I do not seem to speak English. Despite the obvious fact that I am currently writing fluently, my familiarity with the language itself seems limited. Taking refuge in the fact I scored a high academic grade in my Higher English course grants me no comfort. Two long arduous years of my life were spent poring over Orwell’s prose and analysing the effect of Owens’ alliterations; yet, many natives of the United Kingdom do not seem to understand what I say more often than should be expected, and vice versa. If a person from Britain – land of the Queen’s English, the language in its supposed purest form (although I would in many cases beg to differ – not naming any specific regions of Britain, of course) – has trouble understanding the words coming out of my mouth, and I cannot decipher their – shall we say, drivel, then I do not speak English.\
My laziness played a huge factor in choosing my location of further study. I wanted to not be required to learn so much as a single word in a new language. Whilst English is considered a global language, countries in which it is a first language are few. I was bored of Singapore. The 24-hour flight to America and Canada daunted me. Australia wasn’t exactly known for its flourishing arts education. New Zealand, as far as my ignorant mind allowed me to imagine, was a land amok with prancing sheep and hobbits. Thus: the United Kingdom. The romantic notion of sitting down on Sunday mornings with a tray of buttered scones and crumpets, parasol in one hand and a china teacup of Darjeeling in another appealed to the Anglophile in me. I booked my flight, packed my winter-wear, and landed in the largest city in Europe.
Upon arriving, I found that English and universal were not as synonymous as I thought. Local friends informed me that phrases such as ‘glue stick’, ‘cutlery’, and even the seemingly harmless ‘pants’ would be misunderstood. I, confident that regardless of location, English was English, laughed in their face. Yet, my request for a glue stick in John Lewis elicited an awkward stare from the assistant. I sorely lost a bet I placed with a friend that the waiter serving us would comprehend should I ask for cutlery. A Swedish friend regaled me with the tale of how she, wearing her pyjama shorts, walked into the kitchen and announced to a group of English classmates that she wasn’t wearing any pants, only to be met with snickers and looks of pitying embarrassment. These, among many other incidents, made me realize that even if one has watched all the seasons of Monty Python or Doctor Who, one can never be truly prepared to be able to even begin to speak ‘British’ until one lives with it.
Perhaps I phrased my introduction wrongly – I speak English, but it is not Britain’s English. Words such as ‘cheers’, ‘brolly’, ‘doss’ and ‘wally’ do not naturally roll off my tongue, nor do I expect that it ever shall. I suspect that outside of England, I would probably never see those words in common usage again. I sincerely believe that the slang, accent and characteristics in the English language here is something that is inextricable from their culture – something that whilst I can admire, joke about, and even attempt to replicate, can never truly belong to anyone except the British. So while the British humour my painfully emphasized ‘r’, lazily drawled ‘t’, and use of words such as ‘elevator’ and ‘soccer’, I find comfort in the fact that should I desperately need a toilet in the middle of a harsh English winter, that I shall have no trouble verbally (not to mention most likely physically) communicating my trouble with the average local.
Prapim Chutaprutikorn, at this point in time, still needs to occasionally put her skills of 'smiling sweetly in response to something she didn't understand' when conversing with a local.
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