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The Non-Expert

Credit: Jennifer Daniel for TMN

(Drool) Brittania

Experts answer what they know. The Non-Expert answers anything. This week, a woman seeking men from Blighty meets the Connecticut Britons.

Have a question? Need some advice? Ignored by everyone else? Send us your questions via email. The Non-Expert handles all subjects and is written by a member of The Morning News staff.

 

Question: I live in the CT area and want to know, if there are any British men here, or the Boston areas. I have many friend in the UK and go there every 6 months but would like to meet some gents in my area or Boston. Please write with info take care.—Christina

Answer: Christina, hi! Hiyah! Wowser! Hi, hay, hi, hee. Tee-hee!

We are all just straight up, ear-stroked, and thigh-slappingly chuffed to bits that we’ve finally found you. Honestly, all this time in CT (so cute), and we gents had literally given up hope that you were out there looking for us. Ignore the ones you speak of in Boston—they are most certainly not gentlemen, nor should they even be mistaken for them. Even lightly.

Tee-hee! So what do we do now?

So, let’s get those formalities out of the way. How on earth do you do? No, really. Tell us everything. Honestly honey, and we’re sure you know this as well as we do, but CT is just so scorchingly dull. It is like living with a permanent migraine.

But now you have found us. Us, the abandoned gents of this eastern seaboard oasis of emptiness.

We were lured to your barren hinterlands with the sparkling promise of lady companionship, accompanied by daily conversation that skips along like a terrier.First, please, Christina, will you answer us this? Are you heavy-set? Are you ever so slightly, just a tiny bit, obese? We really, really, really hope not, Christina. That just wouldn’t be, as your young folk say, cool.

We came to CT (pronounced “See-Tee,” I think) to “hook up” with exactly your sort; gent-seeking CT chicks with the right kind of dress size and enough bucketfuls of self-esteem to drown any faux princesses.

Yes, there’s a group of us—the more the merrier—and we’re all in the same boat: matrimonially challenged and in search of America’s finest. We were lured to your barren hinterlands with the sparkling promise of lady companionship, accompanied by daily conversation that skips along like a terrier with a stolen packet of shortbread.

But oh, we were disappointed. So disappointed. Most days the chaps and I can barely bring ourselves to leave the motel room. Admittedly, the room is in a most disappointing state (we wouldn’t even dream of bringing someone from the—whisper it—Boston area within sniffing distance of the stairwell). The days pass as if in a blur, halcyonic and lackadaisical. We are pretty structured now, thanks to some rigorous timetabling. Finally the Wiffle ball league can coexist with expeditionary laundretting; it is no longer an either/or situation. We have even learned to turn the television off, although the enforced silence does tend to exacerbate the creaking of our joints and the grinding of our teeth.

I digress. You’re not here to hear about our challenges with personal hygiene and agoraphobia. Oh, no. On the plus side, our enforced spot of undercover work has allowed us to mark out some pretty splendid strategies for introducing our finest conversational interjections, all of which we’re just itching to try out.

So, Christina. Chrissy. Chris. Name your bar, joint, or speakeasy, dial in the number of bright British chaps you need in order to shine, and we’ll be propping up the counter with witty anecdotes, burnished cravats, and the kind of bluster that money just can’t buy within 3,000 miles of New York City.

Our plans are so well-rehearsed as to be practically indistinguishable from “normal” conversation; our pincer movement snaps into action like the well-oiled arms of an antique Davenport. Before you know it, you will be charmed, entertained, cajoled, fed, watered, tickled pink, and very possibly disrobed. But I am getting far, far ahead of myself. Oh, yes.

Think of this richly evocative scenario, dear Christina. Hold us in your heart. You’ll be able to drop that pesky biannual trip to Blighty when we’re all here, ready, willing and charming to be your go-to guys in See-Tee. Don’t be shy and come help coax us out of our enforced confinement in a world of polyester bedspreads, stained carpets, and 200 channels of frankly frightening reality shows.

Us gents are standing by to see the real America, my darling Christina. Waste no time and call today.

biopic

TMN Contributing Writer Jonathan Bell lives in South London. He co-edits Things Magazine and likes to write about architecture. More by Jonathan Bell