Wednesday, June 03, 2009
thunder on the roof
Alfred Hitchcock was on the line; for new material.
He came in at midnight.
Like a human bon bon borne to the wind.
Relief washed over me as he made like a live miniature figurine at my door.
All 5ft 4 or him. Yes.
This means he’d actually fit on the couch on which he was meant to sleep. With armrests.
It also meant I could look down onto his head before he wielded the francophilic scythe. I had the edge, tallness-wise, should he decide to drive a sword through my cranium.
Cute he was, language barrier was as evident as his height, so we had to parlez-vous. To avoid too much confusion en masse.
‘Excuse me I am late, border control is up to merde.’
‘Pas de probleme,’ say I, cold lasagne in hand, holding eyes open with matchsticks, artistically arranged about my eyes.
‘You want tea?
He looked a little disgusted - even though camomile is my current midnight drink du jour - I’d momentarily forgotten he was Franch.
‘Ah oui, je m’excuse – le vin rouge. You like?’ [Mental note: any hour of the day, butter up a Franch Man with wine. As if this really needs mentioning.]
I pull out the vino tinto with the Diemers label.
What an incredible couchsurfing hostess I am.
‘….er….You like Oosh-share?’
He’s staring at my varied, talented CD collection.
‘What the dickens is Oosh-share?’ Oh. Usher.
‘Ah oui. Bien bien. He is un grand sex symbol.’
Not quite his vibe, sure. But Who’s Vibe Is It Anyway [Drew Carey?]
We mainly talked about why I don’t live near the airport, touching only briefly on French cheese.
‘I don’t live there because I don’t run un, how do you say, pool pump warehouse? Also I pride myself on having only two eyes in my face, er, visage.’
The humour flew over his sweet little head and landed in Tunisia.
Turns out he’s a professional kite surfer and was en route to Mauritius to tear up the waves. Not my body, I was pleased to note.
Then bedtime. I don’t know what the fuck happened on my roof last night, but the day I have a perfect stranger over, my embassadorian skills, meant to be the pique of his experience, turn into an epique nightmare.
3:00am, a gavvy of fucken chipmunks? Lemmings? Bats with legs? Racoons? Giant rodents? Decide to do its own storming of the Bastille on my fucking ceiling.
I’m being literal here. Seriously, I wish I wasn’t.
Dead of night, millions of pitter patters of rodentile feet descended unto thee, through the medium of my farking roof.
They were shrieking, and mating and fighting and running amok, the poor Franch Man told me the next morning that he was terrified that they were ‘Criminales de la Barbarique’ or some such.
[Well china, you didn’t sleep with a breadknife under your pillow, didja? Sorry about the fleet of cretinous things on the roof though.]
‘No, apparently they were wild animals making hay above our heads, Monsieur.
Really really chuffed you weren’t a serial killer though.’
I thought he’d be the human Franch version of the Terminator, and instead all I need, it seems, is an Exterminator.