...and so the day would arrive when it was time to go home. By now there would have been so much rain that a local farmer would be called upon to tow us off the site and we would bid farewell to 'Le Camping Merde de Cochon' with mixed feelings (of joy and ecstasy). Armed with nothing but a personal stereo, some new batteries and a 'Best of Meatloaf' cassette I would settle back and resign myself to the journey ahead. This would invariably include a breakdown somewhere near Limoges(the car, not the passengers amazingly) giving me even longer to reflect on all the new phrases I had learnt over the fortnight such as...
'Merde alors, tu pues!' (Bloody Hell, you stink)
'Tu n'as pas entendu parler de savon?' (Haven't you heard of soap?) and my personal favourite
'Le mec anglais sur l'emplacement numéro 38 est complètement fou' The English bloke on pitch 38 is completely mad.
(Please forgive the errors - bit rusty - de savon or du savon?)
We would eventually arrive back in England to find that they had been experiencing the hottest, weather for decades whilst we'd been away, and that the whole country was walking around looking tanned and gorgeous. Still, at least we were back and it was all over for another year. I could have a shower, sleep alone again and set about tracing my real parents.
Showing posts with label French. Show all posts
Showing posts with label French. Show all posts
Friday, 26 July 2013
Sunday, 21 July 2013
Lost in Translation
As a Teacher of Modern Languages, mistakes made using the humble dictionary (yes I am quite old) and later the online translator have caused me much amusement. I wish I had written more of them down over the years as I find now that my 40 something mind is not what it used to be. A dictionary or translator is a tool and therefore there is a direct link between how effective it is and the intelligence of the person using it.
One that does stick in my mind from my very first year teaching, when my French was still good enough to teach 'A' level, was an answer from a reading comprehension. The text was about holiday destinations and talked about the fact that travellers were wanting to visit less 'touristy' places. It talked about 'Tierres Vierges' (sorry to all francophiles out there but I don't appear to be able to get a grave accent on this blog) and the question asked why such places were popular with some tourists. One girl answered 'Because there are lots of virgins there'. Quite possibly a more honest answer but unfortunately not what the exam board was looking for.
One very popular translation howler doing the rounds at present on facebook is from a Spanish menu. The item is 'Vino en botella' which should translate as 'Wine by the bottle'. However 'vino' is also the past tense of the verb 'venir' - to come, so some bright spark has translated it as 'He/she came in a bottle'. I'll just have a glass of water, thanks.
Quite a few people have asked why I don't do my blog in French and Spanish as well. The answer is that whilst I could probably have a shot at a literal translation, there is no way I would be good enough to convey the humour in anything but my own language. However, the other day I did decide to try out the 'translation' button which you can add to your blog. I used it into French on the 'Stamp Competition' post and had a look at the results. I am very glad I checked as the results were atrocious. One English phrase 'Mummy and Daddy have a row' was rendered as 'Maman et Papa ont un rang'. 'Un rang' is not 'a row' as in 'an argument', but rather 'a row' as in 'a row of cabbages'.
However, my absolute favourite comes courtesy of a Polish friend who heard this anecdote about a fellow Pole who had moved to Britain and had not yet mastered the language. He wanted to buy some meat, so checked on google translate for what he needed. Feeling reasonably confident he went into his local Butcher's shop and asked for 'half a kilo of chicken tits'. To było upokarzające
One that does stick in my mind from my very first year teaching, when my French was still good enough to teach 'A' level, was an answer from a reading comprehension. The text was about holiday destinations and talked about the fact that travellers were wanting to visit less 'touristy' places. It talked about 'Tierres Vierges' (sorry to all francophiles out there but I don't appear to be able to get a grave accent on this blog) and the question asked why such places were popular with some tourists. One girl answered 'Because there are lots of virgins there'. Quite possibly a more honest answer but unfortunately not what the exam board was looking for.
One very popular translation howler doing the rounds at present on facebook is from a Spanish menu. The item is 'Vino en botella' which should translate as 'Wine by the bottle'. However 'vino' is also the past tense of the verb 'venir' - to come, so some bright spark has translated it as 'He/she came in a bottle'. I'll just have a glass of water, thanks.
Quite a few people have asked why I don't do my blog in French and Spanish as well. The answer is that whilst I could probably have a shot at a literal translation, there is no way I would be good enough to convey the humour in anything but my own language. However, the other day I did decide to try out the 'translation' button which you can add to your blog. I used it into French on the 'Stamp Competition' post and had a look at the results. I am very glad I checked as the results were atrocious. One English phrase 'Mummy and Daddy have a row' was rendered as 'Maman et Papa ont un rang'. 'Un rang' is not 'a row' as in 'an argument', but rather 'a row' as in 'a row of cabbages'.
However, my absolute favourite comes courtesy of a Polish friend who heard this anecdote about a fellow Pole who had moved to Britain and had not yet mastered the language. He wanted to buy some meat, so checked on google translate for what he needed. Feeling reasonably confident he went into his local Butcher's shop and asked for 'half a kilo of chicken tits'. To było upokarzające
Friday, 19 July 2013
Family Holidays Part Two: Sleeping and Hygiene Arrangements.
So, once the evening meal was over came those fateful words 'We need to make the bed up'. Now, this had to wait until the evening meal was over for the simple reason that the table formed the main base of the afore-mentioned bed. The bedding was retrieved from the cupboards (which were underneath the seats), the table collapsed and the cushions arranged to make a nice, comfortable, King Size bed. Lovely, nothing wrong with that, until you remember that I have two brothers and all three of us had to sleep in this space.
OK, here's the thing. When we first got the caravan we were 7, 9 and 11 and this arrangement was fine. We were small, there was plenty of space, and it wasn't in direct contravention of any EU laws regarding right and proper sleeping arrangements. Fast forward several years and you are presented with a very different and altogether less satisfactory scenario. Now, we were not the kind of children who had cool parents who allowed you to go off on holiday with your friends once you reached your mid teens. Oh no, we were still doing this aged 13, 15 and 17. I kid you not. Whilst this kind of behaviour might be acceptable, dare I say practically obligatory in parts of Norfolk, it is probably more frowned upon in other more sophisticated sectors f society.
So it was that I would settle down for the night with one brother prone to talking in his sleep and the other singing along tunelessly to Buddy Holly (I told you we weren't cool) on his personal stereo.
We would be woken at some ungodly hour the following morning by Dad grinding coffee by hand for his breakfast. Remember last night and having to clear the table before you could make the bed? Well, in the morning we had to get up before breakfast could be served.
All you wanted to do, as a teenage girl, following a stuffy night spent in the warm embrace of her younger brother was to have a shower and make herself look presentable for all those gorgeous French boys who were also staying at 'Le Camping Merde de Cochon'.
Memories of what I am about to recount can, 25 years on, cause me to cry real tears of pain and embarrassment. I know I have a few Psychiatrist/Physchologist friends reading this blog. If any of you could come up with an effective form of therapy for dealing with trauma suffered as a result of holidays then I would gladly try it. You could call it S.H.I.T - Sian's Holiday Intensive Therapy. Boy, would it need to be intensive. You see, my dad had bought a caravan with its own toilet and shower cubicle and for this reason was loathe to go to a site with any 'facilities'. Unfortunately he was also loathe to let us use the shower in the caravan. End result - you were allowed to have a shower 2 or 3 times during a 2 week holiday. When I say a shower what I actually mean is a dribble of water, tepid at best, cold at worst standing in a space which is smaller than the surface area of an average TV. Everyone in the caravan knew if you were using the water as the pump made the most god-awful noise, akin to a cow going through a particularly difficult labour. If you ran the pump for more than a few seconds Dad would be shouting through the door for you to turn it off.
Needless to say I never did pull on any of those family trips to France.
OK, here's the thing. When we first got the caravan we were 7, 9 and 11 and this arrangement was fine. We were small, there was plenty of space, and it wasn't in direct contravention of any EU laws regarding right and proper sleeping arrangements. Fast forward several years and you are presented with a very different and altogether less satisfactory scenario. Now, we were not the kind of children who had cool parents who allowed you to go off on holiday with your friends once you reached your mid teens. Oh no, we were still doing this aged 13, 15 and 17. I kid you not. Whilst this kind of behaviour might be acceptable, dare I say practically obligatory in parts of Norfolk, it is probably more frowned upon in other more sophisticated sectors f society.
So it was that I would settle down for the night with one brother prone to talking in his sleep and the other singing along tunelessly to Buddy Holly (I told you we weren't cool) on his personal stereo.
We would be woken at some ungodly hour the following morning by Dad grinding coffee by hand for his breakfast. Remember last night and having to clear the table before you could make the bed? Well, in the morning we had to get up before breakfast could be served.
All you wanted to do, as a teenage girl, following a stuffy night spent in the warm embrace of her younger brother was to have a shower and make herself look presentable for all those gorgeous French boys who were also staying at 'Le Camping Merde de Cochon'.
Memories of what I am about to recount can, 25 years on, cause me to cry real tears of pain and embarrassment. I know I have a few Psychiatrist/Physchologist friends reading this blog. If any of you could come up with an effective form of therapy for dealing with trauma suffered as a result of holidays then I would gladly try it. You could call it S.H.I.T - Sian's Holiday Intensive Therapy. Boy, would it need to be intensive. You see, my dad had bought a caravan with its own toilet and shower cubicle and for this reason was loathe to go to a site with any 'facilities'. Unfortunately he was also loathe to let us use the shower in the caravan. End result - you were allowed to have a shower 2 or 3 times during a 2 week holiday. When I say a shower what I actually mean is a dribble of water, tepid at best, cold at worst standing in a space which is smaller than the surface area of an average TV. Everyone in the caravan knew if you were using the water as the pump made the most god-awful noise, akin to a cow going through a particularly difficult labour. If you ran the pump for more than a few seconds Dad would be shouting through the door for you to turn it off.
Needless to say I never did pull on any of those family trips to France.
Getting Things a Bit Wrong
In the interests of accuracy I really should have named this post 'Getting Things Very Wrong' but it would have been a very different article altogether, so I shall stick to the more light-hearted and hopefully less legally compromising 'Getting Things a Bit Wrong'.
We shall start with those masters of the trade, small children. As they begin on that wonderful adventure which is learning to communicate, they often get things slightly skewed. When Bryn was very small, probably about 2, he was getting quite agitated in the bath asking me to get a flannel as he had 'a whack' in his ear. A whack, I thought, immediately concerned (see post on Worrying). Had he been hit at nursery or fallen over and injured himself? He didn't appear to be in any discomfort though so I continued my investigations and eventually realised that in his toddler logic 'A whack' was the singular form of 'wax'.
More recently I was looking after (and I use that term very loosely) my 5year old nephew. He was out in the garden with my son playing with the football. When I dragged myself away from Jeremy Kyle and went to check on them he came running up to me and said "Auntie Sian. we've been playing sleepy puppies". For those of you not familiar with the world of young boys he meant 'keepy uppies'.
Getting things wrong, however, is not the sole preserve of the young, and modern technology is often to blame for glaring errors. On-line translation tools are the worst offenders, but I have enough material there for a separate post, so you'll have to wait. One of my own favourite auto-correct errors appeared on a worksheet I had produced for my pupils. I am sure year 10 will never forget the day they learnt how to ask directions in French to the 'pubic gardens'.
We shall start with those masters of the trade, small children. As they begin on that wonderful adventure which is learning to communicate, they often get things slightly skewed. When Bryn was very small, probably about 2, he was getting quite agitated in the bath asking me to get a flannel as he had 'a whack' in his ear. A whack, I thought, immediately concerned (see post on Worrying). Had he been hit at nursery or fallen over and injured himself? He didn't appear to be in any discomfort though so I continued my investigations and eventually realised that in his toddler logic 'A whack' was the singular form of 'wax'.
More recently I was looking after (and I use that term very loosely) my 5year old nephew. He was out in the garden with my son playing with the football. When I dragged myself away from Jeremy Kyle and went to check on them he came running up to me and said "Auntie Sian. we've been playing sleepy puppies". For those of you not familiar with the world of young boys he meant 'keepy uppies'.
Getting things wrong, however, is not the sole preserve of the young, and modern technology is often to blame for glaring errors. On-line translation tools are the worst offenders, but I have enough material there for a separate post, so you'll have to wait. One of my own favourite auto-correct errors appeared on a worksheet I had produced for my pupils. I am sure year 10 will never forget the day they learnt how to ask directions in French to the 'pubic gardens'.
Thursday, 18 July 2013
Family Holidays Part One: Journey and Arrival
So, as I stagger towards the end of term (I've always thought that Gok Wan's efforts would be much more profitably spent on a series called 'How to Teach Good Knackered') I begin to reflect on that greatest of oxymorons 'The Family Holiday'.
The majority of my childhood/teenage holidays involved the caravan, trekking off with my parents and two brothers to various corners of the UK and France towing this mobile torture cell, sorry I mean 'home' behind us. If it was ever in front of us then we knew we were in trouble.
As we know, every holiday begins with the journey. Now, I am sure that this points to a huge character flaw in me, possibly even a personality disorder, but when I'm going somewhere I just like to get there. The less time spent in the car/air/train/sunshine community minibus the better. Unfortunately my father does not share my point of view, preferring to take his time, stop every hour and shun major roads. Don't forget, these were the days before Sat Nav so we would spend many a happy afternoon getting lost on country roads with pensioners on push bikes overtaking us and probably covering about 15 miles in the process. On this basis driving down to the South of France could take several days.
Eventually, after days spent in a hot vehicle (no air con in those days) with precious little to do (batteries on 'personal stereo' went flat at Calais) we would arrive at 'Le camping Merde de Cochon' or similar. Great, time to get out, stretch your legs.... Oh no! We children had to remain in the car until dad had 'put the stays down'. To this day I am unsure what exactly this means, but it seemed to take an intolerably long time and involved much bad tempered shouting from Dad and encouragement and placating noises from Mum. We would finally be allowed in to the inner sanctum, with stern warnings to take our shoes off. The kettle would go on, tea would be made and for a few glorious moments all would be well with Famille Bennett. It would, dear reader, be all too short-lived...
The majority of my childhood/teenage holidays involved the caravan, trekking off with my parents and two brothers to various corners of the UK and France towing this mobile torture cell, sorry I mean 'home' behind us. If it was ever in front of us then we knew we were in trouble.
As we know, every holiday begins with the journey. Now, I am sure that this points to a huge character flaw in me, possibly even a personality disorder, but when I'm going somewhere I just like to get there. The less time spent in the car/air/train/sunshine community minibus the better. Unfortunately my father does not share my point of view, preferring to take his time, stop every hour and shun major roads. Don't forget, these were the days before Sat Nav so we would spend many a happy afternoon getting lost on country roads with pensioners on push bikes overtaking us and probably covering about 15 miles in the process. On this basis driving down to the South of France could take several days.
Eventually, after days spent in a hot vehicle (no air con in those days) with precious little to do (batteries on 'personal stereo' went flat at Calais) we would arrive at 'Le camping Merde de Cochon' or similar. Great, time to get out, stretch your legs.... Oh no! We children had to remain in the car until dad had 'put the stays down'. To this day I am unsure what exactly this means, but it seemed to take an intolerably long time and involved much bad tempered shouting from Dad and encouragement and placating noises from Mum. We would finally be allowed in to the inner sanctum, with stern warnings to take our shoes off. The kettle would go on, tea would be made and for a few glorious moments all would be well with Famille Bennett. It would, dear reader, be all too short-lived...
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