There’s nothing quite like seeing the expression on a lock keeper’s face, after he has not unreasonably asked, pad in hand, what our destination for the day may be, only to receive our shouted reply which sounds to his ears something like “ I AM THE CHEESE!”
When last we looked, our online language course had adjudged one of us to be fifty-five percent fluent in French. That is all very well, but as he is fond of reminding himself, it means that he is forty-five percent effluent, and it’s the missing forty-five percent that seems to be at the root of those rare lapses in communication.
Today therefore, snug in the quiet of our leafy inner suburban home, with the rain offering no incentive to venture out, we did nought but quietly work on reducing the effluence in our language shortcomings.
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