How to Tell a Yank From a Brit

Offer a cup of tea

My husband is American, but he’s lived in England for the past thirty years. During this time, he has gradually embraced the mores of his adopted country, and his Boston accent has softened. He says courgette and aubergine rather than zucchini and eggplant. He talks about the chances of rain (snow shovelling and air conditioners are distant memories), and he has even become interested in football (soccer).

He’s coming along rather well. But there’s one stubborn trait that remains: his response to the offer of a cup of tea.

Offer a Brit a cup of tea, and they transform before your eyes. ‘Ooh, lovely,’ they coo. Their eyes shine, their backbone stiffens, their belief in humanity is restored. They metaphorically and oft times literally do a tap dance of joy.

But when I offer my husband a cup of tea, he pauses. He thinks about it. There’s no reflexive rhapsody. He considers the question as if there is another answer beyond ‘Ooh lovely,’ which there isn’t, as every Brit knows.

I shake my head. ‘Lacklustre, lacklustre,’ I lament.

If he accepts my offer of a cup of tea, it is with detachment, a shrug of his shoulders, a-take-it-or-leave-it desultory, ‘Okay.’

I tell him, ‘If England is invaded and the invading army seeks to flush out Americans, all they need do is ask, “Would you like a cup of tea?” and you will be exposed. They will get you. Your response could be the difference between life and death. Now. Let’s try it again. “Cup of tea?”’

He tries. He rubs his hands together, says, ‘Ooh lovely,’ but there’s no oomph, no joy, no joie de vivre. It’s shocking.

I shake my head.

Lacklustre.