Going native 1

Finally, the most sensuous and rewarding moment was snuggling under the duvet back in Hereford yesterday. I was not born to endure 30 deg C-plus and the Languedoc boiled. The pool became a necessity; I lurked there until my bones crystallised with cold, slept briefly then awoke as a latterday Old Testament martyr.

Never mind, I holiday in France for the conversation not the weather. VR had dental ennuis (problems); as she lay prone the dentist and I discussed whether a Belgian buying up property in the neighbourhood might be a criminal. VR later complained I hadn’t translated what was said, my nominal role when the drill whines.

My French is fading and I need practice before I sound plausible or, more important, authoritarian. “Good day madam,” I said to the manageress of the Latino Beach restaurant at Serignan Plage, “my name is Robinson and I have booked your best table for eight.” Causing her to truckle.

At customer services in the Carrefour supermarket, Cazouls-les-Béziers, I asked why that most French of French aperitifs, Dubonnet, no longer seems available. Normally the French hate discussing national defects with foreigners but I teased the operative into laughter and together we sang the jingle from the TV commercial: “Dubo-dubo-Dubonnet.” A minor success.

Now aged 12, Zach as usual stretched the envelope. Claimed he could dive through a smallish inflatable ring and was sequentially photographed doing so by his Dad. (See above). He and my granddaughter’s partner, Daniel, played soccer with village kids and this became a regular fixture despite lack of a common language. This I regard a major success.

Tasting wine at the St Chinian cave des vignerons I was asked for my name. “Monsieur Contra-Brexit”, I replied and lectured everyone fervently about the EU’s benefits.