One of my pet peeves - and it's a minor one - is Americans who throw British and/or Australian slang around, peppering their otherwise normal YankeeSpeak with the odd "git" or "shite" or "cheers." We have perfectly acceptable alternatives such as bastard/bitch, crap and thanks; and quite frankly, using one or two words of BritSpeak does not make you sound British/Aussie. Not if you are going to continue using your YankeeSpeak for 99% of your communication.
So, for those who are unaccountably attached to their shite, I present the first of my admittedly unscientific and incomplete glossary of BritSpeak so you can impress your friends with your multilingual skills:
Brit to US:
Take Away = To Go
When you order your food, you'll be asked if you want "take away." Some London Starbucks baristas will ask if you want your coffee to go, but then the Starbucks chain prides itself on worldwide consistency. Don't even start to confuse your food server by asking for "carry out."
Custom, tailor-made = bespoke
I love the word bespoke - it sounds so terribly uppercrust British - but it took me a few uses of the word in context to get it.
Dessert = pudding
While pudding is also used to describe the traditional British steamed pastry (plum pudding, even Yorkshire pudding), it is also generic for anything sweet served after a meal. But sadly, Bill Cosby would rarely be served his favorite pudding for pudding - there are mousses and custards aplenty, but no chocolate pudding cups in the Tesco aisles.
Fairy lights = Christmas lights
Fairy cakes = cupcakes
The British seem very fond of fairies with gossamer wings and flower wands. Whereas little American girls dress up as princesses (usually of the Disney variety), here fairy costumes seem more prevelant. Unfortunately, I can't see these names ever catching on in the US...
Vest = tank top
Waistcoat = vest
fancy dress = costume
cossie (short for costume) = outfit
bathing costume = bathing suit
jersey = pullover sweater
sweater = cardigan
polo neck = turtleneck
open neck = polo collar
trousers = pants
pants = underwear (pants is also another way to say crappy - "It's pants.")
knickers = panties
big pants = unsexy cotton briefs, usually white or flowered
scary pants = control top briefs
It can get very confusing when shopping for clothes with British friends.
knackered = tired
chuffed = pleased
The first time I was told someone was "chuffed," I looked for someplace to hide - well, it sounds like "in a huff," doesn't it?
wobbly bits = bum, boobs, and thighs (usually used by women when referring to their bodies)
private bits = male or female "private parts"
dangling bits = male private parts
fanny = butt
front fanny = female private parts
My office in London has a hard time keeping a straight face whenever they have to speak to Fanny the receptionist at the home office.
aubergine = eggplant
courgette = zucchini
For a country that spent several centuries fighting France and still likes to sneer at the Frogs, you'd think they'd drop the French words for the alternatives...
rocket = arugula
salad (on a sandwich) = lettuce, tomato and cucumber
tuna mayonnaise = tuna salad (without relish)
ploughman's lunch = bread and cheese
granary loaf = whole wheat bread
sweetcorn = corn (what, there's bitter corn?)
And don't get me started on the British habit of adding corn (excuse me, sweetcorn) to everything!
bank holiday = national holiday
minibreak = weekend holiday or long weekend
Father Christmas = Santa Claus (although Santa is also very prevelant)
baubles = Christmas ornaments
So...the start of what will probably be a long and growing list. Ta!
2004-12-07
2004-07-18
Come back November - all is forgiven
So far, St. Swithin is proving to be one damn fine meteorologist. We've had at least one rain shower a day since.
But yesterday, after the morning shower, the sun came out - and brought along its buddy humidity to play.
Now, many people find humidity to be an every day occurance so I'm sure to get little sympathy. But there's a reaon why I live in Southern California and not, say, the Amazonian rain forest. LA may be the weather home of the hot, but it is also the home of the dry. No heat index for us (although we get fire hazard warnings instead, so I'm not sure we win).
In fact, living with humidity is much better than fearing all your earthly possessions will go up in a brush fire. But since the closest brush to me in LA was at least several miles of concrete and asphalt away, I was pretty content. Not even desert-like days caused much concern, because the wonderful thing about living in a arid environment is that no cloud cover means no natural blanket keeping the day's heat from escaping into the ether. You're pretty much guaranteed a temperate night. And it gets cooler the closer you are to the Pacific Ocean breezes. Since I lived four miles from the beach, it was the rare night when I cursed my building's owners for being too cheap to invest in central air.
But as I discovered yesterday, humidity lives up to all its cliches. And to add insult to injury, I have curly hair that no amount of Frizz-ease will subdue. For some reason, rainy weather just makes it form more intense ringlets; but humidity makes it resemble a dandelion in severe need of good puff of breath.
So come back November-like weather. All is forgiven. I don't want to wear my summer clothes after all - especially if it means feeling like I am taking a bath in them each time I walk outside.
(Lucky for me, today is back to overcast and dull - yay!)
But yesterday, after the morning shower, the sun came out - and brought along its buddy humidity to play.
Now, many people find humidity to be an every day occurance so I'm sure to get little sympathy. But there's a reaon why I live in Southern California and not, say, the Amazonian rain forest. LA may be the weather home of the hot, but it is also the home of the dry. No heat index for us (although we get fire hazard warnings instead, so I'm not sure we win).
In fact, living with humidity is much better than fearing all your earthly possessions will go up in a brush fire. But since the closest brush to me in LA was at least several miles of concrete and asphalt away, I was pretty content. Not even desert-like days caused much concern, because the wonderful thing about living in a arid environment is that no cloud cover means no natural blanket keeping the day's heat from escaping into the ether. You're pretty much guaranteed a temperate night. And it gets cooler the closer you are to the Pacific Ocean breezes. Since I lived four miles from the beach, it was the rare night when I cursed my building's owners for being too cheap to invest in central air.
But as I discovered yesterday, humidity lives up to all its cliches. And to add insult to injury, I have curly hair that no amount of Frizz-ease will subdue. For some reason, rainy weather just makes it form more intense ringlets; but humidity makes it resemble a dandelion in severe need of good puff of breath.
So come back November-like weather. All is forgiven. I don't want to wear my summer clothes after all - especially if it means feeling like I am taking a bath in them each time I walk outside.
(Lucky for me, today is back to overcast and dull - yay!)
2004-07-15
Forty Days of Rain
America has Groundhog Day (although it's a European tradition) and Punxsutawney Phil.
England has St. Swinthin's Day and Winchester Cathedral. Apparently, the medieval church builders, being deprived of meteorology, came up with their own poetic means of forecast.
The rhyme goes 'St Swithin's Day, if it does rain, full forty days, it will remain. St Swithin's Day, if it be fair, for forty days, t'will rain no more.'
It certainly looked wet at Winchester today.
While I'm not taking the weather personally, it does seem like the clouds are conspiring to acclimate SoCal me to London life as quickly as possible. It is breaking me of the desire to buy floaty sundresses and open-toed sandals, which is a Very Good Thing as soon closet space will become a barely remembered dream. Better to use what little storage I will have for clothes that can actually serve a purpose.
But the dreary light is getting all of us down, locals included. According to GM.TV, this is the coldest summer in fifty-seven years. Living in perpetual November is just making us dread the actual November (and December and January and February). Without memories of summer sun to get us through the winter, it's going to be a long cold dark one indeed.
England has St. Swinthin's Day and Winchester Cathedral. Apparently, the medieval church builders, being deprived of meteorology, came up with their own poetic means of forecast.
The rhyme goes 'St Swithin's Day, if it does rain, full forty days, it will remain. St Swithin's Day, if it be fair, for forty days, t'will rain no more.'
It certainly looked wet at Winchester today.
While I'm not taking the weather personally, it does seem like the clouds are conspiring to acclimate SoCal me to London life as quickly as possible. It is breaking me of the desire to buy floaty sundresses and open-toed sandals, which is a Very Good Thing as soon closet space will become a barely remembered dream. Better to use what little storage I will have for clothes that can actually serve a purpose.
But the dreary light is getting all of us down, locals included. According to GM.TV, this is the coldest summer in fifty-seven years. Living in perpetual November is just making us dread the actual November (and December and January and February). Without memories of summer sun to get us through the winter, it's going to be a long cold dark one indeed.
2004-07-06
Geese and Ducks and Swans Oh My
There was a Tube strike last week, but I wasn’t upset about it. Instead, it forced me to walk to work, something I often thought about doing but wimped out at the last minute. Well, not really wimped out but dithered around the apartment until I was late to work, and the Tube, while not the most pleasant form of transportation, at least moves rather quickly.
I do walk home whenever I can. While the weather is not exactly summer by Southern California standards, I thoroughly appreciate the extended daylight hours. The sun doesn’t start to set until well after nine, which means I can work a long day yet still enjoy a well-lit journey home.
And enjoy the walk I do. I leave work and within fifteen minutes I’m near Convent Garden. I window shop, which is dangerous right now thanks to the large sale signs. L.K. Bennett in particular has lovely shoes on display. I admire the old pubs, painted green and blue and red, small reminders of how London looked in Georgian, Regency, Victorian times. Many are still housed in their original buildings, holding the surrounding concrete and glass at bay. Sometimes I stop at Marks & Spencer to pick up food for dinner.
Ten more minutes of walking and I’m in front of St. Martin’s in the Field, a beautiful 18th century church with a wonderful cafeteria in the crypt and jazz or classical concerts in the vestry nearly every night. Across the street is the National Portrait Gallery, and around the bend is the National Gallery and Trafalgar Square. I stride through flocks of tourists and pigeons enjoying the broad steps, expansive plaza, and stone lions. Nelson gazes at the horizon from high above, searching for the sea but settling for the Thames.
I hop-skip-dash across the roads, avoiding red double-decker busses and black (and pink and blue and multihued with ads) taxis. Now begins my favorite portion of the walk, and I feel the tension leaving my shoulders and lower back.
I pass under the classical stone arches that mark the entrance to the Mall. At the other end is Buckingham Palace, but I will get off the Mall as soon as I am able and make a beeline for soft green lawns and sharp gravel paths of St. James’s Park. Once grass is under my feet I can feel my sanity building a reserve to help fight another day.
St. James’s Park has been called the loveliest park in London. At first I preferred the expansive space of Hyde Park, the broad sidewalks of Kensington Gardens. But now St. James’s holds most of my heart.
It’s the ducks. And swans and geese and pelicans. St. James’s has the most wonderful pond at its center, surrounded by woods and gardens. Hyde Park has the Serpentine and the Long Water, and Kensington has the Round Pound. But those are obviously man-made lakes, manicured and well delineated. St. James’s pond feels more genuine, like a tiny pocket of London that the developers forgot (or more likely, weren’t allowed by the Royal Family) to touch. And while I am far from an expert in avian psychology, the waterfowl seem to agree.
It’s duckling season at St. James’s, and the families are out in full flock. The youngsters range in age from just out of the egg fluffballs to gawky adolescents. The babies flock around the mother, who extends a sharp beak to anyone who dares to come to close. The seagulls especially are warned off.
I find ducks endearing. Maybe it’s the comical waddle when they are on land, or the graceful dives when they are in water. Ducks haven’t always been portrayed as the most amiable of characters; Daffy is a rascal while Donald is just irritable. But the ducks of St. James’s are my favorite London companions, now that my husband has gone back to the States.
I exit St. James’s Park at Queen Anne’s Gate. The brown-brick terraced homes with white trim that line both sides of the street are especially pretty. I envy the people who live and work there; imagine having St. James’s Park as your backyard. Supposedly, on August 1 the ghost of Queen Anne walks up and down the street three times. Even she wants to stay in Queen Anne’s Gate.
The Tube station is next; I congratulate myself on avoiding a smelly, dusty ride home. It’s housed underneath a Roaring Twenties ziggurat complete with Tamara style stone carvings. By the time I normally get home, the small shopping mall is closed. Everything is closed, except for the pubs that seem to attract lots of young men in white shirts and striped ties.
The streets are quiet between the station and my flat. I have now learned to look the right way (literally) when crossing the street, but it is normally not required. The only traffic is on Victoria Road. I cross it under the watchful eye of the policeman guarding New Scotland Yard, automatic rifle at his side.
The police headquarters is the last major landmark I pass on my journey home. Were I to continue up Victoria Road until it ended, I’d be in front of Westminster Abbey. A few more minutes of walking would bring me to Parliament and Big Ben. But I turn at the Starbucks sign for the comforts of my small studio flat, my temporary home until I find a more permanent one.
I do walk home whenever I can. While the weather is not exactly summer by Southern California standards, I thoroughly appreciate the extended daylight hours. The sun doesn’t start to set until well after nine, which means I can work a long day yet still enjoy a well-lit journey home.
And enjoy the walk I do. I leave work and within fifteen minutes I’m near Convent Garden. I window shop, which is dangerous right now thanks to the large sale signs. L.K. Bennett in particular has lovely shoes on display. I admire the old pubs, painted green and blue and red, small reminders of how London looked in Georgian, Regency, Victorian times. Many are still housed in their original buildings, holding the surrounding concrete and glass at bay. Sometimes I stop at Marks & Spencer to pick up food for dinner.
Ten more minutes of walking and I’m in front of St. Martin’s in the Field, a beautiful 18th century church with a wonderful cafeteria in the crypt and jazz or classical concerts in the vestry nearly every night. Across the street is the National Portrait Gallery, and around the bend is the National Gallery and Trafalgar Square. I stride through flocks of tourists and pigeons enjoying the broad steps, expansive plaza, and stone lions. Nelson gazes at the horizon from high above, searching for the sea but settling for the Thames.
I hop-skip-dash across the roads, avoiding red double-decker busses and black (and pink and blue and multihued with ads) taxis. Now begins my favorite portion of the walk, and I feel the tension leaving my shoulders and lower back.
I pass under the classical stone arches that mark the entrance to the Mall. At the other end is Buckingham Palace, but I will get off the Mall as soon as I am able and make a beeline for soft green lawns and sharp gravel paths of St. James’s Park. Once grass is under my feet I can feel my sanity building a reserve to help fight another day.
St. James’s Park has been called the loveliest park in London. At first I preferred the expansive space of Hyde Park, the broad sidewalks of Kensington Gardens. But now St. James’s holds most of my heart.
It’s the ducks. And swans and geese and pelicans. St. James’s has the most wonderful pond at its center, surrounded by woods and gardens. Hyde Park has the Serpentine and the Long Water, and Kensington has the Round Pound. But those are obviously man-made lakes, manicured and well delineated. St. James’s pond feels more genuine, like a tiny pocket of London that the developers forgot (or more likely, weren’t allowed by the Royal Family) to touch. And while I am far from an expert in avian psychology, the waterfowl seem to agree.
It’s duckling season at St. James’s, and the families are out in full flock. The youngsters range in age from just out of the egg fluffballs to gawky adolescents. The babies flock around the mother, who extends a sharp beak to anyone who dares to come to close. The seagulls especially are warned off.
I find ducks endearing. Maybe it’s the comical waddle when they are on land, or the graceful dives when they are in water. Ducks haven’t always been portrayed as the most amiable of characters; Daffy is a rascal while Donald is just irritable. But the ducks of St. James’s are my favorite London companions, now that my husband has gone back to the States.
I exit St. James’s Park at Queen Anne’s Gate. The brown-brick terraced homes with white trim that line both sides of the street are especially pretty. I envy the people who live and work there; imagine having St. James’s Park as your backyard. Supposedly, on August 1 the ghost of Queen Anne walks up and down the street three times. Even she wants to stay in Queen Anne’s Gate.
The Tube station is next; I congratulate myself on avoiding a smelly, dusty ride home. It’s housed underneath a Roaring Twenties ziggurat complete with Tamara style stone carvings. By the time I normally get home, the small shopping mall is closed. Everything is closed, except for the pubs that seem to attract lots of young men in white shirts and striped ties.
The streets are quiet between the station and my flat. I have now learned to look the right way (literally) when crossing the street, but it is normally not required. The only traffic is on Victoria Road. I cross it under the watchful eye of the policeman guarding New Scotland Yard, automatic rifle at his side.
The police headquarters is the last major landmark I pass on my journey home. Were I to continue up Victoria Road until it ended, I’d be in front of Westminster Abbey. A few more minutes of walking would bring me to Parliament and Big Ben. But I turn at the Starbucks sign for the comforts of my small studio flat, my temporary home until I find a more permanent one.
2004-06-25
The calendar says June...the weather says November
I lived in Southern California for twenty years.
Which means, sartorially speaking, that I am not exactly equipped for London. I knew this, of course, before accepting the job offer. But I thought I had at least three, maybe four months before succumbing to the necessary heavy woolens and thick tights.
I was wrong.
Two days ago, blustery winds turned my umbrella inside out more times than I could count in the five minute walk between my flat and the tube station. I dug the one coat I had the foresight to bring with me out of the cupboard (closet rail space being at a premium in a London apartment) and zipped it up tight against the stinging cold rain. Underneath, my suit was wool - albeit summer weight wool. But at some point the fibers had resided on a sheep, so I assured my body it was dressed for the weather. Alas, vanity took over when it came to shoes. And while I looked mighty damn fine in my beige and black Via Spiga spectator slingbacks, worn without hose because, y'know, it IS June, my heels are still vaguely numb to the touch.
I'm told that we are having this weather because Wimbledon is now on, and that once Wimbledon finishes the sun will come out again. And actually, it's pretty much out today, and the players at Wimbledon are wearing white shorts and t-shirts and I actually spotted some spectators in tank tops.
But there's a black cloud on top of my building (one of the advantages of having an office window that looks into an atrium with a skylight) and after work I'm investing in a titanium brolly that is guaranteed not to turn inside out, even when it really is November.
Which means, sartorially speaking, that I am not exactly equipped for London. I knew this, of course, before accepting the job offer. But I thought I had at least three, maybe four months before succumbing to the necessary heavy woolens and thick tights.
I was wrong.
Two days ago, blustery winds turned my umbrella inside out more times than I could count in the five minute walk between my flat and the tube station. I dug the one coat I had the foresight to bring with me out of the cupboard (closet rail space being at a premium in a London apartment) and zipped it up tight against the stinging cold rain. Underneath, my suit was wool - albeit summer weight wool. But at some point the fibers had resided on a sheep, so I assured my body it was dressed for the weather. Alas, vanity took over when it came to shoes. And while I looked mighty damn fine in my beige and black Via Spiga spectator slingbacks, worn without hose because, y'know, it IS June, my heels are still vaguely numb to the touch.
I'm told that we are having this weather because Wimbledon is now on, and that once Wimbledon finishes the sun will come out again. And actually, it's pretty much out today, and the players at Wimbledon are wearing white shorts and t-shirts and I actually spotted some spectators in tank tops.
But there's a black cloud on top of my building (one of the advantages of having an office window that looks into an atrium with a skylight) and after work I'm investing in a titanium brolly that is guaranteed not to turn inside out, even when it really is November.
2004-06-22
London Underground Transport in Three Easy Rules
There are three rules about riding on the Tube:
1) Do not speak to strangers
2) Do not smile at strangers
3) Do not, in fact, acknowledge that there is anyone else on the train with you. Even if you are sharing a degree of body contact not normally shared by two people outside of a bed.
I made a rookie mistake my first week on the Tube: I brought a full, grande size Starbuck's coffee of day with me on the train. In my defense, I had already ensured that the lid was securely fastened. However, in all the jostling caused by starting and stopping and screeching through dark tunnels, some coffee managed to escape through the lid's tiny drinking slot and onto my hand. Which was gripping an overhead bar. Which was directly above a humorless woman in her twenties who was not amused to find precipitation of the coffee sort, no matter how minor, dripping onto her neatly pressed trouser leg.
One uses the Tube to escape precipitation, so I can understand her considerable consternation. Even if the drop was on the furthest end of the aquatic equation from a splash, and even if the pants were black in color and therefore not prone to stains. No matter. Coffee rain is inescusably rude, especially on a train where you oh so politely pretend that the rest of the sweaty masses taking up all the stuffy air just. don't. exist.
Actually, considering the cost of Starbucks in London, that drop of coffee probably cost me more than her, no matter how posh her dry cleaners.
Still, rookie mistake. From then on, my coffee was either at least halfway depleted before decending into the bowels of St. James Park station, or I just sucked up the caffeine deprivation dizziness until reaching the safe haven of the Starbuck's across the road from work.
By the way, if you enjoy Starbuck's coffee but you also like to take it over to the fixings bar to put about an inch of nonfat milk in it, and you're pretty used to telling the barista, "Grande coffee but leave room for cream," you might want to get out of the habit before coming to London. Because asking them to leave room for cream has led to some pretty funny looks. Including the barista who tried to explain that they didn't have full cream available, only half-and-half. And the barista who obviously wasn't familiar with the Imperial system, and who barely gave me a tall in a grande cup.
And then there's the barista who decided to get technical by asking "black or white."
"Black," my husband and I chorused.
"White?" she countered.
"No, black is fine. No milk," we said, hesitantly. Were we using the term correctly?
"So white - full or skim?" she continued.
"No milk. Just coffee," we stammered. I mean, yeah, we have American accents, but we're from California. We sound like most of the people on the telly here - y'know, like Rachel and Monica and Dr. Carter and Gus Grissom.
"Oh, black," she said, and looked us with that half-scornful, half-pitying expression most Brits have perfected - like a stern but ultimately forgiving nanny with a slow but earnest charge.
I now just ask for "grande coffee of the day, take-away please," and pour the first inch into the rubbish bin so I have room for for nonfat milk. I don't like doing this. People who pour perfectly good coffee into the trash was one of my pet peeves when living in California. And I'm sure I'm breaking yet another unspoken rule of London living. Not to mention the money literally going down the trash bag! But when it's a race to get to work, better to lose several pence than many minutes - at least this week.
1) Do not speak to strangers
2) Do not smile at strangers
3) Do not, in fact, acknowledge that there is anyone else on the train with you. Even if you are sharing a degree of body contact not normally shared by two people outside of a bed.
I made a rookie mistake my first week on the Tube: I brought a full, grande size Starbuck's coffee of day with me on the train. In my defense, I had already ensured that the lid was securely fastened. However, in all the jostling caused by starting and stopping and screeching through dark tunnels, some coffee managed to escape through the lid's tiny drinking slot and onto my hand. Which was gripping an overhead bar. Which was directly above a humorless woman in her twenties who was not amused to find precipitation of the coffee sort, no matter how minor, dripping onto her neatly pressed trouser leg.
One uses the Tube to escape precipitation, so I can understand her considerable consternation. Even if the drop was on the furthest end of the aquatic equation from a splash, and even if the pants were black in color and therefore not prone to stains. No matter. Coffee rain is inescusably rude, especially on a train where you oh so politely pretend that the rest of the sweaty masses taking up all the stuffy air just. don't. exist.
Actually, considering the cost of Starbucks in London, that drop of coffee probably cost me more than her, no matter how posh her dry cleaners.
Still, rookie mistake. From then on, my coffee was either at least halfway depleted before decending into the bowels of St. James Park station, or I just sucked up the caffeine deprivation dizziness until reaching the safe haven of the Starbuck's across the road from work.
By the way, if you enjoy Starbuck's coffee but you also like to take it over to the fixings bar to put about an inch of nonfat milk in it, and you're pretty used to telling the barista, "Grande coffee but leave room for cream," you might want to get out of the habit before coming to London. Because asking them to leave room for cream has led to some pretty funny looks. Including the barista who tried to explain that they didn't have full cream available, only half-and-half. And the barista who obviously wasn't familiar with the Imperial system, and who barely gave me a tall in a grande cup.
And then there's the barista who decided to get technical by asking "black or white."
"Black," my husband and I chorused.
"White?" she countered.
"No, black is fine. No milk," we said, hesitantly. Were we using the term correctly?
"So white - full or skim?" she continued.
"No milk. Just coffee," we stammered. I mean, yeah, we have American accents, but we're from California. We sound like most of the people on the telly here - y'know, like Rachel and Monica and Dr. Carter and Gus Grissom.
"Oh, black," she said, and looked us with that half-scornful, half-pitying expression most Brits have perfected - like a stern but ultimately forgiving nanny with a slow but earnest charge.
I now just ask for "grande coffee of the day, take-away please," and pour the first inch into the rubbish bin so I have room for for nonfat milk. I don't like doing this. People who pour perfectly good coffee into the trash was one of my pet peeves when living in California. And I'm sure I'm breaking yet another unspoken rule of London living. Not to mention the money literally going down the trash bag! But when it's a race to get to work, better to lose several pence than many minutes - at least this week.
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