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English accents are fascinating. In Britain, a person with experience can tell where somebody grew up to within a dozen miles if they have not had elocution lessons. In the more recently colonized parts, like the U S, there are regional accents that are discernable to the trained ear. A Red Neck from the Deep South sounds very different from a New England Yankee. Naturally, people who use English as a second tongue have their origins readily identified by their pronunciation and word usage. An exception is Australia. There are minor differences in a few words and phrases, but basically only vocabulary can be used to pigeonhole a person.
Coming to Australia over 50 years ago, I was labeled "Bloody Pom" the moment I uttered two words. Total immersion in Oz culture gradually flatted and broadened my Home County, Kentish urban vowels till I could nearly pass for a native. However, the formative years had imbued a delivery rate and imbedded some peculiar phrases into my speech pattern. You can take the boy out of London, etc. etc.
Time came to take the obligatory trip back. It was fun being exposed to the Cockney glottal stop, the nasal tones of the Midlands, the lilt of the Welsh and the West Country burr again. I drank pints of flat, warm, tasty beer and conversed with the locals, having few problems communicating. Why should I? I was a Bloody Pom. Been told that most of my life.
Then we went on the bus trip on the Continent. 18 days of early rising, funny money, photo opportunities, and more accents. The tour party was the expected mixture of Yanks, Kiwis, and Aussies, with some Filipinos for variety. English was the "lingua franca", delivered with faultless grammar and strong accent by the Belgian tour guide. Somehow the party twigged to my origins, so I continued to be a Brit, Limey, Pommy, among the company.
Then there was the day we visited St. Peters in Rome. An incredible building infested with about five thousand people, talking a hundred languages. I was standing gazing at the superbly crafted masonry of the building when a young, male backpacker approached me. He was presentable with clean clothes, freshly shaven and hair combed.
"Excuse me," he said with the unmistakable Oxford English beloved of BBC announcers, "do you speak English?"
"Oh, a bit" said I, straight-faced.
"Thank goodness," he breathed, "an Orstralian".
It had taken 54 years, and a 10,000-mile trip to finally get properly identified. Maybe St Peters is a place of miracles.

Clarence City Council
We'd like to thank Clarence City Council for their support via a Community Support Grant.