Random reminder

Press, 23 April 1979, Page 24

Random reminder

“PAKLEZ-VOUS FRANCAIS?”

A group of French tourists visiting Christchurch last summer, found our weather comforting after the cold snatch from whence they came. They were also comforted to note that their language is still regarded as a fascinating challenge for at least one New Zealand fan. She had scoured Christchurch to buy a phrase book, and tucked it in her handbag as a confidence booster. She and her husband were helping to host the continentals. The daylight hours were spent cruising the city and surrounds. Viewing scenery and bays from the wuthering heights of the Port Hills, required only facial expressions to convey pleasure and comradeship. The guests raised approving black eyebrows, flashed grateful smiles- ani made elabroate hand gestures.] Consequently, our lady with the phrase book was able to leave it Completely in the dark. Morning and afternoon teas were quiet, pleasant affairs; with little need for conversation, as they munched their way through bran muffins, pikelets, and pavlovas. The flavours brought glows of satified relish and many, many “merci beaucoups.” The grande finale was dinner at the Town Hall, and there the attractive fountain provided material for a lengthy discussion. Never has a jet of water been more thoroughly thrashed. It is doubtful if a living soul has a clearer mental picture of the Town Hall fountain, than a certain party on that balmy summer evening. Then came the faux pas. The wine steward was efficient and eager to do his bit properly. He stood nearby and took a cursory look around before venturing towards the table. His eyes alighted on our Mike, who sported hair on his head and chin black as jet. Tn fact he looked more French than the Frenchmen. Leaning over his shoulder the steward asked in a velvet voice, “Vin Monsieur?”

I Mike replied in the lowest of undertones, “Sure, fill ’er up mate.” Having practised on his fellowcountryman, the relaxed steward moved away with a postivie flourish to serve the overseas visitors. The wine might have been deliciously cool and wet, but when the interpreter was otherwise engaged, conversation inevitably dried up for a few minutes, and there was only the phrase book to lean on. The owner produced it and triggered off some lively topics. Not surprisingly, this valuable literature circulated and finished up in the hands of Madam Francais. The first sentence she clapped eyes on happened to be, “How old are you?" which she unwittingly directed at Madame Kiwi. Some women tell so many fibs Lbout their age that by the time they ■ reach 57, they had almost forgotten I the truth. Calculation can become j extremely difficult as the mind dulls, i and even in English can result in much embarrassment if one’s son happens to be greying at the sideboards. So it is bound to be well nigh impossible to calculate accurately, and translate into French, especially after a few vins. There was a long pause, then an audible think “Ung, der, tro’ah. kah’tr, cinq.” and Madame Kiwi spluttered, “so’ahss-ahngt-diss,” and just to make sure she was clearly understood, she ueld up seven fingers. A babble of French compliments accompanied flattering stares across i the table, and the recipient carried her halo right through the evening, all the way home, and into the bedroom, where she went about shedding her finery. Then she heard a muffled chuckle snorting into the pillow, “When they get home I can just hear them remarking on New Zealand history — we saw the ancient Takahe, the well preserved Arts Buildings and this old girl of seventy seven, who didn’t look a day over seventy,”