The earnest weatherman is even more hilarious than in America because his forecasts of change are even more unchanging, and his wondrous maps are always pocked with countless rain cloud symbols that seem permanently rooted across the beloved isle.

He sits at the kitchen table, which is the only authentic way to touch down at home in Queens.

In a party tent poised somewhere between romance and avarice, an auctioneer hammered out the sale of the first of the costly baubles that were scattered as love tokens across the lives of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.

The resultant tales from life are stirring reader interest, survivor passions and unease among Britons.

A mass of Victorian wiles and granite that resembles a battleship in the rain and a wedding cake in the sun.

A show of police force worthy of a banana republic is the latest attraction on the cobbled streets of Georgetown.

Delegates crane their gaze at overhead screens. The producers, using fast-cutting close-up shots, have added the narcissistic touch of allowing delegates to watch themselves watch themselves at a convention of people watching them.

Rosie's is as simple as a hubcap and as unpretentious as its own rice pudding.

At 5:30 the morning shift of commissary workers arrive to stock the coffee urns, bring in fresh food and prepare for the daylong job of feeding the humans.

Britain's gnawing hunger for retrospection is of Proustian proportions; historical confections of past glory are always being sugared up and nibbled at somewhere in the land.