When I think of the Brits, I imagine a chubby ginger sipping a cup of tea with milk and sugar. When I think of the Scots, I add a kilt and bagpipe. When I think of a Dutch girl trapped between tea, kilts and bagpipes, I add an umbrella, an urban dictionary and a bottle of Whisky filled with courage.
It did, however, only took a day or so for me to get used to some of the most abnormal modes of life I’ve ever experienced. These days I wake up and poor myself a cup of tea with milk, while reading Mr Clegg’s apologies. I wash myself in my electric shower and return my tooth brush to its British plug. I dress myself in ten layers, just to be prepared for rain, snow ánd sunshine. Armed with my umbrella and stones worth of pound coins, I enter the streets. Without thinking I look right-left-right and cross the street, skillfully avoiding newly formed rain puddles. I greet the old newspaper seller, buy myself a cup of fair trade coffee and press the button that magically turns the little man green. I pick up the phone with a gentle hello – no name – and mumble fakkin eejit when a cyclist suddenly appears from the wrong side of the road. Well, according to most countries. I discuss the Scottish independence, its struggle with teenagers drinking a bottle of whisky too many and the upcoming legalisation of gay marriage. I listen to another bagpipe song without trying to glare underneath the kilt. Oh well, who am I kidding; I listen to another bagpipe song while trying to catch a glimpse of the Scottish tools. I wander down the Royal Mile, thank Adam Smith for his contribution to classical economics and think of a good location for Peter Higgs’ statue.
On my way back I buy myself a pair of leggings with extremely loud prints, take a look at John Lewis’ haberdashery and play the Fratellis on my Zen. I find myself the nearest Tesco and continue my journey carrying a plastic bottle of milk, a massive package of Choco pops and a pack of deep-fried haggis. I enter my residential area, open the door of my high ceiling, single glazed flat and put a potato in the much loved popty ping (microwave). I eat my jacket potato covered in butter and baked beans in tomato sauce while drinking a bottle of berry Bulmers. I jump in the electric shower once more, wash my hair with poundland’s shampoo and brush my teeth. I close the shutters, try my hardest to warm up underneath my two blankies and close my eyes. And then I dream of… Old Amsterdam, Gazelle and Beatrix.