A severe case of bumpkin-itis

Last weekend saw the Reluctant Housewife back in her homeland for a few days.  I just had to check out the preparations for the Queen's diamond jubilee celebration and, of course, the olympic games. Not.  I made a mental note to avoid the whole of England during them, as it will quite clearly be chaos.  A country that can't deal with a few snowflakes is unlikely to be able to handle the influx of people from all corners of the globe, although numerous amounts of them already seem to live there on a permanent basis.  Before you start thinking I've gone all xenophobic and right-wing, please understand that this last observation relates purely to my complete and utter country bumpkin-itis.  In German, country bumpkin translates as country egg, somewhat weirdly.  Bumpkin or egg, call it what you will - as I alighted from a bus onto the crowded streets of Brixton in south London, I nearly keeled over in shock.  The place was heaving with people of all ethnicities. And most of them were shouting.  They were certainly all in a hurry and had no qualms in elbowing me out of the way.  I was reminded of my first shopping trips in Germany, where I was shocked at the lack of excuse me's and please could I just get pasts.  (I take it all back.  People are just as rude in Blighty as they are in Germany.)  Then, the next day, I saw a transvestite sitting a few seats away from me on the underground.  I kept looking at him surreptitiously.  Obviously, I have caught the Bavarian virus of staring at anything slightly out of the ordinary.  Had I all the money in the world, I would have paid the transvestite to fly over here and saunter round our village shop.  The open-mouthed gazes and whispering behind farm-work calloused hands would be worth every penny.

When I got home I was greeted with rapture by my husband and children.  They all looked so relieved and beautiful.  Once we'd all hugged each other and established that I had indeed got everyone a present,  I asked CG what was new in Bovinia.  He thought really hard for a few minutes.  Well, he said.  There's an abandoned trailer in our street.  Nobody knows where it's from.  It's been sighted at several locations around the village.  The police may have to take action.  Hmm.  Is that all, I asked.  Well no, he replied. Also, the muck-spreading season has started again.  Sure enough, when I stepped outside the next morning, I was nearly suffocated by the pungent and unmistakable aroma of cow dung.  Suddenly, the dirty streets of London didn't seem so bad.