In 2001, after ten years of writing dictionaries in Australia, I found myself walking through the cobbled streets of Oxford, England, to start a new job at the mother of all dictionaries: the Oxford English Dictionary (OED). I knew that there was no dictionary in the world that matched the OED for size and scholarly authority. I would share responsibility for words entering English from languages outside of Europe: it was the opportunity of a lifetime for any lexicographer, regardless of provenance.

I walked through the imposing stone arch of the majestic headquarters of Oxford University Press (OUP) into the front quad with its fountain and ancient oak tree. I had read A Room of One’s Own so I knew not to walk on Oxbridge grass, but what I did not know was that you also should not smile at people who walked past you, and certainly not say ‘g’day’ if you had not met them before. There were many Australian mannerisms I would learn to control over the coming years while working on the OED, but this first day I was too excited to realise how ‘colonial’ I seemed to my new work colleagues. As soon as I met the Deputy Chief Editor – an elegant and handsome Englishman who had worked on the dictionary since coming down from Christ Church, Oxford, at the age of twenty-one, the same age I had started working for Oxford Dictionary in Canberra – he greeted me with the unforgettable ‘Oh you’re Australian.’ I knew what he meant, and I was determined to show him that, once we entered the silent zone of the OED offices (there is no speaking in the office; if you want to speak you must go into a small glass booth) and started editing the actual text, there would be no difference in the quality of my work and that of any other editor on the floor.