Yankee Doodle #2: Open Containers

Time (past time) for another of my observations on life in the UK.

If you come here from the U.S., sooner or later (likely sooner) you will be riding on the Tube or walking along the street, and notice to your surprise that a man next to you or sitting opposite you will suddenly be chugging down a gigantic can of lager (aka beer). Often he will be carrying a carrier bag (aka plastic grocery bag) full of similarly large yet unopened giant cans of beer. But there he is, sipping away on his open can without seeming to give a shit that anyone can see it's not Coke going down his gob (aka throat).

So here's the kicker: they don't have open container laws in the UK. You can walk down the street, ride on the train, and booze it up to your heart's content. There do seem to be laws about taking open containers in cars (what with concerns about 'drink-driving'). But if you're a pedestrian, you can imbibe to your liver's content, without an ounce of shame.

This seems very odd to most Americans, until you live here for a while and get used to it. Once you do, then you get to see how brilliant it is. It's always cheaper to buy beer at the newsagent's across from my flat, and I can get through one of those big cans on the way into town. So I'm already riding a good buzz before I get to the bar! And it is nice to have a respite from the Puritanism back in the homeland.

Now there is a separate matter of the culture of public intoxication here in England -- but that is another topic for another day. Bottoms up!

Take Two and Don't Call Me

So I'm not dead.

I got really sick last week. Fever, headache, cough, congestion, etc. I'd had one of those awful English colds you can never get rid of for a couple of weeks. And it seemed to turn into full-blown flu.

I went to see my GP, always a treat. Sure, it's "free" thanks to the $400 deducted from my pay cheque every month. My GP is actually good about letting you get a same day appointment. Normally that means you come at the appointed time, see one of the on-call docs, and then they send you on your way.

However, this time, I had an "extra" slot which meant I didn't have a set appointment. I had to wait an hour, and then I only got a few minutes with the doc. She did manage to look in my mouth, and told me that the back of my throat was very red. "You seem to have an infection in your throat," she said.

Hmm, I wonder what might have caused that?

"Do you want to do a swab?" I said.

"Oh, no," she said. "Just take some paracetamol (which is basically Tylenol) and gargle with warm salt water."

"Do you want to give me drugs?" I said. I was hoping for a Z-pack. Z-packs are brilliant. By the second day, you are ready to invade Czechoslovakia.

"Oh, no," she said. "Just paracetamol every four hours. Gargle. That's all you need."

What I needed were drugs. Strong drugs. Instead I've been living in the 19th century here. My throat doesn't really hurt, but still not back to normal. And my chesty cough has moved up into my head.

I spent five days more or less locked in my flat. Which is a sweet place to be. But I was crawling the walls by day three. Started writing a new play on day four (that's been boiling up for a while). Back to work on Monday. And this has been a long week.

A few things will pop up though, so stay tuned . . .