Americans do not call paracetamol paracetamol. In fact, I’m not sure what they do call paracetamol is paracetamol – it was probably replaced by high fructose corn syrup in the 1980s. This is mere cultural curiosity until you end up sprawled over a hotel bed with an exploding head, conversations running through your head like the rants of drunken angels. (Do other people hear voices in their head when they’re ill, or is that just me?) At that point, you will long for Old World paracetamol like you never imagined.

That was the low of Chicago Part 3. On the plus side, I finally made like a tourist and rode the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier

Back in the UK, it became clear that it’s not just paracetamol keeping me rooted in this ridiculous (nay, charming) country \ continent. I mean, come on, wasn’t that Doctor Who finale just joyous and wonderful? And a mere 15 minutes later, Eurovision! As you can see, Josh and I both flew the flag for our respective fatherlands (well, loosely) although in the end Cascada were disappointingly flat, and I was forced to switch my support to Finland at the last moment. (Note: be sure to always watch Eurovision with uninitiated non-Europeans, so you can observe afresh the incredulity that this is a real thing.)

And talking of cross-cultural initiations: last week I had the pleasure of taking a gaggle of Americans (plus one German) to News Revue. Thankfully, a little bit of prep work on the UK’s political \ cultural scene (“most elderly male celebrities are now facing charges, most people don’t like Michael Gove”) paid dividends.

Also seen: Star Trek Into Darkness (fun aside from the one moment where he calls Earth on a communicator, which caused my inner nerd to wince) and The Match Box at the Tricycle, a one-woman play about the death of her child and, I think it’s safe to say, probably the emotionally heavier of the two despite not having ‘Into Darkness’ in its name.

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