CHAPTER SIX: ENGLAND NEEDS THANKSGIVING

400 years ago, Native American Indians partook in a feast with English Puritans who wanted to give thanks for having survived their escape from…um… England…which they wanted to leave so badly that they risked their lives sailing to the New World rather than stay. Now, hasn’t that got “cozy English holiday” written all over it? Americans will celebrate this apocryphal feast today by gorging themselves on turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and pumpkin pie.

Okay, maybe the thought of England adopting this American holiday is insane, but consider: in America, Thanksgiving marks the beginning of the Christmas shopping season; the day after Thanksgiving is the busiest shopping day of the year. In the US, by Thanksgiving day, I usually had generated several thousand dollars in sales. I’m certain that Thanksgiving could save England’s economy. Or at least my own.

This, at least, is what I wish for as I sit at my easel at a weekly craft fair, hoping to sketch portraits for passersby. With zero business. For two weeks. Whilst regretting turning down the minimum wage job at the retirement home. The attractive, young lady next to me apparently does not need Thanksgiving to generate business; she makes sale after sale after sale with her jewelry. The other vendors, however, like me, complain of slow business. Even our director tells me he feels guilty charging me rent because I have not made any money.

I’m flummoxed. Could it be that, here in the UK, without Thanksgiving, I’ll never have a lucrative Christmas season again? Come on, England. You’ve already adopted Halloween. And my neighbors, after treating me to a wonderful Guy Fawkes night, are anxiously awaiting the Fourth of July. Which is another American holiday celebrating freedom from the rule of…uh…you guessed it. Americans celebrate this day with fireworks, hotdogs, and patriotic American music. Hasn’t that got “blatantly obvious English holiday waiting to happen” written all over it?

To be continued. 

Chapter Five: It Takes Two To...Nevermind

          

A note to the gentlemen who read this column: never criticize your wife’s dress-up clothes. She’ll never forgive you.

You may think you are helping by hinting subtly that something is too tight here or there, but your attempts at subtlety and gentleness will have the same effect as throwing a kettle of boiling oil on her. You may just as well be telling her: “I want to really, really make you hate me for the next two months.” Take heed, O you with wife…or girlfriend. Hell hath no fury.

This is a mistake I made recently, moments before my wife and I left to go Argentine Tango dancing in Penzance. Yes, in our old life in the New World, before we began our new life here in the Old World, Argentine Tango was a huge part of our lives. And we could say that Tango has been good to us. It was at an Argentine Tango class that my wife-to-be and I met. She was the student. I was the teacher.

It’s true. I teach the Tango. And, you might not know it, but Cornwall has a small, dedicated community of Argentine Tango dancers, which my wife and I were delighted to discover when we arrived here. Classes, however, are scarce, and having arrived here two months ago and still not having sold any paintings or been hired to teach art, I have decided to hold Tango classes. In St. Ives.

People’s faces really light up when they know you dance the Argentine Tango, with admiration or amusement, I’m not sure, but mainly because they’ve seen it danced by young, gorgeous (and child-less) stars on shows like Strictly Come Dancing. This always makes Tango-teachers feel as though they ought to be teaching acrobatic tv steps, which cause one to fall. With one’s partner. In front of other people. Not that this has happened to this one. Ahem. But for now, I’ll be teaching less flamboyant steps, crossing my fingers, and hoping for a good turnout.

                    

To be continued.