'City life and lessons' PRACTICE ARTICLE EXTRACT

I 'grew up' in the rolling red bricks of England. The busy streets were never a place i was allowed to play unless it was either snowing, where no cars dared to venture, or a sweltering hot afternoon where all the sensible individuals had retreated into the cool shade of their homes. Not me. I much preferred making myself dizzy by swinging around the washing line pole until the sheer heat of the metal burned my hands and left me with 'boyish' blisters- an ever occurring phrase that regularly swung round the washing pole of my life for the good part of eleven years. Of course when you're this age, hardly anything is boring and everything that is supposed to make no sense, never matters. Because when you're this age what would you worry about more; The fact that the economy is crumbling or whether you could fit in seeing three of your friends all in one day?

The day we moved from the terrace house in the busy streets of Bristol to a quiet home on the outskirts of North Somerset, I had just turned eight. My little sister was a new born and my younger brother was around five. He cried horrendously when we left the house for the last time. Forever the attention seeker he would cry at anything-not so much anymore but he always finds a way to get some kind of attention nevertheless. I, however bragged to my friends about the "huge" new house we were moving into and how the garden was "one-hundred feet with a swing and loads of trees". Moving to the countryside wasn't a big deal for me at this time. I wasn't a bored child, I was simply unoccupied from time to time. Before i could fully imagine the endless possibility of the city and what it beholds in its grey hands, from the people i would meet in my teenage years to all the situations I would face later on, the countryside was open and an endless opportunity. My dad and I had a patch of garden that we tended to sporadically. A muddy patch of ground, set aside from my parents' adult garden and all just for me and dad. I have no recollection of tending to my muddy patch I was ever so proud of. It probably survived through a stroke of Somerset luck or, more likely, the unseen hand of my dad.

When i reached the ever so tender age of fifteen, my teenage years piled on fast and thick. I was still only a young adult but the need to escape the countryside was growing. By the time I had reached sixteen (almost reaching seventeen) and had left school I was gagging to escape the green grasp of the country. My mind was begging me to leave the quiet, the uneventful blanket of rolling hills and grazing cattle that seemed to be suffocating me. I chose a college that was as far away as acceptable and back in the bustling city that held me so tenderly as a child. Here is where i encountered my very first taste of life as a whole. With this new found freedom I learnt more lessons than I could count on my two hands. All the people encountered, all the relationships, all the dates, all the places I visited, taught me something. They allowed me to grasp reality faster than I believe i would've staying in the comfort of my parents' humble abode. Which brings me onto my first lesson that was an essential part of my development as a person: "If your dreams are bigger than the town you live in, you've got to get out of there" (-Brian Fallon)

The beginning of college for me was overwhelming. I struggled intensely with the work load that my previous teachers had not prepared me for prior to starting. I tried my very hardest to juggle both my social life as well as my education, this, I just about managed with but only by the tightest schedule I've ever encountered. Looking back on it now I made such rash decisions about what came first, which was almost always my social life. Regrettably, this left me with a reputation as someone who didn't always hand in the perfect essay homework, that arrived late because I'd stayed up late the night before and as the one who always left things to the last minute. However, don't get me wrong, I always tried my hardest in class and in the time I'd freed up for study. My teachers never saw the hardest I ever worked because I was never one to raise my hand in class. But i listened intently to every single detail that was ever written, spoken or discussed. I picked up on all the little improvements that were needed to achieve the highest grades and I made sure that i never fell behind in class work. But homework has always been my pitfall. Unfortunately, this is what you're judged on.  At the end of my two years, a personal statement was required to each of your subject teachers. I remember very clearly what i wrote to all my AS and A-level teachers. Lesson number two, a statement that quoted Tiger Woods and one that I'd been trying to get across to them throughout the entirety of my stay; "I'm trying as hard as I can, and sometimes things don't go your way and that's the way things go."

THE STUFF OF DREAMS (FIRST DRAFT)

Dreams are a series of images, emotions, ideas and perceptions that occur involuntarily in the unconscious mind during sleep. The purpose and content of dreaming has never been definitively understood, though they have been a subject of psychological and scientific speculation, as well as a subject of philosophical and religious interest at the time of discovery and discussion of dreams and dreaming throughout history. They have been described as ‘the royal road to the unconscious by Sigmund Freud, a doctor in the nineteen hundreds. This may not be an occurring fact when you wake from a dream that involves you participating in sporting events, stark naked with your ex-lover. However, the interpretations of these kinds of dreams are a specialist interest for psychoanalysts who believe that all dreams have a hidden meaning. Some may say that your previous partner being over exposed with you means that you can see right through them and their intentions. It may also foretell an illicit love affair or some scandalous activity. But, this is not scientifically proven. Dream analysis is only a personal interpretation based on gathered facts and statistics of a wide audience. Everyone’s dreams are individual to their own mind and it’s how you interpret them that matters. You may never think about the dream again.

If dreams are the ‘Royal Road to the Unconscious’ then the route that we’re taking when we dream may be the deadliest highway of horrendous twists and turns leaving us heavily sweating and struggling to breathe. Or, they may be mysterious, bewildering and more often then you may assume: eye opening.

The history of dreaming dates back to the BC era, when ancient Greeks and The Egyptians were the leading force in teaching and education of subjects that nobody had explored before. The Egyptians analysed the main meaning behind dreams and the Greeks interpreted these theories into their own culture. Aristotle famously wrote: “A person awakes from sleep when digestion is complete”. - This is evidently not true, however many of us wake from sleep or dreaming when the worst possible scenario is about to occur. Psychoanalysts believe this is an unconscious decision made by our brain or our ‘Super Ego’ to stop us damaging our other unconscious processes. In other words; our brain stops us from dreaming any further if the mental images we’re creating would do damage to us emotionally or physically.

Despite the possibility of our mind emotionally damaging us through the form of mental images, some people enjoy dreaming so much that they participate in taking an extremely potent, illegal hallucinogenic drug called Dimethyltryptamine (Dime-Thigh-l-tripe-tamine). This drug is an isolated and synthetic form of the similar chemical formed in our brains when we dream. It allows the individual to continue dreaming throughout the day without their brain waking up with unconscious decision.

 Personally, the thought of dreaming more than the norm is not something I would like to actively participate in. I’ve had more than my fair share of obscure and temporarily mentally damaging dreams to last me an entire life time. Dreams are often passed off as a simple one night occurrence. Never to be seen again unless the wandering, sluggish mind accidently bumps into its old friend on a cold lonely night- the reoccurring dream, and what do you need more on a cold lonely night than to relive terrible memories that you swore you’d never revisit… But, one of the best ways to fully appreciate the strange fluidity of this unconscious state of mind is to remember the beautiful rarity of this hallucinogenic cinema of imagery that parades around your thoughts throughout the night. Picking up on things that your eyes had seen in the daytime but had passed off as something that needn’t be stored in the already crowded brain.  When you wake from a dream it’s easy to forget the unnatural bombardment of thoughts that travel through your head. Forgetting how easy it is for your brain to turn a park bench into a fully-fledged sleigh as you ride through the night in a land you’ve never been before. Dreaming truly is the land of the bizarre.

poem

How could he say he knew her,
when he'd only seen her skin,
not bothering to find the world she hides,
that's buried deep within.
But she had heard his ribs all creak,
behind each plaited vine,
When he had only touched the waterfall,
that cascaded down her spine.
He'd said to her, "loving someone is harder than you assume,
so don't go thinking that I love you now, and definitely not this soon."
But he had not been here long enough,
to see her new love start,
or find the ruined castle,
that lay implanted in her heart.
She had explored all the branches,
that were wrapped around each lung,
swaying with the breezes,
that she so longed to touch her tongue.
He said, "Don't mark me with your footprints,
I plan to leave too soon."
and with that her world just crumbled,
and her heart span round the room.
She knew that day that he broke her heart,
not just once but once again,
that love truly wasn't like the ones written down in ink and pen.
But anyone who saw,
 how fondly she'd still look,
knew in just an instant,
 how strongly she was hooked.

Course work (style model 1) UNFINISHED DRAFT

So this story, this part of my life, begins with my first diagnoses at the age of thirteen. I was wasting my time in front of the TV, when my parents attempted to soundlessly edge their way through to the sitting room, i don't know whether this was an attempt to soften the unavoidably devastating news, like their heavy footsteps would make it harder, but nevertheless the news shot me down. The background noise of the TV drowned out the details of what my parents were explaining but I didn't care. My shocked body didn't even notice that the cat had wandered in and shat on the floor.

That first sense of a genuine shock was intensely unsettling. At thirteen, i was entering a phase where I needed to fit in. A phase where popular opinion of those around you dictates your every move. I could feel it creeping up on me as my friends began to regroup and when people started to gain knowledge of my diagnosis; others eyes clung to my skin in the school corridor, i no longer 'fit in'. I wanted to turn round and scream at these onlookers, these nosey 'need to know' scavengers: "I AM NOT ABNORMAL". But i was. There was no running from the fact. I was abnormal. The word shrieked at me from every hospital letter; my peers delicate approach to talking to me; my parents' newly resurrected sympathy became a loop hole to getting what i wanted but it was the kind of sympathy you get when you're two and you graze your knee. I became an object that shouldn't be allowed out of the heavily packed box, and this frustrated me on an enormous level. Pushed off guard by a hormone secreting brain tumour, my ever so important social status was crushed, for the next year those around me named me "the brain tumour girl" behind my back and my self confidence was in shreds. This beginning experience was probably subconsciously exaggerated due to my teenage brain telling me that everything was to come crashing down. It wasn't. It didn't. My mental stability fluctuated massively between the ages of fourteen/fifteen. But aside from that my diagnosis was actually strengthening for me, not only because i was forced to haul myself out of bed so I didn't lose the ability to walk, but for me as a person too. It was the beginning of an extremely long year but I can still count on one hand the amount of times i cried over it.

"Just remember, everything is okay and we'll get this sorted, it's only a two hour operation" the doctor reminded me as she ushered me into a curtained room, covered in crudely coloured octopi (a room I wouldn't stay in very long in the following few months). My mother sat down next to me and brushed my hair into a ponytail and back out. The hospital gown was white, with ugly pink flower blotches that we're barely attached to their translucent stems. Catching a glimpse of myself in the reflective window, my dad made a comment about how i looked like a Norman Rockwell painting.

Transcript Analysis

 

Participants: Mille (M) and Ella (E).

Transcript analysis of a communication exercise.

The communication exercise took place in the school cafeteria at 2:30pm, in a fairly busy environment so background noise can be heard throughout the entirety of the recording (although the majority of this murmur is not written/recorded due to an unnecessary inclusion).

At [00:00 seconds] (M) begins to communicate with (E), immediately using informal jargon to communicate her point across. The colloquial use of “gonna” is expressed throughout the transcript creating imagery of an informal situation. The micro-pauses (.) and pauses (n*) throughout the transcript/recording let us know that the speech is not rehearsed but spontaneously thought of in order to make sense of what was trying to be communicated towards (E). (Although forms of micro-pauses are obligatory or completely necessary and numbered or timed pauses could be included to leave time to follow complex instructions given by the main speaker). Other forms of delayed expressions are also used, including the phrase “hang on” and continuous stalling by asking questions for clarification from (M) to (E) such as: “is that right?”; “Which side are you  doing?” and “on which side?”.  The paralinguistic tone of voice in these questions is significantly different to the rest of the sentences which don’t include questions. 

At [00:30] (M) begins to leave longer pauses between words. Giving her time to assess what she will say to (E). The sentence that (M) says is obviously  clearer to (E) this is shown when (E) replies with a short, one worded answer; “Okay”, to clarify to (M) that what she said was made clear.  After this communication the language between the two subjects becomes less clear, including more questions to and from (M) and (E) with a significant rise in the number of micro-pauses (.) included, with a maximum waiting time of (5)seconds. This long wait between words and at the end of sentences not only gives the impression that what (M) was trying to communicate was complicated or complex to both subjects but also that subject (E) needed time to assess and clarify what she was going to do post instruction. The clarification word that comes across strongest is the term “Right?//right.”   This shows the reader that the two participants have formed an unconscious “safe” word to communicate affectively.

At the end of the transcript the language begins to alter. Shifting dramatically from standard communication (back and forth) to a communication whereas participant (M) begins to [laugh] repeatedly throughout. This sudden outburst ends the communication exercise.

Email to a friend about career paths and what not.

Hey Charlie the Adventurer.

I have decided that is an additional nickname in which I will be calling you from now on. maybe with regular intervals which include your other 4 additional nicknames. Either way you have no choice in the matter.

I thought I would email you due to the fact I have come across a major life decision/career path and that I'm also in bed with the biggest migraine I have ever had in my 17 years of being alive. I have thought through thoroughly (ooh the alliteration) trying to decide what to actually do with my life after sixth form and so forth. As you well know from my rambling conversations on this topic, I have fluctuated between several career based decisions and have finally gone back to the roots or gut feeling of my 12-14 year old self of journalism. Or more precisely, writing a column for a magazine. I would like to pursue the path of a columnist. I am going to be a writer.  Although the majority of popular magazines are fashion/popular gossip from the ol’ town of Hollywood, I have browsed the magazine sections and have found the more independent magazines, which apparently only the minority read, to be much more suiting to my style of writing. And actually, a lot more interesting. My English Language teacher is (currently) impressed with my pieces, although, and I quote, they are “absolutely unacceptably late” she still grades them, persistently higher than I expect. “It was brilliant Ella, just hand it in on the date not 15 days post to the deadline”. To quote Mick Jagger: “Old habits die hard”.

So, Alas, it may be time to drop the unreachable dream of being a lawyer or a psychologist or even a family mediator, or whatever the hell that nutty nonsense was, and focus on my writing. A change of AS levels next year to accommodate this decision is definitely necessary, all to English/creative media tasks (I may throw in some Fine Art for the shits and giggles) and I think that’s probably more me.  

I have bought myself a journal (or more Tom has bought me one, due to the fact I have lost my job…) along with a significantly expensive array of pens to get me started.

The next time you see me I may be writing a column for a magazine, living in a lovely house with my husband and children. The money flowing in rapidly as well as the happiness and loving lifestyle I have created. Or I may be a struggling student breathing in the dank air as I take up a nasty habit of smoking due to ‘fitting in’ with the oh so cool English crowd, struggling with writers block and become increasingly thinner, whilst writing all my creations on the damp wooden floor…whatever happens I know that I’ll be happy and content with what I am doing (or trying to do) with my life. So It turns out, I should have listened to 12 year old me before I took up psychology and law. Because I was right all along. Who said 12 year olds don't know what they’re doing.

lots of love,

Ella (future columnist).

P.S please tell me more about your trip! or new life? I know you’re busy with turtles and lists of buckets (you know your bucket list) and what not…I hope you’re enjoying yourself! missing your moles. hope to hear from you soon! xxx  

My Mini Sagas.

Haunted.

When I rolled over to see if you were still there,
You hastily opened your exhausted, glassy eyes.
“What are you looking at?” you spat.
Your cold voice echoed in the dark.
I closed my bruised eyelids.
I answered with nothing but a sigh,
And you were gone once again.

 

Definitely not the suburbs.

It doesn’t matter if you smash that window.
Or if you talk to your neighbour using expletives.
Or if you’re lacking in the basic manners since birth,
Even if your parents really tried.
It doesn’t matter if you steal.
Or if you wrong, rights.
Because you’ll never fit in anyway.

 

Ring of Fire

Lifting granddad out of the vehicle,

His head shook from side to side.

“Careful!” shouted Dad when we walked over.

I wish Nan was here, she’d know how to do this.

Everyone looked sad as we walked into the crematorium.

Granddad had ring of fire played as his last song.

 

 

Article about Nothing.

Have you Ever been lied to? In the office, at school, by your friends, girlfriends or boyfriends? And is it really that much of a big deal?...

Sitting in my oxford university apartment, which I had to tell a few white lies to get, I’m thinking to myself, what is lying and why do we do it?

Ella Keating

If I was to ask you whether or not the times you’ve apologized have been legitimately genuine or whether you said ‘I’m sorry’ just so you didn’t have to face another minute of you opponents/ partners (same sort of thing) flushed red cheeks and obviously incorrect comments directed towards your obviously incorrect statements. Or when you lent your newest acquaintance a subtly satin, beautiful crafted, excessively expensive handbag that you “don’t need for a couple of weeks anyway”, with the hope of meeting a new fashion friend who you can destroy the office with only using your powers of fashion and friendship. Only to figure how much you hated her. But ALAS! How can you simply ask her for your bag back when you can’t even look directly at her out of pure principle! What to do next? Face the trauma of politely stating that you needed it back? NO! Don’t be so ridiculous…Find someone who to tell a lie about how much they hated you too and ‘oh that’s a nice bag! Can I borrow it for a while, I don’t like her much either I promise I won’t tell”. Only to breathe a sigh of relief when you witness the  passing of the glistening satin into your friends hands to then gather in the ladies loo’s and bitch about her with your lying friend and your newly retrieved item…

Whilst sitting on my own, cocktail in hand on the white sandy beaches of Hawaii (AKA my brand new, bare white flat and a cheap lemonade and vodka in hand) I came to the realisation that not only do I need other items in my house and not only a sofa bed but that maybe I lie more than I realise. Now don’t get me wrong, I am not a pathological liar who manipulates people into doing things for me…all the time. However, my fake ID at the age of 16 was when the lying began. Holding hands with my 19 year old boyfriend (who told me he was religious but something told me otherwise) and walking to pretty much anywhere with the “cool kids” that my parents strongly disapproved of (which I protested against usually with “it doesn’t matter anyway mum! I don’t hang around with them often and oh my god no they don’t smoke any ‘green matter’…) Now I know what you’re thinking, “Damn, fake ID, cool friends that smoked green matter…or not…this girl got it all!” or most likely; “Big deal Ella! Everyone had a fake ID! HELL I still use mine”. To begin with, yes at the time it felt like I had it all and secondly let’s not kid ourselves here…put the ID joke to rest. But lying to my loving, caring parents who had “clearly never spat a filthy lie once in OUR ENTIRE LIVES ELLA”-Mr.Keating 2014, was the most rebellious thing anyone in my village has EVER DONE. We all know that if we do something for 25 days, every day then it becomes a natural habitable state. Let’s just say the summer of 2005 did not involve Roller Rinks and picnics with the girls… (Sorry mummy). Unless a godly saint of all holiness has landed directly on top of your soul and has taken over with its own non rebellious, non-lying, non-cheating (sorry boyfriend of 2005) personality then just please say, out loud, (and proud?): “I am a mildly subconscious liar”. Don’t tell me that you did because you didn’t. Who would? No one wants to openly admit that they are a liar. But by denying it…Aren’t you just lying?

However, on thought, lying happens in every single day of your ‘thrilling and adventurous life’ that you pursue…at least according to Amanda in finance? How was your holiday by the way?  Full of stomach bugs and hot, sleepless nights? Didn’t think so… It happens in the street because that attractive woman isn’t that busy and yeah we all carry change but I haven’t seen proof Mr Charity man so no thank you. At work, at home and in almost every establishment you’ve ever walked into. But why can’t lying be used for the greater good? That dress doesn’t actually make you look thinner but a “you look beautiful” will make anybody feel good. As long as your lies don’t damage, harm, hurt or offend anyone then isn’t it just a natural thing?

And also mum and dad, Santa and the tooth fairy aren’t real. I’m 24 stop signing letters from them. But I guess I should tell you that he was 21 not 19.

Dramatic Monologue based upon Bed Among The Lentils

Mr John Fisher is a secondary school teacher. He teaches Science and Mathematics at Kingstone High in England. He is sat slumped over a large brown desk, in an empty classroom, staring out the window.

I have never been more depressed in my entire 51 years of being alive. But then again, i have a well paid job, with holiday time as well. Which not many people can say they get included with the tedious strain of working endless hours for someone you don't even like, and most likely doesn't give a single shit about the fact your wife, who you've invested 21 years of your life with, has left you for another woman, or that she took all your savings with her in one go.

Kids. Children. Young people is whom i spend my time with. Not in an unprofessional manner, no. Although saying that, rumour has it that Mr Finch the music teacher, has a slight, mmm how do they put it...perversion? To young people. But that's none of my business. I mean i don't think I'd care if it was either. No But at work. Young people who don't want to learn about how the world works or that maths is involved with every single thing that they do. No! On a daily basis I hear "Sir, what's even the point in this" or "sir what's even the point in that" screeched in a tiring, illiterate tone across the empty, echoing, white walled classroom. Mr Bishop, the creative arts teacher suggested in a surprisingly camp manner of someone who looks like a bodybuilder, that i should "make the kids use their creative brains, create some kind of mind map poster type thing". I don't know how to do that and I'm 51. The way we see people or first impressions is always important. I mean, if you saw me walking towards you now you would probably cross the road. Who wants to cross paths with a tired looking, middle aged man with a five o clock shadow and clothes he hasn't washed in a week. Because his wife took all his other belongings as well. God knows why. Jenny said that "she was going through an emotionally unstable phase and just wanted to rid you out of her life". I said that she didn't really need to rid me of my life though did she. I always wonder what peoples first impressions of me were before i gracefully slumped my way into a dark depression. Did they think i was funny? Did i carry myself well? Intelligent? I can't imagine anyone thinking positively now about the old man in the brown suit with the black shoes, carrying an antique leather briefcase which once belonged to a Mr A Patel. Musty, old, leathery, wrinkled man. Carrying a briefcase that was significantly more presentable than myself. But i suppose one can't have everything. I remember one of my primary school teachers telling me that i should "stop believing that i could achieve everything because you can't" and that i had "such a small, insignificant soul that no one would want you" Untalented and unwanted that was me. And i suppose he was right.

Self Analysis Poem

Self Analysis Poem

If I was to describe myself in rhyming word,

The things I say might sound quite absurd.

Early mornings and late nights are what I like,

Tall drops, high climbs, and vertigo inducing heights.

The sound of rain upon the glass,

But being in the rain…id rather pass.

Brown hair, brown eyes and a waitress by trade,

Big feet, false eyelashes, and the smell of suede?

Although it may sound stressful to you,

Public transport is what I always use.

When I’m not walking or swimming or spending my cash,

I’m seeing how long I can make the bus pass last.

With laddered tights, freckles and big eyes to see ya’,

Can’t say I don’t like sunshine tequila!

But I can say that I don’t like math’,

Physics, chemistry or pointless lined graphs.

My favourite things include English, Art and Social Study,

Long elongated, unprecedented, words found in the dictionary.

I collect books about architecture and breaking the 4^th wall,

But I cant really say I’ve read them all.

I love apricots, green bananas and squishy mango,

But bread, pasta and potatoes are a no go!

With so many plans and not enough time,

(bearing in mind I’m not having a whine!)

My hectic schedule makes it hard to write poetry for language,

So I wrote this on the train home from my 3^rd day at St Brendans college.

I don’t know what else to write about me...

So I suppose we’ll just stop now shall we. 

My Linguistic Fingerprints

My Linguistic Fingerprints.

 

SUBJECT: “Could you explain the way you talk to me? Including your favourite fillers and phrases?”

 

ME: Urm…My favourite fillers? Hmm you know when you like fill in places with like ‘um’s’ and ‘er’s’? Which to be honest can be a little awkward at times. I guess you could say I use those like a lot? I don’t know…it’s difficult to explain to you um like the way I talk. Writing it down is making most of it clear, but I still don’t know. I don’t know a single person who can accurately remember every filler they’ve used in sentences throughout the day and stuff? You know what I mean?

 

When it comes to words I use for ‘good’ and ‘bad’ terms, I swear way too much. It doesn’t even matter what like situation I’m  in. It can be good or bad I will just change the tone of it I suppose? To fit what I need it for. Sometimes, the tone of my voice is like way too sarcastic. I don’t mean it to be but some people take it the wrong way.

 

Oh and for phrases and words that I hate, anything that involves the letters ‘CK’ in the middle. For example, right, ‘Packed, whacked, smacked’ ugh! Just no! It makes me shiver so much! Also words like ‘Sandwich’? I think it’s the sound of the ‘CH’ at the end? It’s just a horrible noise.

 

Um okay, In terms of my favourite swear word…mm um I don’t think I’ll tell you.  It just feels too rude. But I’m sure you’ll hear me say it more than you’d fucking like.

 

I don’t think I really have trouble pronouncing words. Unless they usually end in an ‘ING’ and then somehow  turn into a ‘TION’ ending?!  Which is silly really. Because it’s not that hard.  My brother couldn’t pronounce ‘Vanilla’ or ‘Ambulance’ until he was like, 11 years old or something?

 

Oh and also, when I answer the telephone to my friends I think I just use my normal voice? Although I have been known to answer the phone with a higher pitched slightly American accent when it comes to strangers. That can be either on the phone or face to face. It’s more embarrassing that I know what I’m doing and I still can’t stop. I'm pretty sure everyone puts on a 'phone voice' when they're on the phone really.

 

I don’t think I have an accent or anything? I probably sound more or less how a stereotypical English person would sound. You know when foreigner’s try and impersonate an English person? Kinda’ like that.  I like my accent. I definitely don’t have much of a low voice. But it’s not high and squeaky either.

 

Mmmm what else do I need to tell you…? Gosh my elbows…I’ve really got to stop leaning on things when I talk…Anything else you need?

 

SUBJECT: “No….I think we’ve got um,  most of that. Thanks”.