A few days ago, I used to like French.
I don’t think I’d ever go to the lengths of saying that I loved it, but since we visit the country regularly, my mother did a degree in it and I am doing a course in the language anyway, I suppose I must admit that I did hold some sort of regard for it.
And of course, the thing that is stressed the most when learning a language, is that you practice it, to quote my revered parent.
Not mumbling phrases under your breath, sitting in front of the textbook, but actually speaking it in real life, preferably to real french people – (so they can choke themselves laughing at your abominable accent as they try to work out what you meant, ho yes).
Now, I used to pride myself in having the confidence to air my accent to any french person who happened to be interested. I would hear a ‘Bonjour’ and I’d be up there, listening in, ready to pounce with a few phrases with a knowledgeable grin that made me look like an idiot. (Okay, that was slightly exaggerated)
But note the past tense.
It was a sunny day so we went out for the day.
The place where we went has this amazing maze (oh, what an original pun phrase) and, having never experienced it before, I made my way straight there. Of course, I got myself utterly lost, but as there was a park warden giving instructions to me from the tower in the middle of the maze, I managed to find my way there quite quickly.
Once at the top, the park warden was struck by my high intellectual abilities, my willingness to converse with him, and my general good looks, and grew rather chatty. He proceeded to tell me the secret of getting to the middle in under two minutes. Armed with this foreknowledge, I felt all the complacency of an expert, and repeated the challenge of the maze twice more, to prove that I really knew the way.
I went off to boast of my prowess to my companions, and then after a short interval, back I went to the maze to find myself surrounded by two coach-loads of french students, screaming, shouting, giggling, sprinting everywhere, and basically behaving like their English counterparts, only rather more hyper.
With a knowing smile, I entered the maze, and commenced to walk lightly along the paths, looking down my nose at the hordes of poor deluded french students rushing past me.
Reaching a crossroads, I took pity on a group of them who had reached the level of undecided bewilderment.
Pleased at a chance of airing my talent for their language, I confidently proclaimed that it was, ‘C’est droit!’ with a dramatic point of the finger.
‘Iz it zat way? Do you know ze way?’ asked a boy who obviously had been attending his English lessons at school.
‘Oui, oui, yes, it’s that way,’ I said, nodding generously.
‘Zank you!’ they said, and followed me as I ran down the path.
Imagine my horror as I rounded the corner and saw a blank and forbidding wall of hedge rise up in front of my eyes.
And there were all those french students a few paces behind me, following me trustingly and innocently because I knew the way.
I actually forced my way through a corner of the hedge rather than face them.
And then I ran, hard and fast, desperately trying to find the middle, or the entrance, but to either way, get out of there!
Unfortunately, running down a zigzag, I came face to face with the boy who spoke English. He regarded me with cold, curious and hostile eyes, with the look of someone whose trust had been broken.
By me.
I managed to get to the middle, and sneak out through the exit, not without meeting a few others of the party, all who stared at me with wounded, unfriendly glances.
Never again will I try to air my French, let alone use it to give directions for a maze.
Oh yes, I have learned my lesson!
Besides, I dislike French intensely.
I strongly agree with the Jo March of Little Women who ‘can’t bear French, it’s such a slippery, silly sort of language.’
She expresses my feelings entirely.
