Who wears short shorts?

"Young lady, you've got the nicest legs in all of London."

At first it startled me, the man's voice coming out of the utility truck. He was eating a sandwich in the passenger seat (even though he was sitting on what I still think of as the driver's side) and, well, staring at my legs. Did I slap him? Did I make a dirty face and walk off in a huff about the indignity of being ogled liked a piece of meat.

Of course not. I smiled and said thank you. The English are just so damn polite, even when they're catcalling, it's hard to do anything but. It's not as if he said "Fancy a shag?", he just told me I had the nicest legs in all of London. And he seemed to be a pretty good authority on the situation. (I'm actually quite proud of my legs, and in this day and age women can admit when they've got it going on, right?)

I've been settling into The Life of a Londoner quite nicely, I think. I haven't been hit by a double-decker bus coming from the direction I'm not used to, people ask me for directions (and are surprised by my accent), I get a lot of reading done on the Tube, and I haven't embarrassed myself too badly by saying the wrong word or pointing out someone's fanny pack. (Note: Fanny = Vagina in British) However, I'm still getting hung up on pants. To me, pants are worn over your underwear. To the British, pants are worn under your trousers. Underwear. So if I tell someone I really like their pants, I'm bound to get an odd look. This is something I really must work on.

But most importantly, I've got friends! Obviously I've got Fen, but I'm filling up my phone contact list quite nicely with other students, just moved to London, and a few who are also On The Prowl. We have big plans to go out, meet men, have fun, and experience this awesome city. The Fun begins tomorrow. Grayer, now would be a good time to give me a Night Out Scavenger Hunt...