Good Girls go to Heaven, Bad Girls go to Disneyland.

With a slogan like this scrawled across our homemade t-shirts, the Le Havre assistants trip to Disneyland this weekend (aka ‘Big Ladz on Tour’) was always going to be good. So good, in fact, that we are all currently suffering with an ever-worsening condition of ‘post-disney blues’. This is of course not helped by the fact that after two perfect days of blue sky amidst the magic, the weather outside is frightful and Le Havre is currently not so delightful. Bless ‘em though, they’ve tried to cheer up the place with a smattering of lights and a gallant attempt at a Christmas market consisting of about seven rain-sodden wooden huts, but it doesn’t change the fact that two days ago I was surrounded by festive music, waving princesses, and sparkling fake snow which appeared to actually be falling from the sky. So as I sit here clinging to my cuddly Pluto with the parade song on repeat and a tear running down my cheek (I’ll let you decide which part of that is a joke), allow me a few paragraphs of nostalgia to release the memories from my system....

             Disneyland was amazing. Just as good as I remembered it as a child, if not better as there was no restriction on bedtime. For 35 euros a night, we managed to bag ourselves the Hotel Elysée, an extremely luxurious establishment in Val d’Europe (a ‘town’ of sorts built especially for the staff and guests), with a hairdryer, free shuttle bus to the parks, and a king-sized bed all to myself. Bliss. The only downside was the 14 euro breakfast, though even that we pre-empted with value pain-au-chocolats and croissants.

               Highlights of the weekend included the parades, the gorgeously illuminated castle, and all the rollercoasters; a particularly notable moment being when we were evacuated from the Rock n’ Rollercoaster by two engineers after the music stopped and several large industrial working lights came on overhead. After a couple of ‘stay in your seats, and keep rocking’ type announcements, the entire train-full of us were then crocodiled back through the ride itself (the track looked terrifying) and into the staff area to calls of ‘no photos please’ as an eager group of Chinese tourists attempted to document the whole ordeal. When I asked what exactly the problem was (in my best French I’ll have you know), I was simply told in broken English that ‘the trains, they no move’...a logical explanation if ever I heard one. I also greatly enjoyed the Tower of Terror, though like how my Granny only told me afterwards that a boy had recently died on there after having his brain ‘shaken up too much’. I even bought an annual pass, my reasoning being that it’s cheaper than another 2 day 2 parks ticket, plus I will almost definitely be returning at some point before my year abroad is up; I’ve got the adrenaline bug so badly that I was half-expecting the metro home to suddenly drop or twist into a 360 loop as soon as it entered a tunnel.

                In other news, I received my first dinner invitation from a teacher last week, so tonight will be whipping out my best acknowledging smile in the hope that it will cover up what will no doubt become a multitude of conversational errors- I’m still never sure how to progress from calling someone ‘vous’ to ‘tu’ without causing offence somewhere along the line! But armed with a refined nodding ability and a box of mince pies, I’m sure the evening will prove a success.

               Well, it’s the last week of term, which means this is my final blog for a couple of weeks. I really cannot wait for England, family, food, and of course Christmas, but it’s been a fabulous two (and a bit) months, and no doubt I’ll return in January with many more failures and japes. But until then, I’ll leave you with this: never give a class of thirteen year olds an English menu with the starter ‘breaded camembert BITES’ (wordreference it). You will regret it.

Joyeux Noel à tous! J

The Dust of Humanity (or 'It's a Small World After All')

First things first. 'The Dust of Humanity' is what I told my good friend Sarah Cronk I’d call this blog, after last week’s ‘deep and meaningful’ thespian experience. Not much relevance to what I’m planning on writing about, but it sounds good right? And a promise is a promise.

           Now to the real meaty stuff.  Mincemeat, as it happens. My latest attempt to appear down with the kids by proved a spectacular failure this morning when I proudly offered up a tin of Mr Kipling’s finest mince pies at the end of my lesson, brought (again by Sarah Cronk) all the way from Tesco, England, and painstakingly cut into exact quarters so as to avoid disagreements on who had the biggest piece. This was far from my biggest problem. They say food is the way to the heart, however my faith in the truth of this theory was severely shaken when witnessing thirty fifteen year olds running to the bin and spitting ferociously...Merry Christmas guys...

             Despite this minor setback, I’m feeling rather festive. Having just packed for Disneyland Paris, I’m sitting with a hot chocolate bopping along to ‘It’s a Small World’ and trying to contain my excitement for the coming few days. The anticipation reached new levels yesterday when my fellow English assistants and I actually spent an entire evening making customised Disneyland t-shirts, complete with the slogan ‘Good Girls go to Heaven, Bad Girls go to Disneyland’ (I wonder who’s idea that was...) and individual nicknames. And so it is that tomorrow night; J-Dawg, Dino, Asen-tial, Ley-tex and Dove-step (tagline: ‘Call me CinderELLA, not CruELLA’) will be heading off on a magical journey to celebrate the Christmas season in style. If Asena’s ‘I’ll make dreams come true’ slogan doesn’t get us kicked out for inappropriate behaviour, that is.

            Last weekend, I headed to central Paris to visit some Southampton buds; Charlotte Osbourne, Ruth Walker and Sylvia Middup, and we had a fab time checking out the Christmas markets at La Défense and along the Champs-Elysees, spotting some bargain 1 euro chocolate-covered marshmallows as well as some extremely bizarre (but quite cool) gift ideas, such as a kit for making candles out of water, food colouring and cooking oil, an entire stall dedicated to amber-coloured jewellery, and a collection of cuddly toy gingerbread men. Despite missing my train and having to wait three hours for the next one, I had an absolutely lovely weekend. And I got to watch ‘Enchanted’ in bed on Saturday night. Who needs Parisian nightlife with a treat like that! 

J

               Following that theme, a friend of mine recently read the following quote in ‘Be’ magazine: ‘Que faire pour rigoler un samedi soir au Havre? Légalement? Pas grand-chose’. Or in other words, ‘what is there to do that’s fun on Saturday night in Le Havre? Legally? Not a lot’. As my previous blogs have shown, Le Havre is underestimated when it comes to the clubbing scene. Granted, it is a complete ghost town most nights (and days) of the week, but what it comes down to is knowing where to look. I’ll tell you where not to look- ‘Le Club’. Not that I’ve ever been there, but I pass it on the bus almost every day, and each time am notably thankful that my motivation for finding a good night out has not yet reached such dire levels. Not much is given away from the name, but all that needs to be seen are the blacked out windows and loopy white handwriting proclaiming  its dubious status as a ‘club privé’ for one to assess the nature of such an establishment. So ‘privé’, in fact, that I even failed to find a picture on Google Images. Think I’ll stick to faux-Edith Piaf and her belting karaoke.

            Le Havre really does have an appalling reputation. The town is permanently war torn in some way; whether from real war carnage or the not-so-simple construction of a tramway. The weather is consistently terrible, which leaves me to wonder whether the fact there is a beach there is some kind of other-worldly joke. The oldies hack up a phlegmy-sounding ‘bahhhh’ before every single sentence, and the youth are well-known as hoodie-wearing yobs (Kent, anyone?) whose idea of a merry night out is slashing the tyres of all the ‘midnight’ (alias, 22.15) buses or 3am moped drag-racing right outside my window. Rockers. And yet, rather like with an ugly child, I will defend Le Havre to the last. I’ve met some amazing people, the view from the cliffs at Sainte-Addresse is breathtaking when the sun sets, and the concrete giant which is the Hotel de Ville actually looks rather pretty all lit up at night.

Then again, ‘tis the season to be jolly.

All the world's a stage...or at least all of France

Okay, so first things first. French theatre is crazy. Now, I’m no stranger to non-naturalism. In fact, I’ve always thought of myself as a thespian type, often nipping up to the National with my under 25s discount card and booking myself in to the most bizarre production I can find. I’ve seen one man monologues and homo-erotic nudity and people making music by banging kitchen sinks. I’ve seen Helen Mirren ‘consumed with an uncontrollable passion’ for her twenty-something on-stage stepson (Phèdre at the National) and The Good Person of Szechwan tripping out on drugs as the company danced around her wearing creepily-painted smiling sacks over their heads. I’ve even seen Waiting for Godot, a play in which literally NOTHING happens, save a few carrots being thrown around and the odd snap appearance of a luminous little boy-come-angel.

             But nothing prepared me for Thursday’s performance of Insultes au Public at the Volcan, Le Havre, or indeed Friday night’s theatre extravaganza at the Malraux Museum, a production so ‘out there’ that I left without even knowing the name of it. Insultes au Public consisted of five actors, the audience seated on small red leather rotatable cubes actually ON the stage, frequent and unannounced blackouts and a whole lot of poetic verse which followed the format ‘nous (we).....blah blah blah’, ‘vous (you)....blah blah blah’. The language itself was surprisingly easy to follow, however not quite so clear was the exact reason why each audience member was given a radio and headphones upon entry. At various moments during the piece, we were all directed to put on said headphones, the idea being (or so I assumed) to give the feeling that the actors were speaking directly into their ears while fuzzy incongruous music played quietly in the background. 

               At the beginning, we were all required to hand over our coats and bags, which were hung on costume rails at the side of the stage, and as the actors introduced the main point of the production; namely that there was no difference between us and them, they each selected an audience member’s coat which they then wore for the duration as they circled us shouting insults at individuals. It was here that I slightly struggled with understanding due to the various slang words used, though I did pick up a spiteful cry of ‘mouton!’ (sheep)  at one point as well as the word ‘loserrrrrr’ said with a thick French accent, whilst my friend John heard a much more shocking bellow of ‘Nazi whore’. How he knows the French for this I’m still not sure....

              I was under the impression that this would be the extent of France’s  outlandish theatrical offerings, yet Friday’s ‘nameless’ show somehow managed to prove me wrong. I’d love to tell you what it was about, but the truth is to this day I have absolutely no idea. All I know is we, the audience, had to follow a group of actors around a museum as they posed as cleaners, performed a synchronised broom-sweeping dance, created a 3D house out of what looked like ‘Police Line Do Not Cross’ tape and contorted lengths of string into the various complex shapes. At the end, a few audience members were given headphones (clearly the French love to incorporate technology into theatre these days) and called forward to aid with some form of bowing routine, the idea being they could hear the instructions but for everyone else the room remained silent. Myself and one of my friends were among these ‘lucky few’, and, having previously been reassured that it was all ‘très facile’, headed sheepishly to the front. Turning on our radios, we awaited the first command, and as everyone took three steps to the left and raised their right arm in complete unison (a ‘heil Hitler’ pose possibly?), I realised with growing horror that my headphones weren’t working. Typical. However, drawing on all my previous (panto) expertise, I remained professional ‘dahhhhling’, and I’m fairly confident I pulled it off. I even left the building with a free packet of ‘poussières d’art’ in my pocket (literally, ‘arty dust’, i.e dust swept from the museum floor)....Your guess is as good as mine.

                Speaking of headphones, I’ll leave you with my latest technology-related anecdote. In England, people on buses largely ignore each other. Whether plugged into an ipod, calming a screaming child or simply staring out of the window, there is very little interaction. As I've previously noted, usually, the same applies in France. Save the odd bus driver ‘bonjour’ or exchange of sympathetic smile with an old lady, the normal etiquette is to mind one’s own business.

                However, on one evening last week, this was not the case. As I bopped along to Jason Derulo’s It Girl, I felt someone tap my arm. Obviously, it was a sleazy French man, who with what he clearly thought was a flirty smile (but which I interpreted as incredibly creepy), offered me one ear of his own headphones. At first, I played the friendly card, shaking my head with a cordial indifference. But he was insistent, and after several ‘non merci’s, I dubiously accepted the earphone. Although I don’t remember the exact song lyrics, they went along the lines of ‘you’re the one I’ve waited for/now that I’ve found you I know it’s meant to be/stay with me baby’....you know the type; the crooning English love ballad. Unfortunately (or fortunately in my case), we then reached the charmer’s bus stop and he was forced to leave this beautiful slow-motion moment with the girl of his dreams *cough*, and return to bleak reality, but not before he blew me a kiss, clarifying ‘c’est moi et toi ma chèrie’.

 Only in France. 

'Shrek....c'est toi!'

Picture the scene. A 4e (year 9) lesson on Thanksgiving (yes, I know, I’m not American). A youtube video of the 2010 Macy’s annual thanksgiving parade. There is an assortment of floats, marching bands and giant balloons depicting well-known animated characters, leading to a roomful of awe-struck thirteen year olds. All appears to be going well, until an enormous Shrek floats across the screen. What does one student call out? You’ve got it. ‘Ahaha, Matthias, c’est toi c’est toi!’ (Translation: ‘Ahaha, Matthias, it’s you it’s you!) The brief spell of attentiveness is immediately broken. Unruly laughter ensues, as a riled Matthias turns red and begins to holler his defence. ‘NON C’EST PAS MOI C’EST PAS MOI!!!!’ Brilliant.

              It certainly brings a sense of relief knowing some things never change. No matter which side of the pond, it seems kids will be kids, and the facebook group ‘Looking through a textbook and pointing at pictures going ‘that’s you’’ holds relevence for brits and frenchies alike. Sadly, ‘backchat’ is equally universal. However funny a fifteen year old boy asking if he can write ‘wtf’ in his mobile phone texting conversation may be, the humour remains minimal at 8am on a Wednesday morning when the students delight in informing you that they were taught the exact same lesson last year, exercise sheets and all. ‘On l’a déjà fait’ is the fatal phrase no assistant wants to hear, as with these words every chance of concentration instantly evaporates. Definitely the last time I use the British Council website for lesson plan inspiration!

                Still, you learn from your mistakes, and when a class does prove successful there is no greater feeling of achievement. Although I have the rebels who think that drawing around their shoe and presenting it in front of the class as a school uniform ‘idea’ will win them more friends, I also have some darling children who are a joy to teach, constantly asking ‘can I clean the whiteboard?’, ‘can I read please?’ and possibly my favourite as it just sounds so hilariously formal: ‘can I distribute the papers?’ Watching one enthusiastic little girl wave her ‘I Love London’ pencil case at me with a huge smile this morning reassured me of my own suck-up school days: teacher’s pets CAN be cool after all....

             Speaking of which, my own friendships with members of staff are finally beginning to develop. Last week, I went along to a music evening with one of my Dixieland-lovin’ teachers and her husband, who are part of a jazz concerts organisation group in the posh area of Sainte-Addresse. When we reached the village hall and both of them whipped off their coats to reveal matching candyfloss pink t-shirts with ‘Dixie Days’ printed across the back, I began to question my originally keen invitation acceptance. Having been explicitly forewarned that the vast majority of people would ‘have white hair’, I wasn’t expecting much, but a free charcuterie, pudding, cheese and several glasses of Beaujolais later I was tapping my foot with the best of them whilst admiring one man’s enormous shiny tuba (100% not a euphemism). However, ignorant though it may seem, I’m still not utterly convinced that the band played any more than two different songs throughout the entire evening...clearly I’m not cut out to be a Dixie lover.

              The year abroad makes people do strange things; that particular evening being a prime example. You become so desperate for true cultural involvement that you will resort to almost any form of native immersion in order to ‘fit in’. It was with this sense of determination that my fellow English assistants and I keenly offered to put on an ‘English Literature’ evening at a local charity bookshop-come-café towards the end of December. After a chance €2 chocolat chaud and a Twix, we got chatting with the owner; a cheery French lady with an enthusiasm for cultural diversity, et voila. The week before the Christmas holidays, we will be gracing café ‘Les Yeux d’Elsa’ with a range of English, Irish and American poetry and drama readings, along with initial French summaries, which could go one of two ways.

              My French life has suddenly become extremely theatrical, or so it seems. Not only have I volunteered to host this English extravaganza, we also watched two French men perform some improvisational comedy sketches at the same café the other day. Admittedly, I spent the majority of the jokes convulsed with fake laughter in a desperate attempt to feign understanding, yet the occasional genuine chuckle did escape from time to time- it seems a lanky balding man and a pair of strapped on breasts complete with plastic nipples holds cross-cultural comedy value. Tonight however, I’ll be swapping the makeshift café stage for the ‘Volcan’ theatre, (a building which has the appearance of a massive white volcano) for a ‘proper good’ cultural immersion and what promises to be a non-naturalistic, audience-inclusive production called ‘Insultes au Public’ (insults to the public). If the name is anything to go by, I’m going to need my dictionary. 

'Near, far, whereeeeeeeeeeeeeever you are'

I have a question...is the phrase ‘Mary Poppins’ have some form of double meaning amongst the youth of France? Bizarre, granted, but when asked during a standard initial question and answer session: ‘you like errrrr, zee Walt Disney et zee Mary Poppins non?’ I remained utterly clueless when my enthusiastic nod forced the entirety of my troisième (year ten) class into hysterical convulsions. Sadly, all google.fr could offer me was a variety of predictable film reviews and a forum called ‘Egg’ for pregnant women searching bilingual babysitters, neither of which struck me as particularly side-splitting...though admittedly the second one was a bit of a yoke (couldn’t resist).

              It is interesting the hold students have over teachers. One cunning boy today managed to get my supervising member of staff to swear when he caught her off guard and asked for the origins of the word ‘putain’ (which literally means ‘whore’), and I recently spent half an hour in a state of paranoia after two giggling girls requested the English for ‘crotte’, which turned out to mean ‘bogey’....

            As my self-respect steadily decreases, my vocabulary is widening. I no longer stutter or pretend not to have heard when a fellow bus passenger passes comment on the driver’s rudeness or how dogs shouldn’t be allowed on board. Instead, I have developed a new technique; a sympathetic ‘oui c’est vrai’ followed by a swift ipod song change et voila, I may aswell be French. However, I still fail to fully comprehend the bus system in Le Havre, where it is assumed everyone has a monthly pass meaning you are able to hop on and off without any form of ticket buying or checking taking place. Yes, there is the occasional sneakily plain-clothed inspector, but in almost two months (crikey!) I have so far only encountered one such man, meaning effectively I could have ridden the buses free of charge since October 1^st (which, I hasten to add, I have not resorted to yet). My boyfriend Huw came to stay for three nights this weekend, and I am sure he only purchased a maximum of four bus tickets which ended up covering at least ten journeys- wouldn’t get that with Arriva or UniLink that’s for sure.

             Busses aside, we had a brilliant time together. Saturday was spent with the other English assistants in the picturesque coastal village of Etretat, where we braved the steep mountainside stairs and walked along the cliff-tops, followed by an amazing meal in Le Havre centre where I devoured a starter of whelks and main of mussels....no such thing as a seafood overload clearly. Sunday was more relaxed (as it has to be in France as literally EVERYTHING is closed), with a trip to church and a stroll along the beach where we watched the sunset, which was beautiful, if a bit of a romantic cliché! The next day I had classes to teach, but we cooked an epic rump steak and potato wedges in the evening, and after another laid back morning on Tuesday he headed back to Angleterre.

            Since then, it’s been all go. I’ve had my fluency-assessing visit from the research team at Southampton which went well aside from my less than sheepish admission that my number one ‘most contacted person whilst in France’ was in fact still my mum. Yesterday, us assistants discovered a quaint little charity bookshop-come-café which lends itself to various soirées. Now, those of you who know me well will realise just how much I relish being constantly busy, so it will come as no surprise that I offered to write some form of drama piece to put on there, possibly even a traditional English pantomime if I can find a sufficient cast. Tomorrow we have another ‘invigorating’ training day in Rouen, aka a day off school (I feel about seven writing that). Oh yes, and I went to karaoke again, where there were far too many slow and sloppy love ballads for my liking. ‘Titanic’, stairs and outstretched arms- you get the picture. Luckily, we jazzed up the dirge with our second performance of ‘Barbie Girl’. The French really do have such bizarre ideas of what comprises suitable music for karaoke. I’ll leave you with this:

The Beauty of Language, innit.

I don’t shout out ‘bonjour j’habite à Paris’ whenever a Frenchy happens to walk past in England, so it really is a mystery to me why people are so keen on sarcastically proclaiming ‘Oh, hello, I is English’ from all angles almost every time I use my native tongue in a public place. Granted, a larger proportion of them are able to communicate (Note- I use that word incredibly loosely) more effectively in English than us Brits can in French, yet I have never encountered a nation quite so eager to recap their obligatory school-day English lessons.

             There are two types of interruption. The first is a mélange of astonishment and rapture. ‘You are ENGLISH? I never meet English person in Le Havre before!’ followed by a hankering onslaught of ‘what’syournamewheredoyoulivedoyouhaveanypets?’

            The second greeting is considerably less endearing. These are no doubt the ones who frittered away their school days giggling under the desk at a French-English dictionary and scrawling profanities across each other’s arms with chewed Bic biros. Nowadays, they slouch in their Adidas at the back of Le Havre buses wielding Blackberrys and jammin’ to distorted Jason Derulo tunes while they lay in wait for an unsuspecting English tourist who they can plague with their extensive (and admittedly impressive) range of vulgar phrases involving mothers, grandmothers and every familial relation in between.

              That said, it is definitely an achievement when you are able to make ‘what’s your favourite colour’ sound like the most lewd of insults; something which my friends and I experienced when queuing for a club on Saturday night. Yes, Le Havre has nightlife! Shocking though it may seem, we managed to have a considerable night out at an underground club in the centre of town called ‘Del Rio’, which, despite its eight euro drinks proved to be pretty popular with the Frenchies and played more than just Euro pop and electro remixes. Now, I had been forewarned about the dress code of French clubs so as a result had made a conscious effort to tone down my usual bodycon skirt and tights to a bodycon skirt and leggings. I was almost prepared for the amount of girls wearing jeans, however what I had not accounted for were the winter coats. I’m not just talking about a woollier cardigan than usual; I’m referring to those Eskimo style full-length puffy parkas with fur hoods. On top of this, there was no cloakroom. You can imagine the men’s reactions when my American friend took off her jacket revealing a completely backless top. It seems the French still have a lot to learn when it comes to clubbing attire. Still, at least we all got a free ‘shooter’.

                Every week, I have been attending a Tuesday night ‘Languages Café’. It takes place in a local bar, and each table is labelled with a specific country’s flag, the idea being that people turn up, choose a language, and have a bit of a natter. Often, I end up speaking English, but this week I managed to survive a whole three hours on the French table, which proved really useful for learning a bit of practical slang. I’d already picked up ‘quoi de neuf’ (‘what’s new’) from my newly developed obsession with the French O.C (they call it ‘Newport Beach’ for some reason), but now I also know that ‘pre-drinks’ are ‘le before’ and ‘avoir craquer à quelqu’un’ is to have a crush on someone, both of which I’m sure I’ll be able to proudly slip in at some point when I’m trying to be cool in front of my students. However, pride comes before a fall, and Tuesday was no exception. After telling my new French buds all about my exciting English existence, I then proceeded to explain my excitement that my boyfriend was going to visit me at the weekend. French speakers among you may see what’s coming....I forgot to use ‘rendre visite’ and well, let’s just say ‘he will visit me’ has a rather more physical meaning when used in reference to a person rather than a location. What followed was two gruelling hours of franter (French banter....), suggestions of me as some sort of sexual demon, and several middle aged French ladies declaring how utterly ‘mignon’ (cute) I was. Not quite the means of making friends I’d originally planned, though entertaining nonetheless.

‘La bave du crapaud n'atteint pas la blanche colombe !’ (Or in other words, sticks and stones…)

Back to réalité

To my loyal blog followers (all five or so of you): never fret. After a blog-less week in England, I have now returned to the land of astonishingly clean trains, strange sweet cheese yoghurts and amazingly long school holidays ready and waiting with more French adventures to captivate and delight your attentive ears.

             Firstly, it must be said that half term was glorious. It was such a novelty being able to walk down the streets and fully understand every passing conversation that at times I had to consciously rein myself in so as to avoid nodding in rapt agreement at the various musings of complete strangers, thereby proclaiming my Englishness to the world. Saying that, I had something of a shock yesterday in Rouen, (where I visited what has to be the biggest travelling funfair I’ve ever seen; it even had rollercoasters!) when an elderly man at the café table next to me leant over and bantered as only the English can that: ‘you better watch what you say now!’ whilst his wife chuckled cheekily into her chocolat chaud.

            But I digress. Initially, the thought of a five and a half hour ferry crossing from Le Havre to Portsmouth seemed positively nauseating. However, I happened to bump into a couple of familiar faces which made for a much more pleasant journey. That, and the accidental booking of a ‘club class’ seat, which I unwittingly paid an extra five pounds for, thinking (albeit naively) that if I didn’t reserve a place, I would have to spend the entire five hours standing up....not my cleverest moment, and a decision which meant I duly left my friends in the bar for at least an hour in order to ‘get my money’s worth’.  As if that wasn’t segregation enough, I also received a green ‘club class’ sticker, which I wore with pride until I realised that not one of my fellow luxury lounge occupants appeared to share the same sense of belonging, probably having realised the error of their ways long before I did.

             My time in England was spent half catching up with people in Southampton, and half with family in Kent. Over the course of eight days, I managed to fit in three visits to London (one being to the Dr Who Experience which I would massively recommend to any Who-vians out there), an interview for the BBC Breakfast Show (not as grand as it sounds; we were simply stopped in the street), several episodes of Strictly Come Dancing and a roast duck. A rather exhausting list, I’m sure you’ll agree. I even attempted some reading for my ‘dissertation’; the dreaded Year Abroad Research Project, or YARP, to make it sound slightly friendlier.

             And now I’m back, after a speedy Eurostar trip to Paris and a particularly embarrassing moment in the women’s toilets at Gare St Lazare where my cubicle door was opened in front of a ten-strong queue of staring French women. Still, never mind. ‘We all look the same’, as my Auntie would say....

             Moving on, something else which must be mentioned is my pre-half term trip to a French karaoke bar. In England, the concept of a karaoke night is usually associated with cheesy pop songs, wannabe X-factor auditionees who are not quite up to scratch, and hoards of ‘boozed up’ students, office workers and stag parties. In France, it seems this is not the case. For a start, contrary to the misleading (though clearly effective) flyer I had received in the street, this particular bar was largely empty. I would estimate the average age of the punters at around 56, and every single person could actually sing, to the point where one woman actually called herself Edith Piaf. Three rowdy English assistants did not fit in with such an ambiance whatsoever, and so, naturally, we decided to ironically illustrate this with our first song choice: the all-time school disco classic, Aqua’s ‘Barbie Girl’. After the initial surprise, I think the Frenchies enjoyed our rendition; a couple clapped along, and Edith Piaf and her friends then proceeded to cheer ‘allez les anglaises’ whenever we approached the DJ booth for our next performance. In total, we sang four times, following Aqua with Robbie Williams ‘Feel’, Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ and Michael Jackon’s ‘Thriller’, complete with monster hand gestures which my friend filmed for future comedy gold. Needless to say, it was hilarious (but will not be shared on YouTube or Facebook anytime soon).

             So now it is ‘back to réalité’, and my life as an English assistant continues. On the cards for this week is several lessons on Bonfire Night (‘how many times does Katy Perry say the word firework in her song? Answer: six), a trip to nearby village Etretat and Le Havre nightlife: Round 2 where I will once again embark upon the quest to find ‘proper’ French friends. Wish me luck!