Playing house and loving it

It may not seem like “living large” to a lot of folks, but I’m evermore enjoying playing house here in the U.K.

My English exchange partners left Sunday on their way to Charlotte, leaving me alone for the first time since my French exchangers arrived at my house Sept. 9. For somebody who lives by herself, that’s an awfully long time to maintain some semblance of civility. I tend not to like an audience for my slovenly ways. When there are other people about, I often feel the need to defend my natural laziness.

Only children like myself also lean toward selfishness. I plead guilty to that one, too. I’ve never played well with others.

So while I loved my English hosts to bits, I was glad to have their house to myself at last. I celebrated by doing laundry. This chore may sound mundane as dirt, but given the peculiarities of European appliances I considered it a huge victory that I was able to operate the washing machine without mishap.

Getting the clothes clean was a piece o’ cake. As usual, however, the drying process is a two- to three-day affair. There’s a dryer in the garage, but I think it was rejected when the Mayflower sailed, so after an hour of futile tumbling I gave up on it. That left a drill that involved a drying rack, radiators, the stair railing, several chairs and a closet thingy called an “airing cupboard.” I had the option of hanging the clothes on a line in the garden but the English weather is notoriously unreliable so I decided to take my chances indoors, machine-free.

Until you’ve lived in somebody else’s house for any length of time, you’ve probably not considered how many little quirks and idiosyncrasies a house can have, including your own. I’ll bet you take the operation of things like your TV remote control, your dish washer and heating system for granted. But imagine if strangers came to your house and were faced with figuring out how they worked.

Exchangers prepare homeowner manuals with these details, but it’s a huge help to have a personal demonstration. That’s why I was so grateful to have nearly a week with the Martins, my British hosts, to become oriented to their home here in Newbury. I can only imagine how they’re coping with my house back in Charlotte. What seems so simple and convenient to me may be driving them nuts.

Yesterday after Fun With Laundry I drove down to the New Forest, a national park near Southampton that was originally established as a royal hunting ground by William the Conquerer after his arrival in 1066. Given its history, I hardly see how the area qualifies as “new,” but it is the home of lots of wildlife, notably free-ranging ponies. I had read about the ponies, which are protected by the Crown, and wanted to see them in their natural habitat.

The New Forest is a beautiful park, no doubt about it, and all the creatures have plenty of grazing land, but I’m here to tell you, those ponies are the saddest bunch of animals I’ve ever seen. I got some pictures and wish I could upload them. I saw dozens of ponies throughout the forest and along the heather-covered meadows, and every one looked like they were sorely in need of some Prozac. Given their sweet gig – wander aimlessly throughout a lovely nature preserve, eat to their hearts’ content, let the tourists gawk a bit – you’d think they’d be over the moon.

[I need to insert here that while it has manual transmission, the Martins' car is the polar opposite of the one that came with the house in France. It is comfortable, zips down the Motorway like a giselle and is as easy as pie to drive. Those gears practically change themselves! Can I hear an "Amen!"?]

Back at the house I settled in for the evening. I may be one of the only visitors in the kingdom who gets a large kick out of British telly. Among the choices last night: “Hairy Women, a programme focusing on female body hair, illustrating where women have it and why many want to get rid of it,” and “There’s a Hippo in My House, an endearing documentary of a retired South African game keeper whose pet hippopotamus, Jessica, is resisting his efforts to coax her into a date with a wild male hippo.” I’m not making this up.

Over on Radio 4, the Pick of the Day was – I swear this is true – “The Secret Science of Pee, a report on an unpublicised, unloved but gilt-edged resource – urine.”

I ended up watching a dramatisation of a Peter Robinson mystery, “Aftermath.”

The fun just never stops around here. Oh, wait, I take that back. Have you ever taken a shower under which the mechanism sounds just like a leaf-blower?

But in contrast to the house in France, I have no complaints in England whatsoever. After all, here I have excellent amenities like a garbage can in the kitchen. And heat.

I’m afraid the poor Martins are already exasperated trying to figure out how to turn on my lamps.