Years of being a faux Brit have finally caught up with me. I have fought a good fight to maintain my Russian-Jewness, but I guess it was always inevitable. Twenty-odd years of living, breathing and speaking the lingo will eventually get you.
What transformed me into fully-fledged Brit, you ask (you didn’t)? No, it’s not the paperwork- I’ve had my red (now blue) passport for some time. Even got me a medal, presented by Tower Hamlet’s mayor (!) for my Life in the UK test efforts. And no, I haven’t started adding milk to tea- that’s just crazy talk. It’s way deeper than that. The transformation is physical and one I don’t care for.
When warmer seasons hit this island, all I ever cared about was having enough days with average temperatures higher than 21c, so I can relish in meats being grilled outside, beer garden frolics, and enjoying warm subpar beer at music festivals. I mocked many of my locally conceived friends when they sat in the sun for 3 minutes and got that distinct pink British tan. Laughed and pointed at you when the great outdoors would send your faces into a red, itchy, watery mess. Ha ha ha to you and your faces in hay fever season. Well, who’s laughing now? Clue- it’s not me. I got got- now just desperately trying to remember all those remedies you spoke of when one’s eyes are streaming out of their sockets.
There was something about local honey? And is it Vaseline I’m meant to rub somewhere to stop pollen getting places?! Or is the general advice to just stay the fuck indoors because nothing works anyway?
To those of you pointing and chanting ‘one of us’ at me- I’m sorry. And please pass the eye drops, prettypleasethankyouplease.
CREATIVE NOTES 