Now that I'm working here in Scotland, Bryan and I aren't doing the same thing every day all day. As they say here, I took the High Road, and he took the Low Road. So I'll also take some weight off of Bryan's blog-shoulders and talk about how my new job is going here in Glasgow:
I don't understand a bloody thing. I'm not an idiot when it comes to dialects, but wow. I thought Northern Ireland was bad, but the Scots of the working class variety are totally uninteligable. I think I've made it even worse by telling them that I don't understand what they're "saying" because then they lay it on as thick as they can and watch me struggle as I try to link the sounds I make to the sounds they make. How the hell does an "oh" becaome an "ae" like "nae" and "fae." The sentence "I never knew what that was for" becomes "E naerrrrrrrrneewha'tha'sfee."
I work in a kitchen- the same kind of a kitchen I worked in N. Irleand. Even the same company - but this time it's in a furniture factory. I dread serving them over the counter, not only because I can't understand them, but because when I do understand them, I find myself thinking that it's impossible for someone to actually want to eat such unappetizing concoctions. They put potato bread on top of blackpudding (in most countries it's known as bloodpudding- blood and oats mixed together) and then put the bread and blood on a bun- but it's not called a bun, it's a 'bap'. Yes, then they actually eat it.
As a result, I try to stay in my lonely corner, dilligently washing dishes. The cooks and porters who've worked there for years - Brenda, Barbara and Peter - know exactly what every one of the hundred or so factory workers want, to the point that they can have it all ready before it's asked for. They can easily handle the strange-spoken customers, and help me out accordingly. While I'm glad to have work, and glad to be working with three interesting, friendly, helpful people, I'm really glad this will only last a week.
I don't understand a bloody thing. I'm not an idiot when it comes to dialects, but wow. I thought Northern Ireland was bad, but the Scots of the working class variety are totally uninteligable. I think I've made it even worse by telling them that I don't understand what they're "saying" because then they lay it on as thick as they can and watch me struggle as I try to link the sounds I make to the sounds they make. How the hell does an "oh" becaome an "ae" like "nae" and "fae." The sentence "I never knew what that was for" becomes "E naerrrrrrrrneewha'tha'sfee."
I work in a kitchen- the same kind of a kitchen I worked in N. Irleand. Even the same company - but this time it's in a furniture factory. I dread serving them over the counter, not only because I can't understand them, but because when I do understand them, I find myself thinking that it's impossible for someone to actually want to eat such unappetizing concoctions. They put potato bread on top of blackpudding (in most countries it's known as bloodpudding- blood and oats mixed together) and then put the bread and blood on a bun- but it's not called a bun, it's a 'bap'. Yes, then they actually eat it.
As a result, I try to stay in my lonely corner, dilligently washing dishes. The cooks and porters who've worked there for years - Brenda, Barbara and Peter - know exactly what every one of the hundred or so factory workers want, to the point that they can have it all ready before it's asked for. They can easily handle the strange-spoken customers, and help me out accordingly. While I'm glad to have work, and glad to be working with three interesting, friendly, helpful people, I'm really glad this will only last a week.
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