I much prefer Thursday lessons, and being partnered with an Indian guy is great - his accent is really, really peculiar and I have to pay attention when he talks. Although I probably won't meet any other Indian people whose only other language is French, the fact remains that not all French people have a Parisian accent, and being able to understand those who normally have difficulty will make me friends.
This morning was, I confess, like something out of my nightmares - my colleague came into the office sounding as though she was not only at Death's door but had married Death and was being carried across the threshold by the same. She could barely even speak.
While maintaining my distance as artfully as I could, I tried to convince her to go home. It worked, thank goodness, but I suspect I didn't manage it soon enough - I can already feel the tickle in my throat that indicates approaching sickness.
However, I have been cheered enormously by a package that arrived today from my family. Behold:
|With the address blacked out, I'm lucky I got it at all.|
At this point, you could be forgiven for thinking I was excited about a box. But it's not just a box. Inside:
That's right. They sent me a box of spices. I love spices, they make cooking more exciting and can turn any dish into a masterpiece. So imagine how upset I was when it turned out my mother had played a cruel trick on me, and sent me only old newspapers:
But wait! What's that, hiding underneath?
Dark chocolate Lindt Lindor balls. Green & Blacks selection. An InterRail book, because I'm tempted to go adventuring and two tailor-made shirts my brother brought back from Hong Kong.
My family are awesome.
Thank you for sticking with me through that, by the way, it was long-winded but I feel it was worth it.
Tomorrow is Friday; the weekend beckons with lessons aplenty to give. And possibly a frog to gut.
I should have eaten before writing that...