If my laptop (moment of silence in reverent memory of Steve Jobs) could change time zones without my assistance, and my Ebay account show only UK listings, then surely my dreams would get the message that it was time to Britanize the settings.
But, rude awakening to reality, I’ve still got that horrific California drawl of an OhMyGod! accent…even while I’m sleeping.
The adaptation processes is currently underway.
The one where I’m consistently in the wrong about how to say, and how to spell, and how to eat, and how to dress, and how to cross the street.
And have got to start adding a ‘u’ to color and eating french fries with a fork (and calling them ‘chips’ while I’m at it) and making the word ‘you’ plural (as in, “Would yous like some butterscotch pudding?”) and getting made fun of when I pronounce ‘garage,’ and ‘tomato’ like an “American.”
Or if I use the word ‘pickle,’ or ‘pants.’
Or ask for napkins in a restaurant.
Or inquire as to how many touchdowns were scored in a rugby game.
Or try to read the weather report, or bake something, only to discover I have absolutely no idea how hot, or cold anything ever is.
As my terms for heat and frost have been reduced to just that, “hot” and “cold.”
Numbers and temperatures have gained a liberating sort of insignificance.
Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
But despite all those desiccately dry British jokes (the majority at my own expense…) that I simply just don’t get (because there is nothing TO get).
There’s something I absolutely can’t help but admire about a country thats’ trains are faster than their busses.
That loves Jaffa Cakes almost as much as they love their queen.
And that dress their policemen up in such cute little outfits.