A stranger in your own land

Thinking back to Christmas, and other occasions when I've visited the UK in the recent past, it's quite odd to feel like a stranger in the country where you grew up. The country whose passport you carry and which you are seen to represent. The country of your blood, in fact.

People you meet there have the illusion that because you share a common heritage, you must also keep up-to-date with the latest tittle-tattle.

Such encounters are usually disturbingly Pinteresque. The conversation here is fictional but typical (and any similarity to real persons is entirely coincidental):

(Them): "Did you watch Gordon Ramsay last week, then?"
(Me): "Who's that?"
"That chef chap on telly. He gets real wound up about stuff. Almost did his nut."
"No, I don't know him."
"He's Scottish. Does this cooking programme."
"No, I've never seen him."
"On ITV."
"No, we don't get much of that in Finland."
"Oh." (Pause.) "You must watch. It's great."