What is it about accents? Is it just something that sets us apart from one another so we are automatically intrigued? Let me tell you a story about a time when a handsome British man nearly ripped off my achilles tendon.
Setting: New Hampshire. 2009.
My best friend Katherine and I were planning the Mr. WHS pageant. We were the only high school in our area that didn’t do a Mr. WHS show and so we began the trend for our Senior Seminar Project. It was a fundraiser to go towards the Pease Greeters, who went to the Pease Airport to greet troops coming from overseas with coffee, doughnuts and love. It didn’t matter the time of day or night, the Pease Greeters were there to clap the troops entering the airport. Part of the funds also went to an animal shelter in Kuwait.
Anyways, part of the Mr. WHS show required the nine boys to strut their stuff in tuxedoes. We found a tuxedo shop in a mall nearby that agreed to rent us the tuxedoes for free, as long as we advertised somehow that the tuxedoes were from their shop.
Katherine and I met some of the boys at the shop to get their measurements. Low and behold, the man doing the measurements was British. First of all, I was 17 at this time and hadn’t come across many accents in my lifetime. Katherine and I immediately swooned.
He looked to be about 25. He was clean cut with perfect hair. He was a total gentleman. I often wonder why American men don’t have the same manners as British men. There should be a school or something. They call you “love” just because they can. It doesn’t have to be romantic but it still makes you feel like a majestical creature. American men normally say, “Hey you” or something of that nature.
Anyways, the measurements were complete and Katherine had the confidence to strike up a conversation with this fellow and I just stood in awe, my face warming up like a conventional oven.
It was mundane chatter about how he likes America, but misses England. Blah, blah, blah. I wasn’t really listening. Just staring at his adorable dimples.
When we went back a few weeks later to pick up the nine tuxedoes with a rolling hanging pole thinga-ma-jig, we strolled up near the shop in the mall and he stood out by the door and waved to us from a distance. He might have yelled, “Hello loves!” or “Good day ladies!” or “You smell like cow manure!” I honestly wouldn’t have noticed the difference. I quickly jolted, stared, then casually waved back only to have Katherine run the rolling cart into my ankle. I stumbled to the ground and yelled, “Bitch suck!” I don’t know where that came from or why I said it, but it felt right. Katherine fell to the floor, holding onto her gut, laughing hysterically. This was me:
Luckily, the dashing British man had already made his way back into the store and saw nothing. And then I realized the back of my foot was gushing out blood. I could barely walk on it. Which only made Katherine laugh even harder. I limped over to the store, Katherine still giggling like a maniac, unable to make the bleeding stop. The amiable British man knelt down, placing a band-aid softly onto my heel.
However, for weeks, the back of my foot felt like that scene from Hostel when the guy tried to escape from his chair only to fall down immediately because the crazy man cut both of his achilles tendons. I won’t put a gif because it makes my eyes bleed.
What are some accents you hear that make you run into rolling carts, unintentionally?