Assimilation…

I have determined that England is unequivocally a Borg country. (For those of you who are not Star Trek geeks you can catch up here.) They do it with the scones. Oh, and the clotted cream and jam. The place sucks you in with the pastries, but those are just the gateway…

From there the places throws milky tea at you, and chocolate biscuits, and all manner of tasty things. These aren’t the flashy wares of a Parisian bakery; they are more insipid. They just sneak up on you and you’re hooked…

Next thing you know your children have turned into middle-aged men, the sort who enjoy walks along country lanes that require frequently negotiating stiles…

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At first it is just older children, but even the infants get assimilated…

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And before you know it, you too are off to the reproduction Norman villages pretending to be locked in the stocks. And once you get there it is all over; you’ve been assimilated…

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Luckily there is still the local city council to deal with; I may yet remain sane. But more about that tomorrow…

Best,
-t

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