Hi-Five, America.

Americans love to Hi-Five. Even when they do it with full ironic awareness, I'm pretty sure the majority of their being is indulging entirely in the cheesy exuberance of hand-slapping expression.

I hate to hi-five.

My reasons for this are as follows:
1. I'm not American
2. I'm not stupid
3. I'm fairly introvert and such demonstrations of enthusiasm make me uncomfortable

To combat this, and because it's funny, I developed an anti-hi-five tactic: when faced with an expectant hand saluting before me, I extend my hand at normal hand-shaking level and offer to shake. 'I'm British', I say. I don't do Hi-Fives.

Americans hate this.

For a while I found it pretty funny - and I assumed that they got the humour. I knew they were disconcerted, but I figured they'd just chalk it up to me and my dry British wit. However, this fourth of July weekend (the only time they ever say the date that way around, which is my reason for celebrating) I was told in no uncertain terms that in refusing to hi-five I am being rude and stand-offish and downright un-fun. OK the person doing the telling had been drinking since 7am, but I tend to believe the kernels of truth that come from alcohol loosened tongues.

Dry British humour bellyflops again.

(Or maybe they could just see through it to the fact that I hate hi-fiving and it's all a bluff.)

So I have to find a new technique for Hi-Five coping. Because believe me they appear at the most unexpected moments and from the most unexpected wrists.

My options as I see them are to either half halfheartedly indulge the Americans, whilst letting them know that I do not in anyway enjoy it. Or to irony the heck out of the situation and conjure up more enthusiasm and hi-fiving vigour than you'd find in High School Musical. I think the latter is far more funny. I think knowing me there's no way I'm capable of pulling it off. A future of reluctant hi-fives it is.

What's tea got to do with it?

Well nothing much really, except that it's rather symbolic of Englishness and inspires many memories of sitting around the kitchen table late at night with friends drinking tea and Mark eating all the biscuits (we were very benign teenagers). Soon there will also be memories of tea at TimeBank (I'm leaving in December) - using it primarily as an excuse to leave desks and have a gossip, spilling it all over myself / keyboard / notebook, instinctively making an extra cup for my chain-drinking boss...

But tea is also symbolic of Englishness because it's mild and polite - I can drink it all day and not get the shakes, it goes very well with cake and small sandwiches and it requires the use of a kettle.

Which brings me on to one of my primary gripes about America, and a big source of hesitation over this super-power being as super-powerful as they are: They Don't Have Electric Kettles.

Actually that's not entirely true. Jeremy and I (in Boston) do have an electric kettle - possibly the first electric kettle ever made. It sparks whenever you plug it in and it doesn't switch itself off when it boils - just makes an anxious squealing noise. This is fine unless you're like me and tend to forget you've put the kettle on and go and have a shower and emerge in damp confusion to steam and squealing and the beginnings of a small fire.

So you see, I'm not entirely convinced America should be the superpower it claims to be - the lack of kettles seems highly indicative of an inherent backwardness, and don't even get me started on the gaps in public toilets...

I'm moving there for Love, I tell myself, and there are always Reeses Peanut Buttercups to make up for the gaps in technology and sophistication.



Note to self - add english electric kettle to gift registry (and get a power transformer thingy so it works)