It never fails . . .

Whenever the thought pops into my head that I'm getting really good with my French, someone comes along and, politely, pops my bubble.

I've been reading 500 page novels in French, at the rate of 25 pages a day . . .with narry a look at the dictionary. And the other evening, when I gave Therese a brand new sweater to replace the one that Attila ripped off her line and tore up, I sat around chatting for an hour without having to ask Therese's son for a translation (he works for AirBus and speaks English). That evening was a milestone for me, for if I know that someone speaks English, I'll get lazy and start speaking English.

Then wouldn't you know it, just after I get off the phone with the Husband, bragging about how fluent my French was getting, someone has the gaul (get it? GAUL, now I know where they got that word) to hint that my French isn't that good.

I read an ad in the paper that someone had hay for sale, in small bales which are difficult to find . . .and what's more, they would deliver. I called at noon, and the woman who answered told me that I had to call back later to talk with her husband.

When I called back, the farmer only let me get out a few sentences then he said, in English, "Maybe this would be easier if we spoke English."

The bastard!

I've never met a French farmer who speaks English . . . this must be a young one.

I was giving him directions to the farm, and told him that if he got lost, to just ask where the crazy American lady with the sheep lives. He said, "Oh, I thought you were British. And you have sheep? I thought it was probably for horses."

So while the British are known for living their elegant country lives with their thoroughbreds, I'm cavorting around with sheep . . .it always shocks the French I meet that I have sheep, I don't quite fit the foreigner mold around here . . .but I guess I don't blend in so easily either . . .with my fractured French.