Adrian’s Cathy officially became a Brit. This is very strange for me. I’m happy for her, of course. It is a very exciting thing to happen. But it’s been making me think.
I was born a Brit, you see, and I still have the passport to show for it. I even occasionally trot off to the British consular place to renew my passport and the girl’s passports. I politely wait there for hours and hours while they process what seems like thousands of would-be immigrants or foreign workers or something from the far east or somewhere who are probably being thrown out of Israel and would rather go somewhere better than back home (at least, that was what happened last time I was there).
I always have a funny feeling at the British consular place because they have this big picture of the Queen, which seems strangely out of place on the (can’t remember which) floor of the Migdalor Building on 1 Ben-Yehuda Street.
When I find myself actually in England it’s all very familiar. The smells and the sights seem like home. But then again they’re not.
I can hardly understand the accent spoken in the city of my birth and I find it very difficult to handle things like the strangeness of the money, trying to work out which way to look when I’m crossing the road, etc, although these are things I feel I should be able to manage, and that don’t bother me at all, when I’m in other places that aren’t Israel. Do you know what I mean?
What happens when I go to England, I think, is that I feel disoriented. I should feel at home, and I don’t. And I do, sort of. Like it was a place I dreamt this very vivid dream about. It’s too loaded and weird to be a holiday.
That’s probably why I haven’t been for a while. In case anyone was wondering.
All this has nothing to do with Adrian’s Cathy, of course. I’m happy for her, only I'm finding it difficult to identify.
I think I’ll just send Our Sis as my emissary to England, for now (I’m not paying, though). Have a good time, Our Sis.
Afterthought: Maybe I should just go and stop l'balbel bamoa'ch.