Four men, no broom

Imagine if you will, especially British chums, if all the political party leaders in Britain had to debate on TV in one of the other European languages because Britain is part of Europe. My analogy doesn't quite work because there are so many different languages, so they would have to agree on one, 'first choose your weapons.' Wouldn't that be awesome though? Realistically, it wouldn't be too hard since they have been to school in Britain, so in all probability they would have all have studied French.

The only British premier I remember ever hearing speak French was Edward Heath, thereafter known as 'épicier Heath'. Can't remember why the grocer bit, something to do with us being a nation of shopkeepers. Thinking back, that was amazing, what is more amazing is that we have been part of the European Union since 1973, then it was called the EEC, and yet I can only remember Edward Heath ever publicly using any language other than English.
Last night on TV, all four party leaders had a debate in French. I guess Canadians probably take that as a given. I thought it was utterly gobsmacking. They all spoke fluently in French. I honestly can't find the words to express how astonishing I find it. On the world stage, Canada's leader can fluently speak both of the official languages of the country and this was demonstrated by the potential leaders having a debate. Wow.
Possibly a cynic might argue - not the group of Greek philosophers, just the sneery people - that I find this so amazing because I don't come across that many ordinary Canadians who speak fluent French. Or do I? Maybe I just don't ever attempt to engage in French conversation, although in my defence the only place I see a lot of signs in both languages is at the airport.

Britain and Ireland joined the EEC in the same year as Denmark. In the summer of 1971, our parents took Amanda and me to visit friends in Denmark and I think I look on that trip, more than even school exchanges with France, as the beginning of my European awareness. The Danes were debating their entry to the EEC at that time.
Our parents' friends lived in Copenhagen - how arrogant that we rename other people's cities for them - although my parents knew them from Nigeria. There were things about our lives that changed with that trip, for one thing, when we left the house that summer, closed the door and got into our family Renault, Amanda and I would never again have to sleep under sheets and blankets.
Our mother was the trier out of ideas, the buyer of gadgets and new things. She was thrilled that my father was prepared in Asta and Vagn's house to eat the types of cheese that you could only buy in Delicatessens then, and what is more to eat them with sliced cold meats and pumpernickel for breakfast. We had yoghurt with fruit in, not yet popular in Britain and Danish pastries, known as Vienna bread to the Danes.

The evening meal, as is often the case in mainland Europe, seemed to last forever, although even my mother a committed smoker, was nonplussed at the practice of smoking at the table between courses. It was frowned upon, we were told, to season your food as this would imply that the food was not already seasoned to perfection.

We had to shower. Our Danish hosts did not find the British habit of 'soaking in our own dirt' a very nice one. To Amanda and I, showers were a torture associated with school. Not only that, but one of the showers was in the open in the basement, Danes appeared to have no concept of embarrassment associated with nakedness.

We were taken to see the castle of Kronborg at Elsinore, this was much talked about and planned by all the adults. It was an interesting castle for sure, but Hamlet was a play kept for serious students, those who studied English to A-level - like, eventually, my sister. At school we had only done the plays suitable for young ladies, the one about the Jewish money lender who wanted to take a pound of flesh, the one about the faery folk who all had sex with the wrong people and the one about the cross dressing twins. Or whatever.

I had a penfriend, Rosa F Nielsen and we went to visit her and her family out in the country. Farmers they were. Rosa's family spoke no English, Amanda and I had picked up about half a dozen phrases in Danish, of which one was 'Nej til EF.' (No to the common market) Nice one. Farmers. The common agricultural policy, a continual, an ongoing thorn in the side of Britain was very favourable to the farming community. But they were nice folks and Rosa, who did speak English, explained this all to us.

We went with our friends to their summer house, we drank schnapps, we sailed to Sweden and wiggled our toes in the silver sand. There is a picture of all of us children at the beach Amanda and me, Thorsten, Henrik and Carsten sitting on a log.
We had so much fun, Denmark was new to us, exciting, clean, light, the friends, the best of people. In Copenhagen we bought candles and went to see the little mermaid sitting on a stone in the sea. We saw cinemas that showed films that weren't even allowed in Britain.

When we returned home we brought duvets and covers, what the English then called 'continental quilts'. We brought back a huge havarti in the car, and by the time we got to England it smelt like poo.
But most of all we brought back ideas and memories and maybe a nascent sense of what it means to be European.