I'm going to see Pirates o' the Caribbean, part the third, tonight. Hope this'll finally teach me how to spell "Caribbean": one arrrr (m'hearty), two Bs. I have ancestors from the Caribbean; I've written on Wide Sargasso Sea; I like a good banana: and still I have trouble with the arrrs and the Bs.
The prospect of two and a half hours watching Johnny Depp swaggering around in mascara and dreadlocks is making it awful hard to restrain my inner poirate. I've been talking like a Zomerzet-tracker-droiver-turned-salty-old-sea-dog since the moment I woke up this morning. The oirrony of all this be that Cap'n Jack Sparrow does not himself talk in Poirate, ooarrrgh, but some kind of East London blarney. My inner poirate, howzoever it be, perzists in manifesting her zelf by zounding like the village yokel from a Thomas Hardy novel, freshly emerged from a vat o' apple zoider.