The Night My Life Changed Direction

Ten years ago this week, my life veered off course to a place I never imagined in my wildest dreams.

Like most people, I watched the Brexit referendum as a political event but deep down I wasn't as worried as I should have been. I had opinions, concerns and hopes, but I did not imagine that the result would eventually reshape my family's life so completely that, ten years later, my children would be living in three different countries and I would be writing these words from Denmark. I guess at the time it was beyond my comprehension that the UK could cause so much damage to itself. Of course, I was living, sheltered in a constituency that voted 78% Remain in Scotland which also voted overwhelmingly to remain, so I didn't fully see the madness unfold in real terms. After the unimaginable happened to Jo Cox, I knew in my heart of hearts that the country I loved would stand up and reject the madness that had caused her murder. I was wrong.

On the TV, Brexit was discussed in terms of sovereignty, trade deals, immigration and economics. Politicians argued over percentages and projections while newspapers treated it like a sporting contest with winners and losers, bribed by the megarich to push to country in a direction that would benefit them rather than the man in the street. What nobody really talked about was the countless ordinary families whose futures would be quietly nudged onto entirely different paths.

Mine was one of them and I know very few of my friends with an EU connection stayed long after we left. Dynamic, clever, entrepreneurial people simply gave up on the UK and left for somewhere less mad in their eyes.

Ten years later, I sometimes find myself wondering what life would have looked like had the vote gone the other way. It is a pointless exercise because history offers no alternative versions for comparison, but it is difficult not to ask the question. Would we still have moved? I doubt it, as we only started looking for jobs once the complexity of Brexit started to affect our lives in real terms - I still remember when I tried to renew our mortgage (14 years into a 25 year term) and my bank asked me to go on the variable rate until they had clear guidelines about whether they were 'still lending to EU citizens!' Would the children's lives have unfolded differently? The three smaller ones didn't remember ever living anywhere other than our house in Newton Mearns and had gone through nursery and primary school with the same kids so their world was very small and very safe. Brexit blew their lives to oblivion and the people they are today were born from the ashes of that explosion. Would our family now be spread across Europe like pieces of a jigsaw that only fit together on holidays? Possibly - Marcel had already accepted a job in London with his English girlfriend. Charlotte became a teacher in Spain. Of course, she might have come home and taught in Scotland like several of her uni friends, but Spanish was always her passion, French was always a little too loaded because of her catastrophic relationship with her biological father so I suspect that Spain might still have won out, but what she lost, he lost and we lost was our base in Glasgow. 

It is hard for us to meet there now as it is difficult to impose a family as big as ourselves on any one friend or relative. Yes, we descend on my ever-suffering brother and his wife for five or six days every year but we are big, noisy, take up too much space, and so staying longer than that anywhere is out. Of course there are airbnbs and similar but like many things in the UK, they are overpriced compared to what you get elsewhere and it is hard to justify spending twice as much for a fortnight in Govan as I might for a fortnight in València or Gdańsk and so we meet away from our home, the place and the people who are dear to us and that is a sad loss to us all. Yes, we could go over in smaller batches, but holidays are the main times when we see each other, so we have to choose between Glasgow and each other and then there is no competition, of course. The people will always win out over the green place, however dear it may be.

We are still a family, of course, but distance changes things. Family life becomes an exercise in calendars, airports and Messenger messages. You miss birthdays, you miss ordinary Sunday dinners, and simply dropping by for coffee. You miss all the small moments that once happened naturally when everyone lived within reach of one another. We sure as hell didn't vote for that.

Nobody walked into a polling station thinking that ten years later some family somewhere would find itself spread across three countries, trying to maintain the same closeness through facetime and occasional visits. The greatest cost for me is not geographical but personal.

When my mother was dying, I was not there in the way I would have wanted to be. Distance has a habit of turning every family crisis into a logistical challenge, and every visit into a calculation involving flights, schedules and responsibilities elsewhere. Even when you make the journey, there is always the knowledge that you cannot simply pop round tomorrow or be there at a moment's notice. I managed to spend several weeks at her side but she died during one of my weeks back here because at the time I couldn't be both a daughter and a mother in the same geographical location.

That is one of the hidden costs of emigration. People talk about opportunities and adventures, but much less about the guilt. The guilt of not being present and the guilt of missing things. The guilt of knowing that some moments cannot be postponed until a convenient or affordable flight becomes available. It can be both frustrating and heartbreaking.

Brexit did not cause my mother's death, obviously, but it played its part in setting in motion a chain of events that left me living hundreds of miles away during the final chapter of her life, and that is a fact I will always carry with me.

Looking back, what surprises me most is not how much my own life changed, but how much Britain changed.

The Scotland I left in 2019 already had its problems, but it was still recognisably the country in which I had grown up. The Scotland I now see in the news often feels like somewhere else entirely. I never imagined I would see racist marches in Scottish cities, Reform MSPs, or reports of people being attacked in Edinburgh because they happened to be the wrong colour, nationality or religion. I never imagined that so many people would be hoodwinked into believing that immigrants were responsible for all problems that had been building for decades on the back of austerity, underfunding and media bias.

From a distance, Britain often feels trapped in a cycle of self-deception. Every election arrives with promises that taxes can be lower, services can be better, waiting lists can disappear, growth can return and living standards can improve, all without anyone having to make difficult choices or confront uncomfortable realities. Yet the arithmetic never changes. A country cannot spend years underinvesting in public services, infrastructure and growth and then expect everything to be fixed through slogans. Nor can it endlessly blame migrants for problems that are fundamentally rooted in economic stagnation, housing shortages, Brexit shrinkage and a political culture that has spent years promising easy answers to difficult questions.

Watching from abroad, what strikes me most is how unstable British politics has become. Since the Brexit referendum, Britain has burned through prime ministers at a remarkable rate, each one presented as the person who will finally restore competence, stability or growth, only to be discarded when reality inevitably proves more complicated. I can't see how this pattern is going to be broken until the UK does some realistic soul searching.

The deeper problem, it seems to me, is structural. Britain increasingly behaves like a five-party political system while continuing to operate an electoral model designed for a two-party age. Under first-past-the-post, governments can secure enormous power with the support of only a minority of voters - as little as 20-25% can grab power, so millions of votes effectively disappear. The result is a political system that swings wildly between competing visions of the country's future without ever building a durable consensus. Here in Denmark we have many parties and PR so all governments are coalitions which keeps the madness at bay. The equivalent of Reform can only ever gain a minor role in a government with the help of right and centre parties so their madness is diluted. And better still, at the moment our government is more or less the equivalent of what in the UK would be a coalition of Labour, LibDem, plus two Green leaning parties, which is much less stressful for a family like mine.

Proportional representation is hardly a miracle cure, but it might at least force politicians to work with one another and acknowledge that no single party possesses all the answers. At present, Britain often feels less like a mature democracy solving long-term problems and more like a permanent election campaign in which every issue is reduced to a headline and every setback requires someone else to blame.

The media has hardly helped. Too much of modern political coverage rewards outrage over understanding and conflict over honesty. Complex problems are squeezed into simplistic narratives, while politicians learn that appearing decisive is often more valuable than being truthful. The UK news seems to offer anger and outrage mixed with a bit a victim porn, whereas our evening news discusses the problems the country faces and the ways to fix them. We don't just show people outraged their taxes might go up, we show the tanks gathering along the Lithuania-Belarus border towards Kaliningrad and explain why we need more tax money directed at defence. 

Perhaps that is why I increasingly feel like an observer looking in through a window. The country I grew up in still exists in many ways, and there are still people, places and values that I love deeply, but I no longer entirely recognise the national conversation. It often feels angrier, more polarised and less capable of honest self-reflection than the Britain I remember. None of this means I have discovered a perfect alternative. Denmark is not paradise, and living abroad carries its own challenges, frustrations and loneliness. There are still days when I miss Scotland intensely and wonder how life might have unfolded had history taken a different turn. 

Yet there is also a sense of relief in living somewhere that feels calmer, more functional and less obsessed with turning every problem into a culture war. Denmark has many flaws, but most days it feels as though people are at least trying to solve problems rather than simply arguing about who should be blamed for them.

Just what I need at my age...

So, I went out to dinner with friends at the end of January and the weirdest thing happened to me. There we were, happily eating a Thai chicken dish and chatting away, when suddenly I could feel something in my right eye. Figuring it was an eyelash, I tried to blink it out, failed spectacularly, and then just sat there as my eye slowly puffed up until I couldn’t barely open it at all.

At this point I started to suspect this might be less of a rogue eyelash and more of a medical drama which was confusing, because I am not allergic to anything and never have been. I mentally reviewed what I’d eaten - some nuts, some crisps, rice, Thai spiced chicken, water because I was driving. There was nothing unusual, nothing suspicious, as far as I could see.

So then I moved on to evaluate everything else. I was wearing minimal make-up, but it was make-up I had worn before. Same with the face cream, just good old Neutrogena, hardly a reckless choice. Nothing was jumping out at me as the culprit, which felt rude given the circumstances.

I drove home while I could still technically see and took one of Thomas’s prescription antihistamines. The next morning I woke up unable to open either eye, which really felt like an escalation. Thomas took me to the out-of-hours, where they confirmed it definitely looked like a bad allergic reaction, which was helpful in the sense that it gave it a name, but less helpful in the sense that I still had no idea to what.

I was feeling very sorry for myself. I don’t exactly have a surplus of social opportunities here, so turning into Quasimodo on a rare night out didn’t feel like a strong long-term strategy for friendship.

The aftermath was dramatic. I was utterly exhausted, like I had run a marathon or given birth, neither of which I had done, and I was completely useless for two days.

Fast forward a week and I’m brushing my hair, minding my own business, when my lip starts to tingle. I look in the mirror and, sure enough, my mouth is swelling. When did I get the free lip fillers?! This time I grabbed an antihistamine immediately like a seasoned professional. The swelling went down and the exhaustion only lasted a few hours, which was a relief. I put it down to a really crazy coincidence.

Another week later, I’m sitting in my armchair, no make-up, no face cream, not even having eaten yet, just watching the evening news, when my other eye suddenly decides to close for business. Despite the antihistamine, I’m back in bed for two days recovering, still completely at a loss.

So, what do we all do in these situations now? Obviously, I described all three episodes to AI, listing everything I had eaten and everything that had been near my skin and asked what it thought, because nothing says calm, rational thinking like consulting a robot at this point.

Its first suggestion, without me even mentioning it, was that I might have developed a severe NSAID allergy which was interesting, because I hadn’t said anything about taking any. Then I thought back and realised that on all three occasions, I had taken ibuprofen about four hours before the swelling began. I've always been fairly prone to headaches.

Thomas suggested I simply take a couple more just to double check, which I didn't particularly fancy given each occasion had left me in bed exhausted for 48 hours. ChatGPT, for once the voice of reason, suggested that could end in anaphylaxis if it was escalating, so I decided to go with tests at the GP instead.

And yes, it turns out I have indeed developed an allergy to painkillers. At exactly the point in life when you start needing them more often. Timing really is everything, isn’t it?

Vote day

Today is election day in Denmark.

It is the third general election since I moved here, and like the others, I cannot vote. Neither can my son, who moved here at 13 and is now 20. In many ways, that has always been the quieter injustice. No one I know is more Danish than he is. He speaks the language like a native, has a general school leaving certificate from here and an STX (grammar high school) leaving certificate too. He understands the culture instinctively, and has grown into adulthood here. I know too that if we were to move away again, he alone would stay. There is nowhere else he would rather be, than here in the country of the only father he has ever known, who has brought him up since before his first birthday. He is, in every way that matters, more Danish than his sisters, who moved here at 11 and 9, but because of their genetics own a Danish passport. And yet, he has no vote and will potentially be close to 30 before he actually can apply for citizenship given only years of continuous full-time work counts towards it, not studies or part-time work. 

It seems strange to me that immigrant kids, including ones born here have to choose when they leave high school around 20 whether to further their studies or take more menial jobs to further their citizenship journey and secure their precarious statuses. How can it possibly better for Denmark if the cleverest kids are forced to choose to work in bars and shops rather than study to be doctors and dentists?

But this election feels different to me, though, because of Anna.

Anna turned 18 in December, and today she can participate fully in the democracy of the country that shaped her teenage years. I am proud of her. Of course I am. But I am also left with a strange and uncomfortable awareness of my own position.

I carried her for nine months. I gave birth to her. I fed her, raised her, and helped her become who she is. I share half her DNA, half her history, half her story. And yet, I have no say in the country that governs her life. 

There is something deeply dissonant about being considered good enough to give birth to and raise future citizens, but not good enough to be one. Trusted to nurture, to contribute, to build a family and a life here, but not trusted with a voice.

It is hard not to feel that line, even in the most ordinary moments. Standing in an airport, for example, and having to queue separately from my own children because they carry Danish passports and I do not. It is a small, practical thing. At their ages, it is manageable. But it is also quietly absurd, this idea that a family I quite literally created can be split by a passport control queue as I am considered somehow less than them.

And it is not just one nationality in our case. I have five children. Three carry French passports, two carry Danish ones, and I remain only a UK citizen. It is such a modern fragmentation of identity. It feels oddly out of step with how things once worked. I remember my former (German) mother-in-law telling me that when she married my former (French) father-in-law around 1950, she was simply issued French nationality. She became what her family was. She shared a nationality with her children as a matter of course. That kind of continuity feels almost unimaginable now.

Instead, I find myself in a position where, despite having given birth to two Danish children and built a life here, it is highly unlikely that I will ever meet the requirements to become Danish myself. I passed the language requirement for citizenship six years ago. That part, at least, I managed. But the rules also require 3.5 years of full-time employment, and at 58, finding someone willing to employ a foreigner full time is, realistically, not something I can count on.

So I remain outside. Not outside the life, because my life is here. Not outside the investment, because many of the people I care about are rooted here. But outside the formal recognition of belonging.

Today, I will watch my daughter step into a right that I do not have, and that her brother, who feels even more deeply of this place, is also denied. I will feel proud. And I will feel the weight of that separation.

And I will keep wondering what it really means to belong in a country that some of my children can call theirs, but I cannot. 

Absurd

 

I got this in the post three days ago and I must admit I am still absolutely gobsmacked at the absurdity of it.

I have been driving for forty years without a single speeding ticket or accident. Forty years. I have navigated motorways, icy Highland backroads, chaotic French roundabouts and the entire length of Denmark more times than I can count. I have survived Spanish drivers who love to go fast, German drivers on the limitless Autobahn, blizzards in Switzerland, cliffs in Greece, you name it... I have even survived Italian drivers year after year on our trips to the Tuscan house - when they shake their fists at you for stopping at a red light because they can see nothing is coming! I had really hoped that would earn me some sort of honorary medal. Instead I have been rewarded with… this.

A speeding ticket.

For driving at 51 km/h in a 50 km/h zone.

I actually read the letter three times, mainly because my Italian is a little rusty these days but also because I simply could not believe that anyone, let alone a real paid adult working for the Florentine police, would bother writing to another adult about one single solitary kilometre. I do not believe I have ever driven a car, hired or otherwise, with a speedometer capable of displaying anything that precise. Especially as the hire car I was in had one of those old-fashioned dial speedometers where the needle vibrates merrily between numbers as if to say, “Look, roughly here-ish, ok? Be grateful.”

I mean honestly, even Ryanair let me away with 10.3kg for my 10kg check-in bag to Madrid two weeks ago. And Ryanair is a company that charges you £60 if you even think about printing your boarding pass these days.

Yet the Florentine police went to the trouble of tracking me down through the hire company, sending a registered letter across Europe, and presumably spending hours of manpower all to fine me €68 for drifting one kilometre per hour over the limit. The postage alone on the registered letter that seemed to have been sent from the hire company head quarters in Amsterdam rather than the local branch I had used in Pisa must have wiped out more than half their profit. Add in the admin time and the ink used to print the letter, and I suspect both of us have ended up financially worse off.

But wait, it gets better.

I had four days to pay it before the fine jumped to nearly €200. Nothing says “Welcome to our beautiful historic region” quite like a threat.

I am not someone who objects to reasonable speeding fines. If I had been flying along at 70 in a 50 zone, I would hold up my hands and accept it. But 51? One measly kilometre? Seriously?

I feel like this is the kind of fine they only get away with sending to hire cars and foreign number plates because the Italians I know would not even consider this reasonable.

Anyway, I have paid it. Mainly because I hire cars in Tuscany too often to be black-listed, but also because arguing over 1 km/h felt like the sort of thing that could tip me into a full midlife crisis. In the meantime Marcel and Charlotte who hired cars in the same region the week after me are hovering over their letterboxes with fear in their hearts.

Next time I drive in Italy, though, I will know to keep a very close eye on the speedometer and piss off absolutely all the locals by driving everywhere at 45km/h.

Old and redundant

For the first time since 1997, I have reached October 31 without buying a pumpkin or a neep. It feels odd. For almost three decades, the rhythm of late October has been the same: pumpkins appearing in the shops, little faces planning designs, and the smell of candle wax and slightly singed squash in the dining room. It is such a small tradition, but it has been part of the fabric of family life for so long that letting it go feels like closing a chapter.

In the early years, I was the one who did everything. I bought the pumpkin, chose the design, and did the carving while small people watched in awe and occasionally tried to poke out an eye or add an extra tooth. Later, in the 2010s, the job shifted hands. Charlotte gathered her minions around her to pick the perfect pumpkin and sketch out faces that grew increasingly elaborate every year. Thomas, ever the traditionalist, sat beside her with his turnip and a range of tools, determined to keep the old ways alive and prove he was the most Scottish of us all.

The last few years have been quieter. The two youngest still asked for pumpkins, but without the same energy. They were busy with friends, homework, or phones, and the carving became a quick afterthought rather than an event. And now, suddenly, there is no one left waiting for me to bring one home. Anna is buried under assignments, Amaia is off to a Halloween party that apparently involves cocktails rather than pumpkins, Léon is living half an hour away in the city, Charlotte's living in Madrid, and Marcel is currently living in Mexico City.

I stood in the kitchen and realised that there was no reason to go out and buy one. For a moment, that small fact hit me harder than expected. This is what it feels like when family traditions quietly slip away, not with drama but with a slow fading. You notice it in these tiny absences - the empty seat at the table, the quiet house at the weekend, the October without a pumpkin.

It is not sadness exactly, more a soft ache mixed with pride. This is how it is meant to go. The whole point of parenting is to raise people who can build their own lives, who are too busy doing things that matter to them to need you for every small ritual. It is what we hope for, even as we secretly wish they still needed us just a little bit.

So, resigned to my pumpkin-free fate and feeling slightly adrift, I grabbed the shopping list to go to Netto. At least the fridge would get stocked, even if the windowsill to the courtyard stayed bare. But as I reached for my car keys, I spotted an item on the list added by Thomas.

'1 pumpkin'

And that was it. The universe’s small way of reminding me that parenting does not really stop; it just changes shape.

It made me laugh, standing there in my jacket with the shopping list in my hand. Maybe I no longer need to buy pumpkins for the kids, but apparently, I still have one overgrown child who is not ready to give up the tradition. Thomas may have a grey beard and a mortgage, but he still wants his pumpkin. I suppose that’s comforting in a way, at least one of them still believes in Halloween magic, even if he needs reading glasses to carve it.

Watching your children grow up is strange because it happens so gradually that you rarely see it in real time. You go from tying shoelaces to teaching them to drive in what feels like a handful of summers. They slip away gently, one small independence at a time, until one day you look up and they are fully grown. You feel proud and amazed, but also a little redundant, as though you have been quietly laid off from the best job you ever had.

Every so often they still need something. A recipe. A bit of advice. Or just a chat. That is when you realise the job description has not vanished at all, it has simply been updated. You are no longer the project manager of daily life, but the trusted consultant, the person they call when comfort or common sense is required. It is a promotion of sorts, though the salary remains the same.

So, I guess I will go to Netto and thereafter to the pumpkin farm to pick out a good, solid pumpkin for my husband.