My Hovercraft is Full of Eels

After a long stint in the US, I’m back in Old Blighty. How do I know? The clarification on the pumpkin. Even mentally handicapped American children know what a pumpkin is for – it’s to make a jack-o-lantern. Not the English – their pumpkins come with handy stickers.

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.

I live right by Brick Lane, the neighborhood that is chock-a-block full of Bangladeshi immigrants and restaurants that serve Bangladeshi food to white Londoners. Where the real Bangladeshi’s eat out is still a mystery to me.

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?

I’ve been called a lot of things, but perfect is not one of them . . . until recently. And, to be honest, they weren’t referring to me. Just my urine.

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.