Ben Non Bar None

It’s a rum do, this learning French.

I can be sitting there silent for six, seven, eight minutes in a row, understanding everything that’s going on in the conversation, nodding like Churchill, until… someone asks me A Direct Question, and on cue everyone switches to Russian, the connards. There must be something loaded, some physiological weaponry housed in the Gallic shoulders, because as soon as I’m addressed directly, and all eyes are swivelling in my direction (”ah oui, it sometimes talks!”), my mind is flushed of all knowledge of the French language and I’m left gasping and mouthing like a stranded whale.

I had my first (French) French (in France) class last week. I surprised myself by managing to string several sentences together (possibly even comprehensibly), spurred into action by the total disengagement and embarassed desk-staring of my fellow “learners”. After about five minutes of nobody saying anything, I wanted to break the noses of each and every one of them. “We’re not kids any more, damnit! We’re even paying to be here! Why not at least try and take part?” So I sat and simmered some more, listening in turn to absolute silence and the elderly Brooklynite trying to explain about soy production in the weird patois of Noo Yoik English and Argentinian Spanish he seemed to think passed for French. Eventually, it got so bad I was compelled to open my mouth and slop out some vaguely Francophonic syllables, and it turns out it’s easier to talk in a class, when everyone takes it in turn and says one. Word. At. A.

Time.

Ve-ry slow-ly.

Tonight, we’re going for an apéritif dînatoire, which apparently is where you go for drinks at someone’s house and eat food at the same time but it’s not like a proper meal with an entrée and a plat and a dessert, because there’s no proper delineation between courses and you’re allowed to stand up and walk around if you like. Yes, I thought, we have these in England, with crisps and lager and pubs, but I have a feeling this may be slightly different. What’s certain is that I am going along (with my finest tin-foil hat for the Russian rays), and I will talk French with some French people. Here. In France.

Wish me luck.