One little discussed aspect of being a New Zealander living overseas is just how much needle we get about our accents. And I don’t mean from French ladies wearing orange mascara in bread shops. I mean from other english-speaking tourists.

This can get pretty tiring. One american guy I kept running into would always «giddAAY MATE» me at the top of his voice. Humourous only when you consider he himself sounded just like cousin Enos from the Dukes of Hazard. Another Chinese lady asked me where I was from and then, giggling, said «you sound so flunny». I sound ‘flunny’?
Racist.

Personally, I don’t think us Kiwis sound that funny. I think my friend Barry from Waimate sounds funny. But that’s because of his lisp.

Now, maybe we do come across a bit goofy when we try and speak other languages, like French. Or Australian. My Parisien girlfriend recently informed me I sounded «like a seagull dying» when I try to speak French. (This was during what I now call her ‘supportive’ phase.) We ended up having a big argument, with me warning her – in no uncertain terms – that some seagulls only pretend to die... then come back and peck their enemies to death one by one. There was a movie about it. Hard Beak. Steven Segal played the seagull.

Still, one great thing about arguing with a French person is as soon as its dinner time, everything stops for food.

Anyway, because people keep hassling me, and while I am in Paris after all, I have decided to seize the opportunity to learn as much english as possible. Saturday, I bought a box-set at a library sale called Le Repetiteur d’anglais. Actually, I thought this meant repitition – of french stuff – for english people. Turns out it was the opposite. But it cost two whole euros. With that kind of outlay you’re kind of committed.

It wasn’t till I got home that I realised my ‘box-set’ was actually seven 45s – records. I had assumed they were just big, very dirty CDs. This was about the same time I realised I didn’t have a record player. Thankfully my friend (not Barry, the other one) does.
The first lesson we listened to was «Count from ten to a Thousand» which just about took all night. Next we listened to «John’s Day» where basically John gets up early to do some exercise before going to work. Stephen King must have had something to do with that one because it was pretty scary. Then we listened to «Happy Birthday, Betty!» where Betty describes all her presents and announces the names of the people coming to her party. My friend started getting dressed up after his name was announced, but Betty never gave out her address. I didn’t care that I didn’t get invited.

To me, the whole thing was typical of Betty. Even when it’s not her birthday, she is always going on about herself.

The guy talking on the records sounded like he’d been in the same cricket team as Biggles at Eaton. All it did was remind me how much I miss real words that have nothing to do with properer english. Words like ‘Bro’, ‘heaps’, ‘pash’ and ‘bullcrap’. Bullcrap I miss heaps. I can honestly say I will pash the next person I hear say bullcrap. As long as it’s not, say, Rodney Hide. Or my Dad.

In fact, I realised something while listening to Betty describe the ingredients of her birthday cake. The real reason the bottom has fallen out of my new novel is I am running on empty: I haven’t eavesdropped on New Zealandese now for over five months now. Haven’t heard anyone say «choice» for six.

So I am quitting writing altogther. My new life is going to be like a slightly overweight Bourne Identity. I will talk more to people – as I karate chop or shoot them – than Matt Damon does, and hopefully they will say things back like «shot, bro» and «o for awesome» as I take their dopey asses out.

You can read all about these adventures on www.nzsecretagentwithamnesiainParis.com