Lately I’ve been reading a lot of mid-century light fiction by women. Barbara Pym, of course, and also D. E. Stevenson, E. M. Delafield, Elizabeth Fair, and similar works either suggested by Amazon or discovered via Furrowed Middlebrow or Clothes in Books. Having read gobs of British fiction from an early age, I don’t generally have any difficulty over vocabulary differences (sneakers/trainers, sweater/jumper, jumper/pinafore dress, etc). But I had a glitchy moment last night when reading Wine of Honour, by Barbara Beauchamp; maybe it’s my years as a vegetarian, or where I went to college:
“[Lady Gurney] expected her children to return to her as they had left her. . . . It was a lovely picture, misted with her tears and rosy with the port Sir James would bring up from the cellar and decant for the first family gathering round the dining-room table. There would be flowers and a huge joint . . . ”
Duuuuuude. When I get out of the RAF I’m going to get so wasted with Mum and Dad.