Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Pure Gibberish

Am I the only one who has one of those days when you can't formulate a sentence and everything you utter sounds like gibberish? My verbal skills are so bad I could probably get a PhD in "Gibberish" if we could only get the University of New Mexico to accept it as an accredited course.

Under normal circumstances I have a pronounced Northern British accent. That's enough baggage in the south west because few understand British English, so you adapt by adding some southern flavor. "Jolly good show ya'll."

I never pronounce the "h" in horse, hospital, hero or any other word starting with "h." You may as well throw the "h" away because to myself it's "orse" "ospital" and "ero."

Invariably the listener asks me to repeat something at least twice, perhaps under the wrong impression that third time is a charm. Then they turn to the nearest person and say, "What did she say?" As though an interpreter MUST be accompanying me.

When I am very tired, or very nervous, or both, I break out in a northern colloquialism that is pure "gibberish" to most Americans. Today I was BOTH so language became a real barrier. So when I turned to my boss and said, "What' tha think'tha doin', tha freetn'd mi ter deeath" he had a look on his face that was priceless.

The worry over the truck ended in my departure from the situation. I just feel so helpless when the only thing I can do is work myself up into a frenzy and I know I have to concentrate on this blasted single wide and barn - as hopeless as it looks.

This has been one of those days when you feel so emotionally spent you almost feel lonely. My mothers best friend died this morning. Even though I wasn't particularly close to him nor his wife and family, the fact that yet another lifetime friend of my mother has died hit me pretty hard. Probably because they are all the same age.

I'm tired. Tired of fretting and worrying, and tired of spinning wheels. But I guess as a Yorkshire Lass I'll never tire of the northern
colloquialism that is my roots. Even though to others it's pure gibberish.
An Honest Yorkshireman

Henry Carey (Died 1748)

I is i' truth a coontry youth,
Nean used to Lunnon fashions;
Yet vartue guides, an' still presides
Ower all my steps an' passions.
Nea coortly leer, bud all sincere,
Nea bribe shall iver blinnd me ;
If thoo can like a Yorkshire tike,
A rogue thoo'll niver finnd me.

Thof envy's tongue, so slimly hung,
Would lee aboot oor coonty,
Nea men o' t' earth boast greater worth,
Or mair extend their boonty.
Oor northern breeze wi' us agrees,
An' does for wark weel fit us ;
I' public cares, an' love affairs,
Wi' honour We acquit us.

Sea great a maand is ne'er confaand
'Tiv onny shire or nation,
They gie un meast praise whea weel displays
A larned eddication;
Whaal rancour rolls i' laatle souls,
By shallow views dissarnin',
They're nobbut wise at awlus prize
Good manners, sense, an' larnin'.