Out Of Practice? The Process Of Lapsation Michael P. Hornsby-Smith


Published: June 28th 2005



Out Of Practice? The Process Of Lapsation  by  Michael P. Hornsby-Smith

Out Of Practice? The Process Of Lapsation by Michael P. Hornsby-Smith
June 28th 2005 | ebook | PDF, EPUB, FB2, DjVu, audiobook, mp3, RTF | | ISBN: | 10.35 Mb

Chapter One Bonjour Madame! I greet the lady behind the desk and put on my most charming smile. It always does to treat these ladies well. Some of them have the power of a small country.She looks up from her work, peers at me over the top of her half-moon glasses and sniffs slightly as though she can smell my Englishness. My smile falters a little. I mean, I have been in a police station in England before. Once. So although Im not exactly a hardened criminal, I do have some idea of the form.

But do they do things differently in France?Mon frere est ici . . . I start haltingly in my GCSE French. The problem with GCSE French is that you have to fight a constant urge to ask people their name, how old they are and where they live before you can get down to the brass tacks of any problem. Il est . . . er . . . em . . . Im trying desperately to find the word I need. I trawl through my limited vocabulary.

Its no good, theres nothing that vaguely matches it. So I try the English phrase.UNDER ARREST.It doesnt seem to fool her- she looks at me blankly. I try it again, this time with a French accent.ARRESTE.Il est en etat darrestation? she queries.This sounds vaguely right so I nod.Qui sappelle?Il sappelle Barney Colshannon.Attendez l DEGREES bas.She gestures to some chairs by the wall, so Sam and I duly wander over to them and sit down.Of course, I blame my mother for all this. She had just received Morgan the Pekineses pet passport and suggested we all nip over to France for the weekend to see if it was working.

He is a rather old and smelly dog with no teeth left in the front of his mouth and will pee on anything if you leave it in the middle of the room. Im not quite sure what he is thinking when he tries to bite other dogs, he must be under the impression he can suck them to death. Anyway, despite being adored by my mother, Morgan and I have never quite seen eye to eye, so why we couldnt have just popped him on a cross channel ferry and waited to see if he came back I simply do not know.

However, the pull of some French bread and cheap booze was simply too much for us and we all readily acquiesced.My mother always makes France sound absolutely delightful as she is a bit of a Francophile at heart, but her version is solely based on Gerard Depardieu and some adverts she did for the French tourist board back in the eighties which involved her getting pissed on Bordeaux. According to her, France is just one big bit of cheese with plenty of wine and a few ooh-la-las thrown in.

Not a police station in sight. This is a clearly inaccurate opinion because here I am in a French police station with no cheese, no wine and certainly no ooh-la-las.We had all split up this morning to go our separate ways. I wanted to look at the shops, Barney went down on the beach and as Sam has the only real job out of all of us, he had to make some work phone calls. Sam is Barneys best friend. He has been since we moved to Cornwall about fifteen years ago and hence hes always been a presence in my life.

I popped back to the hotel after my little shopping sortie (didnt buy anything as I am stony broke but that is another story) and the receptionist there gave me the message about Barn

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