And yes, there is an inordinate amount of rain, and a disproportionately high case of the snaggle tooth, and did I mention that the mutha fucka's love their mutha fuckin tea? Crikey! But all this being said, I loved my month in jolly ol England, it was like returning to the mothership. I even gave one of those red coats a good natured tar and featherin just for old times sake. But first, my dad and I had a mission, get to Wimbledon without getting bombed. Seemed easier said than done at one point, as the first car bomb dud was mere blocks away from our hotel in Westminster. I just kept thinking it would be damn ironic to be blown to smithereens on my first day in Britain, considering all I went through to get there. But the true test would be no mere assassins, no, but could two Americans successfully navigate a que, and we're not talking just any que, but the mother of all ques? I had my doubts, buy Pa was not daunted in the least. Alighting off the train in Wimbledon Park, we found not one, but two ques, blimey, what were we to do? I`ll tell you what we did, we headed towards the back of the line. Man did we get a good talking too by one of the many que patrolmen on duty that day! We had to get into the other que, the one that ques to get into the real que. At first, I did not understand the purpose of calling it two ques, and why not just call it a line now that I mention it. I found out later. I must say, they do keep good care of the poor souls who can`t afford to buy tickets in advance to this prestigious event, we got free tea, free yogurt things, and to top it all off, a free sticker that proclaimed us as queing veterans of Wimbledon! I didn`t feel like a expert quer yet, but I wore my sticker and stuck out my chest. That's when all hell broke loose. First one, then many of the que patrolmen, most of whom were about 80 years old, started yelling, "We are about to move the que, BUT DON`T MOVE YET!" This was repeated with growing intensity for about 3 minutes, they seemed to be stalling. I overheard one of them mention they needed to wait for Bill, that they couldn`t move the que without him. But we were getting antsy. "Don`t move yet!" I couldn't`t help myself, "Can we move now?" "NO!" "How bout now?" "There will be no moving until ordered too!" I just didn`t understand, and felt unworthy of my dark green sticker, so I threw it off in disgust. I mean, even in England, its a matter of one foot ahead of the other, right? That's when we started to move, sideways! The real line, which had slowly disappeared round the bend, left a vacant spot, which we were now so cleverly taking advantage of, thus becoming the new, real que! Brilliant! Anyway, we got in and saw about three matches and overheard a Tim Henman match. Was cool to check out the grass, and the pomp, but honestly it paled in comparison the the Australian Open. Just not enough drinking going on. The next couple days I spent up in Edmond St. Bury with Alex, met her family, and then rendezvoused with dad again to check out Cambridge and Oxford. At Oxford we met an old guy on the bus who looked like Mr. Bean. He had been a student of JRR Tolkien, and gave us some great in site into the man. We also checked out his grave and old house, but best of all, the pub where he and CS Lewis used to hang, the Bird and Baby they call it. A couple of great site seeing days in London with dad and then he was off back home. That's when Alex and I took off on our camping trip to Cornwall, and my personal quest began, the search for the mythical Cornish Game Hen.
