As I traipsed reluctantly into my pre-calculus honors class on the first day of school, I was already dreading the dull year of equations and graph paper ahead. But as the teacher began to call roll, my gaze snapped to the front of the class and I realized that this semester I would not be learning math, but rather maths, from Jeremy Gribler.

No more graphing calculators — they were now graaaaaw-phing calculatahs. And the word ‘trigonometry’ would now bring joy to my ears — no longer a tricky branch of mathematics, but instead a perfect string of harmonious syllables.

This August encounter with Mr. Gribler’s accent was not the start of my appreciation for the culture of England. In fact, I have had an affinity for the land of tea and crumpets for as long as I can remember, from the revolutionary music to the lush green landscape to the adorably proper mannerisms. At age five, I insisted upon naming our new kitten ‘Tuppence’ after the English coin. At age eight, I both impressed and annoyed my friends with a newly-honed British accent. And at age 12, my family took a painfully long and uncomfortable 10-hour plane ride just to visit the bloody place. English culture has been a constant fixture in my life, and even dominates my identity, as the name Nicola is common across the pond.

Not only is my name popular in England, but my preference in television shows reflects British taste as well. One of my favo(u)rite characters is The Black Adder’s daft but loveable Baldrick, the main character’s bumbling henchman. The ridiculous characters on British sitcoms never cease to entertain me and serve as great mood-lifters for me as a constantly stressed-out Lowell student.

In addition to the simultaneously dry and over-the-top sense of humor, the British series also introduced me to copious amounts of British slang. Some Americans would be offended if you expressed your love for spotted dick — a type of sponge cake — and others would be confused if you asked for a sticky plaster — an American bandage. After searching through loads of British slang online, I found that many words with ordinary meanings here in the states have other connotations in England. The next time I journey to the LDN, I know not to ask for a lunchbox or some lychees, both derogatory terms for parts of the male anatomy. As the saying goes, we are often separated from the British by a common language.

Although their slang adds a fun edge to my speech, their music is perhaps my favorite of the Brits’ contributions. It’s no secret that in the past bands like The Beatles, The Kinks and The Rolling Stones earned great praise for their homeland, but these classics also paved the way for a number of more recent British bands, from The Wombats to Mystery Jets, to appear on my iPod. Not only are all of their band names are exceedingly fun to pronounce in a British accent (try mouthing Metronomy in round tones), but more importantly, all of their music brings me to a life I yearn to live.

This alter ego — British Nicola — leads a relaxing life in the English countryside, and as the real Nicola, I am extremely jealous of her. Every time I imagine having a queen, using the metric system consistently, and drinking tea multiple times per day, it seems that I float off into some other dimension — one in which everyone speaks in adorable lilting patterns, shops at Tesco and says “zed” instead of “zee.”

However, even the best things in life are not perfect — everything you’ve heard about bad British food is completely true. Prawn cocktail crisps and shepherd’s pie? No thanks. I’ll take an all-American deep-fried Twinkie over that any day, with a cup of Earl Grey of course.