The man who married a cow
Grandad September 22nd, 2008
Our second day in France was just about as uneventful as our first.
After a breakfast of paracetemol we hit the road south. It was a cloudless day, and the heat was shimmering. Herself was a red as a beetroot and complaining non stop about the heat. I stuck her on the roof of the car for a while, and that cooled her down.
We decided to stop of for coffee in a rather attractive little town. I don’t remember its name but it was probably St. Germaine-sur-Somethingorother. Every town in France seems to be called St. Germaine-sur-Somethingorother.
Most of the shops were shut, as it was the height of a Saturday afternoon, but we managed to find a wee coffee shop. Actually it was more of a snack bar than a coffee shop but it had two things going for it – it had nice tables set out in front, and it was open.
They gave us lovely coffees. That is one thing I’ll say for the French – they know about coffee.
The owner was a bit brusque so I casually dropped the fact that I was Irish into the conversation. I regretted that. Apparently he hates the British but thinks the sun shines out of an Irishman’s arse. After much handshaking, hugs and kisses [on the cheek, I hasten to add], he told us how much he loved the Irish. All of this was in French, but I actually understood him very well, and he actually understood me.
He told us how he insists on buying only Irish beef, because the English stuff is shite, and full of foot and mouth, and blue tongue and BSE. For some reason, Herself got the wrong end of the stick here. She thought he was saying that he had married an Irish wife. I didn’t bother correcting her as it would just have led to confusion.
He raved on about Irish beef and Herself made comments about how nice Irish wives are. The two of them struck up great conversation about the merits of Irish beef/wives. Until, that is, he decided to bring Herself into the kitchen. He had one of those great cylinders of beef on a skewer for cutting kebabs off. “My Irish beef,” he announced proudly. Herself screamed and passed out cold.
The poor Frenchman was a bit taken aback. I resorted to International Sign Language and the good old standby – point a finder at the temple and slowly rotate it. That satisfied him, so we revived Herself, had more hugs and handshakes and kisses and went on our way.
I wish Herself would learn French.
- Holidays
- Comments(15)
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He showed you his meat?
Which cheek are we talking about here?
Thrifty – He showed Herself his meat. Facts are important here.
E Mum – The other one.
She doesn’t need to learn – you just need to help her out a bit instead of leaving her in the dark?? Or on the floor as the case may be!!!
I could make some jokes about yourself, herself and a Frenchman going into the kitchen for a spit roast, but I’ll leave it.
Heh, beef cylinders.
Kate – She has to learn by herself. She’s old enough now…
Maxi – Thanks. You are very considerate.
That’s pretty cute- I take it your wife does not appreciate Silence of the Lambs?
Anthony Hopkins he’s a nice man from Wales- if he does another installment of the Hannibal Lector films he could eat Charles and Camilla- then we wouldn’t be bothered by those two on the tabloids here anymore…
Well at least you were not trying a slice when she woke up.
Michelle – So that’s where those two went! All we get is that waste of space Beckham cluttering up things.
Wolfy – No. I don’t eat kebabs.
A CLASSIC.
French Teachers everywhere should print this one off for whenever they need to justify their jobs to Nonbelievers.
I hope Herself didn’t suffer any permanent damage from the shock or knock to the floor.
How do you confuse beef for wife in French…?
“So that’s where those two went! All we get is that waste of space Beckham cluttering up things.”
We have Posh & Becks here too- they live here now… I don’t know why everyone goes on about her- she looks like a dirty q-tip.
Well you did have a busy holiday!
Susan – A person who doesn’t believe in languages?
Herself is grand. She does that kind of thing all the time.
TheChrisD – I don’t know. Boef = Wife? They are similar?
Michelle – A dirty q-tip is the best description of that waster I have ever heard!! It’s a classic.
Flirty – Good grief. I haven’t even started yet?!!
Oh I enjoyed that, particularly the ‘Herself on roof’ bit.
The French, I found on my travels this summer gone, are nowhere near as rude as they’re made out to be. It’s a very French rudeness, their equivalent to Irish indifference.
Or something. I still have this poxy cold.