Nana told me the stories as I grew up--how her father died, young, in a mining accident. How her mother survived on a widow's pension during the Great Depression, supplementing her income as a seamstress. What nana's job was like in a mixed-gender anti-aircraft battery. What it was like the night Coventry got bombed.
Nana made sure I knew that the history of England was long and proud. She made sure I understood the importance.
She called every baby "His Majesty" or "Her Majesty", and I think she actually meant it.
I've often said that my heart is American, but my soul is British. When I've been in England, I've felt home.
The more I hear about England today, though, with its accommodationist multicultural death wish and stories like this, maybe I wouldn't recognize it at all.
Britons are losing their grip on reality, according to a poll which shows nearly a quarter think Winston Churchill was a myth, while the majority reckon Sherlock Holmes was real.
I truly want to believe it's a bad joke.