Aggressive Beret Wearing 101. Part 6. FIN

Reading back over my diary entries for that week, I find it funny to see how I tried to adjust to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune as they were offered to me.

It's good to know that I tried.
I did.
I really did.

I'm pleased to see that I didn't become narky straight away.

Fairly typically, I gave it a go and then when it all became too much, I made the decision to flatten my ears, sharpen my focus and participate in day to day Parisian tourism with a level of disdain that left them all well in the shade and in no way my equal.
I out Frenched the French.

Seriously, I hated this place by the end of the first day, but I was fair minded enough not to grumble until the second or to state it unequivocally until after breakfast on the third.

That's pretty good of me. Don't you think so?
Considering the amount of coffee I was drinking, I think it was nothing short of a heroic act of charity.
Good on me.

Even as we were standing at Charles De Gaulle airport (about as big and exciting as Melbourne airport - I was shocked) with the boarding pass in my hand, I was experimenting with my brain - trying to focus on what I had enjoyed about Paris rather that what I hadn't.
An attitude of gratitude and all that.

But you know what I found to think about as I stood impatiently at the boarding gate, the keenest person in history to get on a long haul flight?

I thought back to all those devastating moments throughout my life when people have pronounced my name the French way.
Simone - rhymes with scone. *shudder*

It has always offended and sickened me.
You may as well call me a pretentious twat and be done with it.

There were a few years there too, when my mother tried to enforce this rather nasty pronunciation of the name.

You may imagine my surprise and horror to arrive at school the day after parent and teacher night, only to have a teacher apologise to me in front of the class for not pronouncing my name correctly...
Even at the tender age of 12, I was able to put a stop to it with such vehemence that it was rarely heard of again.
Not even Mum dared.

Serial offenders will be prosecuted.
And certainly have been.

Zero tolerance.

After issuing instant and savage corrections, I have occasionally felt the need to sweeten the repudiation by saying something semi good natured like,

"If ever we should happen to meet in France, you may call me Simone."

But not often.
By and large I felt it wiser to leave them swinging in the breeze.

So, as I stood at that boarding gate, desperately trying to stack up a few positives against the tower of Parisian negatives, I smiled pompously to myself and thought,

"Ha! I've been in Paris for 5 full days and no-one's called me Simone!"

Joke's on them!

When I realised that, I felt happy for the first time since leaving Dusseldorf - like I'd gotten away with something even.
Of course, just moments later, as I handed over my boarding pass, the evil witch smiled sweetly at me and said, "Ahh... Simone, oui!"


P.S. Pffffffffffffffft to the French, their mother's smell of elder berries.




FIN.



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