The problem with the French in
Back on the other side of the Channel, this has now become a problem. It all became apparent for the first time last year. I was France-bound, in a taxi, heading off to a meeting and having the usual where-do-you-come-from-today-what-are-you-up-to conversation with the cabbie (well, the taxi driver rather; they don’t have cabbies in
More than a year has passed since that doomed day and the situation has little, if at all, improved.
I got another “so, you are English, right?” from my banker when opening my account, despite the fact she had just been checking my passport. Although, granted, not sure how much that says about the level of my French and how much about my bank’s positive discrimination policy in favour of brainless employees.
Recently, one of Martin’s colleagues told me that I must be happy that, with
I am thinking of employing my dad part-time as my editor, given that I have to ask him to check my French every time I have to write something remotely official. I also now refuse to help Martin do his French exercises since the day he managed to achieve the fantastic score of a 100% failure rate on an exercise he had done entirely with me.
As we were spending time with friends a few weekends ago, I had to admit to Martin, that, no, I could not tell him what one of the guys had said, because I too had problems with his accent, losing a bit more of the little credibility I still had with my husband when it comes to speaking French.
Last but not least, half of our friends here must think of me as the ultimate poseur since I cannot have a conversation without saying at least once per minute “err, not sure how you say that in French”.
So here I am. My French sucks, but there are still only the French to think I can pass for a Brit. Maybe we should have moved to