I caught a glimpse of the English as seen through the eyes of Americans. Public broadcasting would have you believe that England was frozen in time, at least 30 years ago, trapped in surreal, unfinished skits or trapped among the hems of flowered dresses and wide eyed asides to the camera. The movies would have you believe that we're best as steely
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I like my toast done on one side
And you can hear it in my accent when I talk
I'm an Englishman in New York
As much as we hate to admit it, we're more of the stereotype than we want to believe. You can't let go of the place you grew up in and that's a good thing. It makes the world a more interesting place.
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I never feel as if your entries need any suitable comment, they're much more like a glorious narrative, a peak into the brain of a mad scientist who only needs his quiet mumblings to sustain him. I will only say that I'm glad that time has passed and there isn't a strikethrough plaguing the house of your namesake.
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I don't know. I like comments. It makes me believe that people read this shit. And five did.
Sorry I missed your feverish blurting. I have this terrible tendency to leave my laptop open and it reconnects itself on a whim, it seems. I don't know what icon I'm about to use, so ignore it.
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