Having just returned from a relaxing short break in
France, I dedicate this post to poor Mr Saunders, my old French
teacher. He wasn't old when I met him, but I suspect he aged rapidly
thereafter. I disrupted more of his classes than I care to remember, but
he still wouldn't let me drop the subject. I argued passionately - what
was the point? I hated French, couldn't do it and couldn't imagine ever
needing to speak it. It was Lowestoft in the 1970s, for
goodness sake; a day trip to Norwich was a major expedition! Crossing the
harbour bridge was enough for me, particularly after it stuck open, and
the army had to come and build a temporary footbridge. I was certainly
never going to cross the Channel.
However, the poor man insisted, so I struggled
resentfully on and, by some miracle, managed to pass my 'O' level at grade
C. I think this was less due to the efforts of Mr Saunders than to my
practising vocabulary in bed with my then boyfriend (later to become my first
husband) on Saturday mornings. {C'est quoi ca? Vraiment? Je
ne pense pas que ca serai dans mon exam...} If it hadn't been for the fact
that, after two years of teasing him mercilessly I was feeling rather
sorry for Mr S by then, I wouldn't have bothered. There are better things
to be doing on Saturday mornings, after all.
Now though, I have nothing but gratitude for that
unfortunate teacher. I have, contrary to youthful expectation, spent many
happy weeks in France, secure in the knowledge that I can not only ask for
directions and buy food, but have actual conversations about
politics, geography and complex family relationships! My life is
richer for it, and I feel that I should write to the new Pope and demand
that, as one of his first actions, he elevate Mr Saunders to the
ranks of the Blessed, if not actual sainthood.
