Maître

We gave a bed for the night to a 9 year-old neighbour. ‘How many teachers at your school? ‘Three.’ ‘Their names?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Don’t know? How can you not know? You can’t say Hey you!’ ‘No, we call them maître and maîtresse’.
I’ve been bouncing to and fro from the airport recently and usually during the rush hour. The airport was so clogged with cars on one occasion that the usual car park for picking up was solid and closed as nobody could get out the other end. The French are normally very good about giving space to allow other vehicles to insert themselves into another lane, but I had road-ragey abuse hurled at me. It irritated me to the extent that I nearly barged my way in front of a shiny, fat-cat driven thing that failed to give me the usual wide berth. My own car has so many scars that I am utterly indifferent about bashing into obstructions and people that cherish their cars notice and avoid me.

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