Dear England, with love

Two years ago while living with a gorgeous Chinese family in Singapore, I would regularly be greeted with the phrase, "The English like their tea!" each time I boiled the smaller-than-average kettle. I would smile, and carefully pour out another cup of Earl Grey, sent lovingly from home by caring friends who didn't realise I could buy it at Cold Storage two roads away. That's one silly example, but the time spent in Asia taught me more than anything else that I am really English. No matter how cosmopolitan or international I claim, or even want, to be, I can't change who I am underneath: a tea-drinking, marmalade-on-toast eating, skirt-wearing English girl.

In my mind, I harbour a hugely romantic idea of England... perhaps it's nothing more concrete than the Shangri-La, or maybe it's a place I have in my head to retreat to when I'm overwhelmed, or stressed, or away from home. My England is a place where people are resilient, tough on the outside; soft and rubbery underneath. They get on with life, pull their socks up, make do and mend. No use complaining, keep going, do anything they put their minds to, with good results. They are healthy with rosy cheeks and they're kind to old people. When the central heating breaks down in winter and there's no hot water for the bath, they boil a saucepanful and make a game out of squatting in an icy bathtub with soap and a flannel. This evening, doing just that while drinking tea from a chintz-patterned mug, I looked at my scrubbed face in the mirror, and said to myself, "You're English." And as I did so, a grin spread across my face, and I laughed. I laughed.