One is not amused

Dear Mum,

It has recently been brought to my attention that I gained a work opportunity because of my accent. My articulation, worthy of a BBC news presenter, ultimately gave me the edge, meaning a girl from Upminster missed out.

I’m pretty miffed about this.

It is, of course, wonderful that I gained the opportunity and, had I found this fact out before accepting, I admit I wouldn’t have turned down the role in moral protest.

But this other girl was more experienced than I, more subtle and very capable. Despite this, the scales tipped in my favour, apparently under the weight of my precise articulation and pronunciation.

Objectively, this is unfair. It’s not fair on her that her regional upbringing was her downfall and unfair on me that my accent as opposed to my skill set meant I took the biscuit.

In a Carrie Bradshaw “I couldn’t help but wonder” way it got me thinking about accents.

Kate and I were born to you, a southwest country maiden, and Dad, a Londoner. Both born in the north west, our family moved to the south east when I was just six months old and, as a result, I consider myself a southerner.  

My social and academic education in Kent instilled in me a dialect that is sometimes called ‘The Queen’s English’, other times 'well spoken', and is sometimes called ‘posh.’

I am NOT posh. I have always lived on a housing estate, I’ve never been privately educated, I’ve not been ferried about in a Land Rover, I don’t have a black Labrador with a name like ‘Bunty’ and I’ve never partaken in lashings of gingerbeer.

Yet people assume that because I don’t drop the t’s in ‘butter’ that Mummy and Daddy paid for my education.

How archaic.

I admit that I am middle-class and there are times when I have to rein in my middle-class alter-ego, Lucinda. Certain situations seduce her from her slumber, like a snake gyrating from its basket to the evocative melody of a snake charmer.

At uni, for example, whenever I spoke to you or a friend from home on the phone, my housemates (a Geordie, a Londoner, two Welshies and an Essex gal) would shriek “Oh my god, you get SO POSH!”

Worse still, I could see where they were coming from. When Pippa came to stay, for example, a situation gained her reaction of “OMG, Luce, that was PIPS!” which made Lucinda and I feel very much at one, safe and sound in the cosy comfort of middle-class norm.

I’m not alone in being aware of and shrinking from my own accent. My Essex housemate frequently would tell us “I had to come up with an excuse to end the phone call, my Mum’s accent was so grating. No-one should use the phrase ‘I couldn’t give a tiny little rat’s arse’ so many times in one anecdote, least of all your mother.”  

The rest of us shrieked with laughter at this. I would relish it if, every once in a while, you and I dropped such expressions into conversation.

Indeed, my housemate would become even more ‘Essex’ when her parents came for tea. It was wonderful to listen to.

It only seemed fair that I then offered her similar entertainment and so answered the phone to you with a cheery, “Good evening, Mater” and a cheeky wink in her direction. She was thrilled!

But, rather sinisterly, the same housemate admitted that her Southend school had held elocution lessons. This seems a little dramatic.

Hasn’t twenty-first century Britain moved away from these outdated, Victorian attitudes? I thought or, rather, hoped that we had.

It is healthy to pass judgement on one’s own upbringing and accent. In fact, teasing one’s self is good practice for gaining a little humility and modesty.

But accents are no-one else’s business and an accent certainly shouldn’t be the basis for a final decision about someone. An accent is as important as a facial mole or colour of one’s hair. It’s just one of those things that make a person what they are.

This is my rambling attitude about accents, anyway. In the words of Rhett Butler, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”