The Language Limbo

Firstly, come on guys, where’s the love for the cool post-it thing? Also, to those of you who e-mailed, it cheered me up no end, and to those of you who didn’t, I know, I know, you’re here for the witty banter, not the depressive me.

WORRY NOT! She’s gone, having been chased away by the crazy French women and their interest in talking to me about hair removal. As a gift for an 80th birthday. No, I am not in any way kidding.

Which brings me to the point of this post. Being a linguist is always interesting, and quite often fun. But for me, the ‘Language Barrier’ is like the limbo.

Here is a pictorial representation of that, firstly because I like my blog having pictures, and secondly because I like paint. I don’t know why I am wearing a red skirt. I barely wear skirts, and even if I did they wouldn’t be red. Maybe it’s not me. But whatever, I digress.
The language barrier is like a limbo, because I find that most of the time, with a bit of flexibility and certain practiced tricks, getting past it is no problem at all. You just wiggle yourself into a comfortable position and keep moving forward until you’ve got right under it at which point people cheer for you, and congratulate you on being so talented.
Every now and then, you twist yourself into totally ridiculous positions, and still manage to smack yourself round the head with the thing. This is why I ended up talking to some guests of my hosts about how appreciated a hair-removal appointment was as an 80th birthday present. I never intended the conversation to veer that way, but veer it did, and I was swept along until finally I had to admit defeat, smile like a simpleton, yawn and make it look like I really needed to go to bed.
Maybe it’s wimping out, but that is just not a comfortable conversation to have with someone who could be your grandmother. I just don’t want to hear how much it hurts to have your ‘maillot’ waxed.

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