The Three Year Itch

Today I have broken through the Three Year Barrier. 

 I recently read an article that stated that somewhere around the three year mark of living in France, almost half the number of British families who choose to do so then decide it isn't for them after all,  pack up their things and hoike on back to Blighty.  A failed business, language difficulties,  battles with the system or simply missing family, friends and 'home' are all cited as key factors for their exodus back across the Channel.

So even though I have spent the past 1095 days deriving a strange pleasure out of clammily conjugating sentences, brushing cheeks and swapping pleasantries with impeccably made-up and genetically skinny mothers of three so that they'll be my friend,  visiting five different shops in one morning to get one week's worth of shopping, having such a high intake of carbs and fresh fish that it's bordering on biblical and embracing every single folly and fault that France has on offer, it's really not that surprising that even I may succumb to a variation of  the Three Year Itch.

And yesterday it happenend. 

 I just woke up, all fed up of spending yet another day as a watered down version of the real me. The one who has to speak French the whole time.  The real me's dull shadow that is constricted by the lack of  rich vocabulary,  restrained by the rules of politesse and weighed down with the ever present guilt of being seen as a cuckoo in France's nest.  The slightly-tortured-me that about 99% of the people around me only ever see.  But yesterday all I wanted to do was  just wanted to hop out of bed, breeze through the day and have everyone that I came into contact catch a glimpse through my opaque facade and see that I am not actually thick and I just say 'errrr' a lot, interspersed with moments of looking rather blank, so that I can work out how the next verb should end;  that I do have a few really funny stories up my sleeve, albeit much more hilarious when drunk; and that I am actually alright as person and not the slightest bit interested in eating children.  OK, so perhaps  I am not the fast flowing river that I would like to spend my life being, but it wouldn't half be a treat if I could give all those around me a flash that there is something lurking in the murkiness of a being une anglaise à l'étranger.

I have really tried to lose the guilt, pep up the vocab and chat to anyone and everyone like a crazy in the queue for the nightbus but despite all this rather draining activity, I am still batting well below the expected average.  Well, in my mind at least.   

There are at least four fingers I can hold up on one hand to represent people who may have actually glimpsed a twinkle of the true me, despite the French outer coating .   Four people who don't mind if I  sweep and swerve my way precariously through random topics and verb conjugations; or that I forget to swallow because I am lost in the moment of free speech and get a bit spittily; and all of whom will gently correct and encourage me to end my sentences coherently.  God damn it, if they weren't so busy with their full time jobs; being a mother to two children, cleaning people's houses, fixing rotten teeth and making domestic animals better, they might have the time to go forth and spread the word that Mme Craie is kind of alright.  Just five minutes down by the school gates.  Not much to ask.  Even if they are really very busy.

Actually finding four whole people in three years gives me the hope to carry on.  So,  you will be relieved to know that I have scratched my Three Year Itch by spending the entire day with self-reproach, sour thoughts and wavering bottom lip.  And even though I spoilt an entire day for myself and those around me, on balance it isn't half as bad as spending it on a bumpy channel crossing back to Blighty.  Four people might actually miss me.