Un échange culturel

I was taking to my neighbour Élodie last week about regional accents. She claims she has one, though like all things French it’s totally and deliberately imperceptible to the unsophisticated.

(Put your hand up if you can tell the difference between a three year and a four year old wedge of Comte fromage? Yeah. Thought not).

I rest my case.

Anywhoo one thing led to another and I suggested that in exchange for her making me speak French, I would introduce her to some proper regional English (rather than my perfect “received pronunciation” BBC accent - for which I’m famous). 

As an étranger (stranger) it’s nice to hear the occasional sentence in the dulcet tones of my hometown and though it’s been tough for her, our initial interactions now broadly follow this pattern…

Me: “Bonjour Élodie, comment ça va?” Kiss Kiss.

Élodie: “Ime oar roite tarr bab…” Kiss Kiss “Owsyure belly ferr spots these days?”

A charming and useful exchange should Élodie ever find herself in the West Midlands, I’m sure you’d agree. Of course she’s mighty chuffed with her new found linguistic skills and so we quickly moved on to the mastery of the traditional exclamation upon something going right.

Me: “C’est génial. (It’s great)

Élodie: “Iss bostin innit.”

With the basics under out belt we’ve now moved on to short useful phrases such as…

Me: “Élodie, pourquoi tu te prends la mouche?” (Literally and incomprehensibly - Élodie why have you seized / taken the fly? Apparently meaning Élodie why are you in a nark?).

Élodie: “Mark! Dohne nevah eat yeller snow, jew ear.”

Because of our runaway success with this I have written to the Wolverhampton tourist board asking if they can send any educational linguistic material they have on hand to help Élodie on her path to full fluency.  If I can work up a proper course I reckon I should ask the mayor if I can teach the kids at the lycée in Bourganeuf. Think of it, yours truly single handedly helping to heal the wounds of Brexit. I always knew I was made for better things than playing with toy soldiers and digging holes (my other specialty).

On the subject of toy soldiers (finally), my mojo returned last week - and we’ve agreed to work on our relationship through counselling. I’m allowed to paint toy soldiers on the weekend, for now…and if my “anger issues” improve we’ll take it one step at a time from there. 

Here’s some gratuitous pics of new arrivals and weekend painting that I’ll shamelessly use as click bait in order to get you to scroll through this screed of otherwise total nonsense. 

Horses. Aaaagh. The bane of my (hobby) life. Only another 10 French knights to go. Should be finished in 2027 or thereabouts at my current pace.

And the obligatory view from the back for those wishing to get their money’s worth. Not my best work, but serviceable.

New arrivals. The gun group for the first anti fascist section / squad. To the right is the platoon commander who I’ve decided to call Leonard.

The sections manoeuvre component.

Gotta love the detail. This bank clerk’s even brought his brolly with him.

Back view of one of Sarissa Precision’s destroyed city tiles. 

And the front view of the same corner shop piece. My BUF chap only popped into to get a packet of fags and look what happened. Told him not to spark up if he could smell gas. 

Toodleooh for now, mes amis.