Babble, brought to you by the letter B
NS October 21st, 2009
Things are a little quiet here. I’m feeling a little quiet. Introspective, even. It’s no big surprise, really. I think most bloggers go through short periods of time every so often in which it seems better to be taking things in that churning them out. I’ve taken breaks before and I’ve always come back. I ain’t quittin’ you, Internet, and this isn’t an official ‘break’, but I’m just not going to force myself to blog about nothing if that’s all I’ve got to say. Though…isn’t that what I’m doing right now?
Maybe it’s the change in season or my decision to start looking at going back to work and all the planning that is going into that, but I’ve been finding myself crunching numbers for our childcare budget and reading in bed with cups of tea more appealing than sitting in front of the computer getting angry at all the douchebags, numbskulls and ignoramuses out there.
Like the guy who wrote the book pictured above. I picked this book up at a secondhand shop on Sunday whilst out for a boozy lunch with my good friend, H. We’d had two bottles of wine over a gorgeous Turkish meal and had left more than a little tipsy. Seeing as I’d been for my bibliotherapy session earlier that morning, we’d stumbled over to the bookshop on the premise of finding the book I’d been ‘prescribed.’ Lo, we could not find The Last Samurai and had to settle for the ridiculously titled Sperm Are From Men, Eggs Are From Women: The *real* reason men and women are diferent to amuse ourselves with as we went off in search of another pub. At least twice per drink, H would shout out a page and paragraph number and I would do a short dramatic reading of that passage while sloshing my drink around as I gesticulated wildly. Another bottle of wine and a couple of gin and tonics later, I was reading passages out loud to people on the train on the way home.
What can I say, I’m a literate drunk. I’m sure the other passengers were thrilled.
At one point, while gesturing with the hand holding a lollipop I’d found in the bottom of my handbag and which I was happily licking between bouts of indignant gesturing, I dropped it on the floor near my seatmate’s shoe. Charming.
At least I wasn’t dropping atomic bombs on anybody because, apparently, I am responsible for that as well, as one of those evil American types. Or at least, so sayeth a man in the park earlier that day who, upon hearing my accent, launched into a diatribe about it and demanded I give him some answers. Seeing as it all happened 34 years before I was even born, I had none, sadly.
Ever since Obama came into office I’ve seen a sharp decline in the amount of anti-American encounters I have, which were at their height during the Bush years, so I was taken a little more off guard than I normally am. From 2002 through most of 2008 I wouldn’t have blinked an eye if someone wanted to shout at me about bombs, though usually the diatribe was aimed at the variety being rained down upon Iraq and Afghanistan, not The Big One during World War II.
Still, this is something I’ve just gotten used to the longer I’ve lived here. Having an American accent will, for the moment, always mark me out as different, as privileged and (usually) as either a bit off my rocker, slightly stupid or ragingly arrogant. Such appealing stereotypes to face on a daily basis, no?
Conversely, having a British accent in America marks one out as exceedingly intelligent, humorous and polite, if a little stuffy and prudish. It’s not surprising that I had little sympathy for The Noble Husband when we were living in the States and he would complain of being teased for the way he said ‘water’ or ‘pawn’ or ‘tuna’. Most of the time people were falling all over themselves to hear him speak and thought he was the epitome of class and charm. Repeat after me: poooooor widdle thing!
Anyway, that concludes my inane babbling about breaks, budgets, books, booze and bombs. Hopefully, I’ll get my blogging mojo back soon. Until then, I’ll be curled up in my duvet thinking about one of the aforementioned Bs.
- Banal Breakdown , Career , Expat Life , Londonista
- Comments(6)
I’d be a bit suspicious (unreasonably) of a book on that subject written by someone with the name Quirk.
I love it. We would be amazing friends if ever we were nearby seeing as I’m a huge fan of the boozy lunch, as well. I’ve never tried it with a book, though… that’s something I’d love to try! hahaha Hilarious. And you’re spot on about the British accent thing. I once took a guy home because he had an Irish accent… too bad it was fake! hahaha
My mum (god bless her) went to a conference over the weekend about sexuality and gender and has come back full of what she learnt and about how tenuous the line that defines our idea of gender really is. She would hate that book…
Don’t be gone too long – I will miss you x
I miss our boozy lunches!
I secretly love the fact that even after 12 years here everyone still goes nuts for my accent. The best was when I got a free bottle of wine in a restaurant because the waiter liked the way I said “F*ck”. (What can I say, I was a potty mouth in my youth). Will miss you while you are gone.
Well, come y’all, y’hear?
Sorry!
It took quite a number of trips to the US and engaging with the fact of having a US citizen for a mother to come to terms with my own stereotypes about Americans. I’m probably fairly ‘cured’ at this point. Though the long-suffering woman. tolerant I share an office with (ex-bank, East Coast private school, pearls, cheerleader etc etc) does offer such a target at times. I mean a girl from Detroit who’s never heard of the Stooges? Shameful!