Written by Gordon Aspey
8 May 2020
There is much to like about the French way of life. They are masters at manipulating time to do what they want to do.
They are not happy to just wave to a friend across the street. They must stop the traffic, dash across and chat for a while. Then saunter down to the coffee shop and maybe follow it up with lunch and a couple of beers. There might even be a phone call to the boss explaining in sombre tones of some bereavement in the family. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow Guv.’ I kind of like that, they understand the importance of family and won’t sacrifice good friendship for petty commercial gain.
We didn’t get many visitors out here in the sticks but when we did the language was more tortured with the local dialect.
An old lady ambled down the grassy slope towards the villa carrying a large wicker basket on her arm.
“Bonjour Messuir.”
I reciprocated as best I could, calling Babs to save me getting too involved.
My French is made up of facial grimaces, hand signals and grunts of one syllable. We discovered the good lady was our nearest neighbor. In ice breaking mode she was offering us the contents of her basket: a dozen beef tomatoes and some green beans. She displayed mild irritation when we tried to pay her for them. This is one part of the world where they still practice community spirit.
Our second visitor was more of a challenge. I explained to him that I didn’t parley in his lingo and my wife was in the Douche. Babs is a bit long winded when it comes to showers and sprucing herself up.
He shrugged and sat down indicating he would wait.
I made him a cup of tea, he helped himself with two sugars.
He was a bustling, convivial sort of character. I tried to figure out what sort of gifts he was giving away and made him another cup of tea and he heaped in three sugars.
He gabbled on at Babs for several minutes or so whilst she looked reasonably mystified. Then the familiar eureka expression descended upon her.
‘Ah-hah! You are a salesman? You want to sell us a septic tank and sewage system.’
‘Oui-oui ‘ he cried beaming with relief.
Of course there are those who’ll say ‘Silly old fools they ought to learn the language properly.’
‘Not so’ I say. The majority of expats are in the retired group. They need their remaining brain cells to work out the plunging exchange rate of the euro, and the need to learn to drive on the wrong side of the road.
They really don’t want the hassles of learning another language.
If only the French weren’t so hell bent on ignoring the English language they could improve their economy overnight and save thousands of man-hours. Imagine the septic tank salesman how much time he could of saved if he had a small piece of paper in his pocket with the words ‘I sell septic tanks’ in English. Kas warned us to be careful with strange visitors, she reckoned the septic tank man was a burglar casing the joint.
The traffic was sparse and drivers generally appeared to be courteous and patient with my uncertain progress at roundabouts and road junctions. Our transport was the traditional small Renault estate and driving proved to be less of a problem than expected Although we did have a fright when there was an awful clattering coming from the rear end. The exhaust pipe had become disconnected from its fastenings. I managed a swift repair with an old wire coat hanger. My nerves had barely settled when leaving the Supermarket with our weekly shop a large lady started hooting her horn, shouting and waving her arms furiously. ‘What’s the matter with her- are we on the right side of the road?’ said Babs.
‘Take no notice’ I said, she looks like some sort of nutter’ I gave her a vigorous two finger salute. To my dismay the lady got out of her car and ran towards us red faced and angry. I thought Oh no! she’s going to punch me in the face. She reached up on our car roof and dumped a bag of potatoes onto the bonnet. Putting her face close to the windscreen she pointed a finger to her head to indicate I was stupid. Babs wound the window down and apologized explaining I had left the potatoes on the roof by accident then cupping a hand to her face she whispered something. The large lady became convulsed with laughter as she staggered back to her car.
‘So I left the potatoes on the roof did I, and what’s the fat lady laughing at?‘
‘I just apologized for your rudeness’ said Babs grinning broadly.
I suspect I was the butt for the large ladies hilarity but Babs wasn’t letting on. My thoughts were now directed towards the extra special secret treat organized by Kas for Babs 80th birthday the following week. I was really looking forward to that.