"Say that again, Mary!"
"What?"
"What you just said. Go on -- say it."
"What do you mean?"
"Go on -- where does the ferry leave from again?"
"The name of the port?" I said, being deliberately obtuse. I knew what he was after, the bastard.
"Just say it!"
"Won't."
"Come on!"
"Very well. Hair-itch."
"Ha! 'Harr-idge' -- that's how it's pronounced! Not 'Hair-itch.'"
"Well, at least I didn't say 'Har-witch' this time!"
My husband grinned in smug satisfaction. He never tired of getting me to say 'Harwich.' Two weeks earlier, he'd had to correct me when I mispronounced 'Marylebone.' This looks for all the world as though it ought to be Mary-le-bone, but no. 'Marlabone' -- that's how it's pronounced. 'Leicestershire,' which to my Yank eyes looks as though it ought to be pronounced 'Lay-cest-er-shyer,'is in fact pronounced 'Lestershirr.' For the first few months I was in the U.K., I dreaded every place name I came across. My husband thought it was wildly funny.
Styvechal, Gloucestershire, Edinburgh, Pontypridd -- I floundered miserably and consequently provided him with hours of merriment.
Then we went to America.
"I think we want the next exit," my husband said one afternoon, on the way to my cousin's house in the Bay Area. 'Ju-nih-per-oh Sair-ah."
I sat up straighter and licked my lips. "Excuse me?"
He looked furtively at the map. "Joo-nih-per-oh --"
"Ha! 'Woo-NIH-per-oh!'" I cried. "The J is pronounced like a W 'cause it's Spanish!"
He was silent for a few moments. "Very well. Woonypairo."
"Oh, that's brilliant! Woonypairo!"
He stared sullenly straight ahead. "How do you say it, then?"
"Woo-NIH-per-oh" I said again. He tried gamely, but failed spectacularly. I laughed my head off.
I had a wonderful time in America with my husband. We travelled all over the country and encountered place names which were a breeze for me, but really gave him pause: Yosemite, La Jolla, San Clemente, Michigan, Albuquerque, Pensacola, Poughkeepsie -- it just got better and better. But all good things have to come to an end, and finally our American holiday was over and we were back in the U.K., in Scotland, this time -- a first for both of us.
"Sorry? Where did you want to go again?" the petrol attendant smiled.
"Um...Kirk-cud-brite," ventured my husband.
"Cuh-coo-bree?"
"No, it's Kirk -- here," I said, flustered, handing the man the map and pointing.
He looked at the map and smiled broadly. "Ach, aye. 'Cuh-coo-bree,' that's how it's pronounced. It's one of the harder ones, ken."
My husband and I stared at each other, then looked back up at the petrol attendant. "Cuh-coo-bree? is that really how it's pronounced?"
He grinned and nodded. "Aye, a lot of people have trouble with that one," he said happily.
"Cuh-coo bree. Jeez. Well, okay, thank you."
In another five years or so we're thinking of moving to China.
