Aitch Quotes

...for, after all, we have nothing to lose but our aitches.

Well, well, well," said Aitch Dee, his arms folded across his chest. "Well, well, well, well," replied Pavel, not to be out welled.

Fafhrd stopped, again wiped right hand on robe, and held it out. "Name's Fafhrd. Ef ay ef aitch ar dee." Again the Mouser shook it. "Gray Mouser," he said a touch defiantly, as if challenging anyone to laugh at the sobriquet. "Excuse me, but how exactly do you pronounce that? Faf-hrud?" "Just Faf-erd.

I always found Dickens very coarse. I don't want to read about people who drop their aitches.

The Cockney accent was almost impenetrable. *Nothing* was "nuffin," and aitches were dropped from and attached to the wrong words, and some of the vowels seemed to have arrived from another planet.

Dead?’ repeated the old woman in the dressing gown. She sounded offended. ‘Has hif,’ she said, grandly aspirating each aitch as if that were the only way to convey the gravity of her words. ‘Has hif han ’Empstock would hever do hanything so . . . common . . .

He scattered his aitches as a fountain its sprays in a strong wind. He was very earnest.

is she dead?" I asked. "Dead?" repeated the old woman in the dressing gown. She sounded offended. "Has Hif," she said, grandly aspirating each aitch as if that were the only way to convey the gravity of her words to me. "Has hif han 'Empstock would hever do hanything so...COMMON...!

Claims to ordinariness and salt-of-the-earth virtue—“slumming it,” as it’s crudely called—are themselves pretentious. The assumption that dropping your aitches or asserting a love of a cheap beer over a fine wine, or processed cheese over a Parmesan, will make you seem unspoiled or somehow more gritty is classic downwardly mobile play-acting.

Though I knew theoretically what people did when they were married, and was capable of putting the facts in the bluntest language, I did not really understand it. I thought it indeed rather disgusting and I did not quite, quite believe it. After all, I was aware that the earth was round, but I knew it was flat. Mrs. Driffield seemed so frank, her laugh was so open and simple, there was in her demeanour something so young and childlike, that I could not see her “going with” sailors and above all anyone so gross and horrible as Lord George. She was not at all the type of the wicked woman I had read of in novels. Of course I knew she wasn’t “good form” and she spoke with the Blackstable accent, she dropped an aitch now and then, and sometimes her grammar gave me a shock, but I couldn’t help liking her. I came to the conclusion that what Mary-Ann had told me was a pack of lies.

he said the men in the colliers that run up to Newcastle and the fishermen and farm hands don’t behave like ladies and gentlemen and don’t talk like them.” “But why write about people of that character?” said my uncle. “That’s what I say,” said Mrs. Hayforth. “We all know that there are coarse and wicked and vicious people in the world, but I don’t see what good it does to write about them.” “I’m not defending him,” said Mr. Galloway. “I’m only telling you what explanation he gives himself. And then of course he brought up Dickens.” “Dickens is quite different,” said my uncle. “I don’t see how anyone can object to the Pickwick Papers.” “I suppose it’s a matter of taste,” said my aunt. “I always found Dickens very coarse. I don’t want to read about people who drop their aitches.

When I wake, it seems a little less hot than usual, so I’m worried I have a fever until light flashes behind the curtains and the sound of a detonation rolls in with a force that makes the windows rattle. As I step outside with a plastic bag over my cast, a stiff breeze pulls my hair away from my face, and I see the pregnant clouds of the monsoon hanging low over the city. The rains have finally decided to come. I sit down on the lawn, resting my back against the wall of the house, and light an aitch I’ve waited a long time to smoke. Suddenly the air is still and the trees are silent, and I can hear laughter from my neighbor’s servant quarters. A bicycle bell sounds in the street, reminding me of the green Sohrab I had as a child. Then the wind returns, bringing the smell of wet soil and a pair of orange parrots that swoop down to take shelter in the lower branches of the banyan tree, where they glow in the shadows.

There was food and drink. The right butter. The wrong butter. The tea of allegiance. The tea of betrayal. There were "our shops" and "their shops." Placenames. What school you went to. What prayers you said. What hymns you sang. How you pronounced your "haitch" or "aitch". Where you went to work. And of course there were busstops. There was the fact that you created a political statement everywhere you went, and with everything you did, even if you didn't want to.

Speaking of aitches, some British speakers, especially on the telly, use “an” before words like “historic” or “hotel,” and some Anglophiles over here are slavishly imitating them. For shame! Usage manuals on both sides of the Atlantic say the article to use is “a,” not “an.” The rule is that we use “a” before a word that begins with an h that’s pronounced and “an” before a word that starts with a silent h. And dictionaries in both Britain and the United States say the h should be pronounced in “historic” and “hotel” as well as “heroic,” “habitual,” “hypothesis,” “horrendous,” and some other problem h-words.

I can’t focus. I haven’t started my paper. Every time, I see you in class, I want you. I need this class. I can’t live like this,” Kenya said, walking around in circles by her car.

we can do about getting you bailed … blah, blah, blah … But before we get into all that just explain one thing for me, yeah?’ As he pauses, my brow furrows in anticipation. ‘You’re my brief, innit?’ ‘I am indeed your legal representative.’ ‘And that means I can ask you anything I like, yeah?’ My brow furrows further. Soon my entire upper face will be one huge wrinkle. ‘Is there some specific aspect of your case you’d like to talk about, Mr Nazeeb?’ ‘Not about my case, about you, blood. No offence but … how comes you, a black geezer, talks like a posh white geezer? Is your mum the queen or something?’ He laughs heartily as though this is the funniest joke he’s ever heard. ‘Dude, you don’t sound nuthin’ like any of the black geezers from round my ends and it’s proper doing my head in. What’s your story?’ One might assume that given Mr Nazeeb is being held in custody for attacking a rival drug dealer with a baseball bat, is looking at a five-year sentence, has already had an appeal for bail turned down and is facing a second in just twenty-five minutes, he would be a tad more focused on his current situation. But to make such an assumption about the twenty-seven-year-old Asian man sitting across the table from me (dressed head to toe in his drug-dealing street uniform of baseball cap, black North Face jacket, grey sweatshirt, matching jogging bottoms and bright white box-fresh trainers), one would need to be ignorant of a truth of which I have long been painfully aware: that little frustrates the human brain so much as an inability to immediately pigeonhole complete strangers. And for the man sitting across from me in a dingy conference room at Westminster Magistrates Court the question of why I, as a thirty-four-year-old criminal barrister with light-brown skin, Caribbean heritage and a three-piece pinstripe suit, don’t drop my aitches is, it would appear, of greater priority than even personal liberty. It is a phenomenon unbounded not only by race but

wasn’t really London; it was Bromley. But it was close enough to London to make Marvel start dropping his aitches.