So Bedfordview Man stood up with a passion unseen before to talk about Belgium at French last night.
Everyone was loving his little story about chocolates, pissing statues and NATO, until I piped up – in French:
Er….il y a une grande probleme avec….le…paedophilia en Belgique.
All went quiet for a moment. Seemingly toppling the story of Tin Tin and waffles into a pit of grotesqueness. And one woman dared even question it asking whether I’d read that in a female glossy.
‘No you bint. Er I mean Non. Absolutement pas. And went on to explain that 9 out of ten of the world’s most heinous paedophiles hailed from Belgium and I read it in the biography of one of the victims who lived in a basement - Fritzl-style – for 80 days.
I read dark stuff sometimes. Don’t judge me.
Well the class did. Because maybe I told this story using the complete wrong prepositions and maybe thought I knew a fucking paedophile from Belgium. Or something. Fuck.
Came home, nattering to myself while sorting out my pitiful poen, packing my Italian wardrobe and plenty of heels.
(Along those cobbled streets, I thought it would be the sensible option. Especially after too many limocello’s in the sun, and because stumbling in high heels looks especially fetching.)
Then I realised I was nattering away to myself in French. Without even grasping the bare-poened fact that French isn’t going to help me in Rome. Am stuffed for a bag of cashews. Oh my fat wank, I can hardly remember any Italian.
I suppose when I board a German aircraft to Frankfurt tonight, I can give myself a quick course. Because all I can remember is Va ffanculo. (Go fuck yourself).
Christ I’m nervous and so excited I actually don’t really know what to do with myself. Nervous to see Strapper after so many months, but yet dreaming of fiats and their non-so-sturdy bonnets at the same time.
In the meantime, shit storms are erupting at work like detonating landmines, and yet, I am of the mindset that I am handling it, and the workload.
Perhaps I am even delusional.
I am adapting to it, however it’s what I will come back to that I fear. An inbox fuller than Jenna Jameson’s breasts. Perhaps.
In the meantime,
Wish me luck. This is a rather daring adventure you know.