Learning a foreign language as an adult can be a nightmare. I should know. I've done it a couple of times.
I'm glad I kicked off my Dutch experience in Rotterdam. By the time I got here, my Dutch was good enough to apply the hammer and tongs technique. Named after the joke bridge bidding method. I'd say something in Dutch, and get a reply in English, I'd continue in Dutch, English reply back . . . and so on, until eventually they spoke Dutch. It often took a while.
Given my natural level of torpor, I'm shocked I could be arsed to go through with it*.
The accent, though. I've never quite cracked that. My inability to properly pronounce the name of the street I live on, never fails to amuse Mikey. Mister bloody parrot. He can pass for Dutch. Bastard.
I can remember my Mum drilling me in the pronunciation of the "th" sound in the word "the" when I was a child. I must have got it right eventually, because she stopped correcting me.
Correcting an adult is impolite. No matter how bad their grammar or pronunciation. So no-one's sat me down and made me pronounce the rolling "R" sound until got it right. As a result, I struggle to make taxi drivers understand my address. It's a curse.
It may have seemed a little harsh when I pulled up Mark Dredge about a point of beer history. I should have been milder in my words. But I swear by the principle.
Sometimes you need correction to improve.
I reserve my right to correct**.
* I often can't any more.
** When I've evidence to back me up.
Nästa vecka bär det av! - Flandern är det gula.I december fick jag ett mail. Det var på håret att jag kastade det som ett spam, men jag läste det igen så insåg jag att det faktiskt ...
3 hours ago