It was my mother who heard it first. “She sounds English” she said of my daughter and I told her she was wrong. Children as young as my daughter have not yet developed accents I thought. And yet, after my mother had left I could hear it. Yes, there was an accent. No, it wasn’t the same as mine.
I am Scottish. My husband is English. My child was born and lives in London (sort of) and yet, now she speaks with an English accent I am shocked to have given birth to this person from another country.
This is of course exactly how it should be and much better than the fear I had throughout my pregnancy that she would develop a hybrid of my Glaswegian tones mixed with my husband’s Essex ones. In my nightmares I heard echoes of Jimmy Krankie meets Danny Dyer and I was scared. That she is simply English is a blessing. Yet it presents new things to be worried about. Will she make fun of my accent for it being different to hers? If we move to Scotland will the hybrid accent become a reality? At airports will border control think I have kidnapped her from a nice English family?
This blog post is brought to you by ideas that weren’t strong enough to support a full-length piece people would pay me for.
First published in Standard Issue.
And as it’s Friday, you can get a double dose of my nonsense by heading over to Standard Issue to see what else I’ve been doodling about.
My dad visited at the weekend. Seeing Iona in her natural habitat prompted the quote in this doodle. While this blog is primarily a vehicle for me to receive confirmation I’m hilarious from the Internet, it made me think it might also be a nice way of occasionally keeping a note of other, more important things, not just mishaps with tits and poo.