I blinked. Had the bouncy ride in Richard Branson's pensionable jumbo jet been just a bad dream? I fingered the marks on my palms where I'd clenched my hands as the aging plane had attempted to lurch into the air, bounced twice on the runway and finally lumbered toward the clouds. Still there. So I was clearly still in the US.
First-born broke the spell. "We don't look anything like this" she squeaked in outrage.
We were in the UK section of Epcot's World Showcase. Alongside Ye Olde National Stereotype (aka The Rose And Crown pub) stood a red phone box and a fish and chip shop.
I couldn't do much to sort out the authenticity of the fish and chip shop (too clean, no huge vats of month-old fat on display and lacking pickled eggs) but the phone box... Well, some urine, graffitti and an elbow through one or two of the glass panels would do wonders.
A heavy-set man called Mark (according to his name-badge) eyed me suspiciously. Urination would have to wait for another day I guess.
Its interesting to see the Main Street formula (namely, a nostalgic Americana that never really existed) being applied internationally.
Something else about this place; its awash with alcohol. I last came 10 or 12 years ago, and it was only Mexico-world, Germany-world or Ye-Olde-English-world where beer could be purchased. Now there are stalls on the paths dolling out the stuff. I like a beer as much as the next man (although since I'm alone with First-Born for this fornight, its obviously a dry period for me) but more than once I've had one of those electric fatty-mobiles bearing down on me with 200 kilos of lard more concerned with drinking his beer than steering the thing straight.
Tomorrow - Magic Kingdom.
