Great British Dentistry

Have you noticed that when it comes to UK supermarkets, BBC television series, and Boden, the adjective and descriptor "British" just isn't enough? Instead, everything has to be the "Great British": the Great British Bakeoff, Great British Pork Mince, Great British Fairisle Jumper, Great British Spotty Socks. Brits, how about feeling so confident that the "Great" is implied in the "British"? I hate American chest beating and flag wrapping, but the insistence on "Great British" makes the term "Freedom Fries" seem harmless. Nor can I imagine an American fashion catalogue as shamelessly patriotic as Boden - and I like Boden.

All of this somehow, incongruously, brings me to British dentistry, which, Dear Reader, we all know has been the butt of a few jokes along the way. (Sorry, Great British Dear Reader.) All quite simply because, well, I went to the dentist today. I felt somewhat fearful beforehand, as I don't particularly enjoy going to the dentist in the first place. But there was something extra daunting - brazen, even, if I may say so - about going to a British dentist. Add to that the confusion about whether to go to a dentist accepting NHS patients or not - I opted for not, after perusing a few online reviews. Anyway, in the end it was fine. Nice dentist, nice hygienist, slightly chiding of my personal dental care (in a reassuring way) without actually reaching the point of scolding or shaming, some X-rays but not too many, seemingly thorough but hardly painful. And unlike my American dentist, did not feel the need to tell me that what I thought was my overbite is actually a "jet." Or, that if perfectly white teeth could be graded an "A," mine were certainly a "G" or an "H."

I did experience a few neurotic moments imagining the dentist thinking some of the misanthropic thoughts shared by the protagonist dentist in Joshua Ferris's To Rise Again at a Decent Hour, but other than that it was perfectly fine - and quite possibly preferable to a visit to my old dentist in New York. So, see you again in six months. 

How to Write a British Cheque

And yes, that's a "cheque," not a check. On a recent job application, my head practically started spinning while trying to convert my American spelling into British. (Does one "practice" or "practise" psychology in the UK? Oh, stop it, American auto-correct!) Today's challenge: how to write a check to order holiday cards from my son's school. And you thought blogging was old-fashioned . . .

Here's an image to answer the question (courtesy of St. Anne's - not my son's school). I hate to admit it, but when I saw the blank cheque I wasn't entirely sure what to do.

Why I Love London

There are many reasons I heart this city, dating back to the mid-'90s, when I spent a summer in Shepherd's Bush playing groupie to a college boyfriend's band. (How things have changed.) But the main reason I really like living here is very similar to why I love New York. As someone who has lived, both as adult and kid, in a number of random places, including suburban Houston, bucolic Southern Holland, eurocratic Brussels, and New York City, London is the kind of place where I just feel at home. No, I'm not from here, but it doesn't really matter. This city is one of the most, if not the most, international in the world, the kind of place where it just might be normal - whatever that means - to be a Chinese-American psychologist mom from Houston who lived in New York for a long time. Via Brussels. I also kind of enjoy the look of revulsion on North Londoners' faces when I say I'm from Texas, which tends to be followed by a sigh of relief when I mention New York.

Here in London, I'm relieved not to have to answer questions like "But where are you really from?" Meaning, you can't possibly be American, because you look so . . . chinoise! "Mais tu n'es pas vraiment américaine. Pas vraiment." In Brussels, I had to answer this question all the time. Even at a party with a bunch of psychologists - people who are meant to be somewhat culturally competent. I know they were all drunk, but still.

Wellies

What comes after Belgian for Beginners? Why, British for Beginners, of course. I moved with my family of (now) four from Brussels to London almost a year ago. I recently re-read some of Belgian for Beginners and liked how it felt a bit like a diary. So much of everyday life just gets lost, and it's nice to record some of it - and not just impulsively on Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook. (It's strange that blogging feels like long form now.)    

So, to start it all off, here's a picture of some wellies (via www.luxuryandstyle.co.uk). Nothing could be more British, and no single item (even the £5 pair I purchased for my son the other day) can afford you greater assimilation per pound spent - if that's what you're after.