Life In London: December 2004 Archives
As every American knows, Christmas in London is a magical winter wonderland, with carolers on every corner singing in perfect harmony to a steady but manageable stream of cheerful shoppers. Everybody's hands are tucked safely into large fluffy muffs, except for a sprinkling of coal-blackened orphans wearing fingerless gloves, the better to clutch their chimney-sweeping equipment, and as the day wears on, everybody hurries home to eat a fat, perfectly roast goose, leaving the snow-dusted streets empty but for twinkling lights and the occasional ghost.
In real life, Christmas in London can be divided into two parts: the painfully crowded shopping period before, and the utterly lifeless dead zone during.
There are only two times when people have a hard time understanding what I'm saying. When I'm excited or happy about the subject at hand, I tend to speak too fast. When I'm unhappy or not excited, I tend to mumble and swallow my words. Other than that, I'm a regular Demosthenes (by which I mean, I speak like my mouth is full of marbles. (That last joke was included so that those of you who took Roman history can actually get some use out of it. Everybody else, feel free to ignore it and move on.)
Two years ago, the BBC hit on a clever format for a reality show. First, they did a survey to find out the 100 Greatest Britons as chosen by modern-day residents of the UK. They then presented an hour-long show about each of the the top ten vote-getters, and, at the end, invited the audience to choose the absolute greatest Briton of all time.
