A Very Cordial Entente
There’s a poster on the Paris metro advertising English lessons and the main picture is of a man with black eyes and cuts to his face, the thrust of the message being that if you don’t learn English properly you’ll get a good kicking. It seems a little strong to me but in her continuing effort to bring peace and linguistic harmony to the world Natalie’s English lessons go from strength to strength.
As well as setting up English clubs, offering private tuition and volunteering at local schools she is also giving intensive ‘language holidays’ where a student will stay with us for a week and be immersed in the full ‘English’ experience. I’ll admit I was a bit dubious at first, seeing it as a preliminary step on the road from relentless animal adoption to fostering teenage waifs and strays, all very laudable etc., but way beyond my capabilities. Henri, however, a fourteen year old from Paris, duly arrived as our first Guinea Pig so we set about being as English as possible.
The language was no problem for us. I’ve long complained that we don’t speak enough French at home, therefore making it more difficult for me to learn but we also had to ‘English-up’ everything else. I’d planned an English menu (the kitchen being my domain) of Sausage and Mash, Fish and Chips, Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding, Chicken Tikka, Belly of Pork and the like and also introducing the lad to the delights of specialist cuisine Anglaise like Worcester Sauce crisps, Wotsits and Twiglets, Dairy Milk, Pork Scratchings. The boys also did their bit by playing English games, for example in the week that the Ashes started they opened a recently purchased cricket set and introduced Henri to the delights of a sweetly timed cover drive and silly mid off, while Test Match Special crackled contentedly in the background. In the evening we watched James Bond films with English subtitles to help with Henri’s grammar.
In short the week we had planned couldn’t have been more English if we had taught him how to bottle up his emotions or get drunk, throw up and carry on drinking. He kept a diary, in English, every day and also had one on one lessons in Natalie’s classroom and the improvement in his language skills and therefore confidence was encouraging to see. He also got a very intensive language lesson from me when, investigating the ‘noise’ coming from the orchard he found me swearing like The Norse God of Swear at a peach tree. The offending tree, while not producing fruit for two years had now produced so much that its main branch had become too heavy and snapped off; I was understandably furious and gave full Anglo-Saxon invective to the bloody thing while Henri looked on, his head cocked to one side like a confused puppy.
If this was the most English of weeks though, we were up against some pretty strong French competition as they were countering our rosbifs, James Bond, cricket mix with two of the most potent symbols of ‘Frenchness’ going, the Tour de France and Bastille Day. The plan was to go and see le Tour pass by a local town, about 20 minutes away, but in order to do that I had to make it back from London in time to do so. I was hosting an awards ceremony in London on the Thursday night but was due to be on a ferry to Dunkirk at 2am and land in France at 5am. It would then take seven hours or so to drive home before immediately leaving to get a place by the roadside just in time for the procession. The fact that I made it home without stopping and on time, though wild-eyed and buzzing, just goes to show that Lance Armstrong was indeed correct, the Tour de France is simply impossible without the use of drugs. I had so many artificial stimulants rattling about inside of me I think I could have ridden the stage myself.
We found a spot roadside just in time to see the caravanne pass by. I didn’t know what this was and they don’t show it on the television coverage, but it’s basically a long procession of sponsored vehicles which pass by about an hour before the riders themselves. The cars and vans are quite often customised, for example in the shape of a can of drink or with giant, and recognisable, advertising figures on the roof making it look like the Tour de France warm up is a heavily branded episode of Wacky Races and they pass by at high speed shouting their slogans and drumming up atmosphere.
By far their most dangerous ruse though is that they throw ‘goodies’ from their vehicles, branded goodies obviously, but standing at the side of the road as dozens of vehicles pass by at high speed while ejecting an assortment of keyrings, pens, hats, madeleinesand the like is a hazardous exercise. A friend of ours got a rolled up copy of L’Équipe smack bang in his genitalia, a painful business but which meant that while he was doubled up in pain an inflatable plastic travel pillow, sponsored by IBIS Budget, went flying over his head and cut open Natalie’s wrist! I must admit that at the time I missed the whole wrist-slashing-budget-hotel metaphor as I was frankly astonished to discover that IBIS indeed have a ‘budget’ branch. That’s like finding Goebbels had a slightly more right-wing brother.
Following the caravannewe had a picnic and waited for the riders themselves. I’m not all that fussed by cycling normally but it was clear that Henri thought that this was a very big event indeed and was obviously excited and from our vantage point we had a very good view indeed. The actual cyclists-passing bit is a bit of a blur, a bit brief – though in the searing temperatures that may not have been a bad thing – but definitely a thrill. There’s something about a live sporting event that can give such a buzz. I’ve been to Wembley finals, Wimbledon and Ashes tests at Lords and the thrill as the cyclists went past loudly and at high speed was right up there as you get carried along by the other spectators and their enthusiasm. Henri, and all the other boys, loved it especially when we got home and we were all on the highlights on the television.
If the whole Tour de France circus is uber-French then to have that event followed quickly by Bastille Day is practically a Gallic overload. There is a sense of fun about Bastille Day, a bit like St Patricks Day but with less drinking, but it tends to take the same format every year. There’s the obligatory brocante obviously and also the equally obligatory feux d’artifices (fireworks display) of which this one must have been about the sixth in as many weeks. It was a poor effort though. The local town normally excels at this type of thing but as the music cranked up to herald the start of the show and a hush descended on the hundreds of people on the riverbank, I could sense something amiss. Normally the stirring strains of La Marseillaisebegin and end these things and even if you’re not French, that is an emotional rallying cry, a proper national anthem. However what we got was the fragile pipes of Edith Piaf telling us that she regretted nothing and was actually I think the fireworks director getting his excuses in early.
Oh, it was poor. A fireworks display should never be lacklustre, but the gaps between each firework going off was just slightly too long making it look like the fireworks themselves weren’t really up for it , like moody teenagers forced to visit elderly relatives. The post fireworks display was even worse, as some kind of low-rent accordion orchestra began their set with the improbable and frankly unwelcome Viva Espana!
Only adult eyes really see these things though and Henri and our three boys had a high old time having forged what seemed like a strong friendship and joking and giggling away in English. Henri was with us for a full week, a polite, tidy and helpful boy who was staying with strangers and being forced to speak in a foreign language. It was obvious at times that he was a little homesick and a little daunted but he never really let on, never moaned or sulked. A successful week all round then, not only was his English massively improved he’d also developed ‘Le Stiff Upper Lip’ too.
What do you mean you haven't sorted out your holiday reading yet? A la Mod, the early years HERE (paperback, kindle, audio download, cave painting pictogram...)
As well as setting up English clubs, offering private tuition and volunteering at local schools she is also giving intensive ‘language holidays’ where a student will stay with us for a week and be immersed in the full ‘English’ experience. I’ll admit I was a bit dubious at first, seeing it as a preliminary step on the road from relentless animal adoption to fostering teenage waifs and strays, all very laudable etc., but way beyond my capabilities. Henri, however, a fourteen year old from Paris, duly arrived as our first Guinea Pig so we set about being as English as possible.
The language was no problem for us. I’ve long complained that we don’t speak enough French at home, therefore making it more difficult for me to learn but we also had to ‘English-up’ everything else. I’d planned an English menu (the kitchen being my domain) of Sausage and Mash, Fish and Chips, Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding, Chicken Tikka, Belly of Pork and the like and also introducing the lad to the delights of specialist cuisine Anglaise like Worcester Sauce crisps, Wotsits and Twiglets, Dairy Milk, Pork Scratchings. The boys also did their bit by playing English games, for example in the week that the Ashes started they opened a recently purchased cricket set and introduced Henri to the delights of a sweetly timed cover drive and silly mid off, while Test Match Special crackled contentedly in the background. In the evening we watched James Bond films with English subtitles to help with Henri’s grammar.
In short the week we had planned couldn’t have been more English if we had taught him how to bottle up his emotions or get drunk, throw up and carry on drinking. He kept a diary, in English, every day and also had one on one lessons in Natalie’s classroom and the improvement in his language skills and therefore confidence was encouraging to see. He also got a very intensive language lesson from me when, investigating the ‘noise’ coming from the orchard he found me swearing like The Norse God of Swear at a peach tree. The offending tree, while not producing fruit for two years had now produced so much that its main branch had become too heavy and snapped off; I was understandably furious and gave full Anglo-Saxon invective to the bloody thing while Henri looked on, his head cocked to one side like a confused puppy.
If this was the most English of weeks though, we were up against some pretty strong French competition as they were countering our rosbifs, James Bond, cricket mix with two of the most potent symbols of ‘Frenchness’ going, the Tour de France and Bastille Day. The plan was to go and see le Tour pass by a local town, about 20 minutes away, but in order to do that I had to make it back from London in time to do so. I was hosting an awards ceremony in London on the Thursday night but was due to be on a ferry to Dunkirk at 2am and land in France at 5am. It would then take seven hours or so to drive home before immediately leaving to get a place by the roadside just in time for the procession. The fact that I made it home without stopping and on time, though wild-eyed and buzzing, just goes to show that Lance Armstrong was indeed correct, the Tour de France is simply impossible without the use of drugs. I had so many artificial stimulants rattling about inside of me I think I could have ridden the stage myself.
We found a spot roadside just in time to see the caravanne pass by. I didn’t know what this was and they don’t show it on the television coverage, but it’s basically a long procession of sponsored vehicles which pass by about an hour before the riders themselves. The cars and vans are quite often customised, for example in the shape of a can of drink or with giant, and recognisable, advertising figures on the roof making it look like the Tour de France warm up is a heavily branded episode of Wacky Races and they pass by at high speed shouting their slogans and drumming up atmosphere.
By far their most dangerous ruse though is that they throw ‘goodies’ from their vehicles, branded goodies obviously, but standing at the side of the road as dozens of vehicles pass by at high speed while ejecting an assortment of keyrings, pens, hats, madeleinesand the like is a hazardous exercise. A friend of ours got a rolled up copy of L’Équipe smack bang in his genitalia, a painful business but which meant that while he was doubled up in pain an inflatable plastic travel pillow, sponsored by IBIS Budget, went flying over his head and cut open Natalie’s wrist! I must admit that at the time I missed the whole wrist-slashing-budget-hotel metaphor as I was frankly astonished to discover that IBIS indeed have a ‘budget’ branch. That’s like finding Goebbels had a slightly more right-wing brother.
Following the caravannewe had a picnic and waited for the riders themselves. I’m not all that fussed by cycling normally but it was clear that Henri thought that this was a very big event indeed and was obviously excited and from our vantage point we had a very good view indeed. The actual cyclists-passing bit is a bit of a blur, a bit brief – though in the searing temperatures that may not have been a bad thing – but definitely a thrill. There’s something about a live sporting event that can give such a buzz. I’ve been to Wembley finals, Wimbledon and Ashes tests at Lords and the thrill as the cyclists went past loudly and at high speed was right up there as you get carried along by the other spectators and their enthusiasm. Henri, and all the other boys, loved it especially when we got home and we were all on the highlights on the television.
If the whole Tour de France circus is uber-French then to have that event followed quickly by Bastille Day is practically a Gallic overload. There is a sense of fun about Bastille Day, a bit like St Patricks Day but with less drinking, but it tends to take the same format every year. There’s the obligatory brocante obviously and also the equally obligatory feux d’artifices (fireworks display) of which this one must have been about the sixth in as many weeks. It was a poor effort though. The local town normally excels at this type of thing but as the music cranked up to herald the start of the show and a hush descended on the hundreds of people on the riverbank, I could sense something amiss. Normally the stirring strains of La Marseillaisebegin and end these things and even if you’re not French, that is an emotional rallying cry, a proper national anthem. However what we got was the fragile pipes of Edith Piaf telling us that she regretted nothing and was actually I think the fireworks director getting his excuses in early.
Oh, it was poor. A fireworks display should never be lacklustre, but the gaps between each firework going off was just slightly too long making it look like the fireworks themselves weren’t really up for it , like moody teenagers forced to visit elderly relatives. The post fireworks display was even worse, as some kind of low-rent accordion orchestra began their set with the improbable and frankly unwelcome Viva Espana!
Only adult eyes really see these things though and Henri and our three boys had a high old time having forged what seemed like a strong friendship and joking and giggling away in English. Henri was with us for a full week, a polite, tidy and helpful boy who was staying with strangers and being forced to speak in a foreign language. It was obvious at times that he was a little homesick and a little daunted but he never really let on, never moaned or sulked. A successful week all round then, not only was his English massively improved he’d also developed ‘Le Stiff Upper Lip’ too.
What do you mean you haven't sorted out your holiday reading yet? A la Mod, the early years HERE (paperback, kindle, audio download, cave painting pictogram...)
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