EPILOGUE
I 'm back at Paddington station, three years later. No brandy this time, as I don't have to do any more bumping or queue jumping. Just a nice cup of tea and a biscuit - which strikes me as an appropriately moderate and understated way to mark the completion of my Englishness project.
Even though I am now 'off duty' - just waiting for the Oxford train, like a normal person - I realize that I have automatically chosen the best observation-position in the station cafe, with a particularly good view of the queue at the counter. Just habit, I suppose. The thing about participant-observation research is that it does rather tend to take over your whole life. Every routine train journey, every drink in the pub, every walk to the shops, every house you pass, every fleeting interaction with everyone you meet is a data-gathering or hypothesis-testing opportunity. You can't even watch television or listen to the radio without constantly making notes on bloody Englishness.
The book is done; I've left my notebook at home (I'm writing this on a napkin). But look: in that taxi earlier I couldn't help scribbling on the back of my hand something the driver said. I peer at the slightly smudged abbreviations. Something about 'all this rain and now they've issued drought warnings for next summer and isn't it just typical'. Oh great, that must be my seven-hundred-thousandth recorded instance of English weather-moaning. Really useful information, Kate. Pathetic data-junkie. You've cracked the code; you've done your little bit towards resolving the English identity crisis. Now leave it alone. Stop all this obsessive queue-watching and pea-counting and recording random bits of weather-speak. Get a life.
Yes. Right. Absolutely. Enough is enough.
Ooh, but hang on a sec. What's that? A woman with a baby in a pushchair has approached the coffee-shop counter from the wrong end, and there's a queue of three people already waiting to be served. Is she trying to jump the queue, or just having a look at the doughnuts and sandwiches before deciding whether to join the queue? It's not clear. But a jump-attempt here would be too blatant, surely? - not enough ambiguity in the situation. The three queuers are doing the paranoid pantomime - suspicious sideways looks, pointed throat-clearing, shuffling forward... Ah! two of them have just exchanged raised eyebrows (but were they in the queue together, or are they strangers? Why wasn't I paying attention?) - one of them sighs noisily - will the pushchair woman notice? - Yes! She's got the message - she's moving towards the back of the queue - but looking mildly affronted - she'd never intended to jump the queue, she was just looking to see what sandwiches they had. The queuers look down or away, avoiding eye contact. Hah! She was innocent all along - I knew it! Now, I wonder if those two eyebrow-raisers are friends or strangers. This is very important - did that apparent queue-jump threat prompt eye contact between strangers or not? Let's see if they order together - damn, that's my train they've just announced! Huh! It would be on time for once, just when there's this fascinating queue-drama going on - typical! Maybe I could get the next one...
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In a break with tradition, which for some reason always puts the author's family 'last but by no means least', I want to thank, first and very much foremost, my fiance, Henry Marsh, and his children William, Sarah and Katharine. They've had to put up with three years of my stressing and obsessing over this book - and along with my mother, Liz, and sister, Anne, they read and commented on each chapter as it emerged. My sister Ellie gave me two wonderful holidays in Lebanon, which I shamelessly used as opportunities for cross-cultural research. My father, Robin Fox, deserves most of the credit for any skills I may have as a participant observer. They have all been unfailingly tolerant, helpful and encouraging. My Co-Director at the Social Issues Research Centre, Peter Marsh, gave me my first field-research job when I was seventeen, and has been my mentor and great friend ever since. Among many other kindnesses, he allowed me a semi-sabbatical from SIRC to complete this book. I am also grateful to Desmond Morris for his help, advice and insights. Watching the English is based on over a decade of research, and it would be impossible to thank everyone who has contributed, but among those who have helped me in various ways with the past three years of intensive fieldwork and writing, I would particularly like to thank Ranjit and Sara Banerji, Annalisa Barbieri, Don Barton, Krystina Belinska, Simon and Prisca Bradley, Angela Burdick, Brian Cathcart, Roger Chapman, Peter Collett, Karol Colonna-Czosnowski, Joe Connaire, James Cumes, Paul Dornan, Alana Fawcett, Vernon and Anne Gibberd, William Glaser, Susan Greenfield, Janet Hodgson, Selwyn and Lisa Jones, Jean-Louis and Voikitza Juery, Paull and Lorraine Khan, Eli Khater, Mathew Kneale, Sam Knowles, Slava and Masha Kopiev, Meg Kozera, Hester Lacey, Laurence Marsh, Tania Mathias, Roger Miles, Paula Milne, Tony Muller, Simon Nye, Geoffrey Smith, Lindsey Smith, Richard Stevens, Jamie Stevenson, Lionel Tiger, Patsy Toh and Roman Zoltowski. My thanks to everyone at Hodder amp; Stoughton, especially Rupert Lancaster, the world's kindest and most patient editor, and Kerry Hood, the nicest publicity-genius. Thanks also to Hazel Orme, the most quietly brilliant copy editor, to Julian Alexander, the most hardworking and thoughtful agent - and to Liz Fox, again, wearing her other hat as the wittiest indexer.
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