"Je te jure que je ne faisais pas l'accent belge !"

Non, je faisais l'accent bizarre et dur.  Je parle le français comme un basque espagnol, moi.

 

French Poop ~ An Adventure

The French are more than a little grumpy these days.

Australia was happily and willingly strong-armed by the Brits and Americans into buying their submarines instead of seeing out a multi-billion dollar contract for French made sou-marins.  Ambassadors have been recalled.  Shouting has ensued.  Reactions have been registered.  Realizations have been realized.  The contract was blown up and France finds itself deep in la merde.  Europe is now unofficially on it's own.

Since we've moved into our current apartment over nine years ago, the room where our shower is has smelled from time to time like, well, there's no other way to put it, shit.

We thought that its just how things are in Paris.  Submarine contracts not withstanding.

None of the pipes were over flowing nor backing up.  All the plumbing in the cabinet where le tuyau descende and le chauffe-eau lives have always been dry and seemingly in good condition.

It smelled like shit.  That's all.  Not always, but often enough we could complain about "that special Paris perfume."

A year or so ago our old neighbors upstairs moved out and a young man who works in informatique bought the place and moved in.  He loves to talk.  His French is clipped and fast.  One has to be well on their Foreign Language Translation Toes to keep up with him.  And forget about getting a mal-formed poorly-accented mot in edge-wise.

Across the hall from M.Iformatique lives a very kindly gentleman.  Our neighbor also happens to be one of three coproprietaire representatives to the syndic in our building.  So it can be useful to wave to him and share a few words from time to time.  He worked in aerospace and has a beautifully honed wonderfully refined sense of French humor.

One day someone frappait la porte and we found M.Iformatique at our doorstep.  Long story short, it took us 30 minutes to get to the point, his place smelled like shit.

What happened next was a series of meetings to talk about the problem.  This was followed by a series of inspections of the cabinets where le tuyau descende and le chauffe-eau live in the two apartments in question.  Which was followed by a series of SMS that indicated time and date of smelling des odeurs. Then followed by an unannounced pre-09h00 visit from a plombier and M.Iformatique.

An inspection was made and a judgement rendered.  There was nothing to do but to suffer les odeurs nauseabande.  Or so we were told.  Merde happens, right?

None of us were very happy with the pronouncement.

We decided that it would be helpful to have someone confirm or deny the initial prognosis.  It was a bit like visiting a medecine and wanting to get a second opinion.  So, in a very Gallic Manner, that is to say with careful planning, forethought, and precise execution a second plombier was summoned.

Just this morning we received a second unannounced pre-09h00 visit from a plombier and M.Iformatique.  I was in the shower and la madame de la maison told them to come back in a few minutes.  By the time they returned I was dry and dressed.  This time M.Representive accompanied the two who originally knocked on the door.

A re-inspection was made.  A lot of conversation was shared.  M.Informatique had more than a few things to say.  I did my best to keep up and stopped the flow of Gallic words to ask M.Plombier for une petite precision concerning the exact nature of his thoughts on the matter.  The Gallic flow of words soon restarted and we circled and swirled around the subject to the point I was nearly drained.

M.Representive and I started a side-conversation where we considered the Sou-Marin Affaire.  We agreed the French had been treated badly by the Anglo-countries.  How could everything have fallen apart so?  It was clear to us the real winners in all this would be the Chinese, and, indirectly, the Russians.

Coming back to the central sh*tty point of this missive, the Syndic will generate the necessary documents.  Devis will be prepared by M.Plombier.  Proprietaires will be contacted.  Work will be considered.  More Gallic words will be expressed and shared.  We will see what happens.

After everyone left, it occurred to me that I should send M.Representative a short SMS explaining (attended by the proper humor emojis, of course) that if he was interested I had a spare submarine to sell.

His reply - Je m'en doutais!!!  Just as I expected.

In the meantime, there is nothing to do but to suffer les odeurs nauseabande.   

Merde happens. 

 

Did the Romans laugh?

I found this an interesting read.  The Romans, it appears, laughed at many of the things we still find funny today.