Of course imperial measurements are silly – maybe that’s the whole point

So here’s a funny story. There is a project I am launching very soon, something I have been working on for months – very secret, very exciting – and for weeks I had a date in mind. The big announcement, the day I was working towards, was 2 June 2022.

Thursday afternoon felt like a good moment for a big reveal, I thought; the point at which the week is beginning to run out and people go on Twitter to faff about. Early June felt like a good bit of the year too; the days are long, it is – hopefully – quite warm, everyone is in a good mood.

As I was putting the finishing touches together a few days ago, something kept bugging me. Why did the date feel familiar? I googled it. I then stared at my screen, slack-jawed. Of course: 2 June is the platinum jubilee. How did I not know it was the platinum jubilee?

I like to think that I am not that predictable a French immigrant, but somehow, my lack of interest in the royal family is such that the entire platinum jubilee had passed me by, almost entirely. At least, my indifference is sincere; when I first moved here, I reflexively decided to hate the royals, assuming it would be expected of me.

I kept it up for a few years, even going as far as dressing like a widow on the day of Will and Kate’s wedding, but my heart was never really into it. Some years ago, I finally made my peace with it. As a foreigner, there are aspects of your adopted country you will just never feel strongly about either way. The Windsors are one of mine.

As it happens, imperial measurements are another; I knew, growing up, that our neighbours across the Channel sometimes used different words for weights, distances and whatever else but I never cared. It just felt like one of those quirky things the British are known for, like your obsession with tea or your love of queuing.

As a result, the past few days have felt like a hell of a double whammy. The “platty joobs” is imminent and bunting is everywhere; even Stonehenge has been temporarily redecorated to celebrate the Queen’s reign.

Over the weekend, Boris Johnson vowed to bring back imperial measurements, and will apparently announce soon that shops will once more be able to sell their wares in pounds and ounces.

The latter presents a bit of a personal problem, in that imperial measurements mean nothing to me. But I doubt that kilos and grams will disappear from Brexit Britain forever, never to be seen again. I wish I could say it annoyed me but, honestly, I don’t care. I’m sure I could force myself to sneer if I really wanted to, like I did with the royal family in those first few years in London, but I just do not have the energy.

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Really, it all just seems a bit silly. From an outsider’s perspective, enthusiastic royalism seems a bit silly. Wanting to buy things in pounds and ounces because when you were a kid you bought things in pounds and ounces seems a bit silly. Harmless, but silly.

Crucially, that is entirely fine; every country has its share of silly things. I mean, I come from France, for heaven’s sake; so much about us as a people is fundamentally a bit ridiculous.

Of course, Johnson leaning on this patriotic silliness has more than a whiff of desperation to it, but that isn’t exactly surprising either. We know the man; we know the situation he’s in. If anything, it would be odder for him not to do something like this. It should be frustrating but christ, there are only so many hours in the day. Life is short; we cannot be angry all the time.

This is why I intend to keep on living in pleasant denial for the rest of the week; after all, I chose to move to this country, no one forced me. I can live with a bit of bunting and some twee tea parties.