30 Years Amongst the Brits

Meeting oneself can be unsettling

Thirty years ago today, I was walking through Heathrow Airport, when I saw a policeman, and thought to myself, They really do wear those hats.

Does Eng-a-land swing like a pendulum do? Do bobbies on bikes ride two by two? And do the children have rosy cheeks? The answers are a) sometimes, b) not that I’ve noticed, and c) no more than the US did, as best I recall.

It’s been awhile.

I married a T-Rex fan, so my own England, Yorkshire, and Doncaster, tend to bop, and boogie.

Thirty years is a long time: longer than the 27 I spent in my home country of America. I’ve been a British citizen for over five years, and hope to have a UK passport soon (crosses fingers, and spits in the appropriate manner, and place).

I’m celebrating by writing this blog, having a cream tea for breakfast, and using the china mug which my lovely husband gave me. Later, there will be beer, at the Doncaster Brewery Tap (1), where I sometimes read at the “Well Spoken!” open mic nights. Yesterday, there was fishcake, and chips. All terribly British, with the exception of the timing of the jam and cream scones.

Perhaps I’ll start a trend. It could happen.

Scones with cream, jam, and blueberries: I say!

2016 has been an interesting year: admission to the ward (again) for my mental health (again); early stage breast cancer, and now there’s a big, chuffing question mark hanging over my job.

I love what I do: it’s extremely worthwhile, if sometimes emotionally and/or physically tiring. Also, I don’t fancy queuing in the local job centre with the three strikes of being in my late 50s, bipolar, and having recently been on the ward.

Right or wrong, the uncertainty around my work is proving much more difficult to cope with than cancer is/was. Perhaps it’s because the latter seems much more straightforward: have this op; undergo so many sessions of radiotherapy, take this med for five years, etc, etc. As for work, who knows?

Yesterday was another T-bird day (2). This time, though, I was able to remind myself the reason I’m here. It isn’t my job, our house, or even my friends, much as I love them. It isn’t the inspiration that the people, landscapes, and places give my writing, much as I appreciate it.

It’s you, love. It’s always you: through the loving times, the daft times, and the difficult ones alike.

Always, you.

A couple of bairns: 1980s

(1) Do feel free to join me. There may be Morris Men!
(2) Fun fun fun til her daddy takes the T-bird away.