Before I moved to England, I was able to do a pretty impressive Scottish accent. And a not too shabby Irish one.
But then I stepped off the plane and arrived in Old Blighty and realised that what I thought was pretty amusing - wasn't. And that also - England is a land of absurdly complex and varied accents, which can't be generalised under the main headers of "posh toff" or "cockney herbert".
In the early days, when I still behaved like a tourist, and did silly things like going and getting really drunk at The Church - or worse, getting really drunk at somewhere NOT The Church because The Church was full, and we didn't get in - I often got into arguements with people who were insulted that I didn't recognise their accent.
Invariably, these people were - almost without fail - Welsh.
I am finding myself in an increasingly intriguing position in life, in that I've started to feel a bit like an alien in my own land. It's my own fault, of course. It's a kind of karmetic payback for going to England and forgetting to come home. For raising pommie children, losing my accent and saying Yog-et instead of Yo-gert. It's not the people that I feel out of odds with - they are the same old generous, leathery populace that was here when I left - with the addition here and there of more sun hats and UV t-shirts...
She don't fancy him much neither...My father-in-law hates the royal family with a passion. He's about as anti royal as you can get. In fact, it's not hate - it's far stronger than that. He despises them. They make him roil, and probably give him indigestion more than uncooked sprouts. He's as likely to sit down and listen to the queen's speech at christmas as he is about to publish a book on his favourite lingerie and how he loves iPhone apps. I - on the other hand - quite like the whole "kingdom" thing. It's true I also like books in...
