I sat in an Italian restaurant on Wellington Parade with some friends, some people I knew, and some people I didn't know, and ----- leaned across the table, and said:
"So, Tessa, are you Australian?"
And for a moment I couldn't answer. It was just a touch too perfect. It was almost scripted. I was waiting for a laugh and joke and revelation that ----- read my blog and was just messing with me, and I kept waiting, and it didn't come, so I took a touch too long to answer an emphasied affirmative.
Which was followed by:
"Oh, because you have a bit of an accent."
aldkfja;lskdjfa;lskdjfa;lskdjf;laskdjf. It had to be a joke, because if the first was too perfect, then this was far, far too perfect, and occurring before witnesses.
The conversation rolled away, but not before it was established that the particular accent I am (allegedly) sporting is American.
Where I'd get an American accent from, I don't know. I don't think spending a couple of weeks over there with friends who happen to have a wide variety of accents between them a couple of years ago is quite enough to change my vocal patterns entirely. That's three times in one month. I'm now self-conscious of and angry at my voice and don't want to speak any more.
Today is a giraffes using their heads like morning stars because they don't like each other and it's the only sort of fighting they're capable of sort of day.
Is eleven in the morning too early to start drinking?