Home comforts

We British like to complain. A lot. If we are not provided with sufficient material for our daily prarffarrflargnd at the morning's headlines (a rare occurrence), we have a rather sizeable arsenal to fuel our rants. Be it the weather, the economy, fuel prices, public transport, politics, or perhaps most importantly, the football, the common denominator for all the above revolves around the country we call home. For most of my life I have eagerly joined in with this thoroughly unpatriotic mockery, but over recent months spent abroad, I have had a small change of heart. I do heavily stress my use of the word small (old habits die hard and all), but whilst isolated from Blighty, have I actually discovered a residue of patriotism within me?

The short answer, I think, is no. Sorry. But I will go as far though as to say this: I am indeed very nostalgic. I miss the accent. I miss people driving on the CORRECT side of the road (I'm sorry, but just because you drive on the right doesn't make it 'right'). I miss the constant drizzle. I miss our two days of summer. And strangely, I also miss the typical British rudeness. Here I can ask a stranger for directions and instead of coming face to face with a man who is looking at me as if I have just farted, I stand a good chance of receiving an answer. The reliability and usefulness of the answer, on the other hand, is an entirely different matter. There are probably plenty of other things that I haven't got round to mentioning. But I think that there is one thing I miss the most: I miss complaining about not liking any of the things I have mentioned above.