I’ve written a lot about missing my friends back in the states, and all of those sentiments were true.

It is equally true that my favorite part about life in this city (aside from the ducklings) is the sense of isolation. I grew up in a small town, went to school in a small town, lived in well defined communities in small western cities as an adult.

Wherever I went, I always knew everyone, and they knew me, and I found the experience oppressive. I liked moving to a place where I was not only unknown, but invisible. Nobody registered my existence, nobody cared.

The only people I talked to on a daily basis were beggars, buskers, Big Issue salesman, and the brothers at Bacchanalia. Even the other boaters are people I mostly just exchanged friendly waves with, aside from the occasional rescue operation. This suited me.

I have always yearned for solitude more than companionship. This might be a byproduct of being an only child, or the lifetime of chronic illness. Whatever the reason, these four years in England have offered a melancholy sort of liberation. I liked being alone. Over the last few weeks my life has changed in a radical way, and I am horrifically upset about it. In fact, way more disturbed than I would be about things like, you know, cancer tests.

What happened? People decided to talk to me. All sorts of people, including a vast contingent who have studiously ignored me every single day. Suddenly, instead of just a few scattered North Americans and a couple of nice Londoners, I seem to know, well, everybody.

In fact, I think it safe to say that I have not only made friends, I have been officially adopted by my new homeland. Rule, Brittania!

Before you speculate that this change has anything to do with my behavior, I can assure you it does not. And my physical appearance has not changed whatsoever – I am wearing, literally, the same outfit I arrived in. Lipstick, hair, and attitude are also intact. If anything the isolation has brought out my mischievous and scandalous sides – I say what I mean and mean what I say, but there are no other filters in operation.

Perhaps the British like this sort of misbehavior – back home, people would flinch. Though I doubt this explains the phenomenon.

The more logical reason is basic: this is a famously standoffish society, and it was bound to take at least twice as long to settle. Living in Cambridge, the city that gave the world words like scientist and concepts like evolution is a whole other quagmire.

Regardless, I am not amused to find myself suddenly popular. I loathe small town, parochial games and sensibilities. If I had wanted to live that way, I would never have left home in the first place.

What always happens when this mood hits? There is no mystery – I move.

Unfortunately I am stuck here for at least twelve months. I can’t even get away for the traditional mental health break of summer in Seattle; I would have been there already if I could go.

Yes, I know that my problems are ridiculous. Stateside friends often throw up their hands and say I have no sympathy for you!

The other day I was meandering around Cambridge with my mother and picked up the 1972 edition of a brochure describing a place that I have been talking about visiting for, well, decades.

How have I managed to live here four whole years without realizing my lifelong dream? This is quite the mystery, and it may well go unsolved since my stated goal of the summer is to finally, finally, finally make it to Moominworld.

Still, a girl can dream! Mine is to go here: Bekonscot Model Village.

Today is the school fete – the last primary school event of my career as a mother – how strange and exciting! Last night we attended the Cambridgeshire Young People’s Film Festival awards ceremony, featuring several hundred children in fancy dress and an appearance by Lee Carter. The children were psyched.

Earlier in the week my son performed in the King’s College Chapel. Yes, our lives are awash with glamour. My kid even bought a new suit.

I woke at four in the morning to call and make sure my mother was ready for the car I ordered to drive her to the airport, then fell back asleep listening to the river. By the time I woke properly and stumbled off the boat to collect my child for the school run grandma was already settled at the airport.

The morning was bright and warm but fragmented with sorrow; the first act of the day was drying the tears of a child who wishes more than anything that he could move back home.

I empathize with his pain – living so far away from the familiar and beloved is like having an open wound that never heals.

Today is the fourth anniversary of moving to the United Kingdom, and I feel just as conflicted as the day I stepped on the airplane. Having my mother here for a month underscored that fact.

I know that she loves us, and enjoys the month she spends here every year, but I am an only child and I moved to the other side of the planet. There is no solution to this quandary.

My son is right to cry; it is very hard to say goodbye to someone or something you love.

Happy Independence Day.

Recently I was lurking around a wine store resisting the temptation to purchase sparkling water and the fellow at the counter asked what I’d been up to that day. I replied I went to the Arts Picturehouse to watch Imperial War Museum archival movies.

He queried D’ya mean ‘films’?

I answered Yes, whatever you call them… they are screened early in the day so it is always an auditorium full of 85 year olds – plus me!

He asked Were they all hitting on you?

I rolled my eyes and said No! Nobody would dare!

He laughed and replied Mores the pity!

Of course I scurried away rather than following wherever that conversation might go, though I was in fact telling the truth. Until very recently it was a rare unto nonexistent experience for strangers to talk to me at all, let alone feel bold enough to try their luck.

That changed during the Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks, when Ana Erotica gave me the essential tool kit to understand this form of communication. Though I do not use the skills, I have at least been vaguely aware that people are staring at me. Sometimes.

If I had finished the Ladychat lessons I would presumably be much closer to my goal of becoming a truly functional human, but Sarah moved away and I have nobody to practice with!

Imagine then my profound bewilderment, after accumulating more probable pickup attempts in ten days than I have experienced in an entire adult lifetime.

Three examples:

*One hot sticky day in Prague I was standing in the dairy section of the grocery store at the end of the Charles Bridge when the person next to me asked if I speak Czech. I replied in the negative but he inquired if I could help him figure out which container of cream to buy, and I obliged, both of us squinting at the indecipherable writing on the pots. He managed to tell me all about his career and siblings and was obviously trying to go somewhere with the chat but I was still innocently shaking the bottles to evaluate viscosity. When I realized he had a working class Scottish accent I was vaguely alerted to the fact that he might be interested in more than just cream. The rest of the conversation confirmed that fact, and I predictably had no ability to cope, defaulting to my normal Um, I need to…. go …. now….

*In a professional context I fell into conversation with a very proper lady who is also a lesbian with a capital L. Given that this is the UK, most work or academic or almost any events involve ingesting vast quantities of alcohol. This does not change my behavior (I misbehave just as much with or without) but it does bring out the shall-we-say-adventurous side of the English. I’ve been privy to more alarming confidences and scathing stories at alcohol-fuelled garden parties than I would be in the middle of the night in the clubs of San Francisco – honest. During this particular encounter I was acting like myself, which might be a wee bit scandalous by British standards, but everyone else was acting wildly unlike their normal daily selves. I might not have noticed anything but the person I was talking to emphasized her point by stroking my thigh. Now, I might be obtuse, but I am not stupid! What to do, what to do? I lack not just the etiquette but also the practice to smoothly extricate myself from such things. Just then a boy sitting next to me said to someone on his other side I can’t help it, I like the cock! I flung myself in his direction and said What a coincidence – me too! We have so much in common! Later I felt fairly dreadful about this prevarication, even though it seems more polite to be unavailable due to preference than it would be to say I’m not attracted to you. You might wonder – “but couldn’t you just claim that you are ‘taken’ to avoid the whole question?” The answer is: nobody seems to mind here. Especially not after the fifth drink.

*Wandering about trying to think of a major whiz bang tourist destination to dazzle my mother, I finally gave up and stepped inside a travel agency to ask for help. The fellow at the counter had only been talking to me for about a minute when he abandoned all pretense of selling anything on his list, though he did pick up the phone and call around several places tracking information for me. He also pried out various details about my life and loves. Why is it that boys who want a date always ask what kind of music you like? I have no idea, and always refuse to answer beyond a true but misleading John Denver, Bobby Goldsboro, Gordon Lightfoot response. This one had a canny strategy – he walked me through the list of all the shows touring the country at the moment. Very clever! He also had the great advantage of looking like a hooligan while sweetly rendering assistance. I simply adore tender lovin’ thugs – they are my favorite of all urban species. Before I skittered away this fellow had managed to solve my tourist problems, show me his vacation photos, talk about his divorce, invite me to a play, and, check it, give me his phone number.

The last is of course truly a milestone. I’ve married people without knowing their phone number, for goodness sake! Not to mention the fact that nobody has ever asked me out on a date before. Not even the people I’ve married!

From my perspective I was in no way encouraging the fellow, though Iainrecently informed me that Cleavage + no ring = available.

Maybe here – but that certainly isn’t true where I come from!

There is no moral to this story: I am, simply, baffled. Why me, why now? If this is the consequence of my research projects, could I possibly resign?

I was feeling around in the lining of the beloved small suitcase that has traveled with me ever since the first Lessons in Taxidermy tour, and guess what I found?

Pressed pennies from San Diego, the Woodland Park Zoo, and Central Park Zoo. This is remarkable in part because I am such a maniac about pressed pennies – they always get sorted and stored!

This morning I waved goodbye to my eleven year old son as he departed to attend his first ever sleepaway camp with his Church of England school classmates.

I’m seriously freaked out – he is my baby! So young! So sensitive! Though I am also sure he will have a great time, except for the prayer and hymn singing. He doesn’t care for that bit.

Of course at the same age his sister went on a road trip to Yellowstone sporting an Impeach Bush button that generated massive fights with strangers throughout the journey. As far as I know she didn’t punch anyone, but it is sometimes best not to ask these questions.

During that trip several kids had sex in the school bus, and one girl overdosed, but hey! It was groovy good fun with the happy hippie school, man. My kids are so very… different.

If you remember two highlights of 2007 – Pony Attack and Pony Update and wondered – hey, what the heck is happening with the ponies at Ely Cathedral? Never fear, we made the annual pilgrimage, though we forgot to film a movie, and there were no faraway friends in attendance. England is truly a gorgeous land:

A London friend pointed this out and I think it is super awesome:

The Hair Force

And, though some might get all haughty about paying for the service, it is also a return to a traditional industry. Lice are just a normal part of life as a parent. But as a parent, I’m also susceptible…. and I’m psyched that I can pay to have an actual human pick through my hair instead of grappling with chemicals and combs!

This has been an extraordinarily busy week, with my mother here to entertain during the day, one visiting artist and a flock of scientists to visit at night, Jonathan (minus Hiya, plus mother) arriving tomorrow, one massive fair ending and another even more sinister one starting requiring me to bodily protect my boat, and, oh yeah, a circus. I’m a wee bit tired and also highly allergic to something or other in the air.

When Jeffrey dragged me to the Bus Stop the first time I resisted – bars have never been my scene. What a tremendous shock to find myself instantly adopted by a crew of charming reprobates under the direction of the notorious and noteworthy Mark Mitchell!

Mark is in fact the only person I have ever met who completely understands everything I say, or fail to mention, instinctively and truly, without the need for excessive discussion. He just gets it in a profound and unique way. Hanging out with him is the best tonic I can imagine, and of course, endlessly hilarious and entertaining. Even when he makes me go shopping.

Many happy birthday wishes to a brilliant, amazing, supremely scathing person. I am lucky beyond words to have him as a friend.