7:15 AM: Electric kettles are for COMMUNISTS
Eventually I realise that the kettle has no electric power at all. America, futuristic land of wonder and 24-hour drive-thru liquor stores, has never heard of an electric kettle. After some furious Googling, I discover that these arcane steam-devils are the province only of the incurably pretentious or the nauseatingly rich, since they cost around 10 times more than in England. My old 6.99 kettle had clear sides and a blue neon strobe light which turned the preparation of Old Grey into a throbbing epileptic discogasm, and here I am, manhandling an ancient cast-iron cauldron which might be acquainted with the concept of "boiling" but has no intention of trying it this century.
And I really do mean every single bastard day.
Well, I say it's ancient; the handle is nevertheless composed of some kind of futuristic superconductor that wastes no time in relieving me of my fingerprints, causing a pleasant D-Major chord to float from the window as the feeble whistle of the kettle mingles with my piercing, bloodcurdling scream. And when the agony is over, there's the unique pleasure of trying to decode the milk. Half-and-Half? Two percent? One percent? In England, we have Full-fat, Semi-skimmed and Skimmed. You know where you stand with those proportions. American milks sound like members of an underage hip-hop act; except for Heavy Cream, which I still believe is some kind of radioactive lactose isotope.
Even the colours of the cartons are different. This is only a little thing, but believe me, when you are a creature of routine (and who the hell isn't), little things like this can start to pile up quickly.
7:30 AM: Good luck dressing yourself, buddy