jetlag in the Soviet Kingdom

Jetlag has its own superordinary effect. It still lingers -- and it is restricting my diet, making me prefer sleep rather than something to eat. I do not crave social company so much as I crave sleep, although I sometimes have these strange mad longings for things familar - the sun, the sound of a lover's voice, familiar tones and faces.

Culture shock imposes its own version of delirium on the mind. It can give the mind a feeling of invulnerability up to a point, such as "I'm walking rather close to these construction workers on the street, but were I to slip and fall, they cannot hurt me, because either I or they are probably unlikely to exist." (There simply cannot be both sets of us in this parallel universe.)

That is how it is when jetlag meets culture shock. There are other dilemmas, too -- unresolved issues about where and when I belong. I have a yearning for a home, a little wooden farmhouse somewhere, with some animals to take care of (as well as to take care of me.)

The parallel universe that is British society couldn't be more different than I had anticipated. Only the University, which harbours a culture of the intellect (and study) has any cultural overlap with where I've come from.

This is easy enough to forget. I wake up in a mind-numbed state, having conspired with fate to consume half a back of ribs plus chicken wings, along with a couple of margaritas last night (my failure to think of anything more imaginative to imbibe -- the consequences facilitated by the waitress, who made it easy to follow along previous lines.) It is the next day, after the "test", and I will take my time preparing for it. Somehow, I imagine vainly, everything must have returned to normal. After all, there is no more anxiety.

But step outside, and I am met again with these strange aliens, these underwater snakes and seahorses, who bear a vague resemblance to humanity, but only in its most estranged formulation. They don't notice me and I don't notice them. This is the truce we have agreed upon. That way, we do the least to disturb each other's parallel worlds. It jars the mind a little, though, the recollection: I'm not home yet; I only thought I was.

The behaviour here is odd indeed, and the accents. Because I had thought
"Are you being served?" was British high farce, I had overlooked the fact that what is depicted in this show is actually British reality. Similarly, "Some Mothers do 'ave 'em" is British reality. Neither of these shows are farce. There are various indications of this.

For instance, whilst sitting in an Irish restaurant, I saw a man, whose index finger, I am sure, was inserted in his left nostril, for at least fifteen seconds. Maybe it just seemed that way, upon reflection, but from several yards away, the gesture seemed incredibly convincing as a nasal entry. Today, a minivan, which had your sixty year old mother's voice, was bleating rather plaintively and repetitively, "Help. Help. This security vehicle is under attack. Please, call the police." Nobody called the police for the dame, although the alternative option would have been more polite.

This society, it seems, just isn't very macho.

It's also, I hesitate but momentarily to remind the reader, out of date. People don't wear the same sorts of clothing that they do here anymore. They also have different attitudes. People, where I come from, assert themselves and jostle for position.

Where I come from, people think that if you have a problem then it's "in your head", but not in everyday reality. They think there really aren't any problems unless they're other people's problems -- which are not worth worrying about, if that's the case. That is to say, people where I come from are unconscious sophists, who put their own interests first.

People here, however? They are utilitarians in moral fervour.  I'm joking, of course.  Road work signs, among other things, indicate this philosophy: "We are here to improve the roads for you. Please get back to us if this isn't okay, or in an emergency." Also, rather than signs roaring militantly from the heights of buildings, "Union Built", we have the rather more demure, "Considerate Construction," which, pedestrians are told, is all about an administrative initiative to make necessary construction considerate, presumably to passers-by.  And then there is the problem of the early 1950s and how it never went away.