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I believe that some avid readers are a touch less avid than they were,
as the last few witterings have been a bit technical. Herewith a "Facts
of Life" offering!! By chance, a golden e-mail arrived from Douglas - here it is ... though, by way explanation:
Douglas owns a lovely Freeman boat called Trillium, which he moors at
Briare. He works in UK, but spends all his hols on Trillium.
A "Vide Grenier" has things for sale at cheap prices.
Rex is the "The Laird" and lives on a boat called Lapin d'Or
(Golden Rabbit, but the French believe that it sounds like Le Pain d'Or
(Golden Bread) so its a pun) in Briare with his faithful hound, Jess the
Woof (J-T-W), half-sister to my Fanny the Wooflet.
St Hubert is the name of the bar on the quay side at Briare, run by Véronique.
Sancerre is a village near Briare which produces particularly good wines
- both white and red, though the white is generally preferred.
He said:
Hi Bill ... Herewith a brief update on Doins In Briare. Some
unspeakable individual stole my bicycle! Chained to a tree, it
was, but they cut that and made off with it. Ancient old treader
of very mixed parentage, chainwheel liable to fall off; with any
luck it'll throw its new rider down the road and break his leg.
Or preferably neck. Whatever, went to the Vide Grenier and bought
a much better bike for 30 euros, so transport once again resolved.
Last weekend Rex and I were consuming bottles of Sancerre that he
had acquired, using my Vide Grenier 3-euro champagne ice bucket.
After Jess had barked at them, we struck up a conversation with a passing
couple. He Swedish, champion offshore yacht racer, she British,
met in NZ when he on round-the-world voyage. They lived in NZ
for some years, having shipped out their car - a Lotus Esprit Turbo!
So I showed them the photos of mine. Small world. Then he -
Leif Eriksson, would you believe - asked if we drank vodka.
Having suggested that the Pope was still a Catholic, we split up -
Rex to get Coke and nibbles, me to get ice from St. Hubert, and Leif
to get the Active Ingredient. I was expecting a bottle, but he
arrived with a DUNK. This is the Swedish word for a five-litre
polythene container - full of a clear liquid. Yes, as well
as yachting and watchmaking, Mr. Eriksson was an amateur distiller!
He assured us it was totally pure, 42%, and was guaranteed to render
one sozzled without any hangover. This we put to the test.
The Laird was finally unable to get from my cabin to the cockpit, collapsing
backwards like a bundle of old sticks and ending up, undamaged, on his
back on my cabin floor, arms and legs waving ineffectually. I managed
to get him back to the Lapin D'Or and left him in the care of J-T-W.
The next morning... no sign of a hangover! Astounding! I told Leif
he is now my preferred supplier and he's issued an invitation to come
to Sweden and observe the process. It seems his still started life as
a full size hospital autoclave and is now concealed behind a false wall
in his stair well. Cooling is by well-water from the backyard - trackless
forest - and the resulting alcohol is filtered through activated charcoal.
Phew! And he left us the DUNK, so I split the contents with the Laird.
Pure rocket fuel!
This holiday I became the first male Douglas for three generations
to live longer than his father. Great-grandad went at about 93 having
sailed to New Zealand in a three-masted barque before returning to Blighty
and finally being run down by an electric milk float.
His son survived WW1 as flight mechanic to Albert Ball and then with
the Machine Gun Corps until expiring in his late sixties from intestinal
complications.
My father went on the evening of my brother's wedding, aged 57 and
one month. That, for me, was 10th September this year. So another hurdle
passed, like 1984 or the Millennium. I am, I must admit, somewhat relieved.
Here in Montchanin life is not nearly as hectic!!
Jeff runs the boatyard here, and is one of those people who ignored his
school teachers. He speaks French fluently with barely trace of a French
accent, and in total ignorance of the laws of grammar. I recall, at school,
hardly daring to utter a word in the French lessons, in case the grammar
or pronunciation was wrong. Crazy. Especially in England where:
- Our regional accents suggest that we should, perhaps, recognise the
fact that languages have regional accents.
- We find French people speaking English with a French accent:
a. Understandable
b. Memorable
c. Attractive
- And why should people who barely know the grammar of their own language,
be required to speak a foreign language with precision?
Surely what is required is to communicate with others, not to speak their
language with perfection. I go London yesterday. I go London now, I
go London tomorrow are grammatically incorrect, but are surely better
than silence.
But, as the Frenchman (who had an egg for breakfast every day) said ...
"Un oeuf is un oeuf".
So ...
Toodle pip!!
Bill
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