On the way home this evening, I noticed a car parked on the side of the motorway and shortly there after, a guy walking. Aside from the weather not reflecting the post card that the Gold Coast is known for, it was getting dark so it wasn’t all that safe for him to be walking beside a four lane motorway. As I approached, he popped a thumb out asking for a lift – so I obliged.
The unfortunate bloke was a strapping middle aged New Zealander and wasn’t in the car for two minutes, when he asked me if I was from New Zealand as well. For those that aren’t aware, my family are from New Zealand (specifically, my parents and oldest brother were born in New Zealand, while myself and other two brothers are born in Australia). It took me by surprise a little as I haven’t lived in New Zealand and I’m not around any New Zealander’s with an accent with any regularity; despite which he picked up something in my voice that made him comment on it.
We weren’t in the car long enough for me to ask about it further but it did get me wondering if I carry an accent from my parents that the average untrained ear can’t hear. A few minutes later I dropped him off at the closest service station to his car and we parted ways but not before he asked me a timely and mandatory question – who was I barracking for tomorrow night in the Bledisloe Cup!