eptivity

A few weeks ago I was in the grocery store and suddenly noticed that I was pronouncing things British style to myself, in my head, where no one, British or otherwise, could actually even hear me. Like “fillet” pronounced “FILL-it,” and “herbs” with a non-silent “h” (note: this letter is usually pronounced “haitch” around these parts).

I thought that this would be about the extent of of my British metamorphosis for a while, until this week when I read a book called The Story of Penkridge. I probably would not have read The Story of Penkridge had we not just moved to Penkridge, but there I was, nearing the end after working my way clear up from prehistory. I was reading about one of the local pubs that was built in the early 1800s and—here’s where the Britishness comes in—I was utterly unimpressed by its birthdate.

The problem is that although Lewis and Clark didn’t expedite* until 1805 and Oregon wasn’t admitted to the Union for another 54 years, apparently things built after 1800 just don’t cut it anymore. I mean, 1800 is nothing compared to 1575, when Elizabeth I is reported to have eaten at a local establishment that is still in business (presumably under new management). And 1800 is really nothing compared to 1180, when construction of Penkridge’s village church began—before the Magna Carta, before Genghis Khan’s reign, before the birth of St. Francis of Assisi.

I read in Reader’s Digest a long time ago that the difference between Americans and the British is that Americans think 100 years is a long time and the British think 100 miles is a long way. It’s funny because it’s so true.

* I know this word doesn’t mean what I want it to mean here, but don’t you kind of wish English would follow its own rules sometimes?