Mon petit concombre, ceci est le stylo de ma tante. Translations courtesy of my school boy french and babelfish
I was on my way home from writing some more staff bank or agency software.
It was getting late: the streets were almost deserted. The occasional distant figure noiselessly disappeared around a corner. It was a really quite quiet. The sun was still up. Buildings: small, strove to become skyscrapers: serene shadows stretching silently ever further down vacant pavements. Peace and tranquillity filled the air. Hardly a thing moved...
There was a sound. A surprising sound. A very pleasant sound. A young French female voice from behind said “excuse me”. Another person about this late? Well it was only 6:15. That is late for Henley on Thames where the good citizens have departed the multitude of Coffee shops (once shoe shops), dress shops, charity shops and estate agents.
“Excuse me” I turned. A delightful willowy brunette apparition appeared. What did she want? I was prepared to defend my honour! - But only to a point... did she know?
Seemingly and disappointingly not. “I’m looking for number 50“ she said. “There do not seem to be any ‘ouse numbers....” she continued. “It is not like in America where streets and ‘ouses are numbered.” I pointed out that as America was inhabited by Americans they had to have a system which was easy to understand. Her laugh was as quick. We old Europeans have to stick together and this was certainly a very acceptable face of France. “It has to be this way I said.” We walked down Bell St. There were all of two shop fronts or 'ouses numbered.:
She wanted the French restaurant at Le Parisien. All too soon it appeared.
She thanked me.
Ah well back to Waitrose for the shopping. Henley is a very pleasant place. Note to self: I must paint over some more House numbers...
