There’s so much to think about when you finally take the plunge and move to another country. Will I like it, will I make friends, will I cope with the weather, will I like the food, will I be homesick, will I make an idiot out of myself? Having bounced between the UK, Hong Kong, Australia and the US over past 30 years, I can confirm yes to all of the above. And that’s what makes it so terrific!

I’m used to being an expat. With the exception of a couple of years, I’ve been “the foreigner” for as long as I can remember. A curiosity. The weird one with an accent and a strange addiction to tea. Someone to be bombarded with questions like “what is figgy pudding?”

But soon, I’ll be going back to the country I’m supposed to call home. Only I don’t really. It’s much more complicated than that. 

I’ve been in the US nearly 10 years, that’s the longest I’ve stayed anywhere since I was young 'un. So is the US home? I don’t feel like it is. Yes, we have a house here, wonderful friends and family and Mr T is from here, but I’m always going to be a little bit of an outsider. 

My parents live in Australia these days. It's true that I consider wherever my parents are to be home, but I didn’t grow up in Australia, I don't have much history there and haven’t been back in a long while. So (at the risk of sounding like a Qantas commercial) can I really call Australia home? I don’t think so. 

I wasn’t born in England, I was born in the overseas territory of Ascension Island, so although most people settle the debate of “where are you from” with “I was born in…” it doesn’t really work for me. And besides, I’ve now lived outside of the UK for almost as long as I’ve lived in it. 

So, while I will forever and always consider myself British, I’ve been rather worried in recent weeks about how my fellow Brits are going to take me when I return. I know it sounds silly but it’s giving me a little bit of the flutters. I feel rather like a wild animal that’s going to be returned to the pack smelling of another species! 

This all started because Mr T has been reading a book called “Watching the English,”which promises to decode the “hidden rules of English behavior.”

I scoff at the idea that the English have serious hidden rules these days, but as Mr T points out, they wrote a book about it, and not a short book either. So it’s a thing. And over the past few weeks he’s been coming out with some confounding questions that have given me the wobbles.

Mr T: “It says here you shouldn’t introduce yourself by name in a social setting.”

Me: “Weird. I don’t think that’s true.”

Mr T: “It says specifically, ‘The brash American approach of saying your name and outstretching your hand with a beaming smile makes the English wince and feel awkward.”

I forget I’m in the States for a moment and try to imagine this happening in an English setting. I realize it’s absolutely true.

Me: “Huh. Well, I suppose that one is true now I think about it.”

Mr T: “How do people find out your name then? How do you find out theirs? Do you just have to wait for someone else to introduce you? What if you don’t know anyone else there?”

Me: “Umm. Well you just sort of strike up a conversation and after about 30 minutes casually drop in ‘I’m Jason by the way’ but it’s not weird because now you kinda know each other. You see?”

He didn’t see. And although it makes perfect sense to me, he explained this approach to a number of other non British folks and it baffled absolutely everyone.

But there’s more. We go on like this for a week or more. Why do the English always talk about the weather, even if you’ve known someone for five years you may never get passed “turned out nice again.” Why in the world would you eat peas with the back of your fork? What’s the difference between a lounge, living room, sitting room, drawing room and front room? Why would you have carpet in the bathroom? GROSS, in the kitchen too? What in gods name is the shipping forecast? 

Soon Mr T is in a state of despair, convinced he’s going to make an idiot of himself. In fact, he’s quite sure he has already, I hear the odd groan when he’s realizes he’s made one faux pas or another on our visits to the UK. He’s convinced he’s going to be “that guy.” 

I start to mull over my own understanding of what it is to be English. It’s been a long time. I last lived in the UK for a few years between 2001-2003. Tony Blair was Prime Minister. It was a time of Girls Aloud, Robbie Williams and Atomic Kitten (it’s a wonder we all survived really). It was the Golden Jubilee. Juicy Couture track suits were all the rage. Ricky and Bianca were on EastEnders. Will Young won the very first Pop Idol. Edwina Curry said she had an affair with John Major (still gross). We were at war with Iraq (some things never change). The England football team were complete crap (no really, some things never ever change!) 

All of my pop culture references are nearly 15 years old. I have a hard time with colloquialisms. I’ve forgotten which saying belongs to which country. My accent is totally mangled. Some words I say sound Aussie, others sound American. OH MY GOD. What if to Brits I sound like Kylie Minogue? Or worse still, Lloyd Bloody Grossman! 

I’m supposed to be steering my good husband through his entry into a different culture and I can’t bloody remember whether it’s more posh to put the milk in your tea before or after. I mean, I do it beforehand for teapot tea and afterwards for a teabag, but is that common or posh? Posh people don’t even use teabags do they? Apparently posh people don’t use the word posh at all, it’s “smart.” I’m so done for. The pack is going to eat me and as soon as I set foot in the country!

Perhaps more interestingly, the author of this book suggests that I’m positively lower class, which is total news to me. I call the evening meal ‘tea’ not ‘dinner,’ have terrible dress sense, I’ve bought all my own furniture (which is apparently a very naff thing to do, rather than inherit it), I call my Mum ‘Mum’ rather than Ma, Mother, or (lord help us) Mummy, and apparently that’s all it takes. So there you have it.

After resolving to buy a copy of Debrett’s and read it cover to cover, I start to wonder about this author.  Who does she think she is to tell us what rules we should abide by? How dare she get all high and mighty telling us our station in life. Lower class my ass (although I fear I may have just proved her point there). 

Apparently she’s a “social anthropologist” focusing on “human behaviors including gossip, flirting, horse racing, mobile phones, email and social taboos.” Like that’s a thing. Good for her. I’m throwing this book out.

I reassure Mr T all will be well, people will be so dazzled by his American teeth, they won’t care what’s coming out of his mouth. He looks somewhat unconvinced. At least, I say, we’ll be in it together. And if there’s anyone likely to make a spectacular idiot of themselves, it’s yours truly. On this topic we are in utter agreement.

Roll on England.