My Anglophilia is acting up again.
I blame Eliza. Yes, Eliza Doolittle and her little friend, Enry Iggins.
At a tender age, they sucked me into their English world, entranced me with their accents, both proper and improper, charmed me with their culture and as a result, I transformed into a full-blown Anglophile at the age of five.
Lest you shudder at this supposed malady and keep your distance, I assure you Anglophilia is a good thing.
A very, very good thing.
Here, I’ll even save you a rendezvous with the dictionary and define my “situation”.
Anglophile:A person who is fond of English culture and England in general.
I would submit that ‘fond’ is an excessive understatement and unabashedly admit my monstrous addiction to all things English.
Pondering the upcoming one-year anniversary of my trip to the Motherland has caused my Anglophilia to flare up and while I’m immensely proud to be an American, I just can’t get over things like this
(Speaking of good manners—how helpful can they be?)
or places like this
So don’t worry about catching Anglophilia from me because I’m not giving any of it away.
I will continue to think in an English accent, watch American Idol just to hear Simon speak, save my pennies to convert into Pounds for my London flat, write novels with English main characters and attempt to eat with my left hand, like my lovely mates in England do.
I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? Banishment to the Motherland?
Cheers!
P.S. For the record, I used Gloucester font in the making of this post. :)
