The Show Must Go On (and other news)

You may have heard tell of the ‘Soirée Anglaise’  which will be taking place in a little Le Havre café next Thursday (19h30 should you bizarrely happen to be around my neck of the French woods). A cultural (we hope) evening celebrating the diversity of the English language, with English, Irish and American input, featuring various drama, poetry, music and at one point hula-hooping performances from all us English assistants ici. Allow me to explain.

              At the beginning of my year abroad, a group of us stumbled upon ‘Les Yeux d’Elsa’, a charity bookshop-come-ethnic-café which, as an English student, instantly fascinated me. Sipping my 2 euro hot chocolate amongst antique French Bibles and dusty Beatles cassettes and flicking through that month’s ‘what’s on’ programme, it dawned on me. Why not host our own soirée? After a one-year string of incessant bad luck auditioning for university productions, I know I’ll never be Kiera Knightley (arguably a good thing...not sure I could pull off the corsets), but my inner thespian itched for another performance opportunity, and well...when in France! Anyway, several pleas and a cajoling facebook group later, we’d signed up, and our English extravaganza is now awaited ‘avec impatience’ from many an eager Frenchy (aka the overjoyed café owner desperate to fill up her programme and a couple of dears from my Tuesday night Languages Cafe).  We even have flyers.

                Now, this all sounds good and dandy, except for one slight problem. Preparation. So far, our rehearsals (all three of them) have consisted of chatter, panic, and a lot of food, be it pizza, fajitas, or crepes. However, we have had the odd brainwave between mouthfuls, meaning somehow a mish-mash show has been slotted together. Acts include a take on Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’, various American poems, and even some of my own work! I’m hoping we’ll be able to pull it out of the bag, so watch this space. As they say, it’ll be alright on the night!

             Of course, all this planning means a lot of paper, which in turn involves endless trips to the Bibliothèque Municipale for use of my daily 5 page printing allowance. It has recently come to my attention just how fruitful a location this local library is for blog material, most notably last week when I spotted a woman bawling her eyes out at the computer workstation opposite me. Now I know what you’re thinking.... ‘Crying....not the greatest form of comedy Ella...’, but we’re not talking normal ‘I’m-crying-in-a-library-so-must-be-subtle’ style behaviour. Oh no. This lady was really taking measures to ensure everyone was aware of her distress, from intakes of breath so loud and sharp they were reminiscent of a near-drowning dog, to over-exaggerated wails which quite frankly were almost ghoulish! Many a comradely glance was shared between those around me, yet a couple of kindly attempts to pacify said woman only resulted in worsening the situation and the emission of a fire-alarm pitched yelp. However, the most common reaction seemed to be a simple feigned deafness (incredibly difficult given the ever-rising sob volume), yet even I couldn’t help but smile when I witnessed the next move...namely the removal and steady munching and crackling of a packet of peanuts from her handbag. Clearly the best way to deal with overwhelming grief in France is by whipping out a hearty snack, perhaps something I should bear in mind. Next time a class gets that little bit too much for me....out with the Pringles. Sorted.

                        Speaking of food, my current health kick continues. I am now taking exercise classes up to three times a week, and salad is my new best friend (albeit with oodles of Caesar dressing). The most recent addition to my regime is BodyBalance, or as most of us like to call it...yoga. Unfortunately, I took the regrettable decision of a morning session, meaning I was one of just seven people; the other six all well within the over 60 age-bracket, despite their slinky tops and (too) tight leggings. Whilst I was left pondering whether lycra and retirement are a socially acceptable combination, the coach walked in, and well...attractive does not even cover it. I’m not often one for schoolgirl crushes, and in fact haven’t been since the photo of Gareth Gates in my school locker aged eleven (in an inflatable heart-shaped photo frame may I add), but in the words of ‘Mean Girls’, ‘this one hit me like a big yellow school bus’. I’m not sure if it was the fact he teaches yoga (sensitive side), his drawling French voice reminding me to ‘inspirerrrrrr’ or sheer good looks, but it’s safe to say my fellow assistants and I are smitten. So here’s hoping he doesn’t speak English and/or come across this declaration (although just in case- marry me...?)

                              Moving on before I start to swoon.....I even went for a run along the beach on Sunday! As the girl who only went running twice in two years with her housemate and complained the whole way each time, I feel this is immense progress for me, and despite my dodgy hip flaring up after BodyBalance (oh the irony) I managed a pretty decent distance. So decent, in fact, that my friend and I decided to reward ourselves with a cooling and celebratory dip in the sea to finish off. In my last blog, you will have noticed my insistence I swim (in) the Channel before leaving Le Havre, however the deed itself lasted no longer than five minutes and involved me and my sports bra, a stunned crowd, a lot of numbness, and a very wet seat on the bus ride home. Still, it’s ticked off the list, but I think I’ll wait for the French Riviera before my next dip!

                             In other (completely unrelated) news, I’d forgotten how funny this sketch is (Thanks again Leyla!!). Enjoy. 

Reims...say the first syllable of 'rancid' and you're pretty much there.

So apparently, a bunch of French profs in the staff room don’t understand when a bold English lass (hello) decides to explain her weekend plan of a trip to ‘Reeeeeeeeeeeems’ (and it has nothing to do with TOWIE, fyi). Last week, after copious blank faces and repetition, it was finally established that the place of which I attempted to speak is in fact pronounced more like ‘Ranz’, something which to me is more reminiscent of a phelgmy cough than a beautiful city in the famous Champagne region of France. Why the Frenchies insist upon such grotesque-sounding names is beyond me, with other examples including Grenoble (‘Grrrruhhhhhhnoble’) and the hilarious town of ‘Kodo’ which is in actual fact spelt ‘Condom’, I kid you not.

              Dubious pronunciation aside, Reims is a lovely place, and the first time I’ve properly felt that holiday feeling whilst on my year abroad. It is surprisingly easy to get to as well; only 48 minutes from Paris on the TGV from Gare de l’Est. The one drawback of this is the treacherous walk between stations from Gare du Nord, which I’m sure you’ve already gathered is perhaps my least favourite area in the whole of France. Last weekend for instance, we witnessed someone get hit by a taxi (albeit at around 5mph...his body still moved from the impact), a full-on fist fight (standard), and the red neon sign of ‘Hotel Kuntz’, which I can only hope is the surname of a German family. However, somehow, we arrived in Reims in one piece, and the rest of the weekend passed without incident, unless of course you count the tram-obsessed weirdo who kept gesturing the exact time the doors would open at each stop and for how long....To be fair though, there is a strong possibility that would’ve been me in Le Havre if the tram had already been built, as this weekend did make me realise just how ridiculously happy every ride made me....TRAMS ARE JUST TOO COOL!

                  Moving on before I start to have excitement-induced spasms....We certainly ‘profited bien’, and crammed an insane amount of touristy activities into one weekend. Reims cathedral was truly spectacular; big enough inside to fit a rugby pitch, and definitely rivalling Notre Dame in Paris in terms of grandeur and magnificence. The ancient artefacts displayed next door in the Palais de Tau provided us with a further splash of culture, although admittedly we did get a little side-tracked by the feel and describe 3D tapestry models which were there to mark some form of disability awareness day. Of course (according to a Telegraph article my Granny posted me), no trip to Reims would be complete without a champagne tour, so a large proportion of Saturday afternoon was spent trawling the streets in search of a particular cellar which had been highly recommended by my wine-lovin’ Uncle. Sadly, all we managed to find instead was a suspiciously new-looking apartment block, and a somewhat embarrassing Q&A session with the receptionist woman in a different cellar led us to discover that what had apparently been ‘the best introduction to a champagne tour’ had in fact been demolished five years ago in favour of pillared modern housing. However, trying to ignore the awkwardness, we swallowed our pride and instead bought tickets for her champagne cellar...Champagne Pommery, in case anyone out there is wine-buff enough to be interested (Andy). Besides, 12 euros for a half an hour tour plus a free glass of champers (‘Brut Royale’) ain’t ‘alf a bad deal, especially seeing as Verve Cliquot next door were charging 39 euros, although perhaps the price is automatically put up for a man wearing a Mario t-shirt (as one of our group was) instead of cords and a cardigan draped around the shoulders.

          The ‘caves’ themselves were far more interesting than I anticipated. Every country which exports Pommery Champagne had its own cavern, and there were bottles there dating back as far as 1929. Despite the tour being led in French by a man who openly admitted he was only going to give us ‘the basic facts and nothing more’ and who became visibly irritated at the over-talkative guide in front of him who clearly didn’t share this philosophy, I did pick up a few facts. Did you know, for instance, that every five seconds, somewhere in the world a bottle of Pommery is opened? Crazy. And ‘Pommery’ comes from ‘Madame Pommery’, a lady who, originally named ‘Madame Banane’, changed her name in admiration for her favourite fruit? (pomme=apple). Okay, so that second one was made up, but when you’re the only three English people in a cellar full of incessantly nodding Frenchies, whatcha gonna do....gotta stay amused somehow.

                  Swapping the champers for ‘sex on the beach’ (cocktails), our evening was spent in a slightly less cultural manner. After a dinner of undoubtedly the best moules I’ve ever tasted, we strolled along the main restaurant strip, soaking up the atmosphere and relishing not just the fact that people were eating outside, but also the very presence OF people, as the emptiness of Le Havre after around 7pm often makes me feel as if there is a town curfew. By sheer pot luck (climbing into a taxi and asking the driver to take us to the best place there was), we also found an incredibly cool nightclub. Smoke, lasers, strobe lighting and even a giant bubble cannon all provided us with a fab night out. Fab, that is, once we’d managed to establish to a large group of Frenchies giving us odd looks in the queue that YES, we were English, YES, we did use a different language to them, and YES, we could also speak French, so they better watch it alrighttttttt? (Okay, so that last bit was more thought than speech).

                   All in all, an amazing weekend was had, and not one of us wanted to return to the real world of roadworks and stroppy children. But here we are, and there is still so much I want to do before I leave. I haven’t even been in the sea yet, something which as a Kentish girl used to Easter holiday sea temperatures, I feel is an absolute must. For now though, it’s back to teaching, and I’m attempting to make the last few weeks as animated as possible.  With songs, Simon Says, and French-subtitled Fawlty Towers, I should be able to stay sane.  Besides, we brought back a bottle of Pommery to toast the end with...if that’s not an incentive, I don’t know what is!

Guinness, mad-hatters and a whole lot of pelvic thrusting.

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. 

Holiday Round-Up

Now that blogging has become so much a part of my routine, it feels strange taking two weeks out....almost like neglecting a baby. So to all three (or perhaps five these days...hello Susan and Richard!!) of my readers, I apologise little ones. Mumma’s home now. And what a two weeks she’s had! Waiting by the Eurostar doors as it approached Ebbsfleet station and trying not to react to an Italian mother and daughter thoroughly comparing finger sizes (maybe some sort of custom upon arrival in a new country), I realised just how happy I was to be home. The best way by far to properly bring in one’s 21^st birthday is with family, friends and in my case, a trip to the local wildlife park for llama-feeding, a champagne picnic and countless desperate attempts at coaxing several pregnant lemurs to jump on my head.

                   That’s not to say I didn’t also profite-bien en France. The day before leaving Le Havre, I celebrated en avance with a traditional French meal and not-so-traditional club night, which was apparently 90’s themed. When my (only) French friend excitedly reported her plans to dress up as the Spice Girls with a group of chums, at first things seemed promising. There’s nothing I like more than fancy dress, and if anything, my limited costume resources only inspired me further to produce a masterpiece. Having previously created outfits such as Cruella De Vil where I sprayed half my backcombed curls white, a flamingo (including pink feather-boa wings), and a Halloween spider with 4 pairs of newspaper and wire-stuffed tights sewn to my torso, I was sure I could manage the 90’s. However, from my extensive observation (/friendly mocking) of French youth culture, one thing I had learnt: clubbing attire is never what you think. With this in mind, I dug out a leopard print top, and decided to settle for that; if necessary, I could label myself ‘Scary Spice’, whilst still maintaining a reasonably normal appearance. And believe me; I am so glad I did. The enthusiasm of my French friend turned out to be nothing more than an equally understated animal-print vest, and aside from the odd Macarena or Ketchup Song, there was absolutely nothing to suggest the club night even had a theme. Even so, a good time was had by most. All, that is, except one poor Frenchman, who hopefully bought my entire friendship group 10 euro-a-glass champagne all night long, only to end the night in a drunken brawl with the bouncer after several attempts to steal one of the bar’s decorative top-hats as a birthday crown for me.

                 Anyway, reality has once again settled in, and I find myself once again in teaching mode, where one school’s idea of naughtiness is shouting English obscenities mid-class and the other’s stops largely at the sneaky placing of knives into the designated fork box whilst clearing their plates in the canteen. The problem I now have, aside from sleeping students at the back of the classroom, is a distinct lack of motivation. I don’t want to teach, nor do I want to lesson plan, nor, in fact, ever have to do TEFL ever again (unless it’s in the form of an easy Southampton languages content module). Okay, so maybe this is a slight exaggeration. I do enjoy it sometimes. Yesterday, I entered into a gruelling debate about the advantages and disadvantages of using Photoshop on models, and this morning became just as vocal as my competitive eleven year olds, shouting ‘ELMININÉ ELIMINÉ!’ during a heated game of ‘Simon Says’. I enjoy the opportunities France gives me to travel, food-related banter with the school chef, and I love the fact the teachers are always cold even when beautiful sunshine streams through the school windows and I sit roasting in a three-quarter length sleeved dress. Such weather definitely makes negativity difficult.

Onwards and upwards mes amies!

Time for a 'Lille' holiday!

It is currently ski-season in France. The mountains are snowy, the gear is ready and surprise surprise, there are significantly more absent children than usual in both schools. Of course, as the girl-with-teacher-for-mother, I’m bound to be bitter about this last observation, having never been allowed a day off except in cases of violent vomiting, uncontrollable diarrhoea, or on one occasion, hospital admittance for a bladder scan...though even that was ‘pushing it’, apparently. How I longed for ‘cool’ (and hypochondriac- the two at that time seemed to go hand in hand) parents; the sort that prioritised off-peak holidays and routinely decided that one sneeze merited a day away from the ‘hothouse of germs’ (aka school) snuggled up with Tom and Jerry and blackcurrant Calpol because after all, the ‘poor mite’ was inevitably ‘coming down with something’. But no. Unfortunately for my sister and I, our parents believed firmly in the hale-and-hearty method, selfishly putting our education above sun, sea and sniffles. How could they. I did win the attendance prize every year without fail though, so it wasn’t all doom and gloom...something for the CV.

               So the holidays are nearly upon us, and needless to say I’ve decided against the whole skiing thing. Those of you who know me will remember my ineptness at almost every form of sport. There was the spectacular Christmas ice-skating fall which still occasionally brings a twinge to my coccyx, the Freshers’ Week dry ski slope incident where my skis got caught under a barbed wire fence and I had to be rescued by the instructor, and of course not forgetting the summer rounders games of ’02-’06, where I devised the ingenious strategy of fielding out deep in a space where only left-handed batters could reach, only for my reveries to be rudely interrupted by the odd flying ball which, despite the urgent cries of my teammates, I usually ignored. No, whilst numerous French families bed down in their cosy log cabins and rub after-sun into their wind-burnt, goggle marked faces, by tomorrow evening I will be back home, snuggled on the sofa with my family, all of us undoubtedly wearing matching bunny onesies.

                  The past weeks have flown by. Just after Christmas, I was sitting in the Portsmouth ferry port with a fellow assistant Nadine, both of us desperately trying to remember what it was we liked most about Le Havre in an attempt to rid ourselves of the utter despondence we felt at the prospect of returning. Our eventual response? The people we’d met. ‘Oh, and the beach, I guess’, Nadine added with a sigh. We weren’t convincing anyone.

               Yet here I am again, now with only seven teaching weeks until the very end of my year abroad, and there is still so much I want to do. On the cards after the holidays is an assistants’ trip to Bruges, a potential visit to Angers, and Disneyland round two (round three in August with my sister). Last weekend, I went to Lille, where I stayed with a couple of Southampton friends; Jen and Harriet. It was really lovely to see them both, and I thoroughly enjoyed the city itself, despite a morbid (and slightly ridiculous) tale I’d previously heard about a girl who developed foot problems from too many strolls along the cobbled streets. Luckily, my tootsies survived the weekend unscathed, and highlights of the trip included lots of shopping, a sample of Lille nightlife and a man on the metro whose bodily aromas were so pungent that we were forced to disembark before our stop and wait for the next one to avoid publicly gagging. A good time had by all.

                  This Saturday is my twenty-first birthday, another reason for my ever-building excitement at returning to England. Yesterday evening was spent making skittle vodka and vodka jelly (NB: jelly doesn’t seem to exist in France...luckily a friend had some on hand) in preparation for tonight’s pre-birthday festivities, namely a meal out followed by what promises to be an incredibly amusing club night. The theme is ‘90s’; something which in England is a fairly common occurrence and a more than valid excuse for me to openly display my unceasing love for S Club 7, not to mention proudly showcase the dance I choreographed to ‘Don’t Stop Movin’ in primary school at the talented age of eleven. The Facebook  page declares the event to be ‘fancy dress’, however for a country whose usual club attire is composed of UGG boots and full-length parkas, I’m not sure what to make of this. There will certainly be no tiny union-jack dresses or pink PVC skirts, so as you can imagine, I was more than a little confused when my (only) French friend ecstatically told me of how she and her gang would be dressing up as the Spice Girls....I’ve decided to play it safe with a leopard-print top. If worst comes to worst, I can label myself ‘Scary’, whilst still wearing what is a fairly normal outfit, unlike my famous Halloween ‘spider’ costume last year in Southampton, where I had four pairs of newspaper-stuffed black tights sewed to my fake cobweb-sprayed dress and the taxi driver had to do up my seatbelt. Full details of this upcoming evening and all other birthday antics to be reported after the two week half term.

                    So for now lovely readers, all that remains is for me to wish you bonnes vacances, or in the words of my students: beautiful/good/bonnes holidays!

I have been living in France since the five months...a week of flirtation and faux-pas

Another week of amazing linguistic errors; provided this time not only by my ever-amusing students, but by a couple of well-established English teachers who quite frankly, should know better. Allow me to elaborate. Last Thursday for instance, it was decided that the topic of the lunchtime English club would be ‘Groundhog Day’. Now, I recognise it as a film title (which incidentally I’ve never actually seen), but aside from that my knowledge of the concept is very limited. What I’m fairly certain of however, is that when printing out a themed wordsearch from apples4theteacher.com or some such lesson plan-cheating website, it is normally a good idea to double check the vocab list before dolling it out to unsuspecting eleven year olds who, bless their hearts, have no idea whatsoever of the meaning of half the words anyway. ‘Gobbler’s Knob’ for example, had me in silent stitches for a good ten minutes before one teacher noticed and asked for an explanation. ‘Knob....means....willy’ I managed to chortle, all professional etiquette instantly vanishing. My fellow staff member’s response to this mature utterance? None other than this: ‘I am very happy to know this word’. I’m not quite sure what she meant by this, but needless to say, it nearly finished me off. Those poor clueless children.

                    Now, I've always scoffed at those over-confident year abroad students who brag about how they’re SO enriched in foreign culture now that sometimes they just CANNOT remember a word in English....anyone remember the Armstrong and Miller sketch? (See previous blog entries). ‘What are you calling yourself to yourself’, ‘My head is so much in the France now that my English is very very tiny’, etc. I never in a million years thought I could ever become that much of a ponce. Yet, after asking if English has a subjunctive (true story) and announcing to my bemused assistant friends how I planned to ‘mount’ the midnight bus, think I’m going to have to reconsider my stance. Whilst of course some people (namely lecturers and Oxbridge graduates) may see these faux-pas as significant linguistic leaps in the direction of full fluency, I tend to just loathe myself that little bit more each fois (oh, sorry, I mean time) it happens. Why in order to reach native level, every languages student seemingly has to go through this phase of sounding like a complete fool, I’ll never understand. ‘Galerie Nationale, Galerie Nationale, Galerie Nationale.....ahhh yes, the National Gallery!’ (Another classic Armstrong and Miller gem there).

                    However French I may think I’ve become, it was all taken away from me last week with the arrival of two Canadian exchange students. For some reason, they found my British accent a never-ending source of amusement regardless of which language I was speaking. Constant demands that I repeat such phrases as ‘Harry Potter’, ‘Expelliaramus’ and ‘More crumpets please guv’nor made for an incredibly unproductive lesson, particularly when my compliance led to fits of convulsive laughter, and one boy rolling on the floor clutching his stomach in a mildly alarming manner. Don’t worry though, he wasn’t in pain, it was simply all down to his ‘ADD’ (Attention Deficit Disorder?) apparently, something which he delighted in explaining  to me at least fourteen times during the 30 minute class, to the point where I began questioning if he was using it as an excuse to behave like a total moron (he definitely was).

                    This particular class was certainly one of many ‘interesting’ characters. Another fourteen year old boy spent the entire session (in between the Canadians’ cries of ‘God Save the Queen’ that is) desperately attempting to accquire my address, my phone number, or, failing that, a date. Now, I’ve encountered flirtatiousness before, as is only natural when a twenty year old female comes across a group of testosterone-fuelled adolescent lads, but never had I seen this level of persistence. After the old ‘is not for me, is for my brother, he 20’ (classic), this ingenious child then moved to new heights, telling me in French how my eyes sparkle like the sun (can’t deny it) and even requesting ‘bisous please’ (kisses) when leaving the classroom, pointing to his cheek and giving me what can only be described as puppy-dog eyes. A definite charmer in the making....I just hope it wasn’t truly for his brother otherwise I may have made a terrible mistake....

                   One-liners and language barrier aside, I’ve recently derived a seamless technique for quietening the most raucous of classes. Simple yet effective, it is simply this: a sudden outburst of garbled and rapid English forcing attitude-infused French faces to drain of all confidence as previously-gabby mouths to widen in genuine fear....still think you’re ‘trop fort’ to listen in my classes little boy? Think encore. You’ll have to try a lot harder to outsmart this tough teacher. Wait, what’s that you say? My eyes sparkle like the sun....?

Buses in France: 'Enough of this gay banter'

More bus antics for you this week. Amazing how much mockery can be made of the French public transport system....just you wait til I move onto the 40 cent funicular railway. Anyway. I know I’ve mentioned it before, but this ‘being bezzie mates with the bus driver’ craze really is becoming more and more of a regular occurrence. I would now say that at some point during nine journeys out of ten, there will be at least one over-friendly Frenchy leaning into the driver’s area (no euphemism intended) and engrossed in persistent chat. As John Cleese would say; ‘enough of this gay banter’ (‘Vocational Guidance Councillor’ sketch, see below).

               In almost four months, I’ve heard the most bizarre of exchanges, from a primary school child’s detailed account of his day at school (no, the driver wasn’t his dad) to a dead-pan serious man solemnly discussing, or rather lecturing on, the various flavours and re-brands of Coca-Cola through the ages....I think I hear Mastermind calling. A few weeks ago, I also saw one eager woman up the front proudly whip out a selection of photos from her oversized Tote bag, which appeared from a distance to be her holiday snaps. At any rate, there was definitely sand and sun involved, neither of which, may I add, are typical Le Havre features. Beaches...bikinis...safe to say the male driver’s eyes were anywhere BUT the road, leaving me and my fellow passengers to simply cross our fingers and fervently hope that this woman was not a topless sunbather. As if that wasn’t enough, when getting on the bus, many of ‘these’ people even do the ‘bises’ (the standard French kissing on each cheek), which leads me to two possible conclusions. One: ‘Havrais’ bus drivers are incredibly popular, or two: the French are insane. Answers on a postcard.

                Perhaps I don’t get out enough (or arguably I get out too much!), but for me foreign public transport is a never-ending source of entertainment. I realised on the bus yesterday for instance how long it had been since I last saw a man in a suit. Small pleasures, possibly, but Le Havre in general is definitely more of a ‘dress down’ city. Of course, this is great for me, for as is well known, students love the odd ‘slob day’; any excuse to don the University-inscribed trackies and society hoody with self-thought witty slogan scrawled across it (or in my case, French society: ‘get an Eiffel of my tower’), and slouch down to the corner shop for a Fanta and a packet of post-revision Hob-Nobs. So here in the big LH (abbreviations are cool), we’re in our element. But formal attire...now THAT is rare, possibly even frowned upon, particularly on the buses. The man in question received many sniffing mate-stop-trying-to-be-alternative –type glances from the other ‘voyageurs’ as he stood nervously clutching his shiny leather briefcase. The sort of looks in fact, which some of us (me) would potentially direct at a wannabe ‘Urban Outfitters’-style teen here in England as she brushed down her Oh So Vintage patterned jumper and swung her deliberately-distressed military boots up onto the seat opposite. Sigh.

                  However, it seems the drivers are beginning to tire of this continuous stream of new ‘friend’s (cue InBetweeners quote). As I’ve no doubt previously told you, Le Havre is currently under construction. The eagerly-anticipated 395 million euro tramway is due to open in December 2012, and according to its enthusiastic website will apparently be ‘ideal for going to work, shopping, leisure, or a simple family outing’. Yet what it fails to document, and what I like to think of as inevitable small print, is the fact that each driver will be in a completely separate compartment to the public, thereby killing two proverbial birds with one (very expensive- potentially a diamond?) stone.

              But for now, my tip of the day is this. If you’re ever bored (or lonely) in a foreign country, just hop on a bus. You won’t regret it, and who knows, you might even end the journey with a new best bud.