In 1999 we moved to Manchester, England. Owen was 8 years old, and the move was brutal on him. Differences in the dates used to decide placement meant the poor kid was put in Year 4 (4th grade basically) when he had only just finished 2nd grade. That meant he missed lessons in what the English call "script": cursive writing. So he couldn't read anything the teacher wrote on the board and he couldn't understand the northern English accent. Plus we lived in a working-class center-city neighborhood--rather more gritty than what Owen was used to. As his headmaster put it, "He's having a bit of trouble with the rough-and-tumble of the playyard." Actually, what he said was, "'e's 'avin' eh bi' uh trooble wi' thi roof-'n-toomble uh thi playyard."
For example:
After about two days in school, Owen came home and asked, "Mom [in a few weeks, it would be "Mum" but not yet], what's a fooker?"
"Fooker? Gosh, hon, no idea. Can you use it in a sentence?"
"Yeah. The kids say, 'Yeh blewdy moother fooker."
Oh.
Over the next several weeks came many more new words: Git. Tosser. Wanker. Slag. Skank. But none measured up to Blewdy Moother Fooker.
[Bad Words I]
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