Thank you Mr Longstaff!
Part of the trip -
Honeymoon #4 - Emerald Botswana & Zambia
I loathed French! It wasn’t the fact that I had to learn another language, as I already had some Latin under my belt. It was because I wanted to learn Spanish.
I remember the day vividly. I remember the day because it was the only day I received a detention during my schooling. My perfect record, for not getting caught at least, had slipped away with my uttering of those fateful words: ‘Fucrying out loud (or some such)! Why do we learn such useless phrases?’
Of course I’d meant to utter them only for the benefit of my partner in crime of the time but my youthful exuberance had got the better of me and I’d momentarily lost volume control. Mr Longstaff, reputedly a failed member of the SAS and with a reach seemingly greater than the Severn Bridge, pounced immediately causing me to levitate using a single finger and thumb placed cruelly on either side of one of my lugs. I was cast out of French (Set 3) to report for detention.
To put this in further context.... I
loathed French! It wasn’t the fact that I had to learn another language, as I already had some Latin under my belt. It was because I
wanted to learn Spanish. My father was doing much of his wildlife photography at that time in and around Spain and the Balearics and as he took me to all of those wonderful places, I was keen to learn something of use. However, in a cruel catch-22, because I was not good enough at French, I was not allowed to take Spanish, and because I was not allowed to take Spanish.... I hated French.... hence Set 3....
Roll forward several decades and another hemisphere. Ten days ago, MrsG and I were perched in an open-sided Land Rover in the simply stunning South Luangwa in Zambia. It is emerald season in December.... the first rains had conjured out the freshest of new shoots from the previously barren sandy soils and the foliage was bursting forth on every bough. The denizens of the valley were revelling in this time of relative luxury, with gleaming sleek coats stretched over fattening haunches. Eles were cavorting and snorkelling in the rivers and standing lagoons rather than rushing headlong into them in the last rays of the sun to slake their thirst and sponge off the dust of another day.And there were young all around, of every species.... signs of the good times.
Together with a delightful French couple who were Zambian residents for a year or two courtesy of some voluntary organisation, we had found a female leopard. She had cubs somewhere to feed and was intent on hunting nearby impala. Their fawns were tottering around on spindly new limbs and looked easy prey. But there were also a few vervet monkeys scampering around in the low scrub which would make a likely snack too. Marie had not seen the vervet mother clutching an incredibly wrinkly infant and she murmured to Guillaume: ‘Ou est le singe?’
‘Le singe est sous les arbres’
Had I just said that? I had! Apologies Mr Longstaff! And thanks.... something from your teachings stuck with me all these years.....
I talked Marie & Guillaume through this tale as I collapsed in fits of giggles. They empathised. Apparently the equivalent phrase in English for them was: ‘My tailor is rich’! The leopard did not make a kill through no fault of ours.
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