Friday, 16 March 2012
All I have to say to that is that they'd better do, because in a week and a bit I will be returning to Britain! Hurrah! But don't get too excited just yet, dear readers. I'm only visiting for three weeks. It's not permanent. Sorry.
You would think I would feel bad for leading you along that emotional roller-coaster, but I don't. Well, maybe a bit. But the feeling of guilt is remarkably lessened, because I have been experiencing my own little roller-coaster for the last few days. My mind has been constantly flitting back and forth, through excitement to nervousness, from anticipation to not caring, but I think the safest thing to say is that I am looking forward to having a jolly good curry when I get back. Chicken Jalfrezi, if you wanted to know. And if you didn't, well, too bad.
To be honest though, I'm not quite sure how I should feel. Part of me expects to be greeted at Heathrow terminal 1 by the Queen herself. There she would be, standing on the red carpet amongst depressed, sleep deprived, caffeine powered taxi drivers, holding out a scone and a biscuit whilst the royal guard play fanfares on those funny little trumpets and a little bloke in coat-tails and a top hat bellows at the top of his voice, "Hear ye, hear ye! His lordship has returned!" Nothing too pretentious, you know. But somehow, I doubt that will happen. Doubt. Not rule out. I still hold that little bit of hope. Oh, and by the way, before any of you even think of making a joke or asking, no, that is not the norm for us. Sadly. I can't exactly imagine Her Majesty being employed by British Airways as a stewardess. I mean, she isn't anywhere near orange enough, and the crown would definately clash with the uniform. Seeing as that situation isn't too likely to arise, I can therefore expect to be greeted by my darling family with open arms. Ah, what a lovely image. It's not quite as lovely as the full brass band and Her Maj, but they'll have to do for now.
Having analysed my arrival plans, the issue of what I will do afterwards is still in question. Frustratingly, what a rather large part of me wants to do is to, well, be a tourist! The irony is outrageous! Having spent all this time blending in here, am I really going to go back home and act like a bloody tourist there?! Really?! Because I already know what the reaction will be, and I don't particularly want to have magnitudes of strangers tutting at me whilst I run around the streets draped in my giant union-jack and an 'I heart London' t-shirt. But sod it, maybe I should. You never get to visit any Touristy places in your own country. It's not really a rule, but it's just something that we don't often do. Every time the motion is brought up amongst friends or family, the conclusion we always reach will be something along the lines of, "Eh, forget it. It's just a big clock". And that's the truth. Why bother? But now, now it's different. Having been separated from Blighty for eight months, I feel like I can sort of justify my desires. Who cares if some snob tuts. Who cares if I get the odd look on the tube. I'm doing it.
So, if any if you will be in London over the next few weeks, just keep an eye out for a rather bubbly and happy looking bloke covered from head to toe in tourist merchandise, because it could very well be me. Actually, it probably won't be. I have far to much self respect for that. Instead, I will be calmly touring, dressed in sensible clothes, with a copy of The Times under my arm, and a look of social awkwardness whenever a stranger enters my life. That's the British way!
You would think I would feel bad for leading you along that emotional roller-coaster, but I don't. Well, maybe a bit. But the feeling of guilt is remarkably lessened, because I have been experiencing my own little roller-coaster for the last few days. My mind has been constantly flitting back and forth, through excitement to nervousness, from anticipation to not caring, but I think the safest thing to say is that I am looking forward to having a jolly good curry when I get back. Chicken Jalfrezi, if you wanted to know. And if you didn't, well, too bad.
To be honest though, I'm not quite sure how I should feel. Part of me expects to be greeted at Heathrow terminal 1 by the Queen herself. There she would be, standing on the red carpet amongst depressed, sleep deprived, caffeine powered taxi drivers, holding out a scone and a biscuit whilst the royal guard play fanfares on those funny little trumpets and a little bloke in coat-tails and a top hat bellows at the top of his voice, "Hear ye, hear ye! His lordship has returned!" Nothing too pretentious, you know. But somehow, I doubt that will happen. Doubt. Not rule out. I still hold that little bit of hope. Oh, and by the way, before any of you even think of making a joke or asking, no, that is not the norm for us. Sadly. I can't exactly imagine Her Majesty being employed by British Airways as a stewardess. I mean, she isn't anywhere near orange enough, and the crown would definately clash with the uniform. Seeing as that situation isn't too likely to arise, I can therefore expect to be greeted by my darling family with open arms. Ah, what a lovely image. It's not quite as lovely as the full brass band and Her Maj, but they'll have to do for now.
Having analysed my arrival plans, the issue of what I will do afterwards is still in question. Frustratingly, what a rather large part of me wants to do is to, well, be a tourist! The irony is outrageous! Having spent all this time blending in here, am I really going to go back home and act like a bloody tourist there?! Really?! Because I already know what the reaction will be, and I don't particularly want to have magnitudes of strangers tutting at me whilst I run around the streets draped in my giant union-jack and an 'I heart London' t-shirt. But sod it, maybe I should. You never get to visit any Touristy places in your own country. It's not really a rule, but it's just something that we don't often do. Every time the motion is brought up amongst friends or family, the conclusion we always reach will be something along the lines of, "Eh, forget it. It's just a big clock". And that's the truth. Why bother? But now, now it's different. Having been separated from Blighty for eight months, I feel like I can sort of justify my desires. Who cares if some snob tuts. Who cares if I get the odd look on the tube. I'm doing it.
So, if any if you will be in London over the next few weeks, just keep an eye out for a rather bubbly and happy looking bloke covered from head to toe in tourist merchandise, because it could very well be me. Actually, it probably won't be. I have far to much self respect for that. Instead, I will be calmly touring, dressed in sensible clothes, with a copy of The Times under my arm, and a look of social awkwardness whenever a stranger enters my life. That's the British way!
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