It’s all Greek to me, as the French say

THE ART OF BEING UNDERSTOOD:

“Mercy bucket.” I said, pretty chuffed that I was fluent after just three days in Francais.

“Oui mon petite pois,” I continued, delivering the language with the confidence and panache of a 72-year-old woman who’d spent her entire life in a village near Lyon playing boules. There had been one or two misunderstandings along the way.

Like the time I went into the perfume shop looking for the aftershave Joop. “C’est rouge,” I explained (it’s red) to a blanc (white) looking face (mush).

“Pour home?” I said. “Non!” she replied, looking slightly panicky that she was alone in the shop with me. It was only afterwards I found out I’d been asking for a red skirt for a man.

Then there was the time I asked a horrified barman in the Pyrenees if he had AIDS. I tried again and added, “avec pommes?” (with apples). Turns out the word for cider is dangerously close to that of the killer disease.

And it’s not just on the continent where they don’t immediately understand me.

We were in need of directions in Wales a while ago so I pulled over when I saw a farmer by the side of the road. I said, “Are you shearing that sheep?” He said, “No. Get your own.”

I started to think that I was the problem and my wife was happy to confirm that was true. She said she’d struggled to understand me for years. My quirky little freakish traits, like how I can’t touch bread muffins with flour on and how I still haven’t realised that when she leaves something on the stairs she wants me to take it upstairs rather than climb over it. More than anything she is left baffled by me thinking my opinion would be appreciated.

The best way to ensure you’re understood is to keep it simple. Be honest and consistent and true to yourself. When communicating use small words and try to speak with a mouth that isn’t full of food. Shout as if everyone is deaf and point at things so it’s clear to what you are referring.

Sometimes, despite your best efforts, it will feel like you’re talking a different language but if you will go to Greece on holiday then you should really expect that.

Sometimes though, it’s actually nice to be misunderstood and with children it can lead to the loveliest of conversations. My daughter once started asking me about teeth as I read her a bedtime story.

“Do doggies have teeth?” she asked. “Yes they do.” I said. “What else?” “Cats,” I said. “And crocodiles?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. Then all in one go she wondered “what about the ceiling and the triangle and the doors and the sky and a flower?” “No they don’t,” I replied, “It’s just animals.”

She thought about it. “What about my trampoline?”

Next week: The art of being ill