Pondering the Alternate Identity.

You know, I sometimes think that if I’d been born French instead of English, I’d probably be considered almost normal. I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment to the French or not. I think I intended it to be, but I’m listening to music and have had only five hours sleep in the last thirty nine.

And I’ll tell you something else while I’m in the mood.

Some years ago I decided to learn French once and for all (I did a pretty good shrug, you know, so I thought it would be nice to have the words to go with it.) I watched a TV series called A Vous la France and was a model of diligence – even bought the accompanying book and did the exercises. One of the programmes was about giving directions, and d’you know what? I was walking along the road one day when a French lorry pulled up beside me. The driver didn’t speak, he just showed me a piece of paper and shrugged. The paper was a delivery note with an address on it.

Well, the shrug and the fact that the steering wheel was on the wrong side of the cab gave me the clue to the problem: here was a Frenchman who didn’t speak English and didn’t know where the Parkhouse Industrial Estate was. So I gave him directions, in French! He was so pleased he gave me a 200 pack of cigarettes. (They weren’t French, unfortunately, which was a shame because I was very partial to the occasional Gauloises.)

And then I forgot it all again.