At the stage, my petit sejour rapidly looked like never leaving daydream territory itself: "If a member of your family dies and you really need to get home, you MUST tell the school a year in advance, never be paid again and go straight to hell".
Hmm...so a long weekend of bithday fêtes probably wasn't going to go down too well. If only I'd known I'd have a two week holdiay shortly after...well, let's be honest, I'd probably still have gone anyway, but let's blame my lack of knowledge for now.
Anyway, much paperwork and negotiating later, I got a couple of days off and tootled back to Blighty as a surprise for the matriarch.
She cried.
3 times at the airport.
Once at home.
Once again Far Too Early the following morning.
And again when I left.
Dan didn't cry, except perhaps once in frustration at my incessant waffling, having rediscovered how to tickle my native tongue. Nevertheless, a jolly good time was had by all.
Lessons learnt
- There is a major financial crisis giong on. I was aware of this before leaving, but had managed to put it all aside in my own personal disgust at Euros seeming expensive. "FIVE Euros?! But that's five wotsits. In England that would be FOUR thingies. Pfff..."
- English people, at airports at least, now think I look French, whilst French people still know I'm a rosbif.
I may be reaching true Franglais status.
Or perhaps just staring blankly in response to all languages, including my own, in a bleary-eyed mess.
English things I had missed:
> An abundance of grateable cheese
> Radio 4
> Cottages
> Proper pubs
> Conversations about the weather
> Orderly queuing
> Common cultural references beyond David Beckham and yellow American cartoon characters. Jeremy Clarkson, Terry Wogan, even Fern Cotton brought waves of love for my homeland.
> And, of course, friends and family.
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