LA FUREUR DE LA FEMME

The French get good press for the beauty and romance of their language which burbles and flows from the mouths of children and lovers as effortlessly as water easing over pebbles. But a lie can be made of that too, as it was this morning, when a monstrous row erupted between the couple in the room adjacent to mine. Actually, row is perhaps not the right word, implying as it does an exchange. This a pretty one-sided affair, with the rush of insults coming thick and fast in the general direction of the poor chap who could only offer up the occasional verbal shrug in reply. The language loses all of its romance when its constituent parts are reconstructed in the sibilant hiss of a furious woman. It becomes more terrifying than anything the Germans or Russians are capable of, their language and accent having been partially denuded of its menace by thirty years of having the piss taken out of it.

I’m not sure what this chap did but unless it involved her sister the response seemed wildly disproportionate. I’ve never been more concerned for someone’s personal safety in my life. And she was only five feet tall.

The lesson here is never, ever cross a French woman. Because you don’t want to see a French woman cross.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson