Apostrophes: They're Ev'rywhere

Overlooking the sea in Westgate, Kent.

Having conquered the US, errant punctuation is on the march across the UK. The first sortie was on a blackboard in a florist's in Cockfosters (do you love that name?), North London. When I pointed it out to cousin Dan S., he quickly erased it. Turns out apostrophobia is another familial trait.

A butcher's stall in Carlisle, Cumbria (obviously not on the Yiddisher Britisher itinerary; also obviously near Scotland):

I was afraid to ask what "White Pud" is. (We bought lamb chops.) I can't see tripe (top of pic) without thinking of the arresting opening line of the short story "Blonde Mink" by Damon Runyon: "Now there are many ways of eating tripe." However, my enjoyment of that organ--or whatever it is--remains purely literary. And I'll leave haggis (oats 'n' offal!) to the Scots and their neighbors.

A flower shop in Haltwhistle, Northumberland (bonus points for misspelling):


The biggest example of all--POLICE CAR'S painted in letters 3' high--is across the street from the Bristol home of a cousin who's a retired college professor. Unfortunately, I couldn't get a shot because it was a Sunday and the police car's...er...cars were parked on top.