French with rather a lot of tears

I rang my Peugeot repair chap Vincent two days ago and told him a lanterne (light) on my car needed replacing, because it was kaput. (Believe it or not, the German word kaput is now a commonplace term in France). I told Vincent that I’d call in Saturday morning to have it replaced. Fine Monsieur Warradd, he said, I’ll order it right now.

When I arrived, it was raining – as the French say – “Comme une vache qui pisse”….as it’s been doing most of the time here of late. And he observed in French (because this is the language French people tend to use) “The light on top of your car looks fine to me”.

It was one of those moments when that prickly-neck-hairs feeling hits, and you think “Has the bloke in charge of the brakes on my car gone mad?”

So I said no Vincent, mon copain, I’ve never had a light on top of my car, because I’m not in the police. It’s the light down below in front of the wheels I want you to replace. And he replied, “Do you have lights down there in England ha-ha-ha-ha?”

This was the problem: the word lanterne in French sounds uncannily like l’antenne – the radio antenna atop the car. Especially if you’re English, and have even fewer teeth than you had on returning from Greece.

Oh how we laughed. One is much safer saying ‘lampe’ do you see. Another chum suggested maybe I should’ve said ‘bulbe’, but on the other hand I don’t have much use for a tulip on the car either.

Talking of teeth – which I did very briefly back there – I have engaged the services of a French lady dentist to sort out my implants that have so far not been living up to expectations on the staying implanted dimension. Despite unpredicted events in the script involving Romanian surgeons, I can report that thus far, things are very encouraging. But in the bottom half of my mouth, there are now just two teeth standing between me and a life spent eating overcooked pasta, soup and pulses forevermore.

The ability of the human body to convert such a diet into ferocious wind power is, I suspect, a skill that has been woefully under-researched by the powers that are allegedly in charge of saving the planet.

Meanwhile, the search for a motor-home continues…which is why tonight I find myself in a Toulouse hotel room ready to continue with the quest from crack of sparrow tomorrow. The hotel is what one might call adequate, if the judgement criteria do not include charm. But it is clean and has free wifi, and on this occasion that’s what matters most. A notice on the inside of the door warns that “it is strictly forbidden to eat or cook in the room”, but generously offers up two gallete butter-biscuits. Is this a trap?

Over the last three weeks, I have learned more about sanilav technology, gas-powered fridges, horsepower, Italian reverse gears, swivelling and collapsing seats, Mercedes chassis construction and isothermic hulls than most interesting humans should ever be asked to remember. In due course I hope to report back on some of this; in the intervening period, I need to get a move on, as three weeks from now I’m going to need a pleasant living space that is not my house.

Les constructeurs arriveront. Oh-la-la et zut-alors.

Earlier at The Slog: why population poppycock co-exists so easily with neoliberal drivel.