…my accent
I’m standing at the underground bar. Dim lights. Louder than acceptable music. Every so often, a nudge in the back from those making the journey to the toilet. Yet I’m strangely elated. This is what it was like post-covid wasn’t it? The surly bar staff and having to shout to get yourself heard. Huddled around coats thrown in a corner. Sipping beer and a sea of standing strangers. This is going out. I never noticed what it was like before.
I’m at my work Christmas party. It’s February. The pre-Christmas anxiety having thrown all plans out of the window have resulted in a reschedule. And we’re all here. Downstairs at a place in Kings Cross. I find myself talking to a new joiner who’s come down from Glasgow.
“Where are you from?” she asks. It’s usually a fair question as so few people are actually from London. “I’m from here. London”
“No” Her Glaswegian elongating the sound as she shakes her head. “No your accent has got something else in.”
“Like what?”
“Like Essex. You sure you’re not from Essex?” I’m sure. I’m definitely from London. Haven’t spent more than a night in Essex. Maybe my twang is exaggerated by shouting over the noise. “It’s definitely not London though”
I’m not sure what to do. I look around for some support. No-one else seems to know me very well. It’s my word against her certainty.
“But what do I know, I’m crap at accents” She laughs, loud and full-throated. I drain my glass and nudge and apologise as I make my way to the toilet.