The Scottish Festival

I went to a Scottish festival on the 9th July with my husband, son and two sister-in-laws.

Near the end of the day, I spotted a Scottish Utahn Association type booth with a loud Scottish woman talking. I stared at their brochure and asked,“So it is free if you’re Scottish?”

“Uh-huh! What’s your name deary?”

‘Siobhan”

“Hello Siobhan, where are you from?”

“Greenock, but I don’t admit it too often …” *Bryan laughed*

“Well, I’m from Glasgow and very proud of it!”

“Have you BEEN to Greenock lately?!”

No, I haven’t”

“Well, that’s the problem then!!”

“Oh, those Yanks have done that to you!” *Done what? I should have asked.*

She handed me a poster and I herded myself away from her. She seriously did ma heid in. I was excited to talk to her, only to be let down by the fact that yes, her accent was still strong, but she didn’t understand her own accent anymore.

So I decided to walk over to a booth I had visited the last time I was there, 4 years previous. I knew the guy there was a diehard Scotsman with a dirty S.O.H. to boot. Bryan and I talked with him for about 15 minutes and he told me he’d moved from Dundee to California and was loving it. We talked about how our vocab had seriously suffered since moving here, mainly because in changing your words so often in the hope of being understood a greater percentage of the time, when you use a word you don’t have to change, you can’t even remember what the word is. It disappears from your brain, never to be seen again.

Incidentally, the membership wasn’t free if you’re Scottish, she didn’t understand a word I said, even if she was from Glasgow.

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