No French Friday
Eight years ago, having drunk too much at a Bradbury party, I foolishly agreed to teach a few neighbours French, as a way of entertaining ourselves through the winter months. Gradually the French classes, which took place every fortnight, grew in size and levels of chaos. The pupils drank too much and were fearsomely unruly; the teacher was ferocious and unforgiving (they called me "Madame Whiplash"…), there were never enough chairs, and, worst of all, the class was mixed ability. I have nothing against mixed ability teaching as a general rule, but when it involves trying to have the same conversation with someone who has never learned a word of French and someone else who has actually lived in France and is fluent – I defy even the greatest teacher in the world to make that fun. The trouble was that the French class meant so much more than learning a few gallic phrases; it had become the centre of our social life. Bradbury in winter is a dark, unforgiving place: there are no lights in the village street, and so it’s pitch black after 4pm. You see no-one. People disappear into their houses until the Spring, huddling over fires and watching bad tv until the first buds appear. So it was with enormous guilt that I announced the end of winter French lessons in Bradbury….
Undeterred, the Bradburyites reinvented the event. It’s now called No French Friday, and involves a rotating host. Not really. We just go to a different house every time, and whoever lives in that house has to supply the entertainment, in whatever form they choose. (So far, thank the Lord, no-one has suggested car keys in the fruit bowl…) There have been quizzes, a village cartoon, guess-the-Bradburyite-from-the-baby-photo, Desert Island Discs, a talk from the old man who used to run the village shop (visiting Bradbury after years away); the making of pom-poms (taught by a visiting cheerleader from Canada), and a tour round the vineyards of France with accompanying samples, thanks to Edwin Aldred, the wine merchant from Grace Farm. I don’t think many of us remember much past the Rhone Valley…
Last Friday we held the first No French Friday of this winter at Grace Farm, hosted by Kamila Gorsko, Edwin’s wife. He was nowhere to be seen, as usual – he loathes community gatherings of any sort, and thinks, I suspect, that we are all rather awful. (I guess the wine lecture was only given in the hope that he’d garner some new customers…) So there we were, all gathered round Kamila’s giant kitchen table, very pleased to see each other and to catch up on village gossip. We had been instructed to bring a significant memory from the summer to recount to the assembled company, and I was rather disconcerted to realise that mine wasn’t like anyone else’s. After the dreamy recollections of sun-kissed swims in the Aegean, communal family meals in Provencal gites, returning prodigal student children to the bosom of their family, etc – it was my turn.
My memorable moment was Norwich City losing 7-1 to Colchester in the first game of the season, and the subsequent sacking, six days later, of our manager. Ah, well. I was always a glass-half-empty sort of a person.
And as for Edwin Aldred, he can be as snotty as he likes about No French Friday. I think it celebrates the quirkiness and individuality of our village, and for that I am thankful.
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