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The other day when I was sitting at my desk, a clothes hanger came flying through my window. I'm not saying it was the cat but...
He has continued to harass me unmercifully. I've near on developed a twitch watching out for him. Ought to write to the council really.
I had my first lessons last Thursday and Friday and my, how they were
marvelous! I speak French in England, but I do not speak French in France. That is to say, I've spoken it for much of my life, but one underestimates the amount of modification the French language suffers to in order to take account of your linguistic inadequacies. The teacher here benefits from being French. I have learnt the language in England and America but never has a teacher been so unwilling to tamper with his own vocabulary or rhythm for my comprehension. It's wonderful. We are learning complex french grammar and he hasn't spoken a word of English. The phonetics class is equally lovely. We are learning to swallow half of all our words, which happens to be a particular talent of mine. I am swimming gloriously in a sea of garble.
It's funny how
classrooms never change. They all have that stifling atmosphere which seems to have the same effect one might imagine opium to have on the weak-hearted. Trying to concentrate is like trying to snap out of coma. This is not helped by the fact that I listen to Radio 4 to send me to sleep, which means the sound of anyone talking about anything I don't understand for any length of time works like hypnosis. And the classmates are the same! They are always
exactly the same. There's always the two who talk continuously (who I would personally like to batter to a smooth paste). There's always the one who insists on asking inane questions to prove that she's a good student (you know, the 'Miss, I've done four pages when you said one would be more than enough. Is that alright?' arse). The one who has to borrow a pen and digs her homework out the bottom of her bag, smoothing it out carefully and picking bits off it. And it's two days late. That's me! And I say that with some pride; one does like their own place in society.
I have got over the fact that we
are not in the building Pantheon 1 because I can see the Eiffel Tower from my classroom window AND I've discovered it is the same length of time to walk up through the Jardins du Luxembourg, along to the Pantheon and down rue Mouffetard as it was to walk along the ugly 'shortcut'. Actually, the other way was not a shortcut at all, oweing to my complete lack of a sense of any direction. I am completely capable of walking down a road, turning right, walking on, turning right again (still meandering) turn right and be absolutely staggered at finding myself in the same place. I get it from my mother. In fact, if either my mother or I are late to any event, fear not! We are nearby in the surrounding area, walking around in circles and cursing the road signs or the map or... At any rate, the Latin Quarter is magnificent. I've yet to get on the metro and I walk four, five hours a day.
I shall write about rue mouffe, and its little market when I can get some pictures of it.
I can't tell when anything is open here. In France, if you want to go to a particular shop, go on a wednesday or saturday morning. It all seems to be pot luck. Mondays and Tuesdays are iffy, many shops deciding that those days are included in the weekend, Sundays are a write off, and some shops and restaurants have a little liking to take Thursdays off. Presumably they need a rest from Wednesday. There is one delicatessen which I have
never seen open. Not once. It has the wares, but not the wherewithal.
Somewhere, someone plays Kate Nash and I wonder how far I have to travel to get away from her infernal noise.
Next week, kids, we're going to have to talk about the Americans in Paris. Oh dear. And French men. Oh double dear. Gotta go. Think I see the cat. And anyway, I haven't done my homework.
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