Rule Britannia is playing in my head, images of the royal family bombard my thoughts and red, blue and white cloud my mind. Well, maybe not. In fact the thought of returning to England kinda scares the shit out of me. No longer will people be polite to me in the streets. Instead I’ll be lucky if a chav spits on my shoes. No longer will I be welcomed into a shop and given immediate assistance. Instead a spotty faced youth will throw my recently purchased goods into a plastic bag and then probably into my face. And no longer will I ever place the kind of trust and love into people that I once did. Instead I will return to the bitchier, stronger willed and less patient self I used to be. Although, I am sure many people here in Japan would say that I have already started morphing into this person. Or perhaps that I have always been this person (these people are obviously my British mates…the cunts).
Although, I must exempt my friends and the Lamberts from the latter (I’d get fucking lynched as soon as I touched down at Heathrow otherwise). My love, trust and appreciation for these people will never change…no matter how much they try.
So if you don’t mind I’m gonna take a short walk down memory lane…
There are any reasons why I am looking forward to going home. Reason number one: My Old Man. My dad is the kinda guy who will always find the cheeky, slapstick humor of carry-on movies funny. Will consistently moan about any joyous occasion (Christmas, birthdays, family get togethers), and family members in general. And will never compromise his dignity or pride for anything…a long lost charm rarely found these days. Some of these annoyingly strong-willed traits have made there way onto my personality and will refuse to budge. However, throughout my temper tantrum toddler years (shocking, I know) and even worse than that my temper tantrum teenage years he has never given up on me, although I am sure he was sometimes tempted. And I did often get a swift smack round the head or a sarcastic laced butchering from him whenever I stepped out of line.
Bless my dad though. My old man was the kinda dad who would congratulate me on any small achievement. I ran the 100 meters on sports day once and won. A fucking miracle all things considered. The one and only race or sport related activity I had ever succeeded in and from then on I was “the sporty one” in the family:
At first it was complete and utter shock:
“Bloody ‘ ell Clo, you finished that race?”
“Yeah I won”
“What? You won? Always knew you were the sporty one”
Ironical statement at the time. Picture me glaring up at him from behind kohl-lined eyes and slicked back hair with the mandatory Goth bag and black hoodie….my “grebo” phase.
Then came, what can only be described as pure and utter lies:
Me kicking a ball around our back garden: “yeah…definitely the sporty one of the family is my Chloe!!”
Me running 10 meters down the road, nearly killing myself and inducing a heart attack in the process; “ Such a fast runner aint you!”
Looking back, I think he was subconsciously trying to mould me into a boy. Living in a house with three women was never going to be easy for him. My sister’s constant mood swings and teenage quirkiness. My ever loving Mothers strong presence and often madness in the house was something to behold in itself. Then there was my stubborn Grandma and her infamous Lambert poke (a lethal pinch like jab in the arm whenever we stepped out of line…bruises followed). And of course, my Aunties intolerable and often headache inducing wackiness. And lastly, little old me who started off all sweetness and light but soon turned out to be the sort of rebellious bitch straight out of a Harry Enfield sketch. Me and my sisters hormonal, teenage years were never gonna be a barrel of laughs for my poor old dad.
I have also pondered the origin of nicknames during my upbringing. Some of my friends had the sweetest ones that were bestowed upon them by there parents, particularly their fathers. Names like “princess” or “Cherubs” and “angels”, you know, flattering and often meaningful, loving names.
My nickname??? Well I was named after a bottle of booze. Turns out that after a heavy night on the red wine, my parents (probably on their 5th bottle of vino) came across a cheap paint- stripper tasting like substance called “cloburgh”. Through jaunty laughter and hiccupping my nickname was born. Maybe my love and some might say addiction to a glass of fine tasting boxed wine was inevitable from this point on (I believe they started calling me this from about the age of 5).
Finding my parents with one too many inside their bellies would become somewhat of an anecdote. Not that they were ever steaming alcoholics….but they liked the odd glass or ten on a Friday night, or a Monday afternoon. Trying to convince my dad after he had one too many that I didn't need any help with my GCSE science revision was almost as difficult as the actual work itself. Luckily he gave up and passed out when he spent 10 minutes trying to pronounce the word “photosynthesis”.
Then there were the family photo albums. Again my friends’ families would have framed professional photos displayed all around their homes. Photos of them in their finest clothing, pulling angelic poses. Not so much in the Lambert household. Of course we would have the odd photo of us as a relatively normal looking family. But more or less they would be the mocking kind. Like me with a bounty Easter egg box on my head with the caption “egg-head”….fucking hilarious! Or my sister with a big old dunce shaped hat on her head declaring to the world what her name was and when her birthday is like some sort of retard child.
Me and my sister spent the first few years of our life living in London. Our house was tiny and our back garden even smaller. Trying to have fun in this pitiful space of land was always going to be a challenge. There are pictures of me in the heat of summer sitting in a washing up bowl. I mean…not even a paddling pool. A fat, naked toddler sitting in an inch of water, trying to have a good time. My alien-esque eyes staring into the camera, my fat behind wriggling around trying to find a comfortable position to sit for the next five hours while the water became colder and the soap suds completely diminished. Was never a water baby and as such will never be a water adult. I blame the bowl.
But ho hum. Life was good, carefree and laughter and madness was always contagious in our household. Even through the worst times, the strong and painful silence would be punctuated with laughter.
So this is just the first chapter of my nostalgic twitterings all running up to the big departure home, the return to Old Blighty and as such back into the full throes of family life. And while I will not be sitting naked in a washing up bowl (at least not after a few tequilas) I will be living with the Lamberts again. And after living by myself in a foreign land I have come to realize that you can choose your friends (fortunately) but not your ever loving, ever insane family.
