(just before the) British Elections 2010

Today I was expecting to count ballots, even from afar. To be excited about what may come. Will Britain finally embrace the European tradition of coalitions? Will they learn to work together or will they keep being the deeply divided society where social classes have their own separate vocabulary and they prepare their tea in different ways?

That was what I expected.

But now, instead, I am counting dead bodies in Greece. Victims of the anger of a people that held their breath for too long.

Sorry Britain, I am sure you will survive even with a hung parliament. I have bigger fish to fry today.

What’s so great about England?

Having taken enough physical mental and time distance from the island, I can say now officially, I miss it. Don’t start looking at me with those bit eyes full of surprise… or is it something else?
Wanting it or not (mostly not) England was my home for the best part of my adult years this far. It is there, where I learned how to interact with other adults on equal terms, deal with authorities and survive bureaucracy. So now, I have moved worlds choosing as my new planet a place without queuing traditions but with widely know good cuisine, a place that everybody acknowledges as a “great place to be”. So, how do I dare miss England?

Okay, step back for a moment. I don’t miss everything about it. I don’t miss the teenage mums, the dirty streets on Sunday morning, the cold feeling in the gut until I get home Friday night after pub closing time, the train delays, the shops closing at five (or rather the world closing at five). Plenty of things I do not miss.

What do I miss?

First and foremost, I miss that in England, this great little country, everybody knows what to expect. There is a certain order, there is a certain routine, even in the most un-orderly of situations. You know that when you enter a restaurant you have to wait to be seated, while in a pub you have to go find the seat that suits you unassisted. You know that customer service people will greed you with a smile, will be full of thank yous and pleases and I beg your pardons, and they will even be sorry for your inconvenience. Well not really, but they will say so. It is part of the game.

When you enter the country it upsets you, then you get used to it, when you leave you miss it. The world out there is a jungle without these unwritten rules.

I also miss the pubs, the ones with good real ale, some nicely made burgers and interesting customers who can tell you stories from the old days.

I miss the bookstores, that had books in a language I can understand, and that had logically designed sections.

I miss the bbc iplayer. My only contact to pop culture.

I miss the high street shops, where I knew where I could find the things I need, sparing me the time of wondering around for three hours in a tourist invaded city centre.

But above all I miss Indian restaurants.

Don’t get me wrong… Italy is a great place, which I still need to explore to more detail. But England was the awkward place I was used to. And like with bad relationships, habit is the critical factor.

Now, is time I give Italy a chance.

You know it is Spring in England when…

Spring on this island always causes a certain amount of fascination (to me), and the emergence of various feelings (to the indigenous). But why fascination with Spring?

Well, first of all, it exists. Coming from a country where temperature cheats, it naughtily jumps from 7 to 28 degrees Celsius, catching even the weather forecast service (or rather them foremost) in surprise, Spring is definitely not a phenomenon one is used to. It requires a certain amount of observation. You know, to recognize the symptoms, if not to find a cure.

First thing I noticed this morning, was the clock telling me something different to what my body knew. 6.55am, and I was wide awake. The only reason I can possibly be looking at this combination of numbers on a clock is easyjet’s inhuman flight times. But today my body was not obeying reason (Stay in bed, you fool!). Shower, breakfast, my regular Italian exercise of the day, all set by 7.40. Spring speeds you up too, it seems.

8am and already at work, it gave me extra time to finish some papers ect… Foolish thoughts, that disappeared the more I looked out of the window. By 16.00 I had had it. Apparently, Spring makes you impatient too. So, empiricism in hand, I ventured to the outdoors to investigate spring effects on other people.

The sun is a weird stimulant that makes English people believe that a) no matter the temperature, it is time to relief yourself of excess clothing, to allow maximal exposure to sun b) it is appropriate to do so just anywhere.
Of course to my curious and ever-hungry eye that would be a good thing, if only all the people around me had a decent six-pack or at least a close approximation instead of these rather generous prosperity curves. Oh well, who said it is a perfect world?

Sitting in the sun like hundreds of others, on the grass in the park, I realize this is a thing I would never voluntarily do in Greece. I appreciate the English, for they make a celebration of every patch of sun they spot in the sky. That, my dear blog, is an art I wish I could master. You know, live for now, because the sun is out NOW.

Somehow the amount of couples strolling around has increased. This I also blame to the Spring’s intoxicating influence. People, who in the winter rarely left their bed for the one or rather the other reason, now they proudly want to demonstrate their ability to find a partner who can hold their (un-gloved) hand on a spring day. Alas, for the rest of us, unworthy singles, who stubbornly failed to “capture” a suitable partner many springs now. I take a good look around to locate one, just for as long this sunshine lasts, you know, just to partake to the fun. Nothing in sight. It seems, I won’t be lucky this spring either. Spring is mating season but my behavioural patterns show that I failed everything I learned in school, about bees and flowers. Even observing the ducks every year, taught me absolutely nothing.

Never mind that. Exercising my newly acquired English trait, I sip my tea and live for now. As Sinatra, the famous bard, plainly put it: Let’s live for now, and anyhow, who needs domani…

Let's forget about tomorrow....
Tomorrow will be again another day at work, most likely sunless and gloomy, despite the optimistic BBC weather predictions, I will face an even bigger pile of “stuff to do”, have the same problems, same reasons to be unhappy, same dreams.

But for now, I have my cup of tea, and I have the sun. Who needs domani?