So, while living in London, which is basically my whole life, I had encountered a lot of American tourists. They speak with a peculiar accent, take a billion pictures of Big Ben and the London Eye, some of them go to Baker Street, and most have a funny look on their faces when they actually try the real tea. With milk. In “cute teeny cups”.
Yes, a cup of tea was all I needed.
I had also caught myself seeing and using a lot of American words. For instance, previously my snake was called Cookie. Cookie, not Biscuit. Cookie.
I, on the other hand, renamed him Peeve, as in “pet peeve”, which in British would be said as “pet hate”. But here, I couldn’t name my snake Hate – people would give me strange looks at the best.
And now, with my new flatmate, who is an American, life is even harder for me. My ears ring every time I hear “eraser”, “store”, “candy”, or “dish towel”, to name the few.
I have nothing against Americans – they are quite fascinating to me, and I like
stalking learning about them, but my English instincts tell me that you have to say “rubber” and “shop”, and that pronouncing “can’t” as in the name “Kent” is forbidden.
Here’s an example of a normal conversation between my flatmate, Amy, and me:
Amy: Flitch, where’s the dish towel?
Me: It doesn’t exist.
Amy: Flitch, where is the tea towel?
Me: I stuck it under the fridge.
Amy: What? Why?
Me: It was ugly.
Amy: It’s a plain pink cloth!
Me: Pink. What an ugly, rubbish color.
Me: I lost my rubber, where’s my rubber?
Amy: (Throws me a bag of bands)
Me: NOT THE BLOODY RUBBER BANDS! The rubber, my rubber, a white, new rubber – where did it go?
Amy: Is “bloody” the worst you get?
Me: GIVE ME THE BLOODY RUBBER!
I will write about my day later, because Amy is back from the shop.