Today I am six years old, waiting at the airport in Los Angeles, for the plane 'home' to England. I am scared and anxious of what lies ahead. Everyone thinks I am happy with this situation, but I am not. I am so cross. I want to shout and scream against this injustice, but the manners instilled in me from my strict upbringing me won't let me. It will take more than 10 hours to fly to my new country. Such a long time and so far away.

England might be the nation of my birth, but it isn't my homeland. Seven years ago, my father secured a job in California. Like a pioneer he set off ahead of us and found a house. At the time my mum was pregnant with me and not permitted to fly, but when I was four months old and well enough to travel, I went to live in America.

So now, I have had to say goodbye to every friend I have ever known. My mom has told me I will soon meet new children. It feels like she is saying people are replaceable and can be discarded like garbage. My playmates are special and important to me and now I am having to leave them behind, like everything else. I don't want to make new friendships; I want to keep my old ones.

I am going to miss the ocean and I doubt that our house in England would have a pool. From what I understand, the climate will see to that. I love that the sun shines most days. When it does rain it can be biblical, but it never lasts long. Our winter coats are reserved for the mountains at Christmas. The coldest days in Los Angeles only call for a sweater or a light jacket. So far, I have grown up believing that the sun will shine tomorrow.

I have no idea what to expect. It is different for Mum; she is coming home. She will reunite with her old friends. She is coming back to her roots. England isn't my country. I have lived my whole life in California. I have only ever known America. I feel American, I sound American, I even look American with my white-blond hair, freckles and tanned skin. I might be going back to my birthplace, but in my mind, I am leaving my home and everything I have known for the last six and a half years of my life.

Tonight, we would sleep at my grandparents 'house in Kent. But my grandparents are strangers to me. I only know them from the photographs I have seen. I have met them just twice in my young life.

We came to England once during our time in California, for just two weeks. I only know this because I have seen the photos. I have no memory of it. In the images I'm so little that I'm hardly even walking; I am carried by my grandfather in many of them.

My grandparents came to visit us, in California, this time I was about three or four, and I do have memories of that trip. They were barely even 60 then, but they seemed so old. It was in the clothes they wore, their health and in their outlook: they had both lived through two world wars. They were overwhelmed by the country, the climate, the wealth and the lifestyle.

They were both cautious of the water. Neither grandparent knew how to swim. My grandfather was one of thousands of soldiers stranded at Dunkirk. Whilst being evacuated, the boat he was on was torpedoed. He ended up in the sea and had to be rescued from the depths. He referred to it only once, but he never forgot the experience and was scared of the water. When they arrived at our house, they didn't even own a swimsuit; my mom took them to the store to buy one. In our pool he found the confidence to get in the water.

It took more than ten hours to fly, and when the plane landed, we were at Prestwick airport near Glasgow, and not Gatwick as planned. We were diverted because of the bad weather, it was murky, raw, misty and wet with rain. We then got on a bus for ten hours, to travel south to Kent. Not a good start to my English life. I arrived at my grandparents' house, weary, numb with cold, grumpy and completely disorientated.

It was so different to the single storey, large, bright spacious property that I had lived in for all of my memory. My mother had always embraced the differences between her Californian home and garden and her little English house in Kent. Now I was here, seeing it with my own eyes. It was so different. Not in a good way either.

The house was tiny, one in a terrace row of cottages. With no space around the buildings, they were all linked together like conjoined twins. Their home was one of the few with a passage between the neighbours, but still joined by a room above the alley. It was so small that we wouldn't be sleeping together as a family. This was Nanny Welfare's house and the other grandparents lived one road away. Mum and Dad would be sleeping there, while we three children would stay here.

It was early September, and it was dark, dank and chilly inside. We sat in a small room waiting for bedtime. We came in the back door, through a small kitchen and into this room, with a fireplace (unlit), a dining table, a small sofa and a television. I could see no bedrooms; I could see no stairs.

At last, it seemed we could go to bed, we had been awake since 9 o'clock yesterday morning, it was now 8 o'clock the next night. Nanny got out of her chair and crossed to a cupboard door. As it squeaked open, it revealed a tiny, twisted staircase, narrow and tight. We were led upstairs and given a tour. At the front, the room over the passageway, was Nanny's bedroom. We were shown into the middle room, a large space with a double bed, which my sister and I would share, and a single bed in the corner for my brother. At the back, which could only be accessed through our room, was the small single room my Grandad slept in, alone. It was all very strange. Stranger still, although the cottage owned an indoor bathroom, it could only be reached through Nanny's bedroom, so we would share a 'potty'. A small, beautifully hand-painted, ceramic bowl for us to wee in, if we needed the toilet overnight. Better known as a chamber-pot, the concept dated back to medieval times. The following day the joy of the outside privy would be revealed.

So, during the daylight hours we were expected to use the outside toilet. It included a 100-yard dash down the garden path to the small closet at the back of the building. This held a terror of its own, occupied by spiders and dust, it was cold and stark. The toilet was a Victorian monstrosity. The water cistern towered overhead like a large monster, waiting to pounce from behind as you sat on the Siberian ceramic seat. The flush involved pulling a long metal chain that dangled from the monster's mouth. I would soon discover the whole process could become even more frightening after the sun had gone down. It soon became a personal contest to see how fast I could complete my business.

Late the next morning, I finally awoke after our first night here. I had slept the sleep of the dead, exhausted by the journey into this new life. I drew back the curtains with no idea of what lay beyond the heavy chintz fabric. It looked down on a long, narrow, tiny back yard. This was overlooked by the houses on the street behind. It was mostly lawn, with a central footpath running down to Grandad's shed. The whole garden seemed brown and drab. There were borders of flowers on each edge, backed by a dark wooden fence. This time of the year there were very few blooms left, and they were mostly chocolate-brown chrysanthemums. I didn't know you could even get brown flowers!

No, no swimming pool here. And it was still pouring. I soon learnt the English have over 100 words for rain, to vary the description of the daily weather.

I turned my back on the depressing sight. What should I wear today? We had only the suitcases we traveled with; the bulk of our belongings would be shipped and arrive in six weeks' time. My Californian clothes were completely unsuitable for this English weather. I was still cold.

The plan for today was to go uniform shopping. We would all start school on Monday, so no time to waste. In America, students wear their own everyday clothes; schools don't have a uniform. Even at an early age I recognised the children that wore the best clothes and came in a different outfit every day. Class photograph day could produce some very exotic and elaborate outfits. The uniforms of the English establishment would be an equaliser. This was going to be a whole new experience.

We walked into 'Noakes of Tunbridge Wells', as it proudly proclaimed on the shop front. This was so different from choosing new summer dresses at Sears. They were both department stores, but a world apart. Sears is a vast, cavernous, bright and light single floor of wondrous delights. Noakes crossed several Victorian shopfronts, narrow and tall, with a myriad of floors, reached by a labyrinth of stairs. Childrenswear was at the topmost corner, hidden like it didn't belong. Here all the gentlemen servers were in stiff suits. I couldn't understand their accents. Luckily my mum was here to translate. She told them which schools we were going to. Wait we are not even going to the same one! They began opening glass fronted drawers from vast oak cabinets which lined the walls, each labelled with a language only they understood. A lady shop-assistant appeared and accompanied my mother and I to a small box behind a curtain, to try on various different styles of costume. The uniforms were dull and grey, itchy and scratchy, new and stiff. Horrible! The cardigan of my uniform was green. I would grow to hate green. Then the lady bought out the grey wool tights. This day was getting worse.

Our selection was parcelled up and sent to the cashier's office on the ground floor, where we could collect them later and pay.

Next, school shoes; off to a different department on the ground floor. A variety of brightly coloured shoes were on display. But I was told I could only have brown or black shoes and they must be sturdy. I didn't even know what sturdy meant. I came out with the ugliest, meanest shoes I had ever owned. They would become symbolic for my new schooldays: hard, awkward and sometimes physically painful. I wasn't eager to start this new school. For the first time I was going to be alone.

My education had begun in the USA. I started Kindergarten at the age of five. My brother and sister were already at school ahead of me, and I was eager and ready to join. I loved books and reading from an early age. I grew up amongst the pages of Dr. Seuss.

I have only cheerful memories of my American schooldays, sadly the same cannot be said of my English education. I didn't know that here in Britain I would stand out as different. The children at my school would use my diversity against me. They would torment me for years in dark corners of the playground.

Monday arrived, and as I drew the now hated chintz curtains, it was still precipitating (one of those 100 English words). I closed my eyes and sighed. I pulled on the coarse, rigid, brand-new uniform, it all felt wrong. It didn't look like me. I didn't feel like me.

"Mummy, my tummy hurts," I cried out. But mummy wasn't here, she was in a house a street away.

"Come on Julie, I don't have time for this," my Nanny bristled into the room. "Martyn and Susan are already dressed and having breakfast. You can't be late on your first day. The other children started Thursday, you're already two days behind."

"I'm not hungry. I don't feel well. Where's Mummy?"

"You have to eat something; I've made you porridge. It's just nerves, get on with it. Mummy will be here soon to take you; Geoff is taking Martyn and Susan. Now downstairs with you."

I pulled up the itchy grey wool tights, fastened the buckles on those hateful ugly brown shoes and trudged down the tight narrow stairs.

I tried to swallow the glutinous porridge, but I had never tried it before and I'm not sure today was the best day to sample it for the first time. My throat was too constricted to swallow it down. Tears burned in my eyes. My mom walked into the room, and the tears were released from the flood gates that had been holding them back.

By the time she helped me stop crying, I was late. I had missed the start of school. As she buttoned up my new raincoat, she also wrapped a woolly scarf around my neck.

"Ready?"

"No. I haven't got my lunch pail."

"You will be having school dinners. Besides, your lunch pail is back in California."

"Can't I come home for lunch, if school is so close?"

"If you stay at school, it will help you make new friends more quickly. Julie, this is for the best."

It didn't feel like it was for the best. This was just one more thing that would be different, and that I would have to accept. In America I had always taken sandwiches, but now that wouldn't happen here. I didn't know it yet, but school dinners would prove to be yet another battle ground.

I was taken through the austere iron gates, to a dark stone building with high tiny glass paned windows. I was led by my mother to the Head-mistress's office. I didn't recognise the importance of the word; in the States the head of a school is called a Principal. The lady behind the desk chatted away to my mother. It turned out my mum was once a pupil here, over 25 years ago. Yet again I didn't understand the accent or the words she used. Everything seemed so different. Those weak tears were prickling again. I rapidly blinked them away. Mrs. Overy turned to me.

"Julie, would you like to go and meet your new classmates?" I shook my head, I wanted to stay in here, safe and comfortable with my mum.

"Would it help if you could meet one new classmate first? I couldn't form the words, so I nodded my head. I remembered back to the first day at my American school and how I met my first schoolmate. At the induction, I had been sitting in a very large auditorium with my mum, and feeling very small with very big butterflies in my tummy. My confidence had left me, and I wasn't at all sure I was ready to start this new journey. The girl in front of me was fidgeting in her theatre chair and got her fingers caught in the mechanism. There was a very loud scream and a lot of tears. Her mother tried to console her. I offered her a nervous smile and she smiled back. I had made my first friend. If I could do that again, this might be alright.

Mrs. Overy left the office, there were a lot of hushed voices and whispering, and then she returned. Within two or three minutes a knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," she called to the figure I could see through the glass door. A dark-haired girl, in very similar clothing to me, strode through the door. She seemed nearly as tall as me. She looked directly at me and smiled.

"Hello Julie, my name's Iona, I am going to help you settle into White Hill Primary." She oozed the confidence which I had left four days ago on the plane. I studied her for a moment. We could be friends.

"Hello Iona." I tried to copy the sound she made; I had never heard her name before. I would later find out her parents were Welsh. I didn't yet understand the difference between British, English, Welsh and Scottish.

"Iona is going to be your special companion for the next few weeks and look after you while you adjust to an English school. I understand things must be very strange and new for you, but we are here to help." I looked up at Mrs. Overy, I looked at mom and lastly, I looked at Iona. Iona held out her hand.

"Shall we go Julie?" I stood nervously, took her warm hand in my cold one, again I could only nod.

She led me through the maze of corridors to a door that looked like all the others. I found myself in a class of about 20 pupils. It seemed deathly quiet in the small, old-fashioned schoolroom. It bore pale green walls with white tiles reaching halfway up the battlements, it looked more like a bathroom than a schoolroom. The windows were like tiny portholes right at the top, just under the roof. At ten o'clock in the morning all the lights were on. It didn't have the individual desks like my other classroom. Instead, there were rectangular tables, each with eight children sitting on the tiniest chairs I have ever seen. The walls were covered with educational posters about verbs, adjectives, times tables and historical dates. There was no flag in the corner of the room. In America every day would start by standing and declaring the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag. We didn't have a choice; it was a compulsory part of the daily routine. Is there no English equivalent?

"Boys and girls, please put down your pens." The lady at the front of the room, who looked to be at least 100 years old, had grey twisted curls, screwed tight to her head, and the palest skin I'd ever seen. She paused while she waited for the students to follow her instruction.

"Everyone this is Julie. Julie is coming to join our class; she has travelled a long way to be here today. Julie is American. Who knows where America is?" A little red haired, freckled boy put his hand up.

"Yes Richard."

"Is it close to New York?" He asked hesitantly. The pupils laughed.

"Children," the unfamiliar lady admonished. Silence quickly returned.

"Julie, could you please tell us where it is?"

"It's the other side of the ocean, Ma'am. I got on a plane to come here. Richard is close, New York is in America, but it's on the other coast from where I live." Iona stood holding my hand and it gave me the confidence to find my voice. Richard smiled at me. I might just have made another new friend. A girl at the back of the room, put her hand up to speak.

"Yes Sally." The teacher gave her permission to talk.

"Mrs. Blunt, why does she sound funny?" Again, the children erupted en-masse into giggles, laughing at me. Iona squeezed my hand.

"Sally, SHE is Julie, and she doesn't sound funny, she has an American accent."

"Sounds funny to me," Sally muttered under her breath.

"Sally, will you please go and get me the globe." Sally stomped across the class to get the globe and bashed it down on Mrs. Blunt's desk. Sally glared across at me. I didn't know it yet, but I had just made my first enemy. She returned to her table and noisily scraped her chair as she plopped down.

"Julie, would you please show the children where America is and where you used to live?" Used to live, used to live. How those words resonated with me. I don't live there anymore, now I lived here. This would be my school, forever. Those pesky tears started to prick again. I swallowed hard. Don't be a cry-baby, don't give them any more ammunition. I cleared my throat, smiled at Iona, and let go of her hand. She smiled back. I crossed the short distance to the large oak desk dominating the small classroom. I turned the globe and located my old country.

"This is the United States of America Ma'am, it is made up of 50 States. I live in California, which is on the coast." I pointed to a large state located on the west side of the land mass.

"Do you know where England is, Julie?" I turned the globe around and pointed to the small island which would now be home.

"Do you know where on the map you are now?" I shook my head. Mrs. Blunt pointed to an area at the bottom right-hand corner of the island, not too far from the coast.

"Do you know the name of the capital of Great Britain?" The Great Britain bit confused me, I knew the island as England, but I took a guess.

"London?" I answered hesitantly.

"Well done, Julie!" As she said that, a loud bell rang throughout the building.

"Right boys and girls, playtime, everyone outside. Iona, will you take Julie out with you please?"

Iona led me through the archaic corridors to the tiny walled playground. The rain had finally stopped, but the air still felt damp and misty. I felt so cold, and we weren't allowed to put coats on at recess. Iona held my hand, and she took me to sit on a low wall.

"Have you been here long?" She asked. I shook my head.

"Four nights," I answered.

"Where is your house?"

"Not far, we walked here. A few blocks away."

"What's a block?" She asked. I didn't know how to answer her question.

"I guess you would call it a street, but it's more than that. U.S. cities are built on a grid system, but your streets here are very wiggly." She laughed.

"Is America very different?"

"So different. The food, the television, the cars, the stores, the houses and as for the weather! I've never seen so much rain. We landed in a storm, arrived at my Nanny's in the wet, and I think its rained ever since. I'm so cold. The sun always shines in California, and it's warm, even in September."

It was like a plug had been pulled, the words came tumbling out of me. I hadn't said that many words in the four days I had been in this strange country. I knew I was complaining but I was so sad and fed up and it felt like here, with Iona, I could finally be honest.

So, as we sat there, assessing each other, in a cold British playground, we both recognised that we were two little girls, who could become friends. The difference in our words, language, culture and history, didn't really matter. Friendship can cross divides. The touch of Iona's warm and reassuring hand in mine was helping. Now someone was listening to me, and I could share my feelings. I smiled at Iona, and she squeezed my hand.

"It's going to get better," she assured me. "We will be friends, I'll help you."

"Thank you," I whispered.

Maybe this strange country could become my home, one friend at a time.






Today I am six years old, waiting at the airport in Los Angeles, for the plane 'home' to England. I am scared and anxious of what lies ahead. Everyone thinks I am happy with this situation, but I am not. I am so cross. I want to shout and scream against this injustice, but the manners instilled in me from my strict upbringing me won't let me. It will take more than 10 hours to fly to my new country. Such a long time and so far away.

England might be the nation of my birth, but it isn't my homeland. Seven years ago, my father secured a job in California. Like a pioneer he set off ahead of us and found a house. At the time my mum was pregnant with me and not permitted to fly, but when I was four months old and well enough to travel, I went to live in America.

So now, I have had to say goodbye to every friend I have ever known. My mom has told me I will soon meet new children. It feels like she is saying people are replaceable and can be discarded like garbage. My playmates are special and important to me and now I am having to leave them behind, like everything else. I don't want to make new friendships; I want to keep my old ones.

I am going to miss the ocean and I doubt that our house in England would have a pool. From what I und