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I’m hosting a birthday party for my son.

First parent rolls up and deposits a kid.

We chit chat.

Then he looks at me, eyebrow raised quizzically à la Roger Moore – the universal parent’s sign for ‘What time shall I pick my kid back up?’.

‘Dix-sept heure’ I say.

‘Cinq heure?’ he replies.

I nod my head, mentally correcting my French lingo.

Parent two rolls up and deposits a kid.

We chit chat.

Then she looks at me, eyebrow raised quizzically à la Roger Moore – the universal parent’s sign for ‘What time shall I pick my kid back up?’.

‘Cinq heure’ I say

‘Dix-sept heure?’ she replies.

I nod my head, mentally screaming at the French lingo.

Parent three rolls up and deposits a kid.

We chit chat.

Then he looks at me, eyebrow raised quizzically à la Roger Moore – the universal parent’s sign for ‘What time shall I pick my kid back up?’.

I hold my hand up with five fingers splayed out, point at it and nod my head smiling.

 

Tune in next week to hear me moan as I try to work out when to say ‘des fois’ and when to say ‘parfois’