Frenglish Rules
Written by Amanda MacKenzie
I’m in Calais. Someone has to be.
And I’m locked in a linguistic duel with a hotel receptionist, and trying not to be uppity about it. She speaks Hospitality Frenglish and is determined to use it. I, however, speak After-dinner Franglais – and the customer is always right.
On a good day, words like “complémentarité” and “dichotomie” trip neatly, for the most part, from my tongue. Phrases like “as you want” and “it’s at two kilometres from the hotel” trip as neatly from hers. Touché. We battle on for a bit, ignoring the absurdity that both of us are speaking a foreign language needlessly. Some one will back down. It won’t be me.
It is, of course. Shrugging my defeat, I wonder whose English it is anyway. It’s always been a bastard (no, make that mongrel) language – that’s why Shakespeare was able to stretch it and mould it so extravagantly. Throughout its history, it’s been as supple as a reed and has sprouted just as fast. So I may as well get used to Euroenglish, because it’s here to stay. And if it helps me get a decent breakfast, who am I to complain?
