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. 

'There are two types of people in the world: Algerians, and those who want to be'. Oh Paris, je t'aime.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Lads of France, take note: I don’t care how phlegmy you are, spitting on the street is not acceptable. You really think revving your moped and letting an enormous globule fly from your mouth just as your potential ‘copine’ strolls past is going to impress her?  Think again. Handkerchiefs were invented for a reason, loves.

              Even in Paris, home of the bourgeoisie, the haute-couture, and other such over-used terms to mean ‘rich people’, hygiene is not necessarily at its best. Gare du Nord, my now least-favourite place in Paris, boasts what I would estimate to be a 6:1 homeless to home-owning ratio, and such tramps apparently see it as perfectly normal to ask an unsuspecting female tourist for coffee, an experience which I endured at least three times whilst sheltering in a café this weekend awaiting the arrival of my Southampton friends. Needless to say, I didn’t hang around long enough to find out whether it was actually the delight of my company they craved, or just a caffeine-laden beverage. After the thousandth creepy glance and twenty-sixth sniff of my legs from a near-feral whippet, I’d had enough, and dived into the nearest ‘Replay’ magazine store as if my life was dependent on the immediate purchase of Bonjour Magazine (doesn’t actually exist, I was trying to be funny.)

                At this point I must also mention the enormous flea market at Porte de Clignancourt. The last stop on the metro line, it is what was described to me as ‘proper banlieue’ territory. And ghetto it was. One thing that did impress me though, was the stallholders’ enthusiasm to practice their English....you could not walk past a market stand without a chorus of we’ve-just-looked-up-rude-words-in-the-dictionary-style phrases, the most common being ‘I love you I LOVE YOU’ on repeat (‘course you do mate), and rather disturbing bellows of ‘yessssyessyesssss VERY NICE VERY NICE!’ However, it was soon evident that none of these people had learnt the importance of pronunciation when one friend was told ‘very nice BABY’ when clearly what was actually meant was ‘very niiiiiiiice baby’. Just to clarify, she is not with child.

                Our funniest finding was an array of coloured t-shirts, all bearing the slightly dubious logo: ‘There are two types of people in the world: Algerians and those who want to be Algerian’...But tucked away behind the one euro Eiffel tower key rings and cow-scented leather belts, we did discover a true gem. A proper vintage market, complete with beautiful antique furniture, old-style Louis Vuitton suitcases and a dead snake in a jar (not quite sure what that was all about). Instead of hastily-erected tents, the stalls here are permanent, more like a tiny village of boutique shops than a ‘tat market’ (A Dove family expression). Each little alleyway has a street name sign, and it really was a fascinating area to wander around, with some of our group even declaring that they would go back there with a lorry one day to furnish their future houses!

               It has been an eye-opening week. In addition to these Parisian adventures and catching up with my fellow year abroad-ers, I have attended my first ever Irish dancing soirée (an evening which in fact turned out to be a few dudes with instruments and ONE eccentric French woman practicing her moves which she learnt from an Irish dancing DVD), and experienced some ever-funnier moments with my students. It would be a shame to waste such golden quotations, so I leave you this week with the following:

·         * 11 year old boy when asked about his wishes for the future: ‘Je voudrais une femme gentile comme vous Madame’ (I would like a nice wife like you Madame)

·        *  The same boy, later: ‘You know Rihanna?’ Me: ‘Ermmm..yes?’ Boy: ‘Elle est ma femme’ (she is my wife..disputable..)

·         * Once again, this brilliantly hilarious boy: ‘And Michael Jackson...eee izzz my father... we avvv the same hands’ (He proceeds to show me his palms whilst I wonder whether he’s had a translation problem....)

·         * 13 year old (whilst looking at a photo of my boyfriend) ‘Eeee izzz, errrr, bad boy?’

Oh, and I was greeted with ‘Whassssssuppppp’ this morning. My work here is done.

What happens in Caen, goes online (and my accidental visit to a burlesque circus)

‘Accidental?’ I hear you say. I see the raised eyebrows, the furrowed faces, the slightly parted mouths of incredulity. But yes. For weeks beforehand, I had been readily anticipating a cirque du soleil-style extravaganza; tightropes, fire-eating...heck, maybe even a cheval or two. And well, I did see a blindfolded rope-walker and many acrobatics, but I equally witnessed a joint-cracking contortionist, a corset-clad woman walking over a topless man’s body whilst wearing stilettos (ouch) and a nude man pulling red handkerchiefs from various censored areas. As one friend delighted in telling me; ‘it’s all about the small print Ella’. Still, it was an experience, and ‘one for the blog’, a catchphrase which has now been coined by almost all my fellow assistants.

              In fact, this weekend has yielded several ‘for the blog’ as the Disneyland crew headed for a hilarious Caen getaway. In two days, we squeezed in a remarkable amount of sightseeing, and an equally remarkable amount of pine-tree infused throat sweets which one member of the group unwittingly purchased whilst on the hunt for a plain bag of mints.

             Among our visits were Bayeux Cathedral, the ancient Caen château, and many tram journeys. I take back all I’ve previously said about the unnecessary nature of Le Havre’s road-works...trams ARE cool and I now realise it WILL be worth it (ignoring the fact I won’t even be in France by then). We also saw the astonishing Omaha Beach, the American D-Day landing place which has been turned into an incredibly moving memorial. Walking among the 9,000 graves was a truly emotional and humbling experience, particularly as so many of them are nameless, inscribed just with ‘Here Lies a Comrade in Arms, Known Only to God’.

               In comparison to Haute-Normandie (where Le Havre is), Basse-Normandie seems so friendly, most probably because they’re much more used to the presence of ‘us anglophones’...I’m not sure your typical Kentish family would select Le Havre as their holiday destination of choice. From the smiling waiters to the jovial taxi drivers who even asked if we’d prefer to speak in French or English, everyone greeted us with warmth and ‘Je vous en prie madame’s. Well, everyone apart from Francis, the bald hotel manager in Bayeux who yelled at me to ‘fermez la porte’ after grudgingly answering my query for directions to the Bayeux tapestry, deciding not to warn us of its annual closure, of which I’m positive he was fully aware....Note to self: never complain about such incidents of rudeness in a tiny village; the taxi driver WILL turn around proclaiming ‘Ahh, Francis! I’ll tell him you weren’t happy!’ Awkward.

             Apparently, this January ‘fermeture annuelle’ is common amongst tourist hotspots, a revelation which also hindered our visit to the much raved about Caen D-Day Memorial Museum. Disappointing, to say the least.

             But let’s stay focussed on the positives, shall we? Saturday night proved itself to be the best French nightlife I’ve experienced yet (and that’s including the time I met a man genuinely convinced he was Snoop-Dogg). Despite the distinctly un-catchy name, club ‘Le What’s Café’ proved a real success. For one thing, no-one was wearing a parka, and for another, we actually knew (and could dance to) the music, a real novelty when you live in a city where every other song is police-hatin’, curse-bellowin’ rap and you begin to feel like you’ve been dropped in the middle of a scene from La Haine.

              So, le prochain voyage? Next weekend I will be heading for a weekend in Paris with Southampton’s one and only FrenSoc, and after that, who knows. Stay tuned for ‘ladz on tour part 3’, coming soon to a blogspot near you.

Come Whine With Me

...and by ‘whine’, I mean something closer to ‘incessant-babble-in-less-than-adequate-French-whilst-helping-myself-to the-veal-casserole’.

           Being the first one to serve yourself from a communal dish is always awkward at a dinner party. The first person sets a fundamental benchmark; namely how much is socially acceptable to heap onto your plate without being labelled a glutton. Sure, you can usually avoid being assigned this role with a brief shoulder shrug and a ‘no no, YOU first, I insist’, feigning distinguished politeness. However, take out the spoken word and you’re left with what could easily be mistaken for pure and simple confusion. This is what happened to me on Saturday, with the school nurse urging me more than once to take the lead and help myself, a kindly yet impatient smile etched across her Oh-So-French face. Impatience or hunger, I wasn’t quite sure.

            This palaver continued for every single one of the four courses, and after an initial faux-pas with the salad (turns out for the Frenchies 3 measly lettuce leaves count as an entire course), I became somewhat wiser, so that by the time we came around to pudding, I found myself declaring ‘Mais non non, ça suffit’ after just half a satsuma.

              Small portions or not, I absolutely love French cuisine. In the past few days I’ve eaten individually foil-wrapped parcels of salmon baked in the oven with a creamy mushroom sauce, crab and beetroot salad, exotic fruit with cinnamon drizzle and tender veal casserole in a tomato and carrot sauce. Just two dinner parties have yielded over seven types of cheese in total, and I’ve sampled Beaujolais, orange and limoncello liquors, not to mention endless quantities of real Normandy cider.  Every day I eat in the school canteen, I’m treated to a gourmet four course meal, which has been known to include such luxuries as foie gras, rabbit, and even once a triple chocolate gateau (of which I got given seconds; a major perk of making friends with the chef).

               However, there are two sides to La Belle France’s culinary offerings. Of course, fast-food is prevalent everywhere these days, and it’s not abnormal to spy the odd McDonalds. But Quick, France’s slightly more upmarket answer to Burger King, has taken ‘cool’ junk to new heights by injecting black colouring (yes, BLACK!) into the buns of its Star Wars themed ‘Darth Vader Burger’. In Le Havre itself, one has the unique opportunity to sample such delectable outlets as Kebab Snack (catchy), Crunchy Food Chicken (otherwise known as the Oh So Original ‘CFC’), and my personal favourite, Bunny Kebab, who’s poster actually depicts a cute, if not slightly worried-looking pink rabbit....

                With all this luscious fodder around me 24/7, you can imagine the effect on my waistline (HIIIII MUMMAAAA DOVEEEEE). Luckily, I’ve joined the swimming pool, and another of my new year’s resolutions is to go there at least once a week, and actually SWIM, tempting as the Jacuzzi and waterslide are! So far, I’ve kept to it, and really enjoyed myself, although yesterday I arrived home with an incredibly chapped face and lips. It is worth noting at this point that the fitness pool is outside, which strikes me as bizarre for a town in the notoriously rainy North of France, not to mention wastes a lot of energy to heat it. The design is typically French; finicky and ultra-modern, all waterfalls and white décor. It’s all lovely; the only issue being how far away it is from chez moi, which does nothing for my ever-fluctuating motivation levels. Take today, for instance. Should I? Maybe?

       Nah. Think I'll order a Dominoes.

Bahhh ouaaaiii, j'habite euhhhhhhh....au Havre

Guess what folks…je suis BACK ! Yes, my French has suffered somewhat over the holidays; no doubt replaced by the excitement of home and FOOD, not to mention extreme concentration during several intense matches of Hungry Hungry Hippos (no family Christmas is complete without it). Regardless of the inevitable ‘let’s forget I live in France’ attitude, I had a wonderful, hectic two weeks spending much-needed quality time with both family and friends. I found a house in Southampton for next year, went on a Duck Tour in London (a tour bus which halfway through becomes a boat and launches you into the Thames!) and came to the astounding conclusion that Dancing on Ice will never be for me after a particularly painful coccyx injury caused ice skating in Winchester.

                   Mais bon, after an eight hour, gale force seven ferry journey which I’d rather not dwell on (safe to say if my friend hadn’t been upgraded to a four-bed cabin I would have ‘chundered everywahhhh’), here I am once again, ready and raring to tackle the next four months, although I had definitely forgotten how strange it is to be ‘that foreigner on the phone’ when talking in English on the bus!

              This week has been mostly spent teaching my students about New Year, specifically New Year’s Resolutions. I have already received some brilliant responses; the highlight of which was a greasy fifteen year old’s stuttered proclamation of ‘I will find a girlfriend’. Bless. Saying that, the atmosphere of both schools is distinctly more sexually-charged after the holidays, leading me to wonder what exactly French parents feed their adolescents at Christmas. In three days, I’ve encountered roughly five ‘couples’ smooching by the gates and no-one in the staffroom seems to bat an eyelid, their attitude being general recognition and even acceptance! Contrary to my previous misconceptions, the majority of teachers are incredibly relaxed, and it really is amazing what students can get away with in class. When asking a class I’d not met before about their hobbies, I actually reverted to open-mouthed shock at one boy’s casual comment ‘j’aime baiser’ (another boy ‘kindly’ decided to clarify the meaning of this to me, shouting ‘faire l’amour, faire l’amour!’ or for the  English, ‘making love, making love!’). Now, in England, this would be immediate detention, or even dismissal from the lesson. But no, in France it simply merited a small disapproving glance and slight smile of sympathy in my direction. To top it off, said child later decided to approach me at the end of the class and ask for my address so we could, and I quote, ‘chat a little’!  Looks like someone had too large a helping of testosterone pie....

               On a lighter note, my social life has started well this term. After the resounding success of my pre-Christmas dinner invitation (I knew the mince pies would work), I have since been asked to attend not only a follow-up soirée with a different teacher but also a Saturday luncheon at the school nurse’s house; a woman whom, incidentally, I have never met! However, she has some form of Colombian connection to my flatmate, and invited me along- who am I to resist a free meal?! Besides, now that they know about my recent Woman’s Weekly story (now on sale in the January Fiction Special), all the teachers are lovin’ my new status as a ‘published author’, and I can’t really blame them for wanting to mingle with the stars now can I....

             As of last night, things are even looking up for my resolution to find French friends! After chatting for a while with some students of Le Havre University at the weekly Language Café I attend, I managed to wangle myself an invite to a REAL French party with REAL French people of, and this is the key part, my OWN AGE! Don’t get me wrong though, that does not mean I’ve become too high and mighty for the over-forties polka evening at McDaid’s Irish pub (yes, that is really happening).

           All these upcoming social events mean my conversational ability is likely to be tested to the absolute max. Lucky I stumbled upon this then isn’t it...