I just had my first internal thought in a Scottish accent.
It was: “No realleh,” (“Not Really”) in response to a question I asked myself internally on my way home from work. My level of conscious thought is obviously high during these 15 minute walks to and from my flat. I file away all the work stuff that buzzes around my head all day, and ‘de-frag’ my brain in preparation for my actual life unfolding as it does between sleeping and doing my job.
My worklife balance is good, but without these de-briefing sessions I hold on the way along East Claremont Street I don’t know where I’d put all my thoughts.
The fact that my inner monologue now has a fairly broad Edinburgh accent is both fascinating and slightly troubling. I wonder if it’s the death knell for whatever’s left of my bonny Belfast twang, which has been ever-dwindling since I moved here almost nine years ago. My Mother is originally from Scotland but even I only found that out when I quizzed her about it as a fairly grown up child. Her accent is mild but unmistakably Northern Irish, as she’s been on the Emerald Isle since about 1974.
Her attractive Lanarkshire accent only made one brief return, as she came round from general anaesthetic after giving birth to me by caesarean in 1983. Apparently she complained about some seagulls as my Dad proudly presented her with her new daughter. I don’t remember this.
I’ll continue to monitor this carefully. Please, friends, tell me if I suddenly start talking like Kirsty Wark.
I beseech you.