
Memories and Merde
I am in the car with my three siblings.
My French mother has recently learned how to drive.
My almost a teenager sister has made us late yet again.
She has had to straighten her hair and do important stuff to her face, in readiness for being educated at school.
My mother is exasperated.
She has to call at three different schools. (Her maverick third child has refused to attend the same school as her older siblings and has chosen an out of the way school, which her father (being a maverick too), has allowed— sorry and merci maman!
My mother has an important morning meeting at work.
My mother is letting off steam by scolding my sister passionately in English, which soon becomes streams of French.
The four of us are clinging to each other in the back.
Our eyes dart frantically between the steering wheel and my mother’s hands.
My French mother cannot talk without gesticulating with her hands.
The more passionate she is verbally, the more expressive and wild, the gesticulation.
There are two things to be thankful for …
- She never uses fourth gear so our speed is limited.
- My sister is first to be dropped off at school.
We breathe a collective sigh of relief as our journey continues…
‘Til the next morning when the three of us climb into the car …
My sister is nowhere in sight.
“Merde” my older brother mutters…
