One of the things I remember about traveling in the UK is the near impossibility of obtaining ice. A request for a glass of ice would yield odd looks--and generally a single cube. Until one day when we were driving back from Scotland and had stopped at, of all places, a Burger King in Stoke-on-Trent. After getting the single cube there I exasperatedly said, "No, ICE," indicating alevel on the cup about four inches from the bottom. The young lady, to her credit, understood immediately sayi ng, "That's right, you're American; you like ice."
Well, this American may be reconsidering his love affair with ice. I may contlnue to put it in my drinks, but when it's covering my driveway, it's an entirely dlfferent matter. This morning, in the dark (thank you, Daylight Savings Time), while swapping cars, I slipped on a patch of ice on the driveway and dropped like a sack of potatoes. I landed on my right hand, which now sports three bandages covering three deep gouges on my ring and little fingers. This to top off a back injury I got on Tuesday, which may or may not have been the result of slipping on ice.
This American is not so sure he likes ice.
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