An advice slip? It had to be the same as a receipt, I figured, about to push the button, since I always collect receipts for automatic transactions. But then I hesitated. What if “advice slip” was really some sort of clever marketing ploy. By pressing “advice slip,” was I inadvertently signing myself up for some kind of personal banking scheme?

What if the machine had retrieved full access to my accounts once I slipped in my card, and, using some sort of cruel algorithm blind to the plight of an overseas volunteer living with a not-very-friendly-exchange rate, had determined that my outgoings far exceeded my incomings and I was in desperate need of financial advice? Perhaps the slip would read, “You are an economic fool. We are putting a temporary freeze on your bank card until you sign up for one of our excellent savings plans. A bank manager will ring you shortly.”

On Tue, May 13, 2008 at 7:48 AM, David F. wrote:

Well I never! According to the paper this morning, the 'hot' period that we are having at the moment is the hottest May since 1772! Just think that the last time that Brits were going around in inappropriate clothing, getting burnt to a cinder and looking like tomatoes, America was still under British rule, Mozart was a mere 16 years old and Beethoven was toddling around on tottery legs! I hope the pleasant weather continues if only to encourage all the gardeners to get bedding plants in their gardens. However, the old English saying of "Cast ne'er a clout* 'til May be out" is often true and many gardeners and those who have espoused their winter clothes should be warned! Hope all is well, With all good wishes, David.

Stephanie Fosnight to David F. on Tue, May 13, 2008 at 12:25 PM

Hi David,

P.S. Mom and Dad, this insane heat everyone keeps talking about is actually very pleasant weather in the mid- to high- 70s. :) It's rough, but someone has to endure it.

Both of those iconic American drinks, however, take a little bit of work on this English isle, for neither is common at all. That is to say, there is a common drink called lemonade that is available at every bar, but it's actually what we'd call 7-Up or Sprite or, to use the generic term, a lemon-lime soda pop. The church I'm volunteering at has a fully licensed bar that we open after the evening service, and I work behind the bar once a month. The first time I was there, the team leader asked me to check the lemonade and see if it was OK, so I pressed the little button marked "L" on the soft drink dispenser (or, as they'd say, fizzy drink dispenser) and poured myself a glass, thinking it was strange that the lemonade was carbonated. I tasted it and announced, "Something's wrong with the lemonade. It tastes like Sprite." I was soon set straight--that is lemonade in England. I also quickly learned that a popular bar drink is a shandy, a mixture of "lemonade" and lager from the tap (our lager on tap at the Trent Vineyard bar is Carlsberg Export, and I've grown to quite enjoy an occasional cheeky half of this pleasing little brew). I've since learned that what we Americans call lemonade is most often referred to here as "cloudy lemonade" and is served as a specialty bottled drink in the better pubs. However, my English brother Dave brought home a bottle of lemon squash (concentrated fruit drink that is diluted with water before serving) that's actually made with real lemons and sugar, and it's delicious. When I mix in cold water, ice cubes and mint leaves, it's like I'm sitting on my Great Uncle Roger's Colorado farm, enjoying his signature summer beverage.

The ideal spring weather in these photos is a major contrast from the photos taken just two weeks ago that I posted yesterday. It's the third day of sunshine here in Nottingham, and I just can't get enough of the outdoors. Luckily, being in my peaceful, second-story bedroom (here in England they'd call it first-story) is almost like being outdoors, for I've got two large banks of windows facing east and south over the garden. One of the peculiarities of England is that nobody has window screens. That's right--no window screens. Instead, almost all windows swing straight out into the air. That's a boon for me, since the apple tree outside my south-facing window is currently laden with blooms, and the pear tree next to it and cherry tree next to that are just finishing up their flowering.

Although the occasional wasp, bee and the fly find its way into the room, apparently mosquitoes, gnats and the other pests we know in Chicago aren't much of an issue here. The bugs to watch out for, I'm told, are midges. Just what midges are, however, I've yet to discover.

Keep reading to see more photos of an English spring.

Although we shivered in winter weather two weeks ago, though, the gloom only served to heighten the atmosphere at Kirby Hall, a once stately Elizabethan manor house now fallen into ruins. However English Heritage has done a great job restoring parts of the hall and gardens to their original splendor. The small entry fee includes an audio tour that's extremely informative, explaining not only the history of the building and its owners but also about Elizabethan culture. I found it especially intriguing as I serendipitiously happened to be reading Bill Bryson's latest book, "Shakespeare" (I know I've posted about Bill Bryon several times on this site, but I swear I do read plenty of other authors!) Exploring Kirby Hall, or what's left of it, anyway, really brought Shakespeare's world to life for me, and the part when Ruth and I crouched in the ruins of a stairwell so we could eat our sack lunches out of the wind made the whole excursion even more adventurous.

While much of the main house is still standing, the less well-constructed servant's wing has fallen into ruins. This house was notable for being one of the first to incorporate curved windows.

That’s true in some ways. I have been able to travel, but my travels are very dependent on my limited income (and where my friends have relatives). Yes, it’s been lovely to escape the freedom of a 9-to-5 job this year, but that also means I struggle sometimes with a sense of purpose and validation when my housemate comes in exhausted from her teaching job and I’ve just been sitting around the house all day working on articles and tidying the kitchen. It also means that I don’t have regular income or health insurance!

And yes, I do often end up at the pub with my friends of an evening, but that’s only after I’ve finished stacking chairs, emptying the bathroom trash cans and vacuuming up after a church service; or helping to lead a small group for young adults; or running a Sunday morning program for 45 hyper pre-teens.

For the real truth is that I’m doing real work here in England, and I thought it might be time for me to start sharing some of the emotional and physical struggles that have accompanied this experience. I made a major life change to spend a year in England, and the transition hasn’t been without its difficulties.

Check it out.

I don't think I've ever thought so much about squirrel politics as I have since coming to England last September.

Only, it doesn't. Not really.

"I know more about the flippin' Irish St. Patrick's Day than I do about St. George," said my housemate Dave in exasperation today. "I mean, I drink a pint of Guinness on 17th March but I don't do anything for St. George's Day."

He then proceeded to head out to the pub for a pint of real ale.

"Today is St. George's Day," I told my mom by telephone this afternoon.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I assume it's to do with St. George and the Dragon."

Luckily, the trusty Daily Telegraph that arrives each day to adorn our kitchen table (thanks to English Mum) included a special souvenir section all about St. George's and his Day, England and a growing sense of English nationalism. It's a good thing, I think, for the English to be proud of their heritage and cultural individuality, just as the Scots, Welsh and Irish--especially in this era of encroaching chain stores and the village pub and post office closures.

I probably know more about the English medieval legends of St. George (a 4th century martyr to whom medieval storytellers attached fantastic tales) than do most English, mostly because my favorite picture book growing up was the simply beautiful St. George and the Dragon, by Margaret Hodges and illustrated with lavish paintings by Trina Schart Hyman. I can't recommend the book highly enough--it won the 1985 Caldecott medal for illustrations and also introduced this 7-year-old to Edmund Spenser's "The Faerie Queene" at a most precocious age, since Hodgson retells that version of the Georgian legend. Every child on both sides of the pond should read and admire this lovely book! I still treasure my copy and am sad it's in a friend's basement in Waukegan right now, unavailable for reading on the 23rd of April.

There were only three entries by American art students among the 100 or so artworks, so we were surprised to see a video screen showing footage of the Bean and downtown Chicago. Suddenly, high school students were on the screen, giving messages to Chinese students. My friend and I both leaned in to read the plaque explaining the video presentation, and exclaimed at once, "New Trier!" The work was a series of video diaries created by students at New Trier high school in Winnetka. We stood for awhile watching the high school students passing on messages to their contemporaries in China, both more than a bit pleased to stumble across such a tangible link here in England to our lives back home.

I quickly learned one quick difference between English and American gardening--the wearing of Wellies. Wellington boots are tall and rubbery, in order to keep out the mud, I presume. It's so much easier to slip into my Wellies (well, OK, into my housemate Julia's Wellies) at the garden door than it is putting on tennis shoes (trainers, they call them here) that are bound to get filthy and that need to be scraped before re-entering the house.

I love wearing the pink Wellies!

Yesterday the RSPCA (Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) condemned various government-funded efforts to cull grey squirrels as pointless and "ethically dubious."

I have to admit, the large-scale poisoning of grey squirrels does seem like an extreme measure. Perhaps it would be justified if it truly did bring the red squirrels back, but even then I have my doubts about mass killings of these animals. A source interviewed in the article linked to above, that up until the 1970s anyone could get a permit to kill the red squirrels, and that it's just become fashionable now to hate the greys and love the reds.

I really don't know what to think about this. I don't like killing any animals but I do understand the value of preserving native species. Any opinions out there?

That suits me just fine, as I've been a Bryson fan for a decade. We pass audio versions of his books around my family, as they make great listening on driving trips, and I've read all of his early books, too. I greatly enjoyed seeing him speak at the National Press Club in Washington D.C. back in spring 2003, and am impressed by how he's made such a successful career for himself by writing about travel, words and science while calling two nations home. I have to admit it's a little strange to find him so celebrated over here, seeing as how he's American, but I guess he's lived in England for more than 20 years and it's actually heartwarming to see how eagerly he's been adopted by the reticent Brits.

Today's article in the Daily Telegraph makes me admire Bryson even more, because he's putting his time and energy where his mouth is. Even a casual reading of his travel books reveals Bryson's dismay at the homogenization of first America and now Britain. Small towns in America have been swallowed up and the same is happening in England, as globalization and convenience (usually in the form of souless chain stores and subdivisions) reach into rural villages.

The wonderful thing about this new public awareness campaign of Bryson's, though, is that he's starting small by encouraging Brits to stop littering. I think he's onto something here--if the new generation of Englishmen and Englishwomen learn to be respectful of the land that's seen so much history for millennia, then that may translate into a more holistic care for Great Britain.

I hope this is a lesson we can learn on both sides of the pond.

As I stepped into the greenhouse, feet crunching on piles of brown leaves that had fallen through the holes over the last decade, I imagined myself back on the North Shore, where I did home and garden writing as a Pioneer Press reporter between 2003-2007.

"It's like discovering a Jens Jensen garden," I thought dramatically, scooping up leaves (and more than a few snails--the bane of English gardeners--who had taken refuge in them). "I can almost see myself on one of those palatial yet neglected Lake Forest estates, finding a little garden shed filled with rusting but still usable supplies."

Or, of course, I could pretend to be Mary Lennox, the child from "The Secret Garden" who finds a once-loved garden that's been long abandoned to the ravages of time.

I knew such romantic fantasies were frivolous, indeed, but that's what a lifetime of reading about dreamy, spirited heroines like Anne of Green Gables and Jo March will do to a girl! Soon I was very busy clearing out the leaves, picking bits of broken glass out of dirt and emptying pots of dank water, but a delightful sense of mystery and discovery remained.

Troy and Timmy, the Pasture House cats, were very happy that someone was in this quiet corner of the garden at last, and came purring into the greenhouse to visit and "help" me. Timmy even curled up on the shelf to keep a close eye on all events (and just in case I spontaneously decided to serve them their tea out in the garden, no doubt).

I was pleased to find "The Secret Garden" on the shelves of the 200-year-old house I am currently sharing with the English family that has invited me into their home for this year. (This family consists of husband and wife and three young adult children, two of whom still live at home and are about my age). As I read the story once again, I wondered at the huge amount of work that Mary and her friends Dickon and Colin put into reviving the walled garden high on the moors. Is English garden so different from American gardening?

I am delighted to report that I am about to find out.

Troy the cat suns himself before the side door of my English home, as daffodils brighten the foot of a cherry tree about to spring into blossom.

I quickly discovered that a quango (or QUANGO) is a quasi-autonomous non-governmental organization. Kinda like our NGOs, I guess. According to Jonathan Bernstein, author of "Knickers in a Twist," quangos, "generally have titles that suggest they have something to do with housing or transport or health but, in fact, their main function is to perpetuate bureaucracy. The cynical may suggest that these committees and agencies exist solely to reward close but otherwise unemployable associates of the political party in power."