I was repeatedly called a Cockney by the bigger boys on my ugly, yellow School Bus. That went on, for four years. Twenty years later, I read the latest news stories that I find on the Routemaster, over the Internet, yet I can't get myself to follow the ultimatley Canadian sport of Ice Hockey. I keep telling myself that "I'm going to watch hockey, this Saturday...I'm going to watch hockey, this Saturday". Saturday evening comes around, and I end up making a late 6PM dinner, so I miss half of the games, and when I do have the time to watch hockey, I end up switching between WrongPlanet and Routemasters on the Internet, with my Limewire downloads playing in the background. I end up convincing myself that I was born very close to the Bow Bells, in London and that my parents adopted me. If somebody tells you something often enough, you really begin to believe it. You believe it even more, if you're a vulnerable person, like I am. I was five times as vulnerable at the age of eight, when that name-calling was just starting.