Lost in Translation

Not long after my mother was widowed (not my father, this was two husbands in), I persuaded her to come on a short holiday with me.  We decided on Paris. 

My mother has a dog, although it not my idea of a dog (I lean to Staffies).  I would call it more of a hand muff, or perhaps a pyjama case. White, fluffy.  Difficult to tell the front end from the back end, were it not for the collar.  The collar itself is worth a mention.  If Barbara Cartland had a dog (which I believe she did), it would have worn a collar such as Mitzi's. (And if Barbara Cartland had a dog it would have had that name too).  This collar was pink with large rhinestones.  In the sunshine it flashed for miles. 

We were in the square in front of the Eiffel Tower, when we were approached by a French family – Mère, Père, and two little girls.  The children were drawn to Mitzi as they would be to candyfloss.

They pointed at the collar and squeaked excitedly.  Mitzi squeaked excitedly back which triggered an ouroboros of squeaking. 

My  mother belongs to a generation and class who believes that when abroad, all one has to do is to speak English very loudly, and foreign people will understand.  Pointing at the collar she said loudly, 'Very fashionable !'. The children  appeared non-plussed and looked at their parents for help.  Mère and Père shrugged (nobody can shrug like the French).  My mother tried again 'In England !  Very fashionable for dogs !'. 

'Eet is a dog', said Père, pointing at Mitzi.  This was an improvement but not the breakthrough my mother had hoped for. 

Suddenly, from the depths of the memory of Mademoiselle's French classes at Cheltenham Ladies College circa 1960, a brainwave struck.  Fixing the now nervous looking family with an impaling stare, she bellowed 'All the rage ! Tous la rage !'.

'Elle a la rage ?'.  The family stepped back as one.  'Oui, oui', smiled my mother, before I could stop her.

The family took to their heels.  My mother watched speculatively as they receded rapidly across the square, waving their arms and alerting passers-by.

We went quiet.  I didn't know what to say.  I was too busy wondering what to do when we got arrested.

'Funny lot the French', said my mother ruminatively after a couple of minutes, 'very excitable'.