A Year In the Merde by Stephen Clarke

Author:Stephen Clarke
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781407038773
Publisher: Transworld

Février

Make amour, not war

THERE IS ONE thing about love that you can’t fail to learn if you live in France. An essential thing. A thing that makes us English-speakers sound laughably ignorant in the arts of seduction.

It is this: lingerie isn’t pronounced the way we think it is at all.

It’s not “lon-je-ree” or “lon-je-ray”. It’s “lan-jree”.

The French don’t understand our pronunciation of lingerie at all. You try telling a French woman that you want to buy her some “lon-je-ree” and she’ll be at a loss. At best, she’ll think you want to buy her something from the boulangerie. What would you like for Saint Valentine’s Day, chérie? A loaf of bread?

Alexa wasn’t a lingerie type of gal. She was more a nudity kind of gal, which suited me fine.

So as we entered February, the month of love, I wondered what I should get her as a Valentine’s treat.

A romantic weekend in Venice, maybe?

Late one night, as we were snuggling up on my bed, listening to the sound of Élodie still not being there to make strange noises through the bedroom wall, I asked her if she’d ever been to Venice.

“No.”

“Would you like to go?” I gave her the lightest of kisses on the temple to try and conjure up some Italian romanticism.

“I don’t want to think of travel in this climate.”

My kiss obviously hadn’t been Venetian enough. It should have been wetter, maybe, more canal-like.

“Too cold, you mean?”

“No.” She de-snuggled herself and sat up. “In this political climate, of course.”

It was true that the world was marching steadily towards war. Or that certain English-speaking parts of the world were trying to convince the UN to give everyone a ride in that direction.

“It will be too dangerous to travel,” she said. “A war in Iraq will make the Muslims believe we hate them and cause terrorism everywhere.”

“Right. Shame Chirac can’t nip down to Baghdad and persuade Saddam to turn into a nicer kind of guy,” I mused.

Alexa wriggled completely clear of my arm and turned to stare at me as I lay back on the pillow.

“Was that supposed to be ironic?” she demanded.

“No.”

She took that as an ironic yes.

“I do not understand you British!” she huffed. “Supporting the Americans when all they are doing is protecting their own interests.”

I’d heard this old chestnut so often in the previous weeks that I couldn’t stop myself.

“What, and Chirac isn’t protecting French interests? The oil contracts between Elf and Saddam? The fact that Saddam owes France billions of dollars and that the Americans want to cancel the debt if his regime falls? And France is quick enough to send troops into African countries to protect its interests, isn’t it? This sudden outbreak of pacifism sounds to me like wanting to have your croissant and eat it.”

“Croissants? What has this got to do with croissants?”

I tried to explain my witticism, but she cut me off.

“In any case, you are just anti-French at heart.”

“What?”

“Yes, like all the Anglo-Saxons.”

“Why do French people call all us English-speakers Anglo-Saxons?

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