Epilogue: The Citizen
(Part 1)

[Blogger’s note: I was born and raised in the United States, moved to Canada for love in my early 40s, then relocated again, well into my 50s, to the southern coast of England with my British-born spouse. This has been a series about my sometimes amusing and frequently embarrassing exploits as an expat.]

Well, folks, the deed is done.  The ink has dried, the champagne cheap prosecco has been quaffed, and the plus-size person who prefers the pronouns she/her has sung. After diligently chronicling my life as a UK newcomer in this blog series, which has been enjoyed by literally tens of readers over the past six years, I’m pleased – no, chuffed  – to declare that I am finally a British citizen! Who’s a legit Brit? This guy. [Blogger aims both thumbs at his chest and smirks smugly.]

I received my first British passport this summer, having applied for it only a few weeks prior, a surprisingly speedy turnaround given the snail-like pace of the rest of the immigration process.  (And perhaps even more astonishing, the photo ain’t half bad either.)  It’s the happiest of endings to this chapter of my UK adventure and a fitting finale for the “Absolute Beginner” series. While I’m not a master of all things Blighty quite yet, I feel like the passport is my diploma from newbie school. Time to explore more advanced topics – I’m considering an in-depth analysis of the game of cricket, for one. Granted, I’ve only been to a single match and I didn’t really know what was going on, so maybe “in-depth” is a stretch. But I enjoyed it and the players looked super cute in their cricket whites, so how about a shallow analysis of the sport’s dishiest batsmen? Anyway, to close out this series, I’m taking a look back at the observations about British culture that I’ve made along the way. Some of my views on the topics I’ve covered have evolved significantly, others not so much. For instance, I still have absolutely no desire to try Marmite.

I launched the series to negligible fanfare in the winter of 2017, back when we knew nothing of social distancing or COVID passes, and face masks were something only surgeons and bank robbers wore. In my first post I marvelled at the fresh assortment of songs I was hearing on British radio, many of which rarely, if ever, reached my ears back in the States. I’ve always been a musical Anglophile – there was a period in the early ‘80s when probably 90% of the albums I owned were by British punk, new wave and synth-pop bands – but since my arrival in England, my musical knowledge has broadened and deepened. Like, in my old life I’m pretty sure the only Status Quo song I’d ever heard was “Pictures of Matchstick Men.” But after being exposed to a slew of the band’s UK hits, still played regularly across the radio dial here, I now have a solid list of Quo favourites, including “Down Down,” “Caroline,” and the mighty “Rockin’ All Over the World.” I can also easily identify ditties by such previously unknown-to-me oldies acts as Lindisfarne, Elkie Brooks, Tina Charles, Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel, Althea & Donna, and several others.  I’m still not well-versed in more contemporary pop artists, including the inexplicably beloved British boy bands and girl groups of the 1990s and 2000s. I couldn’t tell the difference between the Saturdays and Girls Aloud and All Saints if my very soul depended on it, and my hellish punishment was to listen to the three of them on a loop for all eternity. To be honest, I’m happy to remain blissfully ignorant of Top 40 pop music from the Spice Girls onwards.

 In another early post I painted an unflattering picture of myself as a rube about town. For months I kept saying “dollars” and “cents, ” instead of the correct “pounds” and “pence,” in transactions with shop clerks and restaurant servers. And I was befuddled by British coins, particularly the 5 pence and 10 pence coins, which are in inverse proportion to their American 5 cent and 10 cent counterparts. Thankfully I’m more currency savvy now, although the 5p and 10p coins still trip me up on occasion. Can I just say that I cringed when I reread this post? I come across as kind of a ninny, or pillock, as the Brits say. Being a native English speaker from a culture similar to the UK, I’ve had an easier time acclimating than some, but I’ve still made my share of blunders along the way. I just wish I possessed the self-restraint not to blog about them.

This next post found me fretting over British terms and pronunciations and whether I should adopt the vernacular of the locals or stick stubbornly to my Americanisms – i.e. it’s “cookie” not “biscuit,” dammit! The locals triumphed in the end. I no longer hesitate to say “biscuit,” or “jumper” instead of “sweater,” “rubbish bin” and not “garbage can,” or the myriad other words and phrases that gave me pause at first. I’m less angsty about pronunciations as well.  I have no qualms about asking for cod fillets at the fish counter in the supermarket and calling them “fill-UTS,” not “fill-AYS” as we say in the States. I’ve even been experimenting with pronouncing the word vase as “v-AHZ,” the way it’s said here. It sounds a bit off in my flat American accent, but I’m getting used to it and the people I’ve tried it out on didn’t slap me or anything. I still find some pronunciations, like “to-MAH-to” and “sax-AH-phonist,” to be a bridge too far, but all in all when it comes to Brit-speak, by George I think I’ve got it!

There were times over the course of the series when I made bold assessments that, in hindsight, were kind of naive. I’m thinking specifically of my too-hasty takes on British weather and the train system. In my post about the weather, written less than a year after I’d arrived, I deemed the cliché of “rainy Britain” to be exaggerated and reckoned it was only slightly more drizzly here than in America or Canada. Turns out my first few seasons in the UK were just unusually dry. Since then, I’ve lost count of the rainy days –  odds are it’s raining here as you read this. Sometimes I swear an entire month will go by without a break in the clouds. Yes, there have been sunny stretches, particularly in summer, but in general it rains enough to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the cliché is a cliché for a reason. And nobody told me about the insidious by-product of all the wetness: mould. Aargh! During the winter months, when the windows and doors are shut tight against the elements, the creeping crud makes its unwelcome appearance in almost every nook and cranny of our home. The hubby and I are constantly battling the stuff, dousing surface after surface with anti-mould spray until we’re loopy from the fumes.  I started to write a post about this Sisyphean task for my series on being a first time home owner, thinking I might wring some humour out of our efforts, like the time I MacGyver-ed an implement to clean the upper reaches of our stairwell using a mop, an extendable broom handle, and duct tape.  But trying to force a cheery tone on such dreary drudgework proved to be a chore in itself, so I gave up. Besides, who has time for a meditation on mould when there are blotchy walls to wipe down? 

Similarly, I waxed a bit too rhapsodic in my love letter to the UK train system, gushing that it was the most efficient, least stressful way to travel around the country. I still believe that when it works it’s great, but the system has become unreliable due to ongoing strikes by railway workers, with no end in sight as of this writing. (They do like their strikes here, I must say. Teachers, airport baggage handlers, nurses, junior doctors, and even ambulance drivers have all staged walkouts in 2023.) The rail strikes are announced just days in advance and are frustratingly random – a Tuesday here, a Friday there, a long holiday weekend thrown in to maximise the hassle. As such, it’s risky to make plans for trips out of town. The hubby and I will get word of a tempting concert or theatrical performance in London, a 90-minute train ride away, and we’ll have to seriously consider whether we should buy tickets, given that we’d lose that money if a strike is called. Sometimes we take a chance, but often we err on the side of caution and stay home. When we moved to the UK, I thought the country’s extensive rail network meant I’d put my driving days behind me, but if the disruption continues much longer I may have no choice but to get behind the wheel again. Although if I picture myself trying to navigate a roundabout, I shudder with fear. As should every motorist in my vicinity. 

Ranting about the weather and public transit – I told you I was a true Brit! On those sour notes, I’ll take my leave for now. Look for the second half of the series conclusion in the weeks or months to come, depending on how lazy – er, busy, I am this autumn, with updated verdicts on British telly, tipping (or the lack thereof), and cuisine. Who knows? Maybe I’ll work up the nerve to sample the wonders of Marmite in the meantime. 

Spoiler alert: Never gonna happen.

Further Reading:

• Post 1: The Curious Appeal of British Commercial Radio
• Post 2: Currency Exchanges with the Locals
• Post 3: Bafflingly Brief Business Hours
• Post 4: Learning When and When Not to Talk Like a Brit
• Post 5: Battling Britain’s Perversely Popular Washer-Dryer Combo
• Post 6: The Weather in the UK vs. North America
• Post 7: Hopping Aboard Britain’s Railway System
• Post 8: British Food from Delicious to Distressing
• Post 9: How the British React to an Alien Accent in Their Midst
• Post 10: Trying to Understand British Telly
• Post 11: A Love Letter to the UK’s Most Sumptuous Supermarket, Waitrose
• Post 12: Lovely, Actually: Embracing Britain’s Cuddliest Expression
• Post 13: A Wary City Boy Struggles with Small-Town Neighbourliness
• Post 14: Getting Chummy with the English Seaside
• Post 15: Tucking into Britain’s Traditional Sunday Roast
• Post 16: The Tricky Business of Tipping in the UK
• Post 17: Hashing Out the Terms for British Daily Meals