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Ooh la la – a little language problem
STUNNING landscapes, fine wines and one extremely hot woman. These are just a few of the delights of a recent trip to the French region of Burgundy.
Having signed up for a tour of the area’s vineyards I met my three fellow wine-lovers and we started to tentatively navigate our way through the streets of Paris.
Our masterful grip of pidgin French and loud slow English eventually paid dividends and we found the coach station.
I was surprised to find we were all men in our 20s and 30s but unsurprised to subsequently see the conversation quickly descend into laddish banter.
We tried, with little success, to restrain ourselves for the benefit of other coach-users.
They included a grumpy-faced woman who was carrying a ridiculous little rat of a dog in her bag and a man who showed his disapproval of fun by raising his eye brows so high they disappeared into his hairline.
However, the next person to join us was a dazzling woman who was both stylish and sexy – qualities I have often heard the French boast about but rarely demonstrate.
After hearing her order her meal in a language that made little sense to me I felt I could happily continue telling wildly inappropriate stories without fear of being understood.
I did ruefully regret I would be unable to communicate with her in any depth as chatter about the colour of my hair spiced up with a little basic verb conjugation was unlikely to lead to romance.
Myself and my new friends shared increasingly embarrassing stories buoyed by the camaraderie we had already established and the confidence that the sexy ears attached to said French lady would not be offended.
I was therefore appalled when later one of our group tried to break the ice with some broken GCSE standard banter only to hear her reply in perfect English that she was actually from London and would be joining us on our adventure.
How dare she pretend to be French.
Thankfully over the next four days she proved to be extremely witty and charming.
There were few low points, such as the cycle ride I enjoyed at the time but shuddered when I looked back through the photos later.
With my red waterproof blowing in the wind and my blue jumper visible underneath I must have looked like a low-budget Superman.
Despite this potential disaster, on the final night we ended up talking into the small hours of the morning.
However, my high hopes were quickly dashed when she said the words every single man dreads.
“I feel a little tired... I’m going home.”