Tongue-Tied

Beans and Taxes

The worries expressed in the last blog about a lack of opportunities to improve my French have proved ill-founded. It's been a varied couple of months in all sorts of ways with linguistic exposure on many fronts.

We've been house-hunting and it took us a long time to find the right place. En route we saw lots of horrors - sound modern houses with no soul, old houses with soul but no roof, and occassionally old houses which appeared to be in good shape until discreet enquiries brought feuding builders to light, or springs in the basement, or the discovery that the garden "non-attenant mais tout près" was actually in the next departement. All this experience was a great vocabulary builder, teaching me all about furniture beetle, death watch beetle (vrillettes, petites et grosses, respectively) and the names for parts of a house which until now were unknown to me in any language.

Then the expertise (the termite, asbestos and lead check) on our house for the buyers was an education. The last expertise on the house four years ago was carried out by a spotty youf who appeared with nothing more than enthusiasm and a screwdriver. He skewered the more obvious beams for ten minutes before pronouncing "pas de problème". I'm not sure how he checked for asbestos and lead in pipes and paint but he was confident that all was well with the house. By contrast the expertise carried out last week was super haut-technologie. He, too, had a screwdriver but also a sonic thingy for determining whether or not beams had cavities and another gadget which tasted old paint for traces of lead. His examination took more than two hours and while I don't know how exact it was, I was certainly very impressed. The result was the same, "pas de problème". He carefully explained all as he went along, so expanding my already comprehensive bati-speak (builder terminology).

A couple of weeks ago it all came together. Buyers fell in love with our town house and we found our 16th century presbytery with the essential garden up in the mountains about twenty minutes drive from where we are now. We signed the compromises de vente on the sale of our house and the purchase of the new within a few days of each other and hope to be in the Corbieres by Christmas. Phew!

From answers on Living France Forums, I'd already reconciled myself to the loss of 1000's of euros in capital gains tax (plus-value). Then our notaire told us that regardless of the criteria used by the tax office, we should still claim to be exonerés on the grounds that the house we're selling is our principal residence and, indeed,our only house in the whole world. Two meetings with four tax people covering three hours at the Hôtel des Impots left me exhausted and with a flea in my ear, but a vocabulary so enriched by civil service obfuscation that they almost earned my money. They'll happily tax me as a resident in France when the time comes but won't recognise any capital gains rebate I might request for the same period as a resident. Hmmmm.....someone seems to be having it all ways and its not me.

As well as all the above, we have made strenuous efforts to be sociable, as planned, and that has helped enormously in maintaining what French we'd picked up since last autumn.

Then we were invited to join a local choir to open the Fête du Cassoulet de Castelnaudary. It was great fun, although a little Pythonesque at times, reminiscent of the choral hymn to spam, but it taught me some Occitan drinking songs and a lot about the French penchant for dressing up. The members of the various guilds wore yards of velour of a colour appropriate to their product (carrot producers in orange topped with green etc...you get the picture). Those blessed with membership of the Grande Fraternité du Cassoulet wore velvet academic gowns in brown and gold with similarly coloured hats shaped like a stew pot, le cassoulet. As far as the cermonial went, it was interesting and entertaining. As a gastronomic event, I don't recommend it. Cassoulet is too rich a dish to easily digest in mid-winter (all duck confit, pork, beans, sausages and fowl fats). Eaten in August it's inclined to overheat the eater and to lodge itself in the large intestine till Christmas unless shifted further south with a couple of bottles of something robust. That said, cassoulet goes down rather more easily than the explanations I was forced to swallow at the tax office.

But all of this adds to the colour and flavour of French life - the largest civil service per head of population, the richest and most heart-stopping food (if over-indulged), and the whackiest ceremonial dressing-up box in the world.

So what now?

Two months without a word. What a disgrace! What sort of blog is this?

I do apologise. I love doing this blog but have been overtaken by events of late. In May the departmental choir, to which I belong, offered a series of concerts throughout the area . The music (all modern composers from the Baltic states) sold itself really. All we did was present it well with obvious enjoyment and enthusiasm. But now all that's finished.

We ended the year at AVF (Acceuil des Villes Françaises) with our AGM and me finding myself co-opted onto the management committee as Chargé de Mission with responsibility for communications. How did that happen? I hate committees and meetings. My French will no doubt improve when AVF resumes in September but, till then, AVF is finished.

Cinèclub has also closed it's doors for the summer. Scrabble Club is in recess while we melt and Beginners' Bridge won't be welcoming any debutants until October.

So now what? How do I keep up with French?

We've been to a couple of fêtes in villages close by and we stood at a roadside near Montréal and watched the Tour de France go by. We ooohed and aaahed at the town fireworks on 13th July and gazed in child-like wonder at the splendid display on Bastille Day at Carcassonne for L'Embrasement de la Cité. We even spent a couple of hours yesterday at Limoux Plage. Limoux is an hour from the sea but the Mairie decided that the town needed a coastline for Bastille weekend so the square was turned into a sandy beach with a lake. There were donut and melon vendors, cafés and restaurants dotting the shoreline and a jazz band all rigged out in Belle Epoque swimming costumes. There was even recorded surf and seagulls as gentle, ambient noise. Completely dingue but so much fun!

We're getting up regularly at 6am so that we can enjoy a walk before work without having our brains boiled. We've trekked in the hills throughout the Limouxin, eating kilos of cherries of every variety (white ones are the best). We've become connoisseurs of the vaious types of figs growing wild and can identify a variety by the scent alone at fifty paces.

We're reaping the rewards of last autumn and spring's labours and enjoying, no, RELISHING, home-grown tomatoes, peppers, plums, peaches, radishes, melons and cucumbers.

We're working hard managing the gites of some friends of ours.

We're working even harder at trying to maintain a reasonable core body temperature. This usually involves cold showers every hour on the hour.

Life around here is not dull, in fact it's rich - very rich indeed.

But none of the above are the sort of activites that are going to force me to speak French. The ordinary chores will not do the trick; one cannot practice the language in the checkout line at Leclerc. The very helpful woman at the tax office wants to sign off on my dossier - chat is not on her agenda. Short of becoming a salonnard (lounge lizard) and preying on unwary locals in the hope of conversation, my options seem limited.

Looking back on previous blogs, it's clear that the most convivial, natural and instructive French lessons I've had have been across the mealtable where the talk is of ingredients and recipes and good wines. Perhaps it's time to start making a conscious effort to spend food-time with friends. It's wearying cooking in such hot weather but we all have to eat and good food is not about the hours spent in the kitchen but the quality of the ingredients. It's about taking care and using imagination, giving of one's best and being appreciated. It's about getting a little bit drunk, lighting the citronella candles to ward off the bugs, and talking into the night, learning some real French. Words like the verb "grouger" which is the act of gently masticating (caressing with the teeth, if you will) and then swallowing an oyster! Mmmm. Then its about learning the second meaning of "grouger" which is to get the better of someone in a business deal, only less politely and with elements of sex and violence. Ughh!

Yes, that's the answer. Time to get friends over. Time to start sharing some of the fruit and veg and using it to invest in our life down here. Time to perfect my vinaigrette, if not my accent. Time to get back around the dining table. That's where friendships are made and nourished and where an appreciation of a language is cultivated, alongside an education in food and the art of living.

French with Mr T.

We've just said goodbye to my parents at Toulouse airport after a tiring but very enjoyable eight days. While not happy to stray too far from home without us, they spent a good deal of time exploring the shops and the Friday market and sitting at cafes in the Place de la Republique, grateful for the sunshine and the warmth of Limoux's welcome. They managed very well the brief conversations they had with local sellers and with our neighbours, thanks to hours spent gardening or ironing to the rich, slightly rasping tones of Michel Thomas.

I've listened to Michel Thomas' CD's and was surprised at the level of linguistic sophistication achieved after only forty minutes. In some respects, my mum,whose had no formal tuition for sixty years, speaks 'O' level French. The fact that she has found it difficult to understand the responses of others is hardly surprising given local accents and rapid-fire French. Her accent, too, was surprising and at least as good as the majority of Brits RESIDENT around here. I'd like to hear some of the big wheels who have given Michel Thomas testimonials - Mel Brooks (is he still with us?), Lucille Ball (surely she'd be a voice from the tomb). I wouldn't need a medium to hear Angie Dickinson speaking French, but would I understand her?

But how useful is the MT system? It seems to offer greater linguistic flexibility than learning a phrasebook by rote but does it allow the speaker to start enjoying and re-deploying the nouns and verbs they've picked up? There are certain phrases ("ça ne vaut pas le peine") which seem to stick and sentence constructions using devoir ("Je dois faire quelque chose...") are super-handy. Teaching novices the use of aller in forming the future tense takes them through four years' 'O'level preparation in an instant. But how much does the speaker understand of the words they use? Do they need to understand grammar and syntax? And how do people fare when it comes to writing? If mastering French with Mr T allows a medical journalist to feel "perfectly able to talk to delegates in French" at an AIDS conference in Stockholm (MT website), why are the beginners' French classes nationwide filled with people who have used MT CDs?

Maybe it's a question of confidence. Perhaps that's what Michel Thomas gives people. Not sufficient French to retire to France and to sit in the local bar with with village maire discussing the pros and cons of the CPE over a glass or two of pastis, but enough French to give one the confidence to get by. Certainly enough confidence to holiday, shop, and let the mechanic know that you'll be back for the car in two hours. My mother was happy enough to hit every bread and cake shop in town, a considerable feat in a week! She may not have understood every word spoken but her efforts were appreciated and she got what she wanted.

I'd be sad if I thought foreigners believed Michel Thomas' system sufficient, simply because it allowed them to get what they wanted. It's heartening to see so many residents attempting to learn enough French so that they can contribute as well as consume.

I'm not knocking the man or his system. I'm asking questions from those who might know better the strengths and flaws of this method. If it works, why are the principles not being applied more widely? If it works, should I use it to recover some of my lost Spanish? Any experiences with MT that you'd be willing to share, I'd be happy to read, so all comments welcome.

And finally Monsieur Thomas, should I shell out some hard-earned dosh on the Spanish CDs or ça ne vaut pas la peine?

The Payoff

It's been rather hectic around here the last few weeks. We had the lovely Paul and Kate to stay for eight days - our first house guests since we moved to France in January and such easy ones. They are equally happy with their own company as with others and being tired Londoners, they helped us to appreciate, if reminder were needed, why we are here. They were also considerate, giving us a wodge of cash on the day of their arrival towards the week's food bill.

During their stay, I had a busy time, French-wise.

The Thursday and Friday I was on a training course at AVF (the previously mentioned Accueil des Villes Francaises). This was offered to all volunteers who staff the welcome desk. We were fourteen in total, seven of whom were English. There was some nervousness amongst us as the whole course was in French, including the excellent two-hour lunches, but we survived. No, we did more than survive, we blossomed. All of us noticed an improvement in our ease and facility with the language, due to the two days' total immersion and the warm encouragement of the other participants and Véronique, our excellent formatrice. For the first time ever, I found myself speaking with confidence and off the cuff, without weighing every word and torturing myself with twisted syntax and sentence construction. I even did ROLEPLAY, and found that my personality was coming across in French rather than being lost in nervous translation.

My immersion continued on Saturday and Sunday as that weekend was a choir practice (the Choeur Departmental, also mentioned in a previous blog). This was our penultimate rehearsal before a series of concerts throughout the region in May. I had expected some tension as we still seem to have a good deal of work to do, but no, all was well. I even asked my first question in a rehearsal in front of fifty-nine others. "Monsieur, pouvez-vous verifier l'interval entre les mesures trente-six et trentre-sept, s'il vous plait." Nobody laughed, everybody understood and I was given the note I'd requested. I then heard a resounding chorus of "Halleluiah" à la Handel, but I think that was just in my head. The language I'd used wasn't complicated, and I believe it was correct. The amazing thing was that I'd asked the question as I would have done in English, no fuss, no drama.

Come Monday I was wrecked, but still able to enjoy Paul and Kate's last two days with us. And as we dropped them off at Carcassonne airport we felt as if it was our holiday that was at an end. We were taken over by work for the rest of the week before the Easter weekend.

It was on Easter Sunday that the previous week's endeavours were rewarded. We'd been invited by a friend from the choir to an Easter Lunch to celebrate his birthday. We arrived in the seaside village of La Palme (having just spotted our first flock of flamingoes on the nearby étang), pot plant and bottle of blanquette for him, and a jar of homemade Lemon Curd for madame, only to find ourselves in our first totally-French lunch party. It was rather clichéd, but wonderfully southern European - eighteen of us sat for five hours around a long table underneath a pergola covered in vines which had just popped their first leaves of the season. We tucked into the only enjoyably edible oysters I've ever tasted, followed by barbequeued meats (not a chicken wing in sight), salads, cheeses, birthday cake, fine wines and lots of good-natured Brit-joshing, most of which we understood. As many of the group were members of various choirs, we were treated to some very harmonious four-part renditions of French favorites, with occasional sotto voce explanations of some of the racier lyrics by Brigitte, seated to my right. Such a day! There was an ease about the afternoon which would not have been possible without all the French exposure through choir and AVF.

If a payoff was needed for the stresses of integrating into French life, this would be it - relaxing on a dapple-shaded terrace, in delightful company, on Easter Day, with the smell of the sea on the breeze. No matter what our difficulties might be and despite France's current economic and social travails, we are glad to be in such a country.

C'est pour ça que nous sommes là.

How far can you go?

I've been rather slack of late. The reason, though no excuse, is that Aude has been experiencing a bit of a heatwave during the last few weeks - almost unbroken sunshine and the bluest of blue skies. Finding the time to sit at the PC when I could be on our third-floor terrace or out walking hasn't been easy. Everything is in blossom and the plants on the terrace, which had been in a resentful sulk all winter, seem almost delerious in the heat. Their appreciation of the change in season is clear as they burst and bloom, spread and extend. All, that is, except the marigolds which are being eaten by a visiting migrating locust. This lengthy ramble hasn't much to do with language but does explain my silence. And I do take an unwholesome delight in talking of the fine weather, especially when I have to assure relatives shivering in the UK that I am taking good care of my sunburn.

We had some friends round for dinner last evening. It was a rare occasion when none of our guests was French. In general, we have a "mixed bathing" rule i.e. always ensuring a mix of French and non-French but as we know more expats than French, we sometimes run out of locals. And I must confess that I'm more than happy, once in a while, to leave French at the front door and to indulge my enthusiasm for English. I've been intrigued by and enjoyed most of the languages I've come across in my travels but my love of language I reserve for my langue maternelle. With English I'm on home ground. I have to work hard at French but I can play with English. In the course of a Brit night, I get the chance to enjoy to the full, the height, depth, breadth and almost limitless possibility of my mother tongue. I delight in it's colour, shading, it's multiple layers of meaning. I can spin words with a shift in accent, rhyming and phrasing and searching for alliteration, while relishing it's vulgarity and poetry. Finding myself back in English, I can begin to imagine how a penguin must feel, finding itself back in the water after waddling with little elegance on land. Learning and speaking French, I feel awkward, as if my natural exhuberance is curbed and disciplined, like a well-behaved dog; with the freedom that comes with MY language, I'm that same dog, taken to the countryside and let off his lead to run and career without any hindrance, concern or constraint.

Please note that I'm taking here of my delight rather than of my competance; my grammar, syntax and spelling can be ropey, to say the least.

Among our French-speaking English visitors were two who had lived here for many years and are very proficient linguistes. A discussion arose as to the appropriateness of adopting local accents. My question was "Which local accent?" We are blessed here with all sorts of variations.

First of all, the most common is the accent of the Midi, elements of which are heard from the Pyrenees, throughout old Languedoc and almost as far as the Alps. Amongst it's characteristics is that habit of adding the letter G to any unsuspecting words ending with N. Hence words like bread, wine and tomorrow are heard as "peng, veng, dimeng". If you haven't seen the film "Jean de Florette" (Gérard Depardieu and Yves Montand, superb!) rent or buy it for the accent as well as the Provençal scenery.

A linguistic idiosyncracy I've noticed around here in the Vallée de l'Aude is the penchant for adding extra syllables, the favourite being "er" to words ending with E and sometimes to words that don't. In the bakery: "Une-er baguette-er courte-er, svp" "Allez, au revoir-er. Bonne-er Dimangche-er!" Now this one I like. I find myself slipping into this style as easily as I slip into...well...slippers. It lends the words an ease that I find attractive and reminds me of Maurice Chevalier and other boulevardiers from the hayday of French cabaret and comic operettas. Who can forget "Valentine"? - "Elle avait un tout petit menton, Valentine-er, Valentine-er". I can almost feel the cane in my hand and the boater parked on my crown at a jaunty, even slightly rakish, angle.

Then there are those locals whose first language may even have been Occitan, the original langue d'Oc. There aren't as many native Occitan speakers here as elsewhere in the region but they are heard from time to time. Occitan is making a comeback. One of the schools in town is dual-medium, teaching both in Occitan and French. Our regional newspaper has an Occitan section.

Add to these three, a fourth option. In our street, most of the residents are Spanish migrants who came across in the 1950's and 60's. They were looking for work, or joining family members already here or leaving villages and town's where life under Franco was still uncomfortable for those on the 'wrong' side. So here we have fluent French-speakers with strong Basque, Catalan, or Andalucian accents.

So back to the discussion at dinner. How far can you go when taking on a French accent? What is acceptable? What is expected? It was argued that the most natural thing would be to adopt the sounds around one. On the otherhand, one doesn't want to be thought to be taking the p***. (We've heard French tourists in Carcassonne doing just that as they snigger while practicing "peng, veng, dimeng" - not friendly, not nice.) And yet again, someone suggested, we might be taken for snobs if we end up talking like presenters on "France Culture". Fat chance! At this point we realised the ridiculousness of our concerns. Such a debate should be left for the time when we appear to be at risk of speaking French with some confidence and fluidity. We all agreed that a degree of local adaptation is inevitable but you can't adapt what you haven't got.

In the meantime I'll work hard, attend French classes, enjoy the newfound fecundity of my plants and decide whether having a pet locust is worth the sacrifice of my marigolds. Hmmm.....decisions, decisions.

Ladies of the Street

Today felt like a promise of the summer to come. I could almost smell wild thyme, taste the summer dust hanging in the air and hear cicadas. I pottered around some friends' garden, the sun on my back and no sign of the brisk breeze usual at this time of the year. This false-sense of a mid-June day was further enhanced on returning home. Out in our street, The Ladies (our elderly neighbours) were taking the sun, and we knew they were serious as they had gotten the chairs out. From now until the end of May they'll bask like geckos whenever they get the chance. Come June and the seriously hot weather, they'll slowly move the chairs, nudged by the sun, from the top of the street to the bottom, looking for whatever shade they can find. From the end of August they'll be geckos again until the first chills of autumn drive them indoors. They have a spare chair kept for passers-by who might know something they want to hear and the assembly is governed over by Mme La Presidente, the woman outside whose house they happen to be sitting, so that they all get a turn.

Whenever we return from an outing, we're expected to relate every detail - where, when, how long, how much. They know what we had for our picnic lunch, the temperature of the lake we swam in, our fascination with the odd combine-harvesters used in vineyards, which map we used on our walk, everything. My schoolboy French is stretched to the limits.

Nothing is missed. The Ladies scrutinise every bagfull of Leclerc shopping. They can count full bottles going in, empties coming out and up to the bottle bank. Its impossible to do any DIY without them knowing what shade of magnolia the bathroom's going to be, or what new plant we've bought for our third floor terrace. "C'est comme Versailles en haut là, vraiment!"

They can be immensley helpful too. A couple of years ago I had a generalised allergic reaction to the steering wheel of the hire car but didn't know the cause till later. Coming back from a long drive, my hands, arms, legs, ears and mouth were swelling alarmingly. How on earth could I get help at 3pm on a Sunday? The Ladies gathered around and agreed that 15 should be called. They explained that this was the emergency doctor service. I started to head off to the nearest public phone, "But wait, Monsieur. You must use this one", said Madame reaching inside for the cordless phone. This kindness saved me a walk and meant they could hang on every symptom. They were agog, both horrified and relieved. The matter was sorted within the hour. I was seen at the on-call surgery within ten minutes and the Gendarmes had the chemist open up so my prescription could be filled . Twice daily medical bulletins were expected (and given) until the end of that holiday.

In September of the hot summer of 2004, "Quel canicule!!!!", it was still 80/24 degrees at 2am. The heat wasn't the only cause of insomnia. The fair was in town, the rides and sideshows being lined up the length of Le Tivoli which runs parallel to our street. We were taking adavantage of the relative cool by sanding and repainting our shutters. Returning from fetching something from the car, I was called over to The Ladies to explain what we were up to. "We're repainting the ...erm...comment c'est dit en français?....the.... doors of the windows"

"Ah, les volets!"

"Yes, that's the word, 'volets'"

A couple of days later, as I passed the group, I was invited to take The Chair. Never before had I been offered it and sat down rather nervously expecting a grilling. Silence. As one, they all leaned closer. Seven pairs of eyes searched me, probed me. Then La Presidente informed me that my French was odd. They all agreed that it was so, for who could know the French for combine-harvester and NOT know the word for shutters? With that I was dismissed.

Coming from London, I'm not used to talking with my neighbours. Over here, and in French, I find it a bit scary, very challenging, occasionally irksome, but generally a good thing to do. I don't mind their curiosity, scrutiny, benign interest and care. I realise how much I've missed these things since The Ladies retired indoors last autumn. Its been a cold and lonely winter. Seeing the sun-hungry group this afternoon reminded me that spring and summer are only a matter of a few weeks away and with that, more human contact.

And, just in case you ever need it, combine harvester?....moissoneuse-batteuse.

Dead Cat?

At times, my occasional confidence gets the better of me. As I've mentioned already, there are frequent occasions when fear drives out comprehension. But when I'm relaxed and with friends, I'm quite articulate and can understand (and mis-understand) what's being said with some ease.

The other week, in the course of a long car journey (a great chance to brush up on French) five of us were discussing recent films at the Cinéclub. I'm not a film buff but had joined the town's Cinéclub as part of the plan to assimilate. In addition to showing some pretty good films, they offer a chance for the filmgoers to meet afterwards for a glass or two of Blanquette (Le Brut Original du Monde), nibbles and an informal discussion about the movie. Anyway, back to the car.

Marie and the two other French passengers were discussing a film they'd seen in the autumn. It was Korean and about some Buddhist monks in a monastery. They told us the story. "Si génial!" They clearly thought this was so gentle and humorous. They giggled and "Ahhh"d at their recollections of the film, so light and happy.

"What's the story about?" asked my partner whose French is not as good as mine.

"Well, its about these monks, see. Buddhist monks and they've got this monastery cat. They chase the cat and once they've caught it, they cut out it's heart, fry it and eat it."

"Eughhhh! Ce n'est pas très Buddhist!" exclaimed my partner in French clear enough to cause some puzzlement among our companions.

Benoît, whose English is at least as good as my French, explained the REAL plot-line. The monks did indeed have a monastery cat, that much I'd understood correctly. The cat liked to sit on the writing desk of the scribe monk. One day, by accident, the scribe took hold of the cat's tail instead of his caligraphy brush, and dipping it in the inkwell, found that it worked better than his brush, producing the most beautiful script.

I thought this version no less bizarre than mine. My interpretation depended upon a vile imagination and my mistaking the word "coeur" for "queue"(tail). And while it may not have been very Buddhist, I thought my story had lots more action than the original.

I suppose all of us foreigners have stories about almost-homonyms - similar sounding words which cause confusion. I heard recently about an Englishman of our acquaintance in a timber merchants looking for wood for some decking. He couldn't understand why the salesman started talking about dogs. The French timber merchant appeared equally non-plussed when the English guy responded with an anecdote about his own dog. Clearly, the words "chêne"(oak) and "chien" are too close for comfort in the English ear.

I still go to the Cinéclub but take greater care, when I return home, with my plot descriptions. And everyday I am thankful to be learning French which is NOT tonal, as opposed to Mandarin which IS tonal, and in which the word for "strict" in third tone becomes "castrated" when said in fourth tone. Against such dangers, the difference between heart and tail pales into nothingness...........unless you're the monastery cat!

Le Coeur du Choeur

This next few days is my choir weekend. This is another attempt to improve my French by jumping in with both feet. Though principal motivation was an opportunity for French conversation, I find I've been taken over by the music and the company.

I hadn't sung for thirty years till I joined a short singing course just before Christmas - two weeks singing, three hours a day, breathing exercises, technique etc, followed by a week of concerts throughout the region. All squeezed around a tight schedule preparing for our permanent move over to France. I enjoyed it so much that I was easily persuaded by one of the French singers to apply to join the Choeur Departemental. As usual with choirs everywhere, the choir was short of men. The CD's need and my ability to pick up and carry a tune (without dropping it) got me accepted.

I had my first weekend last month. Rehearsals take place over six weekends. A series of concerts will take place all over the Languedoc in May. Of the fifty singers about a fifth are Brits but as the rehearsals are in French from start to finish, English is barely heard. The conductor is a long-time English resident in France whose French is impeccable with only the occassional glimpse of a non-French accent.

So, all in all, my French improves by leaps and bounds. As does my Estonian and Latin thanks to the wonderful and rare music that we're singing. There is a Baltic theme to the programme - Polish, Estonian, Lithuanian. All of the music is new to me, so there's much to do.

The rehearsal time is strictly governed by Le Chef, so no chatter just enjoyable but hard work. The breaks are another matter. The brightest memory of my first month here as a permanent resident is of the Sunday lunchtime at the last rehearsal. I recall sitting in the courtyard of the Mairie, out of the slight breeze, basking in the January sunshine, sharing a glorious picnic lunch with four new French friends, warmed on the outside by the sun and company, and on the inside by a rich, gutsy Corbières. And speaking with an ease born of a glass of good wine. That's a memory that I return to often, on the days when the sun doesn't shine and when my tongue becomes leaden in my mouth.

C'est pour tout ça que je suis ici.

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?

Accueil des Villes Francaises

Last Autumn, our estate agent friend who sold us our house three years ago, suggested that we check out Accueil des Villes Françaises. We'd never heard of AVF and were told that they offered French classes at all levels. We went along, signed up paying an annual membership fee of 26 euros and have not looked back.

Far from simply offering French classes to Dutch, UK, Belgian and other expats, the organisation seeks to support and encourage the integration of all newcomers to a town. AVF has more than 350 local offices all over France and about 11,000 volunteers. We were fortunate enough to be in town for our local office's welcome day. Forty-eight nouveaux arrivants (largely British but also French and Spanish) were taken on a tour of the town and shown around the Mairie by the Town Clerk who introduced us to the heads of the various departments. We then had an aperitif with Monsieur le Maire, who is also our deputé in the National Assembly followed by a lunch for a hundred prepared by other AVF members and volunteers. We were so impressed by the warmth of the welcome not only by AVF but also by the town administration.

Consider the difficult ride most new arrivals get in a strange country. It was so refreshing to come across people who took the attitude that, rather than marginalising the newcomer so that they remain different and wedded to their old ways, one should seek to support their assimilation in every way possible . I can only begin to imagine how this would go down back in London or elsewhere in the UK.

What's all this got to do with me and learning French? Well of course we signed up for French lessons, then more besides. I'm not one of life's great extroverts and consider myself quite healthily antisocial much of the time. But that wasn't going to bring my French up to scratch. Neither would two hours a week formal tuition. So I jumped in both feet first with a sink or swim attitude. The life-belt of Madame Farrugia's unstinting efforts in my teens allows me to do that. Again, I'm grateful.

I attend French Scrabble (developing a refreshingly surreal vocabulary e.g. salonnard ~ lounge-lizard, bride ~ flange ) and am learning to play Bridge. I do like competetive games and was described the other week as having the mind of an assassin which I took as a compliment. (It did sound nicer in French.)

If you haven't been to your own AVF yet, it might be worth checking out. http://www.avf.asso.fr . I feel extremely fortunate with our local volunteers. And there's an expectation, too, that a nouvel arrivant will one day become a volunteer and offer the same support to others as they have received. Its an exchange - "Ce n'est pas un chemin sens unique."

Accent

My French teacher, back in the early seventies was Madame Farrugia - a Parisienne, married to an Italian who had lived much of her life in the middle east, including a couple of years in Egypt where, I believe, she was a language tutor to the children of King Farouk before he was sent packing by Nasser. She spoke French, Italian, Arabic and heavily accented English among others. She was a fine teacher and her greatest gift to me was a very correct Parisian accent.

Unlike many newly arrived English people my accent is not bad at all. The downside is that a reasonably decent accent is all I do have. Grammar is flakey and vocab is not half as extensive as that of most three year olds attending nursery school. I used to think that my vocab was OK. As a teenager visiting Paris, I liked to hang with the cool dudes and pick up street slang and bits from pop songs. A foreign teenager speaking with a localish accent and using all the latest argot might be considered cute. However, a middle aged foreigner barely grazing the right side of fifty and using the same old patter can only be viewed as sad, Sad, SAD!

We were staying in a chambre d'hote some years ago. The first thing one of the other guests said, on hearing me speak was something along the lines of: "Hm. Un autre Anglais avec un 'Ouaaai' Francais." Any disquiet I may have had was compounded a week later by our hostess. She placed a hand gently on my arm and whispered in French and very kindly: "Excuse me for pointing this out, Rob, but your slang is just so......so...... seventies."

That day I determined that I would clean up my language and act my age. I want to speak clean, clear, adult French with the same facility I speak English. Its good to know street language but I don't have to use it. And while my accent is good, its good to tone it down a bit on occasions when it gets me into trouble and people assume I know more than I do.

The telephone is my bête noire. I used to answer it with "Allo" and confirm who I was only to be deluged by a torrent of French from someone trying to sell me something I didn't want or something I wanted very much but couldn't afford. Trouble was I often couldn't determine which was which. A Dutch friend whose been here ten years told me what she does. So now I pick up the phone with a beautifully modulated and very English "Hello". That does the trick. The callers tend to slow down or hang up.

I look forward to the time when my grammar and vocabulary catch up with my accent. And I long for the day when I can go back to "Allo" and then understand exactly what I've agreed to buy.

Ici ca commence

I've never done a blog before but it looks pretty straightforward so here goes.

I thought it might be useful to share my day-to-day triumphs (rare) and frustrations (frequent) in grappling with the French language. Any tips I pick up I'd also be happy to share.

This is not a reference blog, to use for checking subtle points of French grammar. That kind of thing is dealt with by highly qualified and gifted linguists in the language section of the forum (and I have often had cause to thank them). I hope this blog will help me reflect on my learning experiences and show anyone who is struggling that they're not alone.

Just a bit of background before I start. My name's Rob and I've been living in France just a few weeks. We've had a house here for three years and have spent alot of time here in the last three months preparing for the permanent move to France on 6th Jan.

I did French at school up to 'A'level (not a good pass). I'm surprised at the amount that is surfacing after a break of more than thirty years but know that I've lost most of what was drummed into me way back when. In those days The Beatles were still The Beatles, frozen pizzas were haute cuisine (at least in our house), The Iron Lady was still soft and cuddly, and Elton John was getting married...............to a woman!

So I'm not starting from scratch but equally, I have a load of catching up to do. We'll see.