As a permanently-inhibited somebody, I am always slightly fearful of the prospect of meeting strangers – particularly when they come, to hi-jerk Shakespeare, not single spies but in battalions. The origins of this are, I suspect, rooted in the fact that I was born an only child. I have not had to compete, to work, for parental favour. Therefore, although my conscious mind knows this to be a ridiculous fallacy, murkier parts of me see no reason why the rest of the world should not lavish its attention on me, unbidden, as well.
Because it deviates from the norm, it is arguable that this is a form of mental illness. But then, in Britain it is ‘the norm’ (or to be more precise, the average) to have 2.4 children – a biological impossibility. And what passes for the norm in Britain would be considered strange elsewhere. I do wonder, for example, how China’s one child policy has affected the psychological development of the generations to grow up with no siblings, no uncles, no aunts. In my more masochistically egocentric moments, I picture a country the size of a continent, populated by clones of myself. It is at these moments that I run for cover, in the company of shiny happy people.
But then China has more serious problems than the possibility that its people are growing up painfully shy. One can almost imagine that this was in fact the plan of the Chinese Communist authorities all along: breed a race of the socially inept and no-one will ever have the guts to stand up to you. At least not in any great number. It is easier to flee.
One result of the Chinese government’s callous disregard for human life has been a slight, but noticeable, erosion in the cultural differences between Scotland and its spouse-beating partner. Having been brought up in South-East England, and now resident in South-East Scotland, it came as something of a surprise to discover Chinese restaurants were as populous here as ‘down there’ (not to be confused with ‘down under’, where the frequency of Chinese eating establishments is something I am unable to comment on).
The waves of migrants to the UK remain a poorly-understood sector of society. In many cases, we are talking about people who do not want to be here, who are not needed by the indigenous community, and whose presence is used as a scapegoat for just about every social problem imaginable. It is always convenient, when looking for someone to blame, to pick on those who can’t argue back. And in marginalising these groups, pushing them to the economic limits, it is always possible you will create the very subversive elements whose presence has previously caused you to froth at the mouth.
The unique business area for an immigrant to the west – particularly those immigrants from what is smugly and self-congratulatorily referred to as the third world, allowing us to believe that it is lesser beings who are starving to death – is, ironically, food. Across the UK, there are restaurants and take-aways serving Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Taiwanese, Indian, Bangladeshi, Pakistani, Sri Lankan, Nigerian, Senegalese, Somalian, Eritrean, Egyptian, Lebanese, Moroccan, South African, Samoan, Argentinian, Brazilian, Chilean, and many others. The idiosyncracies of each will probably be lost on those consuming in a foreign language.
But then of course, many of these places are primarily there to service the requirements of migrant communities, rather than spice up the lives of the locals. Nevertheless, you can rely upon most towns in the British isles having an Indian, a Chinese and an Italian. Restaurants, that is. To quote Ricky Gervais, one false move now and I’m Jim Davison.
So where an outsider may once have been bamboozled by neeps and tatties, he is reassured by chow mein, by lamb bhuna. If anything, there are probably more such places in Scotland than in England, giving you the sense, however illusory, that Scotland is England writ large. England exaggerated.
Scotland has a staggeringly high incidence of heart disease, heroin dependency and teenage pregnancy. Little of which is evident in St Andrews, home to golf fanatics and university students, and the hangers-on of both parties. Like every student town there is an abundance of cheap food, yet of a higher quality than is usually found. There is little evidence of pregnancy, teenage or otherwise. It is perhaps the exception that proves the rule. Unless the muggers have gone canny.
This is Scotland, nor am I out of it.
Indoor Rain 