This has been one busy week for this particular Britican. I’ve been doing some interning for the Sunday Telegraph, which is amazing. It was time I really should have been using to write articles for my portfolio of work for my journalism diploma – but when the Telegraph wants you, you don’t say no, and it’s incredible experience.

 Now, all that journeying around London has led to my strong feelings about the topic for this week’s what I love about America: Jamba Juice. When hurrying about the city desperate for a healthy snack or a perky drink I’m at a loss. Usually I succumb to the ever-present Upper Crust croissant, or a dismal take-away tea from whatever coffee stand is nearest. My problem, which makes my existence in the modern day western world nigh-near impossible, is that I loathe coffee. Coffee cake is delicious; coffee flavoured Thornton’s chocolates are divine. But the actual drink makes me want to scrub my tongue bare of all taste-sensation and consume anything in sight that can eliminate the memory of the foul fluid. Jamba Juice is my heaven-sent American snack/drink combo that solves all my problems. The smoothie (my favourite is the blueberry one with an immunity shot) is that perfect cross between a filling snack – or if you get the truly gargantuan one then it qualifies as a meal on its own – and a pep-me-up drink. If we had Jamba Juice in London I would never touch a croissant again*. Jamba Juice, if you can hear me from the clouds above, then please, please rent a space in Marylebone/Warwick Avenue/Oxford Circus/ or Victoria station just for me and my blueberry smoothie. I should be eternally grateful.

 Consider this week’s what I love about Britain an homage to my many flame-haired friends, for today I admit that I love gingers. I never pronounce the g’s hard because red hair and the accompanying fair skin is the ultimate in delicacy. Perhaps that’s why gingers are so famous for having fiery personalities – to compensate for such dainty colouring. It could be because of the obvious comparison between the colour of fire and the colour of red hair, but I prefer my own psychological take (it makes me sound smarter, agreed?). When I moved to Aberystwyth, Wales, to begin my degree I was inexplicably housed with, and next-door to, an astonishing number of gingers. Out of the 12 people in the two houses, five had red hair. That’s obviously way above the average ratio of gingers to everyone else, even in Wales. Once I’d recovered from the shock (as soon as the first box of chocolates were bandied about), I realised I was actually quite jealous of my ginger compatriots. In Britain it takes a strong person to survive childhood with ginger hair; no one knows why but every ginger kid in the country is bullied for it. So my new housemates were already maturely ahead of me – they’d overcome adversity and managed to not murder someone in a rage after snapping from one taunt too many. I’d never been bullied or teased or pushed to the end of my tether because of something so trivial as hair colour. So that’s one thing I love about Britain – the ginger friends who have survived with humour (and hair) intact.

 I had planned to write more but I think I’ll save it for next week. This week I’m going to be busy – writing, writing, writing! But please get in touch with any queries you might have about Calliope, this column or literature in general; I would love to hear from you.

 *Note: I reserve the right to go back on my word and continue eating croissants, but only in France. Or hotels.

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