Rule Britannia

“Dear Husband, I fear that you may have forgotten to who I am. Allow me to introduce myself, I am your wife – crazy, brunette, currently obsessed with cooking and deceased American author and screenwriter, Nora Ephron. I am presently rooming with a 93 year old.”

This is a message I sent to my poor suffering Husband, who I have seen for a total of 7weeks in the last 8 months. Such a long distance marriage often requires an activities update to keep things ticking over. I think the message sums up my movements quite nicely:

1) I am as crazy as a box of frogs.

2) I have turned into a complete foodie – obsessively watching cooking programs and turning out both pancetta and parmesan puffs and perky peri-peri roast chicken on the same day.

3) I am completely enamoured with Nora Ephron (screenwriter of such gems as When Harry met Sally). Nora says things like 'The amount of maintenance involving hair is genuinely overwhelming. Sometimes I think that not having to worry about your hair anymore is the secret upside to death.'

4) My housemate is the gorgeous 93 year old Myvanwy (or Vanny), who I absolutely adore. Through her I have learnt the power of a restorative nip of whisky should one be feeling off colour. I in turn have introduced her to the celebratory power of the Olympics - where we were united in our admiration of hottie-hot pants BBC presenter and former swimming champ Mark Foster. Vanny refers to him as her boyfriend and likes his 'Grey hair'

The only thing I ommited to include in the text to Hubby dearest is that I am also very obsessed with the serial shaggings of Don Draper in Mad Men (I have reached the end of Season 3). I thought it best to leave mention of the very dapper Mr Draper out of the equation as no man wants to know that his wife is lusting over a chronic adulterer – not good for morale really.

Luckily for my estranged Husband we are scheduled to meet in 2 weeks time in Autumnal Scotland. It is here that I am booked in to swear allegiance to Her Maj (or Ma’am – said Marm as in arm, not Mam as in ham) at which point I will be issued with a certificate stating my new found Britishness. I will henceforth officially be a Pom.

I am quite excited at the prospects of my new found Britishness as I have taken all things Rule Britannia quite seriously this last year and would like to point out my enthusiasm point by point (I also appear to be a bit obsessed by numerical lists at present):

1) I watched the Royal Family float down the Thames for 4 hours in the rain, listening to BBC presenters drivel on incoherently about the Jubilee Flotilla. I keenly followed the resulting press coverage of the Duke of Edinburgh’s bladder blockages – a direct result of 4 hours standing in the mizzle watching boats float by – and became quite the expert on Phil the Greek’s relapsing Royal plumbing.

2) I made Union Jack cupcakes for a Jubilee street party and then attended said event with dear Myvanwy where we knew no one. Consequently we were subjected to a discussion about the home-made bunting that had been crafted out of Mrs Perfect Middle Englands’ son’s Cath Kidston print pyjamas.

3) I bunked out mid-way through a wedding to watch Andy Murray fight for the Wimbledon title (to be fair the bride did welcome me with, ‘Oh, you! I’d forgotten who we invited” so I didn’t feel too bad about missing out on the line-dancing). I then drowned my genuine sorrows at Andy’s defeat in a fair amount of Bridezilla’s expensive Champas. I even entered into discussions about the Class system as interpreted by transvestite artist Grayson Perry’s in his latest works in my best Hot-Potato voice, throwing in a hearty “Here-here!” as required.

4) I cried when British Olympic athletes won gold, especially when Murray finally beat Federer at Wimbledon to win Olympic Gold. I hummed along to God save the Queen at every medal ceremony.

5) I was even excited when young Brit Johnny Peacock beat Oscar Pistorius in the 100m at the Paralympics, even though I love Oscar Pistorius and if it wasn’t already with my digitally challenged Husband I would proposition the Blade Runner.

6) Whilst lunching with a friend at the Serpentine in Hyde Park we spotted actress Sienna Miller with her baby and I resisted the urge to stare or rush over and gush, but instead smiled sweetly and continued with my meal – the very picture of the reserved Brit.

7) I have started pronouncing 'yoghurt' in the British yog-hurt instead of the South African yo-ghurt, likewise I proffer a rather posh 'yar' instead of 'Ja'. I refer to 'text messages' rather than 'sms's', 'traffic lights' instead of 'robots' and 'shopping bags' instead of 'plastic bags'.

So as you can see I am totally ready to accept my British Citizenship and procure myself one of them sweet little red passports, at which point I am dragging my Husband straight back to darkest Africa because I have become dangerously dare I say, British.