A lot of people think they speak French, and sometimes they do (let’s be honest here: sometimes they think they do when in fact they don’t). That said, despite even when they speak good French, they don’t sound French. Why? Because they need to use the right interjections. But fear not: here is a little help…Use without moderation.
- How to say ‘Yummy!’ in French: ‘Miam Miam’…
- We don’t say ‘Phew’!, we say ‘Ouf !’.
- ‘Shhh’ doesn’t exist in French (it sounds like ‘chou’ in French, which means cauliflower. It won’t do the trick and everybody will think you are mad), instead we say ‘Chut’. Got it?
- ‘Ouch’ is ‘Aie’ in French
- Yerky or Yuck is Beurck in French (we love to say Beeeuuuuurk!)
- Achoo is Atchoum (What can I say? wWe are slightly more demonstrative in French)
- Alas is actually ‘Helas’ . You could almost get away with this one. Almost.
- If you are really polite, you can say ‘Drat’ of course. In French, it would be ‘Mince’. That said, let’s be realistic, nobody says it any more (especially if, like me, you come from Provence). We use a more colourful language nowadays.
- Come to think of it, I have read somewhere that people who swear are cleverer (see here, I didn’t dream it: http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/world-news/people-who-swear-most-cleverer-7011464) So here it is: we don’t say Sh*t, we say M*rde. And for the f word, we use my all-time favourite P*tain. P*tain is used all the time where I come from. It is part of your survival kit. You’re surprised? ‘P*tain’ You’re angry? ‘P*tain’.
George Mikes, How To Be An Alien
“European men and women have sex lives, English men and women have hot water bottles”
I spend the first three or four years in London never hearing the word ‘sex’. I promise you. I even thought that, well, the British didn’t have sex, or simply never talked about it, except maybe when completely drunk at the pub.
It must be said that things have drastically changed in London over the last few years. The British now find it cool to shout about their sexual lives from the rooftops. To make matters even worse, now it’s all about having a ‘fluid sexuality’, and lots of new words have become extremely popular in a very short period of time. If, like me, you are a heterosexual woman who has been married for the best part of 20 years, well, you are an old fart. So boring.
Sometimes you have to take a stand. What do I mean? Well, you know, you have to make a decision. Let’s be honest here: I hate it. I love to procrastinate. Come to think of it, it must be my British side. Because let’s face it: there is a growing epidemic in Britain: indecision.
Nobody knows what to do anymore, there is simply too much choice. For instance: do we leave Europe or do we stay in? Do we take the bus or the Tube? Do we make the first move if we like a guy/a girl? And what’s for dinner anyway?
But I digress. I finally received the drafts of the book cover designed by the lovely Vanessa Mendozzi and absolutely loved them. It was amazing to see that she understood what I meant and, frankly, it was love at first sight with the covers. I can’t describe how good it feels to see that your dream is finally taking shape. It’s a bit surreal.
So here are the choices:
As you all know, a referendum is being held on Thursday, 23 June to decide whether Britain should leave or remain in the European Union. I tend to steer away from political issues on this blog, but today I will make an exception. As some of you have already read, I have made my position abundantly clear on the national press (read the article here in case you have missed it: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/eureferendum/12173177/Im-French-but-Ive-lost-my-patience-with-the-EU.-Ill-be-voting-Leave.html)
It is an understatement to say that my position has surprised most of my friends and family, but hey, here we are. Once again, as much as I love the concept of Europe, I don’t think that it is working, and I am sick an tired of all the forms that I have to fill for my business in France (not to mention that it keeps changing). I sometimes wonder what would happen if I stopped doing it. I think that I would have fines to pay. Because that’s usually the way it goes, right?
Right. It all happened the other morning, when I was starting the school run. As you may know, in England there are roundabouts everywhere. They swear by roundabouts over here. Roundabouts are apparently the solution to all traffic problems, without any exception. Small junction? No problem, let’s put a small roundabout. Big junction? Let’s put a huge one, or even a double or a triple one. There is even a ‘magic roundabout’ in Swindon; it consists of five mini-roundabouts arranged around a sixth central. I kid you not. They are thinking of listing it, I am told. Something to do with epitomising British values such as spontaneous cooperation. I am joking of course (I told you, even we French sometimes do sarcasm).
But I digress. When I arrived at the small roundabout down the road, I made sure I was driving slowly, controlling the speed of my Chelsea tractor, when a black cab arrived full speed ahead, ignoring that I was actually already on the thing, turning right. He honked furiously, at 7am, and I felt that I had no choice but to stop and let him pass while he was calling me all sorts of names.
What is going on? A few new readers have subscribed to this blog, and they don’t understand what it is all about. They started complaining (of course they did). What am I talking about? Well, here are some of the best comments I received over the last two weeks:
“As you are French, I thought that you were writing about food. I am very surprised that you don’t.” (That’s actually a summary, the actual message would have taken a whole post)
“I read your blog but as you don’t talk about sex I still can’t make out the real cause. After all, you are French! I’m sorry if this hurts!”
“You look like an angel.”
“You are a very sexy lady.”
“Would you please send me dirty messages?” (No I won’t)
“Could you post a recipe of the Kouign-amann?” (Sacrilege! I am not from Brittany!)
In short, you should get the gist of it by now. As a French woman, and just because you happen to be French, you have to be:
- A sex Goddess
- A foodie
After the Two-Oceans marathon I needed a new challenge. That’s just me, I suppose. You see, I don’t fit into any particular category. For instance, I am French, but also British. I am a runner, but I don’t really like the usual 5k or 10k races. So what to do? Well, I have set my my views on a 100k race: the Thames Path Challenge on the 10th of September, from Putney Bridge to Henley.
What can I say? I love long distances. As in, really long distances. This time, I will be running for a charity I have been supporting for years, ActionAid, Please wish me luck. I am not sure what I got myself into. You can click on my fundraising page here: https://www.justgiving.com/Muriel-Demarcus. Of course I would be delighted if you could sponsor me, but I would also really appreciate you to send me some encouragements as I am not sure what I got myself into. I take some comfort in the fact that, when I run for a long time, there comes a point when I feel really bad (this is actually a British understatement), but it doesn’t get any worse (am I making sense? I hope so).
And frankly, nothing can describe the feeling of having completed a long race. I just love it.
I am back home. Or am I really? Where is home anyway? I don’t know. But this much I know: things seem to happen at a different pace over here, in Provence. I am trying hard to make my children love this place. After all, it is where I grew up.
It’s harder than I thought. My younger one wants to speak English. Why wouldn’t she? But when she does, everybody is looking at her as if she were a freak. No, she’s only British! We are not in the touristic part of Provence. We have to conform. She has to speak French. I am glad she is trying. We’ll get there. Eventually.
The views of the Mediterranean sea are breathtaking, and there is magic in the light over here. I wish I could train for my races here: there are hills, traffic-free roads along the beach and fantastic trails. What am I doing in London again? Why did I leave?
There is always a small chapel to reach at the top of a hill (Notre Dame De Miremer in this instance), and I feel like I am travelling back in time, sharing with my daughters what I used to do every weekend. Ah, memories!
I am miffed. Whatever I do, wherever I go, I am always ‘the French one’. My friends and colleagues still consider me to be French. Why? Why such a double standard? I have colleagues who, just like me, are naturalised citizen. They are considered to be British. Sometimes, someone says that they are ‘Indian-born’ or ‘from the continent’, but that’s as far as it goes.
As for me, despite my British passport and the fact that I have been living in London for the best part of 14 years, I am always considered to be French. ‘Ask Muriel’, someone says. ‘Who is she?’ ‘The French one’. But of course. What did I do to deserve to be stigmatised like this?
Nota: I don’t have the official pics and will post them in a separate article, but I thought I should tell you a bit more about what happened this weekend…
It was pitch dark when I woke up…
What went into me? It may be a late midlife crisis, but I think that it is deeper than this. I used to think that there was time to realise my dreams, but now that I am in my mid-forties I need to act on them. This is why I started running again about a year ago, after a twenty-five years hiatus. I have always liked long-distance running. It was time to finally make it happen. I started training, right from the start. Obviously I was a bit slower, but the pleasure had remained the same.
Don’t get me wrong: I know that I will never be a champion. For me, it’s not about going fast. It’s about the experience. I want to run in the most beautiful places of the world. Obviously running the Two Oceans marathon was a no-brainer, and I signed in as soon as entries were open, back in February. The marathon is in Cape Town, and takes you from the Indian Ocean to the Atlantic Ocean. What’s not to like?