Why I Love the British, Part 3

Yes, there really is a “Ramsbottom.”

I’m a bit of a word nerd. Don’t ever tell me something is “very unique” because I will cringe and tell you why that phrase is grammatically incorrect. Please mind your punctuation. Look up the difference between “fewer” and “less” if you don’t know. Understand that I am fairly forgiving and that I also make no claims to being perfect, but I’m also just a tiny bit picky.

The British are fairly particular about their use of words, though, of course, no one is perfect. There’s a wonderful history here of funny, weird, even unique, place names, nicknames, and words that make you go “hmm.” And make you laugh.

Take, for instance, “Preston’s of Potto.” The “Preston” in question is a family name, the “Potto” is the name of the village in Yorkshire where the company specializes in “logistics” (whatever does that mean?). Travel on the motorway here and you will see a variety of trucks hauling whatever a logistics company hauls, all labeled proudly “Preston’s of Potto.” And I laugh every time.

Perhaps you’d like to travel down Gravelly Bottom Road along with my children, who find the name hysterical. Maybe you want to visit Hoo Junction, though it’s not that interesting, as it’s only a train yard. Good name, though. Perhaps you want to reside in a house called “Dumpling Farm” (mmm, dumplings… yes please!). Then there’s the train stop named “Ball & Bat,” or the village named “Barking.”

Add to the list villages named: Beer, Happy Bottom, Jolly’s Bottom, Scratchy Bottom, Ramsbottom, Six Mile Bottom, Pratt’s Bottom, Wet Rain, Upper Bleeding, Bishops Itchington, Knockerdown, Crackpot, The Furry, Fanny Barks, Giggleswick, Thong, and Nether Wallop. And oh, good grief, I kid you not: Queen’s Colon.

There are many, many more, some of which won’t appear in this blog (my parents read it, after all) because they are a bit rude by modern standards.

Any British place names you’d like to share? (Keep it clean, please!)

Photo courtesy of morgueFile.

Head Primate

This sooooo makes me giggle. Perusing the Guardian newspaper the other week, I came upon the editorial page. Some of you may know that the archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, is leaving the post to become headmaster of Magdalene College, Cambridge (which happens to be the college my husband attended). So, there’s going to be an election shortly for a new archbishop. I know very little about the Anglican church and its hierarchy, so was interested to read the short article about the election on the editorial page. Here’s the first sentence of that editorial:

“Some time in the next two months – maybe next week – the new archbishop of Canterbury, primate of England and head of the Anglican communion worldwide …”

Primate of England?

You can see why this cracks me up.

This is NOT the new Archbishop of Canterbury

Also NOT the Archbishop of Canterbury

I have a history of trouble with remembering who the Archbishop of Canterbury is, frequently confusing his most esteemed archbishop-ness’s last name with that of another famous Rowan: Rowan Atkinson, aka Mr. Bean.

Here’s a photo of the real Archbishop of Canterbury, just so you know:

Mr. Atkinson and Mr. Williams look nothing alike, although I do think their eyebrows have quite a lot in common.

*All photos courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

The Kids Are All Right

Posing with an Olympic mascot

They are, really. They’re settled in to their new schools and happy, which is the biggest relief imaginable for their parents. They’ve changed so much in the past year, not only getting taller, but also sounding different, using new vocabulary, trying new things.

James started coming home from school last year saying things like, “Cheese sandwiches are really quite good, you know,” in a British accent, or “This works quite well, actually” (he now sounds like a Brit 100% of the time–can’t remember how to speak like an American). When you say something to him he doesn’t quite hear, he says, “Pardon?” like a proper Brit (unlike his sister, who is still quite determinedly American and still says “WHAT??”). He has learned to love Nutella on croissants, thanks to our Paris trip, and both children expect that biscuits (cookies) are a natural part of everyday British life, despite my attempts to tell them that no, biscuits are a treat, not a daily occurrence. (“But all my friends at school have biscuits with their lunch every day!!”)

Last year James learned that most Brits pronounce the letter “H” as “haitch”–why, we don’t know. That’s how he pronounces it now, though it drives me crazy. His sister refuses to pick up the accent except when she is talking to her friends here, then she puts the accent on, “So it’s easier for them to understand me.” She hasn’t picked up the politeness of her friends, who will reply, when I ask them how they are, “Very well, thank you.” I’m hoping one day the politeness will rub off.

Charlotte came home from school last week and told us “I learned how to draw a wine bottle really well in art class today!” Not something she would’ve come home from her school in Ohio saying! (They were learning to draw a still life in art class, before you start to worry.)

They love living on a farm, in an old barn, despite the spiders. James can’t wait for the farmer to get cows (there are only sheep and horses right now; the sheep will lamb in March and sometime after that will be sold, I think, and replaced with cows). He loves cows, though he believes that “American cows are better than English cows.” Why, I don’t know. Charlotte is a bit less excited about livestock and is convinced one of the horses will jump a fence, charge her, and run her down. (She is her father’s daughter.)

Even so, James did say the other day, “I think America is better.” Just because. And though we are much more settled, much happier now, and though I can (almost) see our future here, most of the time I’d have to agree.