It happened twenty months ago. But who’s counting? Well, I’m counting. Twenty months ago I met my boyfriend, James. James is English, and he was working in New York where I lived at the time, and we met. And pardon the crappy metaphor, but sparks flew: They did. They flew. And impossibly and ridiculously, we committed on that first non-date of a date to an international, monogamous relationship. We did long-distance for a year and a half, and two months ago I moved from New York to London to be with him.
So first off, pip pip and cherrio from London, and all that. Second off, I’d like to address all that is horrible and wonderful about, not just cohabitation (or “cohabi-tay-shh” as I am wont to call it), but specifically, cohabitation with an Englishman. Because what you picture – at least what I pictured – is mornings spent cuddled in bed as a light rain falls against your windowpane. A light rain that will clear, of course, as you peruse the eminent Guardian Newspaper together. You will stroll arm in arm down scenic and historic streets, sipping tea, eating scones. A pint at the pub before dinner. National healthcare. The BBC on local stations. Shakespeare done with real English accents.
But, oh, my Yankee friends, it is not so. It does not go like that. As I alluded to before, it isn’t all bad. It’s just that, neither is it idyllic. It isn’t, as the saying goes, “All good.” Keep reading »