Watching the English

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Iam sitting in a pub near Paddington station, clutching a small brandy. It's only about half past eleven in the morning - a bit early for drinking, but the alcohol is part reward, part Dutch courage. Reward because I have just spent an exhausting morning accidentally-on-purpose bumping into people and counting the number who said 'Sorry'; Dutch courage because I am now about to return to the train station and spend a few hours committing a deadly sin: queue jumping.

I really, really do not want to do this. I want to adopt my usual method of getting an unsuspecting research assistant to break sacred social rules while I watch the result from a safe distance. But this time, I have bravely decided that I must be my own guinea pig. I don't feel brave. I feel scared. My arms are all bruised from the bumping experiments. I want to abandon the whole stupid Englishness project here and now, go home, have a cup of tea and lead a normal life. Above all, I do not want to go and jump queues all afternoon.

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