Please, No

I am English. I live in Scotland. I have one child who was born in England, and two who were born in Scotland. There are getting on for half a million English people living in Scotland - a little under 10% of the population, if my maths is right. There are about 800,000 Scots living in England (figures from the BBC). The history of our countries has been united for over 300 years. It took a long time to get there, and we all know that it wasn't a happy journey. So let's not go back. We could unpick in a few years what it took centuries of bloodshed to forge. We have so much to offer each other. There is so very much to lose, and I can't see much to gain.

It's not hard to imagine a situation in years to come, when my children leave education, in which the oldest can get a job in England if he wants to, but the other two have to apply for a visa to work south of the border. Unless Scotland joins the EU, that is a very real proposition. I see independence as a narrowing of opportunities. I don't want to be alarmist, but if the 20th century taught us anything, it surely taught us that political stability is fragile. More fragile than it seems. Surely stable union as neighbours is better than unstable separation? A narrowing of opportunities might be the least of our worries.

I've listened to Radio Scotland phone-ins on the way to work over the past few months. Several times I've had to turn them off, irritated by yet another person talking of how they want "freedom for ma grandchildren, freedom that I've never had in ma lifetime". What is this "freedom" that the Scots feel they don't have? Up here, it seems to me we have double democracy. We're represented in Westminster, and at Holyrood. What other part of Britain has that?  

I am feeling agitated. I think we all are, up here. This has moved from being a subject of interesting intellectual debate to being a walk along a painful knife edge. I just want it to be over. I want to know which way it's going. I'm nervous because whichever way it does go, it's going to be a close result, and that means that there will be a large number of people who don't get what they want, and who will be disappointed, frustrated, angry. 

Please vote No. We really are Better Together. Or if you do vote Yes, do it because you are excited by the prospect of building a new independent country. Do it because you have a positive vision for what Scotland could be. Don't do it because you're carrying on your shoulders a 300 year old grievance. How many generations have to pass before a nation can move on from a past?

I do have a suggestion. Too late now - we should have done it years ago. Did you know that there's a verse in the National Anthem that goes like this:

Lord, grant that Marshal Wade, May by thy mighty aid, Victory bring.

May he sedition hush, And like a torrent rush, Rebellious Scots to crush.

God save The King.

I know. Who's ever sung that? Who even knew that there exist several verses of the National Anthem? Well, some of the Scots do, and they think it reveals what the English feel about the Scots. So please, could we not get this verse formally struck out of the National Anthem, in a symbolic gesture like the raising of the Saltire above Downing Street? And then, in return, could Scottish rugby supporters please not sing about sending proud Edward's army home "tae think again". That stray verse of the National Anthem dates back to the 1700s (thank you Wikipedia), and English Edward's army was defeated in 1314. 1314! It's time we all moved on, people. 

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The Olympics Table Tennis

It's only Day 2 of the Olympics, and Iota and family have already been to an event. We are very Olympismist. Oh yes.

It was fabulous. I loved it. I felt like a child all day, excited from the moment I woke up. Big events like these are the stuff of future memories, and now I'll be able to say "London 2012 - I was there!" for the rest of my life. It's a double excitement for me, because for the past five years, I've felt out of the loop of big British events. We've jumped back in with a bang.

We saw the Womens' Table Tennis, Third Round.

Good things

The volunteers: (at least I assume they were volunteers): All along the route from the DLR station to the ExCel centre, people in purple and pink were showing us where to go. It really helped. I'm not intimidated by London, but that's not an area I know at all, and it was just nice not to have to keep looking at a map or signs. For people from outside London, it must have made all the difference. And the volunteers were so jolly. They were pointing the way with giant pink foam hands, and engaging with the flow of spectators. "Have a great evening!... Enjoy the Games!" It created a very welcoming atmosphere.

The staff: Everyone was helpful and friendly. I've been struck since I've been back in this country, by just how second best we are at customer service compared to America. They will, without question, win the gold medal if customer service ever becomes an Olympic sport. But LOCOG, or COLON, or whatever the organisation is called, has excelled. The staff on London transport were ubiquitous and helpful. The venue was well-staffed, and free from that trademark British grumpiness among the retail and food-serving staff. They smiled, and seemed pleased to interact with customers. The security seemed over-staffed. Poor old soldiers, losing a week's leave, to make up the G4S shortfall, but very polite and helpful in spite of it.

The venue: Table tennis was at the ExCel centre. It was easy to navigate around, spacious, and imaginatively done. In the big area behind the arena, the area where you were hanging around for quite a long time if you'd got there early, there were displays in glass cases, and information boards about the history of the sport. I saw the programme of the first World Championship in 1920-something, and early bats, strung like mini tennis racquets. Did you know that table tennis originated in upper class England in the early years of the 20th century? People made a barrier across the middle of a table using books, and then hit a ball back and forth using cigar boxes. It had various names, including Clip Clap, Whiff Waff, and of course Ping Pong. I kind of wish Whiff Waff had stuck. I'd like to say I'd been to Olympic Whiff Waff.

The game: Yes, the game! I mustn't get so carried away by all the other positives and forget about the game. It was thrilling to watch. They are so darn FAST, those table tennis athletes. Fast, and strong. The Team UK competitor had been knocked out in the second round, so I cheered for the Czech Republic, on the basis of their costume in the Opening Ceremony. Did you see them in their wellies, carrying umbrellas? What a superb way of joining in, on British terms. I've never thought of the Czechs as being notable for their fine sense of humour, but I loved that moment.

The match that got the crowd most excited was the last one, China vs the USA. The American athlete was 16 years old. (I said to 15-yo "Wow, that's quite something isn't it? Being 16 and being to the Olympics". He replied "I'm 15, and I'm at the Olympics".) The American spectators were enthusiastic - of course - lots of flags and cheering. Americans are so good at that kind of stuff, aren't they? We cheered for America, of course. There was a big Chinese contingent too, so the match made for a noisy and exciting end to the evening. The Chinese athlete won.

Table tennis wasn't a random choice. As a family, we're quite into table tennis. We bought a table last Christmas, and used it pretty much daily. Husband (a bit of a table tennis afficionado in his youth, it turns out) would come in from work, and immediately there would be a son or two hovering around, making small punching movements with his hand, and with an enquiring look on his face. 15-yo won the $10 that Husband promised him, the first time he took a game off him. I play too... in my own amateur way... so long as my opponent agrees to be nice to me... But hurrah for amateurs! We're what Olympism is all about!

Bad things


Visa: You could only buy a ticket from the website using a Visa card. You could only use cash or Visa to buy anything in the venue. This is appalling. It's sponsorship gone mad, in my opinion. 



This is a crass slogan, meaning nothing. All you can say for it, is that at least they have tried hard not to split an infinitive, and to position the word only where it makes grammatical sense (which I notice I failed to do in previous sentences - never mind).

I thought it should say It is shameful that we accept only Visa.


Photo credit: NatBat on Flickr


Empty seats: Well, yes, there were those, and they were mostly in big blocks in the prime viewing area. Clearly this is silly.

But let's not dwell on the Bad Things. All in all, a thoroughly great evening. A good note on which to end our sojourn in the south of England. Our container has arrived from America, and we head northwards today to Edinburgh. We've made sure to order a television, as a priority for our new home, because we're hooked on the Olympics now. (Ironically, there was a glitch using our MasterCard on Amazon, so we had to use my mum's Visa card to pay for it).
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The Olympics Opening Ceremony

OK, so it's 1.00am, and I should be in bed, but you have to admit, it was good. It was very good. I liked it. I liked it a lot.

I understood the cultural references - James Bond, Mr Bean. That's always a relief to a returning expat. It can feel like you're missing an in-joke, when people refer to something that, because you've lived outside the country, you simply don't know about. TOWIE, for example. So I was glad I could understand Bond, Bean, and Chariots of Fire.

I loved the copper petals coming together to make a cauldron. I really enjoyed the fact that the torches were passed on to a group of young athletes, not public figures yet, who took centre stage for the end of the Olympic flame journey. Much better to look forward than back.

I thought the ceremony should have ended with the fireworks, rather than Paul McCartney. Perhaps you had to be there. Perhaps it needed a good arm-waving singalong at the end, to send the crowd off happy. But could someone point out to me the significance of "Hey Jude"? I mean, if you have to go Beatles singalong, why not have everyone singing "Imagine"? That's far more in the Olympic spirit. Imagine all the people, living life in peace, and all that.

The bit I liked best was the parade of the teams from 204 different countries. There were some fabulous costumes in there. Senegal in elegant yellow, you looked wonderful. America, I'm sorry, but you looked like British Airways cabin crew, with your navy berets and co-ordinating neck scarves. Bulgaria, in your blue and white check suits, you should just be glad that medals are awarded on sporting prowess and not dress sense - though golf is going to be included as an Olympic sport in 2016. You'll be well prepared for that.

I was irritated that all the announcements were made in English and French. Why French? English, because this is England, and we speak English in England. And French, because...? We reckoned it was as a courtesy to the French geezer from the International Olympic Committee, Jacques Rogge. Rogge, the Frogge.

One other little niggle... Why is the British team called 'Team GB'? I am offended on behalf of my Northern Irish compatriots. We are (correct me if I'm wrong) the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. To call our Olympic athletes 'Team GB' is wrong, lazy, and a bit offensive, honestly. It should be 'Team UK'. Or perhaps the Northern Irish members took one look at the white and gold Elvis suits that they'd have to wear, and said "count us out".

So all in all, the Olympics have got off to a fine start. London, beaucoup de points. Oh, and a new word has snuck into the English language. Always interesting to get a new word. Were you listening as the coach took the oath on behalf of all the coaches? He said something about the "principles of Olympism". Olympism? Really? Olympism? Well, I kind of like it, now I've typed it a few times.

Happy Games, everyone.

The Royal Wedding

Yes, I did get up early to watch it. 11.00am your time was 5.00am mine. I set my alarm for 4.40am, because I thought we'd need a bit of time to build up the excitement, and see the Royal Family arriving at the Abbey. Though 20 minutes seemed a rather paltry allocation, when I set the alarm for anything earlier, it did look terribly terribly early. You have to remember this is an ordinary school and work day here. The alarm went off, I turned it off and went back to sleep. Husband woke me at 4.55am, saying "it's time to get up". So much for the build up.

What a lovely do. We do do do's terribly well, we Brits, don't we?

We all snuggled up on the sofa to watch, trying not to be too grumpy. Then it was the usual morning routine, making packed lunches and scooting everyone out the door. I remember on my own wedding morning, driving to the church, past Marks and Spencer, seeing people out shopping, and thinking "how odd! Here am I getting married, and there they are, just a normal Saturday morning in M&S". I don't imagine Kate Middleton thought of us normal folk, making packed lunches and scooting children out the door, but if she had, it would have been the same sort of thing.

Now I'm not a great follower of fashion, but I do have just one comment. Hats are ok on the top of heads. They are ok on the side of heads (the word 'jaunty' is useful for this). They are not ok on the front of heads. Not unless you're carrying a laser gun and you're auditioning for a part as an extra in a sci fi movie. Victoria Beckham and Princesses Eugenie and Beatrice - I'm talking to you.

My favourite moment (well, one of them) was when the American commentary that we were listening to kindly found someone to lip read what William said to Kate's father, just before the service began. It was something along the lines of "just a small family affair, then". Now if that isn't a fine example of British humour, I don't know what is.

Jerusalem. It's a great hymn. "And did those feet, in ancient time, walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God, on England's pleasant pastures seen?" But at that point, some inner rebellion in me always wants to answer "No, I don't think Jesus ever made it to England". I know. Terribly literal of me. I have no poetry in my soul.

As so often, 7-yo had her own unique take on the occasion.

"So she's going to be the queen now."

"No, she's marrying the prince, so she'll be the princess."

"What? She goes through all this, and she only gets to be the princess?"



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The Garage Sale: Part l

Now the weather is warming up, as you drive around, you see small rectangular signs sprouting up in the grass alongside the roadway. They’ve lain dormant all winter, but the arrival of spring brings them out, and they’ll flourish in steady number right through until autumn becomes winter. The size, colour and composition of the signs vary, but the species can be recognized by one common factor: they all have the word ‘SALE’ clearly visible. It’s garage sale season again.

It is said that Britain is a nation of shop-keepers (I never understood why), but truly America is a nation that loves to buy and sell. I suppose the nearest equivalent to the garage sale in Britain would be the car boot sale, and that’s the perfect illustration of how much less comfortable British people are with the boundaries of their homes being crossed. An Englishman’s home is indeed his castle (so we’re a nation of shop-keepers in castles?), and if we want to sell our stuff, we take it to a disused airfield or similar large open space, and put it on display on tables. Sitting in our fold-away chairs alongside lots of other people doing the same thing, we enjoy anonymity and safety in numbers. Not so the Americans. They’re quite happy to sit on their own front driveway, with strangers picking over their goods and chattels, or in their garage if the weather is bad, or even to hold the sale inside their house.

There are three levels of domestic sale (as far as I’ve been able to work out). The first is the yard sale, which really might be just a table of goods, with a hopeful child sitting behind it, aspiring to make a few cents from their cast-off toys and their mother’s unloved crockery. Then there’s the garage sale, which is the same sort of idea, but on a bigger scale. There will be a few tables of bits and pieces, and probably some pieces of furniture and larger items. Of course what has happened is that nobody wants to say they’re having a yard sale, at least not on the sign, because it sounds less worth a visit than a garage sale, so now everything in these two categories is a garage sale. (It’s the same principle behind retailers only ever selling food or drink in the sizes regular, large, or absolutely blooming enormous, because who wants to buy a small?) The original distinction has been lost, though people do still talk of ‘yard sales’.

Then, further up the sale scale, there’s the estate sale. The estate sale happens when a house is being emptied out, after a death, or a downsizing, perhaps. If you see a sign to an estate sale, you’re talking big items: furniture, electrical goods, household items, and so forth, with probably a large amount of smaller stuff in there as well. An estate sale will always involve going inside the house, so it’s a good opportunity for snooping neighbours as well as bargain hunters.

You never know what you’re going to see at a garage sale. It really is the case that people put out everything and anything. Typically there are clothes, crockery, glass-ware, vases, toys, games, Christmas or Hallowe’en decorations, chairs, tables, lamps, suitcases, rugs, books, garden tools. You name it. At one estate sale, I saw an old printing press for sale, and a pair of leather lederhosen. The range of the quality is as varied as the range of the items themselves. Some of the stuff is brand new, in unopened packaging. Some of it is chipped or bent or dirty, and frankly you can’t imagine why anyone would want it for free, let alone pay money for it. I’m not exaggerating when I say that at one sale (the printing press and lederhosen one, actually), the bathroom cupboard was open, and there were half-used packets of cotton buds for sale, and pots of face cream (I’m assuming unused, though they weren’t sealed – I didn’t investigate too closely).

This being America, if there is buying and selling going on, there is room for a middleman. So there are small local businesses who will run your estate sale for you, and these build up certain reputations. Round here, if you see the pink sign for an 'Estate Sale by Helen', I’m told it means that you can rely on the items there being high-end and good quality – but pricey. Others have more of a reputation as being good for a bargain. I’ve heard, though, that it’s a mixed blessing getting one of these businesses in. Yes, it saves you the hassle of running your own sale, but they retain the right to bring unsold goods from other sales into your sale. So your house becomes the showroom for other people’s wares. Though I suppose it’s swings and roundabouts, because your stuff in turn might be taken to do the rounds elsewhere.

Garage sales always seem well-attended. There’s always a line of cars parked outside the house, and a steady trickle of people heading in or out. At week-ends, a garage sale will typically open at 8.00am, but on week-days, I’m told they open up at 7.00 or even 6.30. The good stuff goes early, they say, but of course it depends what you’re looking for. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure… Or meat... Or poison.

I haven’t been to many sales. Occasionally, I’ve stopped at one in the neighbourhood, and given the kids a dollar to spend on a toy for fun. I once saw a glider (swing seat) as I drove by a sale, and stopped to buy it – something of a bargain at $20, though it did need some attention. I’ve walked round a few just because I was initially rather intrigued by the phenomenon, and wanted to see what they were like. I also wanted to pick up some tips and get the confidence to run our own garage sale, which we did last year on 31st October, Hallowe’en, and which I’ll tell you about in the next post.

The Great Outdoors

Do you ever start writing a comment on a blog, and before you know it, you've rambled on so much that you've pretty much written a blog post on the subject?

I've just done that on Nappy Valley Girl's blog. I'm enjoying reading her blog, because she's just moved from Clapham Common to Long Island, and it's full of her early impressions of American life. I can hardly read a post without exclaiming in her comments box "oh yes, I remember that feeling so well!". It also makes me realise how far I've dug in, in three years. Things that strike her as unusual are just part of life for me now, and it takes someone else to point them out for me to notice. She surprised local American friends recently by offering them milk in their tea. I remember doing that. Now I don't, and what's more, I don't even think about it. These things become second nature.

Anyhoo, Nappy Valley Girl was cogitating today on why Americans don't seem to go outside when it's snowy, or even cold. When you're bringing up small children, it seems an essential part of a day to take them out into the fresh air, come hell, high water, or bad weather. But only if you're British.

I was commenting along my usual lines of "oh, I've wondered the same thing!" and found I'd written so much on the subject that, if I just added a tiny bit more, I could repeat it all on my own blog and call it a post. Which is what I've done.

I started off by saying I thought it was just a cultural thing. We Brits have a deep-seated feeling that fresh air is good for children, and that going outside at some point in the day is essential. The Americans don't. Simple as that.

But then I decided that actually, there's more to it than that. I think it's a reflection of a deep cultural difference between the adults. We Brits love our outdoors. We are a nation of gardeners. We like a sunny day because then we can be "out". If we go on holiday, we like to see the scenery of where we are. Our own countryside is sacrosanct.

It's just not the same here. I once tried to explain to a woman who asked me what I missed about the UK, that I missed walking down a street, walking the kids to school, going out and about at the week-ends... that it made me feel disconnected from the "real" world. I said "For example, you could easily live a life here where you literally NEVER went outside some kind of built environment. You leave the house by car from your integral garage. You can run your errands at drive-thrus. Everywhere here has convenient parking lots, so you don’t have to walk to get anywhere. Indeed you physically can’t do that. You could live without ever seeing the outdoors except for the parking lots you walk across."

She looked at me as if I was on another planet, and said "What's wrong with that?"

My guess is that this is one reason why the fear of climate change tugs at the emotions of Brits more than a lot of Americans. We would really mind if our countryside changed. For most people round here, it's a rather remote problem. If the planet warms up a little, your air-conditioning bill will be a bit higher, but it won’t significantly affect your life. No big deal.

I don’t want to get pious here, but I can’t help feeling that it’s important for us humans to be conscious that we belong to the natural world, and not the other way round. There’s a big wide world out there, and we are very small in it. How do your kids learn that, how do they come to feel that, if you don’t take them outside?

The old year ends

Well, 2009 is over. Something of a turbulent year in my life. Though I have sniffed out gains, it has largely been a year of losses. I have found strengths, but I have also met some of my limitations (I hate that). I have done things, and had things done to me, that I would never have chosen. But that is how life is. It’s not a Woolworth’s pick ‘n’ mix, where you can opt out of the liquorice allsorts. It’s not a modern day Christmas present, with the gift receipt in the envelope so that you can exchange it for something else more to your taste. You take the rough with the smooth, and somehow try and find your way through.

(I think I might have used these analogies already on the blog. Anyone know how you can do a keyword search through previous blog posts, without going through them one by one? Should I be keeping them all in a large Word document? Ed.)

This year, I’ve faced things I didn’t plan to face just yet. I’ve looked into the jaws of my own mortality, and squared up with two things: how insignificant my life is, and how significant my life is. Both are burdensome truths. I’ve found that the best strategy to deal with them is to look them straight in the eyes, but not for long, and then turn away to get on with the fabulous reality of daily life. It’s like wearing sunglasses on a very bright day. If you don’t have them, you squint all the time, and your eyes hurt, and it’s a continual distraction. So you wear them, but every now and again, you feel the need to take them off and screw up your eyes against the light, just to see how intense the colour of the sky really is. The brightness is there all the time, but you don’t want to look at it too much. It’s a relief to put those sunglasses back on and get on with the day, and then you forget about the brightness.

This year, I realized more than ever how important writing is to me. This blog, and the excuse it provides for my incessant drivel, has seen me through. I would write it if nobody at all read it. But you do, and that makes it a thousand times better.

I want to thank you all so much. This isn’t a glib “Thank you, I love you all, Happy New Year”. This is a heartfelt thank you. I know that reading about someone with cancer is not a very joyful thing to do. I know that it is more fun to read about the sweet things people’s children have said or done, or tales of expat life abroad. So thank you for not clicking away. Thank you to those of you who knew me before this year. Thank you to the new people who’ve taken the trouble to get to know me. Thank you to those of you who’ve commented. Thank you to those of you who’ve emailed me. Thank you to those of you who've read and lurked. Lurkers are nice people too. In the words of Hank Williams, “Hey, good lurkin’, what ya got curkin’?”

Most of all, thank you for writing your own blogs. Reading them is like keeping busy on a sunny day, with sunglasses on. When I started this blog in the summer of 2007, I was horribly homesick, and I used to read lots of blogs about England. At that time, a large number of people had recently started blogs about country life, in response to a competition run by the magazine of that name to find a blogger for the publication. There was a real excitement around as people shared stories and pictures of their lush flower beds, their burgeoning vegetable patches, the domestic projects in their homes. It was a rather unBritish blowing of own trumpets – in a very British understated way, of course. You might have thought it would have made me more homesick – all those colourful pictures of roses in full bloom, beautiful shots of the English countryside, accounts of trips to National Trust properties, complaints about the rain (it was a record-breakingly rainy summer, 2007). But it didn’t. Somehow it helped, just knowing that it was all going on, even if an ocean away, and without me.

In the same way, this summer, your blogs kept a window open for me on normal life. I was ill, and sad, and fearful. I saw too much of my own four walls. Reading your blogs, reading about your joys, your woes, your excitements, your disappointments, the magnificent trivia of your daily lives, all of it helped me keep a hold on the fact that normality was still happening, even if it felt at times a long way away, and without me.

So thank you, for being part of my blog, and for letting me be part of yours. Happy New Year to you all.

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Christmas tips

To tip or not to tip? Who do you tip at Christmas?

This year, we tipped the mailman. He made it kind of obvious, by leaving us a card explaining that routes were being rearranged, so that he would no longer be our mailman in 2010, and saying how much he’d enjoyed working our patch over the past however many years. I felt a bit obliged, but I didn’t mind, as he’s always been a fantastic mailman. He’s gone out of his way to make life easy – arranging to stop mail if we’re away (you usually have to go to the post office and fill in a form), and doing his best to deliver parcels that need signatures at convenient times.

I remember when I was a child, our paper boy adopted a similar strategy. He left a Christmas card wishing his customers a merry Christmas, and detailing the number of hours he spent on the round, the amount he was paid, and the amount he estimated it cost him to do the job (mostly wear and tear on his bike). The newsagent made the poor lad go round to each house and apologise in person. I suppose England in the 1970’s had less stomach for blatant tip solicitation than America in the 2000’s.

My worst Christmas tipping moment happened in Scotland a few years ago. The window cleaners had come round, and I was doing that thing of lurking around the house trying to avoid the rooms they were working on, but also trying to make it look as if I was totally relaxed and not doing that at all, just getting on with my normal business, which - as usual - was taking me from room to room every few minutes. On this occasion, not only was I lurking and roaming, but I was also cogitating the appropriateness of a tip.

I decided I would give them a Christmas extra. I imagined that being a window cleaner in Scotland in December didn’t have much warmth and cosiness about it, and that a Christmas tip might just provide a rare warm and cosy moment. So I went out the back door in search of the head window man. As I rounded the corner of the house, there he was, with his back to me, standing close to the house, doing up his flies.

Now, if this scenario took place today, a bit of American assertiveness having rubbed off on me in the 3 years we’ve been here, I think I’d say,

“Excuse me. I’d prefer it if you didn’t urinate against the wall of my house. You are very welcome to come inside at any time and use the bathroom. If you don’t want to do that, I’d appreciate it if you urinated at the far end of the garden, and not right next to the window of our guest bedroom, spotless though that window is – on the outside at any rate.”

But this was a few years ago, and I was far too British for that kind of approach. What I did was to fix my eyes on a spot somewhere to the north west of his face, and certainly far north of his fingers fumbling with the zip, and say,

“Um... er... um... this is for you” (thrusting the wad of notes towards him, the usual amount and the tip),

“and... um... er... um... Happy Christmas. Yes, um... Happy Christmas!”

He in turn looked at a point significantly to one side of me, and replied,

“Oh... er... um... thank you very much.”

It’s great being British, isn’t it?

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Festivals

One of the things that is very noticeable about living in America is how much more effort they put into celebrating festivals. Houses are decorated, schools have parties, the ‘seasonal’ aisles in stores are filled with appropriate merchandise (although that happens well in advance of the festival itself, as if those aisles are in their own private time zone).

My personal theory is that we don’t need the excitement of festivals so much in Britain, as our school year is organized differently. We are never more than a few weeks away from a holiday (Christmas, Easter, summer) or half-term. If you need something to look forward to – and don’t we all? – then you have lots of scope to arrange a day out, a trip, a visit to or from relations, a holiday, something to break up the routine. Over here, there’s a 2-week Christmas holiday, a week’s Spring break, and otherwise, all the school holiday is in a great long 12-week stretch over the summer. (I know I've talked about this before so I'm sorry to be repetitive, but it really does make such a big difference to life.) There are occasional days off, but it’s just not the same as having a long week-end, or a half-term week. I mean to say, if your children returned to school on August 17th, and their only break before Christmas was 3 days holiday in late November, wouldn’t you need a few events to get excited about?

Each festival has a colour associated with it. At the time of the relevant festival, the stores have a rash of that colour dotted through them. Cupcakes have the theme colour icing, there are a couple of racks of children's clothing in it, there'll be a sprinkling of it in the adult clothing section too, homewares will sport the colour in paper plates, tableclothes, napkins, and candles, and there'll be plenty of novelty goods spattered around in that same colour too. I was thinking about this, and I reckon every feasible colour is accounted for. Here’s the list:

Valentine’s Day: red and pink
St Patrick’s Day: green
Easter: yellow (and pastel shades generally)
Memorial Day and Fourth of July: red, white and blue
Hallowe’en: orange, black and purple
Christmas: green and red.

It really only leaves brown and grey unused. They’re not very festive colours, so it’s not surprising. I suppose Labor Day could adopt them, to represent the drudgery of work. But I have a better plan for them. I’m working on a ‘British Day’ celebration when we could put them to use. It would have to be 4th January, ie the opposite to 4th July. The grey would symbolize the British weather, and the brown the British countryside, (ideally we’d want to use green for that, but that’s already taken by St Patrick and the Irish and in January, the British countryside is more brown than green anyway).

I think I’m going to have an uphill battle getting this one universally adopted, especially so soon after the Christmas season. On the other hand, those seasonal aisles are pretty purposeless in January. It’s a good six weeks till Valentine’s Day. I’m sure the major retailers would welcome a January festival. No-one will have grey and brown paraphernalia stored away in their closets, so this would present an opportunity for significant new purchasing. Perhaps I should write to Target and Wal-mart and see if I can get something started (and yes, I know I’d have to spell it ‘gray’ for their benefit).

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Home again, home again, jiggety jig

We are back. We had a golden summer. Cousins played happily with cousins. I had my fix of old friends. We went to lovely beaches, the North York Moors, enjoyed old haunts, discovered new ones. Walked down streets – such a different thing from going to the mall. Walked along leafy country lanes that I have known since I was pushed along them in a big Silver Cross pram, kicking my younger brother for leg space. Went to the christening of my blogson. Husband and 11-yo had a day at Lord’s. Realised we’d been away too long when I said “there’s the pub”, and 4-yo piped up from the back of the car “what’s a pub?”

And blogging. Hm. Didn’t do much of that. Didn’t have internet access, you see. Had to go to the public library. Cramps one’s style a bit. Hadn’t planned to go silent for three months, but it sort of happened. Sorry.

It was good to go home. I had been worried that it would be unsettling for us all, make us unsure of where we fit in these days. But the opposite happened. It helped. The children made sense of which cousin belonged to which aunt and uncle, and if we needed evidence that blood is thicker than water, it was there to be found in the way they got on so easily. Links to places and people were still strong, but didn’t seem to evoke the same sense of loss. We fitted in here, there and everywhere more easily that I could have imagined. The familiarity was comforting. Most of all, we just didn’t think about it too much. I had been worried that the trip would make us homesick, but no. At least not for now. It made Britain seem more reachable, just a flight away, the Atlantic really just a big pond.

This, too. The balance has tipped. We knew deep down all along that this our American chapter would be not wrong, just different, and not forever, but we decided that we would live from the outset as if it were, putting down deliberate roots, holding loosely to home ties, living our thought lives as well as our physical lives here in the Midwest. I never fooled myself, but I gave it my best shot, carefully and with effort. Our summer changed that. We’ve started thinking and talking about the return strategy. Too much, probably. We did some forward planning, a bit vague at this point, but at least the direction is decided. We’ve done the uphill climb, we’re now on the plateau. I know the downhill may be some way off, but I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge it exists. That is a good feeling.

A golden summer with silver linings.

Different things

Over the past few days, I have been collecting a list of things that will be different about life when we’re in Britain. They are pretty random, so I will just spew them out, although I have made at least a little attempt at organizing them. They are in three categories. Three categories – come on, that’s pretty good. I mean, it’s not the kind of intelligent analysis that would get me to be where someone like Matt Frei is, but three categories is three categories. Don’t knock it.

Things that will be different

• There will be reassuring white lines at road junctions, so that I will know where I am meant to stop the car
• Stop lights will not swing about on their wires in the wind in that alarming way
• The meat aisle in the supermarket will be mostly chicken with a small section of beef, rather than mostly beef with a small section of chicken
• Children won’t call each other “dude” (or perhaps they will; we’ve been away 18 months and this could be a new fashion for all I know)
• Everything will seem very small, especially cars and houses. A friend of mine laughed when I told her we have an air hockey table in our basement playroom: “you have a playroom large enough for an air hockey table?”. I didn’t tell her we could fit 3 or 4 in that room, and that we have a choice of other rooms where it could go. And that our house is not abnormally large for a family of five
• Children in a park won’t ask their parents for an underdog (which is surprising, given we’re meant to be a nation that always likes the underdog)
• A grill will be something you put meat under, not on top of

Things I will miss

• A big fridge
• The lack of traffic
• Not having to spend time planning the hunt for a parking space
• Thunderstorms
• Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in a box (which, annoyingly and humiliatingly, is much, much more delicious than homemade)
• Mixer taps that actually mix the hot and cold water
• Seeing exotic food in my local supermarket (cactus leaves, buffalo meat) – or will Cadbury’s chocolate fingers and Wall’s chipolatas seem exotic now?
• Knowing it will be warm enough every day to wear flip flops (I find the relentless heat hard to cope with, but I do like flip flops)
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent

Things I definitely will not miss

• Obscenely large portions in restaurants
• Drinks served 75% ice 25% liquid (am I the only one who likes a drink to be something you can drink? am I the only one with teeth sensitive to cold?)
• When I order milk from a children’s menu, the waiter asking “white or chocolate?”
(Of course these first three are entirely hypothetical, since we won’t be eating out at all. Given the cost of living in the UK, we will be existing on bread and water – oh, but at least it’ll be delicious bread, not the compacted cotton wool that is marketed as bread over here.)
• Commercials on tv – their number, frequency, length, quality and medical content (I think that covers the gist of it)
• The word “ornery”, because I just can’t quite get the nuance of what it means – one of those words which has a dictionary definition, but whose usage depends on undefinable knowledge
• The word “flakey”, for the same reason (and is it “flakey” or “flaky” – I can’t even spell it)
• Chiggers
• Four-way stops (don’t get me started)
• Children saying “can I get…” instead of “please may I have…”
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent (and yes, that’s meant to be in both lists - I’m a bit complicated on this one. Sometimes it’s nice to be different and have an immediate talking point, sometimes it would be nice to blend in a little more.)