Living in Britain: A Love Letter to All the Weirdness I Miss

Looking back on my time living in Britain, I realize that while it came with its fair share of quirks and challenges, I miss every bit of that endearing weirdness more than I ever expected.

It’s funny how the things that once felt like minor annoyances are now the very things I find myself longing for. The scratchy toilet paper, the strange laws, the pickles that never quite tasted right — there’s something so uniquely British about it all that I can’t help but smile when I think about it.

The scratchy toilet paper was a true British experience I used to grumble every time I had to use it, but now I miss its unapologetic roughness. British loo roll has an attitude. It’s like it’s saying, “We’ve survived centuries of wind and rain — you can handle a little scratch.” Honestly, you haven’t truly lived in the U.K. until your toilet paper humbles you.

Let’s not forget the delicate art of flushing in Britain. The water levels are suspiciously low, and getting the timing just right was a daily game: one flush? Two? Three?? It felt like plumbing roulette. But now I look back and laugh—because even my toilet had character.

And the two-tap sinks are the ultimate test of patience. I wanted warm water, not a choice between freezing my hands off or boiling them. And yet… I miss that ridiculous routine of filling the basin just enough to mix temperatures. What’s life without a little danger in your daily hand wash?

Oh, and what about The Great British Pickle Hunt? I was baffled by British pickles. Sweet. Suspicious. They were not the punchy, vinegar-loaded American pickles I craved. I hunted high and low for something even close to a proper dill. But strangely, now I miss their soft, sweet charm. Isn’t that the magic of living abroad? The things you swore you’d never get used to become the things you kind of secretly adore.

Shopping on a Sunday? Better check the time — or brace yourself for a ghost town.

Jaywalking? Practically a moral crime. I once crossed an empty street outside the zebra lines and got stared at like I’d spit on the Union Jack.

And don’t even think about cutting a queue. British people take queuing as seriously as tea. It’s an art form. A ritual. A way of life.

Then there’s the chaotic glory of their measurement system. Milk in pints, but etrol in liters? Speeds in miles per hour, but distance in Kilometers? Oh, and temperatures in Celsius. It’s like they chose units out of a hat just to keep expats guessing. Trying to bake? Good luck converting grams to cups while your scales stare at you in confusion.

And RIP to the very American products you can’t find or replace: Reese’s? Rare. Root beer? Borderline forbidden. I once found a can of it and proudly passed it around like a sacred artifact—only for my British friends to recoil in horror and declare it tasted like cough syrup. (They’re not entirely wrong, though.)

And let’s talk plugs. British outlets look like small appliances themselves. Big, clunky, three-pronged beasts. And you better remember to flip the switch on the socket, or your phone won’t charge, no matter how long it’s been plugged in. I can’t tell you how many times I walked away smugly only to return to 2% battery.

Living in Britain wasn’t always easy, but it was wonderfully, unapologetically British. The scratchy toilet paper. The baffling measurements. The strange laws. The delightfully odd products. Together, they created a world that was beautifully imperfect — and impossible not to miss.

So here I am, pining for low-flow toilets. But that’s the thing about falling in love with a place: you don’t just miss the big, magical moments. You miss the scratchy, squeaky, “why is this like this?” stuff, too.

And Britain? You’ll always be the weird little island that stole my heart.