You Say You Want A Revolution... A New British Invasion

My appointment was for 11am. I arrived 10 minutes early for my semi annual check up for this pesky thyroid problem that has recently become a part of my life. You get older, and your body starts to betray you. Bette Davis said: "old age ain't for Sissy's". That's comforting, considering I need a weeks bed rest when I get a hangnail. I figure by the time I'm 50, I will need an around the clock nurse, a closet full of incontinence pants, a bib, and a days of the week pill holder. Even though my body is proof positive that I'm no longer a spring chicken, it never ceases to catch me by surprise when I think about it. In my head, I'm still a kid. A health problem? Ridiculous, I'm much too young to have health issues, never quite realizing that in 20 odd years, I'll be eligible for social security (if there still is such a thing). I stand in line to sign in at the little hole in the wall with the sliding glass window. An older man with a bad rug, and a manilla folder is in front of me, speaking quietly, but forcefully to the lady in the glass front box. I stand there staring at the back of "manilla folders" head; hair jet black on top, and dull listless gray around the ears down to the nape of his neck. I promptly decide that he must be discussing his cataract medication, because it is obvious the man is completely blind. After making my conclusion as to why "toupee" is in front of me, I began pondering why the receptionist needed to be enclosed and separated from the rest of the outer office. Maybe it was just a kindness to all the frail, ill people in the lobby, shielding them from overhearing the doctors and nurses hushed talk of swine flu, ringworm, and angina. Ugly little words, not so much for their sound, but more for the small fortune that is shelled out in prescriptions, return visits and specialists that your HMO doesn't cover. Maybe it was to keep her constantly ringing 4 line phone from disturbing the delicate constitutions of her sickly charges. Or maybe her little cubicle was hermetically sealed from the coughing, sniffling, pox laden mob, just so she herself wouldn't catch some dreaded debilitating disease. I mean, after all, she is the epicenter of this practice, what would they do without her? The other receptionist is out on maternity leave, and even though she has varicose veins and a demanding 2nd husband (her kids despise him) who expects dinner promptly at 6pm every night, she dutifully gives her all, 5 days a week, from 8:45 am sharp until 5:01 pm sharp, minus her half hour for lunch, and 7 cigarette breaks. Her name is Brenda and...uuuuuuurch, like a needle being dragged backwards across the smooth grooves of a long playing record, I am ripped from my wondering thoughts and jerked back into reality when "wigs r us" abruptly turns around, putting my nose in spitting distance to an impressive matt of white chest hair showcasing at least 6 gold chains. Yikes! This guy burned my retinas like the blazing intensity of a thousand suns, and I realize painfully, that is probably gonna be me in fewer years than I want to be reminded of. Me, Peter Pan, standing at a doctors office window arguing with some random "Brenda" about my ailing liver. Holding on to my vanity like an over the hill peacock, with my gaudy pinkie ring and synthetic hair; silently and painfully relieving my bladder into my extra absorbent adult underpants.

I sit down in the waiting room in the only available empty seat, sandwiched between a young Hispanic woman with a cute, but completely out of control child on one side. He screams loudly and constantly for no apparent reason, while steadily kicking his Mother on the leg with his miniture Nike clad foot. Every methodically timed thump on the back of her calf has a soothing cadence (not for him, but for me) I imagine making that same satisfying sound upside his screaming head. The mother ignores him, and talks on her cell phone. On the other side of me is a man the color of a rainy day, holding a plump plastic medical bag in his lap. A small tube is a attached to the bag, it curls and winds across his legs, slithers under his jacket to some unknown place, providing him with liquid medication. He is breathing heavily, with small staccato breaths. I feel sorry for him, and I'm thankful it isn't me at the same time. I don't dare look him in the eye, I don't want to embarrass him by letting him see the pity that is evident on my face. I sit there on the hard office chair staring straight ahead, trying not to think of how uncomfortable I am. The lack of cushioning on the chair, the tantrum throwing brat beside me, the poor wheezing man to my right, all conspriring to make me turn to "flight or fight" mode. I'm sitting there thinking Id rather be taking out my own spleen with a rusty cocktail fork than be in this godforsaken place. Someone (presumably receptionist Brenda) switches on the radio and the elevator version of: The Long and winding road by the Beatles plays statically in the background. The long and winding road, thaa aat leads to your door.....la la la la la.....it always leads me here, leads me to yoooo ooour door........ la la la. I think of my 7th grade teacher Miss. Freeman. Miss. Freeman, I haven't thought of her in years. I liked her, she was young, maybe 25, she was pretty, and she was solely and completely in love with the Beatles. John and Ringo, Paul and George were incorporated into civic lessons, and Beatles lyrics became the part of debates. She tacked Beatles posters onto the class bulletin boards, and on very special occasions she would bring in her own personal portable stereo and play Beatles songs. She would turn off half of the overhead lights, we would sit there in the semi darkened classroom and listen to Hey Jude, Yesterday, and I wanna hold your Hand. We would take our cues from her, close our eyes, and listen silently and intently, swaying softly at our desks, absorbing the music like we too loved the Beatles, and eventually: we did.

There is a new British invasion that is taking over our country. No, the Beatles haven't reunited. Twiggy is now a grandmother, and Mary Quant's mini skirt is well over 40, but The USA is being reintroduced to our cousins across "he pond" with a whole new wave of English actors on prime time TV, BBC America on cable etc... Beautiful Nigella Lawson making food sexy, with her seductive accent, and sultry pot and pan rattling. Hugh Laurie as Dr. George House, Robert Pattinson of Twilight fame, all while Lily Allen, Amy Winehouse, and the Fleet Foxes are filling our airwaves. British Interior Design is also Hot Hot Hot! English interiors are no longer, over crowded, overpatterned, chintz filled rooms, but ultra cool, hip and cutting edge design that give homage to the past. Designers like Kelly Hoppen and Afroditi Krassa are making a big splash on both sides of the Atlantic and more established British talent like Anouska Hempel have helped to create a British tsunami that started a decades ago. English icons like Burberry, have not only put their distinctive stamp on fashion, but also on home design, with a whole line of furnishings. Liberty prints scattered across cotton blouses like your mother used to wear have made a huge comeback, and can be found on everything from sofas to watering cans. Retro images of Twiggy, and the Beatles can be found on toss pillows and graphic pop art of today. Debbie Travis can be seen refurbishing homes with her unique paint treatments on the FLN network, and Absolutely Fabulous and Little Britain have become a part of the American lexicon. Everything from Britcoms to English "wellies"(rubber garden boots) have landed on our shores, with no hint of them going away anytime soon. English gardens with their riotous color are still a standard, and a classic British Chesterfield sofa still reigns supreme in many a stylish American home. Gordan Ramsey screams profanities at us to not make a meal of "shit", and we dutifully obey. Jennifer Saunders has us in tears of laughter, making us realize why she is Britain's best loved commediane. Monty Python and Benny Hill are still a go to for a quick comedy fix. English design was not only brought over on the Mayflower, but continues to flourish in this country today. So pip, pip, and cheerio, put a little British design into your bloody lives today; and God save the Queen y'all, Ta!