“London, that great cesspool…
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…into which all the great loungers of the empire are irresistably drained.”
Or so wrote Arthur Conan Doyle, who of course was the author of the Sherlock Holmes stories. 100 years later, and that assertion is as true now as it was then.
Well, I’m certainly a lounger, and I’ve been irresistably drained here, and as I look about me, I’m sorely tempted to stay a while. If I can make it viable. Well, I’ve spent five years living in London already, and arriving this Thursday afternoon was like slipping into a comfortable pair of shoes. Sensible, sturdy brogues perhaps.
But what happens to this column if I decide to stay, or rather that circumstances dictate that such a conspectus is feasible? Can a self-hating New Zealander with decidedly Anglophile tendencies be of any use demystifying the manners, mores and argot of British life, for a predominantly American readership? Which is to say, a populus that seems to think that the British are a race of people who sit around drinking cups of tea with their pinkies up, and speaking either like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins or Dustin Hoffman in that dreadful Speilberg movie about Peter Pan.
Can I contribue anything useful to the conversation? Answers on this blog, or on a saucy seaside postcard please.
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It may seem an odd occupation for a globe-trotting, nightlife loving bachelor, but over the last few months, I’ve been writing a children’s book called The wild cats of Piran. It’s about a colony of feral cats who live in a small medieval town on the Adriatic sea. The book is intended to appeal to very bright 9 year olds and up. The sort of thing a bookish, cat loving adult could enjoy whipping through in a long afternoon sitting in a snug armchair by an open fire. A great believer in letting the work speak for itself, if you’re at all interested, I suggest you contact the author directly, 
Oh of course you can you silly sausage. Hurry up with it already.
“Which is to say, a populus that seems to think that the British are a race of people who sit around drinking cups of tea with their pinkies up, and speaking either like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins or Dustin Hoffman in that dreadful Speilberg movie about Peter Pan.”
A bit more kind and cartoonish than the way I prefer to angrily stereotype the British. And actually, this characterization of American thought is truly more indicative of British stereotypes about Americans.