I’m sitting on the Caltrain, wending my way from Palo Alto to San Francisco, and thinking about Stockholm Syndrome.

Coined in 1973 by criminologist Nils Bejerot, Stockholm Syndrome, as I’m sure you know, describes the bond that some kidnap victims form with their captors as a survival instinct. It’s not pretty – unless you’re Patty Hearst – but arguably it’s a hell a lot better than antagonising your captors at every turn until they blow your head off.

It occurs to me, as I chug past yet another identikit town south of SF, that I’m starting to experience something similar about living in the US.

Now, don’t misunderstand me, there was nothing about my move here that happened under duress. Quite the opposite – as I may have mentioned, I’m in the envious position where I can go wherever I like, whenever I like.

And yet, as an expat Brit, there are certain aspects of life in America that I swore blind I would never accept, no matter how long I stayed here. Certain fundamentals of Britishness that I would never surrender, no matter how expedient it might be to humour the colonials. Things like…

Read on at the Telegraph…