“Mum, can I have some candy please?”
“Right. That’s it. No more American TV. It’s not candy. It’s sweeties, or chocolate – or swetchies (as many of you will know, a term for sweeties in Dundee, though a quick online check to make sure of the spelling reveals there was a sweetie shop in Carnoustie called Swetchies, but unfortunately it’s closed now).
“And while we’re at it,” I told the boys, “It is not ‘garbage’ – it is ‘rubbish’ as in ‘Dad’s taking out the rubbish’.”
I was on a roll.
“And another thing, while we’re at it, properties with multiple dwellings are flats, not apartments – and you go up in a lift, not an elevator. OK?”
“Em, what’s a dwelling? And an apartment?”
I love America and so much of what they give us.
Like my current obsession, Sons of Anarchy on Netflix – a trivial example on the face of it, but demonstrative of the culture, creativity and freedom of expression associated with the United States of America.
Yes the country can lose its way, but . . . well, can’t we all?
But much in the same way I don’t want to use dollars to pay for my shopping, or have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (I tried it once and won’t again), I don’t want an erosion of our language.
English words will do just fine, interspersed where at all possible with Scottish parlance and bonus points for any actual Dundonianisms.
I felt bad for my outburst given the boys’ glaikit (that’s what I’m talking about) expressions.
I made a cup of tea and flicked through a magazine, Americanisms a distant memory as I melted into the sofa, knowing you’ve got to grab those five minutes while you can.
Nice trainers, I thought, scanning the text below to see how much they were. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, full-tilt John McEnroe as I read the caption.
“Boys? Boys! It’s trainers, OK? Not sneakers.”
I heard one of them whisper: “Just agree. I think Mum’s lost the plot.”