This afternoon the air chills the gibbous moon.
In the charity shop, I spot a hardback copy of the Robert Micro French dictionary. I have the paper back version, Robert Micro poche, which is now a constant companion. For a moment I am tempted to buy it but it only duplicates the copy I already have. "I 've a copy of this," says the man who assists at the shop. We talk about French. "Do you go often to France?" I ask. " No, he says, "My wife hates the French, and I don't like them either. The culture's alright though." As an afterthought, he adds "There are a lot of French saints, too".
I pass a woman who lives nearby. She has a parrot and numerous children. "Rush, rush, rush isn't it!" she says. As I amble slowly on, I feel a little guilty at having nothing to rush to or from. But on the whole, I feel pleased that I don't have to run.
I am reminded of a Woody Allen film, in which he plays a Hollywood director, that ends with the line, "Thank God for the French!"
Are rench saints the patron saints of plumbers? Or do they preside over partings, ("It was such a wrench leaving you.")
My stepmother, who was very pro-horse, used to refer to the universal cure-all for animals as "a pink drench".
BB I am afraid that the typo having been corrected with the help of an F, thanks to you intervention, your observation may not be understood by late- comers.
Rouchswalwe. So should we all.
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