I can get used to:
the 'ow!' sound in the bus route
eggplants over aubergines
saying 'hard' before saying 'cider' - and then clutching a little bottle of unenviable sweetness while the rest of your party clink pint glasses
not getting the in-jokes in my well-thumbed Time Out NY
the expresses which express you up to Harlem when you're looking the other way
the way they can get away with charging five bucks for a packet of monster munch and a tin of Heinz tomato soup, then wish you a great day (even niceties are subject to inflation in the city where the tippers never sleep)
But I can't get used to the way that they don't have crisps in their bars - not even the self-styled pubs and the grimy dives. You can get mac and cheese, or crumbed oozes of pork fat; you can have a flight of puddings to go with your flight of wine, but when all you crave is the simple salty goodness of a packet crinkle-cut, deep-fried carbs, they look at you like you're just another crazy Brit, who's wondered too far from home.
Please don't even think of visiting me and my cat-infested sofa unless you're packing the Walkers.