For the most part, I get the English. I really do. I know that we’re “two countries separated by a common langauge” (or something equally obnoixous and clever), but for the most part, I understand and am pretty familiar with English culture. My mom spent her childhood split between the U.K and Italy, and my aunt is married to an Englishman, and I’ve got English cousins and the like. They make tea roughly 5 times a day, they consume a disproportional amount of potatoes, and they influenced my vocabulary as a young child to the point of me saying weird things, like callings bangs a “fringe”, sweaters “jumpers”, and referring to a car’s blinker as an “indicator”. That last one is something that, for whatever reason, I’ve been unable to kick.
Oh, and growing up my brother forced me to watch hours upon hours of old Doctor Who episodes with him every rainy weekend we had. I cannot even begin to articulate how boring that sort of thing is for anyone, much less a nine-year-old girl. Seriously, he owes me. Big time.