Tongue-Tied

Le Lapin Effraye - SBS

"My French seems to be improving." I announced, returning home last evening. I had had three 'good' French days in succession. So I really should have expected that something was about to burst my bubble of self-confidence and savoire faire.

The POP! occured on this morning's walk. I've got a dodgy back which I damaged while doing some heavy landscaping in the garden about ten years ago. As soon as I'm up, washed and dressed, I have to take a 15-30 minute walk to get my back moving otherwise the muscles of my lower back go into spasm.

I'm a creature of habit so my walk varies little. I stroll up past the lycee, "Le Collège Classique et Moderne de Garcons" (which now takes girls too) which is the largest and one of the most beautifully proportioned buildings in town, and then down to the old water mill, now used by EDF to generate electricity for a thousand local homes, and around the island bounded by the river and the mill race. I usually finish with a wander along the banks of the Aude then up through the Place de la Republique and then home. The Place is the heart of the town and has, among its restos, bars,  and boulangeries, one of the best charcutiers/traiteurs in the region. Its my daily habit, without fail, to stop and peer through the window to see what's on offer. I recognise most of the dishes but for some others I'd need a dictionary. But it looks so beautiful. Its superb stuff and while we can't afford to shop there, I like to know what my neighbours might be treating themselves to.

Well, there I was this morning lost in wonder at the Choux Farcies and Pieds Persillés when I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. I leapt out of my skin. "You're nicked, matey" was all I could think. I turned to see Madame V, le Charcutier's wife, who was smiling and talking at me in Martian. I froze. Blind panic. Time... I need to play for time! "Pardon, madame?" She repeated herself, slower, louder but still in MARTIAN! Why would she not speak to me in French? Its too early for this. Leave me alone. I don't know the answer. Don't even know my own...thing. All I can hear is my pulse.

"Nrghhhh. Pppardon. urmmmm. J'etais anglish. Nrghh. Arghh.ermmmm......Cmpris pas."

Before I could wipe away the dribble or apologise for my lousy Martian, she was off. I felt like an imbecile, and that I had forfeitted my right to live in France, in Europe, on planet earth even, because I had failed to respond appropriately.

I dragged myself back home, cringing under a pall of dark disgrace and despair. "Je suis lapin effrayé." I'm a startled bunny. I was so angry with myself and with the lovely Madame V. But she wasn't to know that I required notice before being spoken to. That I needed a context to aid comprehension. That 8.05am is not a good time for me in any language.

The other night au cinèma. From behind me "Monsieur, le film commence à quelle heure?"             "Erm....twelvtyneufmoinshier." At least I understood the question but I was still like a rabbit caught in the headlights.            

It seems that no matter how good my French is, I'm always going to be prone to SBS - Startled Bunny Syndrome. Symptoms include blind incomprehension, incoherance, uncontrolled drooling, rising panic, racing pulserate, amnesia and, in extremis, incontinence. Will I never be rid of SBS?

Perhaps a badge sown onto my coat would help.            "Ade la langue française." Learner!

Even before I'd reached home her invitation became clear.  As the flood waters of terror subsided, her words emerged:-  "Monsieur, I see you here every morning. I'm quite sure you haven't an idea what you're looking at. Next time, come in and I'll tell you all about what we've got."

Dare I?