When it comes to men, I’m not overly concerned by looks. I’m not naturally drawn to pretty boys (although I’m willing to make exceptions) and in fact I’m more likely to be physically attracted to men who have a rugby players build, a bent out of shape nose and cauliflower ear. The rougher they look the more they peak my interest, but this isn’t necessarily a looks thing, it’s just that I prefer “men’s men”. (Any guy who takes longer getting ready than I do is a complete no-no in my book) What matters most to me is an amiable personality, the confidence to speak freely and honestly and the ability to make me chuckle. I’m always turned on by a guy that can get the measure of me quickly, and suss out what’s going to make me laugh out loud. One thing I am a sucker for however is an accent.
I don’t particularly have one myself (the result of spending my formative years moving from one place to another) but there is something about a guy with an accent that grabs my attention, and very often gets me a little flustered! The girls at work laugh at me because I have two suppliers who, without fail, have this effect on me. One (Ben) is an Aussie, and there’s something about the way he calls me “Nahd-alie” that makes me stumble over my words every time I speak to him. It’s ridiculous really that I should react in this way, as I am in fact a grown woman with keen conversational skills, but for some reason my reaction to his voice is for my tongue to become numb, heavy and useless, and for my brain to take leave of my body, rendering me unable to string simple sentences together - thus making me sound like some kind of ditzy moron. The other (Giancarlo) is Canadian, and whilst I’m thankfully able to process thoughts normally and at least participate in our conversations, his accent does send me a little weak at the knees. I have never seen Giancarlo, and for all I know he could be Fifty, balding and weigh 8st wringing wet, but in my mind, when he talks, he’s essentially a Canadian version of Danny Care. (I’m actually avoiding setting up face to face meetings with him just in case the reality spoils my little fantasy)
My love of a good accent doesn’t just focus around the exotic though. I could listen to the Welsh for hours (this accent had the most unbelievably calming effect on me). A broad Yorkshire accent sends a tingle down my spine and brings about visions of Sean Bean (Oooh Major Sharpe – yum!), likewise a Southern/borderline Essex accent is guaranteed to get the heart rate pumping a little faster! I’m not just responsive to accents on men though. In fact my friend The Geordie Lass is a constant source of amusement to me...mainly because with a Geordie accent everything sounds funnier! She can be prattling on about the most mundane things, but I can’t help but listen to her avidly. She doesn’t just have a different accent, it’s a whole new language to learn...where children are called Bairns and where you’re not going somewhere, you’re gannin. Where, when talking about your sister, you never use her name, instead referring to her as “war lass” or your brother, “war kid”. Luckily I can understand her just fine, but it’s hilarious to watch people here in the midlands, as their minds boggle trying desperately to translate what she’s saying. I remember once, we called into a local Greek-Cypriot owned Kebab shop for a bit of scram after a night on the town, and recall perfectly the furrowed brows and looks of confusion as she placed her order;
The Geordie Lass: “Wye aye Pet, Ah-reet? Ahm ganny have a cheeseburg-ah an cheps man”
Kebab Man: “Huh?”
The Geordie Lass: “cheeseburg-ah an cheps?”
Kebab Man: “Eh?”
The Geordie Lass: “CheeseburGAH and CHEPS?
Kebab Man (looks imploringly in my direction but says nothing)
Me: “She’d like a cheeseburger and chips please”
Kebab Man (relieved) “Aaaah! I no understand what she say with her crazy h’accent!”
...Luckily The Geordie Lass is quite teeny so I managed to restrain her before she launched herself over the counter to give the Kebab Man a “Geordie Kiss”.
My absolute favourite accent however, is the West Country accent. Don’t ask me why! I can only assume it’s because over the years I’ve spent a lot of time in the West Country, but this is one accent that I pick up very easily if I spend too much time around it. Which quite frankly recently has been a nightmare as for the last few months I’ve been sat opposite a girl from Bristol, and I have to really control myself, for fear of her thinking I’m taking the piss....of course sometimes I actually am taking the piss – luckily she doesn’t seem to mind.
I guess the thing with an accent is that it gives you a sense of belonging. People can tell automatically where you’re from. You have a “hometown”. That’s not something I’ve ever really had. Nowhere where I felt I had any real roots. But then the joy of not having roots is that you’ll never be tied to one place unless you want to be. The world is your oyster, and your dreams can take you anywhere...
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