petite anglaise

October 21, 2004

guardian angel

Filed under: mills & boon — petiteanglaise @ 8:51 am

A recent post by Andre reminded me of my own brief encounter with an angel years ago.

The year was 1994. The third year of my modern language degree, which consisted of nine months employed as an assistante d’Anglais in a French lycée followed by a few months work in a posh Hotel in Lindau, as my German was a bit rusty.

Lindau was idyllic: a picture postcard town crammed onto a tiny peninsula jutting out onto Lake Constance on the German-Austrian-Swiss border. The Hotel was a 5* palace. Behind the scenes, a motley crew of former Yugoslavians and foreign students on seasonal contracts kept the place in business.

First, I worked on the ‘Band’. This was an ingenious implement of torture: wooden boxes suspended from the ceiling on a metal chain – an upside down conveyor belt – transported food from the kitchen in the next building to the restaurant. My job consisted of retrieving food orders from this fast moving production line without dropping them or burning myself too badly, while simultaneously baking bread rolls in a tiny oven. Kitchen staff barked incomprehensible orders in German at me through an intercom. I couldn’t hear them properly as the ‘Band’ made such a racket, so I never knew what was coming and missed things so that they went round and round getting cold(er). It was undoubtedly the worst job I have ever had.

After a particularly bad burn I was transferred to minibar duty. *hic* This was an improvement. It involved the use of a master key, entering people’s hotel rooms after knocking twice and often catching guests in compromising positions. When I shouted ‘minibar’ they tended to beckon me in regardless and I filled up the fridge while they clutched the bedclothes to themselves to preserve their modesty. Or not. My minibar stock was not checked very closely. It contained lots of alcohol and Ritter Sport chocolate bars. A much better job. Things were looking up.

Until one morning I awoke to a searing pain in my abdomen. It worsened, and my temperature rose. I realised that something was very wrong and called reception, begging them to send a doctor, as I couldn’t possibly move. A Dr Wurms arrived and diagnosed acute appendicitis. An ambulance was summoned. A rumour swept through the hotel: I’d been seen clutching my stomach and was in fact in labour. One of the porters was the father. They obviously didn’t teach biology in Yugoslavia as the one night stand with the porter had happened only 3 weeks previously.

As if by magic, an angel appeared, to save me from all of the above. I can’t remember his face clearly. Only that he was very beautiful, had lovely wavy, shoulder length hair and there was something indescribably ‘right’ about him. He was a student, serving his conscientious objection time working with the emergency services. I don’t remember anything else he said to me, just his soothing voice. I forgot all about the pain and wanted the ambulance journey to last as long as possible.

I was wheeled into casualty, where several other people lay on stretchers in an open-plan area. There were no cubicles or curtains, but I wasn’t really aware of anyone else – I was burning up and the pain had intensified. As I lay on my back, a nurse took my temperature. The Angel turned to walk away, and I managed to prop myself up on one elbow, catch his eye and wave goodbye. He waved back. I think he winked, but I couldn’t be sure. And that, sadly, was the last I saw of him.

As I waved, I became aware of the fact that I was naked from the waist down. And that a thermometer was protruding from my rectum.

I can’t help thinking that I must have made a lasting impression on him too.

October 20, 2004

Pardon my French

Filed under: Uncategorized — petiteanglaise @ 10:40 am

If you look at the use of the word ‘French’ in the English language and likewise anglais(e) in French, the usage yields valuable clues as to how Brits have traditionally viewed the French, and vice versa.

Phrases in English using the word French are mostly related to food and sex. The French would argue they do both better.

Let’s start with food:
French toast – which you don’t see in Britain much, I think it’s more American. I have yet to sample any. Probably the equivalent of pain perdu in French, but I wouldn’t know, as I haven’t tried that either.
French fries (or Freedom Fries as they are sometimes known in the US) – just ‘fries’ in France.
French beans – these seem to be the only type of green beans the French eat, known to the French simply as ‘green beans’. My father, allotment enthusiast extraordinaire, doesn’t believe me when I say I am not aware of a word existing for broad bean or runner bean in French. Quite frankly I would rather broad beans did not exist full stop (that’s period to American folk).

And now for a bit of sex. It would appear that the following expressions stem from Anglo-Saxons equating Gallic culture with sexual sophistication. Whether or not this is still pertinent today is debatable. ‘French kiss’: a kiss with tongues. Following extensive research conducted on both sides of the English Channel, my humble opinion is that the Brits actually have the edge (Mr Frog being the exception, naturally). Then we have the ‘French letter’, disliked unanimously by both French and English gentlemen, which confusingly goes by the name of un préservatif in French, thereby belonging to the category of ‘false friends’. ‘Cette confiture contient-elle des préservatifs?’ I think not.

I am told that the verb ‘to French’ means to perform oral sex. Likewise the seemingly innocent manicure/furniture restoration terminology, to have a ‘French polish’. I do not intend to develop this paragraph any further as I wouldn’t want to give the worrying numbers of people who arrive on my site via the search terms ‘petite porn’ any reason to come back.

Swiftly moving on, the following are expressions using the word ‘English’ in the French language.

Culinary terms using the word ‘english’ are rather evocative of English cuisine as a whole, I think. Crème anglaise is what the French call custard, that staple of stodgy British puddings and trifles. The French version of this is thinner and served cold, a little more refined than warm, gloopy English custard. I like both and will not be made to choose. Cuit à l’anglaise means boiled. Several of my French acquaintances associate English cooking with overcooked boiled food, even going to far as to suggest that we boil most of our meat. I for one have never boiled a piece of meat, but I must admit that the French expression conjures up memories of soggy sprouts in the school canteen.

Les Anglais ont débarqué is a somewhat old-fashioned expression to describe the bane of every woman’s life, menstruation. Something to do with the Napoleonic wars and the undesirable arrival of the English who wore red uniforms. Prior to that, another phrase commonly used was recevoir un courrier de Rome, as Cardinals also wore red robes. So the idea behind the phrase would appear to be more about colour, and not derived from ‘English’ being synonymous with pain, PMT and hot water bottles.

Finally, there is an expression meaning to go AWOL which the French and English ascribe to each other. Filer à l’anglaise: ‘to take French leave’. The Germans are with the English on this one sich auf französisch verabschieden, but the Italians are with the French filarsela all’inglese. So opinions vary, but basically both the French and the English are associated with impolite behaviour.

Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to bugger off now and do some work. Pardon my French.

October 19, 2004

sweet temptation

Filed under: miam — petiteanglaise @ 9:00 am

I will never cease to marvel at the tantalising array of cakes on offer in a typical French Pâtisserie. When I first arrived in Paris, I set myself the not unpleasant challenge of eating a different pastry every day until I ran out of options. I soldiered on for three whole weeks before abandoning the enjoyable experiment, as there was no end in sight and I was already unable to fasten my trousers.

As I have said before, purchasing a new cake for the first time is a rather tricky business, as baker’s shops never seem to put the gender on the little cardboard signs. Probably on purpose. So that only French people can buy them without having to resort to undignified pointing.

A firm favourite of mine is the religieuse (situated to the right of the éclairs in the photo) It’s like a round eclair with another round bobble of choux on top. So called because it resembles a churchgoing lady in her Sunday best. Allegedly. Very tasty as long as the filling (chocolate or coffee, not plain whipped cream like in the UK) is strongly flavoured enough. Personally I’m rather fond of moussey layer cakes with elegant names like Opéra, but these must be transported with care and eaten with a spoon, so are not suitable for a quick sugar fix when on the move.

One which I have yet to try is the gland, another variation on the choux pastry theme, but this time with rather vivid green icing and chocolate sprinkly bits on top. I have no idea what the flavour of the filling is and prefer not to speculate. Gland in French means ‘acorn’. This has the same connotations in French as in English. So, being a girl who can’t even eat a banana in public without first breaking it into small pieces, you’ll understand why I won’t be partaking of a glans gland any time soon.

I stood in front of the baker’s shop window yesterday evening, pondering over what I could buy as a little treat to brighten up my otherwise dreary Monday, and was surprised to feel a pang of longing for a boring old British cake. A bun with fluorescent icing and smarties on top. Or an iced bun – i.e. a bread finger with icing on. Then I remembered the gingerbread ghosts I had purchased in England last weekend, supposedly for Halloween.

*wipes crumbs off keyboard*

With the benefit of hindsight, I think the ginger would have been too strong for the Tadpole anyhow. And she’s too young to understand about Halloween. Isn’t she?

Peter André eat your heart out

*Try this at home: type the word ‘gland’ in google and search for images. Only then will you appreciate what I went through to find a photo of the French cake. Not for the faint hearted.

October 18, 2004

talking to myself

Filed under: city of light — petiteanglaise @ 10:47 am

Whenever the Tadpole is around I can’t seem to stop myself from providing a running commentary about what we are doing. I don’t know whether all mothers do it, but it comes naturally to me. The Frog would say that nothing has changed as I always have talked far too much; he has been known to beg me to stop on the grounds that his head is ‘full’. I blame the parents for taking me to Ireland and dangling me off the top of a tower upside down by my ankles to kiss the Blarney Stone.

When I was on maternity leave last year and feeling a bit cut off from the world, the one-way conversations with baby Tadpole probably began because I was feeling lonely and missing adult conversation. Tadpole seemed to like the sound of my voice, even if it was the slightly irritating, condescending voice I can’t help adopting when I talk to children. Nowadays the running commentary is supposed to be educational: encouraging her to repeat new words and exposing her to as much spoken English as possible.

The following ‘conversation’ took place while pushing the Tadpole through the park. I was rather out of breath as the journey is uphill and Tadpole + pushchair = 20kg.

Petite, wheezing and panting: ‘Ooh look at the doggy! What does the doggy say? Can you see the doggy? Over there! No, not that way! That’s a crow not a doggy!’

Tadpole, eventually: ‘woof’

Petite: ‘And what’s that? Look it’s a duck. Can you see the duck in the water? What does the duck say?’

Tadpole: ‘cack cack’

Petite: ‘Ooh look at those joggers. That one’s got very nice brown legs hasn’t he? And look at those sexy little shorts. They don’t leave much to the imagination do they?’

Tadpole ‘?!?’

As you can see, I take the Tadpole’s education very seriously.

October 15, 2004

not a proper post

Filed under: misc — petiteanglaise @ 3:28 pm

I apologise for the lack of a proper post today but in my defence I have been mostly coughing, coughing some more, wiping the tears from my eyes, taking paracetamol and then doing a bit more coughing. I think my head is going to explode.

And since it was impossible to sleep (because of the coughing, in cause you missed that) I read The Da Vinci code. I really don’t know what to make of it. Mr Brown writes like a seven year old who has swallowed a few reference books. And possibly quoted passages from them, and a few tourist brochures, verbatim.

Anyway, now that’s finished I’m going out to source the French equivalent of Benylin, and possibly to pay my respects to Mary Magdelene en route.

Will be in Blighty this weekend with Frog and Tadpole, so next post will be on Monday.

A bientôt…

October 14, 2004

Voulez-vous coucher…

Filed under: Uncategorized — petiteanglaise @ 1:14 pm

…avec moi ce soir?

That wasn’t an invitation. Sorry to disappoint.

It is however the French phrase which everyone seems to know. And I’ll come back to it in a minute.

The fact that there are two words for ‘you’ in French is another of the things which makes it difficult for English speakers to master the language.

In a nutshell, tu is the familiar you. It demonstrates a certain closeness and informality. So you would address a friend, peer, colleague, relative, child or pet as tu. If you talk to yourself, I imagine you would use it too.

Vous is the formal and plural you. It is used to show respect or maintain a certain distance or formality. To complicate matters, it is also the plural form of both tu and vous. Typically you would use this when talking to someone you don’t know well, an older person, an authority figure, or to two or more people or animals.

So coming back to my opening phrase, if you say ‘Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir’ then I would assume that you are a slapper/prostitute (a complete stranger?), you are in the market for a sugar daddy, a policeman, a ‘partouse’ (orgy) or a spot of bestiality.

During the French Revolution, and again in the liberal 60′s, waves of tutoiement helped to get the point across that all men should be equal and be addressed in the same way. Nowadays some companies advocate use of tuin the workplace when they want to be seen as progressive. But this can go too far. Sometimes a bit of distance doesn’t do any harm or a respectful Vous just feels right. When French TV interviewer Karl Zero addresses a politician he is interviewing as tu, which is his trademark, I inwardly cringe. He maintains that in so doing he is trying to bring down barriers and show that everyone is equal. To me this affectation makes him seem arrogant: it’s a case of look at me, I’m important enough to say tu to the Prime Minister…

If in doubt, you are supposed to ask the person you are talking to whether they mind you addressing them as tu. Former president Mitterand’s subtle rebuff in response to this question was apparently ‘Si Vous voulez…’

I call my in-laws vous. I can’t decide whether this is because they are old/authority figures/not in my family or whether it’s just me keeping my distance.

But it feels right.

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