With 3 boys under 6, Buggy Blogger mum to J (5), B (4) and S (2) certainly has her hands full. This week it’s all abroad for a demonstration on how to stick out like a sore Brit.

East West home’s best.

We’re fresh back from our annual Easter visit to the European in-laws and I tell you I’m pleased to be back on home ground. Home; great! Ground; even better, not being gifted as I am with sea legs.

When we booked the tickets an age ago, it seemed a good idea to cross the Channel by ferry. When I awoke on Good Friday to tumultuous skies and the promise of imminent snow, it no longer did. And sure enough, when we got to Dover, we discovered our departure was delayed due to bad weather. Delayed, but not cancelled. It *would* eventually go ahead after a couple of extra hours of anxious contemplation. Nice.

Though I can think of pleasanter ways to spend a couple of hours than in a packed P&O lounge, I forced myself to look for a bright side however. Here boys, I thought to myself, is the chance to watch and learn about the English in their element. Would we let the grim … and inevitably green … prospect ahead of us dampen our spirit? Never. We queued stoically for the over-stretched loos, we drank endless cups of fortifying tea and we groaned companionably over our mutual woe. It was a fine display of coping with adversity in a very British way – solidarity in a crisis – which the boys celebrated by munching chummily through a truck(ferry?)load of still-on-solid-ground crisps.

No sooner had the last Hula Hoop disappeared, however, than it was time to set sail. And once on board, the Brits continued to show their national colours by incessantly discussing the inclement weather, making regular trips to the bar and scoffing en masse at the proffered massage service (what; being pummelled by a stranger … in front of others … whilst feeling a bit dicky? Not bloomin’ likely!). I felt proud to be British. J on the otherhand just felt sick.

Happily though, we emerged at the end with our stiff upper lips … and our volatile lower-guts … mercifully still in tact. But as the other Brits sped off to their Easter weekend destination of choice (EastEnders’ booze supermarket for the most part), we turned towards the Belgian holiday camp where we’d be staying. Here we found a profusion of Flemish, French and Dutch guests, the odd German and a dearth of fellow Channel hoppers. All of a sudden, our GB sticker looked very cold and lonely in the left-hand-drive dominated car park. It was down to us then to fly the flag for Old Blighty.

Taking the situation firmly in hand, I strode confidently towards my in-laws and immediately showed the boys the kind of stuff we’re made of. I kicked off with a perfect demonstration of the traditional British Greeting Fluff-Up. First, I failed to remember how many times to kiss each cheek, and for that matter which one first. Then, I carried out the classic near-miss snog manoeuvre, bumped a couple of noses and made to shake hands with my 6-year-old niece before retracting my arm with an awkward apology and a frantic air kiss. What style, what finesse, what an utter twit. (Mental note to furnish Santa with a European etiquette handbook for boys and / or self this Christmas.)

Once we’d completed our hellos and unloaded the bags, we were off to the nearby Aqua Fun leisure centre where I treated the boys to another display of Best of British. With time-honoured Anglo awkwardness, I ventured gingerly in amongst the heaving mass of exposed flesh and blenched. It was like a ghastly scene from Where’s Wally with throngs and throngs of semi-naked people all wearing inappropriately skimpy swimsuits – not least the clutch of ample gents demonstrating the side-effects of too much Belgian beer (or as I like to think of it now, Bellygian beer). It was dreadful. I nearly keeled over at the horror of being so surrounded by the near-nude Euro louche. Except I couldn’t because that'd draw attention to myself, which just wouldn’t be cricket. So I twitched uncomfortably for Britain-kind instead.

But no amount of twitching could protect me from the horrors yet to come; showers and changing areas that were … gulp … mixed sex. Despite my best intentions, I got elbowed in the showers by a bloke vigorously soaping himself with “I don’t care who I touch” abandon. I instinctively apologised and scuttled off to find sanctuary in a changing cubicle. Which S was bent on opening as the locking device was conveniently located at 2-year-old hand height. The door swung open just as soap man walked by. I apologised again. This time justifiably – no-one should be subjected to the sight of half-dressed me standing stunned, agape and bare from the waist down. (No socks please we’re British.)

But while I was caught with my trousers down, the boys seemed oblivious to all Brits abroad embarrassments. They didn’t blink once about the communal abluting arrangements and indeed will happily use either the male or female toilets. The discomfort over cultural differences escapes them entirely – their usual greeting being the same enthusiastic sloppy kiss whoever the recipient (though this often shocks the dog). And playtime with their cousins isn’t in the least hampered by their lack of a shared common language. They don’t get worked up over queues, they’ don’t blush about nudity and they don’t even care for tea. Or beer. (Yet).

So when will the penny (Euro?) finally drop about the differences between us and our European counterparts? Will the realisation develop with age, experience or just whenever the time comes that they ask for chips and get given a bag of crisps and think, hang on, something’s not quite right here?

Dunno. But in the meantime, I’ll keep a lookout for more opportunities for the boys to learn about language, culture and foreign travel. And I’ll carefully lodge my own lesson learned from our choppy Easter travels: next time, book the tunnel instead.

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