Nice Sunglasses!

I was at my computer in my studio (probably writing a blog post) when Chris came up behind me, bent over and planted a kiss on my forehead.

“I’m just off to Sainsbury’s,” he said, “I won’t be long.”

I turned around to look at him and return the kiss when I saw that he was wearing his reflective sunglasses. In fact he was so close to me that his glasses – and my own reflection – were all that my eyes could take in. I drew my head back a little to observe his full countenance and paused before showing my approval.

“Nice sunglasses,” I said. (Well one doesn’t like to go too overboard with the compliments!)

We kissed goodbye and then he looked me square in the eye (through his reflective sunglasses) before responding:

“Upon mature reflection!”

Very funny!

Can we park it here?

Over thirty years ago my brother-in-law Glyn, in partnership with his Welsh friend Emlyn, set up what is now a highly successful English language school in Brest, Brittany. Needless to say, the two friends have countless tales to tell about their comical experiences with novice English speakers at “English Apart”. During Glyn’s recent visit to his homeland he regaled us with many of his amusing stories about the early days when they first set up the school, and misunderstandings and difficulties his French students encountered when suddenly finding themselves in a purely English-speaking environment.

The first home of “English Apart” was a fourth floor apartment with no lift and no furniture, hence every item of furniture had to be taken up manually by the poor teachers who could not afford the services of hired hands. They bought two identical bookcases from a second-hand shop (not to be confused with ‘hired hands’) in walking distance from the new school; however, Emlyn was – and still is – a man of small stature with a dislike for humping furniture through the streets of Brest. Even worse, the roads to their building were steep and then they had to go up again – the several flights of stairs to the top. Every so often the pair (in a fashion not dissimilar to Laurel and Hardy) had to drop the onerous bookcase and have a rest before continuing on.

At last the first bookcase was nearly at its new home. There was a garage across the road and the two English-speaking comics put down their heavy load beside one of the petrol pumps.

“La Remplir!”, they said. (That’s “Fill her up” in English – hopefully!)

No doubt the old proprietor was vastly amused by the antics of the strangers. He may have been even more amused, or perhaps non-plussed, when an hour later the pair appeared again with the identical second bookcase.

“Nous ne pouvions pas trouver un endroit pour se garer!” Glyn said. (We couldn’t find anywhere to park!”)

Typical Glyn. And did you know that French people have great difficulty in pronouncing the “th” sound in English language. One day, after lunch, Glyn noticed that one of his students had a very obvious problem with some food stuck between his teeth.

“Would you like a toothpick?” Glyn asked the pupil.

“Yes,”  the French businessman nodded and smiled apologetically, “it is very difficult to thpeak English!”

I’m afraid that I said something very silly but hilarious on the last night of the French contingent’s visit. I’d like to be able to say that it was deliberate, for the sake of humour, but it wasn’t. Glyn was relating a funny story to a captivated audience of family and friends when he turned to me and asked:

“What is ice in French?”

Now for some reason I didn’t even consider the question seriously (perhaps I was tired – yes, that’s it!) and the word “glace” (or de la glace) never entered my head; instead I said the first thing that came into my head.

“Eeece,” I said.

“That’s funnier than my story,” Glyn replied and we were all in stitches.

Somehow, I have this terrible feeling that my faux pas will go down in history. The tale will be embellished and retold, and soon all the people in Brittany will know what a fool I am; or maybe they’ll realise that it’s sometimes quite difficult to thpeak French.

Oy Vey!

It seems to me that everything has been about insects and bugs recently, in particular the period during which my brother-in-law Glyn, his wife Rolande and my nephew Robyn came over from Brittany to stay with us and our mutual cousins up in Warwickshire for a big family gathering (which is why I’ve been off the radar since Thursday). Robyn, twenty-six years old and something of an intellectual and deep thinker, is currently attempting to subsist on a mainly vegan diet. After the hog-roast lunch on Saturday my conscientious nephew informed me that he wished the world would stop killing large animals for food and switch to eating insects – including cockroaches – as a major source of protein.

“Pound for pound, insects provide a greater amount of protein than red meat, ” he informed me.

Perhaps he’s right but, being an Australian and rather squeamish about fat flying cockroaches (I prefer them flat!), I could not conceive of a more disgusting diet other than worms (and even they were an option on the “Robyn Diet”). In bed later that night I imagined what a pound of insects might look like and I smiled to myself in the darkness.

One other night, more years ago than I care to admit to, my young son James and I were sleeping over at the house of my older brother Bill and his wife Lita in Brisbane; it was Lita’s sewing room cum guest bedroom and the double bed had green satin sheets. No sooner had the lights gone out than we heard strange crackling sounds, like scrunched up balls of cellophane being rubbed together, followed by numerous thuds on the wall behind our heads. As our eyes became accustomed to the dark we saw that the wall was covered in large black elliptical blobs. “What could they be?” we wondered. I switched on the light and fifty million giant cockroaches flew, en masse, back into the net curtains from whence they came. Sadly, the aerosol tin of cockroach killer that I found in the cupboard under the kitchen sink had only one puff of noxious spray left in it… We pulled the bed out into the centre of the room and slept entirely covered by the green satin top sheet, not daring to poke our heads out for air lest the huge creatures should fancy to walk through our hair. Those were the days!

By now Robyn is back in Paris and his parents have gone to see a dear friend. Our house has been a whirlwind of activity and our new guests, from Denmark, are already ensconced in the suite upstairs. In the mid-afternoon of this gloriously sunny day – we’re having a heatwave – Chris decided to catch a few rays out on the terrace. As I came to join him in the sunshine I noticed something small and black resting on his stomach.

“What’s that?” I asked, peering closer.

Chris instinctively put his hand to his stomach and, without looking, crushed the innocent bug that had chosen him for an “air bed”.

“Oh, it was just a bug,” I said (not terribly worried about the bug’s demise).

“I suppose that’s what you’d call a “tummy bug”!” Chris quipped.

Anyway, I don’t think I’ll change my mind about eating insects, even if they sprinkle them with sugar or Cajun seasoning. The cockroaches, locusts, grasshoppers and stick insects are safe with me. Guess I’m not that hungry. Of course my gorgeous nephew is French… Don’t frogs love eating insects?