The 20 year old me - Part 1

My 20^th year was by far one of the best years of my life. But my second decade (age 10-20) had been the worst of all my decades. It took going through that decade to discover what I wanted to do, and where I wanted to be. Only then, in that 20^th year, did I start to grow into my own skin. Because these are two very diverse stories I’m going to split this blog into two parts. Part 2 is about my second decade, and part 1 is about my 20^th year.

Two days after I turned 20 I moved to the United States to attend Southern New Hampshire University (then known as New Hampshire College).

Before I left for Uni, I spent a lot of time with my friends in particular my three best friends; Caff, Rachel, and Adele. We’d go to our favourite bar in Leeds; Yel! and drink Taboo and lemonades, or cider straight from the bottle. After Yel! we’d go to Mister Craig’s, or Ritzy’s nightclub; the former was always a bit edgier than the latter. After the club we’d go either to one of the late night curry houses, a kebab shop, or we’d hit a petrol station on the way home and buy pickled onion flavoured monster munch crisps and eat them on the bonnet of the car whilst singing some of the evening’s club songs at the top of our lungs. We’d crawl home at 3am. Caff and I were more fond of pubs and playing pool, so you’d often find us on a Sunday afternoon holed up at the local taking bets on who could beat Caff (as she really was a bit of a pool shark!) Adele and I were always the designated drivers as we were the only two that had cars. I had a Nissan Micra. It was ridiculously slow and crap, but I loved the independence it gave me. We used to drive around with our windows down singing Mr. Big’s ‘To Be With You’ at the top of our lungs. We loved karaoke on a Sunday night, and there wasn’t a club in town that didn’t know us by sight, if not name. The biggest groups of the time were East 17, D:Ream, and Meatloaf. Take That, Blur, and Oasis were just starting to make a name for themselves. However, we considered ourselves a little more

avant garde and preferred the sounds of Prince, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, and we loved the Rocky Horror Show.  One of us was invariably always on the Slim Fast diet even though it gave us stomach ache. Our favourite movie (which we’d all been to see that summer) was ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’ and we couldn’t stop singing the title track, ‘Love is all Around.’ We lived and died in our Doc Martin’s and black leggings, always accompanied by an equally dark baggy top and either a black leather biker jacket, or a cardigan-coat that would almost reach the ground. We’d take jaunts out to Roundhay Park, or Bolton Abbey and bake ourselves in the sun all day. We’d all head out to the bars in the evening looking like lobsters. A couple of weeks before I left for America Adele, Rachel and I went to Scarborough for a week. A last ‘girls’ holiday. We traversed the local pubs, bars, and nightclubs every night and we owned every one of them. We were dancehall divas and we got to know all the local DJ’s and barstaff. When the nightclubs closed down for the night we pilfered some beers and wine from behind the bars, gathered a group of random people we’d met during the night and go down to the beach for a rather drunken football game. We’d crawl into bed as the sun was rising and not wake up until it was setting. This was the life of a British teenager in the early 1990’s, and we thought we were so cool.

And then I moved to America.

My first year in the USA was a bit of a roller coaster. I loved it and loathed it all at the same time. I enjoyed my classes, the new friends I was making, the new experiences, and the fun of Uni life. But I didn’t like the food, the cultural chasm, and the absolute lack of anything remotely familiar.

I lived on a dorm with 15 other people of both sexes. This was the first time I’d ever had to share accommodation with males. I found it a little daunting at first and struggled to find my footing in terms of interacting with them, especially when I had to walk down the hallway in a towel to get to the showers. I had a roommate also, Denise. Now, this threw me because in the UK we don’t have roommates at university level so I was very surprised to walk into my dorm room to find a bunk bed instead of a single bed. Just as I struggled to accommodate to the new male presence on my dorm, I also struggled with having a roommate. Simply, I’d never shared a room with anyone before and I was perhaps a little too coveted with my space and belongings. Denise, however, was very generous and let me use her mini fridge to store milk for my cups of tea, and borrow her Brother typewriter to write up my assignments. This was a bit of an eye opener for me because in the UK everything was hand written, so when at the end of my first class the professor asked for the homework to be typed I went into a blind panic. Denise also introduced me to my first Thanksgiving. She took me home with her to Revere, MA and we had turkey, cranberries, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, mash, corn, stuffing, and pumpkin pie. It was the best meal I’d had in the USA up to that point. She also took me to Homecoming, which essentially involved us standing in the freezing cold watching an American football game, which I didn’t understand in the slightest (and still don’t to this day). Denise also introduced me to Dunkin Donuts. She will be honoured furthermore! DD’s is a dietry staple of New Englanders, and no morning could be gotten through without a DD’s large French Vanilla Coffee with extra extra and two equal!

I was the only international student on the dorm and I felt like a duck out of water. It wasn’t just that I sounded different, and that I wanted to hand write my assignments, but I literally had nothing in common with them. As I wore Doc Martins, they all wore sneakers (and wouldn’t be caught dead in Docs), they wore jeans and baggy t-shirts and I wore leggings and floor length cardigans. They seemed to favour shorts and sweatshirts (which I thought was an odd combination) and floral dresses with a white t-shirt underneath (which I thought looked ridiculous!) The girls had these really big bangs (fringes) which were sprayed with half a can of hairspray to get them to stand up straight, and every girl sported a pony tail. I hadn’t worn a pony tail since 1985.  The clothes and hairstyles seemed to be very much hinging on the 80’s look. Clearly, they thought I looked equally as odd because I was pretty much always offered a ‘make-over’ when we were going to parties. I accepted the offers, and was promptly decked out ‘a la 80’s’, which I internally cringed at, but condoned because I was desperate to make friends and fit in. However, come the winter I was more than happy to be dressed in whatever fashions that desired so long as they leant me clothes. My meagre cotton cardigans, leather jacket and leggings were no match for the -20 wind chills and 6 months of snow on the ground!  I’ve never been so cold in my life as I was that first winter in New England.

  

They loved Disney movies and we’d all cram into one another’s dorm rooms to watch The Lion King. I found this amusing because in England animated movies were for children only, and adults (without kids) would be laughed at for watching it. They also loved the film Pulp Fiction and it was shown on the campus TV station at least once a month, and then it was broadcast onto the side of a building and the whole campus came out to watch it. I thought the film was meh the first time around, but by the 10^th time I was definitely non-plussed with it! Once a week they all crowded around the one TV in the dorm lounge to watch 90210. I feigned interest, just merely glad for the opportunity to interact with them, but the fact was 90210 had all but died a death in England some years before and no one watched it. Then there was the music. They’d never heard of D:Ream, or East 17, and Meatloaf wasn’t even big on their radar even though he was American. Oh no, they liked Rap and R&B, and very oddly, Billy Joel. So, I was introduced to Piano Man by Billy Joel, which would be sung several times a week (especially when inebriated) and would culminate in a dorm-wide-swaying-hug-a-thon, Boys II Men (whom I thought whined their way through every song), and Salt N Pepa. Now, the latter group I actually came to love, in time. To this day I can’t call shotgun for a car seat without following it up with ‘Bang, what’s up with that thing. I wanna know how does it hang’. Of course these days it’s an internal dialogue.

However, these differences were easily navigated and I was savvy with the dress code and music scene within the first year. The biggest differences, which I found very hard to acclimate to was the food, the drinking age, and the lack of independence.

The food was diabolical to say the least. I can’t bear to hear Americans slag off English food after some of the slop I was forced to digest in those first months. To my English friends - what comes to mind when you’re given the term, ‘Chop Suey?’ A Chinese dish with meat and bean sprouts? Yes, me too. Imagine my surprise when I asked for ‘Chop Suey’ at the University canteen and was given a haphazard hodgepodge of macaroni and a watery tomato sauce. Meatloaf is a vile way of serving barely digestible meat compacted tightly into a bread tin. Sloppy Joes are mince meat in a burger bun and aptly named because after the first bite the meat shoots out of the bun and all down your front. Their Shepherd’s pie has a layer of meat, a layer of sweetcorn, and then a layer of mashed potatoes? What? Who puts sweet corn into a Sheppy Pie?

I thought I might find redemption in their confectionary, but dear God I don’t know how Hershey, the biggest American chocolate company, has managed to stay in business. Their chocolate tastes like the dire chocolate you get in cheap Christmas advent calendars that make you wince every time you eat it, praise God when you only have to have a small bite of it, and vow never to buy a cheap Crimbo calendar again. But, they sold big bars of this stuff, vast quantities of it, and I just couldn’t understand why! 

Even the bread over there was unpleasant. They really process the flour and add sugar so it’s too sweat to be proper bread, but not sweat enough to be Brioche. You’re probably wondering how I survived? Well, I lived on a diet of baked potatoes and bananas and lost 1.5 stones (20 lbs). However, my dorm mates (who all had cars) started taking me with them to local restaurants. Praise the Lord! I finally discovered good, decent American fodder and quickly realised that the noxious nosh I’d been forced to digest previously was contained to the University canteen only. From that point on I cadged any ride I could get to the local supermarkets, and invited myself along to any restaurant outings. I soon discovered however, that one cuisine can be markedly different from country to country. I was so happy when I was taken to my first American Chinese restaurant. I couldn’t wait for some crispy duck, vermicelli, and chow mein. What I got was a pu pu (pronounced poo poo) platter, and let me tell you it was aptly named. It was a big dish with mostly fried and reformed foods on sticks. It all tasted a bit crap, didn’t seem to taste like, or have much semblance to Chinese food and gave me my first introduction to an MSG attack. In later years I came to like some poo poo platters, but always asked for no MSG!

 The drinking age in the USA is 21. I was just 20 when I arrived. I’d been able to drink (legally) since the age of 18 in the UK, but let’s face it, we’re pretty laid back over here about ID’ing and I’d been going to pubs and bars since I was 15. By the time I reached 20 and moved to America I was well aware of my drinking limits, capabilities, and had a range of preferred beverages. All of a sudden I wasn’t allowed to drink at all. The USA is super-super-strict about ID’ing so it was near impossible to get your hands on a drink. Before I moved to America I’d always been able to take, or leave alcohol. It didn’t bother me in the slightest to not drink on a night out. However, now that choice and independence had been taken away from me I suddenly felt very resentful at not being able to have a drink when I wanted, and this then drove a desire to have a drink. The only way I/we could get a drink was to bribe one of the older students to go to the store for you, and invariably they’d come back with an item you wouldn’t consider cleaning your drains with let alone ingesting, but you’d drink it anyway because that was your only option.

In addition to this I missed the pub culture. I’d often meet my friends in England at the pub, have a drink, play some pool. But they have no pub culture in the USA. It’s all bars and nightclubs. Even if there was somewhere akin to a pub I wouldn’t have been allowed in. Not only can you not drink until you’re 21, but you can’t go to the bars, or clubs either. Kindly enough a few of the local nightclubs had under-21 nights a couple of times a week, but you were forced to wear bright neon bracelets that lit up under the fluorescent lights of the club and singled you out. If it was even so much as considered that you might have sneaked a drink at a club you were thrown out and barred.

Now, I’m not saying this next comment as a criticism to the USA, and nor am I saying there maybe a correlation between a 21 age limit and heavy drinking, but I have to acknowledge what I observed. I saw an awful lot of binge drinking in those first few years. Kids who didn’t know how to drink, or what their limits were, would go nuts when they managed to get alcohol and drink themselves into a blind stupor. Now, I know this is normal university behaviour, even for the UK, but I’d never seen it before. I think I can remember twice when I’d seen my friends in England throw up from alcohol in the five years we’d been drinking. It really shocked me. I did notice that in later years of university life (when we were all over 21), that the binge drinking diminished almost in correlation with our increasing ages.

I was introduced to a new type of alcohol by my dorm mate, Jeff - 100 proof Southern Comfort. Of course I’d heard of SoCo before but I had no idea what this 100 proof was. In England we had one percentage and that’s it. So, I drank it as though it was regular SoCo. I’ve never been so ill in all my life and prayed to the porcelain God for almost 24 hours after. I soon learned to check the bottle labels before trying anything again! I was also introduced to a university-specific drink; Punch. Now, because half the campus were too young to go to the bars, house parties were much more prevalent. Each weekend one of the fraternities, or sororities would host a party and everyone was invited. At these parties they would have this Punch. Now, when you think of punch you think of large bowl with a fruit infused cocktail and ice. Hmm. Not quite. This was a rubbish bin (trash barrel) cleaned out (you hoped) and filled with a noxious combination of any alcohol that the frat/sorority could get hold of. Beer, wine, coolers, spirits – it all went in. Then to hide the taste it would be finished off with Kool Aid; a powdered soft drink that only seemed to come in two flavours; grape and cherry and both tasted like Nyquil. This drink became the staple diet of all party goers for the four years of university, and it was utterly vile.

Everyone in America has a car. You just have to. The country is so huge, and they really make use of their landmass, so it’s near impossible to get from there to here (as they say over there). Public transport does its best but given the vast distances to deal with they are rather inadequate, and infrequent. So, if you don’t have a car you’re fairly marooned. And, that’s exactly how I felt. Our campus was in the middle of a forest, near a tiny town; population 11K. The nearest city, Manchester, was 10 miles away. There was a bus from campus that took you there twice a day, but there was no point in going there. Post the 1950’s commercialism boom American inner cities became desolate wastelands given over to ageing record shops and memorabilia stores, whilst megaplexes and malls took over the land masses beyond the city limits. No amount of regeneration ever re-boosted the inner cities. The mall and roads where all the cool shops and restaurants were was 15 miles away, and no buses went there from the campus. You either found a friend with a car who’d be willing to drive you somewhere, or you got campus-fever. I was lucky to live on a dorm with some wonderful and obliging people, but despite their generosity in carting my backside all over town I resented the inability to get up and go whenever I wanted. I hated having to wait for days until someone was making a trip to the mall, or the supermarket to be able to get off campus.

By comparison to my life in the UK I found American teenage life dull, and I found myself becoming increasingly desperate to return to a state of normalcy; to go to the pub with my friends, to have a drink, to drive somewhere, anywhere. The only thing I was really enjoying were my classes. I was doing relatively well considering we spell quite a few things differently, and we have some very different grammar techniques. However, despite my academic enjoyment, the lack of independence, socialising and drinking ability, and the foul tasting canteen food all began to compound and seemed to sit before me each morning like an ever-growing mountain. I would hibernate for hours in my dorm room listening to English music, even late at night when my poor roommate was trying to sleep. I would buy anything from the supermarket that reminded me of home. I should have taken out stocks in Lay’s Salt and Vinegar Chips I ate so much of them. I would spend hours on the phone to my parents begging to come home. By the end of the first semester that mountain had become Everest and was completely insurmountable. I wanted to go home and never come back. So, that’s what I did.

Or, at least that’s what I tried to do. I packed every last thing I owned and took it home with me at Christmas break. I announced to my family upon arrival that I was never going back and took myself off to the pub, in my car, and bought a drink with my friends. I was in heaven.

Turns out my family had some rather different plans and I was forced to return for a second semester. When I say forced, I mean I was literally frog marched to the plane. The only reason I returned was because I was promised that if I was still as miserable at the end of the next semester I could come home. Suddenly, it all started to look much brighter. This was no longer a four year prison sentence, instead I only had to endure four months and then I could come home. I could live through four months, and by ‘eck I was going to have fun in those four months, and so I returned with a different attitude.

During that second semester I joined the drama group, made lots of new friends both American and international, visited Boston and New York, and had an absolute blast. The cold winter finally thawed and the lovely, hot summer days prevailed. Now, if I thought it was cold in their winter, nothing prepared for the sauna that was a New England summer, and once again I found my temperate-climate-induced-wardrobe to be very lacking. Thank goodness for dorm mates that liked to dress me up! The University held concerts, fun days with limo races, balls and dances, and it more than made up for the hibernation of the winter months. By the end of the second semester I’d had so much fun that it felt as though the whole four months had passed in the space of two weeks. It was now time to go home to England for the summer.

During the summer I worked in my family’s company and hated every last moment of it. Whilst I’d been home since the beginning of May my friends didn’t return from their UK universities until July. For two months my social life revolved around my family, and love them as I do, I was unequivocally bored. When my friends finally did come home I found that our worlds were becoming quite separated. I had never heard of some of the music they were listening to, and they thought my new dress sense was a bit outdated. They couldn’t relate to my university experience, as I couldn’t relate to theirs. They talked about the student union £1 shot nights, and I talked about frat parties. By the end of the summer I found I couldn’t wait to get back to America, to see all my friends, to feel something familiar with my own age group again, and to be with people that understood the past year, and all the amazing and wonderful experiences we’d shared. And, of course, I was returning aged 21 so life was going to get a whole lot better!

My 20^th year was by far one of the most rewarding years of my life, and my subsequent years in the USA were some of my best years ever. I feel so humbled and grateful to have been given the chance to go to America and live that experience. But, for every ying there is a yang, and this amazing experience came on the back of some rather un-pleasant years, for which, I feel I would not have been so receptive and grateful for my 20^th year if I hadn’t lived through the bad years first.

To be continued in Part 2...

The 10 year old me

As I am about to embark on my 40th year I can’t help but look back on my life and ask myself the question, ‘Am I where I thought I would be at 40?” The answer is simply, no. In recent months I've found myself thinking back to my former decades with a nostalgia that I've never experienced before, and I realise that for each decade of my life I was quite a different person, distinct from the decade before, and with a different expectation of where I would be as I entered my 4th decade. So, as I find middle-aged-dom begin to unfurl its arms and embrace me I have decided to take a journey back through the decades and visit myself at ten year intervals, to remember who I was then, what consumed my world, and what my aspirations I had for my future. And you’re coming with me…

The years were 1984-5; my 10th year…

At 10 years old I was an extremely average child with shockingly red, messy hair and lots of freckles. My dad always referred to me as precocious, but I’m not convinced he knew what the word meant because I was anything but exceptional. I was far from popular at school, but not intelligent enough to be a geek. I was in some kind of no-man’s land as far as school clique statuses go, and in fact, I wasn't a big fan of school altogether. I went to an all-girls private school and had done since the age of 3. My best friend in school was called Paula, and I used to love to stay at her house because her mother would let us eat digestive biscuits with Philadelphia Cream Cheese on them. It was the first time I’d ever tasted cream cheese and I loved it. The girl I liked least at school was called Catherine. I don’t know what it was I didn't like, but she just rubbed
me up the wrong way. Ironically, years later she became my best friend and still is to this day. My best friend out of school was called Sarah. She lived across the road from me, went to the local state school, and was four days younger. Like me, she had red hair and we looked like sisters. We’d been best friends since (her) birth and spent many birthdays together, including our 10th. My mum took Sarah and I into the city a few days before my birthday and she bought us matching outfits; a little shorts and t-shirt set with a picture of ballet shoes on the shirt. Mine was pink and Sarah’s was blue. I secretly coveted Sarah’s outfit because my favourite colour was blue, but my mum’s favourite colour was pink, and as such I had a wardrobe full of pink clothes. All I wanted for my birthday was a really big dictionary. I loved words and learning the meaning of them. However, my birthday always fell around my parent’s busiest time of the year for work, and as such, I’d usually end up with whatever mum and dad could get off the toy shelf at the local supermarket on the actual day. This was the first birthday that I remember them getting me exactly what I’d asked for! It was a good year.

1984-1985 saw me buy my first single; it was the Ghostbusters theme tune. The big chart toppers that year were Frankie Goes To Hollywood, Wham! and Lionel Ritchie. Everyone was really excited about the Live Aid concert, and I remember watching the whole thing live on TV. That was a big thing because back then the TV rarely broadcast live concerts. Because of this, ‘Feed the World’ became the second single that I bought. Sarah and I set up a stall on our street and sold jumble and bric-a-brac to raise money for Live Aid.

We raised £30. All my friends began donning over-sized white t-shirts hailing ‘Relax’. But, I hated the baggy 80’s clothes, loathed leg warmers, and despised the big hair. Instead I opted for leggings and jumpers, and you’d more often than not find me curled in a corner reading a book rather than watching Top of the Pops. I was an awkward child and books provided me with an escape from a world I just never felt I fit into properly. I loved horses too and desperately wanted one, but settled for riding at the locals stables every weekend. There was no TV after midnight; all stations would shut down until 6 am unless there was a special event. The country was going mad for the latest electrical ‘it’ item; the microwave, and kids up and down the country were asking Father Christmas for Rubik’s Cubes, The Slinky, Cabbage Patch Dolls, and Scalextric. I developed my very first crush in my 10th year; on Sylvester Stallone. Don’t laugh! Back then he was a hottie, and never more so than in my favourite film of that year; Rocky IV. The crush died abruptly when he married Brigitte Nielson who I thought look like a tank. Snickers bars were called Marathons, Starburst were called Opal Fruits, and everyone was supping on the latest, newest drink; Cherry Coke. I remember a girl at school telling me she drank Cherry Coke everyday and I thought she was so cool because we were only allowed it on super special occasions.

It was during this year that the English pound notes were taken out of circulation and replaced by coins. I remember telling my brother that I didn't like them and that I thought they would be a fad.  The least-liked British coin, the Halfpenny (nicknamed the ‘ha’penny’), also was taken out of circulation this year. The only Britons that liked the ha’penny were kids. You could by two sweets for 1p (one pence = one cent) thanks to the ha’penny. I remember the day after it was taken out of circulation I went to my local grocery store and saw that all the ha’penny sweets had been bumped up to 1p. I thought it was a rip-off and refused to buy any more penny sweets. It was also the year that the coal miner’s strikes began, which would signify a seismic shift and divide in Britain, and British politics. I was too young to understand the implication of it all at the time.

This was also the year that we moved to South Africa. Ok, moved might be a slight exaggeration. The intention was there, but it didn’t come into fruition. Instead, it ended up being a very, very long holiday that took me out of school for some time. It was 1985 and all over the news in Britain were horrific scenes of battles on the streets in South Africa as people fought against apartheid. My older brother begged us not to go, but my parents seemed on a quest to find somewhere new to live. Just the year before we’d spent many months in Spain with the view to moving there before they changed their mind and we came home. You see, my parents were firm believers in life experiences being a valued source of education. Both of them had grown up in the war years and had left school by the time they were 12 to work in the factories. They had no formal education, and by the time we were 8 they could no longer help us with our homework as we had far surpassed them. We went to school with the offspring of doctors, lawyers, CEO’s, Professors – all very erudite and able to assist their children with their homework. Mum and dad realised that by comparison my brother and I often suffered because of their lack of schooling. However, what they lacked in education they made up in pure graft, working hard, providing a good home, and taking us all over the world. If they couldn’t figure out fractions with us, they’d take us to deepest, darkest Africa and give us an experience that could never be taught in any text book.

We started off in Johannesburg, the capitol. This is where my ‘Auntie Molly’ lived. She was actually my mum’s best friend from school, but we had to call her Auntie. I was really looking forward to seeing her as I’d always liked her. I was surprised when we arrived in Jo’Berg; everything seemed so calm, and placid. There were no riots, petrol bombs, or mass demonstrations at all. In fact, it was a very different picture to what we’d seen on the news back in Britain.

Auntie Mollie lived out in the leafy suburbs of Jo’Berg. She had a lovely bungalow style house, a swimming pool, a built in cinema style TV, and a slave. Yes. You read that correctly. She had a slave. Her name was Mary, and she was from the Zulu tribe. She lived in a building at the back of the house that could best be described as a converted outhouse. It was a 6’ x 4’ red-brick room with a toilet and sink in the corner, a small stove, a few hooks on the wall to hang her clothes, a shelf with a pitcher and bowl to wash

herself, and a cup and bowl to eat from, and a bed that was raised on stilts because in her tribe they believed that if the Loki Toki man came in the night and hit his head on the bed as he passed underneath that they would have bad luck for many years to come. Looking around this dismal squat I figured the Loki Toki man must have hit his head many times for her to be living like this. She worked from 6am to 8pm everyday and had to purchase her own groceries and make her own food in this room. Once a month she had to go back to her tribe to have her travel and work permit papers updated. It would take a whole day to get to and fro from her tribe, so she never had time to see her family when she got there. She would be docked a day’s wages for this trip, but without the updated papers she wouldn’t be allowed to travel, take any public transport, or work. She never had any vacation time unless her masters were away and then she was permitted to either stay, or go to her tribe, but either way she wouldn’t get paid. And she earned an absolute pittance, but every penny except for groceries she sent back to her family. I remember one day I wanted a cup of tea and went

into the kitchen to make it. Auntie Molly ordered Mary to make it for me. ‘White with one sugar please’ I said begrudgingly. I resented being forced to use Mary. Unfortunately, Mary mixed up the salt and sugar. One taste and I spat it out, and cringed as I did so because I knew there was no hiding it from Auntie Molly’s beady eye. Sure enough, poor Mary got the brunt end of Aunty Molly’s temper and as she received a harsh response to such a simple mistake my heart went out to the poor girl, and hardened against my Aunt. She was British born and raised and we did not tolerate this level of cruelty to another person at home. We did not have slavery, and this was not acceptable. Just because she was no longer in Britain did not mean to say she should be any less British. I was only young, but even I knew this was very, very wrong.

We left Auntie Molly’s house (for which I was very happy about) and we set off on a tour of the country. I have been on many holidays in my life, but none have stuck in my memory as much as this trip. It was an amazing, eye-opening, life-changing experience.  We went through Swaziland and visited many different tribes along the way, each with their own customs. They had little in wealth but they seemed so genuinely happy. Round houses could be seen dotting along the highways, and these were rentable for the night. They were called Rondavels and the beds were in the middle of the room. We went Ostrich riding, and learned that a male Ostrich mates for life with one partner, but the female ostrich finds another mate as soon as the male dies. I saw my first great white shark that had been caught in the waters we’d just been swimming in. We had to take Malaria tablets and they made me so sick that I stopped taking them and I then came down with a mild form of malaria. We flew to Mozambique in the ricketiest plane that I’ve ever been on and we sailed down the Zambezi River to watch the sunset. As soon as the sun passed over the horizon we were plunged into

darkness for there was no twighlight there. We trekked through the jungle to get to Victoria Falls. Everybody ate Biltong; a type of Ostrich jerky. It was foul. We drove through opulent cities full of wealth and white people, and then on the outskirts of the city we’d drive through shanty towns full of corrugated sheet housing and black people. Everywhere we went there was such a marked transition between rich and poor, white and black.

Everything was segregated. There were separate toilets, drinking fountains, bus stops. In all restaurants and hotels, the staff were always black, and the clientele were always white. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before in my life, or even learned about in school. Whilst the country was beautiful and beguiling, it was hard to have a good time when you saw the attitudes and treatment that were occurring all around you. It was so alien to all of us, to the life we knew back in England.  We refused to show any biased towards the black people, but we were shunned by the white people for our attitude.

My most poignant memory is catching the 12-hour train to Durban. It was a long ride for my brother and I and so we went off to explore the train. At the very back of our section there was a door that said, ‘BLACKS ONLY’. This only piqued our interest even more and we went through the door. On the other side, there was row after row of hard wooden benches nailed to the floor. The car was overcrowded and smelled badly. People were sat on the floor because the benches were full. A man carrying a baby looked up and saw us standing in the doorway. He got up and came over

to us. I thought he was going to tell us off for being in his car, so I started to back out of through the doorway. As we moved into the ‘white section’ a ticket collector came up behind us. He saw the black man and pulled what looked like a stick, or truncheon from his side. He raised it over the black man’s head and began threatening him with it if he didn’t move back into his own carriage. The black man scurried back into the car and I heard him say, ‘I just needed some milk for my baby.’

I later found out that this non-stop 12 hour train had a dining car, velvet seating, private carriages, pull down bunks, toilets, showering facilities, and a bar. But only if you were white. If you were black you spent 12 hours in an overcrowded carriage with hard benches, one communal toilet, no running water, and no food.

After some months in Africa my parents decided we should come home. It was never discussed, but I knew the reason that we were leaving was because we could never adhere to the Afrikaans way of life. We were British, and it was just not in our mindset to be able to condone, or tolerate the things that we saw out there. We arrived home late in the summer and England had put on her finery to greet us. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, the vista was resplendently verdant with flowers piercing the landscape, and people of all colours walking on the street side by side. It seemed like utopia by comparison to where we’d come from.

I enrolled back in the same school, much to my great chagrin and life continued much as it had before…until the morning of October 12th 1984. I woke up and wandered through to my parent’s bedroom, as I always did.  It was a Friday and a school day.  Good Morning Britain always showed a Popeye cartoon between 7.25am and 7.30am and we’d climb into mum and dad’s bed to watch it before getting ready for school. Their TV was on but there was no cartoon today. Every channel (all 4 of them!) was dominated with the news of the IRA Bomb exploding in the Grand Hotel in Brighton during the Conservative Party Conference. The scenes on the TV were devastating; a building ripped to shreds, bodies being pulled out of rubble, people crying and screaming in the street. Growing up in 70’s and 80’s Britain we were used to emergency evacuations from stores and venues due to suspected Irish bombs, and we’d been taught in school what to do if we saw an abandoned package, and people had passed on stories of them exploding, but this is the first time I’d seen one, albeit on TV. And suddenly, the Irish threat seemed so more real and scary than it ever had before. (In later years most Britons, including myself, experienced evacuations and explosions firsthand as the bombs and threats became more frequent, widespread, and randomly targeted.)

Eyes glued to the telly, I remember asking my dad, ‘She’s not dead, is she?’, and he replied, ‘No, they didn’t get her. Thank God.’ And, I breathed a sigh of relief. Margaret Thatcher was still alive.

My love of politics started in 1979. I was five and it was the night of the National Elections. The country seemed to be abuzz. I might have been young, but even I could tell there was a feverish temperament to these elections. My dad was glued to the TV all night watching as results rolled in. Soon enough, it was time for my bed, but I begged to stay up and watch the elections. I admit it, I didn’t want to actually watch the elections, I just didn’t want to go to bed. Dad piped up in my defense and said I should be allowed to stay up and watch ‘history in the making’. I had no idea what he was talking about but it sounded exciting! Well, it wasn’t. It was as dull as dishwater, but my father’s captivation with it was intoxicating, and I wanted to be a part of that. Every time a result for an area was announced with a blue marker he’d shout out, ‘Go on Maggie girl!’ Every time a result was marked in red he’d holler, ‘You left-wing nutters!’ Who was this Maggie that so enthralled my father? She sounded like my kind of girl!

‘Is Maggie the favourite to win, dad?’ I remember asking.
‘Actually, no, she’s not.’
‘Then how do you know she’ll win?’
‘Because she’s what this country needs.’

I fell asleep at some point in the night, and woke the next morning in my bed. My thoughts flew to Maggie and I raced into my parent’s room. Dad was already watching TV and there was a lady on the screen stood outside a black door. She was wearing a blue suit and waving her hand.

‘Did she win dad?’
‘She did, love. Maggie won. First female Prime Minister. This is going to be the beginning of a whole new Britain.’

From that point on Margaret Thatcher was always referred to as ‘Maggie’ in our house, a name which the rest of the nation adopted for her too. She was a familiar figure in our house, like a member of the family. Dad followed Maggie’s career avidly, and I was always sat at his side. Dad and I stayed up all night in 1982 when Maggie sent troops into the Falklands Islands to win them back from the Argentine invasion. We stayed up all night for the 1983 elections, which Maggie won again. It was after these elections that a new opposition leader was installed to fight her; Neil Kinnock. I remember every time this man came on the TV dad and I would yell, ‘Neil Pillock!’ (On a side note, I saw Neil Kinnock in Parliament recently, and he smiled at me. Just his face brought so many memories from my childhood and I could barely resist the urge to shout out our nickname for him! For American friends a ‘pillock’ is a British slang term for a stupid person.)

But, on that day in 1984 our Maggie showed a new kind of resolve. The bomb had been meant for her. It had missed its target but it claimed several other lives, left people permanently disabled, many injured, and demolished a hotel. The attack happened at 3am. At 7am she requested that a local clothes shop open early so that people could buy new clothes as everyone had lost everything in the collapse of the hotel. By 9.30am, just 6.5 hours later, she addressed the country from the Conference. Everyone had expected her to cancel the Conference in the aftermath of the bomb, but her defiance was another Churchillian moment in her premiership which seemed to encapsulate both her own steely character and the British public's stoical refusal to submit to terrorism. This was the defining moment when I realised what I wanted to do when I grew up. I wanted to be Prime Minister, and more to the point, I wanted to be Margaret Thatcher.

I was very lucky to grow up in a woman’s world. It’s not a phrase you here often, but it was very true for me. I came from a very matriarchal family with a mother that ruled us with a rod of iron. I went to an all girls’ school with mostly female teachers, and a very formidable headmistress. The Head of State was the Queen, and the leader of my country was Margaret Thatcher. If ever there was a time in British history for women to soar, this was our time. Because of these influences in my life I feel I was never destined to be a wallflower, and I knew that even when I was 10. My near-40 year old self might have fallen spectacularly short of the 10 year old me's aspirations, but I'm OK with that. How many do people do you know that ended up in the profession they'd chosen in their early years? At least my juvenile dreams were large and bold.

I feel privileged to have grown up and experienced such a life-changing, historical period. It is these early influences that shaped my awareness, ambitions, passions, and character. Looking back now and thinking of that time, I remember trying to figure out what I’d be like at 15, 20, 30, or 40. I just couldn't wrap my head around it at all. It was just too, too far away for my young brain to comprehend. The most I hoped for was to be married, for my best friends to still be Paula and Sarah, to have two kids; a boy and a girl that I was going to call John and Jill, lots of dogs and horses, live in a big house, and earn lots of money.

Oh, and of course, be Prime Minister.

Be My Bad Valentine...

I’ve always considered V-Day to be somewhat of a commercially contrived holiday designed to make singletons feel like they’re inadequate and missing out on something that the rest of the cosmos seems to be revelling in, yet at the same time make couples feel they’re under-achieving in their relationships and failing to provide the ultimate romantic experience on this one-off, rather un-impressive cold, grey February day. 

My attitude towards this day has always been that if you have someone who treats you well 365 days a year (and visa versa) this love does not have to be proved on a one-off, Hallmark-poster child holiday. I mean, I’ve always done the obligatory card, etc. and expected only that in return, and for the most part I have not been disappointed. However, despite my low expectations and indifference towards the day I’ve had some fairly dire V-Day experiences. There have been some spectacular, epic fails that shocked even apathetic-little-‘ol-me into an un-invited awareness of how cruel this holiday can be at times. There are three that stand out in my memory…

The first one

I was only 17 and had fallen for a boy I’d met on a cruise to New York. He was my first big emotional-something. I can’t really say love because in retrospect it was more like my first awakening to feelings

towards the opposite sex. Having attended an all-girls school all my life I’d had little interaction with boys, and as such when I did, I clearly failed the necessary life skills to cope with the situation and would reduce to an incoherent, blubbering, giggly mess. So, Mr Cruise-Boy was my first lovey-emotional-thingy and man, I was smitten. But, he lived in Washington DC, and I lived in the ever-so-exciting backwater-middle-of-

nowhere-north-of-England. Our first (and only) V-Day came five months later. I was a little surprised to receive absolutely nothing. This was, after all, my very first V-Day with a partner and I guess I’d been hoping for something (this was clearly long before my present day cynicism kicked in). But, nothing came, not even a phone call (pre-email days). I was fairly gutted, but opted not to say anything to him about it, yet was kicking myself for being such a sap as to send him a card. As he was five years older than me I thought that perhaps the holiday was more of a kids thing, and I’d shown my immaturity by partaking in the V-Day rituals. Again, having no prior experience with the opposite sex, or V-Day ceremonies I was on a whole new learning curve here.

One month later he came to visit me in England. Well, he was actually running an errand for his father in the UK, and coupled it up with coming to see me for a few days. They were magical, wonderful days showing him all over my little Kingdom, and I was so sad when they came to an end. On the drive to the airport I decided to pluck up the courage and ask him about the V-Day card…

Me: “Did you get the card I sent you for Valentine’s?’

Mr Cruise-Boy: “Yes, I did. Thank you for that.’

Me: ‘…..okay….I think yours might have got lost in the post.’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘I doubt it. I didn’t send one.’ Now, I’m a little startled as this wasn’t the answer I was expecting.

Me: ‘Oh. Right. Ok.’ Ensue awkward silence…not quite sure where to go from here. Fortunately, he seems to pick up on my disheartenment. 

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘You seem disappointed. I’m sorry if you are, it’s just that I couldn’t afford it.’ Eh? What?

Me: ‘…You couldn’t afford a card and postage??’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘No.’

Me: ‘It couldn’t cost more than $5, and you couldn’t afford that?’ Absolutely incredulous now because clearly this isn’t a kiddies-only holiday, and clearly he should have sent me a card.

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘No. I get a monthly allowance from my father whilst I’m at university, and I had no more of that allowance left to be able to send a card.”

Me: ‘Oh….” Not quite sure what to make of this…

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘If it’s any conciliation I did feel guilty for not sending one…” smug smile starts to spread across my lips… ‘but I’d spent all my money on Lucia, and had none left over for you…’ smug smile instantly vanquished from lips.

Me: ‘Who’s Lucia?’ Calm, calm, keep calm, it’s probably his mother.

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘My girlfriend.’ I’m sorry…your WHAT?? ‘I bought her a card, flowers, balloons, and took her out to dinner. After I’d paid for all that there was no money left over in my allowance to send you a card.’ Incensed, eyes darting from side-to-side, wildly considering dumping him in the middle of the Moors to fend from himself, foot getting heavier on the pedal, heart racing, blood boiling….

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘You look angry….oh, you thought we were exclusive…”

Me: ‘Thought had crossed my mind.’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘But, I never told you I was going to be exclusive with you.’ He laughs condescendingly, ‘how silly would that be considering we’re divided by an ocean!’

Me: ‘You’re right. You never said we were exclusive, but you also never said you were dating anyone. And given all the letters you’ve sent me pouring out your un-divided love and adoration, well, forgive me for assuming exclusivity.’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘You shouldn’t be upset.’ Shouldn’t I?! ‘It’s you I love, but you’re not around, so Lucia keeps me…occupied in your absence.’

Sometime later, arriving at the airport I kissed him on the cheek, gave him a hug, got back in my car, rolled down the window, ‘….just one thing before you go. Lucia can keep you…occupied for as long as you like’ He smiles, ‘yes, but you shan’t be occupying anymore of my life going forward’ The smile from his face vanishes as it emerges smugly on mine. I put my foot down and drove out of his life.

The Second One

The years passed after The First One, and each time I was dating around Valentine’s I knew not to expect much, and my expectations were met readily. Requisite cards and small shows of affection summed up the V-Day experiences, and I was content with that. Then, a decade after The First One came The Second One. From day one it was a tumultuous relationship, which shouldn’t have got out of the starting gate, let alone past any hurdles. We actually met at Christmas, and got together in the late January. For our first V-Day he was overseas in Europe on business. As we’d only been dating for 10 minutes I wasn’t fussed about the lack of arbitrary offerings.

Over the course of that year it became quite obvious to me that he wasn’t over his ex, and I often felt I paled in comparison to the memory of her, and paid for a lot of her sins. No matter how much he tried to convince me that I was being dillusional I just couldn’t allay this nagging feeling that he was only biding his time with me. Then came V-Day. He’d been promising me romantic dinners, and strolls by the river, and for the first time ever I got my hopes up. However, on the actual day I had to work late, so instead of going out for dinner he said he’d cook me dinner at his house. I was so excited at work I could barely contain my excitement. As soon as the clock struck the hour I was out of there like a shot, straight into my car, and on my way to his house. I tried calling several times on the way, but his phone just went to voicemail. When I reached the house it was in complete darkness. Ha ha! A surprise, I thought! However, upon entering, there were no warm welcomes, or shouts or ‘Surprise!’ Instead, I was met with darkness and silence. I went into the kitchen and turned on the light. There were vodka and tequila bottles strewn across the kitchen, a few up-ended cocktail glasses, and absolutely no food. I made my way around the house, turning on lights as I went, looking for Mr Requited-Love. Eventually, I found him passed out in the bedroom in a blind drunk stupor. I tried to wake him up, but he was having none of it.

Heavy hearted at the realisation of yet another dismal V-Day I trudged downstairs to pour myself a cocktail. On entering the kitchen I saw a single tulip sitting in a glass of water. I’d missed this before amid all the alcohol bottles. I went over to it and saw that it had a very small card attached to it, the type of card you’d normally get with a bouquet of flowers. I opened it up and it said, ‘To Susan. Happy Valentine’s day’ Oh, Ok, so he hadn’t totally blown me off. And, it might not be an actual bouquet of flowers, or a proper card,

but it was something, and it was definitely better than nothing. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little disheartened at the lack of sumptuous dinner I’d been promised, and his preference to get annihilated instead of spending the evening with me. Hey-ho. Such is the reality of V-Day, and this is exactly what happens when you come to expect something.

I set to cleaning up the kitchen of all the alcohol debris. As I was throwing the bottles into the bin I noticed a crumpled up piece of paper lying on top of the trash. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this, and nothing special either, but something, somewhere deep inside told me to look at this piece of paper….

“Did you get the bouquet of flowers I sent to you? I hope you like them. I know tulips are your favourite. I didn’t include the little card that went with the flowers because I was afraid of what your boyfriend would say if he knew they were from me. This is silly. I can’t stop thinking about you. We should be together on this day, not with other people. Please come back to me. I love you with all my heart. Susan means nothing to me and I would drop her in a heartbeat if you said you wanted to give us another go….”

The Third One

Another decade later and I meet The Third One. I’m older now, and wiser (marginally), possibly less cynical and a little more realistic. But, The Third One, is different. He’s honest, kind, caring, loyal and faithful. Qualities I hadn’t encountered before. And, in fact, he is The One, and in time becomes TH (The Husband). My mantra had always been if someone treats you well 365 days a year (and visa versa) you don’t need a

commercial holiday to prove this love, and this was never more the case than with The One. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t do, or say something to make me feel loved and secure. But, having someone so special in my life made me want to do something even more special for him on V-Day. Yes, for the first time ever I wanted to buy into the commercialism of this holiday. I wanted The One to know that he was special to me 365 days a year, but on this one day I get to put that affection on a silver platter and spoon feed it to him in love-heart-shaped dollops, and show it off smugly to the world.

Unfortunately, for our first two V-Day’s he was working away from home. But, the weekend after V-Day he’d always come home ladened with armfuls of flowers, a gigantic card and lots of kisses and cuddles. In return, I’d make us a sumptuous, candlelit meal, and we’d simper and coo at each other across the table. It was wonderful.

And then in 2013 he was actually going to be home for Valentine’s Day. I was so excited to be actually able to spend the evening with him for the first time that I decided to really push the boat out. When he got home from work I drew him a bath. Whilst in the bath I brought him the newspapers and a scotch on the rocks. Upon alighting from the bath I served him a three course candle lit meal. At the end of the meal I presented him with a large box of chocolates and his card. After dinner, we cuddled on the couch and watched Football (which I hate). By 10:00pm I could no longer contain my curiosity…

Me: ‘Have you had a nice evening darling?’

TH: ‘This has been the best Valentine’s ever.’

Me: ‘Oh yay. I’m so glad you enjoyed it…but…I was just wondering…’

TH: ‘Yes?’

Me: ‘Is there anything for me? A card maybe?’

TH: ‘You wanted something? You were expecting something?’

Me: ‘As is normally our custom on V-Day, yes, I was expecting something!’

TH: ‘Oh crap.’

Me: ‘Please tell me that’s an ‘oh crap’ because you’ve left it in the car and you don’t want to go out in the cold to get it’

TH: ‘No, not exactly. More of an ‘oh crap I didn’t get you anything’

Me: ‘You what?!?!’

TH: ‘Well, you said you didn’t like flowers on V-Day so I wasn’t about to buy you any.’

Me: ‘Roses. I said I didn’t like red roses on V-Day because they’re far too cliché! I never said I didn’t like flowers. And besides, you bought me flowers for the past couple of years, so why would you suddenly now decide to not buy them?!’

TH: ‘Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that.'

Me: ‘Putting the flowers aside, where’s my card? I can assure you I’ve never, ever said I didn’t want a card.’

TH: ‘I didn’t think you’d want anything today…’

Me: ‘No, of course not. Why would I want a Valentine’s card on Valentine’s Day?’

TH: ‘Oh crap. I’ve really messed up haven’t I?’

It turns out TH had got his wires crossed. As we’d always celebrated V-Day on the following weekend, he’d got it into his head that even though he was home for the actual holiday that we wouldn’t be celebrating until the weekend. Needless to say the very next day he came home with several bunches of flowers, the world’s biggest V-Day card, and proceeded to eat humble pie for sometime afterwards.  

The thing is when it’s someone you really, really love the disappointment is felt all the greater. Whilst the actual acts of betrayal from previous V-Days were more premeditated and harsh, and yes, I was hurt at the time, the actual level of disappointment was not that great because I expected little better from them. It’s when you have an expectation, especially from someone you love, that the pain of the disappointment is acute.

This Year

So, it comes to V-Day 2014 and I decided I’m throwing in the towel. I am not putting myself out, making dinners, or drawing any more stinking baths. I am having a man’s V-Day and not doing anything at all. I am sitting on the couch, avec un verre de vin blanc, and having dinner made for me. Ca va?

TH, still eating the last crumbs of humble pie from the year before, is conducive to this idea and agrees to make me dinner. Yippee! However, TH can’t cook. His repertoire of culinary delights include bacon/sausage and egg sandwiches, or crockpot surprise (the surprise being the varying number of odd combinations of food included in the Crockpot). So, my dinner prerequisite was that it couldn’t be made using a Crockpot, or a frying pan.

My man rose to the occasion, sought out my finest cookbook and set to the task. 

I have to say I was dubious, especially when he asked me what ground black pepper was, or if shallot was a relative of the carrot, or when it said a clove of garlic did it mean the entire bulb….but he battled on.

I was not permitted into the kitchen during the Culinary Festivalus, but was supplied with ample wine and contently read my book whilst delicious smells emanated from the kitchen. 

I did sneak in at one point on the premis of re-filling my wine glass, but I really just wanted to take a picture to mark the occasion! 

There was the occasional, ‘What the heck is this?!’ and ‘Why on earth would you do stick that in there?!’ but he sallied forth.

Two and a half hours of cooking later, and behold my feast. To start with - Salad Lyonnaise (Dandelion and bacon salad).

For main course - Carre d'agneau roti Provencale (Roast Rack of Lamb)

Accompanied by - Pommes de terre roties a l'ail (roast potatoes with garlic)

and Ratatouille

I have to say that is was magnificently delicious. Michel Roux Jr would be proud of TH. I know I was! And, I have to say it was the best Valentine's Day ever, for both of us. He loved cooking it as much as I enjoyed sitting back, relaxing and having dinner made for me. I think a new precedence has been set!

Of course, now I know TH can cook I might be taking advantage of this again soon...