... Cooking. [The answer is spat out like coinage from an old rusty vending machine. Curt. A little hollow. The sound of a little less money than you had before.

England scrubs at his nose and sniffs, trying so hard not to sneeze. Out comes a handkerchief that he uses to try and wipe the loose soot from his face and hair. He gives the American a wary glance or three and makes it a point not to present a better answer until he's good and bloody ready.]

I'm England, yes. [He's dusting off his clothes now; haughty behaviour for a skinny punk in his twenties.] The country. Island. Wrong start though? Really? I hadn't noticed. Typical chat with a hot-headed Yank, that was.

[Oh come on England... Be fair.]

Well. I'm willing to start over if you are.