Since the day he was born, Eldest has been surrounded by the Brits, most notably his father. (Or "my baby daddy" as I like to think of him.) Not only did we have frequent British invasions in Eldest's early days, we also did a fair amount of invading ourselves, finding our way to the U.K. just about every year until he was in kindergarten and about every two years since then.
The kid has been exposed to how those folks over there speak from the get-go. (Or "in utero" as it were.)
His speech patterns lilt. He has expressions that no red-blooded American has a clue as to their meaning.
And yet. And yet.
We were out to dinner the other evening, and he 'fessed up to us. When he was younger, he told us, he used to think those ever-polite and very gracious Brits were offering him pudding all the time. Of course, he'd have loved to have actually been able to take them up on their offers of pudding. Alas, it was never forthcoming.
"Pardon?" they would ask when they couldn't understand what the hell that Yankee boy of mine was saying.
"Pudding?" was all he heard.