my head while I slept, I'm going to blog instead.

Today, I'd like to discuss the elusive British Lady-Cackle (the BLC, if you will), and other odd observations from the past week or so. I'm sure you've heard all the rumors about how polite and dainty English women are - quiet, calm, icy and emotionless even (think The Queen in one of her never-ending Easter skirt-suits). However, you've not really lived in England until you're sitting in a pub on a Saturday afternoon, having a latte and reading about security threats, and there it is - out of nowhere - that piercing screech, knifing your ears with noises not yet defined by decibels in the natural world. "Where is that coming from?!" one might ask. "Is a parakeet being stabbed?" "Did a shih tzu just get a bath?" "Did (the artist formerly known as) Prince have a heart attack?" Others (like myself) may simply jump in one's seat, eye twitching involuntarily, and turn towards the noise, afraid to fully face it for fear it might actually melt your face. Enter: The British Lady-Cackle.

The Dowager Countess, upon hearing the BLC.

Brits are, in general and especially in Oxford, quite reserved, proper, polite, and friendly. However, there are exceptions to this rule, exceptions which seem to be growing the more I leave my cat-flat. Knife-fights are one exception to a common association with British gentility - although, let's be honest, I immediately thought about West Side Story. Second, we have the common drunks - usually couples who enter a bar completely reserved, and 45 minutes and six Guinness's later, are gargling unintelligible noises (probably words), eyes a bit glossy and bodies acting as if they just got off of a five-year pirate voyage. Actually, speaking of pirates, drunk Brits kind of remind me of pirates in general...the accent, the swaying, the occasional flailing of the arms. I passed a drunk couple in their 40's or 50's last night (Sunday) coming back from the grocery store...I didn't understand a word they were projecting out into the empty, residential street at 9:30pm. But, shiver me timbers they were loaded to the gunwales!

Other things I've learned about this week include, but are not limited to (OK, they're probably limited to):

• Fox hunting
• Pinkie rings
• Shower architecture in period homes
• The showering habits of the man with a body-length window in his shower directly across from my neighborhood pub
• Shetland ponies (in sweaters, not in sweaters, their height, their gardening habits, not to tickle their tongues, and other life-lessons)
• Where the "meter" is in my flat
• Yoga mats borrowed from a yoga studio are really quite gross
• It's OK if you don't understand people from Newcastle - a lot of Brits don't understand them either
• Americans drinking out of red SOLO cups at parties really is fascinating

I'm a Shetland pony in a sweater, and I'm in Scotland!

As I bid you adieu to ponder these musings (also because Quentin finally jumped off of my stomach and I should probably get around to that essay), I leave you with these departing thoughts from last night's trip to an open mic night: man-ponytails are never a good idea. In the words of my dear friend, Helena, while a man yodeled like a goat in the background: "stop putting me off my food with your horrible straggly pastiches of woman-hair." Well said. Also well said? "This is a song about devil worshiping amongst elderly women." Yep - that happened.