Just Saying...

Yesterday I decided to go to Ikea because I didn't want to go get my annual lobotomy. What other excuse would work because quite honestly, no one in her right mind would choose to go there (65 mile round trip) a couple of days before Thanksgiving in L.A. Talking to two friends, Kathy in DC and Betsy in Monte Nido helped enormously. But still, it made no sense. I needed oh, nothing pressing and something only vaguely specific...maybe a bookcase for the little bedroom...the one my granddaughters use and the one in which kids' books are piled haphazardly onto every spare surface. Maybe a garlic press! Yes, a garlic press. I will drive 30 miles in crazy traffic for a garlic press. Oh, and maybe some light bulbs for that lamp in the hallway. The one that will accept no bulbs except for bulbs from Ikea, but wait, I forgot to take a sample bulb with me and mon mari wasn't at home to feed me the right info and of course they no longer sell that particular lamp and oh, maybe a door mat that will hopefully be thin enough to allow the inward swinging door to smoothly glide over it and, wait, what's this? It looks like a little wooden doll's bed, with bedding and I think (I pray) that Molly or Emily will fit on it, thus assuring them a decent night's sleep.

So I did all that Lost- in-Ikea crazy shopping and when I was almost home decided to pop into the grocery store. That's when I discovered I was missing something important. Yeah, my wallet. I drove home cursing myself roundly. Try calling the Big Blue and Yellow and getting a real person in under 15 minutes. Go on, I dare you. Then try getting a real person whose answer to your hysteria is, "Um, I'd just call and cancel all your credit cards as a precaution." Then try telling your husband that you don't know where your fucking wallet is because you fucking lost it in a calm voice. We went back and forth, phone calls, tears, and then guess who called? No, not Ikea. It was Triple A. Ikea called them since my AAA card said if lost or stolen please call and they'd already LOST MY FLIPPIN' number that I'd given them 45 minutes ago (as in if you find my wallet please please please call me right away)... and they called me. AAA. Even though I'm two weeks late on my renewal. Wow. I'm going to upgrade.

And so I found myself in the car again, this time a lot closer to rush hour. And something just struck me as very odd. And it had to do with a particularly English speech (searching for a word that is unoffensive since I don't want to use defect) pattern...there...pattern. That's not offensive. Here's what I heard:

Radio Host: And how long is it, Mr. Wawwington (Warrington) that you have been intuhwested (interested) in this subject?

Mr. Wawwington: Welw Awice (well, alice) I'm sure you're aware that I gwew (grew) up in Edinbuhwah (Edinburgh). (small chuckle)

Radio Host: Absowutely, Mr. Wawwington. I don't suspect our audience knows that we're owed (old) fwiends.

I found myself listening with fascinated disbelief and thought to myself. There's nothing wrong with talking like that, but only in Bwitain would one actually get a job in broadcasting with that speech 'pattern.'

And then today, again on NPR, I was listening to an interview with the wonderful chap who wrote The Man Who Misstook his Wife for a Hat and guess what...he talks like that too!

Just saying...