You’d might think. after living in North America for the better part of 40 years, a guy would have figured out ’merican English versus that of the Queen. Not that anyone actually speaks like the Queen’s “mai husband and ai,” probably including the old girl herself. (I suspect she just does that for effect on Christmas Day in her annual “Address to the Commonwealth.”)

But no. I still have trouble remembering if “first floor” in England is the “ground floor” over here, or vice versa. Remind me again, is “next Tuesday” April 5 or April 12? Lorries come careening down Fifth Street, as far as I’m concerned, I still wear a jumper to keep warm in winter, and I’ve never quite gotten used to calling my tennies “sneakers.” Not that I own a pair, but to me rubber boots will always be “wellies” (after the 1^st Duke of Wellington, dontcha know).

Meanwhile, to call someone a “berk” is asking for a punch in the boat (Cockney rhyming slang: Berkshire Hunt for lady-part*, and Boat Race for face). I do know better than to ask a female Brit about her bangs while looking at her hair (bang/bonk/shag mean what you think they mean). I do try to remember not to say either “Blow me!” (as in, blow me down) or “Bugger me!” on being surprised. Despite much helpful advice, I never have figured out exactly what “football” means. Oh, and I’m pretty sure the story about the American lady asking the English innkeeper to “Please knock me up in the morning” is a load of codswallop.

* See my “Country Matters” column in the Journal’s recent “Sex Issue.” 

Then there’s “gormless,” a lovely North Country word that’s a bit hard to explain, but let me try. The young lad goes home to his dad and announces that he and Mary from the village are going to get married.

“Eee, that’s grand son, Mary’s a lovely bit of stuff. But tell me, are you and her are compatible in the, you know, nookie department?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure dad, she hasn’t let me have any yet. But lots of them that has say she’s smashin’ at it!” Gormless.

It goes beyond language, of course. A good friend came to our door one day with a real shiner of a black eye. We spent a couple of hours together walking and playing pool before he took off. The subject of his eye never came up. When, much later, he complained that it bothered him I hadn’t asked about it, I tried to explain that One doesn’t inquire about that sort of thing. It’s just not done. Like asking how much their job pays, or where the homeless guy you meet in the coffee shop spent the night. If the other party wants to discuss it, they’ll bring it up. Otherwise, keep yer gob shut.

Another linguistic — really, psychological — difference between Over Here and Over There is the difficulty Brits have with expressing enthusiasm. I first noticed this when we lived in Silicon Valley. On any day of the week, you could ask someone how things were going. “Couldn’t be better, everything’s great!” they’d exclaim. Ask a Brit the same question on the very best day of their life, and you’ll get a soulful, “Not too bad, can’t complain, could be worse.”

Then there’s the never-ending topic of the weather. In Notes from a Small Island, U.S. author Bill Bryson claims that he carries around a clipping from the English Western Daily Mail to remind him that the weather ever there should never be taken for granted. The printed forecast for the following day simply reads, “Dry and warm, but cooler with some rain.” (Ooh lovely!)

Finally: years ago, soon after Louisa had taken me on a loop through South Carolina to meet her “farm cousins,” we were in England. I mentioned to my dad that I had trouble understanding their Deep South accents. “But of course, they understood you alright,” he said. “Um, why’s that, dad?” “Well obviously, because you speak proper English.” (He would not be persuaded otherwise.)

My beloved with me ol’ dad, 1976.

OK, I’m knackered after all this writing. Time for a kip. 

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Barry Evans gave the best years of his life to civil engineering, and what thanks did he get? In his dotage, he travels, kayaks, meditates and writes for the Journal and the Humboldt Historian. He sucks at 8 Ball. Buy his Field Notes anthologies at any local bookstore. Please.