Chris Pascoe’s Fun Tales

Chris is so often lost in translation he needs far more than one column…

Last week I ran out of space talking about my problems with various translation issues over the years. Especially in France, where I seem to really excel at making myself misunderstood. For example, in a supermarket, a French couple suddenly appeared in front of me talking rapidly and appearing to point at the sky. I was totally perplexed, but as they were both on the short side, and seemed to be making constant gestures comparing our relative sizes, I decided they were complimenting my height.

My wife Lorraine, who’s pretty good with languages, joined us in the aisle just in time to hear me say, in terrible and confusing French, “I am bigger than you” and assumed I must be trying to start a fight. She managed to ascertain that they’d just wanted me to get something off a high shelf for them, and felt there was no need for me to comment on their height.

In another conversation, again witnessed by Lorraine, I was asked a friendly question by a French policeman. How I meant to reply was, “I’m sorry, I speak only a little French. Do you speak English?” What I actually said was something along the lines of “You don’t speak French very well. Speak English!”

I noticed a distinct frosting of the policeman’s face at my words, and I’m just very glad Lorraine was there to prevent my imminent arrest.

Even Lorraine’s grasp of the French language failed her when talking to a French shopkeeper in a beautiful Alsace town. She had been admiring a piece of local artwork and the shopkeeper moved in to deliver a sales pitch. I’m not sure if it was an accent thing, but the conversation did not go well. Eventually Lorraine went for that good old British combination – shouting and sign language.

“It’s good, bien… yes, oui?” she said, “But I will come back and look again… regardé… later?” The shopkeeper shrugged. Lorraine pointed over his shoulder at the painting. “Regardé? Later?”

Suddenly the shopkeeper took two steps backwards.

“Regardé moi?” he stammered, slapping his chest with both palms and looking both concerned and confused. “Regardé moi?”

We left quite quickly. He’s probably still waiting for us to go back and look at him.

I think probably the only time I managed to deliver a sentence in perfect French was in a roadside café on a car trip through Europe. We’d stopped for refreshments and in my very best French, I ordered two coffees. The only problem was, we were in Spain!

I’d been fast asleep in the passenger seat when we’d crossed the border and had no idea we were now 100 miles from the nearest French town.

It was a brave attempt though, and one day, somehow, somewhere in the world, I’ll finally order a pint of lager and not end up getting a pina colada…

Chris Pascoe is the author of A Cat Called Birmingham and You Can Take the Cat Out of Slough, and of Your Cat magazine’s column Confessions of a Cat Sitter.