From The Archives

I thought it time to add some more snippets from the Angel Archives.
This dates back 10 years. Only the facts have been changed to protect the innocent.

Jonathan and Robert and friend have been to France.
They went with the specific intention of visiting Jonathan's grandfather's grave in Normandy. Wilf Farrance (senior) died on 6 June 1944, during the first assaults of Operation Overlord. The story of the Farrance family since then is almost worthy of a 21st Century Thomas Hardy. But I digress.

The trio set out not only to visit the grave, but also to see some of the memorials and museums dedicated to that crucial piece of History, and to enjoy a beautiful piece of country.
They stayed in Cabourg, and returned with enthusiastic reports of their few days there.

They were apparently a little fazed to start with by the continental interpretation of a triple room: one double, one single. The English tradition of drawing lots soon solved that problem, if not the nocturnal habits of the pair who lost. I had better draw a duvet over that story.
None of the party speaks French, but they didn't let that get in the way, although it did cause some amusement at meal times.

Take, for instance, the problem of asking for water. (Quite why hardened Angel regulars should be asking for water is beyond me, but they must have had a reason).
One would think that a request for EAU would get them somewhere, but it took several minutes of gestures and repetition of Oh - you know - Oh, Oh, before Jonathan, in desperation said "Oh bugger it, ask for some Perrier, then." At which the ever-so-friendly waitress cottoned on, and produced the required beverage.

Our intrepid voyagers met even more linguistic intrigue when visiting one of the museums. By this time heartened by their success with la langue francaise, one of the trio was emboldened to approach le guichet to ask for "Trois billets, s'il vous plait."
Blank look.
Repeat: "Trois billets - that's right isn't it? Trois - three, billets - tickets."
Blank look.
Repeat the process, and so on.
Eventually, the face of the very French looking guardian of the turnstile cracked just a little, and in broad Norfolk declared: "Oh, you want three tickets, do you mate?"
Unblank looks, and a few mild expletives at having been "had" by a fellow countryman - well, someone from north of the Great Divide of the Waveney, anyway.

You couldn't make it up.
Tootle pip.
SC