My wife and I put our heads together, thought long and hard on it, tossed through many a sleepless night, and have finally come to this conclusion vis-a-vie our daughter: We are going to raise her British.
Yep, she'll grow up bundled in stripy jumpers, pushed in her pram, have to wear nappies until she learns to use the loo, we'll take the caravan on holiday, discuss the 'appenings of the day, guvn'r, whilst sipping our Earl Grey and nibbling on crumpets. Trouble is, as you may have discerned from the previous mess of a sentence, neither of us is British. Nor do we even know anything about "britishness" though I think failing to take her to the dentist will help. Most troublesome for our endeavor, we won't be moving to England. Or even Wales for that matter. But hopefully a combination of James Bond movies and BBC America will convince our child that she IS british. Maybe we can instill some class and sophistication in our daughter in the middle of America. Or at least the illusion of such.
Now I just need to find a set of crayolas with the color (whoops, colour!) grey.
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Oh man - killer punchline/ending, with my favourite British spelling: grey! The bloody editors of my most recent publication gave that the trunk... er... boot! Buggers!
ReplyDeleteYou should file a complaint for intellectual misconduct, nationalistic discrimination, and generalized douchebaggery.
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