Rockin’ The Kingdom

Time passed. The recording wasn’t going well and I kept extending my stay. Finally, I formed my own band, singing my own songs, and then things started to make sense. The rest is history. As I became familiar with everything British, I realised what a wonderful sense of humour you Brits have. It’s mischievous (when I arrived the driver told me the Thames was pronounced “Thaaaames”) and hilarious, clever, insightful, and often subtle or wry, different to US slapstick. You are also a very private people, not easy to read (and given that I like to think I can read most people, you’re a challenge). You don’t share every problem or seek psychiatric help whenever you fall off the edge. I like that about you. And when you make a British friend, they are a loyal and caring friend for life. Oh, and another thing: I love the British sense of fairness. It is a rare trait, and one you should be proud of. But even after a decade of living here, I was still easily surprised by quirky British behaviour. It must have been the Eighties — I had just appeared on the Michael Parkinson show, which was quite a big deal at the time. The night after the show aired on TV, I attended a society event — ladies in long dresses, blue rinse hair, pearls; the men in dinner jackets. All very posh, and I felt very out of my depth. And before you ask, no I didn’t wear my leather jumpsuit!

Guests were gathered in groups of threes and fours. At one point, a very grand older lady came over to me. I felt the room go quiet. “I saw you on the Michael Parkinson show last night,” she said, in a very posh accent like The Queen. There was a pause and then she said: “I didn’t realise you had a brain.” Another long pause. Finally, I ‘answered’ by raising my glass of champagne. “Well, f*** me,” I muttered to myself as she walked away and the party resumed. Was she giving me a compliment? Knowing you as well as I do now, I reckon she was.

To say I have embraced your country is an understatement: I live in an Elizabethan manor house built in 1590. My two children and granddaughter were all conceived and born here, and they are Essex through and through. But the cultural differences remain, and every now and then I am reminded that I’m not yet a bona fide Brit. One day, while I was driving down my local street, I saw an open bakery, parked the car and went in. There was a long line and people recognised me, so as I stood there, I became increasingly uncomfortable. When it came to my turn, I asked the lady behind the counter, in my best Midwestern accent for 12 “open bread cakes”. She gave me a blank expression, which irritated me because I thought she was pretending to not understand my accent. “I’d like 12 open bread cakes, please.” This time I was louder and clearer and very pronounced but she still kept staring at me and a few people in the queue began to giggle. Finally, the penny dropped. I had been asking for the shop sign, which read “Open Bread Cakes”. My humiliation was complete and I left the shop empty-handed. Oh, and to this day I still don’t know why I ordered 12.

So there we have it. I was supposed to stay for three months, record an album and go back home to Detroit. But I am writing this piece on 11 March, 2024. I have been here for more than 50 years. Wow. How did that happen? The learning curve — getting to know the country, the people, and their ways — has been wonderful. I love my house and I love being here, even though I never stop missing my roots. I am and always will be “the girl from Detroit city”, albeit one who’s still living in England.