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Friends,
I love England, er, Britain, er, Great Britain.
I spent two of the happiest years of my life as a graduate student there, studying economics and philosophy.
When I arrived, I thought I spoke English but soon discovered that (as Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw is reputed to have said) the U.S. and Britain are two nations divided by a common language.
The first time a British friend told me she’d like me to knock her up in the morning, I knew I was in a different land.
It took me time to learn English English, where cookies are “biscuits,” the trunk of a car is a “boot,” an elevator is a “lift,” French fries are “chips,” a pharmacist is a “chemist,” a truck is a “lorry,” and a sidewalk is a “pavement.”
You can imagine the problems I got into when I said “pants” and they heard “underwear,” or they said they needed a “rubber” when they meant “eraser,” or I said I was “pissed” and they thought I was admitting to being drunk, or I referred to someone’s “fanny” and they thought I was making a vulgar reference to female genitalia.
Something that’s “moot” in America is irrelevant, while something that’s “moot” in Britain is open to debate. Someone who’s “homely” in America is considered unattractive, while a place that’s homely there is comfortable and cozy.
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For the longest time I didn’t understand that a saxOPHonist referred to a musician who plays a saxophone, that aluMINium was a metal, that LEZure was free time, that people carried moBILE phones and lived in moBILE homes, that flowers were put in a VAZ, and that if you wanted to be sure to take your VITamins you needed to follow a SHEDule.
Or try driving on the left onto a roundabout, in a car with a standard shift. I lost a few sideview mirrors that way.
There’s also British politeness.
I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I once did an experiment in the London subway (the Underground) in which I stuck out my leg and tallied the percentage of Brits who tripped over it and then said, “Sorry.” Near 90 percent. I wouldn’t dare do the experiment in New York City.
And British reserve.
After a lovely dinner at the home of a charming couple, I stood up and said I’d have to leave because it was getting late. They said, “Must you?” to which I responded, “Well, actually, no” and sat down again, to their dismay. They said nothing to let me know that “must you be going?” was British for “goodbye.” (I learned that later.)
Along with me, Bill Clinton was also a graduate student at Oxford. We had “digs” at the same ancient University College. We marched together against the Vietnam War in Trafalgar Square. We didn’t inhale.
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We talked about our futures (he wanted to be governor of Arkansas; I wanted to be a cross between a philosopher and a political hack).
I made marvelous friends, some of whom I’m still in contact with. I directed plays. Punted on the River Cherwell (a tributary of the Thames). Read a huge pile of books. Rode a bicycle through Oxford’s ancient streets. Wore a sub fusc.
They were glorious days — except that Vietnam hung over all of us Yanks like a sword of damocles.
So, if any of you are British or happen to be living in that wonderful land and would like to order my memoir — you can lease do:
From my British publisher Scribe Publications.
From a local British bookseller, you can order from Bookshop.uk.
(Or if you’re American, you can order on this side of the pond from Bookshop.org.)
Happy reading.
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