At our wedding reception 15 years ago, my new father-in-law stood up, pint in hand, looked me squarely in the eye and welcomed me to the family – and to Yorkshire. He acknowledged my obvious defect – my London roots – before offering a note of comfort. “Don’t worry, Zahaan,” he said. “You’ll fit in here eventually. It’ll just take 50 years.” He added that if I’d been from Lancashire, there’d have been an extra zero on that 50.
Not long after the wedding, my wife and I relocated from our first place together in London to her beautiful home city of York. The quality of life and the glorious scenery on our doorstep have made the move more than worth it – but over the last decade and a half, it’s felt like the people of Yorkshire and I haven’t always spoken the same language.
