I'm celebrating Thanksgiving in the way I've done for nearly all of the eight years I've lived in England.  I'm ignoring it completely, save for the phonecall to family still Stateside. 

There's a temptation to have turkey on the day to commemorate, but the simple fact is: turkey is nasty.  We can't bring ourselves to admit this because it's so deeply woven into our holiday feasts, but turkey is usually tasteless and when it isn't tasteless it tastes like warm dishwater.  Why do you think it's served with so much gravy?  On Christmas in my house, we make venison. 

But I digress.  The week of Thanksgiving-ignoring is packed with cultural festivities, enough to give the impression I'm cultured.  Tomorrow I'm seeing the Carmina Burana at the Royal Festival Hall.  Like everyone else, I only know that 15-second slice (300 people singing "Ah Ah, Oh Oh").  God knows what the rest must be like.  Wednesday is Patrick Stewart in MacBeth, and Thursday, I'm seeing a play about Michelangelo and Da Vinci at the Hampstead Theatre. 

I suppose I should read something trashy to even it all out.  Does inadvertently knowing the ghostwriter of the Pamela Anderson "novels" count?