A dance floor

Not so long ago, I was having dinner at a restaurant with a large outdoor seating area - large enough to have a wedding reception going on to one side without disturbing the rest of us. The dance floor was in my direct line of sight so I found myself watching it closely, interested to observe this aspect of American life.

I saw the bride and groom work through a highly choreographed first dance, with looks of deep concentration. They were joined by the two sets of parents, then a bridesmaid dragged her reluctant boyfriend onto the floor, followed by another couple, and another until, before long, most of the guests seemed to be up and dancing, with varying degrees of confidence and rhythm.

On the edge of the dance floor, a woman got to her feet and gestured at her husband. He gazed intently at his phone, pretending not to see her, so she gave up and burst onto the dance floor by herself. Generously proportioned, strapped into a tight dress, she proceeded to unleash the frustrations of the week into her dancing - occasionally throwing a look of near-loathing towards her husband, as if he embodied everything in the world that was irritating and unsexy.

Eventually the man seemed to reach a decision - a few minutes of dance floor torture was probably better than the argument that would be waiting for him at home if he continued to hold out. He rose mournfully to his feet, put the phone in a special holster clipped to his belt, and made his way over to his wife. In a manner of speaking he danced, if making slight shifts of weight from one foot to the other counted as such, and all the while he just looked off into the distance, seeming to place his thoughts on some far off golf course or coffee shop, away from the noise and his gyrating wife.

Looking at this couple and the whole spectacle of the dance floor, the whooping bridesmaids, the young men with bow ties hanging undone around their necks, the overall awkwardness of white people expressing themselves through physical movement....I felt I could have just as easily been in London as Los Angeles. Turning back to my meal, I felt this is one aspect of American life that is comfortingly familiar.

An embarrassing situation

For a group of people so often regarded as loud and brash, Americans are oddly coy when referring to anything to do with bodily functions. Maybe my memory is deceiving me, but in the UK I don't recall it being a bad thing to ask, in most restaurants or public places, if someone could point you in the direction of the "toilets". After all, that is what you wish to use and, therefore, that is what you ask for.

But here, everyone does their best to come up with a different label. It could be a washroom, a bathroom, a restroom - really any type of room, as long it doesn't mention what you are actually going there to do. Personally I have settled on calling it a 'restroom', because it is accent-neutral and therefore most likely not to be met with a blank look. But not once have I gone there to have a rest.

During a recent meal out, I had visited the room in question, and was the only one in there. Then the door swung open, and in walked a gentleman - silver-haired, mustachioed, with an air of being generally pleased at how his life was panning out. He walked up to the urinal next to mine, making me suddenly conscious of the fact that there were only two of them, and took up position.

There we stood, solemn, elbow to elbow. I'd like to say we struck up conversation, realized we got on famously, exchanged business cards, and went on our way with laughter and backslaps. Actually, we just stood there, with only the dripping tap and distant music from the restaurant to break the silence.

Until, that is, the silence was broken by something altogether more horrifying - the unmistakable sound of the man, um, passing wind. "Oh, excuse me" he said, in a surprised way. What is the correct response to that, I thought? I searched back through a lifetime of social experiences and could not find the right answer. "Bless you" - as if it's a sneeze? "No problem"?

I really was not sure, so I opted for the mature response - namely to wash my hands as fast as I could, race back into the restaurant, and create a wall of menus around my table to ensure that I avoided eye contact with the man for the rest of the evening. Perhaps I have just led a sheltered life, I thought. After that experience, now I understand the level of embarrassment that lies behind all these misleading room names.

A CostCo experience

Entering my local CostCo recently, a family of four was going in ahead of me. There was nothing unusual about them, except that once we were inside the store, I happened to cross paths with them rather a lot – and so was able to observe their CostCo experience close at hand.

As they get inside, the body language changes noticeably. The woman becomes alert and business-like, the man’s shoulders slump in resignation, and the children’s heads turn up in wonderment at the scale of the place. I’ll call the parents Mary and Bob, and the children Billy and Lizzie.

Mary strides off in the direction of the food section. Bob wanders from aisle to aisle, resignation turning to sheer dejection – CostCo is clearly not his thing. He shows a flicker of interest in the laptops, prods at some Calvin Klein boxer shorts and a 7-pack of socks, but then just meanders on hopelessly.

Lizzie finds a demonstration table, where a young man is showing off a high-tech blender that apparently “all the restaurants use”.  Lizzie, who looks about 5, is transfixed by the buzzing and whirring of the blender. It could be hers TODAY for just $349.99, but her pink Barbie wallet stays firmly in her hand.

Billy (8 or so) passes a reflective time in the books section, leafing through a Guinness Book of Records. But then he has a change of mood when he spots a human-sized teddy bear. He finds his father and fervently begs to have the bear. Bob even seems to consider this ridiculous request, like a man who will try anything if it will get him home sooner.

Sense returns in the form of Mary – pushing a cart containing a mountain of food. You can see the work she has put in, balancing her children’s appetites and the capacity of her freezer against CostCo’s bulk quantities. And a little later it is time for them to go – Lizzie emerges from her reverie about the blender, Billy has forgotten about the teddy bear, and Bob rushes out into the sunlight, a boy again.

For my part, I enjoyed my CostCo experience – emerging with huge packs of kitchen towel, toilet roll and other non-perishable items. The vastness of CostCo pack sizes means that I have enough supplies to see me through until about 2015 – so I have a wait until my next visit unfortunately. I can almost hear Bob thinking “If only…”.

The end of summer

We have reached the Labor Day weekend here, which traditionally marks the end of summer just as the Memorial Day weekend started it off. I imagine rueful scenes all over the country, as barbecues, snorkels and tennis rackets are stowed away, warmer clothing is dug out from the back of the closet, and thoughts turn vaguely towards the distant prospect of Thanksgiving and Christmas shopping.

In between of course, we had the July 4th holiday - a day for extra merriment at the expense of us Brits living here. I walked around looking spurned, and attempted to reason with revelers at a local fireworks display - why did they think being part of a kindly constitutional monarchy was so inferior to their current system? They said something about the fireworks going off. Or at least I think that's what they said, but it was hard to hear above the noise - it certainly began with "f" and ended in "off".

Less than three weeks after this celebration of independence from the British monarchy, the country was captivated by the build-up and eventual arrival of the new royal prince. That he would be a future King George - a name synonymous with greed and tyranny for any American schoolchild - was a source of further amusement for some.

People seemed to expect the royal birth to have a special significance for me. Like I might go misty-eyed and break into a rendition of "God Save the Queen" at any moment, or confide that I was wearing my Union Jack underpants to mark the occasion. I was certainly happy for William and Kate, who seem like a nice young couple, and pleased by the bright, more accessible future that appears to lie ahead for the royal family. 

But my interest could not match that of the American public in the whole affair. I can't really explain the reason for this fascination with the British royalty. In a country where people scrap their way to the top - from Washington to Hollywood, Silicon Valley to Wall Street - maybe opinion warms to the idea of a family whose status is bestowed by history rather than its own undignified struggle.

In any event, September is almost upon us, on we go into the "fall".

A first ticket

Not one but two police cars were gliding ominously behind me as I drove home the other evening. I was not worried - my brake lights were working, my speed was a shade under the limit, and, to top it all, I had plugged headphones into my phone so that incoming calls could not distract my hands from their rightful position on the steering wheel.

I was so pleased with my hands-free solution that I think I turned my head side-to-side slightly, so that the menacing convoy behind me could see the ear pieces and appreciate what a responsible motorist I was. And then a strange thing happened. The police car directly behind me turned on its lights and siren, and its driver gestured for me to pull over.

How odd, I thought. Maybe he wants to give me a gold star, or enter me into the LAPD's 'best driver of the year' competition. "Good evening, officer, what can I do for you?" I said to the face that appeared at my window. The expression lacked warmth, sending my voice an octave or two higher than I would have liked.

"Do you know why I pulled you over, sir?" I honestly could not imagine. For a chat? To see if I had any spare donuts? 

"You are not allowed to drive wearing earphones in both ears, sir. Only in one ear. License and registration, please." I think I countered with something forceful like: "I....I....I...diddennothat...officer...s..s...sorry", and flapped about in the glove compartment.

The officer retreated to his car to write the ticket. I stared glumly at the passing traffic. It does seem to perk up people's commute, seeing police lights and a hapless miscreant brought to justice. Eyes widen a little bit, some with amusement, others with pity. I could not complain, since I have a good old look whenever I drive by such a scene.

Eventually I was allowed to go on my way, ticket in hand, an earphone in ONE ear, and a slight sense that I got what I deserved for being a goody-two-shoes. My first traffic ticket - I suppose it's another  step in the journey to feeling like a local.

Ordering lunch

Standing at the counter of a local sandwich shop recently, I was struggling to decide what I fancied for my lunch. The young man behind the counter, whose badge indicated his name to be 'Chad', was losing patience, and an elderly couple were waiting behind me. I decided to step aside and let the couple go first, ushering them forward with an encouraging smile and a courtly bow.

"So, what looks good here, Betsy..." said the man, scanning the blackboard on the wall behind the counter.  Betsy apparently could not read the blackboard because it was so far away. And the printed menu seemed to be too close, even though she held it as far away as her arms would allow.

"Tom, I can't see a darn thing on this menu. What are we gonna have?" Tom made a couple of suggestions, the merits of which were carefully debated. One was too heavy for lunch, another not heavy enough. Another possibility was discounted because it apparently made Betsy gassy.

"What would you recommend, Chad?" Tom asked. Chad was a heavily overweight chap, sporting a neatly-trimmed goatee. Due to the size of his face, the goatee seemed to hover somewhere in the middle of it rather than at the bottom, giving his aspect a slightly, how can I put it, gynecological quality.

With Chad's help, Tom and Betsy finally made a decision and shuffled off, and I made my order.  But I was left to reflect on a quality that I have seen time and again in this country. It is the uninhibited way in which Americans will tend to their own needs, and then think of those around them - whereas we self-conscious English often find ourselves doing things the other way around.

I don't think one way or the other is necessarily better. But each nationality would do well to be aware of the difference, otherwise Americans may continue to be seen abroad as obnoxious, and the English in America as quaint.

Next time I am at the lunch counter, I won't be giving way to the people behind me, even if it is Tom and Betsy. Actually, especially if it is Tom and Betsy.

Baseball

The baseball season is well underway here and I have been trying to get into it. It is a fairly simple game but curious too - shrouded in odd language and habits, as if to ward off casual observers not prepared to spend the time to understand it properly.

The game is ruled by statistics. Every aspect of a player's performance is earnestly recorded, averaged, and rated, in minute detail. Such relish is given to this data analysis, that you wonder if the actual playing of the game is a tiresome prelude to the real fun.

Complicated hand signals pass between players and coaches, wads of gum are furiously chewed, excess saliva is spat out all over the playing area. The game proceeds at a stately pace, its duration dictated by the action rather than the clock, and rarely concludes before the three hour mark. 

As with cricket, there is a nudging suspicion that baseball is a game from another era, not naturally equipped to fit into the fast pace of the modern world. The solution to this seems to be to play more baseball. 

A major league team plays six days a week from the beginning of April to the end of September, reaching more than 160 games in just the regular season. There is a distinct lack of self-confidence about this overloaded schedule, as if the American public might find something better to do if they were to be allowed out of a baseball-watching stupor.

The players may be paid $20 million a season, but 20 million also happens to feel like the number of hours that they are on our TV screens in a summer. I almost sympathize with these very wealthy people, strangers to their families, endlessly having to perform for an insatiable, hot dog wielding audience.

I'd better be going. The next game is about to start and I haven't even checked the stats about which of the teams has won more regularly at this stadium, playing on a Sunday, when the weather is over 80 degrees and both pitchers' names begin with a C.

Buying alcohol

A few months ago I went to a large grocery store to buy, principally, some beer. It was about 9pm, and the absence of an end-of-day beer had left me irrationally unsettled. No other beverage at home would suffice - if my evening was to end in a satisfactory manner, I needed a beer.

I made my selection, and started to pay for it at the self-checkout. A store assistant sidled up to me: "Could I see some identification, please sir?". Yes, yes, of course you can, I thought to myself, digging into my pockets. Actually....no he couldn't. In my rush to leave the house, I had only brought a few dollar notes and nothing else.

Having asked the question, he could not go back on it. Having no ID, I could not have beer. It was quite simple - but, in my desperation, I thought I could win him over. I tried matey friendliness, then pleading ("look at the grey flecks in my sideburns!"), and then anger - hissing that I was WELL over 30 let alone 21. He was not to be moved, and I stormed off, devoid of both beer and my dignity.

I should not have been surprised at this. The attitude to alcohol is quite different here in the US from the UK. It is illegal to drink in public - which has led to the time-honored tradition of swigging from a brown paper bag in order to outfox the police. Many waiters and store assistants don't consider it worth their jobs to judge on appearance, and will ID a granny as much as a tetchy Englishman in his thirties.

So I have learned my lesson now, and carry ID with me wherever I go, positively wanting to be asked to produce it. If I am, I do so with a flourish, like a schoolboy handing in his homework on time. If not, I conduct the rest of the transaction in a frosty silence, cursing my latest hairdresser for not adequately addressing my receding hairline.

I have not been back to the store from that evening. But if I get to the point that everywhere else has stopped asking for my ID, I may just pay them another visit.

Santa Monica

I took a stroll along the promenade at Santa Monica beach this evening. The sun was setting, the view out across the beach and ocean was vast and majestic, so the moment clearly called for big thoughts. I set off, hands clasped behind me and a far-off expression on my face.

A small boy was in my path in a flood of tears. He had dropped his ice cream, and seemed unable to believe that life could be so cruel. His weary parents tried to coax him on towards the parking lot, with promises of sumptuous treats at home, far better than any ice cream. Misery rooted him to the spot, so I stepped gently around.

A shirtless roller-blader glided past me on one side, a cyclist wobbling about on a hired bike almost ran into me on the other. I passed a sort of outdoor gymnasium, with people swinging on rings and doing handstands on parallel bars. There was a lot of flexing, and sideways glancing towards onlookers.

I reached the pier, picking through the crowds heading for the roller-coasters and candy floss. The pier is like any other really - hot dog stands, sauntering couples, games involving teddy bear prizes. But against a backdrop of palm trees and Pacific Ocean, overlooked by the Santa Monica Mountains and Malibu along the coast, to an Englishman it all feels a bit more glamorous than Brighton or Blackpool.

I have to turn back and re-trace my route, through the crowds and past the gymnastics, stepping over the melting ice cream and back to where I started. Santa Monica may not be the place for profound thoughts, I realize, but it has a unique quality, somehow tranquil and chaotic at the same time. I am sure  I will keep going back - it feels like an important part of LA lives there.

The dresscode

The distinction between an acceptable way to be dressed inside your own home, and an acceptable way to be dressed in public, seems to have all but disappeared here as far as I can see. I knew before moving that the US is generally a more casual society, but I have been surprised at just how little effort people are prepared to make.

A while ago I had to go out of the house at short notice. I had on an unfortunate pair of shorts, creased T shirt and worn-out beach sandals. I was unshowered, unshaved and, well, an altogether unappealing sight. I would normally not inflict myself on the world looking like this, but I had no choice, because my errand had to be done urgently.

However, a sudden turn of events led me to have to go straight to an evening at the cinema. I was appalled at how I looked, but if I went home to change we would miss the movie. So I walked in, keeping to the shadows, hiding behind pillars, until gradually it dawned on me - I looked just like everyone else there, buying their tickets and lining up to get their popcorn. Right down to the lack of a shave, I had unwittingly hit upon the Californian dress code for going out and about in the evening.

If I had been given some notice, I would have put on my jeans for an evening like this. These jeans have seen better days - the knees are so well-established that they seem to remain in a sitting position long after I have got up and started walking. But I would have been one of the smarter people at the cinema by some margin.

I am fully in support of feeling comfortable in public, but as I watch people go past me in a variety of tracksuit bottoms, old shorts and other garments recently picked up off a bedroom floor, I feel that this is one aspect of American life that I should resist adapting to.

A visit to the drive-thru

This morning, like many mornings, I stopped at my local Starbucks drive-thru before setting about the business of the day. Each time I do this, I feel like I fit in here a bit more. There is something uniquely American about this reluctance to move out of a sitting position.

There was a long line in front of me, everyone doggedly keeping to their morning ritual whether it added five or forty five minutes to their journeys. There were plenty of spaces in the parking lot and barely a customer inside, but anyone who parked and went in got a suspicious look from us drive-thru patrons.

Finally the car in front of me - an enormous monster-truckish vehicle - pulled up to the speaker phone to make his order. "Good morning, my name is Shannon, what can I get started for you today?" said the impossibly perky voice from the other end.

"Yeah, hi, can I get a grande extra hot double shot soya milk chai with whipped cream and vanilla, a blueberry muffin, butter croissant and ham and cheese panini just lightly toasted. Thaaanks."

"Certainly, sir", said Shannon without missing a beat, "and will that be all for you today?"

'Ye...ahhhh heck, it's Friday, throw a toasted bagel in there too would ya." And he edged forward.

My turn. "Good morning, my name is Shannon, what can I get started for you today?"

"Hello. A tall cappuccino and a bottle of water please."

'I'm sorry sir, was that a bowl of oatmeal and a hazelnut latte?", said with a note of panic. I took a deep breath, repeated my order several times, and gradually her ear adjusted to the odd accent.

I moved on. Miraculously the monster truck was already making off with its mountain of provisions. Windows slid open, I was given my order and relieved of a few dollars in a single movement, and off I went.

Unnecessary indulgence and procrastination, dressed up as a time-saving and efficient customer experience. See you on Monday, I thought to myself.

Public services

The third series of Downton Abbey recently came to an end here. It is just the sort of thing a displaced Englishman needs on a Sunday evening - a big country estate, a host of Maggie Smith one-liners and even, in this series, a cricket match. Excellent stuff - even if the life expectancy of the main characters hasn't seemed to improve in the post-war period.

The show was proudly brought to us by PBS, which is the one television network here funded by the public. It tries to compete with the likes of CNN and Fox, but is hopelessly under-resourced and, well, a bit rubbish. Its programming is punctuated not by commercial breaks, but with desperate pleas for donations. Its news output is amateurish, and its sets so dated and rickety that they must have been  contrived that way for viewers to feel guilty and more inclined to reach into their pockets.

The contrast with the BBC could not be greater. With its original, well-made programs and high quality global news coverage, the BBC manages to be both paid for and loved by the general public.

I observed a similar contrast watching the opening ceremony for London's Olympic Games. The commentators here in the US were utterly baffled by the celebration of the National Health Service. Like the BBC, the NHS has its detractors but there is a general consensus in the UK, across the political spectrum, that we have built something to be proud of. Healthcare in the US is almost exclusively the domain of the private sector, and any government intervention, as shown in recent years, can be undertaken only in the face of ferocious opposition.

There is such suspicion of government here that I cannot imagine any public service, whether TV, healthcare or anything else, stirring up feelings of pride in Americans. Setting aside the military, since defense is seen as a legitimate activity of the state, it appears that there really is only one thing the government will be congratulated for here: keeping its nose out from where it doesn't belong. 

The Accent

"Yew can aaassk me anythin' yew wahnt, sugar, long as you keep talkin' in that accen'" And with that, the lady at check-in in Atlanta airport burst into laughter, nudging her friend next to her. I had started a question with 'Can I just ask..." which is quite a normal English turn of phrase in my mind but, to her, it was all just unbearably "kerrr-yewt".

I get this sort of reaction alot. The English accent just seems to captivate Americans, seizing them with visions of the Royal family and James Bond, of stiff upper lips and plucky dignity. You are attributed with intelligence and sophistication, far beyond anything you might say to justify such an assessment. 

So not surprisingly I thought this was a pretty good deal for a while, and attempted to pitch my accent somewhere between Pierce Brosnan and Hugh Grant, complete with sheepish grin and affected reluctance to talk about my Britishness. Surely this would lead to great success, I thought to myself, amongst people so ready to believe in my good qualities.

However recently I have started to doubt the use of the Accent. To do business here, one needs to be taken seriously. And to be taken seriously, it doesn't help that prospective clients, on hearing me speak, are given to reminiscences on the London Olympics and congratulating me on Kate Middleton's pregnancy. 

They may like what they hear but, when it comes to the gritty decision about what will actually get a job done, the lofty qualities associated with the British don't seem to me to count in our favor. We are thought of, like a nice teapot perhaps, or even the Royal family itself, as something to admire and feel good about, but useful and effective only on the rarest of occasions.

For the first time, I am starting to think that Brits who succeed in this country do so in spite of, not because of, how they sound.

Public transport

In my first few months in LA, I got around by bus - and didn't think much of it. For sure I became aware of the sorry state of the US pedestrian, as I struggled to reach my bus stop across six lanes of impatient traffic. But the act of taking a bus was surely nothing out of the ordinary?

In fact, it seems that it is. I have casually mentioned it a few times in polite society here, and have been met each time with a sort of sympathetic wince, as if my life must have known some truly dark days. A note of caution enters the conversation, like I might go on to reveal that I had just got out of prison, and the subject is quickly changed.

In London, the tube and bus system is a standard way of getting around the city, for just about every layer of society. Amongst the hordes of people cramming themselves onto a rush hour tube, you are  just as likely to trip over the umbrella of an investment banker earning millions, or be wedged into the armpit of a member of parliament, as you are to jostle with the city's lowlier workers.

Looking back, I realize that an LA bus is quite different to a London tube. The passengers tend to be Hispanic and, if truth be told, look more like they are going to office buildings to clean them rather than sit in them. There are school kids, and pensioners, and the occasional oddball like me who doesn't know any better. But in the end, the message could not be any clearer - in LA, you drive a car. Plain and simple.

This contrast between London and LA is to a certain extent a result of area and population. London is trying to move many more people across a much smaller space, so there is some logic to packing everyone into larger units. But I think there is more to it than that. To an LA resident, a car means freedom and self-respect, and with that much of what it means to be an American. However bad the traffic gets here, it is not likely that public transport will ever be able to compete with that.

American anger - Part 2

A few days after this episode with Paul and the angry man, I was watching Piers Morgan debating the gun control issue with one Alex Jones, a passionate defender of Americans' right to own guns, and also the instigator of a petition to deport Piers Morgan for his very public anti-gun stance.

Now Piers Morgan does have an annoying face and this, combined with hearing an opposing view on an emotive issue like guns, could lead even the most saintly to raise their voice. But this does not do justice to the reaction from Alex Jones. In fact, to say he went berserk, ballistic or stark raving mad, would not even cover it. 

He raged that it would be 1776 all over again and that the republic would rise up in protest if their guns were to be taken from them. He ranted, screamed, on and on. And I started to feel as I did when the man in the coffee shop was berating Paul the poodle - sheer embarrassment that somebody could display such emotion in public.

Irrespective of what either of them was actually saying, I marvel at a society that can accept their displays of emotion and anger, and move on. Alex Jones has attracted some ridicule for what he said, but people don't seem to mind him totally losing it one day, and then expecting still to be listened to the next.

The English tendency to suppress anger has led to a more cordial society, but one where grievances tend to be nursed in private, where they can grow out of proportion and feed all sorts of passive aggressive acts in public. Ugly as it is to watch, maybe we can learn something from this American willingness to scream and shout, to let all the emotions go, and not to mind who is watching.

American anger - Part 1

Recently I was sitting on the outdoor terrace of a coffee shop, drinking a cappuccino and reading a book. At a nearby table was an overweight man and a woman. He appeared to be an advisor of some sort, judging by the way she just listened while he talked, seemingly at great length about matters of grave importance.

At another table was a man tapping at a laptop, with a white poodle at his feet. I'll call the poodle 'Paul'. Paul had organized himself on a towel laid down for his benefit, and was surveying the scene around him. Evidently the scene did not impress him much, because after a while Paul started tugging at his lead, pawing at the towel and yapping at passers-by.

"SHUT UPPPP!" This came from the advisor man, who obviously didn't appreciate being interrupted while dispensing wisdom. Paul looked at him irritably, trying to decide if the man was of any use to him at all. He thought not, and continued yapping. The man tried a theatrical "ssshhhh", Paul was not convinced, and his owner remained engrossed in his laptop.

The man went to the washroom. He took a few minutes and reappeared looking grim, in a way that made me sympathize with the mother and son going in after him. He glowered at Paul, and continued to hiss and shout until, having lost the flow of their advisory session, he and the woman finally gave up and left. Paul at last persuaded his owner that enough was enough, and they left too.

What struck me about this was how unafraid the man was to make a scene over something that annoyed him. As an Englishman, I might whisper to my friend about the wretched dog ruining our coffee break, or complain at length when I got home, or let the irritation fester inside me for a few days. But shout, and get emotional in public? That would just be too embarrassing, surely?

Police in the US

I have realized that whenever I see a police officer here I tend to be on my best behavior. In the car I will sit up straight, arrange my hands in the 10-to-2 position on the steering wheel, and proceed in careful observance of the speed limit. And in person I might make a show of picking up some litter or helping an old lady across the street, hoping for a nod of approval from the officer for my public service.

Why do I do this? In the UK I was appropriately law-abiding, but wasn't so eager to please those enforcing the laws. Maybe policing is done differently here, and is more effective at gaining respect?

Certainly the US police seem somewhat cooler than their UK counterparts. Names like LAPD and NYPD give a strong identity, even if they sound slightly like a venereal disease. American police cars are all gravitas as they patrol the streets, while the British police busy about in their Vauxhall Cavaliers.

In my mind, in the UK there will always be "bobbies": a bit paunchy, a bit "ello ello what's goin' on 'ere then",  and a bit prone to wearing improbably tall hard hats. Whereas in the US there will be, by contrast, "cops", with their guns, swagger and aviator sunglasses.

I had occasion to meet a couple of Los Angeles police officers recently (purely in a social context, you understand), and they were quite normal - probably no different to the men and women on the beat in London and Manchester. The names are different - more Carlos and Brent, than Nigel and Darren - but their outlook, manner (and, yes, their paunches) are familiar.

So whether there really is any difference in the quality of policing, or whether it is the glamorizing portrayal of the police in US movies and TV, it seems to work on the likes of me. It must be quite a relief to the authorities, as they combat drug trafficking and gang warfare, to know that the middle-class Englishmen will stay in order.

Piers Morgan

I never liked Piers Morgan when he was a newspaper editor in the UK. He came across as stroppy and aggressive, and I didn't feel much sympathy for him when he fell from grace and disappeared. 

In his new incarnation, with his own daily news show on CNN, he is much more appealing. He seems more at ease with himself, more human, and his style - still bolshy and opinionated - goes down better on this side of the Atlantic than in his home country. As a fellow Englishman in the US, I admire him for how respected he has become here.

He is now getting a lot of attention in the gun control debate that was sparked by the Connecticut shootings. Having decided that Americans don't get angry enough about these tragedies, he compensates by getting super-angry each night on his show. He berates pro-gun guests, almost hugs those against, and generally works himself into an undignified lather.

I think this public hissy fit performs a valuable public service - that of counterbalancing the pantomime baddies in this debate, the NRA. These are the people who suggest solutions like giving teachers weapons, so that they can pick off would-be gunmen between Math and Science and keep the school day moving along.

With Piers Morgan baying at the moon on one side, and the NRA practicing their commando rolls on the other, the politicians are left looking calm and rational in the middle. All the outrage, and stupid ideas, have already been used up, so surely the right answers are there for the taking.

If something good comes out of all this, then Piers Morgan will have done his bit - embarrassing as it is to watch. Good luck to him.

TV Commercials

I have spent the last few minutes trying to think if there is anything, in the world, more annoying than television advertising in the US. The Kardashian family possibly excepted, I really don't think there is.

You simply get bombarded - before, during and after your program - with everything from invitations to bonanza mattress sales, to images of cars sleekly winding along mountain roads, to demonstrations of the latest nose hair trimmer (when I find mine quite easy to use).

However I have found some light relief during commercial breaks through paying attention to the last 20 seconds or so of drug company advertisements. This is where the negative side effects of the drug in question have to be explained. "Taking this medication may cause you to break out in hives, spend 3 days on the toilet, or burst spontaneously into flame. Consult your physician if any of these symptoms persist". That sort of thing.

The best of all these is in a commercial for a viagra-type medication, which advises users to see their doctor if they have "an erection lasting more than four hours". Wow! At the wrong time of day this could make it quite difficult to go about your business. But I bet women all over the country, with husbands snoozing beside them in their armchairs, have quietly taken note of the drug's name. So even the warning can be part of the sale I suppose.

I'm going to have to think of other strategies for getting through commercial breaks. Sniggering at rude words will only get me so far.

Driving in Los Angeles

A few weeks ago I was driving along when a car nosed out from a parking lot into my lane, in a way that I felt required some outraged flailing of arms. The driver was a young man, sporting a large baseball cap and (probably) a pair of jeans riding somewhere around his knees. In response to my performance, he eyeballed me and, calmly but firmly, raised his middle finger. I felt silly, stopped flailing, and we both went on our way.
 
What a constructive exchange that was, I thought. I had released my frustration, he defended himself while acknowledging his error, and no damage was done - either to our cars or ego. Was this how driving in LA worked, I wondered - is there a sort of unwritten highway code of rude gestures, helping people to stay sane amid all the congestion and rushing around? So I decided to test it out.

A couple of days ago a driver behind me thought I was being too cautious in turning left through the gaps in oncoming traffic. He leant on his horn with such fury that I thought he might actually explode. So I mischievously raised a finger back at him. Well, it turns out that not all drivers in LA are up to speed on the unwritten code…

We turned left, he raced in front of me and gestured – with what I now saw was a meaty arm – to pull over. I’d like to say I did, and put him in his place with some excellent karate. Or deployed some silky British diplomacy, so that we shook hands and went on our way. Instead I hared off at high speed thinking “F*@!%^&*!!!”.

There followed 60 seconds which would have been comical if I had not been so petrified. I would turn into a side street, he would follow. I would whip round a car park, only for him to be waiting at the exit, eyes blazing and still gesturing for me to get out. Just as I was running out of side-streets, he gave up and disappeared, leaving my heart rate to return to some sort of normality.

Maybe, just maybe, I misjudged that particular situation. I guess I'm not quite an LA driver yet.