The trouble with...

being a ‘non-native’ is not being able to complain.

I don’t mean complain, as in go to Customer Service Dept. I am perfectly allowed to do that. In fact, husband is too embarrassed to do so, so I am appointed as official family customer relations manager.

I mean, I can’t come home and have a good grumble. Having an off-day, and something really irritates me. Can I walk in, slam the door, and say, ‘Grrrr!’ and let rip a good old rant? No.
I will always be a foreigner in my own home. The accent isn’t immediately apparent. Most people talk to me for a minute or two, then say, ‘Where are you from?’ Can’t quite place it, but it is certainly not an accent from the British Isles.

In the first month of our marriage, we had a wedding invitation, which said ‘Wedding breakfast at 7pm’. I said, ‘That’s weird to call it a breakfast at 7pm!’ Oh boy, did I get an earful! It’s not weird! It’s correct! You are breaking your fast. It’s British!
I have learned to limit my use of the word ‘weird’ and say instead, ‘odd’ or ‘peculiar’. They work DH into less of a lather.

I’m doing my best to fit in. After all, I am here for good. I’m a British citizen. I vote. I have a UK passport. I can negotiate round-abouts! I say ‘zed’ and put the ‘U’ in words like neighbour, spell apologise with ‘S’, but I am not supposed to grumble. About anything. Not even the weather. (sigh)

Unless! (I have found an escape clause) I may not grumble unless the person to whom I voice my grumble shares my situation. A neighbour picking up litter in front garden, fellow voyagers on delayed or crowded tube/train/bus, those also sheltering from the rain when a moment ago it was only blue sky without clouds. I just can’t do it in front of my spouse. Unless he is getting wet, too.