French is the language of love they say. I tend to agree, it's a beautiful language. It's also one that can land you in a right old pickle without even really trying.
I wasn't bad at languages at school and studied French at A Level, although how studying the likes of French literary heavyweights Camus, Sartre and Moliere ever helped when it came to ordering a meal or buying bread, I'm really not sure. Then again, I'm your girl for a lovely chat about existentialism.
Anyway, I've been visiting France for 30 years now and can get by in French although I'm by no means fluent. I've got myself across the country, hired cars, bought furniture and passed the time of day with neighbours in French. So I was a bit baffled by the reaction I got when I politely turned down a waiter's offer of pudding in a restaurant.
I smiled and told him in French, 'no thanks, not for me, I'm full'. He gave me a distinctly startled look before walking away leaving me wondering what on earth that was all about.
I was recounting the tale to a friend's French husband and how odd it had been. 'Tell me exactly what you said', he instructed. So I did, and he almost spat his drink across the table. When he'd recovered enough to be able to speak for laughing, he explained that what I'd said in my textbook French was technically correct but the phrase now had a rather different colloquial meaning.
Ah, so how do I put this politely? Well, it seems rather than telling the waiter I'd eaten enough and was full, I'd breezily announced to all and sundry that I'd recently had an extremely good time horizontally (if you get my drift) and was up for it any time, big boy.
Well, that's just great. Clearly showing my face again in one of my favourite restaurants now runs the risk of the staff nudging each other and muttering 'hey there's that Englishwoman who goes like a train'....
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