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My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.

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An American will point out that the closest thing we have in the States are xs and os, representing kisses and hugs.

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Though I was fascinated by Britain, I didn’t know much else about it – there were The Beatles, of course, and English muffins and a two-week family trip to London when I was sixteen during which I fondly remember watching Big Brother and experiencing my first tube strike.

But the primary cultural exports I received from across the Atlantic were writers, so I pieced Britain together from books much as I imagine British children pieced together America from Friends and Home Alone.

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The first text message I received from a British person did not disappoint: ‘Want to pop round mine for tea today? One thing did confuse me, though, and that was the lone lowercase x lingering at the end of her message. ‘I was beginning to worry that you never kissed me back’.

Nothing I had read prepared me for this little letter. Like other Americans newly arrived in Britain, virtual kisses ­– along with separate hot and cold taps and excessive fire safety – amused and baffled me.

My cultural landscape, constructed mainly from novels in which characters wore stockings and used words like ‘shan’t’ and ‘tarry’, was a little out of date. But as these little xs began to populate most of the text messages or emails I received from my British friends, I had to ask.

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