I was born on the wrong side of the pond. I use words like “twaddle, bollocks, and cheeky” with reckless abandon. I swerve into a British accent at the drop of a teabag. I have Union Jack Converse high tops and a “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster in my office. My life is decorated with bits and bobbles of Anglomania. The Clash, London Calling, is in heavy rotation in my CD player – still. British humor – I get it. Benny Hill and Monty Python were my training bra. I have never looked back. So when Rob Temple’s “Very British Problems: Making Life Awkward for Ourselves, One Rainy Day at a Time” came out I was smitten. I wish I had written that book. I love the Brits. I love the whole stiff-upper-lip thing while Mr. Bean can simultaneously get his hand stuck in the post box. I love everything English – except the food. There is where I reach my Continental Divide and go south (to France or Italy). But apart from boiling their meals, the British are pukka. What is not to admire about a population who can keep cheery while living in the most dismal, rainy place on the planet? And don’t even get me started on the Royal Family. Love them or hate them, the Queen still looks nick on my vintage Sex Pistols tee shirt (which was not vintage when I bought it in Piccadilly Circus). God Save the Queen.