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About this English Wife.  Technically I couldn’t be farther from the description I go by.  First of all, I am a Scot.  Indeed, passing myself off as an English Wife may indeed be a treasonable act.  But before I throw myself on the Wallace statue in my University’s town of Aberdeen and beg for forgiveness, may I say in my favour that living in rural Leicestershire suits me.  It is a beautiful place and I truly love it.  We have lived here for the best part of eight years now, having left London and the south east not long after Callum was born in search of a lower mortgage, more space and a more simple life.  Besides, we have family here.  This is David’s home.  And yes, this is where I want to be.  Always.

However, I still get picked up when I describe Scotland as my home.  After all, it still is.

Despite settling here, and taking fewer and fewer trips back home, I am insistent that my children know and understand their heritage.  I come from a golfing background and so I am delighted to say that both my children can swing a club rather well.  And indeed they both have done from an early age.   However one looks more like Michael Jackson performing Moondance when he picks up his iron, whilst the other makes a more considered attempt to follow the Tiger.  But either way, they are not that bad. Furthermore I educate them in the importance of our native tongue, the Fife dialect.  (No, Gaelic (or Gah-lik, as we prefer) was never one of my strong points and although I spent several hours in the University Union bar trying to chat up one of the Gaelic Society’s front men, I dare say my motives were not in the desire to know my native tongue.. )

The Fife dialect has many idiosyncrasies, which I am sure are repeated in many other areas of Scotland too.  First of all my children have no problem with the phrase ‘I am going out for the messages.’ They quite easily understand the need to go to the supermarket rather than cleaning up the dog mess from the driveway.  Furthermore, they rise to the occasion when all three of us shout ‘Scone!’ (as in John) to Daddy when he pronounces Scone as ‘Joan.’   (Who the heck was she after all?).

No, the only battle in our house over the great Hadrian’s divide is during the Calcutta Cup.  But I will not talk about that for now.  Not until we rise again.  13th March 2010. Bring it on.. A home win.  We’ll be there. And since my mother is the one who gets us our tickets, he has to endure the afternoon with the rest of the club.  Fabulous.

On the second count of hypocrisy, David and I are not in fact married.  I pass myself off as his wife when I feel the need to, but am never comfortable being Mrs B. That’s his mother’s name after all.  Having said that I am dreadfully duplicitous as I regularly feign ignorance on the phone when someone wants to talk to Mr B.,

“No, he’s not here.  No, he is not my husband. No, you can’t possibly try to sell me anything, no.”

Of course then there is the flipside,

“What do you mean you can tell me want my balance is?  It’s my card too.  No, I am not his wife, and no, I can’t remember his mother’s maiden name.   Look, I am just the mother of his children – does that count?”

So, after several years here in the Village, we still pass as a couple who are adding to the increasing statistics of the ‘We’ll get round to it one day’ s.’

Well, not until we’ve finished the garden at least.  Because that’s where the marquee will go.



Disclaimer: This Rural Wife is a partly fictional tale, exaggerated nuances of hapless events that occur within the Village on a daily basis. They express the opinions and mad ramblings of the author only. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental, so please dont feel offended if you are not mentioned