Enjoyed my second buffet meal at Swensen's in as many months this afternoon. As I was engaged in some deep and rewarding munching one of my table companions inquired of me whether I missed English food. The answer came easily: not in the slightest. And thinking about it further this evening it suddenly occurred to me that I'd rate my memories of the lingering smell of boiled cabbage as positively traumatic. The ability of the British to get the very worst out of vegetables in preparing them for the dining table is surely unparalleled in world history.
What I do miss, occasionally, about my homeland is the spoken language. Specifically the way people speak in the area of Manchester that I'd identify as my home in the deepest, most abiding sense. But the extent to which I miss it only strikes me in a powerful sense when I'm there to hear it.
It makes me feel rooted, for want of a better word. Which is odd for someone who has chosen a life of happy exile.
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