I’m back from a long weekend in the mother country, whither I went to see my nephew get married. It was of course marvelous to see so many Derbs all in one place. Here are the three of my generation: sister (and mother of the groom), self, and brother. There were also, of course, battalions of nieces, nephews, great-nieces and great-nephews. There’s nothing like family. I kept looking around and thinking back to my childhood, when there was just Mum, Dad, my sister, and me. (My brother joined the army in 1948 and was hardly ever around.) Now there is this vast tribe of men, women, and kids, each with a personality and life of his own, striving and laughing and crying and achieving. Nothing like it.

I stocked up on Englishness, of course. The thing I enjoy most about being in England, other than bonding with the clan, is BBC radio. Now I know, we all have issues with the Beeb, but face it, nobody does radio half as well as they do. (TV? Who cares about TV?) I had Radio 4 on all the time I was driving around — which was a lot, as I called in on some outlying relatives — and boy, how great it is. You can turn Radio 4 on any time of the day or night and find something worth listening too. I wan’t taking notes, but I recall the following:

  • A radio dramatization of R.S. Surtees’ 1853 novel Mr. Sponge’s Sporting Tour. Always wanted to read some Surtees, and probably shall when I get some leisure (ha!) but this is the next best thing. Very nicely done.
  • Desert Island Discs, which has been running continuously since 1942, with the same intro music I remember from my remotest childhood. Look at the selections on the episode I heard. Real music, chosen by someone who thinks a lot.
  • A panel game called The Write Stuff of such intense literariness I think it would put Robert Messenger to the test. Sample question: Where does the apostrophe go in “Howards End”?

Note that Radio 4 isn’t even the heavyweight culture program — that’s Radio 3.

This is the other side of the underclass English thug culture described so graphically, and accurately, by Theodore Dalrymple: millions of thoughtful, well-educated English people listening with pleasure to radio performers doing pastiches, often very funny, of E.M. Forster. As I’ve said before, England’s a funny place.

No, I didn’t stock up on Marmite. You can buy it here. I did get in a stash of Cadbury’s Milk Flake, though.