The poppies are in the bloom again (lush!), and unlike last year, this time I came prepared. Jeans, wellie boots, long sleeves. And I can now easily identify a stinging nettle. I was even brave enough to put my child in the middle of them, his football kit totally in keeping with the color scheme.
When I talk to my family in America these days, they marvel at what they describe as my “British accent.” Me, I don’t think I have a British accent, certainly not compared to born and bred Brits. But what I do think I’ve developed is a way of speaking more British and maybe that comes across as an accent.
I can understand why people might have thought Madonna was trying on a fake British accent while she lived here. But now that I’ve been here several years myself, I don’t think she was intentionally faking anything. When you live somewhere long enough, you just instinctively pick up the language and start to sound a little more like the locals. (And trust me, British English and American English are not the same language).
When I speak now I do emphasize different syllables. But it’s really in the vocabulary that I think I’m becoming British. Initially, I found myself translating on the fly to ensure that whoever I was talking to understood what I meant. Like when I called to book my car in for service because the hood wouldn’t shut. The hood? Oh, I mean the bonnet. But now those words have become second nature.
I’ll ask where the lift is instead of the elevator.
I say “to be fair” all the time now. As in “That was the worst movie ever. But, to be fair, it starred Channing Tatum so I should have known better.”
I’ve learned that you’ve got be very careful when using the word pants. It’s OK to compliment someone on their trousers, but their pants (underpants), well that’s a little too intimate.
Spell check on my corporate laptop, set to use UK English, was forever reminding me of my inappropriate use of the letter “z” (realise, virtualise, capitalise) or the ending “er” (centre).
I make great use of the word bloody. I feel like I’m cursing without actually cursing. Like when I went to pull a weed and found out it was a bloody stinging nettle. Ouch.
My son and I walk down the pavement (sidewalk) to get to the playground. Once we get there, he loves a go on the roundabout.
Transportation is full new words. I put the groceries in the boot (trunk), fill-up with petrol (gas), and wash the windscreen (windshield). When I’m not on the motorway (interstate), I’m thankful to come across a section of dual carriageway (4-lane road) where I can pass muppets (idiots) driving caravans (RVs). Once in the car park (parking lot), I’ll take a twenty point turn to negotiate into a parking space that was never intended to fit an actual car.
Any my son’s favorite transport word, lorry (truck). We are always drawing big lorries, making big lorries, and spotting big lorries on the road.
It’s not ads that annoy me on the television anymore its adverts.
Aubergine (eggplant), courgette (zucchini), biscuit (cookie), and bap (sandwich roll) are all great examples words I’ve picked up at the grocery store. And when you head to the pie section in the shop you’ll be disappointed to find a selection of meat filled creations instead of confections to satisfy your sweet tooth.
Ask for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and you will get lots of funny looks. Because 1) why would you put peanut butter on a sandwich and 2) why on earth would you then top it with Jello? (Jelly = Jello). And even if you say peanut butter and jam you’ll still get a few funny looks as they don’t understand why you’d put those two things together.
And meal times, well, I’ve been caught in the lunch vs dinner vs tea triangle. When I tell my son, “you can watch some TV after dinner,” I mean in the evening, around six o’clock. He thinks this means he can watch TV after lunch. (Dinner = lunch; tea = dinner).
The rubbish (trash) goes in the bin (trash can). Or just use the word rubbish to describe something you don’t like. My son, he’s already happy to tell me that my clay creations are rubbish.
My first week at work someone asked me to meet with them in a fortnight. A fortnight? I didn’t think that word had been used since Shakespeare’s day. I immediately said, “sure, no problem. That time works for me.” Then I went to look up how long a fortnight was. Two weeks by the way.
I don’t vacuum around the house, I hoover.
I think whinge is far superior to whine. It just sounds more like what it means. Oh, stop whinging.
My son has several books that include the word titchy (small).
On a recent trip to America, a friend of mine bought some flashcards for her son and she asked me to translate the one with the word “bummed.” Oh, that means disappointed. Here it means, well, I’d rather not say.
And the one I struggle with the most, hands down, the letter “z”. Because how can I keep ending the Alphabet Song with “Zee” when my son is going to learn “Zed” in school. But “zed” just makes Dr. Seuss’s ABCs end on a really sour note.
This is part of my ongoing series about understanding life in the UK, an exercise that’s helping me study for my Life in the UK test. Plus, I thought it would be interesting to share some facts and observations about this country I’m living in before it takes the world stage this month when the Olympics come to town.
Over the course of the Little Monkey’s first two years, I took hundreds, maybe thousands of pictures. But I’ve now realized that while I captured many moments in time and what they looked like, I didn’t capture the context. And, really, to fully capture life’s moments it’s not just the picture but the story behind it that’s just as important.
Someone recently asked me when Little Monkey first smiled. I didn’t know the answer. I could probably look through photographs and dates to see when smiles started appearing. But that first one, I don’t know. When did he take his first steps? I don’t know. I regret that I don’t have these early memories written down because they’ll never happen again.
Now, I’ve begun this love affair with journaling and writing things down but he was two by the time I started this. At least a year and a half of memories captured only with images. And I don’t intend to get all OCD with it but they grow up so fast and memories fade quickly. And, I feel like until he’s old enough to decide how he wants to document (or not) his own life, it’s my job to do it for him.
So in this photo, you can tell we’re happy, he’s happy. But what else? If I looked at this photo twenty years from now, would I remember what we were doing or where we were going? Why he had that big old smile on his face? I doubt it.
My little man loves trains, a massive understatement. And we’ve ridden a number of what I would call “miniature trains” at the Cotswold Wildlife Park or Blenheim Palace. Even vintage trains at the Didcot Railway Centre. But he’d never been on a real honest to goodness fast modern-day train. Well, he was when he was an infant on our journey into the US Embassy to get his passport but I don’t count that cause he wouldn’t remember. But you know what, we live a hop skip and a jump from the train station. So, inspired by one of my friends, a fellow mum with a boy also obsessed with trains, we rode the train. We bought tickets and got on the real train, rode it a couple of stops, and then turned around and came back. And it was magical. All for the cost of a latte.
My advice to you compulsive photo takers out there (well anyone really)? Write. Things. Down.
They say a picture is worth 1000 words. But is it?
The UK healthcare system was just a small paragraph or two in my Life in the UK studies (passed the test by the way!). But I have a lot to say on this topic so it gets its own post. You see I know a lot about health care systems. In university, I studied health care administration at both the Bachelors and Masters levels and I worked in the American health care industry for years at variety of insurance companies, hospital organizations, and physician practices. But more importantly than that, I use a lot of healthcare services. A lot. That what happens when you have a chronic disease.
And, for me, I prefer the UK system, a two tier system combining what I think is the best of public and private. Access to a standard of care for everyone and access to amenities for those willing and able to pay for them. Don’t get suckered into believing all the “socialist” propaganda you see in the American media. Unless you’ve experienced living in a country where they have public health system, you really don’t know. You’re speculating and speaking out of fear. I’m not saying the UK system is perfect, it’s not. But I left a full-time job to become a stay at home mother and did not worry that I’d become uninsured and lose access to doctors and medicine. What I do worry about is ever returning to the US where I would likely be uninsured or find myself paying exorbitant insurance premiums.
The National Health Service (NHS) has been in place since 1948 providing access to care for everyone, funded by taxes, and free to everyone at the point of use (except for prescriptions and dental care). But there is also a booming private healthcare industry in the UK. Private companies that provide health insurance and build their own hospitals and medical centers. But the important distinction is that this insurance is in addition to, not instead of. So for example, things like basic maternity care are typically not covered by private insurance (at least not by mine). These basic services fall squarely in the lap of the NHS.
Private health insurance is available to anyone with the means to pay for it privately and many employers now offer it as a perk, an enticement to come work for them in today’s competitive environment. I’ve had the luxury of having private health insurance, first through my employer and then on my own (and it’s affordable). But here’s the difference, I know that without this, I will still have access to all the care I need, still have access to the same doctors. So why even bother with private medical insurance?
Well, because I’m making a conscious decision to pay out-of-pocket for something which the NHS doesn’t offer, something that I value. Amenities. The biggest difference I see between the care in the US and the care in the UK, it’s all superficial. It’s in the aesthetics and the amenities. The waiting room chairs at NHS facilities are straight out of the 1970s, worn and tattered, and the decor plain and dull. There aren’t posh waiting rooms with aquariums and fancy maternity suites that serve you steak and champagne. But absolutely none of this relates to the quality of care I receive. In fact, I’ve been seeing doctors in America for years with my Crohn’s and it wasn’t until I moved here that I finally found one who genuinely took an interest in my health outcomes and me as a person. A doctor who is on the leading edge of Crohn’s research and treatment and one of the world’s leading experts on my disease, all on the NHS. But a stay in a private hospital, well, it’s admittedly a more pleasant experience. But it’s an experience for which I fully understand the premium I’m paying.
And here is fundamentally where I think the American system has gone wrong. Americans expect to have nice furnishings in the hospital, they want to feel nice and cozy as if they were at home. They want to sit in a doctor’s office surrounded by designer furniture. But how many people put two and two together to understand where the money comes from to pay for those amenities? Is free TV in every room really worth having people in society that have to make decisions around whether to buy medicine or food?
The current debate in America around the Affordable Healthcare Act is frankly just partisan nonsense fueled by the influence of special interest groups. All you have to do is follow the money. Insurance companies, drug companies, and hospitals aren’t altruistic organizations. They are not in the business of making you healthy. Insurance companies in particular are in the business of figuring out how NOT to pay for your health care services because that’s how they make money. I once worked for a HMO and I left after a very short time. I watched decisions get made in the interest of profit and not in the interest of people’s health, and, well, it made my skin crawl. These organizations must be profitable in order to support the demands of their shareholders and American consumers that expect a Rolls Royce at Honda prices. And they have large influential interest groups that make sure politicians find it difficult, if not impossible, to make policies that restrict their ability to make money, especially in a political environment seemingly incapable rational bi-partisan compromise.
I’m certain that the Affordable Healthcare Act isn’t perfect and has many flaws. But it is a step towards making healthcare accessible to everyone within the constraints of the system that’s in place. Would it be better to start from the ground up creating something like the two tier system in the UK? I think so. Because in my opinion having so many intermediaries in between an individual and accessible healthcare is inescapable minefield. But you can’t just eliminate a $800 billion industry and the jobs it provides overnight.
Interestingly, I think dentistry is a perfect example of how when you truly understand how much you’re paying for something, you reassess how important it really is. Unlike general health services, dental care is not a free service through the NHS, except for certain groups like kids under 18. But in America it’s very common for employers to offer dental insurance alongside general health insurance. So the dental industry is thriving in America, giving everyone hollywood teeth and outfitting dental offices with in chair TVs and aromatherapy. You might pay a few dollars a month in dental premiums and your employer subsidizes the rest. So you go to your swish dentist office and aren’t too concerned by how much it costs because your insurance pays for most of it.
But the Brits, well I’m sure you’ve heard of their stereotypically “bad teeth.” Because to get regular dental care as an adult, you have to pay for it with your own hard-earned money. So you think twice before going to the dentist for a regular checkup. You shop around and find a dental practice that provides the quality of care you want at a price that’s in your budget. And you don’t mind if the waiting room chairs aren’t the latest in modern furnishings as long as they’ve spent their money on the right things, the equipment and the staff.
Because after all, everything looks different when you’re spending your own money and not someone else’s.
This is part of my ongoing series about understanding life in the UK, an exercise that’s helping me study for my Life in the UK test. Plus, I thought it would be interesting to share some facts and observations about this country I’m living in before it takes the world stage next month when the Olympics come to town.
I admit, I’ve been struggling with my Polaroid experiment. Shooting Polaroid for me is so hit or miss and I tend to get frustrated. When a photo doesn’t turn out (especially when I do something stupid like forget to adjust the light/dark wheel), I always want a do over but I don’t want to waste film on the exact same shot. I’ve definitely learned that you will burn through some film just getting the hang of it, getting to know the quirks of your specific camera. I also experimented with a number of films, something I wouldn’t recommend to a Polaroid newbie. In retrospect, I would have been better off sticking with just one film and getting confident with that before I tried anything else.
And portraits of people, wow, I cannot take a good Polaroid portrait. Plants and still life, I’m getting more confident with those. Maybe it’s because it takes me AGES to set up a shot and this is so much less uncomfortable when you’re photographing a potted geranium.
But then just when I think frustration is getting the best of me, this happens. Magic.
Something comes out of that camera that’s even better than what I imagined. And it makes it all worthwhile.
And keeps me coming back for more.