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Monday, August 08, 2005

There is something horribly compelling about the sight of a jar of pickled eggs on a pub counter. There is a strange fascination in the way that the eggs float gently in their yellowish liquid (vinegar, I assume) looking white and flaccid and utterly, utterly, revolting. I cannot imagine eating one. Haven't seen anyone else eat one either, for that matter ... Rhubarb and custard flavoured sweets also do not seem like something we might like to try. Neither do battered, deep-fried sausages, which seem to be the snack of choice for the local kids. And "mushy peas" don't sound good either. Ah, British cuisine. It is nice being able to get a proper cup of tea wherever we go, though. And it's easy to get good curry.

No news on the home front ... Apparently the credit-checking people asked the estate agency to fax them a copy of Bobby's job offer this afternoon, though, and the realtor feels that this is a good sign. Should hear tomorrow, one way or the other ... I hope so, anyway. What I want to know is, how do all these terrorist types manage to rent accommodation in London with such ease when we have to jump through so many hoops?

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