Earlier this month, smelling like a giant armpit after a hot yoga class, I arrived home to find my husband and a former girlfriend – a woman I’d heard a lot about but never met before – chatting in my kitchen. Do I run upstairs to shower? Do I politely shake her hand? What’s the etiquette?
For some reason, I went in for a hug. It wasn’t premeditated – there was no time for that – but a kneejerk response, like my brain had been short-circuited by my body. “Hi!” I said gaily. “I’m just going to hug you,” I added, leaning in before the poor woman had the chance to object or recoil. “Sorry about the smell,” I added as my chin rested momentarily on her left shoulder. “Yoga.”
As first impressions go, it wasn’t a strong one – and not just because of the stench. Had I never heard of personal space? I’m Scottish. I hail from a long line of dour, unexpressive women who only show emotion when they’re drunk. Since when did I turn into Buddy the Elf?
Shorts
Clearly, hugging isn’t very British. We are a nation whose stiff upper lip tends to extend all the way down to our arms. Physical contact is something that only happens in bed after one too many wines, though we may, with tacit consent and after decades of knowing each other, link arms on a country walk or brush knees on the sofa. But generally, the warmth of flesh on flesh can make Brits feel rather startled. “Sorry,” we’ll say, the moment we accidentally graze someone’s elbow. “Please don’t call HR.”
