A Certain, 'Je ne sais quoi'.

On Mondays I have 3 hours of back-to-back French, from 12pm to 3pm.
A language lecture, followed by a literature tutorial, followed by a language seminar.
I'm still not quite sure how to distinguish between a tutorial and a seminar.
I think it has something to do with numbers, but, as I am more linguistic than mathematical, I don't bother to try and learn the difference.
The language lecture is designed to prepare us for the upcoming listening comprehension exam.
We are played audio-visual clips from French news bulletins and have to answer questions about what we've just seen and heard.
It is only when I see these clips that the full realisation hits me of just how bloody fast the French speak.
Each week I am stunned by how poor my grasp of the language actually is.
I'm pretty sure they don't honestly speak that fast in France in real life.
It's simply not possible.
Even after the 3rd transmission of the flash, (we get 5 in the exam), I'm struggling to understand most of what's going on.
Let alone able to answer French questions on the subject.
In French.
Oh la la!
The exam is a terrifying prospect.

My French literature classes are better.
I always prepare thoroughly for those.
Reading French is much easier than listening to it.
There are no time constraints and my journeys into the depths of the bi-lingual dictionary are frequent. 
More importantly, the critical analyses of the texts are discussed in English.
It's straightforward enough, as long as the prep has been done.
Each week we are told which text to read and are given a specific passage to prepare.
We are even provided with questions to help guide our analysis.
But that takes time.
And self-discipline.
My Sundays are now dedicated to this pursuit.
So I am one of only 3 who contributes to the discussion, out of a class of about 15 students.
And, needless to say, I am the most vocal.
The rest of the class is either totally unprepared or too terrified to speak.
Or hungover.
Or perhaps all of the above.

The tutor, Madame O'Reilly, who is French but by no great leap of the imagination must have married an Irish man, can be a little intimidating.
She is so very French - slim, elegant and well-groomed - like an aging Coco Chanel - and she punctuates her English with a liberal spattering of 'd'accord?', 'n'est-ce pas?' and, most annoyingly, 'hein?' 
As the weeks progress, she gets increasingly frustrated by the wall of silence that greets her probing questions.
'Nut ulways ze same peeepol!' she says, waving her delicate arms in exasperation till her tiny wrists look like they could snap, as the 3 usual suspects take it in turns to fill the silent voids.
It's like a compulsion.
On occasion I commit to saying nothing in the hope that it will force someone else to have a go, but the weight of the muteness is too tangible and unbearable.
So I'll pipe up.
Offer some opinion.
I've heard the odd 'tsk' from behind, (naturally, I'm sitting at the front), that says, 'not her again!'
It would have bothered me at their age but now I view their audible disapproval as a compliment.
It means I'm doing well.

Today, she decides to pick on individuals.
She's probably sick of the sound of my voice.
She points to a chap whose name escapes me.
I don't think I've ever heard him speak before.
'You!' she says, as he jolts from his slumber at the back of the room.
'Wut do you sink ze orther meenz by zis phreyze?'
Silence.
Total and utter silence.
It's far too painful.
I feel myself blush.
I'm not sure who I feel more embarrassed for.
Then her eyes widen as she almost screams at him, 'you heven't eeven got your book open!
My blushes fade as I hear his shameless response.
'Oh I had it open earlier,' he replies glibly, 'but I didn't know which page were on.'
Madame O'Reilly glares at him incredulously but says nothing.
The rest of the class sniggers briefly, then the silence resumes, heavier than before.
I plug the gap with a point of view, unable to contain myself any longer.

Madame O'Reilly hasn't taken her eyes off him.
And as she clenches her minuscule fists and the veins bulge at her feminine temples, I wonder if she is familiar with the works of Monsieur Chuck Naurice.

©Alacoque Doyle