Communication between me and the pubs is a bit garbled. And it all has to do with beer. I order a half pint and they give me a full pint. This has happened on several occasions causing me to question my identity. Am I in denial? Does everyone see the full-pint girl waiting to emerge from my self-imposed half-pint persona? While I am happy to finish the pint, I wonder, “Am I suppressing the full-pint girl within?” Before I answer this question, it is necessary to look at all the possibilities for this phenomena.

It is possible that my tendency to mutter and my American accent contribute to this problem. I have changed the way I order, varying my wording or enunciating each word clearly. My friend has listened and monitored my ordering technique, but found nothing wrong with the way I order. A reasonable argument is that I’m an easy mark. It is true that I won’t make them pour a smaller glass. There is no obvious reason for giving me a larger glass of beer unless people who drink more order more food. There isn’t much of a culture for tipping bartenders here, so plying me with more alcohol doesn’t lead to a better gratuity.

Am I exploring this new identity by ordering a half pint, but projecting my wish for a full pint? My psyche says “Be a pint girl. Be bold!” I think about the ramifications of becoming a full-pint girl. A full-pint girl makes the bartender laugh and she chats easily with other customers at the bar. She knows who she is and she knows what she wants out of life. A full-pint girl puts on that old swimsuit and parades on the beach wearing her pasty skin with pride. She marches right down to the water and dips her foot into the English Channel. I’m not sure a full-pint girl gets into the cold water. She has more sense than that.

A full-pint girl doesn’t stew about or question her next move. She opens the map, closes her eyes, and points to her next destination. Okay, so she might have to hike a bit when the bus drops her at Nobody Goes Here Beach and a mile from the nearest village. That doesn’t stop the full-pint girl. She’s ready for anything.

A full-pint girl says “Bring on the chips. Reagan said if I dip them in ketchup, I can count them as two veggies.” She needs that pint to wash down four pounds of potatoes.

A full-pint girl doesn’t lug her suitcase up every stairwell. She waits for the men who will argue over who wins the privilege of throwing out his back.

She walks along The Cobb in Lyme Regis without a care. If the wind blows her off the rocks or she slips on the wet surface and slides into the rough sea below, someone will save her. A full-pint girl doesn’t rely on her over-packed backpack to keep her anchored and she certainly doesn’t sit to make her way down the narrow steps back to the beach. No way. She stands at the end, like Moses, and tempts the gods with her audacity.

The full-pint girl can find the toilets after drinking her pint.

I do see signs that I might just make that leap to a full-pint girl. When the seas are rough and the ferry rolls and stomachs churn, my stomach is iron. When I was a child, I had to ride the Tilt-o-Whirl seventeen times before I was sick. However, there were plenty of full-pint girls hanging their heads on our way to Guernsey. So if I become a full-pint girl, will I get seasick?

Naw. I’m not ready to become a full-pint girl. Would you PLEASE make that a half?