Who that has not suffered it understands the pain of exile?
– George Orwell, Burmese Days
To be quite honest, having travelled back on average once a year for the slightly more than four years so far spent outside the UK, to call it ‘exile’ is to overstate the case slightly. In these days of free internet calls and the journey not taking three weeks by boat, it is a bit daft to consider oneself banished far from all the good things of home. Even so, it is natural that, from time to time, there will be pangs of homesickness when living abroad.
Can’t be trusted in the sweet aisle, clearly…
That said, a relative bought a print of the Albert Dock and Three Graces in Liverpool for my wall in Japan and there are some mornings it is difficult to look at, the ache from not being able to walk into the frame is too much. Homesickness when living abroad for the city – almost as if it were an old friend – is a strange feeling, as the flesh and blood should have a bigger call on the emotions than bricks and mortar. But as I have been exploring this festive season, there is just something special about the Pool of Life.
Missing it too much, however, can feel like a betrayal of the other city I call home. Life in Tokyo is great, if not without its minor annoyances, just as would be the case with anywhere. The trick that homesickness plays is to mask all the deficiencies of home, while throwing a shadow over all the benefits of away. Then you are in danger of becoming one of those awful bores, lacking any sense of perspective, that have been plaguing expat life since at least the Thirties:
He had forgotten that most people can be at ease in a foreign country only when they are disparaging the inhabitants.
– Burmese Days (of course!)
The flip side of that is that, since returning, I find myself looking at my fellow shoppers, diners and train passengers wondering which of them ‘looks a bit UKIP’. A recommendation in the comments on this post to check out Charlie Brooker’s Screenwipe 2014 underlined all the ways in which the home country is leaving me behind (who in the hell commissioned Tumble? Danny Dyer in Eastenders? Nigel Farange appearing on anything? WHY WASN’T I CONSULTED ABOUT ANY OF THIS?)
In an attempt to stave off the next bout of pining, measures have been implemented to bridge the gap. A Christmas present to myself was an annual subscription to Private Eye, so from later in the month you can expect to hear howls of outrage from my direction about a week after the original story first breaks. I also managed to register to vote as an overseas voter: this is open to all who left within the last 15 years and were registered before they left. Watch out, David Cameron! All I need to do now is arrange for regular shipments of Maltesers…
4 comments
By the looks of that receipt, you’ll be more in need of a regular shipment of Steradent.
Regular gym sessions n’all.
U Po Kylin…was a man about fifty, so fat that for years he had not risen from his seat without help. So fat he couldn’t be trusted in the sweet aisle.
So much of the book is quotable – this was my first read of it since leaving the UK and the way he talks about the Brits abroad… Well. The Empire may be long gone but the ‘types’ remain.