A student is learning to speak British English. He wonders: Can I communicate with Americans? Can they understand me? Learners of English often ask: What are the differences between British and American English? How important are these differences?

    Certainly! There are some differences between British and American English. There are a few differences in grammar. For example, speakers of British English say “in hospital” and “Have you a pen?” Americans say “in the hospital!” and “Do you have a pen?”. Pronunciation is sometimes different. Americans usually sound theirs in words like “bird” and “hurt”. Speakers of British English do not sound theirs in these words. There are differences between British and American English in spelling and vocabulary. For example, “color” and “honor” are British, “color” and honor” are American.

    These differences in grammar, pronunciation, spelling and vocabulary are not important, however. For the most part, British and American English are the same language.

    This is my origin story: when I was a teenager I wrote terrible poetry. Like really bad. Worse than yours, I bet. A lot of it about how every little thing reminds me that we're all going to die one day. I wrote collections and collections of these poems, thinking one day I would have my moment. I named one collection, ironically, The Eternal Optimist.

    In 1996, I found an advert for the International Poetry Competition. I was 16 years old and ready for my poetry to be released on the world. Not only was it a competition with a cash prize, but it was poetry, which I wrote, and international. This was my ticket to becoming world-famous. I submitted a poem called Trail of Thought. If you ever wrote bad poetry as a teenager, you'll have written something like it. In the poem, I went for a walk and noticed small poignant(辛酸的) things in nature, and each one reminded me that we were all going to die one day.

    I filled out the form, printed off the poem and sent it off, fingers crossed. I waited to hear back I carried on writing, I probably finished another collection. Then I got a letter from the International Society of Poets. I opened the envelope carefully, just in case a prize-winning cheque fell out I hadn't won. But, they liked my poem enough to include it in their anthology(诗选), Awaken to a Dream. I closed my eyes, I wanted to scream with happiness. I was going to be a published poet.

    All I had to do in order to be published was accept the terms and pay £ 45（plus £ 5 p & p）for an anthology. If I didn't buy a copy of the anthology, my poem wouldn't be included. I had to convince my mum, who thought my writing a meaningless pastime, to part with £ 50. She even asked the question: “Why do you have to pay to be in this book?” Nevertheless, she wrote a cheque for £ 50 and I returned it with my letter of agreement.

    I was 16 and about to be a published poet. This was what it had all been about. This is what it had all been leading to. The months waiting for the anthology were a torture. I hit some sort of writer's block, I couldn't write anything. It was almost as if, now I was published, it mattered more what I committed to page and I didn't want to write anything down unless it was good enough to go into an anthology like Awaken to a Dream.

    The book arrived through the post. Here it was. The first thing I had ever been published in a book called Awaken to a Dream, featuring a blistering take on the mundanity(世俗) of mortality by yours truly. I opened the package to find a book, containing my work. The first thing that struck me about the book was that it was bigger than A4. And it was thick. And on each page was a poem, next to another poem, next to another. The type was small and the paper thin enough to trace with. With three or four poems per page and more than 700 pages, I had a sinking realization. This was a scam, an illegal trick for making money.

    If each poem had cost the author £ 45, they were sitting on a fortune. I felt ashamed. Everyone who had submitted something to the International Poetry Competition had fallen for the same hustle（忙碌）as me. I couldn't bring myself to show my mum. And she never asked to see it. Perhaps she thought if the price of me learning a lesson was £50 we didn't really have, then so be it.

    But that stayed with me, that moment of realization. Because I determined to keep writing and ensure that my precious words always found a home worthy of them. Or at least that's how, more than 20 years later, I justify falling for a scam. Because your first time being published should be special, and if I don't convince myself that there was a reason for my first poem being in a vanity(无价值) book, then what good was it in the first place? And, strangely, someone is selling this book on Amazon at the moment. I wonder how many other writers who went on to do more stuff are in there.

    We would like to wish all our readers a wonderful winter break. Our January magazine is now in the shops and available digitally. We're looking forward to sharing more adventures and discoveries with you in 2018, including:

    At a crossroads in the Atlantic

    As the population of Ascension Island rises up to mark the 200th anniversary of British rule, Fred Pearce wonders what the future might have in store for this strange part of land.

    Photostory: On the road again

    A selection of images from an exhibition opening this month at the Royal Geographical Society go hand in hand with M. Aurel Stein's early 20th century photographs of the Silk Road.

    Dossier: Going underground

    Mark Rowe discusses the role that carbon storage can play in the global effort to reduce carbon dioxide emission (排放).

    Net loss

    Kit Gillet reports from the Gulf of Thailand, whose fisheries (渔场) have been almost destroyed by the commercialization of the Thai fishing industry.

    And don't forget...a round-up of the latest geographical and climate science news; a hot spot focus on Turkey; advice on taking photographs in Antarctica; an interview with Lucien Castaing-Taylor, professor of visual arts at Harvard; plus lots, lots more...

    Buy your copy now, click here and save up to 35% or call+44

    For centuries, mankind and dogs have suffered from a communication failure. We can tell dogs what we want them to do and sometimes they comply, but we've always struggled when it comes to understanding the true meaning of their barks and whimpers. There is exciting news now – a dog translator has been invented to help you communicate with your furry friend.

    Researchers at North Carolina State University have fashioned some kind of miracle dog translator body harness(束腰带). What's special about it is that it doesn't just rely on the dog's vocalizations to interpret what Fido is banging on about.

    Oh no – this miracle harness reads and interprets the ordinary dogs' body language as well, giving us a full two-way dog communication experience.

    Researcher David Roberts says: "Dogs communicate primarily through body language, and one of our challenges was to develop sensors that tell us about their behavior by observing their posture remotely."

    Sensors on the harness monitor the dog's heart rate and body temperature and software builds up a vocabulary, letting the human know what the dog is feeling.

    What would dogs say if they could talk to us? The human can even communicate back through the harness thanks to vibration motors, supposedly by tapping into the dog's senses so that it can understand what you're trying to say to it.

    The dog harness is designed for dogs involved in search and rescue and other front-line work, but it's got us dreaming of a beautiful future, one where humans and dogs can co-exist as equals, with the dog able to fully express itself at all times.

    Last year, when our three-year-old great-granddaughter Kylie was taken to see Santa Claus, she made sure to give him her wish list of toys. A week later, she ran into a different Santa in a mall. He stopped to ask what she wanted for Christmas. Kylie was surprised and let him know: "If you can't remember what I told you last week, how are you going to remember on Christmas Eve?!"

(Mary Paul, Milwaukee, Wisconsin)

    As my son Mike and I drove to the mall, we passed a Salvation Army Santa ringing his bell. "Mike," I said, "there's Santa!" He shook his head. "That's just some guy in a Santa suit," he said. It saddened me to think that maybe my son no longer believed in Santa, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. At the mall, we spotted another Santa greeting young believers. Suddenly, Mike took off toward him. Turning back to me, he shouted. "Now, there's the real Santa!"

(Michael E. Fahey, Huntley, Illinois)

    We immigrated to America from China when I was six. Because I was shy and didn't speak English, I had few friends. My days were spent at home with my brother. Sometimes we'd help our neighbor Mr. Mueller pull weeds. One Christmas Day, there was a knock at the door. Grandma opened it, and there stood a big fellow in red with a snow-white beard, laughing, "Ho, ho, ho!" He handed out presents and made us laugh. I had so much fun. It was years later when I learned that our special Santa was our neighbor Mr. Mueller.

(Joanne Tang, Litchfield Park, Arizona)