Most of the time, having a British accent is a plus round these parts. People think I am Richard Burton, ask me to recite poetry or talk like Winston Thatcher.
But Wednesday is the Fourth of July, and I am thinking it is a good day for a Brit to maintain silence and a very low profile.
In case you don't know, the fourth of July is when the American colonists held a tea party in Boston for King George the Third and then threw him into the sea - or something like that - and then invented the Paul Jones dance and declared it was a good idea to believe in Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness, which resulted in shopping malls, CocaCola and Fingerlickin Chickin.
Oh yes, and there was something a bit later on about freeing the black slaves and sending them all to Chicago, but I must admit to being hazy about the details on that issue.
So, folks, while the rest of America is getting high on saltpetre, I will just sit on the back porch and commune with our backyard Californian Towhee, SoCal's answer to the humble Dunnock. I might even feed it a pretzel if it doesn't feel compromised by the gesture: everybody's so bloody sensitive, it seems, on 7/4.