When I was walking through the village today I saw the
French woman with whom I have the occasional conversation (in English, I’m ashamed
to admit.) She called out to me and told me to be careful of the ice on the
roads (also in English, to her credit.) Four thoughts occurred to me:
1. There was no ice on the roads. After several days of very low temperatures but very bright sunshine, the roads were dry.
2. She must be at least twenty years younger than me, so I probably have more experience of walking on roads than she does.
3. She comes from the south-east of France, down by the Mediterranean, so she probably has less experience of ice than I do.
4. She isn’t my mother, my big sister, or my nurse.
I smiled benignly back, as any English gentleman would be expected to do upon being accosted by a French woman in his own language. (I have mentioned that I have a bit of a soft spot for French women, haven’t I? There’s some evidence that my dad spent some time in France after the war, so it’s probably encoded in my genes.)
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