“Excuse me, I’m trying to get to 42nd street. Can you help me?” These people were the only ones who looked both friendly and local, and hopefully helpful.

“Oh, my God!” It was happening again. “Say that again!”

“I said,” I sighed deeply. “Can you tell me the way to 42nd-”

“Oh, my God! Are you from France?” the woman crooned.

I stepped back in shock. “No!” This was new. “No, no, I’m from England.”

“Oh, my GAWD! I love your accent! Do you have tea with you? I bet you carry tea everywhere!”

“No, I-” This was getting frustrating. Why did it still surprise me, even after four years, when people acted this way to my ‘adorable’ middle class accent?

“Where’s your top hat?”

“Can you just help -”

“Oh! Where are your chums ? Are you going to get together for afternoon tea at the Palace? Oh, my GAWD! Do you know the Queen?”

“Eurgh!” I screamed. “I give up, you burger-eating, cowboy hat-wearing, Bible bashing rednecks!”

The woman went silent. “But I’m a vegetarian,” she whispered, hurt, to her husband.