Don't Tell Me

No, hearing the British accent every day hasn't gotten old yet. It's especially nice coming from select lecturers with pleasant voices, young children, and most automated things. (For example, the bodiless female voice in the grocery store who, with considerable excitement, tells customers waiting in line, "Cashier number FOURTEEN, please!" And the lady on the other end when you dial the number on the phone card: "Please entah your PIN numbah.")

I've been warned, however, about a certain syndrome which afflicts many Americans re-entering the States after an extended amount of time spent in Britain. The symptoms are as follows: attempting to use "cheers" and "mate" in everyday conversation, calling cookies "biscuits" and French fries "chips", and possibly evidencing a disproportionate affinity for tea. They call it "a case of the Madonnas". (After the starlet herself, who basically decided she was British and everybody went along with it. Probably for the same reason she can get away with having no last name.)

Let's hope I'm cool enough to avoid developing a case of the Madonnas. (I'd appreciate a few swift kicks to the shins if the contrary turns out to be the case.)