I’ll be honest. One of my favourite things about Britain may surprise you. No, it’s not the scathing wit or cutting edge music - although that's up there - or even the quaint old buildings (some of them are just old, and could use with a little upkeep). To be perfectly frank, as I know you can handle it, it’s the widespread use, and general acceptance of the C word. Yes THAT C word. Fine, the Queen doesn’t say it, but you know Charlie boy lets it roll off the old tongue once in awhile.

It took me about a month to really register that was indeed the word I was hearing. But alas! Do my subversive little Yankee ears deceive me? You people are saying the forbidden word of all words. Where I come from, this little nasty gem is up there with the most reviled words in the English language. In the mighty land of free speech, [stop laughing], this word could actually get you incarcerated. It must be said that I grew up with a Father whose profound embrace of the F word meant that I learned to use it as a noun, adjective and verb by the age of seven, so you can understand my excitement. [My mother, thank god, was the picture of refinement and elegance so I turned out fairly balanced].

So there I was, virtually skipping through the streets of London shouting it from the rooftops like Dick Van Dyke’s alternate gendered evil twin: “C----!” I’d combine it, “F----- C----!” Use it in a sentence, “Could you believe that f------ c---!” [My English granny was definitely rolling over in her grave]. Just feeling it roll off my tongue would send me into liberated hysterics. I started hearing it films, not Merchant Ivory of course, but you’ve seen one you’ve seen em all, on talk shows, at dinner parties ‘Hey, c---, could you pass the Camembert’. (Fine, I may be exaggerating now).

It’s hard to forget the time I returned to the States and used it in front of my mother, my English mother, for that matter. (Yes she’s been Americanized, but the woman still drinks tea like it’s water). She about barred me from returning to London, ‘that was not how we spoke when I lived there!’ I of course, bathed in my new uber cool anglophilia, told her to chill out, assuring her that everyone says it now. “I promise Mom, It’s like her majesty’s version of ‘have a nice day”.  My English friends finally had to burst my euphoric bubble and tell me that NOT everyone said it, and yes, it was still deemed offensive...I suppose some of the reactions I received started to make a bit more sense.

Fine. I’ll save it like a precious piece of Parisian chocolate only to make an appearance for the very deserving. You’re out there, and know who you are!

C u next Tuesday.

Teetotal. A word that in the past has elicited a variety of responses from my British pals as I uttered it with a tinge of hesitation. Their faces would contort, brows furrow, as they desperately tried to compute my declaration of abstinence (it’s obviously a bit easier now in my current condition, but you’d be surprised).

The usual response usually comes with the following breakdown of reactions.

a) Shock: “But why on earth would you do such a thing?”

b) Suspicion:  “What is wrong with you? Are you sick, skint, brain damaged!”

c) Realization: “I see, you’re one of those Californians”

d) Resolve: “Well, we’ll have to work on that”.

I would anxiously hurl excuses at them, as if I needed to support my position with facts: ‘I come from a family of light drinkers. I think I’m allergic. I used to be able to hold my liquor, I used to be fun!’ All of the above would fall on deaf ears as their eyes glaze over, evidently too busy planning my twelve-step program back to societal acceptance.

As much as I try to convince myself that I once was a fully functioning social drinker, I was never able to out drink my English friends or hold my composure in anything less than an embarrassing way- that being said, after walking down the high street the other night, my composure is starting to look pretty damn good. My friend’s abilities to imbibe cocktail after cocktail without creasing so much as a Top Shop blouse, is something I continue to marvel at. Is it genetic? Sheer dedication from an early age? Or is it pure necessity caused by a lifetime of being exposed to winters that rival the frozen tundra of the Ukraine, where drinking is the only antidote.

Sometimes I pull a story from my drunken annals just to see if I can change their looks of dismay into that of profound admiration - yes I’m a people pleaser. A crowd favorite is the one from my tenure at an extremely posh deli in South London. Name withheld, as to protect the innocent.

Back in those days, I was a strong patron of the Thresher (a local beer/wine shop) bargain of the week. I would work double shifts at the counter serving the South of the river ‘Yah’s’ (for you non English, think of someone who speaks with marbles in their mouths) their pate (a veggie at the time always prompted the curled lip snarl “Are you really going to eat that?”), sliced biltong and the like. I of course did this all with a Yankee smile and a moderate quantity of alcohol in my bloodstream. Hence, the smile.

One day, having had an impromptu liquid lunch down the street at the bistro my employers owned, I returned to work with the verve of a six year old, and the balance of a geriatric. I hit the meat slicer like it was a tricycle. “Who’s next? How thin do you want it? Sausage samplers for all!”

Needless to say, it didn’t take long for me and the meat machine to have words, resulting in the bloody carnage of my index finger. This being in the middle of a rush, I didn’t think it was prudent to stop serving; and of course, being drunk, the pain wasn’t really a factor. To the utter horror of the South London Mothers picking up some cured bacon for Sunday’s brunch, I efficiently shoved my hand in a latex glove, wrapped my wrist (envision the smooth workings of a NASCAR pit stop) with some tape and soldiered on. “And what about some lovely hazelnut grain bread with that?” as the blood filled up the glove and dripped down my arm. I wasn’t allowed to have lunch at the bistro, thereafter, unless properly supervised.

As I said, I wasn’t much of a drinker, or a good one anyway. Trust me, it’s better this way. So if you see me at your local, shut up, and just buy me a lime and soda.

The election has just been called in the UK. Just like that, Gordon Brown has announced that in few weeks there will be a general election for a new Prime Minister. So that’s it? Seriously? Despite your dissatisfaction (England, I’m talking to you), your apathy, your absolute denial on the topic, I’m here to tell you that this country doesn’t realize how lucky it is.

In America there is no escape from the campaign madness that is the presidential election. It is an all pervasive media and societal blitz that runs into the streets like a reckless tsunami, taking down everything with it in its path. And this, mind you, lasts for a year. Yes an entire year of radio, print and televised commentary, supposition, analysis, polls, debates, comedy routines, you name it.

Cue theme song and trot out those celebrities, the freight train that was the election 2010 was simply unstoppable. The candidate’s wives were all gussied up, ready to stand behind their man and add their two-sense about why he was the perfect leader for our country. ‘He was a POW and survived my Ambien addiction, god damn it, he can lead this country!’ They hit the late shows, the cooking shows (let’s watch Palin rip the head off a live turkey and cook it for dinner), even the music shows weighed in, ‘check out Obama’s favourite rock videos’.

And no matter what camp you were in, you were in for the full onslaught. There is nothing more disconcerting than seeing Bruce Springsteen onstage clutching his guitar in mid-croon as Ashton Kutcher, befit with Kabbalah string, cry that he was ‘punk’d’ by the last administration, urging the young kiddies to get out there and vote. Even Brad Pitt toured the country begging college students to do the right thing - never did you see so many happy babies, and mothers for that matter, wanting a kiss.

Most people I talked to here won’t make up their mind about who to vote for until the day of. The day of! And where the heck is the vitriol on the part of the public for their chosen candidate? In the States tensions ran so high people would steal each other's lawn signs (okay, so we’re not a rational people) and fights would break out at the local Starbucks. (“Do you know that there Osama man is a terrorist.” – yes there were individuals THIS ignorant). I even heard one gem of a statistic that said that a higher number of Obama supporters order decaf, and desire the benefits of soy milk. Cause that's pertinent information to report in the news.

At least this year Charles and Maurice Saatchi are working on a slick and catchy slogan for David Cameron, making sure to lambaste Gordon Brown to the appropriate degree. And Gordie, seriously, how about bringing in a team of personality consultants? Don’t you know the number rule of campaigning is to flashy your pearly whites every time the camera is on you. Okay, so this is England. How about a new set of veneers to kick off the election season? Or maybe Sting and Elton John would collaborate on a zippy tune you could have your supporters sing at press conferences. Then again, I think part of the reason I live here is that Election Day will come and go, and I probably will be none the wiser. Ignorance is indeed bliss.