To put it mildly, he was in a state of shock and abject horror at what his new life in England would have, and not have.

The first out of his mouth was warm water. Americans (and Canadians, where this chap came from) take it for granted that if you have hot water, then you can have warm water. It seems reasonable, doesn’t it? Not in England, where this country is designed to produce hot and cold water out of separate taps (or faucets, as they call it), and never the twain shall meet.

Want to wash your face with warm water? Turn on both taps, put the stopper in over the drain, fill up your sink and then you can have warm water. Here is what some people still think is wonderful:

It’s perverse, but there’s nothing you can do about it – most houses have this pre-historic design, and even many brand new houses will have it.

What’s even more confusing is that the British clearly understand the concept of warm water – they do have showers, after all, and those showers produce warm water. That said, showers are a bit of a foreign concept to them. Baths are often preferred, and showers are hideously under-pressured. Water flow resembles eight mice peeing on you in unison. Our Canadian friend mentioned the shower pressure, too. Hell, if Seinfeld could have an episode about water pressure, we’re entitled to grump a bit, no? As Kramer said, “If I don’t have a good shower I am not myself. I feel weak and ineffectual. I’m not Kramer.”

After covering the lack of warm water and shower pressure, the UK’s love of radiators was next mentioned, to round off the trifecta of plumbing complaints Americans usually have.

This was followed by complaints about lack of customer service, awful tumble driers (if there are any), public transport, the bizarre quasi-requirement to carry a copy of a utility bill or bank statement with you everywhere, and the cleanliness of shops.

But what I took away from this exchange was not a reminder of the UK’s annoyances, but rather a compelling example of just how far I have come. He sounded like me when I first arrived, and listening to him made me suddenly realize that I am completely at home here and accept the bizarre ways English do things as completely normal. Given long enough and you’ll get used to anything – and I guess I have. England has become normal, home, even comfortable.

It’s something I’ve been grappling with for a while. Who knows where I’ll be in 10 or 20 years, but for the time being, this place is home and I’m staying indefinitely.

I simply stare in wonder and ask my friends what exactly they do with a hairless armpit they don’t do with a hairy one, which promptly shuts them up

But the bigger question is, why the armpit obsession? What is it that makes Americans ignore the European topless beaches, lack of morbid obesity, and lascivious reputations and instead go right to the armpits, as if that’s a deal breaker? And how many of my friends have actually seen a hairy european female armpit, in person? About as many who have been in outer space. Urban legend, through and through.

Or so I thought. I just moved into a house-share with two other guys and one girl, all French. I present photographic proof of said hairy armpits of my new flatmate Magalie, hair so thick it can’t even be contained by clothes.

• Faked a positive result on a Tuberculosis test. For the fun of it.
• Fed stunned but living mosquitoes (which recently had dined on me) to an ants’ nest. The mosquitoes were crowd-surfed away.
• After a 5 year old child said, “I want my mommy,” I replied “I want your mommy too.”
• Convinced a friend that the pivot point of his elbow during right-handed auto-erotica had led to a crippling curvature of his member, and that he needed to use only the other hand for a few years.
• Attempted to burn a wooden religious icon when in need of firewood (prevented by others, sadly).
• Smurfed a feminist.
• Accidentally started a long-lasting rumor that one of our virginal friends had contracted the clap.
• Hid a sewing machine in the trunk of a friends car, leaving her and her family to spend an entire week wondering how on earth it suddenly appeared in their car.

In other news, I’m in court today, as a witness for a violent crime – a family ruckus ended up with two people punching each other on my front doorstep. How charming, as the English would say.

Being in Court involves me sitting around for hours waiting for the attacker and victim to show up (neither ever did) and trying to get out of a parking ticket related to the matter. Here’s hoping I see £200 refunded from this.

Any visit to an official building always requires me to first remove my pocket knife from my keychain. It’s technically an illegal weapon, despite having a blade less than an inch.

Britain banned all guns back in the ’80′s when a crazy man shot a bunch of children in a school. People pointed out at the time that this wouldn’t prevent knife crimes, and surely you couldn’t ban knives. Well, after a spate of teenagers stabbing each other, they banned knives as well. Yes, I could face charges for possessing my knife.

God forbid they ever search my bags after I get back from camping – I have a Kill-Bill-esque blade I carry that would get me in the nick in no time.

Anyway, there are also a lot of wholesale clothes stores in the areas, and they have without a doubt the most revolting looking mannequins. Most are dented or cracked, and some look like they are cast out of a Steven King novel where evil mannequins come to life. But today I saw what might be the winner – a Shrek inspired child mannequin. Really, who designs these things?

Like all British residents, I’m eligible for the National Health Service, the free single-payer government run health service. So I selected and registered with a local GP (equivalent to family medicine), and after the annoyance of trying to register at two doctors’ offices that were either closer or prettier, I had to select between just two, which were a shocking half-mile away. I’ll survive.

When I signed up, they told me to come back next week for a checkup, which I did. The attendant took my blood pressure, weight, height, and checked my urine. After getting the readout from the machine, he exclaimed excitedly that I had perfect urine! Apparently, this meant less paperwork for him, hence his happiness. My PH was balanced, i had no Nitrates, and a few other wonderful things.

The most surprising thing about this is the comparison with the American system. I can’t think of the last time a Doctor volunteered to investigate me to this level. They just aren’t interested (unless you are dating one who demands you get tested for Tuberculosis after a trip to Turkey, but that’s another story).

The whole process was, go in with proof of address, sign up using half of a single page, and voila, that’s it. No more paperwork, no multipage forms, and amazingly, no waiting around for hours in the waiting room. I didn’t wait either time I went for my checkup or when I went back a few days later to see the Doctor.

All this talk in America about how awful socialized medicine is? Let me tell you – I’ll take it any day over the shouting matches with insurance companies and doctors who diagnosed me without entering the room (he was busy in the corridor, but did stick his head in). I’d rather trust a disinterested bureaucrat than a determined insurance rep (determined not to spend a dime, that is).

But mostly, I like the British system because of all the flattery – let’s remember, I have perfect pee.

I fly tomorrow to Germany to see relatives!

For instance, my teeth have always been more yellow than the average person, and I don’t even smoke or drink tea or coffee–the usual culprits. So she offered to make me a set of bleaching trays, which I thought was a great idea.

And then when it came time to sit in the chair (upholstered dinging room chair) she switched into business mode, pulled my head back, and pushed in a dental plate wadded high with that solidifying goo they use, which squirted deeper into my throat and started a gag-reflex. I kicked and fought like a dog being given a pill, broke free from her grasp, and ran into the kitchen spitting dental mold stuff into the sink. Which is a bit of a feat, as it had begun to solidify around my teeth.

She was laughing and scolding, and told me that I was her most difficult patient ever, with her family members a close second. Why is that family members (or anyone who gets your service for free) thinks they know as much as you? I’ve been in the same situation myself, on the other end. In 10+ years of providing IT consulting, who was the one and only person who actually argued with me about something? My mother, when I was hired to give computer training in her school. She’s a lovely woman and a wonderful mother, but when you don’t know how to cut and paste, don’t argue with the IT guy!

Anyway, a few ruined molds later, some arguing about who was going to put the mold in and how much goo to put on it (turns out she does know more than me about dentistry), and one more neck-lock wrestle session, I had a beautiful dental impression made. And, a self-portrait picture, just after the last struggle.

I also became really interested in this dental goo. It starts as powder, turns into a pudding consistency when you add water, and then solidifies into something rubbery 30 seconds later. Why hasn’t anyone given this to me yet? The possibilities are amazing! I hope my cousins’ kids aren’t reading this, cause they’re getting some for Christmas. It rocks!

Lori dressed her niece’s Flat Stanley in a Beefeater costumer (which is apparently a ‘local’ customer) and we took him sightseeing. Here we are at the Tower of London. Flat Stanley makes an appearance in the lower right of the frame.

But the oddest thing about that day was not the looks I got from people as we held up a tiny cutout of a man and took pictures of it, but of the ridiculous signs that help tourists orient themselves at the Tower of London. Do you need to go to the toilets or make a phone call? No problem – they are this way.

Do you need the gift shop? Over there.

Did you come for the beheading? Yes, right this way, folks, and if you can’t read English, just follow the handy picture of the beheading. Top of the morning, and good day.

I swear. Who gets these jobs? Really, whose job was it do draw a stylized beheading?

More pictures of me and Flat Stanley touring London can be found here.