The French, As Adorable And As Stubborn As Mules…

Tags

cultural differences, Ex Pat, France, French, funny, Habits, Humor, Life, Tourism, Travel

OK, so that’s a title and a half for a blog post, but bear with me, I’ll explain.

You see one of the things I love about French people is their frequent absolute refusal to do things in what I see as a logical, straightforward manner.

I should add this is just my opinion, and yours may well differ (he said diplomatically).

As an example of this I will tell you a little story from the other year, when I was working in a local travel and tourism office.

We had a village event coming up, a very popular, well attended event that spanned one entire weekend and happened every year. We had all the posters up advertising the event, but were still waiting for the programmes to arrive, with all the times of the various activities that were planned for that weekend.

The most frequent question we were asked – on the phone, and in person – in the days leading up to the event was: ‘Do you have the programme for the event yet?’.

The day finally came and we were informed that we would be receiving the infamous programmes, and so we could give them out to the locals and allow them to see what was in store.

The programmes arrived. They were delivered to another building, 500 meters away.

I offered to go and get them, and the conversation went a little like this:

Me: The programmes are here, down the road, shall I go and get them?

Colleague: Oh no, they are in a box, and the box is heavy, we will have to wait till we can get them delivered. I will contact the mayor.

Me: But people want them, and they’re not far away – I could take the trolley (indicating a small trolley we use to move heavy items around)

Colleague: Oh, but that will take a long time and the box is heavy.

Me: But that’s what the trolley is for.

Colleague: No.

Me: Well how about this? I go down, open the box, and bring up enough leaflets to hand out to people, then at least the ones who have asked for them will be happy.

Colleague: (long pause) (lots of blinking) No. No, the box is heavy. We will contact the mayor.

The programmes did finally arrive in our office.

Several days later.

The Strange Food Contest…

Tags

cultural differences, Culture, England, English, food, France, French, funny, Humor, uk

 

We were sat outside in the fading light, enjoying a delicious meal at a local restaurant. I was busy shovelling a fruits de mer pizza into my mouth.

As another tentacle disappeared into my gob, my French friend commented on the contents of my meal: ‘English people eat some strange things’.

I looked at him, the setting sun glinting off my dark brown eyes.

I made the universal sound for a horse.

I made the universal sound for a frog.

I couldn’t make the universal sound for a snail as I’d forgotten about that one. Plus they aren’t very noisy.

Ha! I thought to myself, let’s see what my French pal comes back with now.

‘You know’ a voice piped up from my right ‘They eat crisp sandwiches in the UK’.

I looked at the owner of the voice, it was none other than the mother of my children, the light of my life, my moon and stars. Et tu Brute?

She then went on to describe, at length, how one makes a crisp sandwich, to the astonishment of my friend.

He looked at me aghast, asking with his eyes is this was true.

I held his gaze and said ‘The bread’s got to be white’, his mouth already yawning open, now stretched even further, coming within touching distance of the table.

‘And my favourite flavour is salt and vinegar*’ I added, without batting an eyelid.

I may have just lost a French friend.

 

*Actually it’s a toss-up between Seabrook’s Salt and Vinegar or Pickled Onion Flavour Monster Munch, but I think there are things that some people’s minds just can’t cope with.

Cultural French/UK Differences: Estate Agents vs Agence Immobilieres

Tags

Agence Immobiliere, cultural differences, Culture, England, English, Estate Agents, ex-pat, France, French, funny, Humor, Sales

Estate agents and agence immobilieres, one based in the UK, the other in France. They ostensibly perform the same function: to sell your house in the quickest possible time or, alternatively, to help you find that dream home.

 

There are however a few key differences between the two…

 

Average Age:

 

Estate Agent: 20 – 30

 

Agence Immobiliere: 60 – 70

 

Location of business premises:

 

Estate Agent: Centrally located in heart of city/town/village

 

Agence Immobiliere: Centrally located in heart of city/town/village

 

 

Likelihood of finding dogs on said business premises:

 

Estate Agent: Very Low

 

Agence Immobiliere: At least one.

 

Will they smoke on said business premises?

 

Estate Agent: Smoking on business premises is illegal in the UK (so not while you are there)

 

Agence Immobiliere: Smoking on business premises is illegal in France (so not while you are there and occasionally while you are there)

 

What’s the lighting like inside said business premises?

 

Estate Agent: Bring sunglasses

 

Agence Immobiliere: Bring a torch

 

How they will greet you the second time you enter said business premises:

 

Estate Agent: ‘Hello, can I help you?’

(Translation: ‘What do you want? I’m nearly at level 80 on Candy Crush Saga!’)

 

Agence Immobiliere: (after warmly shaking your hand/kissing you on both cheeks) ‘Bonjour Monsieur/Madam (insert surname here). Ca va?’

(Translation: ‘Hello Mr (Insert surname here) how are you today?’)

 

How they will greet you the fourth time you enter said business premises:

 

Estate Agent: ‘Hello, can I help you?’

(Translation: ‘What do you want? I’m trying to upload my photos from the Ibiza trip to Facebook!’)

 

Agence Immobiliere: (after warmly shaking your hand, kissing you on both cheeks) ‘Bonjour (insert Christian name here) voulez vous une cafe, ou une boisson?’

(Translation: ‘Hello (insert Christian name here). Would you like a coffee or something to drink?’)

 

Likelihood that your agent will be related to someone else in company:

 

Estate Agents: Low

 

Agence Immobiliere: Them and that other person over there, you know the one that looks like a younger, female version of them? They ARE the company.

 

Routes to market for your property:

 

Estate Agent: Targeted email campaign, Facebook campaign, personalised brochure, open house days, local area leafletting, placement on multiple websites.

 

Agence Immobiliere: Placement on website of agency, discussion in queue at bakers, discussion in queue at butchers, discussion in queue at gunshop, discussion whilst out walking dog (s).

 

Number of Photographs that will be taken of the properties:

 

Estate Agent: a minimum of 10 or so photographs, depicting the interior, the exterior and everything that could possibly show the property in its best light.

 

Agence Immobiliere: A minimum of 1 or so photographs, sometimes the same photograph, 3 times, showing the same aspect, just slightly closer each time.

 

Will the agent ever take photographs as if they were taken by someone who has had a restraining order imposed on them and is not allowed within 100 ft of the property and thus has to resort to taking photographs when the house is fully shuttered on an overcast day from quite a distance away?

 

Estate Agent: Never

 

Agence Immobiliere: All the time

 

 

Will you move furniture around to get a better shot?

 

Estate Agent: Yes

 

Agence Immobiliere: No

 

Will they move people/animals out of shot?

 

Estate Agent: Yes

 

Agence Immobiliere: Sometimes

 

Have they mastered the art of taking a photo in a room with a mirror without appearing in said mirror?

 

Estate Agent: Yes

 

Agence Immobiliere: No

 

You are selling a house for over 200k, do you think people will want to see more than 3 photographs, one of which is of a bush?

 

Estate Agent: Yes

 

Agence Immobiliere: No

 

Do you think this looks like a good photo to have on your website?

 

 

Estate Agent: No

 

Agence Immobiliere: No

 

So why is it there Agence Immobiliere? Don’t you understand the term ‘correct photo orientation’?

 

Estate Agent: (Sniggers)

 

Agence Immobiliere: (shuffles feet)

 

I don’t know what you are laughing at Estate Agent, here’s one of yours:

 

 

Estate Agent: (shuffles feet)

 

Agence Immobiliere: (Sniggers)

 

Do lots of your properties look like they are haunted?

 

Estate Agent: No

 

Agence Immobiliere: 75%

 

If you are selling a property who will accompany the prospective buyer?

 

Estate Agent: Ostensibly the estate agent will arrange all viewings, with the promise that you will not interact with the prospective buyer at all. In reality they will text you to tell you that they have ‘gotten held up’ and ‘could you be a gem and show the house for me?’. The buyer will then arrive 30 minutes late (or early) because the estate agent hasn’t relayed the correct information to them. This will only happen 8 out of 10 times though.

 

Agence Immobiliere: The agent, his/her son/daughter and his/her dog (s).

 

Potential timescale for the sale of a property?

 

Estate Agent: Days/Weeks/Months

 

Agence Immobiliere: Months/Years/Decades

 

How they will greet you when you enter their business premises after the successful completion of your sale/purchase:

 

Estate Agent: ‘Hello, can I help you?’

(Translation: ‘What do you want? I’m bidding on an ab-toner on eBay and it ends in 2 minutes, I need it to look good for my next holiday to Ibiza!’)

 

Agence Immobiliere: (after warmly shaking your hand, kissing you on both cheeks) ‘Bonjour (insert Christian name here) voulez vous une cafe, ou une boisson? Comment vont les enfants? Merci encore pour votre enterprise’

(Translation: ‘Hello (insert Christian name here). Would you like a coffee or something to drink? How are the kids? Thanks again for your business’)

 

West Yorkshire Graffiti Artists Invade Sleepy French Village!

Tags

Artwork, cultural differences, France, French, funny, Graffiti, Humor, Journalism, kids

TRANSLATED FROM ARTICLE ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN FRENCH NEWSPAPER ‘LE MONDE’

 

A sleepy French village was rocked to its foundations this week, after it was invaded by English Graffiti Artists. St Nectaire, famous for its relaxing spas and beautiful views, is now synonymous with this ‘art form’ thanks to the efforts of the two spray-can-wielding Brits.

 

The defacing duo – Big Daddy Pimp (AKA Cumberland Sausage) and his sidekick Lil Bitch-Slapper (AKA Chipolata Sausage) – have claimed ownership of the ‘Ladybird’s Delight’ (their words) which now adorns the abandoned tennis court in the hills of the village. The artwork, which depicts a ladybird on some leaves, is said to highlight the difficulties facing the ‘urban artist’ in modern France. And also West Yorkshire.

 

Lil Bitch Slapper, with the artwork in full.

 

“It’s about being true to yourself, yeah” Said Big Daddy Pimp, when he was interviewed earlier this week by the UK Graffiti Bible, Take A Break, “You can be all the colours of the rainbow – as long as they are mainly black and red – but it don’t matter but a ‘ting if you ain’t in touch with where you are coming from”. When asked to translate this into English, Big Daddy Pimp just said ‘Peace. And stay away from the yellow ladybirds, yeah? ‘cos everyone knows they is poisonous”.

 

“Also dere is a grasshopper” he expands “Because I bought too much green spray paint”.

 

The duo were raised in the UK, in an ‘Urban Ghetto’ as Pimp refers to it, called Wakefield, West Yorkshire. “Growing up on them streets was tough, yeah” says the urban warrior “Some weeks we was having to work 35, sometimes 37 hours, just to be able to put food on da table” Tears well up in his eyes as he recalls the depths he sometimes had to sink: ” Some weeks I had to work bank holidays…and even Christmas Day…for triple time”.

 

“I remember that Christmas” chimes in Lil Bitch Slapper “Daddy bought me a Lego Police Station”.

 

Big Daddy Pimp and Lil Bitch Slapper first met when Big Daddy Pimp’s Fiancee gave birth to him in 2010. The two, while not immediately close, soon formed a bond that developed into a collective love of art. This love found an outlet in graffiti, with the two going on to ‘decorate’ numerous walls around their area. Together the duo went on to form the graffiti collective known as The West Yorkshire Whippets (AKA The Alotment Boyz).

 

Feeling the heat led the duo to move away, in an attempt to break free from the underground graffiti scene which was threatening to endanger the lives of not just Big Daddy Pimp, but his family too. “We had run ins wiv da police, and a collective from Barnsley – The Flat Cap Pork Pie gang (AKA Revenge Of Kes) – and it was just getting too much”.

 

“Dey even keyed me car once” He recalls”I had to get it fixed at Daz’s Chips, Dents and Scratches in Chickenley. It Cost me £130. We only ate two takeaways that week”

 

So the family upped sticks and moved to France, and for a time it seemed that their completely-illegal artistic-activities had been left behind. But for ‘Cumberland Sausage’ the call of the streets was too strong. “I see a wall, empty, unused and it touches me inside. And if that wall is attached to a tennis court that is rotting away…well I iz going to sort it out and make it magical”.

 

“Daddy was going to do a lady boy at first weren’t you Daddy?” ‘Chipolata’ chips in “But then I asked him what a lady-boy was, and he went all quiet, and said we should do this instead”.

 

Following allegations that the artwork featured is not the property of ‘Big Daddy Pimp’ or ‘Lil Bitch Slapper’ and in fact that they are not graffiti-artists, but are just two ex-pats standing in front of someone else’s graffiti, Le Monde would like to apologise to our readers for any confusion caused.

The Dangers Of Giving Nicknames To Miserable Neighbours…

Tags

angry, cultural differences, France, French, funny, Humor, Language-Barrier, Manners, Neighbours, Relationships

 

So since moving to France I’ve made an effort to get to know, and get along with, my new neighbours in our village. We live in a block of six houses – kind of like a row of terraced ‘cottages’ – and by and large everyone is nice and friendly.

 

With three exceptions.

 

I have taken to calling these three exceptions Chicken Head, Turtle Head and Bland. Chicken Head and Turtle Head live together, in the house next-door-but-one to us. Bland lives on the house at the opposite end to us (we live at the other end). On many occasions have I said hello, good evening or tried to make eye-contact with these three, but have been met with grudging replies or, if I don’t make the first move, nothing at all. A stark contrast to the other neighbours.

 

Being the petty-minded person that I am (hey, I’m a big enough man to admit I’m a small man about some things) I have taken this personally and given them the above monikers. Why those names I hear you ask? Well it’s a straightforward case of ‘if the shoe fits’. Thus Chicken Head has a head like a chicken, Turtle Head has a head like a turtle (maybe more like a terrapin, actually, but that doesn’t roll of the tongue as easily) and Bland is, well, bland.

 

It wouldn’t be so bad if they were all rude and ignorant in their own individual ways, but they do it together. Yes, in a threesome or, as we are in France, a menage a trois. They only talk amongst themselves, which is unfortunate as they both have children and one of them is in school with my son, in the same year. She’s absolutely adorable, and very friendly, so thankfully the miserable-gene seems to have skipped a generation. But still it’s doubtful my son will be getting invited round for play-dates.

 

At first I thought it was just me, maybe they don’t like the British. But then I observed their behaviour with the other neighbours, and realised they were just very ‘cliquey’. Oh and did I mention Bland is pregnant? At least that’s what my partner thinks, I personally hope she’s just fat. Why hope? Well because she smokes like a chimney, and I refuse to believe in this day and age, and with already having a child, that she would be putting herself before this new life.

 

But yes, she may be pregnant, and the only man she spends any time with, in fact all of the time with, is Chicken Head’s husband. That’s not to say that it’s just her and Turtle Head, they aren’t ducking away to do their seedy business, at least as far as I’m aware. No, it’s always all three of them, all of the time.

 

This ambiguity over the possible-pregnancy’s possible-parentage has also  led to them being collectively labelled as ‘The Sect’. I wouldn’t risk the wrath of the internet by putting up pictures of them, I’m not that small a man, but believe me when I say, this is not a sect you would want to join. Unless small, bald men or round, sturdy ladies is your thing.

 

So yes, I have given them these nick-names, and have clearly been using them with a bit too much abandon. This was brought home to me last night, when the kids and I were out at the front of our house in the glorious sunshine, just messing around on bikes. After finishing work my partner joined us, and we were sat chatting with a girl who lives next-door to one of the aforementioned neighbours (they have a swimming pool but, this young girl informed us, they don’t let her play in it as ‘They have enough with their own daughter’, nice people, eh?).

 

It seemed like this mention of the neighbours was enough to call them forth because, like a trap-door spider, one of them popped out and immediately began puffing away on a cigarette.

 

My son pulled up on his BMX in front of us, and maybe a few yards away from where the  miserable neighbour was stood, smoking away. ‘Daddy, daddy’ he called out to me ‘Look, it’s Chicken Head!’.

 

Things to note: 1) in future don’t use your secret names for your neighbours in front of your kids and 2) be grateful they don’t speak a word of English*.

 

 

*I hope

Things I Miss About The UK: My Overprotective Smoke Alarm…

Tags

annoyances, cultural differences, France, funny, Humor, technology, uk

 

 

One day in the kitchen…

 

My Smoke Alarm: ‘Aww hey there Phil, how you doing today, say, what’s that you’re cooking hon?’

 

Me: ‘Oh nothing special, just a bit of toast’

 

My Smoke Alarm: ‘To..toast? Did you say Toast?! FIRE FIRE FIRE CALL THE FIRE BRIGADE FIRE GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!’

 

Me: (wafting tea-towel desperately, to halt the piercing noise) ‘Stop! Stop! It’s not a fire it’s just toast!!!!’

 

 

 

 

Another day in the kitchen…

 

Me: (Stretching and rubbing sleep out of my eyes) ‘Mmm think me and the kids’ll have a taste of France for breakfast’

 

My Smoke Alarm: ‘Morning Phil, what’s that you say, fancy something different?’

 

Me: ‘Yep, just slid a couple of pain au chocolats in to the mini oven, don’t take but 30 seconds to co..’

 

My Smoke Alarm: ‘PASTRIES! PASTRIES! FIRE FIRE!!! GET OUT CALL THE POLICE!!! THE HOUSE IS GONNA BURN DOWN!!!!’

 

Me: (going deaf in one ear due to pitch of alarm) ‘Where’s the tea-towel gone? stop making that noise!!!!’

 

 

 

One day in the garden…

 

Me: ‘The sausages are nearly done, who wants some first, hey son, don’t open the kitchen door you’ll let the smoke insi…’

 

My Smoke Alarm: ‘OOOOOH LORDY LORDY!!! WE ALL GONNA BURN!!! FIRE FIRE CALL THE POLICE!!! FIRE!!!’

 

Me: ‘Son, just close the door, she’ll quiet down soon enough’

 

 

 

One day in the living-room…

 

Me: ‘Okay kids, that’s the pumpkins all carved up, now lets put some candles inside th…’

 

My Smoke Alarm: ‘SAVE YOURSELVES!!! FORGET ABOUT ME!!! RUN, RUN FOR YOUR LIVESSSSS!!!!’

 

 

 

 

 

 

The kitchen here in France is lovely…but it’s awful quiet…

Cultural French/UK Differences: Brocante vs Car Boot Sale

Tags

Brocantes, Car Boots, cultural differences, ex-pat, France, French, fun, funny, Humor

No, it’s not a scrap yard, It’s a car boot sale

For the uninitiated a car boot sale is an English tradition where people take their cars, full of things that they no longer want, to a venue where they then display it from said car’s boot in the hopes that it will sell.

A Brocante is exactly the same but set in France, not the UK. There are, however, several differences, I will do my best to explain these.

START TIME

UK: 3.45 a.m (sometimes earlier)

France: After coffee + croissants and having read the paper, walked the dog, chatted to the neighbours, had another coffee and cut the grass a.m (sometimes later)

ARRIVAL TIME OF FIRST CUSTOMERS:

UK: 2.55 a.m (sometimes earlier)

France: Generally just after it’s opened (unless the croissants haven’t been cooked in sufficient quantities, then everybody is delayed).

CHANCES OF HAVING ALL THE CONTENTS OF YOUR CAR BOOT STOLEN BEFORE YOU EVEN HAVE A CHANCE TO GET THEM OUT OF YOUR CAR TO SELL THEM:

UK: high

France: Low

IF YOU SUCCESSFULLY GET YOUR ITEMS OUT OF YOUR CAR BEFORE THEY ARE STOLEN, WILL PEOPLE HAGGLE WITH YOU WHILE YOU ARE UNPACKING AND PAW AT YOUR THINGS, EVEN IF IT IS DARK*?

UK: Yes

France: Unlikely

*They bring torches

LOCATION:

UK: Always, always close to a sports facility. Either a rugby pitch, football pitch, or cricket field. I suspect this is because the organisers detest sport, and so hope to destroy the pitches, so they are unsuitable to be played on.

France: Side of a road, through the main street of a town, near a lake, up a tree, on the roof of a building. The French will hold a brocante ANYWHERE.

WEATHER

UK: If it isn’t wet, cold, windy and/or snowing the English will refuse to hold a car boot sale.

France: Generally gloriously sunny, if the slightest breeze picks up, or 25 ml of rain falls, everybody leaves.

CHANCES THAT 95% OF THE GOODS BEING SOLD WILL BE AGRICULTURAL TOOLS:

UK: low

France: High

CHANCES THAT 95% OF THE GOODS BEING SOLD WILL BE RUSTY AGRICULTURAL TOOLS:

UK: Low

France: Extremely high

DEAD ANIMALS?

UK: Not many

France: Loads

WILL FOOD BE AVAILABLE TO BUY?

UK: Yes

France: Yes

WOULD YOU EAT IT?

UK: Yes

France: Yes

COME ON NOW, BE HONEST, WOULD YOU EAT IT?

UK: No

France: Yes

WILL THERE BE MANY OF THESE VANS THERE:

UK: No

France: Every other vehicle will be one of these.

IS HAGGLING ACCEPTABLE:

UK: If you don’t haggle they chase you off the field with pitchforks, screaming ‘Not one of us, not one of us!’

FRANCE: Not as prevalent, you will receive some glassy-eyed stares when you attempt to negotiate a better price for Spiderman AND Batman’s secret hideouts. Also they may hide behind the excuse: ‘I’m selling it for my daughter, and she said I can’t sell it for any less than 35 euros’.

IS THAT WOMAN REALLY SELLING USED UNDERPANTS?

UK: Yes

France: Yes

No, it’s not a music festival, it’s a brocante. Note model of van in bottom right corner.

PASSIVE SMOKING OPPORTUNITIES:

UK: Not as high as it used to be

France: Everybody smokes. Even their dogs.

THINGS TO SAY:

UK: ‘Keep an eye on your handbag’ ‘Is that meat?’ ‘Why is that lady wearing a dressing gown?’  ‘Do people really buy this crap?’ ‘Where’s my handbag?’ ‘Where’s my child/husband/car?’

France: ‘Who is Titeuf?’ ‘Is that meat?’ ‘Why are there so many dead animals?’ ‘Who buys all this rusty agricultural crap?’ ‘But I don’t need a picture of Jean Claude Van Damme’ ‘Wow, you people really like ashtrays don’t you?’

WHAT HAPPENS AT CLOSING TIME?

UK: A huge group of people – up to 75% of those still in attendance – who have had no intention of paying for anything wait with baited breath for the remaining sellers to give up, look at all their unwanted items and offer it for free. There then occurs the ‘attack of the locusts’ as the group, en masse, descend upon the boot of the defeated seller. They can strip a car boot of all its remaining goods in five seconds flat. After the dust has settled all that will remain will be the bewildered seller, his underpants and, if he’s lucky, his car.

France: The remaining people will slowly head home, many of them may hitch lifts with the sellers as everybody knows everybody. They will then add up the day’s takings, put all their unsold animal heads and rusty farm implements back in storage until the next brocante. Which will be in a week’s time.

Unless it’s a bank holiday, then it will be tomorrow.

Cultural French/UK Differences: Coffee In Bowls…

Tags

cultural differences, England, food and drink, France, French, fun, funny, Humor

 

 

Yes you read that right. Coffee. In Bowls. As in bowls that you normally use for eating your cornflakes in. As in bowls without a handle. As in you will need to use both hands to lift the bloody thing to drink it. Unless you have huge, massive, gargantuan hands.

 

Or you are King Kong. Then you can drink it one-handed.

 

What is this all about? Am I wrong to react this way? Was it wrong of me, the first time I sat down at my French girlfriend’s mother’s table, to take one look at the bowl filled with coffee sat in front of me, push it gently but firmly away, and look at her questioningly?

 

Was it wrong to feel that I must have woken up in Crazy Town, and to expect a dog to then knock on the door to give me my mail. After all, if we’re drinking out of bowls then the canines must have taken over, right?

 

This is perfectly normal here, in France. They all do it.

 

Apparently.

 

I think it’s crazy.

 

They then add insult to injury by dipping all manner of items in said bowl of coffee. Making it even more strange and, weirdly, even more like some kind of meal/breakfast hybrid. Like breakfast with a main course.

 

I can’t get a ‘handle’ on this HA HA HA HA!

 

But I wish someone would.

 

They don’t ask me to drink it out of bowls any more, they’ve learned. They know that I only eat soup, cornflakes, porridge or cereals full of shockingly unhealthy chemicals that, nonetheless, turn the milk a tasty, tasty brown (so that’s OK then).

 

But sometimes they ‘forget’. They did it the other day, looking the other way while I was confronted by something several times larger, deeper and with one less handle than the required amount (i.e one). But they changed it for me.

 

And feigned ignorance.

 

They must look at me, as though I’m some kind of freak, with my hand savagely holding my barbarically small cup – or should I say ‘tasse’. Muttering under their breath about this flagrant display of anti-Frenchness. I don’t care. I’ll learn your language, I’ll love your culture, I’ll love your country but I will not now, or in the future, drink coffee out of a bowl.

 

 

 

Oh, and I also take milk in my coffee…

Cultural French/UK Differences: The Lollipop Man

Tags

children, cultural differences, education, France, French, fun, funny, Humor, Parenting, school, stay-at-home Dad

 

For the uninitiated a lollipop man is a man/woman who stands at the side of a Zebra crossing, ensuring that vehicles stop so the children can safely cross the road. Lollipop men/women take their name from the brightly-coloured giant lollipop-like signs they hold, this catches drivers’ attentions and they then stop (or accelerate, depending on who’s behind the wheel). In the UK they usually look exactly as the chap in the picture above, generally retired and with an affable, approachable nature.

 

They do not look like this in France.

 

The lollipop man in our old village in the UK was called Paul.

 

I think the French lollipop man is called TK100016.

 

Paul wore a hi-viz jacket and whatever clothes he had decided to put on that day.

 

French lollipop man wears standard issue uniform. Standard issue for the riot police anyway.

 

Paul would always have a friendly word to say to you, and would ask how the kids were doing.

 

The French lollipop man shouted at me today because I slightly jogged over the crossing.

 

After his shift ended Paul could often be seen walking his dog around the village.

 

As soon as his shift ends the French lollipop man plugs himself in to recharge.

 

Paul liked gifts at Christmas, and would never refuse a bottle of wine.

 

I think if I gave the French lollipop man any kind of gift he would immediately, and violently, arrest me, considering it an attempt to bribe a government official.

 

Paul had a lollipop.

 

I’m 95% sure the French lollipop man has a taser. He definitely doesn’t have a lollipop.

 

Paul let us take his picture once, for one of my son’s school projects.

 

If I attempted to take a photo of the French lollipop man he would pick me up by my throat with one hand, with his other he would take my phone off me and crush it.

 

Paul used his lollipop to stop traffic.

 

French lollipop man uses his eyes.

 

I liked Paul.

 

French lollipop man scares me.