Well, Mum, here I am in the land of Chaucer and Shakespeare, Keats and Coleridge and George Bernard Shaw. And it’s just as Henry Higgins said: They’re dropping “h’s” everywhere.
Only it’s not just “h’s.” They have an absolute fetish about silent letters.
I should have been prepared, seeing as they pronounce “schedule” as if it had no “c.” But they have names like Leicester, which you can pronounce correctly only if you delete the second, third and fourth letters. And nearly every name has at least one silent letter. I personally tripped over Ho(l)burn, Gro(s)venor and Wel(w)yn before catching on.
What’s even more astonishing, though, is British grammar. The adverts in the London Underground are illustrative:
There are run-on sentences tripping all over themselves, like this one from a travel agency called First Choice: “Our brochure is packed full of fabulous skiing holidays, all you have to do is choose.”
There are mismatched subjects and predicates, as in this ad for FSC Vitamins: “Our wide range of daily vitamin and mineral supplements offer (sic) everybody a sure and simple way to safeguard nutritional health.”
And there are sloppy pronouns, as in this teaser for Avery computer products: “Did you know that the average Briton consumes 11,544 Smarties in their (sic) lifetime?”
Lest you think it’s only advertising copy writers that wanted a whack on the hand with the teacher’s ruler, the following sentence appeared in a recent Sunday Times article: “There is no definitive test for CJD (Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease) until a person has died and their brain can be examined.” Honest to God.
Then there’s the mortician’s shop in Hampstead that announces on its windows, “Funeral directors and monumental masons.” (Which reminds me of the Cockney stationer who said I’d have to go to a “departmental store” if I wanted to find a perpetual calendar.)
Another thing even the most casual observer here can’t fail to notice is the rampant Francophobia, which seems to be increasing in direct proportion to the strength of the Green Party.
Supermarket shoppers spurn apples from France, even though they’re cheaper and considerably better looking than English ones. And a popular billboard advertising a CD-rom computer game features a rogues gallery of the world’s greatest tyrants that includes Idi Amin, Adolf Hitler, Genghis Khan, Saddam Hussein . . . and Jacques Chirac.
In case I had missed the point, my host at dinner the other night offered wines from Slovenia, Romania and Italy. As he broke out the last bottle of the evening and was asked its origin, he explained drily, “This one is from another country that does not explode atom bombs under atolls.”
Some other things you won’t see in Chicago:
– There are no pooper-scoopers here, and Londoners don’t curb their dogs. In the Royal Parks they have royal-looking black-and-gilt receptacles marked “Dog Waste Only.” But I never saw anyone use them. And all over London you have to look down to avoid stepping in a dog mess, which sometimes makes it tricky to see the sights.
– London is full of “squares” — Russell Square, Gordon Square, Bedford Square and Tavistock Square are all within a few blocks of one another. But most of them are actually little parks. And some aren’t even square.
– The bigger squares contain little tea places where people sit outside and have a cuppa. In the rain.
– Traffic comes whizzing around the squares on the wrong side of the street. This makes life daunting indeed for pedestrians, so the local authorities print instructions in big white letters in the zebra crossings: “LOOK LEFT” or “LOOK RIGHT.” (In the seaside town of Brighton, however, where some of the most confusing roundabouts are found, crossers are advised to “LOOK BOTH WAYS.”)
– Many cyclists are intrepid enough to negotiate London’s narrow, winding streets despite the kamikaze motorists. But they wear woolly masks over their noses and mouths, to protect them from the air pollution.
– Posh Harley Street is lined with physicians’ offices, marked by discreet brass plaques. Most say “Dr. John Doe.” But the most expensive doctors on the street are those without the title: Surgeons are called “Mr. Doe.”
More Top Picks Best Side Sleeper Pillows For Your Shoulder
– English people like to name their houses, a quaint and somewhat pretentious practice that makes it hard to find things. The unsuspecting visitor to 52 Matlock Court, for instance, will be frustrated to discover that there is no such street on the map. Matlock Court is the name of the building at 46 Kensington Park Rd. — an address that does not exist — and 52 is the number of the second flat on the fifth floor. Got it?
Do come ’round.