If I had to describe the Englishman in two words, they would be these: English and Man.
You see, he’s very English. He drinks tea every hour, at least. My dishwasher has never gotten so much use. He loves a good roast dinner, and his mum’s Yorkshire puddings. His accent is a soft mixture of Cambridge-Yorkshire-Hampshire, a creation from his hometown and his two boarding schools, which becomes markedly more pronounced after we watch an episode of Graham Norton. He loves the Queen. He loves the NHS. He loves a properly-moving queue. He’s a walking stereotype.
But he’s also all Man. Football on Sundays. Every Sunday. I must have found the only British man on the planet who worships in the house of Jerry Jones (In Dez Bryant We Trust). He passionately collects bourbons, which we spend the entire year hunting down. He plays in the woods for fun, and frequently brings dead animal parts into the house. He’s wildly passionate about wildlife and conservation, and nothing lights up his eyes quite like the characteristics of his beloved animals.
I feel extremely lucky to have him in my life, even if I do spend an inordinate amount of time washing teacups. He’s my partner-in-crime, and always by my side on these adventures. Sometime’s he’s called B, but he’s always my Englishman.