My daughter spotted the sign in Oxford Center: internet in the basement only 75p. Looking both ways, we crossed the high street. Not so much to see if anyone shady was watching us, but to make sure we weren't flattened by the bus on the wrong side of the road.
In the shabby convience store we paid the cashier before desending narrow steps. Flourescents buzzed, paint peeled, carpet stank of mildew, and the computers were as ancient as the chairs. You get what you pay for, but I'm not complaining.
At Starbucks the WiFi hotspot must have been refering to the burn in your wallet. At £5 (or $10) just for the privildege to connect with your laptop, I thought the barista was joking. Free WiFi does not appear to exist in England.
I'm only here because BT won't connect us for WiFi at home until Friday after hours and hours over days of waiting on hold for the appointment. Send me anyplace in the world but keep me connected. I start most of my research on line to find people to interview or books to order. I'm a huge fan of Wikipedia. The internet is my umbilical cord to my friends, family and agent. At least the isolation is only temporary and snail mail and phone are working just fine.
I can't blog about our lovely village or share my photographs in this den of cyber-antiquity. I will post a more cheerful blog soon, I hope. We are doing well and settling in with the kids starting school tomorrow. Transitions are difficult, but the hardships provide the best writing material. For now, I sign off. It's midmorning back home in Maine, but tea time here.