There’s something spine-tingling about watching a spy drama unfold on screen, where the stakes hinge on the smallest misstep. A word said in the wrong dialect. A glance that lingers too long. A button stitched the British way.
I was flipping through my notes the other day and rediscovered an absolutely riveting piece on how the British Special Operations Executive (SOE) dressed their spies in WWII. Not just dressed, mind you—but tailored, aged, dyed, worn-in, and obsessed over. These outfits were literally life-and-death garments. Because when you parachute into Nazi-occupied France, you better not look like you just walked out of Marks & Spencer.
The SOE trained and dispatched some 1,800 agents into France alone, and those agents had to pass for locals. That meant ditching British tailoring quirks, getting their buttons stitched the “French way” (two parallel lines, not a crisscross), replacing British-brand zippers, and even distressing brand-new clothing until it looked suitably used and ration-era ragged.
At one point, spies were getting French fillings in their teeth and fake tailor slips in their suit jackets. A spy’s shirt could betray him. A “British” stud hole on a detachable collar—vertical, not horizontal—might get him shot. Even shoes had to be French. As one spy discovered the hard way, an elderly woman on a train nearly outed him because she recognized his “lovely English shoes.”
Details. Ridiculously tiny ones.
And yet, they mattered. Deeply.
Which brings me to a confession: I totally get it.
When I moved from Australia to Canada, it wasn’t the big cultural stuff that threw me. It was things like figuring out that “next Tuesday” might mean not this Tuesday coming, but the Tuesday after. Or saying “How ya going?” and being met with blank stares. I spent six weeks with a permanent headache trying to translate English into… still English, just different-flavored.
And that’s in peacetime. No Gestapo looming over my shoulder, just a grumpy barista wondering what on earth I meant by “flat white.”
Imagine, then, having to get it all right—clothes, accent, grooming, luggage contents, the literal angle of a buttonhole—while living undercover. It makes my adaptation hiccups look laughably mild. But the principle is the same: we judge what’s foreign or familiar based on the smallest cues. It’s not always fair, but it’s real.
I remember a WWII film where Cate Blanchett played a spy, and her drop kit included French sanitary pads, because yes, even those were different enough to potentially get you caught. It makes you think about just how fragile disguise is—how easy it is to be found out by a misplaced pleat or a too-shiny shoelace.
So what’s the takeaway? That attention to detail isn’t just a fussy personality trait. It can be a superpower. It can be the difference between being welcomed… or not. Between blending in… or standing out for all the wrong reasons.
Whether you’re a writer trying to build believable worlds, or someone starting life in a new country, or (let’s hope not) a covert operative, the lesson remains the same:
The details matter.
Sometimes they matter more than the big stuff.
Have you ever stumbled—embarrassed yourself or made a complete faux pas—just because of some small detail you didn’t know mattered? (And if you’ve ever moved countries, I know you have a story.) Or—have you read a romance where the heroine got the details wrong and ended up in a heap of trouble? Regency romances are rife with these little traps—tea manners, glove etiquette, the wrong kind of bonnet!
Drop your favorite “oops” moment or fictional disaster in the comments—I’d love to commiserate.
Latest releases:
Blackmont Bitters
Beltane Curse
Captain Santiago and the Sky Dome Waitress ( 
Aurealis Award Finalist!!)
Tracy, my daughter could really use a new (used) car and has no money, so I’ve gone back to religiously buying lottery tickets three times a week. I promise if I win, I’ll buy you lots and lots of yarn! And yes, I’ve moved a lot and so have experienced that disorientation you write of many times. When I first lived in Canada, I had no idea that saying “bathroom” was considered rude (one must say “washroom”) nor that calling a lawyer an attorney was degrading (it’s been a while, so it’s remotely possible that I’ve mixed that one up). And no matter how much time I spend in the U.K., nor how many times I look this us, I can somehow never remember exactly what time “half four” (or any other number) is. Is it 3:30 or 4:30????? And I procrastinate not on Pinterest but on free or reduced price book sites, always on the lookout for a great read I’ve somehow missed. Argghhhhh.
I hope you win the lottery, Margaret! And not just because I’d love lots of yarn. 🙂
The bathroom/washroom thing isn’t really a thing, that I’ve noticed, and almost no one says “attorney” — at least, not in the west. It could be different in other provinces, though!
Half four is 4:30. 🙂 I’m also used to saying “a quarter to four” which makes most people blink ( = 3:45).
Cheers,
t.
My interesting move was from the West and Southwest of the US to the Northeast. Those shoes you are wearing? They are no longer tennis shoes, they are sneakers. The Pepsi that just came out of the vending machine at the local laundromat isn’t pop or a soft drink, it’s soda. Worst of all — and this has nothing to do with language, but with educational differences — I’d never heard of Regents Exams (something done only in New York State); the kids in Northern New York knew all about Regents Exams, but had never heard of the state of New Mexico. It’s a strange world, to be sure, but I’ve lived in six different states so I can attest that you don’t have to move to a different country to have it SEEM like a different country. And don’t get me started on my summer in Georgia (the state, not the country), when I frequently had no idea what people were saying, much less how I should respond. Though it was very interesting the first time I was introduced to a group of people there as “Miss Marilyn” with my husband standing nearby. Moving is interesting in all manner of ways!
You’re so right! I’ve heard that in the early 20th century, in Britain, you could go just a mile or two from the village of your birth, and not understand a word anyone was saying in the next village, because the accents were so regionalized.
At least with globalization, those borders (and tolerance for differences!) is increasing.
Cheers,
Tracy