What’s Love Got To Do With It?

A constant thorn in my side is my inability to speak French. Or at least speak it correctly. This is partly due to the fact that the delicate poetry of the language and the Northern Irish accent do not make for good bedfellows. You can imagine my embarrassment when, during another intolerable school lesson, I opened my mouth to hear, “Bonjurr, juh muh-pell James” clunking out. It was as if someone else was speaking. But there was not. It was me, rolling the words around my mouth like acid-flavoured gobstoppers.

Cooking in Living History

As I type this, I am on a work trip to France, where I am trying my best to disguise the fact that, when it comes to speaking the language, I am about as useful as a glass trampoline. Last night, I found myself positively ravenous, and ended up in a quaint back street restaurant. Not wanting to appear to be an idiotic British tourist, I amazed myself by confidently ordering a duck dish. The most amazing thing was that a deliciously cooked portion of duck arrived on my plate – the waiter had understood my mangled voyeelles françaises, after all.

But that’s by the by. I could be anywhere as I type this. I was in Germany two days ago, but now I am in France. I should be outside, exploring the web of streets, meeting the people and soaking up the culture (along with the wine), but instead I’m in my hotel room, typing away on my computer.

One Night In Paris

One of the most touching stories that I have ever heard involves a good friend of a good friend. When he was much younger, he suffered from serious asthma. It was debilitating to the point that he was unable to go outside for long stretches, and the more strenuous forms of physical activity would cause him to wheeze and splutter and, to use his own words, think that he was going to cough up both lungs.