So my exercise regime, or attempt to not look like a beached whale on the Côte d’Azur, continues. This evening will be my second zumba class, an experience which last week caused much hilarity among the female assistants of Le Havre. For a start, the instructor thought it was really cool to continually shout out ‘Letzzzz go’ in a far-from-English accent during overly energetic shimmies, and some of the noises she made mid-pelvic thrust were far beyond the watershed. Her hips certainly didn’t lie. Mine, on the other hand, resembled those of a semi-arthritic pensioner desperate for the chance of a saucy salsa with Brendan Cole on Strictly Come Dancing. The only thing missing was a tiny tasselled mini-dress.
To add to my exercise embarrassments, last night a friend and I bravely attempted a ‘body sculpting’ class. We should have known really. After walking in late, we spent at least five minutes trying frantically to assemble all the apparatus needed (mats, steps, hand weights, poles...the list goes on), much to the irritation of Zumba Lady, who’s previous ‘let-loose’ attitude seemed to have taken on a distinctly more military approach as she surveyed the hoard of sweating Frenchies. Alas, hiding at the back was not an option. For the girl who used to deliberately deep field in the area only left-handed rounders batters could hit, the instructor’s eagle eyes immediately invoked the suppressed fear of sporting humiliation, which of course only made my performance worse as a result. Whether those around me thought I was foreign or stupid, I cannot say, but each time ‘les filles’ boomed from the loudspeakers, I wished fervently to be back at my local ‘Legs Bums & Tums’ class with jolly working mums and an ever-gentle instructor. Will I be returning there? Of course!
The other great excitement of the week was a visit from Ruth; fellow French sotoner and future housemate. Whilst there was no exaggerated perspiration and groaning of lycra-clad fitness freaks, we had a lovely jolly time together and packed in a lot; from shoe shopping to beach walking, market visiting to crepe eating. It was also, of course, St Patrick’s Day. Now, for a town which is usually completely ‘mort’ past 7pm, Le Havre really did go all out. Any excuse for a fête, the (only) Irish pub was full to the brim of reluctant Guinness drinkers, most no doubt pretending they liked it, the less daring settling for an alternative beverage and a ciggie. Free mad hatter-style hats were tossed out, and ironically, all but the one Irish member of our group managed to nab one. However, soon tiring of the boozy crowd and chaleur, we headed to ‘Magic Mirrors’, a bizarre concert venue resembling a temporarily-erected wooden hut, which was putting on a ‘traditional’ Irish evening, complete with music, dancing, and....a screamo rock band. The latter of these was apparently added to the evening’s programme for the benefit of the youth, yet didn’t prove to be quite as successful as anticipated when the dance floor cleared, but for the presence of five pierced guys and gals wielding lighters and attempting to start a mosh pit in the completely empty space. Luckily, just as we were contemplating leaving for the safety of our eardrums, the traditional instruments recommenced, and I was amazed just how many of the Frenchies knew how to Irish dance. I can only assume that Fnac recently had a ‘learn to Irish dance’ DVD sale, which clearly was a roaring success.
Bon. Je pense que c’est tout ! I will leave you this week with a classic school anecdote. While working on a song with the English Club today, I explained the meaning of the word ‘Blue’, in the sad and lonely sense. However, after the session had finished, one teacher beckoned me, proceeding to whisper in a confidential manner that ‘Blue’ could also be used in a different context. ‘Oh really?’ I said, genuinely interested. ‘Yes’, came the response. ‘Blue...like a ‘blue movie’....or, how you say...a porno?’
She’s sixty-five.
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