Bitter sweet Britain

Cold, cold cold. That kind of damp cold that seeps into your bones. The kind of cold that makes your nose constantly dribble and your joints ache. That’s British summer time for you.

Going back to England was a bitter sweet and rather damp experience.



Sweet because I saw all my old colleagues and friends, one of whom has just taken up a newspaper editorship in Bahrain. Sweet because I got to spend the first night out with my two sisters in 6 years. Sweet because my 3 year old nephew has stopped eyeing me up with suspicion and now appears to actively like me. Actually, as he was jumping up and down on my head one morning at 7.30am as I desperately tried to pretend I was asleep, he informed me: ‘I only hurt you because I love you auntie Maie.’My other nephew, a star rugby player and a supremely intelligent 11 year old, told me I was beautiful (that isn’t why I think he is intelligent… they did tests and stuff). That made me very happy. One morning I was passing through a village with my sister’s brood. The rain was just holding off, people were playing cricket on the village green, a procession of steam engines trundled past. All I needed was a glass of Pimms….. perfect.

However the trip was also slightly bitter. Bitter because England really is entering a recession. Food has gone up by 30 percent in a matter of months. It’s 4.50 GBP for a bloody sandwich now. Petrol has risen so much that ambulance and fire brigade services have cancelled all staff overtime because they can’t afford to fill their vehicles. My friends and family struggle with taxes rent and mortgage payments. Some are already seriously facing the prospect of loosing their homes…. And the recession has barely started.

I found an old friend had been going through a hard time and felt desperately sad that I hadn’t been there for her.



But what left the bitter taste was the wedding I attended. This chap has been a dear friend of mine for ten years. Our gang hung out together every weekend for 5 years. We danced, I supported all of his Djing efforts, we all had brunch together every Sunday. I even lived with some of the gang. So when I got an invite for the evening reception, I understood that with finances being the way they are in Britain, it was something that he just had to do. And I really just wanted to see him and share any part of the happy occasion I could.


What I didn’t realise was, that our entire gang, barring the only other female member of it and I, had all been invited for the full shebang, no matter how tenuous their links to the groom or how infrequent their contact, along with whatever +1's they'd cobbled together. He spoke to me for less than 5 minutes the whole evening.

I can't help but feel a little hurt. Literally I travelled 1000 miles to congratulate someone and didn't even get offered a cup of tea or 3 minutes of their time.

On the bright side, when we returned to the other female outcast's house, we found we were locked out and I had to break and enter in a pair of heels at 3am through the smallest window. Burglary can be fun.


Oh yeah. And I went on a few ‘dates’. Well we have seen each other on a sort of frequent basis for food. But it will probably all go wrong, so just wait for my next rant about how all men are bastards and you’ll find out for sure….