My Dad is addicted to anything French. I’m not sure when this addiction started exactly, it was perhaps 12 years ago, when I started noticing the increasing presence of brie in the house.
He started putting cheese boards on the dining table, and serving baguettes with everything. His former years serving quiche every evening may have been the precursor to what was to become a full on French transformation. My father started attending French language classes, listening to French music in the car, watching French films and commenting on how the French version was far superior to the Western remake. Admittedly, Le Diner De Cons is better than Dinner for Schmucks, hard luck Hollywood.
I am happy to report that the house décor improved, and took on a wonderfully rustic farmhouse charm. In other good news, the family package holiday to Spain was replaced with a French country house, miles from any beach where my father could drink wine, bake bread and reflect on the French way of life. And I must admit, change was good.
He started cycling, which was also great news, what a wonderful thing that my father, at 54, enjoys cycling out into the countryside for hours on end, even attending a charity bike race or two.
What I object to, however, is a running commentary on the developments of the Tour De France, and lengthy conversations with bike store assistants on the right kind of genital padding for a cross-country cycle.
To continue with a theme, my father, together with his partner (somewhat coerced, I believe), decided to subscribe to a French lifestyle magazine, which would culminate in the discussion that, now that I have left home, he would consider relocating to France.
It wasn’t completely out of the blue I suppose. C’est la vie!